I love to read.
LOVE.
If reading would slip a diamond on the third finger of my left hand, I couldn't scream YES loud or fast enough.
But over the years, I became snobby with what I read.
If it wasn't a classic, if it wasn't obscure or weird, if it didn't make girly girls cringe, I wanted no part of it.
I became a total book snob.
But recently, I've discovered the joy in chick lit. Yes. Girly books about high-powered career women and their romantic quests.
I can't get enough of the sexcapades, the cat fights, the back stabbing, the body envy, the cheating.
It's like that first sip of red wine--comforting, but it'll be even better after two glasses.
So I'd like to take a moment and apologize to chick lit.
Chick lit, I'm sorry. I was wrong and a jerk and I really want to be friends. Do you forgive me?
As for the Palahniuks, the Ellises, the Vonnegut Jrs. and the rest, I still love you. And I'll always love you.
But I can't read you in an entire day. And you just seem wrong on a treadmill or in the bath tub.
This is where you, dear reader, give me recommendations*. Bring on the pink paperbacks!
*I'm not even near ready for Twilight. So don't even try to get me to crack that one open.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
You don't even like cake, do you?
It’s not safe here.
Danger lurks around every corner. Sweet, sugary danger. With sprinkes and cream filling.
You have no choice. You must face it head on. You take a deep breath and dash out of your office.
You avert your gaze and manage to avoid the sugar dusted holiday cookies in the next cubicle. You feint left and barely slide past the buckets of candy canes. As a coworker approaches with a plate of fudge squares, you duck into a room.
But then you run smack dab into tiny, frosted cakes.
You pause. You know that you should turn and keep walking. You should not reach out and pick up the tiny confection. You definitely know you should not take a bite from it.
But you’re weak.
For so long, you remained diligent. “I will not stuff my face with sugar and chocolate and candy and …” your thoughts grow fuzzy as your vision follows suit. You are relying on involuntary body behaviors now.
“Just one,” your tongue and stomach tell your brain. “It won’t hurt anything.”
You feel the tiny cube of cake between your fingers. It’s firm and squishy.
And that’s the last thing you remember.
When your eyes open, seven people are looking down at you.
You turn your head from side to side to assess the situation. You’re on the floor in your boss's office. When did that happen?
Like someone in a crime drama, you lift up your hands to examine your palms. They’re covered in chocolate, cake crumbs, sprinkes, icing bits, and pencil shavings.
“Can you hear me?” one of your coworkers firmly asks. “How many fingers am I holding up?” you notice that his pointer, ring and middle fingers are clean. Unlike yours.
Then you look down and see the plates. The pie pans. The empty plastic baggies smeared with oil. They’ve all been licked clean.
Feeling an itch, you reach for your ankle and discover that you aren’t wearing pants.
“What happ—“ you trail off.
Your boss emerges with a glass of water and a sympathizing smile. “I think you should take a personal day,” she gently tells you.
Someone helps you to your feet. Someone else hands you your pants. And you make your way to the car. Through the dessert-spattered hallways. Past the brownie-vandalized conference rooms. By the now-cloudy fish tank that contains no fish, but a single cupcake.
You leave sugary footprints almost the entire way to the elevator.
Danger lurks around every corner. Sweet, sugary danger. With sprinkes and cream filling.
You have no choice. You must face it head on. You take a deep breath and dash out of your office.
You avert your gaze and manage to avoid the sugar dusted holiday cookies in the next cubicle. You feint left and barely slide past the buckets of candy canes. As a coworker approaches with a plate of fudge squares, you duck into a room.
But then you run smack dab into tiny, frosted cakes.
You pause. You know that you should turn and keep walking. You should not reach out and pick up the tiny confection. You definitely know you should not take a bite from it.
But you’re weak.
For so long, you remained diligent. “I will not stuff my face with sugar and chocolate and candy and …” your thoughts grow fuzzy as your vision follows suit. You are relying on involuntary body behaviors now.
“Just one,” your tongue and stomach tell your brain. “It won’t hurt anything.”
You feel the tiny cube of cake between your fingers. It’s firm and squishy.
And that’s the last thing you remember.
When your eyes open, seven people are looking down at you.
You turn your head from side to side to assess the situation. You’re on the floor in your boss's office. When did that happen?
Like someone in a crime drama, you lift up your hands to examine your palms. They’re covered in chocolate, cake crumbs, sprinkes, icing bits, and pencil shavings.
“Can you hear me?” one of your coworkers firmly asks. “How many fingers am I holding up?” you notice that his pointer, ring and middle fingers are clean. Unlike yours.
Then you look down and see the plates. The pie pans. The empty plastic baggies smeared with oil. They’ve all been licked clean.
Feeling an itch, you reach for your ankle and discover that you aren’t wearing pants.
“What happ—“ you trail off.
Your boss emerges with a glass of water and a sympathizing smile. “I think you should take a personal day,” she gently tells you.
Someone helps you to your feet. Someone else hands you your pants. And you make your way to the car. Through the dessert-spattered hallways. Past the brownie-vandalized conference rooms. By the now-cloudy fish tank that contains no fish, but a single cupcake.
You leave sugary footprints almost the entire way to the elevator.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I think I've officially been in advertising too long.
So I'm working on this campaign for [company].
As I'm typing headlines for [company], one of their animated ads pops up in my instant message window.
No joke.
The very ad that I've been staring at for an hour in PDF format is now animating in front of my very eyes.
What are the odds? Seriously.
As I'm typing headlines for [company], one of their animated ads pops up in my instant message window.
No joke.
The very ad that I've been staring at for an hour in PDF format is now animating in front of my very eyes.
What are the odds? Seriously.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Congratulations to me. I’m a noun.
“You take care of it. You’re creative.”
Most creative individuals shrink at this phrase. We hear it many many times throughout our lives.
It’s usually preceded by rounds and rounds of pointless conversations and then proceeded by the designated creative people scrambling for ideas and crayons. Then that’s followed by rounds and rounds of pointless criticism before a creative decision is made by those who are admittedly not creative.
Since college, we the creative have been dubbed “creatives.” Because we’re the people who create. Usually the word carries a connotation of being imaginative or clever (or weird), but when you get to the down and dirty definition, it simply means maker—or one who can make, rather.
So today, while trying to feel creative in the ways of making and cleverness, I looked up the word in the dictionary.
And I found that it’s officially a noun in one book!
The Collins Essential English Dictionary definition of “creative”: NOUN a creative person, esp. one who devises advertising campaigns.
That’s right. No longer an ordinary person with a haphazard adjective slapped in front of it. A noun. A true one-worded tangible.
I am no longer a creative person working in advertising. I am simply a creative.
It feels good to be a proper (as in official—not capitalized) noun.
But it still comes salted because some people use “creative” as some sort of swear word. Like when creatives* say something off-kilter, others roll their eyes and grunt, “Ugh, creatives!” Or when a writer or artist is trying to defend a piece of work, the non-creative goes to his associate, “He/she’s just being an uppity creative. Pay no mind.”
It raises a question, though. Since they ask for creative help because of a creatives nature and abilities, shouldn’t they be expecting the creative to care for the work? To defend it? To get upset if it’s not butter smooth and picture perfect?
In the context of what they’re asking the creative to do, shouldn’t they want someone who’s passionate?
Who knows? At least we’re now officially nouns—a small victory, but still a victory. Next goal: Capitalization!
*Spell Check doesn’t recognize us as a noun yet. Go figure, Microsoft. Go figure.
Most creative individuals shrink at this phrase. We hear it many many times throughout our lives.
It’s usually preceded by rounds and rounds of pointless conversations and then proceeded by the designated creative people scrambling for ideas and crayons. Then that’s followed by rounds and rounds of pointless criticism before a creative decision is made by those who are admittedly not creative.
Since college, we the creative have been dubbed “creatives.” Because we’re the people who create. Usually the word carries a connotation of being imaginative or clever (or weird), but when you get to the down and dirty definition, it simply means maker—or one who can make, rather.
So today, while trying to feel creative in the ways of making and cleverness, I looked up the word in the dictionary.
And I found that it’s officially a noun in one book!
The Collins Essential English Dictionary definition of “creative”: NOUN a creative person, esp. one who devises advertising campaigns.
That’s right. No longer an ordinary person with a haphazard adjective slapped in front of it. A noun. A true one-worded tangible.
I am no longer a creative person working in advertising. I am simply a creative.
It feels good to be a proper (as in official—not capitalized) noun.
But it still comes salted because some people use “creative” as some sort of swear word. Like when creatives* say something off-kilter, others roll their eyes and grunt, “Ugh, creatives!” Or when a writer or artist is trying to defend a piece of work, the non-creative goes to his associate, “He/she’s just being an uppity creative. Pay no mind.”
It raises a question, though. Since they ask for creative help because of a creatives nature and abilities, shouldn’t they be expecting the creative to care for the work? To defend it? To get upset if it’s not butter smooth and picture perfect?
In the context of what they’re asking the creative to do, shouldn’t they want someone who’s passionate?
Who knows? At least we’re now officially nouns—a small victory, but still a victory. Next goal: Capitalization!
*Spell Check doesn’t recognize us as a noun yet. Go figure, Microsoft. Go figure.
Friday, December 5, 2008
I am the tick-tocking office jerkface.
Just look at them. Those keyboard monkeys. Cube dwellers. Typing up their spreadsheets. Writing their memos.
Every few minutes, one of them looks at me and sighs.
Every few minutes, one of them groans under his breath.
“Two hours to go?” they’ll ask their notepads.
And I laugh and tick a little slower.
“Only ten minutes have gone by?” they’ll let slip as they tug on their uncomfortable sleeve cuffs.
And a second becomes two.
“Time is c-r-a-w-l-i-n-g today,” they’ll say to one another in passing.
As three seconds elapse with only one tick of my second hand.
That’s right. It’s intentional. I slow down to make the office workers miserable.
Because nothing makes them happier than the little hand touching the five. And nothing makes me happier than watching them stare at blank screens.
You ever notice that you leave at 5:30 but it seems darker than usual? That’s because it is.
We’re all in it together – all of the clocks. When you’re sleeping, we go back to normal. That’s why some days, you find yourself dragging after a full eight hours of slumber. Well, sorry to tell you but it was really five.
Sometimes the sun joins our little game. He’ll pause for a bit to throw you off of the scent. So you’re never really aware of what’s going on.
Cell phones and satellite-directed time pieces are in on the game, as well. So don’t even try looking at another clock midday. It simply won’t work.
They’re all against you.
Your watch. Your alarm clock. Your computer desktop. All of them.
What’s the reason? There isn’t one, really. We just get bored watching the time pass, too.
Every few minutes, one of them looks at me and sighs.
Every few minutes, one of them groans under his breath.
“Two hours to go?” they’ll ask their notepads.
And I laugh and tick a little slower.
“Only ten minutes have gone by?” they’ll let slip as they tug on their uncomfortable sleeve cuffs.
And a second becomes two.
“Time is c-r-a-w-l-i-n-g today,” they’ll say to one another in passing.
As three seconds elapse with only one tick of my second hand.
That’s right. It’s intentional. I slow down to make the office workers miserable.
Because nothing makes them happier than the little hand touching the five. And nothing makes me happier than watching them stare at blank screens.
You ever notice that you leave at 5:30 but it seems darker than usual? That’s because it is.
We’re all in it together – all of the clocks. When you’re sleeping, we go back to normal. That’s why some days, you find yourself dragging after a full eight hours of slumber. Well, sorry to tell you but it was really five.
Sometimes the sun joins our little game. He’ll pause for a bit to throw you off of the scent. So you’re never really aware of what’s going on.
Cell phones and satellite-directed time pieces are in on the game, as well. So don’t even try looking at another clock midday. It simply won’t work.
They’re all against you.
Your watch. Your alarm clock. Your computer desktop. All of them.
What’s the reason? There isn’t one, really. We just get bored watching the time pass, too.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Get your ass back on that treadmill.
Pants fitting looser. Heads turning. Not getting winded while carrying in groceries.
All sound reasons to work out.
But fitting into college jeans isn’t the motivator it used to be. (Especially now since I’m an adult with money and I can usually just buy new jeans.)
So I’ve been on the prowl for new motivation. The whole rehab-the-knee thing only goes so far since it hurts. The feel-better-sleep-better stuff sounds like a crock. I had nothing that worked long-term.
Then my friend turned me onto the greatest workout motivator of them all –
Zombies.
The living dead.
Survival.
That’s right. Surviving the (highly-unlikely) Zombie Apocalypse is my reason for getting into shape. But not just any shape – insane shape.
So while I’m on the exercise bike, the treadmill, the elliptical, my imagination is running just as hard and as fast as I am. Perhaps more. (Holy crap, they’re right behind you! And they’re HUNGRY!)
If I get a stomach cramp, I can’t stop. Because zombies won’t stop just because my side aches.
If my ankle bends funny, I must keep going. Because the zombies don’t care if I need to pause for two minutes.
If I start breathing heavy and wheezing, I must power through and speed up. Because when zombies hear the whistles of a wounded human, they’ll come in droves.
Zombies don’t sleep. Zombies don’t rest. Zombies will stop at nothing so I must also stop at nothing.
I’m getting into the best shape of my life.
Every time I start slacking during my workout, here comes my friend. “Zombies won’t sit down and get a drink of water,” he says.
“But they’re not here!” I whine between gulps.
“You don’t know that. Do you really think the government will tell us if a zombie escapes his confines?”
I ponder this and then immediately lunge walk to the chin up bar.
I’m aware that the concept of walking, flesh-craving, dead dudes is about as logical as Jell-O (how does it wiggle like that?). But one can never be too careful.
One can never have too flat of abs, either.
All sound reasons to work out.
But fitting into college jeans isn’t the motivator it used to be. (Especially now since I’m an adult with money and I can usually just buy new jeans.)
So I’ve been on the prowl for new motivation. The whole rehab-the-knee thing only goes so far since it hurts. The feel-better-sleep-better stuff sounds like a crock. I had nothing that worked long-term.
Then my friend turned me onto the greatest workout motivator of them all –
Zombies.
The living dead.
Survival.
That’s right. Surviving the (highly-unlikely) Zombie Apocalypse is my reason for getting into shape. But not just any shape – insane shape.
So while I’m on the exercise bike, the treadmill, the elliptical, my imagination is running just as hard and as fast as I am. Perhaps more. (Holy crap, they’re right behind you! And they’re HUNGRY!)
If I get a stomach cramp, I can’t stop. Because zombies won’t stop just because my side aches.
If my ankle bends funny, I must keep going. Because the zombies don’t care if I need to pause for two minutes.
If I start breathing heavy and wheezing, I must power through and speed up. Because when zombies hear the whistles of a wounded human, they’ll come in droves.
Zombies don’t sleep. Zombies don’t rest. Zombies will stop at nothing so I must also stop at nothing.
I’m getting into the best shape of my life.
Every time I start slacking during my workout, here comes my friend. “Zombies won’t sit down and get a drink of water,” he says.
“But they’re not here!” I whine between gulps.
“You don’t know that. Do you really think the government will tell us if a zombie escapes his confines?”
I ponder this and then immediately lunge walk to the chin up bar.
I’m aware that the concept of walking, flesh-craving, dead dudes is about as logical as Jell-O (how does it wiggle like that?). But one can never be too careful.
One can never have too flat of abs, either.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I'm healthy! I swear!
When you’re a freelancer and not yet able to mooch off of your partner’s health insurance, you’re forced to search under rocks for coverage.
Once you find an acceptable provider, though, you’re not much closer to being one of the insured.
When you’re not part of a group policy through work or a spouse’s job, you must divulge your entire medical history. Or at least a good chunk of it. Privacy is not an option, no matter how many HIPAA things you read and sign.
Every act of sneezing you’ve committed, every band-aid you’ve applied, every eye drop you’ve dropped is scrutinized.
Because if you have anything that’ll cost them 10 dollars in the long haul, they’d rather you die.
Normally a healthy 25 year old woman has no problem finding coverage. In fact, I’m probably in the healthiest stage of my life.
But (and there’s the but) I’ve had surgery recently.
