May 28th, 2010
Holy cow, this SATC review may be the best thing I’ve ever read (via Sarah Brown).
“…Carrie finally marries Mr. Big, the man of her shallow, self-obsessed dreams. It has now been two years since their nuptials. Carrie already hates it. She hates that he sits on the couch. She hates that he eatsnoodles out of a take-out box. She hates that he wants to spend quality time with her in their incredibly expensive and gaudy apartment. She hates that he bought her an enormous television. When Big suggests that they spend a couple of days a week in separate apartments (they own TWO apartments, because life is hard!), Carrie screeches, “Is this because I’m a bitch wife who nags you?” Congratulations. You have answered your own question.”
May 27th, 2010
Last night, I had a dream that my fiance was actually my cousin and how illegal is that exactly because this thing is already in motion and I do not like having to alter my plans. Oh, and then I was late for my math final, but I didn’t know my class schedule (I’d later find it wrapped up in the newspaper on the front lawn, covered in earwigs), and somewhere in there I was responsible for watching Jennifer Aniston’s very small, fluffy dog.
Because, of course.
I went to the doctor yesterday for what I rightly assumed was a sinus infection (you know, by the Sloth-like way my left eye was bulging) and during the exam, she took a step back and looked at me in this very kindly, motherly way.
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Not good sleep, no. I have… dreams. And I wake up a lot.”
Sometimes I wake up because the dog is pacing our bedroom, bumbling through the patio blinds. Sometimes, because my One True Love snores like One Really Big Kodiak Bear. And sometimes, it’s because I have a dream that surprise! See this baby over here? It’s yours! And you forgot to feed it! And then I wake up covered in sweat.
My doctor suggested that having such a rich nocturnal life may be bad for my health. What? Say it isn’t so! She’s a very lovely doctor but, duh.
(Tangent: I’m gonna start a medical drama called Diagnosis: Obvious. The premise is, a patient goes in to see the doctor, knowing what’s wrong, and then the clever doctors tell the patient that yes, that’s what’s wrong, but only after taking blood and three hours of their time. It will be riveting.)
Later, she would underline the words, “Go home and REST” on my discharge papers and prescribe a painkiller that would dull the throbbing behind my Sloth eye and get me restin’ whether I liked it or not. And… enter the dream about marrying my fiance/cousin. Thanks, Darvocet!
(She also prescribed an antibiotic for the infection. You know, just for the record. Even though the point of the story was bad dreams and painkillers and more bad dreams, but I wouldn’t want anyone to get the idea that I was raising everybody’s insurance premiums for a headache. God no. Not that.)
May 24th, 2010
Here’s the only thing I know for certain after watching last night’s LOST finale – if I dedicate any minutes today to trying to make sense of it, I will dedicate ALL of my minutes to trying to make sense of it and I don’t know about you, but nowhere in my job description does it say, “Using Internet tools, try to make sense of the emotional turmoil felt at unsatisfactory ending of six year television addiction.” Then again, there’s nothing in my job description about staring out the window wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life, either and I log plenty of hours to that job number.
I tell myself over and over I must not even think about that scene with Vincent and Jack and then, duh, I do and it’s like watching the end of every “loyal animal” Disney movie ever made and I get all choked up. I’m being played like a fiddle and the show’s been over for twelve hours now. This right here? This is why I don’t like getting sucked into TV shows. And why I’m glad that Glee, the only other show I watch with regularity, will probably end with what, graduation? Afterlife not included.
This is the point at which some people will cry, Spoiler! and I will say, puh-lease. I’ve said nothing. And don’t worry, neither did the final episode. Because it turns out that LOST, like life (oooh, spooky), doesn’t actually end with concrete answers to the question, “What does it all mean?” just lots of mixed up emotions and dying and stuff.
God, I need a hug. And a cupcake.
May 21st, 2010
So, I understand that over the last few days, blog posts have been disappearing and reappearing. LIKE MAGIC. I have zero explanation for why that’s happening, but I emailed the technical powers that be and hopefully we’ll be right as rain in no time. Are all your fears subsiding? Good, good.
D’oh. It now occurs to me that *this* post may have already disappeared, too and well, you’re probably not feeling at all informed or reassured. Sigh. It wasn’t for lack of trying.
Today’s a fun day. I mean, minus the part where I’m at work and it’s gloomy outside. But one year from today, the Dork Lord and I will be gettin’ hitched! And that makes things decidedly more celebratory. It’s like our negative one year anniversary. I hear that’s the ‘spontaneous flowers and the groom makes dinner tonight’ anniversary. ARE YOU LISTENING, HONEY? Flowers and dinner totally beats the first year anniversary gift of… wait for it…paper. Uh, yeah. Paper is so hot.
I just read that the first year anniversary flower is (according to Wikipedia) the carnation. The what?! That’s not even a flower! Along with some food coloring, it’s a third grade science experiment. I say we piggy back off the 25th anniversary and skip right to the iris. Now, that’s a real flower.
Hopefully the Dork Lord reads all this before it disappears. I don’t want to spend our first anniversary making blue carnations to give to my mom on parents’ night.
May 19th, 2010
I could hear Mom laughing in the bathroom stall.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You!”
When the curtain came down last night on Little House on the Prairie the Musical, I quickly scooped up my purse. “Go!” I said to Mom and we both scurried out of the theater before the actors had taken their bows. By the time we reached the ladies’, I’d fessed up. We left quickly for a reason.
See, I was lucky enough to be seated next to two tween girls for the performance. They were what, twelve, maybe thirteen years old? And they talked through the entire show. By the second act, they were bored with just talking and started hitting each other with their programs. Oh yes, and mimicking the performance. I wanted to put gum in their hair. Handfuls of sticky gum. They were ruining it! And their mothers? Oh, they couldn’t be bothered with parenting. They were half in the bag and talking themselves.
So when that curtain dropped, I leaned over to my right and growled in my best Adam Sandler,
“You SUCK.”
And then we ran.
“That’s why we got out of there so fast?” Mom was laughing into her hand.
“Uh, yeah. I didn’t need any moms yelling at me.”
We laughed ourselves into the bathroom, out of the music hall and then home on the DART rail. And I couldn’t help but cherish the look on that girl’s face as we abandoned our seats. I think she knew she sucked.
|
She ain’t Heavy; She’s my Blogger Want to leave a small token of your undying love and affection in the Tip Jar? I can help!
Gratuitous Cat Lady Pictures
|