Strike.
Which involved X-rays and MRIs.
Strike.
And crazy prescriptions for pain killers.
Strike.
Which I’m allergic to.
Strike.
And an unplanned follow-up procedure.
Double strike.
“We see you’ve been taking xxx recently. Why is that?”
“Well,” I hesitantly reply, “I have asthma – but it’s only bad in the winter!”
I can hear the consultant making notes.
"How many inhalers?"
The answer isn't good.
“Have you been hospitalized for the asthma recently?”
I had to tell her about going on a trip and not being able to breath due to dust. And then getting a steroid shot. After all, you can’t lie to these people. They’re looking at your life on some little blue screen while you talk.
The negatives keep piling up.
She asks if I’m still as tall as I was a week ago. And if I weigh as much. I readily admit that no change has occurred.
“Did I mention that I work out everyday and I’m a vegetarian?” I nervously add.
Then I mute the phone so I can cough because this phone call has made me wheezy.
I’m so screwed.
Once you find an acceptable provider, though, you’re not much closer to being one of the insured.
When you’re not part of a group policy through work or a spouse’s job, you must divulge your entire medical history. Or at least a good chunk of it. Privacy is not an option, no matter how many HIPAA things you read and sign.
Every act of sneezing you’ve committed, every band-aid you’ve applied, every eye drop you’ve dropped is scrutinized.
Because if you have anything that’ll cost them 10 dollars in the long haul, they’d rather you die.
Normally a healthy 25 year old woman has no problem finding coverage. In fact, I’m probably in the healthiest stage of my life.
But (and there’s the but) I’ve had surgery recently.
Strike.
Which involved X-rays and MRIs.
Strike.
And crazy prescriptions for pain killers.
Strike.
Which I’m allergic to.
Strike.
And an unplanned follow-up procedure.
Double strike.
“We see you’ve been taking xxx recently. Why is that?”
“Well,” I hesitantly reply, “I have asthma – but it’s only bad in the winter!”
I can hear the consultant making notes.
"How many inhalers?"
The answer isn't good.
“Have you been hospitalized for the asthma recently?”
I had to tell her about going on a trip and not being able to breath due to dust. And then getting a steroid shot. After all, you can’t lie to these people. They’re looking at your life on some little blue screen while you talk.
The negatives keep piling up.
She asks if I’m still as tall as I was a week ago. And if I weigh as much. I readily admit that no change has occurred.
“Did I mention that I work out everyday and I’m a vegetarian?” I nervously add.
Then I mute the phone so I can cough because this phone call has made me wheezy.
I’m so screwed.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I hope I become a wrinkly, old woman.
A popular topic in women’s magazines is aging. Because all women do it. All people do it. It’s something we can’t really control, no matter how many vitamins we eat or facelifts we get.
The earth rotates, the sun sets, and we age.
Aging happens. Old happens.
But people’s natural fear of death and the unknown has manifested itself into this culture of needing youth. Perpetual, never-ending youth. Skin-tightening face creams. Skin puffing lotions (because youth is chubby-cheeked). Line-filling serums.
Women’s magazines are peppered with them all.
So as I was sifting through the ads in a popular women’s magazine, I discovered an article on how to slow down the aging of your face.
I wasn’t that shocked.
Then I kept reading.
One piece of advice actually said to try and not show emotion with your face. Keep it still. All the time. When you speak, try not to smile or frown. Because smiling excessively over time will give you crows feet around your eyes and seems around your mouth.
That’s right. Don’t smile. That’s the advice of a reputable publication. I can’t make this stuff up.
I about lost my shit.
It might as well have said, “Be an emotionless android. You may bore your friends to an early grave, but they’ll die young and pretty and you’ll look younger and pretty. And that’s what’s really important.”
When I’m 60, I pray that I look like I’ve lived a happy life. I hope my eye wrinkles and face lines translate to the world that it’s been good to me. That I laugh often. That I love with all my heart and face.
I hope the lines run so deep that I have to clean inside the creases with Q-tips. I hope my grandkids imagine a highway system on my face. I hope my husband finds them as beautiful as he did my long-gone youth.
And I hope that I still feel this way in 40 years.
By the time I’m old enough, I may not win any senior citizen beauty pageants. But I honestly feel that au natural will make a comeback. Because everyone else will look like freaks with their excessive amounts of injections and plastic procedures. And there will be this rediscovered craving for something real.
And then I’ll be reading articles about reversal procedures and how dignified silver hair is.
Note: There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with cosmetic surgery. If removing the bump on your nose makes you feel sexy and alive, go for it. If the hair transplant gives you confidence you never had before, get it. Just don’t go overboard, okay? You’re prettier than you think you are. I swear.
The earth rotates, the sun sets, and we age.
Aging happens. Old happens.
But people’s natural fear of death and the unknown has manifested itself into this culture of needing youth. Perpetual, never-ending youth. Skin-tightening face creams. Skin puffing lotions (because youth is chubby-cheeked). Line-filling serums.
Women’s magazines are peppered with them all.
So as I was sifting through the ads in a popular women’s magazine, I discovered an article on how to slow down the aging of your face.
I wasn’t that shocked.
Then I kept reading.
One piece of advice actually said to try and not show emotion with your face. Keep it still. All the time. When you speak, try not to smile or frown. Because smiling excessively over time will give you crows feet around your eyes and seems around your mouth.
That’s right. Don’t smile. That’s the advice of a reputable publication. I can’t make this stuff up.
I about lost my shit.
It might as well have said, “Be an emotionless android. You may bore your friends to an early grave, but they’ll die young and pretty and you’ll look younger and pretty. And that’s what’s really important.”
When I’m 60, I pray that I look like I’ve lived a happy life. I hope my eye wrinkles and face lines translate to the world that it’s been good to me. That I laugh often. That I love with all my heart and face.
I hope the lines run so deep that I have to clean inside the creases with Q-tips. I hope my grandkids imagine a highway system on my face. I hope my husband finds them as beautiful as he did my long-gone youth.
And I hope that I still feel this way in 40 years.
By the time I’m old enough, I may not win any senior citizen beauty pageants. But I honestly feel that au natural will make a comeback. Because everyone else will look like freaks with their excessive amounts of injections and plastic procedures. And there will be this rediscovered craving for something real.
And then I’ll be reading articles about reversal procedures and how dignified silver hair is.
Note: There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with cosmetic surgery. If removing the bump on your nose makes you feel sexy and alive, go for it. If the hair transplant gives you confidence you never had before, get it. Just don’t go overboard, okay? You’re prettier than you think you are. I swear.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Let’s go to yet another wedding.
I shall begin this post by saying that I love weddings. I really do.
I love the idea of people being in love for the rest of their lives. I love the idea of bringing all of your friends and family together for one big party. And I love the idea of over-sized baked goods.
In my short life, I’ve been in around 15 or so weddings. I’ve been a flower girl. A junior bridesmaid. A bridesmaid. A maid of honor. And a house party person. I’ve bought dress after dress. Worn panty hose (gasp!). Limped in horrid shoes. Puffed my sleeves. Tossed rose petals.
I’m an expert.
As for the number of weddings that I’ve simply attended, I’ve lost count. Seriously. The number surpasses 30 for sure. But that’s when I ran out of digits and miscellaneous body parts to count with.
Perhaps I should’ve tally-marked my ass, but I digress.
The wedding madness needs to stop. Please. I can’t afford it.
Within the last eight months alone, my lovely boyfriend and I’ve been to five weddings. That’s not including the ones we’ve missed.
That’s not including the two in the next month. Or the one I’m in come April.
Or another confirmed two that are creeping up before 2009 closes. With the very likely chance of at least three added in the meantime.
That’s not taking into consideration that for some of these weddings, we’ve bought plane tickets along with presents from Target. Or we’ve had to get cheap hotel rooms with dimly-lit bathrooms. Or we’ve driven for hours,repeatedly filling our tanks with gas (side note: we’re so glad it’s cheaper now) and consult ancient maps. We’ve rented cars. We’ve recycled outfits. We’ve skipped meals.
I can’t speak entirely for my significant other, but I’m damn near broke. I love you, friends, but I can’t buy any more toasters. Target stops you at some point.
“Another toaster, Miss Johnson?” the cashier asks.
I reluctantly shove my Visa his way. He stares at it. “Get out. Get out now. You’ve reached your toaster quota for the year.”
So in light of my recent wedding-induced, financial situation, I’m offering (read: begging) you to let me take some photos of you as a present. Engagement photos. Bridal portraits. Something. I’m a photographer again, you know.
This is where I’d post a link to my site, if only it were complete.
But there’s no time for that right now. I’ve got some bridal shower gifts to take care of. I wonder what state my Master Card is in?
I love the idea of people being in love for the rest of their lives. I love the idea of bringing all of your friends and family together for one big party. And I love the idea of over-sized baked goods.
In my short life, I’ve been in around 15 or so weddings. I’ve been a flower girl. A junior bridesmaid. A bridesmaid. A maid of honor. And a house party person. I’ve bought dress after dress. Worn panty hose (gasp!). Limped in horrid shoes. Puffed my sleeves. Tossed rose petals.
I’m an expert.
As for the number of weddings that I’ve simply attended, I’ve lost count. Seriously. The number surpasses 30 for sure. But that’s when I ran out of digits and miscellaneous body parts to count with.
Perhaps I should’ve tally-marked my ass, but I digress.
The wedding madness needs to stop. Please. I can’t afford it.
Within the last eight months alone, my lovely boyfriend and I’ve been to five weddings. That’s not including the ones we’ve missed.
That’s not including the two in the next month. Or the one I’m in come April.
Or another confirmed two that are creeping up before 2009 closes. With the very likely chance of at least three added in the meantime.
That’s not taking into consideration that for some of these weddings, we’ve bought plane tickets along with presents from Target. Or we’ve had to get cheap hotel rooms with dimly-lit bathrooms. Or we’ve driven for hours,repeatedly filling our tanks with gas (side note: we’re so glad it’s cheaper now) and consult ancient maps. We’ve rented cars. We’ve recycled outfits. We’ve skipped meals.
I can’t speak entirely for my significant other, but I’m damn near broke. I love you, friends, but I can’t buy any more toasters. Target stops you at some point.
“Another toaster, Miss Johnson?” the cashier asks.
I reluctantly shove my Visa his way. He stares at it. “Get out. Get out now. You’ve reached your toaster quota for the year.”
So in light of my recent wedding-induced, financial situation, I’m offering (read: begging) you to let me take some photos of you as a present. Engagement photos. Bridal portraits. Something. I’m a photographer again, you know.
This is where I’d post a link to my site, if only it were complete.
But there’s no time for that right now. I’ve got some bridal shower gifts to take care of. I wonder what state my Master Card is in?
Monday, November 17, 2008
I’m going to hug you now.
When I was a kid, my goodbyes were apparently lackluster.
So my mom’s best friend/my second mother once told me, “You don’t know how to hug.”
Then she wrapped her arms around me and held me firmly as she instructed me to do the same.
With a somewhat strained voice, she said, “This is how you hug. This is how you show love.”
I was around eight at the time. And now, 17 years later, I still find myself wondering if I’m hugging properly. If I’m hugging at appropriate times. If I look as awkward as I feel.
I was never a good hugger, as my mom’s friend so blatantly pointed out. Just being that close, being in an embrace always made me feel …
… self conscious? Inappropriate? Nah. Just awkward.
I had a joint birthday party with a friend when we turned 13. We were opening presents and she would hug the current gift giver after each present. So I felt obliged. I remember hugging a boy –
Was it wrong? Was it okay? I wasn’t sure. But that’s when I realized that hugging wasn’t as freaky of a thing as I made it out to be.
So like most teens, I became totally okay with touching. Or so I let on. Inside, I still cringed and wondered if this pat on the back was an okay thing to do. Or if tugging on someone’s hand was too extreme. Or if saying hello by wrapping arms was something I could do without seeming creepy.
Even today, when one of my good friends touches my leg while making a point, I know my eyes grow large. Even for a tenth of a second. My spine straightens. My calves twitch. And then there’s the horrifying second of, “Did she see that?” or “Does he think I’m a spaz?”
If I ever touch anyone, there’s a very labored thought process that precedes the action. I’m going to say this and then I’m going to playfully push this person’s arm. Okay, saying the phrase and going for the push … No one looks freaked out. Success!
I can’t help it. When it comes to being physical, I’ll always feel a little autistic. Perhaps I am.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
This blog sort of deals with lady stuff. Men, you’ve been warned.
Every month in a not-pregnant woman’s life, her guts (violently) reaffirm that there’s still no reproduction going on. For the purposes of blogging, we shall refer to this as “lady time.”
Lady time often closely follows some sort of homicidal hormone imbalance and possibly blinding abdominal pain. Or back pain. Or crazy, swollen porno boobies. Or tendon and ligament oddness.
Yes, tendons and ligaments. Because the shift in hormones actually softens these little connectors so bones can spread and accommodate growing infants.
So imagine for a moment that you usually get such rubbery joints before and during lady time that you fear walking.
And now add the fact that one of your ligaments (a big one) is now artificially constructed from one of your tendons.
HOLY MACARONI!
Forget the guts making their usual, loud announcement. I know lady time is coming because my freaking knee screams like a spoiled toddler being denied a second popsicle. It shrieks into a dozen bullhorns arranged microphone to speaker to microphone to speaker. And then that’s aimed at another microphone wired to 30 amplifiers.
It’s blasted from an iPod through the speakers of the third-year-in-a-row winner of the Loudest Car Stereo in the U.S.
It groans so loud, people walking outside my current office turn to their companions and say, “Did you hear that?”
“Sounds like it’s lady time for someone.”
Its shrieks attract ally cats.
It summons demons from Hell.
And it frickin-frackin hurts.
And the real shit thing? Going through my calendars from the past (yes, I keep a calendar of lady activity – all ladies should), lady time might be the reason my ACL snapped in the first place.
Consider me envious of the penis.
Lady time often closely follows some sort of homicidal hormone imbalance and possibly blinding abdominal pain. Or back pain. Or crazy, swollen porno boobies. Or tendon and ligament oddness.
Yes, tendons and ligaments. Because the shift in hormones actually softens these little connectors so bones can spread and accommodate growing infants.
So imagine for a moment that you usually get such rubbery joints before and during lady time that you fear walking.
And now add the fact that one of your ligaments (a big one) is now artificially constructed from one of your tendons.
HOLY MACARONI!
Forget the guts making their usual, loud announcement. I know lady time is coming because my freaking knee screams like a spoiled toddler being denied a second popsicle. It shrieks into a dozen bullhorns arranged microphone to speaker to microphone to speaker. And then that’s aimed at another microphone wired to 30 amplifiers.
It’s blasted from an iPod through the speakers of the third-year-in-a-row winner of the Loudest Car Stereo in the U.S.
It groans so loud, people walking outside my current office turn to their companions and say, “Did you hear that?”
“Sounds like it’s lady time for someone.”
Its shrieks attract ally cats.
It summons demons from Hell.
And it frickin-frackin hurts.
And the real shit thing? Going through my calendars from the past (yes, I keep a calendar of lady activity – all ladies should), lady time might be the reason my ACL snapped in the first place.
Consider me envious of the penis.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Where did it go?
The woman grabbed a cereal bar and raced out the door. She dug around in her purse as she approached her car.
Where was that-
She stopped mid-stride and held the bag wide open. She searched first with her eyes. Then again with her hands. Then with a fierce combination of both.
It was missing.
Maybe it's in the apartment.
She raced back into the apartment, threw her bag onto the counter, and thought hard.
Where could it be?
Ah hah! The bathroom.
She ran into the bathroom. Toothbrush. Face care products. Sink. No, the item she sought wasn't in the bathroom.
Perhaps it's under the bed.
She dropped to the ground and peered behind the bed skirt. Nothing except for an old fashion magazine.
Certainly I didn't lose-
She ran into the kitchen. Maybe she had left it on the counter next to her empty coffee mug.
Or maybe it got stuck between the cushions of the couch.
Or under the coffee table.
No. No. And negative.
I should look in my car. Maybe it's been there the entire time.
So she searched under the seats, in the trunk, and under the mats.
It's lost, she thought. I've lost it.
I've lost my job.
...
After a week of searching all around town, she stumbled upon a small one.
This'll do for now.
And she was okay.
Where was that-
She stopped mid-stride and held the bag wide open. She searched first with her eyes. Then again with her hands. Then with a fierce combination of both.
It was missing.
Maybe it's in the apartment.
She raced back into the apartment, threw her bag onto the counter, and thought hard.
Where could it be?
Ah hah! The bathroom.
She ran into the bathroom. Toothbrush. Face care products. Sink. No, the item she sought wasn't in the bathroom.
Perhaps it's under the bed.
She dropped to the ground and peered behind the bed skirt. Nothing except for an old fashion magazine.
Certainly I didn't lose-
She ran into the kitchen. Maybe she had left it on the counter next to her empty coffee mug.
Or maybe it got stuck between the cushions of the couch.
Or under the coffee table.
No. No. And negative.
I should look in my car. Maybe it's been there the entire time.
So she searched under the seats, in the trunk, and under the mats.
It's lost, she thought. I've lost it.
I've lost my job.
...
After a week of searching all around town, she stumbled upon a small one.
This'll do for now.
And she was okay.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
I believe in Harvey Dent.
Whether you're black, white, red, blue, or any other color of the rainbow-
Whether you're left, right, stuck in the middle, or evenly blended-
Whether you're young, old, mid-life, full of life or barely living-
You have to admit that for various reasons, tonight was damn cool.
We have all witnessed history before. In fact, most of us have witnessed a large chunk of history in the last few decades.
Some catastrophic history. Some impressive history. Some hopeful history.
But today, today the history was really cool.
People who've never voted actually voted.* People who never cared about politics actually cared.* People who felt they had no voice found theirs.*
And it's so cool.
So whether you're feeling blue because you're red, or you're feeling blue because that's how you voted (or you're blue because you're neither red nor blue), be happy that you saw some good happen today.
And how cool is that?
*Including me.
Whether you're left, right, stuck in the middle, or evenly blended-
Whether you're young, old, mid-life, full of life or barely living-
You have to admit that for various reasons, tonight was damn cool.
We have all witnessed history before. In fact, most of us have witnessed a large chunk of history in the last few decades.
Some catastrophic history. Some impressive history. Some hopeful history.
But today, today the history was really cool.
People who've never voted actually voted.* People who never cared about politics actually cared.* People who felt they had no voice found theirs.*
And it's so cool.
So whether you're feeling blue because you're red, or you're feeling blue because that's how you voted (or you're blue because you're neither red nor blue), be happy that you saw some good happen today.
And how cool is that?
*Including me.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Now that I've slept, here's how I really feel.
I woke up this morning (Happy Halloween, by the way) reflecting on last night.
And then I read the blog I wrote.
And I realized, fuck. I'm not angry enough.
Now that the dust has settled and I'm no longer in shock, I can actually feel something.
So here it goes.
Dear crazy nutjob who was driving that SUV that almost ran me over last night,
I was just wondering - do you drive with your eyes closed? Because you were at a read light and I had the go-ahead-innocent-pedestrian light.
Yet for some reason, you gunned your engine like Dale Earnhardt's blood was running in your veins.
So I need to know if your eyes were closed. It's not like I was dressed in all black with my face painted to match the street. I was VERY visible.
But for some reason, you didn't see me or my friend.
In case you weren't aware, you were driving in Uptown Dallas. I'm pretty confident in saying that this neighborhood has the highest percentage/number/amount of pedestrians than ANYWHERE ELSE in Dallas.
Because we're all vain freaks who want to get laid. There, I said it.
So it's logical that you should be a little more aware of your surroundings. I mean, you know, since your car weighs enough to flatten bone and muscle.
I understand that every now and again, we all have a lapse of judgement behind the wheel. But you picked a really shitty time to be aloof. I mean, even after jumping backwards 2 or 3 times, I still ended up leaning over your hood! And my friend had yanked me away. Everyone on the restaurant patio across the street saw what happened.
I hope you remember this every single time you stop at a light and decide to turn on red.
Had you hit me, OH had you hit me and re-fucked up my knee (since that's the leg that was facing you), I might have killed you. That is if I weren't totally crippled and lodged under your wheeled death machine.
So lady who should really consider public transportation for the sake of everyone not surrounded by tons of metal, you should really go to the eye doctor or the regular doctor. You know, to make sure everything is alright. Tell you what, I'm getting my eyes checked. You can go with me.
I'm driving, though.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
I'm glad I still have health insurance. I almost needed it.
I am an exerciser. More specifically, I walk. A lot.
Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to have someone to walk with. Usually it's my friend Christina. But we'll get to her later.
I walk because it's good for me. It makes my heart and muscles stronger. It increases my balance and endurance. And (most importantly) it makes me all slender and lean and sexified.
But tonight? Oh, tonight, it could've gotten real ugly.
Chris (she goes by Chris) and I were crossing the street. At a red light. Pedestrian crossing light glaring like an angry nun.
Being Sesame Street kids (I can't speak for Chris, but I was a pupil of Kermit & Friends' teachings) I know that looking both ways before crossing the street is vital. Otherwise, you could end up roadkill.
Look to the left. Assess. Look to the right. Check for cars. Then look to the left again. Assess again. If the coast is clear, if danger seems like a distant chance, feel free to cross.
Tonight, we looked left. There were standing cars at the red light. We looked to the right. Nothing - no one was turning into our path. We looked at the WALK sign. It still said walk. We looked to the left. Cars were still standing. All signs pointed to YES.
So we stepped into the street. Took about five steps.
Then Chris shouts something that I couldn't make out. Right before she grabs me around the waste and I'm pushing against some gold SUV.
Either I'm Superman and able to stop moving vehicles with my sheer might (thank you, walking muscles) or Chris's shriek made the woman aware that she was about to plow down two innocent pedestrians.
All she could do was mouth, "I'm sorry."
Perhaps I should've fallen to the ground. Or shouted. Or done anything. But I looked her in the eye and then finished crossing the street.
I'm going to stick to trails from now on.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The frequency of awesome blogs is about to triple.
The state of the economy is officially hitting a little to close to home.
As in actually hitting my home. MY home.
I, along with many other people, left my job today. Not necessarily by choice. But had we all stayed, we'd be working for free.
So with all of the free time between appointments with the pavement, consider me writing here.
That or eating chocolate ice cream and weeping to soap operas.*
If you vote in the upcoming election, think of your queen and people in her boat. Only one team really cares for people like us.
*Okay, maybe not soap operas. But repeats of "Living Single" were my life during the surgery recovery.
Monday, October 20, 2008
There are really nice people out there.
There wasn't anything particularly special about today.
I wrestled gravity and got out of bed. I drove to work in the average amount of traffic. I even ate lunch at one of my typical places.
But today, this day, I had coupons.
As I gleefully presented my thrifty tickets, very pleased at my money-saving ways, I was told by the cashier that the one coupon wasn't valid with this type of salad. And that soup coupon? Doesn't include this type of soup.
"Oh well," I said aloud. It's no big deal. At least I know now.
But then the cashier out of the kindness of her heart goes, "I'll give you your drink* for free to make up for it."
I stood there puzzled. Free? Nothing is ever free. Did I hear her correctly? This was a very unnecessarily thoughtful thing to do! The coupon wouldn't even have saved me that much money.
"You don't have to do that," I said to her. "I should have read the coupon more thoroughly."
"It's the least I can do." She slid my items towards me. "And after all, no matter what happens today, you got that tea for free. So that should bring you some happiness later."
Her smile was so genuine that it glowed.
I thanked her and thanked her and thanked her some more. That bottle of tea was already causing my cheeks to be sore from grinning.
And later on today when I was bored, when I was a little frustrated, when I grew tired, I couldn't be upset. The cashier was right. I had a little moment of happiness because someone gave me a small token.
You know the old adage: A little kindness goes a long way? Believe it!
*Bottled mint green tea!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
April showers bring may powers. Part 6
To read the entire story, click here.
Little Lisa wasn't so little anymore.
She was wearing bras. She was kissing boys. And she was dealing with all of the traumas that high school life created.
"What's in that little vile around your neck," some snide boy asked her during a chemistry lab.
"Oh that? It's just some water from a the Pacific Ocean," she lied. "My grandma took me when I was seven."
Walking through the halls one day, a girl said to her, "You always have that freaky little bottle around your neck. Is it holy water?" she laughed. "Do you hunt vampires."
"Loopy Lisa's little vile of human plasma!"
"... that freaky girl with the monkey piss..."
"It's vodka. She's an alcoholic."
It was the taunting and the taunters that made Lisa want to open her little bottle the most. Release a tiny drop of rainwater onto her skin. Send her through the air to a much safer place like her bed.
But she only used her skill when it was absolutely necessary. That's what Grandma had taught her to do.
That vile kept Lisa from being tardy to school on several occasions. It saved her from a bad car wreck once. It even saved her mother money on airfare when they traveled.
Not everyone poked at Lisa for her little bottle. Most people thought it was cute. Bohemian even.
[The Queen was interrupted while typing the posting and was unable to finish.]
Little Lisa wasn't so little anymore.
She was wearing bras. She was kissing boys. And she was dealing with all of the traumas that high school life created.
"What's in that little vile around your neck," some snide boy asked her during a chemistry lab.
"Oh that? It's just some water from a the Pacific Ocean," she lied. "My grandma took me when I was seven."
Walking through the halls one day, a girl said to her, "You always have that freaky little bottle around your neck. Is it holy water?" she laughed. "Do you hunt vampires."
"Loopy Lisa's little vile of human plasma!"
"... that freaky girl with the monkey piss..."
"It's vodka. She's an alcoholic."
It was the taunting and the taunters that made Lisa want to open her little bottle the most. Release a tiny drop of rainwater onto her skin. Send her through the air to a much safer place like her bed.
But she only used her skill when it was absolutely necessary. That's what Grandma had taught her to do.
That vile kept Lisa from being tardy to school on several occasions. It saved her from a bad car wreck once. It even saved her mother money on airfare when they traveled.
Not everyone poked at Lisa for her little bottle. Most people thought it was cute. Bohemian even.
[The Queen was interrupted while typing the posting and was unable to finish.]
Friday, October 10, 2008
Do they make creams for this?
We were out of some things, so I went to the store. While in the dairy section, I slipped on something.
It was a quarter.
In the ethnic food aisle, I walked over a few pennies and dimes. Every now and again, a dollar.
I gathered my desired items and made my way to the checkout.
With every item scanned, I noticed a strange feeling. I gave the cashier my money, took my groceries and stepped off.
As coins rolled out of the bottom of my pants.
Two days later, I picked up my bike from the repair shop. That night when removing my clothing, I found crumpled dollar bills in my underwear.
The next day at work, a trip to the restroom led to the discovery of toilet bowls full of soggy bills and rusted coins.
The next day, I had an ache so I went to the doctor.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked me.
As I shifted on the examination table, the sound of metal on metal gave me away. "My gut," I replied. "And," my voice dropped to a whisper, "my ass."
The doctor was thoughtful. "I see," he said. "We've been seeing a lot of this lately. Especially with young adults."
"What is it, doc?" I moaned through the cramping.
"It's simple, really." He wrote a prescription on a sheet of paper and handed it my way. "You're hemorrhaging money."
It was a quarter.
In the ethnic food aisle, I walked over a few pennies and dimes. Every now and again, a dollar.
I gathered my desired items and made my way to the checkout.
With every item scanned, I noticed a strange feeling. I gave the cashier my money, took my groceries and stepped off.
As coins rolled out of the bottom of my pants.
Two days later, I picked up my bike from the repair shop. That night when removing my clothing, I found crumpled dollar bills in my underwear.
The next day at work, a trip to the restroom led to the discovery of toilet bowls full of soggy bills and rusted coins.
The next day, I had an ache so I went to the doctor.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked me.
As I shifted on the examination table, the sound of metal on metal gave me away. "My gut," I replied. "And," my voice dropped to a whisper, "my ass."
The doctor was thoughtful. "I see," he said. "We've been seeing a lot of this lately. Especially with young adults."
"What is it, doc?" I moaned through the cramping.
"It's simple, really." He wrote a prescription on a sheet of paper and handed it my way. "You're hemorrhaging money."
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Don't vote because I'm telling you to vote.
There's no perfect way to pick who you're voting for.
Because no two people will agree on every issue. And there are far too many issues for us common folk to wrap our heads around. Hell, there are too many issues for the professional legal people to wrap their heads around.
And that's just for the commander 'n' chief.
The problem is that the ballot has more than just our presidential choices on it. It might have senators, supreme court justices, district judges, sheriffs, county tax-assessor/collectors, etc.
Have you even heard of any of this stuff lately?
That's why we have this crazy, electoral college system of voting (at least for the president, not sure about everything else; it's been a while since I took a government class). Is it fool proof? Hell no. Is it necessary? I'm not sure. It was designed to protect the interests of everyone by letting the elite (meaning more politically educated) have the final say.
It means that your vote may or may not count in the end. But despite that, celebrities and annalists are doing everything but threatening your life (VOTE OR DIE!) if you don't fill out some scantron in the next 4 weeks.
So instead of telling you to vote, I'm asking you to think. If you feel very strongly about troops, abortion rights, gay rights, healthcare, and renter's insurance (hey, everything is an issue), then find out who best-matches your mindset, mark their name, and cross your fingers.
If you're undecided, completely in a deadlock, have no idea which candidate will do the best job, not sure who's the lesser of two evils - don't vote.
Don't vote.
It may sound unpatriotic, but it isn't. If you don't have anything to say, sometimes it's best to say nothing.
If you don't care, then continue on with your apathy. Skewing the curve with a careless bubble mark only puts us all into a position we shouldn't be in.
Let the hate mail arrive.
Because no two people will agree on every issue. And there are far too many issues for us common folk to wrap our heads around. Hell, there are too many issues for the professional legal people to wrap their heads around.
And that's just for the commander 'n' chief.
The problem is that the ballot has more than just our presidential choices on it. It might have senators, supreme court justices, district judges, sheriffs, county tax-assessor/collectors, etc.
Have you even heard of any of this stuff lately?
That's why we have this crazy, electoral college system of voting (at least for the president, not sure about everything else; it's been a while since I took a government class). Is it fool proof? Hell no. Is it necessary? I'm not sure. It was designed to protect the interests of everyone by letting the elite (meaning more politically educated) have the final say.
It means that your vote may or may not count in the end. But despite that, celebrities and annalists are doing everything but threatening your life (VOTE OR DIE!) if you don't fill out some scantron in the next 4 weeks.
So instead of telling you to vote, I'm asking you to think. If you feel very strongly about troops, abortion rights, gay rights, healthcare, and renter's insurance (hey, everything is an issue), then find out who best-matches your mindset, mark their name, and cross your fingers.
If you're undecided, completely in a deadlock, have no idea which candidate will do the best job, not sure who's the lesser of two evils - don't vote.
Don't vote.
It may sound unpatriotic, but it isn't. If you don't have anything to say, sometimes it's best to say nothing.
If you don't care, then continue on with your apathy. Skewing the curve with a careless bubble mark only puts us all into a position we shouldn't be in.
Let the hate mail arrive.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
This is the person I became.
The other morning as I was primping for the day, I had a small revelation.
This is who I grew into. This person in the mirror is the adult me.
It was a sobering moment in time because in my head I still feel like a child. I still stare wide-eyed at the surrounding world and wonder where exactly I fit.
And I still wonder who I'll be in ten years. Twenty years. Who my kids will be. And so on.
A part of me will always be a curious five year old, daydreaming of being a long-legged adult in the big city, wearing red mini dresses and red heels to my corporate gig (okay, so I was 5 in the 80s, give me a break). Wardrobe aside, I'm not too far off from my projected self.
I may have shorter hair than I thought. My boyfriend doesn't ride a motorcycle to his job as (whatever a Ken doll did). And I don't have a swimming pool full of Cherry 7-Up.
But I'm happy. This is the woman I became, and I like her.
This is who I grew into. This person in the mirror is the adult me.
It was a sobering moment in time because in my head I still feel like a child. I still stare wide-eyed at the surrounding world and wonder where exactly I fit.
And I still wonder who I'll be in ten years. Twenty years. Who my kids will be. And so on.
A part of me will always be a curious five year old, daydreaming of being a long-legged adult in the big city, wearing red mini dresses and red heels to my corporate gig (okay, so I was 5 in the 80s, give me a break). Wardrobe aside, I'm not too far off from my projected self.
I may have shorter hair than I thought. My boyfriend doesn't ride a motorcycle to his job as (whatever a Ken doll did). And I don't have a swimming pool full of Cherry 7-Up.
But I'm happy. This is the woman I became, and I like her.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
It's the Sun's Fault. Part 5
THE STORY SO FAR IS LOCATED HERE.
"What most don't seem to realize," the exhausted Sun said into the phone, "is that my job never stops. When I'm rising in your east, I'm also setting in someone else's west. Simultaneously, I'm burning my brightest at noon somewhere in the middle."
"I understand ..."
"So when am I supposed to find the time to deal with all of this?"
Bruce Greyson, Esq., sighed into the phone. "You're going to have to make the time. Take a day ..."
"Bruce, I'm the Sun. I can't take a day off. The planet will freeze. An hour here, an hour there, no problem. But one whole day without sunlight and ..."
The lawyer interrupted his client. "There's more, Sun."
The line went quiet for a moment then, "More what?"
Greyson had been wanting to break the news more gently, but empathy isn't something lawyers are great with. So he just said it. "More plaintiffs. More attorneys. More everything. The lawsuit is now class action."
The sky over the Eastern United States flared white for a moment making the usually cool nine AM feel more like one PM in the dead of a Texas summer. Wherever it was high noon, a few birds began smoking mid-flight.
"These people are so set on proving some crazy point that they're willing to destroy the planet," the Sun lamented to himself.
Greyson thought. "Well, given the nature of your, er, you, we can't really have you in a court building for an extended time anyway. There's not a powerful enough sunscreen. So perhaps you can attend via satellite?"
The two spoke for another five minutes before the Sun had to leave so he could work.
As he traveled west across the sky, he noticed a little girl staring up at him. Her mouth appeared to be moving.
"Are you addressing me?" he asked the child.
"My mommy says you're in trouble," she shouted upwards in a teeny little child's voice.
As he had been doing more and more often, the Sun traveled down in his human form, leaving his fiery chariot up in the sky without a driver. He approached the wide-eyed child. She was sitting in the grass amongst dolls and other human toys.
"Some people aren't happy with me right now."
"Why?" she innocently asked.
"Because I can make their skin red. And their eyes hurt."
"Oh." The child looked down at the grass as it leaned towards the Sun, craving his light.
"I'm not mad at you. You tell me when to eat breakfast and when to eat dinner." She looked up. "I'm Chloe."
The Sun smiled. "Thank you, Chloe. It's good to have someone on my side." He waved to her and rose back into the sky. He took his place in his fiery chariot.
From far away, he heard a small, angelic little voice, "Besides, all of those mean people are dumb asses. That's what my daddy says."
"What most don't seem to realize," the exhausted Sun said into the phone, "is that my job never stops. When I'm rising in your east, I'm also setting in someone else's west. Simultaneously, I'm burning my brightest at noon somewhere in the middle."
"I understand ..."
"So when am I supposed to find the time to deal with all of this?"
Bruce Greyson, Esq., sighed into the phone. "You're going to have to make the time. Take a day ..."
"Bruce, I'm the Sun. I can't take a day off. The planet will freeze. An hour here, an hour there, no problem. But one whole day without sunlight and ..."
The lawyer interrupted his client. "There's more, Sun."
The line went quiet for a moment then, "More what?"
Greyson had been wanting to break the news more gently, but empathy isn't something lawyers are great with. So he just said it. "More plaintiffs. More attorneys. More everything. The lawsuit is now class action."
The sky over the Eastern United States flared white for a moment making the usually cool nine AM feel more like one PM in the dead of a Texas summer. Wherever it was high noon, a few birds began smoking mid-flight.
"These people are so set on proving some crazy point that they're willing to destroy the planet," the Sun lamented to himself.
Greyson thought. "Well, given the nature of your, er, you, we can't really have you in a court building for an extended time anyway. There's not a powerful enough sunscreen. So perhaps you can attend via satellite?"
The two spoke for another five minutes before the Sun had to leave so he could work.
As he traveled west across the sky, he noticed a little girl staring up at him. Her mouth appeared to be moving.
"Are you addressing me?" he asked the child.
"My mommy says you're in trouble," she shouted upwards in a teeny little child's voice.
As he had been doing more and more often, the Sun traveled down in his human form, leaving his fiery chariot up in the sky without a driver. He approached the wide-eyed child. She was sitting in the grass amongst dolls and other human toys.
"Some people aren't happy with me right now."
"Why?" she innocently asked.
"Because I can make their skin red. And their eyes hurt."
"Oh." The child looked down at the grass as it leaned towards the Sun, craving his light.
"I'm not mad at you. You tell me when to eat breakfast and when to eat dinner." She looked up. "I'm Chloe."
The Sun smiled. "Thank you, Chloe. It's good to have someone on my side." He waved to her and rose back into the sky. He took his place in his fiery chariot.
From far away, he heard a small, angelic little voice, "Besides, all of those mean people are dumb asses. That's what my daddy says."
Monday, September 22, 2008
The internet makes photos better.
Once upon a time, looking through someone's vacation photos was right in line with having your eyeballs filed by rough sandpaper.
Now with the addition of social networking websites, photos of your little getaway offer a mental break for those in the corporate world.
I'll look at photos of your tubby husband shoeing a horse all damn day long. Because I don't want to write an email to my boss.
So you went to the Grand Canyon? Fantastic. Let's see yet another fuzzy pic of some old rock next to some other old rocks. Just keep me away from filing those reports from yesterday.
Oh, your sister's husband's twin's wife had an ugly baby? (Granted, not vacation photos) I'll keep flipping through each and every seemingly identical photo since the file network is taking forever today.
Yes, social networking has given us yet another way to shirk our corporate responsibilities. And I for one am grateful. But perhaps I should quit typing this and do something a little more productive.
Now with the addition of social networking websites, photos of your little getaway offer a mental break for those in the corporate world.
I'll look at photos of your tubby husband shoeing a horse all damn day long. Because I don't want to write an email to my boss.
So you went to the Grand Canyon? Fantastic. Let's see yet another fuzzy pic of some old rock next to some other old rocks. Just keep me away from filing those reports from yesterday.
Oh, your sister's husband's twin's wife had an ugly baby? (Granted, not vacation photos) I'll keep flipping through each and every seemingly identical photo since the file network is taking forever today.
Yes, social networking has given us yet another way to shirk our corporate responsibilities. And I for one am grateful. But perhaps I should quit typing this and do something a little more productive.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Paris is now a little less awesome (since I left it).
Dear Texas,
You are nothing at all like Paris, France.
Love,
the Queen
You are nothing at all like Paris, France.
Love,
the Queen
Sunday, September 14, 2008
I am in France. Part 3
While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.
Go to l'hell, clock. You condemn to the most unhappy kingdom of l'existence.
I hope that you upwards finish snivelling for your pathetic heart with the feet of the great man of the goats. Since you return me very tired very.
Paris is seven hours exhausting in front of my small house. This n' is not a thing easy to adjust on. Though I thought I stays to make good, I now start to doubt my capacity of to adapt. They say that takes one day for each hour of difference in time. If I am in Paris during seven days and, I am here during seven days, whereas that takes one week to me to be normal. Thus once I am normal I will be of return to the house and owe to adjust once again.
Condemn-thus clock to return it lasts to greet the sun the mornings. Oh well, I stays always more an owl of night in any event.
And now it is time for a croissant breakfast. Even if it takes place beyond time well to lunch.
Go to l'hell, clock. You condemn to the most unhappy kingdom of l'existence.
I hope that you upwards finish snivelling for your pathetic heart with the feet of the great man of the goats. Since you return me very tired very.
Paris is seven hours exhausting in front of my small house. This n' is not a thing easy to adjust on. Though I thought I stays to make good, I now start to doubt my capacity of to adapt. They say that takes one day for each hour of difference in time. If I am in Paris during seven days and, I am here during seven days, whereas that takes one week to me to be normal. Thus once I am normal I will be of return to the house and owe to adjust once again.
Condemn-thus clock to return it lasts to greet the sun the mornings. Oh well, I stays always more an owl of night in any event.
And now it is time for a croissant breakfast. Even if it takes place beyond time well to lunch.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
I am in France. Part 2
While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.
Hello, pope.
I see that you chose to visit Paris while I visit Paris.
After being little a devout catholic, I can' l' helps of T but is curious to see you. Although I must be here little honest, you' the face frighten a little. Would it wound you to smile? You' ; about the pope, after all.
I'm not really for large crowd or mass more. Perhaps should make us the lunch.
Love you sushi make?
Apparent there is a place of sushi in bottom of the street where I remain. The word on the streets is it is tasty and delicious. And if you bless the meal then us n' will obtain any kind of food poisening.
Thus if attracted rawness tries with you, the dear father, want to find me. I appear that your connections with the great type will enable you to find me.
Hello, pope.
I see that you chose to visit Paris while I visit Paris.
After being little a devout catholic, I can' l' helps of T but is curious to see you. Although I must be here little honest, you' the face frighten a little. Would it wound you to smile? You' ; about the pope, after all.
I'm not really for large crowd or mass more. Perhaps should make us the lunch.
Love you sushi make?
Apparent there is a place of sushi in bottom of the street where I remain. The word on the streets is it is tasty and delicious. And if you bless the meal then us n' will obtain any kind of food poisening.
Thus if attracted rawness tries with you, the dear father, want to find me. I appear that your connections with the great type will enable you to find me.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I am in France. Part 1
While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.
J' was now party during 24 hours. I am very tired but I should not go to sleep. The sleep now would ruin my internal clock for the remainder of my voyage.
To remain me far started to write this blog. That m' took for always writing even the d' cause; site of blog qu' it was in French. I guess which seem reasonable because I am in France.
Jusqu' here France is large. The bread is impossiblement delicious. And the wine is delicious good market. I cannot wait to dig in cheese my friend and j' obtained. L' correct hour to run a covering thus me do not pass outside. Goodbye.
J' was now party during 24 hours. I am very tired but I should not go to sleep. The sleep now would ruin my internal clock for the remainder of my voyage.
To remain me far started to write this blog. That m' took for always writing even the d' cause; site of blog qu' it was in French. I guess which seem reasonable because I am in France.
Jusqu' here France is large. The bread is impossiblement delicious. And the wine is delicious good market. I cannot wait to dig in cheese my friend and j' obtained. L' correct hour to run a covering thus me do not pass outside. Goodbye.
Monday, September 8, 2008
What's worse than saying y'all?
I live in Texas.
In Texas, people say y'all. Even I allow a y'all to slip out every now and again. And I forgive my posh friends when a y'all lodges itself into their monologues.
We all know it's not a real word. We know it stands for "you all." Some of us even know why "you all" is an improper english phrase in and of itself.
But we say y'all. And we love y'all. And we'll continue to keep saying y'all because it's cute (unless of course you're using it while telling the kids to git back in tha gat dern trailer).
But if you're going to use y'all in the written word, for tha luv uv gahd, even if it's not a real word, spell it correctly.
I beg you.
Because a wronged y'all is no y'all at all.
Today, I saw "ya'll" and I wanted to whack someone with a rolled up magazine.
"What are you thinking!" I wanted to screech.
"Did you EVER go to elementary school?" my brain yelled.
"Do you even know what an apostrophe DOES!" the voice echoed.
As endearing as the yokel word y'all can be (and let's face it, it can be charming if coming from the right lips), when it's in print and flat out misspelled, that's just unforgivably dumb.
All it takes is one carelessly placed apostrophe to transform a J.R. Ewing or sweet, Southern Belle into a complete dumb dumb.
To the misspellers of y'all, all y'all are stupid.
Get a friggin dictionary. Y'all's in there for crying out loud. Look it up.
In Texas, people say y'all. Even I allow a y'all to slip out every now and again. And I forgive my posh friends when a y'all lodges itself into their monologues.
We all know it's not a real word. We know it stands for "you all." Some of us even know why "you all" is an improper english phrase in and of itself.
But we say y'all. And we love y'all. And we'll continue to keep saying y'all because it's cute (unless of course you're using it while telling the kids to git back in tha gat dern trailer).
But if you're going to use y'all in the written word, for tha luv uv gahd, even if it's not a real word, spell it correctly.
I beg you.
Because a wronged y'all is no y'all at all.
Today, I saw "ya'll" and I wanted to whack someone with a rolled up magazine.
"What are you thinking!" I wanted to screech.
"Did you EVER go to elementary school?" my brain yelled.
"Do you even know what an apostrophe DOES!" the voice echoed.
As endearing as the yokel word y'all can be (and let's face it, it can be charming if coming from the right lips), when it's in print and flat out misspelled, that's just unforgivably dumb.
All it takes is one carelessly placed apostrophe to transform a J.R. Ewing or sweet, Southern Belle into a complete dumb dumb.
To the misspellers of y'all, all y'all are stupid.
Get a friggin dictionary. Y'all's in there for crying out loud. Look it up.
Just let me do what I do.
Those of us who are working for a living feel like we specialize in something specific. Our jobs usually have a pretty clear description and (hopefully) we're skilled enough to fulfill the needs of that position.
I write for a living. I'm a writer. I've been a writer since before I could pick up a pencil. It's who I am. It's what I do. I'm very good at it. I'm thoughtful. I'm deliberate. I care about my writing. I'm not going to write crap because I don't want to make crap.
So acknowledge that. Acknowledge that I might know a bit about this English language and how to use it most effectively on paper. I know how to make things sound kind and sincere, urgent and necessary, or even angry and scathing.
So stop trying to do my job for me. You non-writing asshole(s).
If I ever hear the words, "I'm not a writer, but I think it should be more like [some idiotic-assed, half-thought-out, grammatically-insulting, re-worded reference to what I've already written]" one more fucking time, I'm going to use my pencil as a dart. Asshole's forehead will be the target.
I've impeccable aim, mind you.
Whew. I feel better now. Back to, well, writing.
I write for a living. I'm a writer. I've been a writer since before I could pick up a pencil. It's who I am. It's what I do. I'm very good at it. I'm thoughtful. I'm deliberate. I care about my writing. I'm not going to write crap because I don't want to make crap.
So acknowledge that. Acknowledge that I might know a bit about this English language and how to use it most effectively on paper. I know how to make things sound kind and sincere, urgent and necessary, or even angry and scathing.
So stop trying to do my job for me. You non-writing asshole(s).
If I ever hear the words, "I'm not a writer, but I think it should be more like [some idiotic-assed, half-thought-out, grammatically-insulting, re-worded reference to what I've already written]" one more fucking time, I'm going to use my pencil as a dart. Asshole's forehead will be the target.
I've impeccable aim, mind you.
Whew. I feel better now. Back to, well, writing.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I leave for Paris in 7 days.
Sacre bleu! My Paris vacation is getting closer and closer meaning I've less and less time to prepare.
Not going to lie, I haven't learned as much French as I'd like to. Normal everyday survival kind of got in the way of my studies. But I can say, "I don't eat meat." I can order wine (a glass, not a bottle). And I can ask for directions. Although if someone replies to any of my inquiries, I'll have to go into mime mode.
Maybe I should learn to say, "Thank you for directing me towards the bar. Now if only I could get out of THIS BOX!" Then I'd pop my hands onto the invisible walls of my prison until the Frenchman either leaves or chucks a Euro at me.
I wonder if that phrase is in the next chapter of my cheap "Learn French" CD-Rom. I'm going to check tonight!
Not going to lie, I haven't learned as much French as I'd like to. Normal everyday survival kind of got in the way of my studies. But I can say, "I don't eat meat." I can order wine (a glass, not a bottle). And I can ask for directions. Although if someone replies to any of my inquiries, I'll have to go into mime mode.
Maybe I should learn to say, "Thank you for directing me towards the bar. Now if only I could get out of THIS BOX!" Then I'd pop my hands onto the invisible walls of my prison until the Frenchman either leaves or chucks a Euro at me.
I wonder if that phrase is in the next chapter of my cheap "Learn French" CD-Rom. I'm going to check tonight!
Friday, August 29, 2008
You need to learn how to use punctuation.
The written word is suffering from abuse.
Too many people are ... typing sentences like this.
Using unnecessary ellipses. Sometimes, adding commas in weird, places like this. Or ... committing mortal sins, by doing ... BOTH!
Ugh. It makes reading your tripe even more painful than listening to a lipless person smack on vanilla pudding.
So (again) I come to the rescue of the helpless. If you're wondering when it's appropriate to use an ellipses (...) or a comma (,) or any sort of punctuation, I offer the following advice:
Spell it out.
Don't use an actual comma. Type "comma." Keep your fingertips far away from the period key and simply type "ellipses." When you're excited, end your sentence with "exclamation point."
An example:
Hey everyone exclamation point Here's my monthly newsletter ellipses just for you exclamation point So comma how're you doing question mark I've got some exciting news ellipses I'm getting a new couch exclamation point exclamation point exclamation point smiley face Isn't that awesome question mark exclamation point It's red comma with black spots comma like something from the fifties period I just love it so much ellipses and Muffy my puddle parentheses that's pug and poodle mix exclamation point parenthesis will look sooo cute sitting on it exclamation point exclamation point Well ellipses that's all for this month period
Love ya comma
Stephie
Upon reading your words, if you find any of the punctuation markers jarring, simply delete it. If it seems appropriate, replace it with the proper symbol.
Here's the paragraph (although not perfect, we're not going to give the fictitious Stephie that much credit) once edited:
Hey everyone! Here's my monthly newsletter ... just for you! So, how're you doing? I've got some exciting news: I'm getting a new couch! Isn't that awesome? It's red with black spots like something from the fifties. I just love it so much, and Muffy my puddle (that's pug and poodle mix) will look sooo cute sitting on it! Well, that's all for this month.
Love ya,
Stephie
See? With all of that extraneous crap deleted, Stephie's IQ appears higher. She's now on par with a jam jar!
Here's the paragraph (although not perfect, we're not going to give the fictitious Stephie that much credit) once edited:
Hey everyone! Here's my monthly newsletter ... just for you! So, how're you doing? I've got some exciting news: I'm getting a new couch! Isn't that awesome? It's red with black spots like something from the fifties. I just love it so much, and Muffy my puddle (that's pug and poodle mix) will look sooo cute sitting on it! Well, that's all for this month.
Love ya,
Stephie
See? With all of that extraneous crap deleted, Stephie's IQ appears higher. She's now on par with a jam jar!
If you desire another punctuation filter, I strongly suggest one of the verbal persuasion. Just read your little note out loud. (Side note: This is actually great to do after writing anything. Take it from a professional writer, you'll catch mistakes you'd never notice on screen or paper.)
And with that, I bless you and wish you better written communication exclamation point
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
I miss you, photography.
Dear Photography,
Long time no see, my old friend. How've you been?
I've been alright. Been hanging out with writing quite a bit. Make that for years, actually.
But you're more than aware of that.
I know you and I haven't spoken much since I decided to dedicate my professional life to written words instead of the implied thousand that a picture portrays. And I know it's probably made you feel hurt and betrayed.
Because I never left my house, dorm room, or college apartment without a camera in tow. But money was tight and film cost money where typing didn't.
Then the digital invasion took over. Granted, I got a point-and-shoot complete with CCD. But snapping candids just didn't (and still doesn't) have the same stealth that a film-based SLR had (and has). I didn't want to get a digital SLR, either. I would miss the familiar CLAP of the mirror flipping up, or the shutter sliding to expose the film. That 1/60 of a second of blindness through the lens. The fear of wrongly exposing the delicate film or even accidentally opening the camera back.
So I fought the digital invasion. Refusing to shoot brides with anything but film. Telling clients that digital really wasn't "there yet."
Didn't matter. Brides wanted their photos on discs. People wanted their albums online. The world went the way of DPI instead of millimeters of celluloid.
And so I left, photography. I abandoned you. I slipped out one night while you were sleeping.
And I've regretted it. I miss you daily.
So I've decided to bite the bullet that killed our relationship. I've decided to research and test out and commit.
I will buy a fancy digital SLR. I'll get lenses and flashes.
And we will be reunited. That is if you'll have me back.
Because in our time apart, I've realized writing might be my lover, but you are my soul mate.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Music moves me. And my clothes.
Have you ever heard a song that makes you want to get naked?
Not necessarily do anything prurient, but just expose your bare skin to the air around it.
Some songs just warrant nudity.
Tonight, my iTunes is throwing the clothes-tossers at me. Oddly enough, it's while I'm hanging laundry.
The lyrics speak of city lights, but all I hear is, "Take off your shoes."
The singer croons of sleeping, but I'm too busy slipping off my socks.
The beat is slow, lazy. I realize the insanity that's taken over just before I lose my pants.
It's so odd, right? The desire to just stand there exposed to the speakers? To the song that plays? Not dancing. Not moving. Just standing.
Am I the only person who feels this?
Sometimes, music effects me while driving. We've all experienced this. The bass kicks in, the volume goes up, and the accelerator goes down.
Off into the distance you ride.
But sometimes, the beat just feels harder. The volume drowns out any logic.
And you're undoing your belt at 80 miles an hour on the state highway.
"Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?"
Through the armhole of my tank top I manage to reply, "Because my registration is expired?"
Monday, August 11, 2008
Tonight, my knee surgery paid for itself.
Tonight I jogged.
For the first time in I'm not sure how long.
Years. And months.
At first, I simply walked next to my lightly jogging friend. This has been our routine for almost a year now. She'd jog slowly so I could keep up. Not running. Because I wasn't physically able.
But tonight, my knee simply said, "Go."
And I started lightly. Picking up my knees. Feeling my feet spring against the road.
I pushed the earth down, behind me, and propelled forward.
I had a pace, a cadence. And I followed it.
I jogged for blocks. Despite the wheezing. Despite the light drizzle.
Step for step. Beat for beat. Inhaling. Exhaling.
A shot fired through my side. A cramp. I haven't had a side cramp in years. And months.
Because I wasn't able to run.
My side hurt. But it also felt so good.
I called my parents. I called my boyfriend. I wanted to buy a billboard and tell all of Dallas, "Hey! I jogged tonight!"
I'll give my knee the day's rest I'm sure it will demand come morning. And then I'm going to jog again.
Bring on the pain.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Things went downhill when Han Solo got email.
It only took a few days before the flood of so-called surveys splashed into Han Solo's email.
Not sure how to handle the situation, he did what most new-to-the-Internet types do. He answered the questions.
[The following questions are from an actual "survey" that was posted in a MySpace friend's bulletin from this morning.]
1) Have you ever taken a shower with another person?
Person, no. Wookie? Yes.
2) Who ended your last relationship?
I did. With a gun.
3) What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Dusting the instrument panel on the Falc.
4) Have you ever been in love?
Once. Tasted like scotch.
5) Where is your mom at?
Obviously not here.
6) Last text you got?
"Want 2 go get mud baths l8r? J/K buddy." from Lando Calrissian
7) Something you are excited about?
Chewy's bald spot is spreading. He looks like a pimple.
8) Can you tie a cherry stem with your tongue?
Leia can!
9) Do you regret your past relationship?
Only meeting that Kenobi jackass. ... Just kidding. He's alright.
10) What are you doing tonight?
Playing cards with the Wookies.
11) What is the last thing you said aloud?
Your clothes are that way. The door is that way.
12) What was the last thing you had to drink?
Technically blood. The last thing I said caused me to get punched.
13) What are you doing tomorrow?
Visiting Endor for vacation. I've got a cabin there.
14)Where is your dad?
Not with my mom, I can guaran-damn-tee.
15) Last girl you talked on the phone with?
Leia.
16) Last guy you talked on the phone with?
Luke.
22) Where was your default picture taken?
My cabin on Endor. An Ewok took it for me.
23) Last person you rode in a car with under the age of 20?
I'm not answering that.
24) Are you friends with the last person you kissed?
Never befriend those you kiss.
25) Who was the last person you drove with?
Chewy.
26) Where’s your favorite place to be?
A warm woman on a cold night.
27) Name something that made you laugh today?
Getting punched in the face, actually. Such a tiny woman's fist.
28) Would you ever kiss the last person you kissed again?
Doesn't look like that's going to happen.
29) If you could move somewhere else, where would you?
Not Alderaan, that's for sure.
30) Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Among other things.
31) Do you believe exes can be friends?
I don't believe currents can be friends.
32) Do you prefer to call or text?
I just show up. If you're lucky.
33) Who was the last person you took a picture of?
Myself in the reflection of the Falc's hood.
34) Was yesterday better than today?
Not yet. But it's not 5, either.
35) Can you live a day without TV?
Yes. But it can't live a day without me.
36) What are you listening to?
Really?
37) What is your ring tone?
It's that sound Chewy makes when he's angry.
39) Last time you spent the night at someone's house?
Two nights ago. It's how I got this soon to be scar on my back.
40) Would you rather watch football or baseball?
Football. Especially when Mygeeto is playing.
41) Coke or Pepsi?
Coke. Unfortunately it's not legally shipped to this end of the galaxy. But that doesn't stop me.
42) Beer or Liquor?
Depends on present company and how drunk I must get first.
43) What is your favorite holiday?
I hate them all equally.
44)Are you currently wearing shoes?
No. Is that important?
Not sure how to handle the situation, he did what most new-to-the-Internet types do. He answered the questions.
[The following questions are from an actual "survey" that was posted in a MySpace friend's bulletin from this morning.]
1) Have you ever taken a shower with another person?
Person, no. Wookie? Yes.
2) Who ended your last relationship?
I did. With a gun.
3) What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Dusting the instrument panel on the Falc.
4) Have you ever been in love?
Once. Tasted like scotch.
5) Where is your mom at?
Obviously not here.
6) Last text you got?
"Want 2 go get mud baths l8r? J/K buddy." from Lando Calrissian
7) Something you are excited about?
Chewy's bald spot is spreading. He looks like a pimple.
8) Can you tie a cherry stem with your tongue?
Leia can!
9) Do you regret your past relationship?
Only meeting that Kenobi jackass. ... Just kidding. He's alright.
10) What are you doing tonight?
Playing cards with the Wookies.
11) What is the last thing you said aloud?
Your clothes are that way. The door is that way.
12) What was the last thing you had to drink?
Technically blood. The last thing I said caused me to get punched.
13) What are you doing tomorrow?
Visiting Endor for vacation. I've got a cabin there.
14)Where is your dad?
Not with my mom, I can guaran-damn-tee.
15) Last girl you talked on the phone with?
Leia.
16) Last guy you talked on the phone with?
Luke.
22) Where was your default picture taken?
My cabin on Endor. An Ewok took it for me.
23) Last person you rode in a car with under the age of 20?
I'm not answering that.
24) Are you friends with the last person you kissed?
Never befriend those you kiss.
25) Who was the last person you drove with?
Chewy.
26) Where’s your favorite place to be?
A warm woman on a cold night.
27) Name something that made you laugh today?
Getting punched in the face, actually. Such a tiny woman's fist.
28) Would you ever kiss the last person you kissed again?
Doesn't look like that's going to happen.
29) If you could move somewhere else, where would you?
Not Alderaan, that's for sure.
30) Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Among other things.
31) Do you believe exes can be friends?
I don't believe currents can be friends.
32) Do you prefer to call or text?
I just show up. If you're lucky.
33) Who was the last person you took a picture of?
Myself in the reflection of the Falc's hood.
34) Was yesterday better than today?
Not yet. But it's not 5, either.
35) Can you live a day without TV?
Yes. But it can't live a day without me.
36) What are you listening to?
Really?
37) What is your ring tone?
It's that sound Chewy makes when he's angry.
39) Last time you spent the night at someone's house?
Two nights ago. It's how I got this soon to be scar on my back.
40) Would you rather watch football or baseball?
Football. Especially when Mygeeto is playing.
41) Coke or Pepsi?
Coke. Unfortunately it's not legally shipped to this end of the galaxy. But that doesn't stop me.
42) Beer or Liquor?
Depends on present company and how drunk I must get first.
43) What is your favorite holiday?
I hate them all equally.
44)Are you currently wearing shoes?
No. Is that important?
Monday, August 4, 2008
This random day deserves a random blog.
On a typical work day, I wish for a snack around 10 AM.
This is a typical work day.
Knowing that I had no food hiding in my office, I decided to ignore the groans from deep inside my gut.
Sometime around 10:30, I opened a drawer to grab my hand lotion.
And I found a banana.
Granted, I accidentally opened my snack drawer, but who knew there was a banana in there?
So I did what any normal person would do, I checked it for spots and ate it.
Full of fructose and thinking this day couldn't get any better, I continued on with my work and my other normal activities.
One of those activities being the daily back-and-forth email with my mom.
Today's email contained the sentence "OMGWTF that would be so funny."
Um, what?
Did my mother type that? I don't even do that abbreviation crap. Ever. I rebelled against it when I was 12; I'm rebelling against it now.
I would assume my 55 year old, techo-phobic, proper-English advocate of a mother would do the same.
So the only conclusion I can draw is that my mother has been kidnapped by a high schooler hoping that someone will cough up money for the old broad. Only he hasn't fully thought this plan thorough yet, so in the meantime he's responding to emails.
He replied too quickly, though. Probably because my mother is kicking him and trying to bite. She's feisty like that. But I can tell when an email isn't from my mother. Any daughter would know an email from her mother.
So I'm going to save the day and save my mom! I'm going to her work where I'll wait in the entry hall of her office. Luring the teenage kidnapper out with promises of beer.
As he goes through the door and steps onto the tiled surface, I'll toss out the banana peel from my snack. He'll slip and go sliding across the entryway and out the front door for the rest of the world to take care of.
Then Mom and I shall dine on almonds and discuss the finer things in life. Like Wintergeen Life Savers.
This is a typical work day.
Knowing that I had no food hiding in my office, I decided to ignore the groans from deep inside my gut.
Sometime around 10:30, I opened a drawer to grab my hand lotion.
And I found a banana.
Granted, I accidentally opened my snack drawer, but who knew there was a banana in there?
So I did what any normal person would do, I checked it for spots and ate it.
Full of fructose and thinking this day couldn't get any better, I continued on with my work and my other normal activities.
One of those activities being the daily back-and-forth email with my mom.
Today's email contained the sentence "OMGWTF that would be so funny."
Um, what?
Did my mother type that? I don't even do that abbreviation crap. Ever. I rebelled against it when I was 12; I'm rebelling against it now.
I would assume my 55 year old, techo-phobic, proper-English advocate of a mother would do the same.
So the only conclusion I can draw is that my mother has been kidnapped by a high schooler hoping that someone will cough up money for the old broad. Only he hasn't fully thought this plan thorough yet, so in the meantime he's responding to emails.
He replied too quickly, though. Probably because my mother is kicking him and trying to bite. She's feisty like that. But I can tell when an email isn't from my mother. Any daughter would know an email from her mother.
So I'm going to save the day and save my mom! I'm going to her work where I'll wait in the entry hall of her office. Luring the teenage kidnapper out with promises of beer.
As he goes through the door and steps onto the tiled surface, I'll toss out the banana peel from my snack. He'll slip and go sliding across the entryway and out the front door for the rest of the world to take care of.
Then Mom and I shall dine on almonds and discuss the finer things in life. Like Wintergeen Life Savers.
Friday, August 1, 2008
There needs to be gift-giving icons for random holidays.
With Easter comes the lovable, hoppity Easter Bunny who leaves eggs and chocolates for you to enjoy.
Christmas, of course, has Santa Claus, the number one super hero of all time*.
And each loss of a child's tooth becomes a mini holiday, for the sneaky Tooth Faerie comes and leaves crispy currency. This money is an investment since it will most likely get used on sticky candies, perfect for ripping out more teeth.
But what about Labor Day? Or Colombus Day? Or even Thanksgiving.
Well, kids, the buck stops right about HERE. I'm giving you the forgotten fellows who bring presents and joy to the more mundane holidays. Spread their stories with your brethren and these modest men will soon become more than fiction.
LABOR DAY LARRY is some CEO, mogul-type who lives in some swank pad in some city full of magic and lights. No one for sure knows which city, he could be in New York or Chicago. But at midnight every Labor Day, LDL drives his magical Masserati around the country in order to leave cash presents to the workers of the U.S. If you're a business person, you might find a bonus check tucked into your laptop. Or if you're a construction worker, twenty-dollar bills might be wrapped around your tools inside of your toolbox. Hair stylists would find cash inside of their hair dryers.
And as you, yes YOU, start your car in the morning, glad that you have this one day off of work, you'll find a fifty in the cup holder.
"Thank you, Labor Day Larry!" you'll say through the tears of joy.
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS sought a shorter route to India to obtain goods. Instead, he bumped into the Americas. And now he gives us goods on his holiday!
They say if you stand outside before the sun rises on Columbus Day, if you remain very quiet, you may hear the crashing of waves against a ship's hull. If you hear this sound, run back into your home and look in the bathtub! Because that's where Columbus will leave the Italian coffees!
It's customary to drink this special brew on Columbus Day morning. Otherwise, you'll be plagued by smallpox.
THANKSGIVING is a very special holiday. The whole point is to reflect on all of the great things in your life - family, friends, home, faith.
Eff that mess! We all want presents. We're just too nice to say it.
So PLYMOUTH PAUL comes to save the day. While you and yours are sleeping soundly, Plymouth Paul enters through the kitchen window. (If your abode has no kitchen window, he simply uses the primary door.) He leaves presents on the family's main-dining-room table, all splayed out like a Thanksgiving feast.
He leaves candles, over-sized sweaters, tie racks, mini statues - things you'd never buy for yourself. The super great thing, though, about PP's gifts is that they're regift-able. So if you hate your popcorn tin, give it to your cousin next month for Christmas**!
Talk about being thankful. You don't have to go Christmas shopping.
***
Oh, boy! I can't wait until Labor Day!
*Discounting Batman whose gifts are more valuable, yet intangible. I'm talkin' 'bout justice.
**Or any other holiday you might celebrate. I use Christmas simply because that's what I grew up with.
Christmas, of course, has Santa Claus, the number one super hero of all time*.
And each loss of a child's tooth becomes a mini holiday, for the sneaky Tooth Faerie comes and leaves crispy currency. This money is an investment since it will most likely get used on sticky candies, perfect for ripping out more teeth.
But what about Labor Day? Or Colombus Day? Or even Thanksgiving.
Well, kids, the buck stops right about HERE. I'm giving you the forgotten fellows who bring presents and joy to the more mundane holidays. Spread their stories with your brethren and these modest men will soon become more than fiction.
LABOR DAY LARRY is some CEO, mogul-type who lives in some swank pad in some city full of magic and lights. No one for sure knows which city, he could be in New York or Chicago. But at midnight every Labor Day, LDL drives his magical Masserati around the country in order to leave cash presents to the workers of the U.S. If you're a business person, you might find a bonus check tucked into your laptop. Or if you're a construction worker, twenty-dollar bills might be wrapped around your tools inside of your toolbox. Hair stylists would find cash inside of their hair dryers.
And as you, yes YOU, start your car in the morning, glad that you have this one day off of work, you'll find a fifty in the cup holder.
"Thank you, Labor Day Larry!" you'll say through the tears of joy.
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS sought a shorter route to India to obtain goods. Instead, he bumped into the Americas. And now he gives us goods on his holiday!
They say if you stand outside before the sun rises on Columbus Day, if you remain very quiet, you may hear the crashing of waves against a ship's hull. If you hear this sound, run back into your home and look in the bathtub! Because that's where Columbus will leave the Italian coffees!
It's customary to drink this special brew on Columbus Day morning. Otherwise, you'll be plagued by smallpox.
THANKSGIVING is a very special holiday. The whole point is to reflect on all of the great things in your life - family, friends, home, faith.
Eff that mess! We all want presents. We're just too nice to say it.
So PLYMOUTH PAUL comes to save the day. While you and yours are sleeping soundly, Plymouth Paul enters through the kitchen window. (If your abode has no kitchen window, he simply uses the primary door.) He leaves presents on the family's main-dining-room table, all splayed out like a Thanksgiving feast.
He leaves candles, over-sized sweaters, tie racks, mini statues - things you'd never buy for yourself. The super great thing, though, about PP's gifts is that they're regift-able. So if you hate your popcorn tin, give it to your cousin next month for Christmas**!
Talk about being thankful. You don't have to go Christmas shopping.
***
Oh, boy! I can't wait until Labor Day!
*Discounting Batman whose gifts are more valuable, yet intangible. I'm talkin' 'bout justice.
**Or any other holiday you might celebrate. I use Christmas simply because that's what I grew up with.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Be hot in photos.
It's about time I updated my social networking photos. So like a good journalist I've done some research. I've found the best ways to achieve that difficult goal of looking smart AND sexy AND classy. Here's what I've learned:
Pucker Up and Pout it Out!
Smiling is so 90s. Maybe even 80s. This year, it's all about pouty lips. So make a kissy face at the camera. Only not like a real kiss. Pretend you're sucking on a really fat straw or popsicle. For added effect, let a little drool seep out onto your lower lip for a glassy effect.
Yes, YOU Can Glamour Shot
Photos are way better when you take them yourself. It's also a great way to show off your photography skills. The trick to a great self portrait, though, is a flattering angle. For an overall slimming effect, hold the camera way above you and look up. Take as many of these photos as possible. In fact, post no less than ten that look exactly alike.
To show off your figure, it's also perfectly acceptable to take a picture in the mirror, but remember, you want the camera to be VERY obvious. Hold it in front of you. Bonus points for using a cell phone.
Cleavage = Class
One thing that makes you look super smart is showing off tons of cleavage. Don't worry, you don't need big, fake boobs to show cleavage, either. Just make sure your shirt dips enough to show all of your sternum. ALL of it. If your shirt dips down to your belly button somehow, bonus! You can show off your belly ring AND your lady lumps with the same shirt opening. See? That's smart.
Eyeliner! Eyeliner! Eyeliner!
Why make your eyes pop when you can make them sink? Grab the blackest eyeliner you can find and draw it on thick. A half-centimeter thick line around your eyes should do the trick. Think hung-over raccoon.
You've Got Guts
There's nothing sexier than a stomach. And since it's so often that we all wander around in public raising up our shirts to our bras, why not capture that moment and post it on the internet? Just make sure the elbow of the shirt-lifting arm is lifted as high as possible, like a bird wing. This way you'll appear mighty, like the eagle. But what if your stomach isn't like Heidi Klum's? No worries, it's the internet. You're in 72 dpi. No one will notice your jelly rolls.
Camera? What Camera?
It's also very creative to pretend that you're unaware of a picture being taken. ESPECIALLY if the picture is obviously a self portrait. The key to this is a dead look in the eyes. Find the most boring object around and place it about ten feet away. Then stare at it until your eyes blur and SNAP! Perfect picture.
Baby's Got Background
Nothing says "I'm fun" like being surrounded by clutter. If the floor is visible in your photo (self portrait shot from above, for example) make sure the surrounding area is littered with odds and ends: towels, cell phone, papers, shoes, tupperware. After all, this isn't a spread in Elle Magazine, so you don't need some swanky couch or pretty window in the background. That would just detract from your beauty.
Wow, I found out more than I even knew. Guess it's time to break out the ol' camera. Wish me luck.
Pucker Up and Pout it Out!
Smiling is so 90s. Maybe even 80s. This year, it's all about pouty lips. So make a kissy face at the camera. Only not like a real kiss. Pretend you're sucking on a really fat straw or popsicle. For added effect, let a little drool seep out onto your lower lip for a glassy effect.
Yes, YOU Can Glamour Shot
Photos are way better when you take them yourself. It's also a great way to show off your photography skills. The trick to a great self portrait, though, is a flattering angle. For an overall slimming effect, hold the camera way above you and look up. Take as many of these photos as possible. In fact, post no less than ten that look exactly alike.
To show off your figure, it's also perfectly acceptable to take a picture in the mirror, but remember, you want the camera to be VERY obvious. Hold it in front of you. Bonus points for using a cell phone.
Cleavage = Class
One thing that makes you look super smart is showing off tons of cleavage. Don't worry, you don't need big, fake boobs to show cleavage, either. Just make sure your shirt dips enough to show all of your sternum. ALL of it. If your shirt dips down to your belly button somehow, bonus! You can show off your belly ring AND your lady lumps with the same shirt opening. See? That's smart.
Eyeliner! Eyeliner! Eyeliner!
Why make your eyes pop when you can make them sink? Grab the blackest eyeliner you can find and draw it on thick. A half-centimeter thick line around your eyes should do the trick. Think hung-over raccoon.
You've Got Guts
There's nothing sexier than a stomach. And since it's so often that we all wander around in public raising up our shirts to our bras, why not capture that moment and post it on the internet? Just make sure the elbow of the shirt-lifting arm is lifted as high as possible, like a bird wing. This way you'll appear mighty, like the eagle. But what if your stomach isn't like Heidi Klum's? No worries, it's the internet. You're in 72 dpi. No one will notice your jelly rolls.
Camera? What Camera?
It's also very creative to pretend that you're unaware of a picture being taken. ESPECIALLY if the picture is obviously a self portrait. The key to this is a dead look in the eyes. Find the most boring object around and place it about ten feet away. Then stare at it until your eyes blur and SNAP! Perfect picture.
Baby's Got Background
Nothing says "I'm fun" like being surrounded by clutter. If the floor is visible in your photo (self portrait shot from above, for example) make sure the surrounding area is littered with odds and ends: towels, cell phone, papers, shoes, tupperware. After all, this isn't a spread in Elle Magazine, so you don't need some swanky couch or pretty window in the background. That would just detract from your beauty.
Wow, I found out more than I even knew. Guess it's time to break out the ol' camera. Wish me luck.
Friday, July 25, 2008
I'm trying to learn some French.
Since I'm going to visit my cousin and her husband in Paris this September, I figured I'd learn a few words so I wouldn't be completely helpless.
The problem with learning a new language, though, is that it's not your language.
Seriously. Sounds pretty asinine to say, but it's the truth.
It's not simply replace-this-word-with-that-word like a puzzle. The grammar is different. The tonality is different. Hell, the hand motions are probably different.
That and French is nothing like English (which I'm pretty good at) and Spanish (which I'm not helpless at).
So when I see the French words, I try to pronounce them like they're Spanish and all goes to hell.
So right now, I've decided to try and just learn to talk. Enough. To survive. My priority is saying, "I do not eat meat."
As for reading, uh, that's probably not going to happen.
But in all of this fretting about writing, I came up with a genius idea.
While in France, if I'm able to blog, I'm going to write my blogs in English. Then I'm going to use a translator web page to put them into French. Then I'm taking that broken French and converting it back into English.
So it will sort of be the reverse of my situation. I'll be trying to speak in horrible French and my blogs will be in horrible English.
It's going to be hilarious.
For example, take this sentence.
"Everyone here smells like a sick dog who's rolled around in garbage" turns into "Each one here feels like a sick dog who's rolled around in refuse."
I don't know about you, but that's comedy.
Bon apre medi.
The problem with learning a new language, though, is that it's not your language.
Seriously. Sounds pretty asinine to say, but it's the truth.
It's not simply replace-this-word-with-that-word like a puzzle. The grammar is different. The tonality is different. Hell, the hand motions are probably different.
That and French is nothing like English (which I'm pretty good at) and Spanish (which I'm not helpless at).
So when I see the French words, I try to pronounce them like they're Spanish and all goes to hell.
So right now, I've decided to try and just learn to talk. Enough. To survive. My priority is saying, "I do not eat meat."
As for reading, uh, that's probably not going to happen.
But in all of this fretting about writing, I came up with a genius idea.
While in France, if I'm able to blog, I'm going to write my blogs in English. Then I'm going to use a translator web page to put them into French. Then I'm taking that broken French and converting it back into English.
So it will sort of be the reverse of my situation. I'll be trying to speak in horrible French and my blogs will be in horrible English.
It's going to be hilarious.
For example, take this sentence.
"Everyone here smells like a sick dog who's rolled around in garbage" turns into "Each one here feels like a sick dog who's rolled around in refuse."
I don't know about you, but that's comedy.
Bon apre medi.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Come on, July 30, 2008.
We all get forwarded-to-death emails from time to time. The "don't buy gas this Tuesday" messages. The "Microsoft will give you $1,000" informers. And the countless "George Bush" something somethings.
Not often enough, such an email will get squashed by the one person sensible enough to research before clicking "forward."
I just so happened to be that person today.
And I discovered utopia.
This coming July 30, the Cheesecake Factory will be selling slices of delectable, creamy, sinfully delicious cheesecake for [drumroll] $1.50.
That's one dollar and fifty cents American.
That's less than two dollars.
That's in my couch cushions.
I'm almost certain that a dollar fifty's worth of coins is clinking around in the underbelly of my purse. I usually keep it there so the purse is heavier in case I need to thwack a mugger or renegade muppet. But now I can use it for CHEESECAKE!
Date night is on me, babe.
Not often enough, such an email will get squashed by the one person sensible enough to research before clicking "forward."
I just so happened to be that person today.
And I discovered utopia.
This coming July 30, the Cheesecake Factory will be selling slices of delectable, creamy, sinfully delicious cheesecake for [drumroll] $1.50.
That's one dollar and fifty cents American.
That's less than two dollars.
That's in my couch cushions.
I'm almost certain that a dollar fifty's worth of coins is clinking around in the underbelly of my purse. I usually keep it there so the purse is heavier in case I need to thwack a mugger or renegade muppet. But now I can use it for CHEESECAKE!
Date night is on me, babe.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
I love "The Golden Girls." There, I said it.
Seriously. That show holds a special place in my heart.
And the passing of Estelle Getty, the hard-nosed Sophia on the Golden Girls, always made me wish for a crotchety, old, Italian grandmother figure in my life.
So today, when you look at the sky and you spot that golden ray of light that appears to be traveling up into the clouds instead of down onto the earth, know that it's Estelle Getty ascending to her pillowy retirement castle in the sky.
And the passing of Estelle Getty, the hard-nosed Sophia on the Golden Girls, always made me wish for a crotchety, old, Italian grandmother figure in my life.
So today, when you look at the sky and you spot that golden ray of light that appears to be traveling up into the clouds instead of down onto the earth, know that it's Estelle Getty ascending to her pillowy retirement castle in the sky.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Have we met?
Too often, someone approaches you and strikes up a conversation like they've known you years.
In some cases, they have.
And you have no idea what this person's name is, what kind of alcohol he likes, or if he's ever worked with you.
Too often, you stand there like a blinking idiot, idiotically blinking and playing every who-are-you game you can think of. You mention your siblings, schools, jobs, bars - nothing works.
You: How's your, er, sister?
Stranger: Brother.
You: Oh, yeah. How's he?
Stranger: Dead.
You: Uh?
Stranger: We met at the funeral.
Then you run away and cut yourself to feel something that's less painful.
Well, I've taken a new approach on figuring out who people are.
Flat out say, "Dude, who are you?"
Being an awkward, foot-in-mouth comedian type has it's perks in situations like this. If you can get away with it, I offer the following lines*:
- You're going to have to remind me of your name. I drink a lot.
- I'm sorry, I've been in a coma and lost most of my memory. Where did we meet?
- [Interrupt him] I'm a terrible person and have no idea who you are. Please tell me. [Then say this exact same thing a minute later. Then periodically throughout the conversation. Be sure to end with] Nice to see you again, er ...
- I forget who you are. Remind me? [let him answer] Oh, yeah! I forgot you on purpose!
- Are you sure we've met? [he reminds you] Oh, I remember that night. But I still don't remember you, [name]. You must've made a horrible impression.
If all else fails, fake appendicitis and get out of there.
*Most of the time, I'm being completely sincere when I say these offensive things. That's what makes them so funny! To me!
In some cases, they have.
And you have no idea what this person's name is, what kind of alcohol he likes, or if he's ever worked with you.
Too often, you stand there like a blinking idiot, idiotically blinking and playing every who-are-you game you can think of. You mention your siblings, schools, jobs, bars - nothing works.
You: How's your, er, sister?
Stranger: Brother.
You: Oh, yeah. How's he?
Stranger: Dead.
You: Uh?
Stranger: We met at the funeral.
Then you run away and cut yourself to feel something that's less painful.
Well, I've taken a new approach on figuring out who people are.
Flat out say, "Dude, who are you?"
Being an awkward, foot-in-mouth comedian type has it's perks in situations like this. If you can get away with it, I offer the following lines*:
- You're going to have to remind me of your name. I drink a lot.
- I'm sorry, I've been in a coma and lost most of my memory. Where did we meet?
- [Interrupt him] I'm a terrible person and have no idea who you are. Please tell me. [Then say this exact same thing a minute later. Then periodically throughout the conversation. Be sure to end with] Nice to see you again, er ...
- I forget who you are. Remind me? [let him answer] Oh, yeah! I forgot you on purpose!
- Are you sure we've met? [he reminds you] Oh, I remember that night. But I still don't remember you, [name]. You must've made a horrible impression.
If all else fails, fake appendicitis and get out of there.
*Most of the time, I'm being completely sincere when I say these offensive things. That's what makes them so funny! To me!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Every night is a dark night.
Hello, Lover*.
There are only two days that separate us. Two painful, agonizingly long days.
And then?
Perfection.
Every second that passes is agony. Every glance at the clock reveals the dire truth that it's not yet 12:10 PM on Friday, July 18th.
But know this, Batman, when the theatre goes dark and Gotham City flashes in front of my eager face, I'll be right there.
Ready and willing to do whatever it takes to get a ride in the Bat Mobile.
Want homemade cookies? Done. Need your floors mopped? Well, I'm sure you have house staff for that, but do they wear pink, patent-leather bikinis? I don't think so.
Want a hand job? Sure, why not? Let's do this.
And by the way, I drive a stick.
Until Friday,
Veronica
*Batman
There are only two days that separate us. Two painful, agonizingly long days.
And then?
Perfection.
Every second that passes is agony. Every glance at the clock reveals the dire truth that it's not yet 12:10 PM on Friday, July 18th.
But know this, Batman, when the theatre goes dark and Gotham City flashes in front of my eager face, I'll be right there.
Ready and willing to do whatever it takes to get a ride in the Bat Mobile.
Want homemade cookies? Done. Need your floors mopped? Well, I'm sure you have house staff for that, but do they wear pink, patent-leather bikinis? I don't think so.
Want a hand job? Sure, why not? Let's do this.
And by the way, I drive a stick.
Until Friday,
Veronica
*Batman
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Why is the sun so popular all of a sudden?
Man, I don't want to use this blog for pop-culture musings and pointing out other people's work, but (and there it is, the but) I found something today.
Comic about sunburn.
The conclusion.
I can't help but wonder, did they see my blog first?
Comic about sunburn.
The conclusion.
I can't help but wonder, did they see my blog first?
Friday, July 11, 2008
I've lost faith in the law.
As you probably know, I've been writing little snippets of a story where some dumbass sues the Sun.
"It's the Sun's Fault."
You can interpret this tale a few ways. Some dude is suing an inanimate object. Some dude is suing a celestial body. Or if you approach it as poly-deism, a guy is raising a case against the gods or God in general.
Well, my far-fetched idea isn't so imaginative after all.
Today in the local paper is a story about some idiot who fell over while praying. He bumped his noggin and now he's suing his church.
"Matt Lincoln of Knoxville, Tenn., says he was so consumed by the spirit of God that he fell and hit his head while worshipping. Now the 57-year-old is suing his church for $2.5 million for medical bills,lost income, and pain and suffering."
Associated Press
Aren't you supposed to give to the church? Isn't the church supposed to teach forgiveness?
And what idiot attorney would take a case like this? Seriously. I need to know.
There really isn't anything to say here besides a grown-ass man should fucking know better.
I award you, Matt Lincoln, the ultimate douche bag award.
The whole thing it truly stunning.
"It's the Sun's Fault."
You can interpret this tale a few ways. Some dude is suing an inanimate object. Some dude is suing a celestial body. Or if you approach it as poly-deism, a guy is raising a case against the gods or God in general.
Well, my far-fetched idea isn't so imaginative after all.
Today in the local paper is a story about some idiot who fell over while praying. He bumped his noggin and now he's suing his church.
"Matt Lincoln of Knoxville, Tenn., says he was so consumed by the spirit of God that he fell and hit his head while worshipping. Now the 57-year-old is suing his church for $2.5 million for medical bills,lost income, and pain and suffering."
Associated Press
Aren't you supposed to give to the church? Isn't the church supposed to teach forgiveness?
And what idiot attorney would take a case like this? Seriously. I need to know.
There really isn't anything to say here besides a grown-ass man should fucking know better.
I award you, Matt Lincoln, the ultimate douche bag award.
The whole thing it truly stunning.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Um, I'm trying to make a really important point.
Um, something is really having a negative, um, affect on my speaking.
And, um, it wasn't there before.
Why have I started using "um" again?
A few years back, like so many 20 year olds at the time, I used "um" and "like" excessively. Perhaps not to the Valley Girl level, but it was pretty bad.
So I put crap tons of effort into fixing my vocabulary. I learned how to use pauses instead of monosyllabic utterings.
And being in the business world has ruined me. I've recently noticed that I've started umming again.
Saying um is communicable. You catch it aurally. It leaves one person's mouth, floats into your ear and merrily implants itself into your brain. Sometimes it takes effect immediately. Other times, it lays dormant for weeks or even a year.
Then, BAM, you're umming like a stoner kid giving excuses about why his eyes are all red.
It's alarming how many people in the business world (and not just my business world, mind you) can't speak. They'll passionately express valid arguments, winning over the hearts and trust of important associates.
And then ruin it all with a drawn out um.
Their intelligence just flees out the crack under nearest door.
And their um lodges itself into my head and repeats itself sentence after increasingly-dumbing sentence.
So now the rehabilitation process gets to start all over again.
For those who know me and see me, if I say "um" and it's not used in an intended way, slap me. But not in the face. If I can't break this habit, I need my looks to fall back on.
And, um, it wasn't there before.
Why have I started using "um" again?
A few years back, like so many 20 year olds at the time, I used "um" and "like" excessively. Perhaps not to the Valley Girl level, but it was pretty bad.
So I put crap tons of effort into fixing my vocabulary. I learned how to use pauses instead of monosyllabic utterings.
And being in the business world has ruined me. I've recently noticed that I've started umming again.
Saying um is communicable. You catch it aurally. It leaves one person's mouth, floats into your ear and merrily implants itself into your brain. Sometimes it takes effect immediately. Other times, it lays dormant for weeks or even a year.
Then, BAM, you're umming like a stoner kid giving excuses about why his eyes are all red.
It's alarming how many people in the business world (and not just my business world, mind you) can't speak. They'll passionately express valid arguments, winning over the hearts and trust of important associates.
And then ruin it all with a drawn out um.
Their intelligence just flees out the crack under nearest door.
And their um lodges itself into my head and repeats itself sentence after increasingly-dumbing sentence.
So now the rehabilitation process gets to start all over again.
For those who know me and see me, if I say "um" and it's not used in an intended way, slap me. But not in the face. If I can't break this habit, I need my looks to fall back on.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
It's the Sun's fault! Part 4
Jason's alarm went off at 6:30 in the morning. This was standard operating procedure.
Jason's eyes slowly opened to total darkness. This wasn't standard operating procedure.
Assuming that he mis-programmed his alarm, he snoozed it.
Ten minutes later when the alarm woke him up, he discovered that light still wasn't seeping in through his curtains. So he snoozed again.
And again. And again. And until 8.
"This can't be right," Jason mumbled as he got out of bed and walked to the window. He raised the blinds and discovered that all was dark around his house. The house across the street, though, was bathing in the warm glow of the morning sun shine.
"What the hell?" Jason asked no one as he scratched his head. He went to the living room and turned on the TV to check the news.
It was indeed 8 AM and it certainly was a sunny day.
After a few moments of processing this info, Jason shouted, "Shit, I'm late!" and sprung into an abbreviated version of his morning routine.
Thirty minutes later, he was pulling out of the driveway and onto the street.
Before he drove away, he took one last look at his house.
All around, the sun shone brightly. Except where Jason's property line started. The entire house and yard were encased in shadow.
And so was Jason's car.
He looked up through the sun roof and saw the cloud hovering over his auto.
"?" Jason literally thought.
He drove to work at break-neck speed as the Wind directed the car-covering cloud through the city traffic.
As Jason locked up his car at the office, he finally started realizing that he'd experience no sun during his lawsuit. Oh well. At least his car would stay cool.
He walked into his office where a county servant was waiting for him with some folded papers.
The Sun, in an effort to protect himself, had filed a restraining order.
Jason's eyes slowly opened to total darkness. This wasn't standard operating procedure.
Assuming that he mis-programmed his alarm, he snoozed it.
Ten minutes later when the alarm woke him up, he discovered that light still wasn't seeping in through his curtains. So he snoozed again.
And again. And again. And until 8.
"This can't be right," Jason mumbled as he got out of bed and walked to the window. He raised the blinds and discovered that all was dark around his house. The house across the street, though, was bathing in the warm glow of the morning sun shine.
"What the hell?" Jason asked no one as he scratched his head. He went to the living room and turned on the TV to check the news.
It was indeed 8 AM and it certainly was a sunny day.
After a few moments of processing this info, Jason shouted, "Shit, I'm late!" and sprung into an abbreviated version of his morning routine.
Thirty minutes later, he was pulling out of the driveway and onto the street.
Before he drove away, he took one last look at his house.
All around, the sun shone brightly. Except where Jason's property line started. The entire house and yard were encased in shadow.
And so was Jason's car.
He looked up through the sun roof and saw the cloud hovering over his auto.
"?" Jason literally thought.
He drove to work at break-neck speed as the Wind directed the car-covering cloud through the city traffic.
As Jason locked up his car at the office, he finally started realizing that he'd experience no sun during his lawsuit. Oh well. At least his car would stay cool.
He walked into his office where a county servant was waiting for him with some folded papers.
The Sun, in an effort to protect himself, had filed a restraining order.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I need some red shoes.
Life would be better with red shoes on my feet.
Red shoes just say things for you.
"I have opinions."
"I'm an in-charge kinda lady."
"I will kick your ass is you mess with me."
They're stylish and daring. Sassy and chic. Dominating yet oddly submissive.
Red shoes say, "I may be on my back, but I'm totally in charge."
Blood red heels are the types of shoes that demand attention. Wearing a patent leather pair and slowly crossing your legs would totally hide the fact that you're wearing a bathrobe (note to self, test this theory).
Add them to a power outfit, like a jet black suit, and you're a force to be reckoned with. I bet I could stroll into a courtroom and punch the judge without facing any kind of consequence with the right pair of red stilletos and some black pants.
Throw them on with an innocent looking blue dress, and send the world around you into a slight tizzy. The dress would say, "Aren't I pretty?" And the shoes would say, "Look at my boobs!"
Yep. It's about time to get a pair of sexy, red heels. Even if I only wear them around the apartment with my running shorts.
Red shoes just say things for you.
"I have opinions."
"I'm an in-charge kinda lady."
"I will kick your ass is you mess with me."
They're stylish and daring. Sassy and chic. Dominating yet oddly submissive.
Red shoes say, "I may be on my back, but I'm totally in charge."
Blood red heels are the types of shoes that demand attention. Wearing a patent leather pair and slowly crossing your legs would totally hide the fact that you're wearing a bathrobe (note to self, test this theory).
Add them to a power outfit, like a jet black suit, and you're a force to be reckoned with. I bet I could stroll into a courtroom and punch the judge without facing any kind of consequence with the right pair of red stilletos and some black pants.
Throw them on with an innocent looking blue dress, and send the world around you into a slight tizzy. The dress would say, "Aren't I pretty?" And the shoes would say, "Look at my boobs!"
Yep. It's about time to get a pair of sexy, red heels. Even if I only wear them around the apartment with my running shorts.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Today is my dad's birthday.
And we had sushi to celebrate. Here are some haikus about it.
Fill up my tummy.
With raw fish, soy sauce, and rice.
Then add more soy sauce!
Dad ate some tuna.
Then Dad ate some smoked salmon.
Then Dad exploded.
What? This stuff is raw?
Why would you eat stuff's that raw?
Oh, cause it's sushi.
Ate way too much fish.
Now in a sushi coma.
It's time to pass out.
Wasabi is hot.
Nasal passages, behold!
Good bye to all clogs!
Fill up my tummy.
With raw fish, soy sauce, and rice.
Then add more soy sauce!
Dad ate some tuna.
Then Dad ate some smoked salmon.
Then Dad exploded.
What? This stuff is raw?
Why would you eat stuff's that raw?
Oh, cause it's sushi.
Ate way too much fish.
Now in a sushi coma.
It's time to pass out.
Wasabi is hot.
Nasal passages, behold!
Good bye to all clogs!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Which one do I look at?
Many offices are adopting a more casual dress code.
Being a sandal lover, I'm a huge fan.
But some people have taken their companies' relaxed standards for granted, wearing items that are far too inappropriate for any work environment. Unless you're working on a porn flick.
Since it's gotten warmer, I've seen an obscene amount of cleavage running about. And not just subtle swells above a shirt top. We're talking full fun bags peeking out of club tops.
Okay, maybe not club tops. But when a woman's bra cups are no longer covered by a shirt of choice, there's a problem.
Especially in a business meeting.
People should be allowed to dress however they want. Seriously. But outside of work.
We have to be logical here. Breasts are a distraction. They're designed by nature to be a distraction. So men and women, gay or straight, can't help but gawk when a swollen pair of chest bunnies bounces by.
So ladies, there are better, more subtle ways of showing off your curves. How about a cinched-at-the-waist top? Or a fitted and tailored shirt? Or just put a T-shirt on under your tank top. It can even be a little tight. Anything is better than parading around your tan lines.
Skin is for the weekend. So be warned, if I see you showing off your girls to the office, I WILL motorboat you.
Being a sandal lover, I'm a huge fan.
But some people have taken their companies' relaxed standards for granted, wearing items that are far too inappropriate for any work environment. Unless you're working on a porn flick.
Since it's gotten warmer, I've seen an obscene amount of cleavage running about. And not just subtle swells above a shirt top. We're talking full fun bags peeking out of club tops.
Okay, maybe not club tops. But when a woman's bra cups are no longer covered by a shirt of choice, there's a problem.
Especially in a business meeting.
People should be allowed to dress however they want. Seriously. But outside of work.
We have to be logical here. Breasts are a distraction. They're designed by nature to be a distraction. So men and women, gay or straight, can't help but gawk when a swollen pair of chest bunnies bounces by.
So ladies, there are better, more subtle ways of showing off your curves. How about a cinched-at-the-waist top? Or a fitted and tailored shirt? Or just put a T-shirt on under your tank top. It can even be a little tight. Anything is better than parading around your tan lines.
Skin is for the weekend. So be warned, if I see you showing off your girls to the office, I WILL motorboat you.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
There's a Chevy in the family.
All my life, I've been taught to hate General Motors.
"Camaro? Pssh. Cheap piece of over-priced fiber glass," my dad would say.
"Corvettes? Yeah, they might look pretty. But they're front-heavy and spin out of control easily. See how pretty you look spinning into a tree."
"Firebirds? Are you a redneck?"
So, naturally, when Dad showed me a photo of the '66 Corvair that he recently purchased, I was a little shocked. So shocked, it took me over a week to come to grips with reality.
My dad is a hypocrite.
He adopted a dirty Chevy. My new sister* is a product of GM.
We're a Mopar family. We're a Ford family. We can appreciate vehicles of the European persuasion. But we'd never spend hard-earned cash on a Chevy.
Or so I thought.
My childhood, my teenage years, they're all a damn, dirty lie.
Because the newest hunk of metal in Dad's garage is just that, a hunk. And not a beefy, beautiful man. It's a rusty old Chevy.
... I wonder when he'll finish restoring it so I can take it out on dates.
*They're not just cars in the family. Oh, no. Each vehicle is held in as high regard as the kids. Believe me.
"Camaro? Pssh. Cheap piece of over-priced fiber glass," my dad would say.
"Corvettes? Yeah, they might look pretty. But they're front-heavy and spin out of control easily. See how pretty you look spinning into a tree."
"Firebirds? Are you a redneck?"
So, naturally, when Dad showed me a photo of the '66 Corvair that he recently purchased, I was a little shocked. So shocked, it took me over a week to come to grips with reality.
My dad is a hypocrite.
He adopted a dirty Chevy. My new sister* is a product of GM.
We're a Mopar family. We're a Ford family. We can appreciate vehicles of the European persuasion. But we'd never spend hard-earned cash on a Chevy.
Or so I thought.
My childhood, my teenage years, they're all a damn, dirty lie.
Because the newest hunk of metal in Dad's garage is just that, a hunk. And not a beefy, beautiful man. It's a rusty old Chevy.
... I wonder when he'll finish restoring it so I can take it out on dates.
*They're not just cars in the family. Oh, no. Each vehicle is held in as high regard as the kids. Believe me.
Monday, June 9, 2008
I'm not writing every night.
The thing about getting older is that one has less time.
Less time for friends. Less time for resting.
Less time for extra curricular writing.
The good thing about not writing every night is that I have more time to plan my next tale.
The bad thing about not writing every night is that I'm not writing every night.
And when I do, postings become redundant collections of words much like this one.
Wanna know the truth? Writing is easiest when there's uncertainty, unhappiness and strife around me. And I'm just not feeling that right now.
Yep. Things are pretty good. They could only be better if I had a wicked accent.
Less time for friends. Less time for resting.
Less time for extra curricular writing.
The good thing about not writing every night is that I have more time to plan my next tale.
The bad thing about not writing every night is that I'm not writing every night.
And when I do, postings become redundant collections of words much like this one.
Wanna know the truth? Writing is easiest when there's uncertainty, unhappiness and strife around me. And I'm just not feeling that right now.
Yep. Things are pretty good. They could only be better if I had a wicked accent.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
It's the sun's fault. Part 3
A bottle of SPF 50 sunblock sat on a desk between two men.
"You are not allowed to have any contact with Jason prior to the initial hearing," Bruce Greyson, Esq. told his client as he adjusted his sunglasses. "None at all."
The Sun in his human form, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. He placed his elbows on the attorney's desk and thought carefully before he responded. "You mean I can't shine down upon him?"
"No. And I strongly advise you not shine on any of his property, either."
The lurking Wind heard this and raced towards the heavens to inform the Clouds of what Greyson had said. They immediately cast deep shadows over Jason, the plaintiff's, home, work and self.
"What about the plant life surrounding his home?" the Sun asked. "It's going to die."
The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper out from under a pile of papers. He slid it towards his client. "I've already filed a motion to protect you in the event that any of Jason's property is damaged by lack of light."
"What?" I can be sued again if his grass dies?"
The attorney nodded. "It's completely unfair and backwards."
"Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. Literally." the Sun mumbled to himself.
The attorney collected the remaining papers on his desk and slid them into a file. "I'm not going to lie. This case is ridiculous. But we have to take it seriously. This is a country where restaurants lose millions of dollars if some jerk spills her own coffee. The jury isn't going to rely on simple logic.
"The prosecution is trying to fill the jury box with light-skinned, red-heads who've all had serious burns. The prosecution is also going to say that you beam down harmful, UV rays despite the harmful nature of prolonged exposure and humans."
"But parts of the world need those rays! They kill harmful bacteria and clean the ocean and ..."
"I know, Son. I know. And we're going to use that in your defense. But you have to remain calm. They're going to try and prove that you're reckless, uncaring and in cahoots with sunscreen manufacturers. We're going to try and argue that you aren't getting any more powerful, but that the Ozone is getting thinner..."
"She's been working very hard trying to lose that weight," the Sun added.
"She what?"
"Nevermind."
The lawyer shook his head as if trying to remove the idea. "This is the first case of its kind. No one has ever taken a celestial body to court. We have to be careful."
They spoke for another ten minutes, then the Sun had to return to his rightful place in the sky as the clouds protected him by protecting his enemy.
"You are not allowed to have any contact with Jason prior to the initial hearing," Bruce Greyson, Esq. told his client as he adjusted his sunglasses. "None at all."
The Sun in his human form, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. He placed his elbows on the attorney's desk and thought carefully before he responded. "You mean I can't shine down upon him?"
"No. And I strongly advise you not shine on any of his property, either."
The lurking Wind heard this and raced towards the heavens to inform the Clouds of what Greyson had said. They immediately cast deep shadows over Jason, the plaintiff's, home, work and self.
"What about the plant life surrounding his home?" the Sun asked. "It's going to die."
The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper out from under a pile of papers. He slid it towards his client. "I've already filed a motion to protect you in the event that any of Jason's property is damaged by lack of light."
"What?" I can be sued again if his grass dies?"
The attorney nodded. "It's completely unfair and backwards."
"Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. Literally." the Sun mumbled to himself.
The attorney collected the remaining papers on his desk and slid them into a file. "I'm not going to lie. This case is ridiculous. But we have to take it seriously. This is a country where restaurants lose millions of dollars if some jerk spills her own coffee. The jury isn't going to rely on simple logic.
"The prosecution is trying to fill the jury box with light-skinned, red-heads who've all had serious burns. The prosecution is also going to say that you beam down harmful, UV rays despite the harmful nature of prolonged exposure and humans."
"But parts of the world need those rays! They kill harmful bacteria and clean the ocean and ..."
"I know, Son. I know. And we're going to use that in your defense. But you have to remain calm. They're going to try and prove that you're reckless, uncaring and in cahoots with sunscreen manufacturers. We're going to try and argue that you aren't getting any more powerful, but that the Ozone is getting thinner..."
"She's been working very hard trying to lose that weight," the Sun added.
"She what?"
"Nevermind."
The lawyer shook his head as if trying to remove the idea. "This is the first case of its kind. No one has ever taken a celestial body to court. We have to be careful."
They spoke for another ten minutes, then the Sun had to return to his rightful place in the sky as the clouds protected him by protecting his enemy.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hey, foot, wake up.
Psst. Hey, foot, it's time to go. Time to wakey wakey.
Seriously, you need to wake up because the rest of this body can't get to the car without you. And the work day is over!
So let's get that uncomfortable tingly feeling over with and head for the stairs, huh?
Any minute now.
Foot's gotta wake up.
I can feel it ... COME ON!
Really? You're gonna act like this? Feet don't get the luxury of snoozing another ten minutes. Stop it!
I wanna leave and you won't let me.
[shakes foot]
Seriously, you need to wake up because the rest of this body can't get to the car without you. And the work day is over!
So let's get that uncomfortable tingly feeling over with and head for the stairs, huh?
Any minute now.
Foot's gotta wake up.
I can feel it ... COME ON!
Really? You're gonna act like this? Feet don't get the luxury of snoozing another ten minutes. Stop it!
I wanna leave and you won't let me.
[shakes foot]
Friday, May 30, 2008
People like to write more than they like to read.
Study after study shows that people don't read the internet.
People skim the internet.
Yet most internet writers fill the web with long prose that go one forever.
Tedious, never-ending sentences. Pointless chatter in thick paragraphs. Incomprehensible marketing speak on every mouseover.
Blah.
People can't thoroughly read the internet. They just can't.
Because computer screens emit light. Reading your long-ass blog about your trip to the grocery store is like asking someone to read a grocery list burnt into the sun.
Ouch.
Words are different in print. You write a book, people are going to take the time to read it. Because paper doesn't glow and cause nearsightedness.
But you write some ceaseless diatribe* about how your boyfriend is an ass and your friends suck. And you have no consideration for the people reading (if they do read). The end is never in sight and your whining gets worse and worse.
Seriously, would you read that crap if someone else wrote it?
Or you're an advertiser who waxes poetic about your new product for pages and pages. Meanwhile, the user just wants to know what your keyboards look like up close.
I suppose people just like the sound of their own voices, even if they're in type.
*I've always wanted to use the word diatribe!
People skim the internet.
Yet most internet writers fill the web with long prose that go one forever.
Tedious, never-ending sentences. Pointless chatter in thick paragraphs. Incomprehensible marketing speak on every mouseover.
Blah.
People can't thoroughly read the internet. They just can't.
Because computer screens emit light. Reading your long-ass blog about your trip to the grocery store is like asking someone to read a grocery list burnt into the sun.
Ouch.
Words are different in print. You write a book, people are going to take the time to read it. Because paper doesn't glow and cause nearsightedness.
But you write some ceaseless diatribe* about how your boyfriend is an ass and your friends suck. And you have no consideration for the people reading (if they do read). The end is never in sight and your whining gets worse and worse.
Seriously, would you read that crap if someone else wrote it?
Or you're an advertiser who waxes poetic about your new product for pages and pages. Meanwhile, the user just wants to know what your keyboards look like up close.
I suppose people just like the sound of their own voices, even if they're in type.
*I've always wanted to use the word diatribe!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Batman, you're killing me.
Hello again, my love. It's been a long time.
I forgive you for not calling or writing or sneaking into my bedroom window. You're busy fighting the Joker. I get it. That's why I've been patient.
But that should all be over soon. Sometime around, hmm, July 18th I believe.
Something tells me, though, that it'll never end. There will always be some new villain lurking in the shadows.
Some other villain that warrants all of your attention.
Some criminal that's more important than me.
I miss you, Batman. Come home to me?
Sure, we've never actually dated. Or even met, but that doesn't matter! Love knows not physical limitations. If not having a physical relationship is a problem, I can get real physical real quick if you catch my drift.
Just give me a chance, oh Dark Knight.
Is it because you need to save someone? Because I can play the damsel in distress! I've got a pair of handcuffs right here. I'll just affix them to the bed right here and ...
I guess I'd better not give away too much.
I'll be waiting for you to save me, my evening warrior.
Until later,
Veronica XOXOXO
I forgive you for not calling or writing or sneaking into my bedroom window. You're busy fighting the Joker. I get it. That's why I've been patient.
But that should all be over soon. Sometime around, hmm, July 18th I believe.
Something tells me, though, that it'll never end. There will always be some new villain lurking in the shadows.
Some other villain that warrants all of your attention.
Some criminal that's more important than me.
I miss you, Batman. Come home to me?
Sure, we've never actually dated. Or even met, but that doesn't matter! Love knows not physical limitations. If not having a physical relationship is a problem, I can get real physical real quick if you catch my drift.
Just give me a chance, oh Dark Knight.
Is it because you need to save someone? Because I can play the damsel in distress! I've got a pair of handcuffs right here. I'll just affix them to the bed right here and ...
I guess I'd better not give away too much.
I'll be waiting for you to save me, my evening warrior.
Until later,
Veronica XOXOXO
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
April showers bring May powers. Part 5
Alice stood on her back patio and drank her morning cup of coffee. The skies looked crystal clear, not a cloud in site.
She went back inside and checked the weather channel one last time. The week's forecast was perfect. Nothing but sunny skies, warmth and most importantly complete and total dryness.
"Lisa," she called to her daughter, "time to eat breakfast." The young girl came running around the corner, doll in tow, and she plopped down in her designated dining room chair.
"Cereal today?" she asked her mother.
"Cereal it is!" Alice confirmed. "You know what? Let's eat outside this morning!"
So they did.
She went back inside and checked the weather channel one last time. The week's forecast was perfect. Nothing but sunny skies, warmth and most importantly complete and total dryness.
"Lisa," she called to her daughter, "time to eat breakfast." The young girl came running around the corner, doll in tow, and she plopped down in her designated dining room chair.
"Cereal today?" she asked her mother.
"Cereal it is!" Alice confirmed. "You know what? Let's eat outside this morning!"
So they did.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
"It's the sun's fault" Part 2
Sometime between the hours of five and six o'clock A.M. Eastern time, the dawn came.
The sky went from an inky purple to a rich orange. The Sun was making his way around the globe just like he did every morning.
He loved traveling over the oceans best. This particular morning, he was greeted by a team of dolphins.
As he approached the east coast of North America, he heard a shout.
"Mr. Sun!" a young man on a bike shouted. "Mr. Sun, I need to serve you!"
This was odd. Most people didn't directly address the Sun. Curious, he sent out his essence in glowing, human form to the Earth.
The Sun softly landed upon the gravel of a parking lot. The young man shielded his eyes with his arm and approached the bright figure before him.
"These are for you," he said as he handed over a sealed envelope. "Consider yourself served."
The young man hopped on his bike and rolled off.
The Sun, now extremely curious for he had never been given typed letters before (long gone were the days of sacrificing things in the name of Apollo), read the papers with confusion.
"I'm being taken to court," he wondered aloud, "for causing skin damage, mental anguish and for wreckless environmental endangerment?"
The Sun plopped down on the ground and crossed his legs. "What in the hell is wrong with these people?"
As he stared off into the distance, a watery humanoid emerged from the nearby ocean. The Sea had witnessed the odd interaction and wanted to talk to his friend.
"Is that what I think it is?" asked the Sea. "Is some human trying to take you to mortal court?"
"Bizarre, isn't it?"
"How is it even possible?" The Sea took the paper from the Sun and skimmed it with his eyes. He looked up and stared blankly at his glowing buddy.
About fifty feet from the duo, a whirlwind occurred and a womanly figure made of moving dust particles and debris stepped out. The Wind approached.
"These humans get dumber and dumber every century," she inferred.
"This is truly terrible," said another figure of dirt, Mother Earth. "They're stupid enough to wipe out existence as we know it."
The Sun looked around at his fellow Elements. "What am I going to do."
They all stood silently for a moment. Then the wind whispered as she blew away, "Get a lawyer."
The sky went from an inky purple to a rich orange. The Sun was making his way around the globe just like he did every morning.
He loved traveling over the oceans best. This particular morning, he was greeted by a team of dolphins.
As he approached the east coast of North America, he heard a shout.
"Mr. Sun!" a young man on a bike shouted. "Mr. Sun, I need to serve you!"
This was odd. Most people didn't directly address the Sun. Curious, he sent out his essence in glowing, human form to the Earth.
The Sun softly landed upon the gravel of a parking lot. The young man shielded his eyes with his arm and approached the bright figure before him.
"These are for you," he said as he handed over a sealed envelope. "Consider yourself served."
The young man hopped on his bike and rolled off.
The Sun, now extremely curious for he had never been given typed letters before (long gone were the days of sacrificing things in the name of Apollo), read the papers with confusion.
"I'm being taken to court," he wondered aloud, "for causing skin damage, mental anguish and for wreckless environmental endangerment?"
The Sun plopped down on the ground and crossed his legs. "What in the hell is wrong with these people?"
As he stared off into the distance, a watery humanoid emerged from the nearby ocean. The Sea had witnessed the odd interaction and wanted to talk to his friend.
"Is that what I think it is?" asked the Sea. "Is some human trying to take you to mortal court?"
"Bizarre, isn't it?"
"How is it even possible?" The Sea took the paper from the Sun and skimmed it with his eyes. He looked up and stared blankly at his glowing buddy.
About fifty feet from the duo, a whirlwind occurred and a womanly figure made of moving dust particles and debris stepped out. The Wind approached.
"These humans get dumber and dumber every century," she inferred.
"This is truly terrible," said another figure of dirt, Mother Earth. "They're stupid enough to wipe out existence as we know it."
The Sun looked around at his fellow Elements. "What am I going to do."
They all stood silently for a moment. Then the wind whispered as she blew away, "Get a lawyer."
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