Because I sort of couldn't wait to tell this story, and I don't have anything else to do, I'm going to cruise through number three.
My dad has always liked to antagonize us. I remember various instances of this. (Cough cough "Glenny boy loves you" cough cough.) It continues with my younger sister Emma. Dads like to do that sort of stuff. It is what it is.
When we lived across the railroad tracks in Wenonah, NJ, my Dad (and to be fair, my mom too, as she was the one who must have held the video camera) used to like to do things to us while we were sleeping and video tape it. Before you get creeped out, read on....
Most notably, they would put stickers on our faces and watch us kind of squirm and toss and turn. Kind of funny, right? Well, then they graduated from stickers to pom-pom arachnids.
The most hilarious video ever (beside the Christmas Show) is of my dad dangling a pom-pom spider on a string just barely on our faces. He would let it tickle us and we would swat it away (deep in REM, mind you). This continued for quite sometime. Somehow, remaining in slumber mode, my sister and I managed flail and swat this crafty spider away, despite the guttural laughs that were occurring around us.
The video is hilarious. Boy, they must have been very bored to do this.
Vignette Four: 100 Happy People, coming soon
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Vignette Two: Walking is Hard
This one is short but sweet.
I'm a klutz. I have no balance. I'm not graceful. I, at any given time, have at least 2-3 bruises from running into things. It's not a new thing, and it's not going away. It is what it is. It just is.
When I was like 10-13, I was at the Atlantic City Airport, preparing to fly to Florida or something. I was walking along with me mum and grandmother and pulling along me suitcase. And I ran into a cement pole. Smacked right on into it.
Walking is hard.
Coming soon: Vignette Three, Spiders on a String
I'm a klutz. I have no balance. I'm not graceful. I, at any given time, have at least 2-3 bruises from running into things. It's not a new thing, and it's not going away. It is what it is. It just is.
When I was like 10-13, I was at the Atlantic City Airport, preparing to fly to Florida or something. I was walking along with me mum and grandmother and pulling along me suitcase. And I ran into a cement pole. Smacked right on into it.
Walking is hard.
Coming soon: Vignette Three, Spiders on a String
Someone Flipped Me Off Today
Umm, hello? Why did you flip me off, sir?
I was driving to work this a.m. on the 8, as per usual, and as I was merging right to get into my exit lane (which I did safely, with respect to the peeps trying to get out of that lane) the dude behind me flipped me off. He flipped me off. Umm, hello?
Um, hi?
I was driving to work this a.m. on the 8, as per usual, and as I was merging right to get into my exit lane (which I did safely, with respect to the peeps trying to get out of that lane) the dude behind me flipped me off. He flipped me off. Umm, hello?
Um, hi?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Self Righteous Driving School
I have decided that I'm going to start a driving school and call it the Self Righteous Driving School.
Budding drivers who seek direction from me will learn the ways of a self-righteous driver; that is, following the rules and getting indignant when others don't. Major topics include lines to turn into parking lots/onto freeways. Also to include upsetting impatient speedy drivers behind you by going at least 5 miles slower than the speed limit.
For your consideration, part I.
Nicole has challenged me.
Vignette One: The Christmas Show
Everyone who knows me knows that I have a flair for the dramatic...to put it lightly. For as long as I can remember this has been the case. When I was in fourth grade, I went to an Episcopal school and we lived in this fabulous apartment in Baltimore, MD, on the second floor of the former German Embassy. It consisted of three gigantic rooms and a kitchen. My sister Andrea and I had a ballroom for a bedroom complete with crystal chandelier. It was insane. Insane! Suffice it to say, I doubt a day went by that we didn't leap, sashay or twirl through that room. I mean, how could we not.
And so it was the winter of 93-94. Andrea was in her tomboy phase...which lasted for a while. I just thought I was the most graceful artistic thing...and a dancer, to boot. We were thick as thieves, especially considering our only friends outside of school were a crack dealer who stole Emma's stroller and a homeless man named Skinny, whom we fed Gushers and ambushed with snowballs. Our grandmother was visiting and she had a video camera. A video camera! Which she was willing, nay WANTED to use to film us doing what we do best...performing.
So the stage was set. I pulled out my best costume dress (light blue with tiny raised white polka dots and a big, full skirt, in case you wanted to know). I made tickets, and instructed Andrea as to how this was going to go. It was February. We had this Christmas tape we couldn't let go of, so yeah, we were going to do our Christmas song and dance show. In February. Not a big deal.
We had assigned songs. I took classics and slow ballads. Andrea got the perky, upbeat, kidzbop style. She was cut out for those. You had the spunk and the club moves. Sure, she fell down in the middle of one of her routines, but she also stopped dancing at one point to alert: "Look! Backwards pants!" What up, Criss Cross!
With what I perceived to be swan-like grace and the voice of an angel, I set out to move my audience with a beautiful rendition of 'Silent Night.' Something about this upset Andrea. Apparently, she didn't just want to be known for hip hop Christmas. As I was floating around (my) stage, joining the tape with my vocals, I hear the screeching sounds of another...Andrea. She was trying to join my song. This was obviously, and justifiably upsetting. I pleaded for her to stop. I reasoned that this was my song, my turn. She would now listen. So I did the only thing I thought would work. I started kicking her. But I didn't just stop dancing ops to take care of business....no no no. I worked it into my routine. Yeah, there was twirling, graceful hand motions, angelic choruses, and a KICK to the side. And repeat. This did not stop Andrea. Rather it encouraged her to continue. She started singing louder and kicking back. What's more is that the camera ceased to be just on me. Andrea! Sabotage! By the end of the song, I was pouty, near tears, and Andrea emerged as the clear victor of this little battle royale. She had ruined my song, ruined my dance, and stole attention away from me.
And so, the story of a Christmas routine, gone horribly awry. In February. And caught on tape. We watch it virtually every year. We are in tears every single time. And we always vow that if we would just send it in to America's Funniest Home Videos, we would win.
Coming next...Vignette Two: Walking is Hard.
Vignette One: The Christmas Show
Everyone who knows me knows that I have a flair for the dramatic...to put it lightly. For as long as I can remember this has been the case. When I was in fourth grade, I went to an Episcopal school and we lived in this fabulous apartment in Baltimore, MD, on the second floor of the former German Embassy. It consisted of three gigantic rooms and a kitchen. My sister Andrea and I had a ballroom for a bedroom complete with crystal chandelier. It was insane. Insane! Suffice it to say, I doubt a day went by that we didn't leap, sashay or twirl through that room. I mean, how could we not.
And so it was the winter of 93-94. Andrea was in her tomboy phase...which lasted for a while. I just thought I was the most graceful artistic thing...and a dancer, to boot. We were thick as thieves, especially considering our only friends outside of school were a crack dealer who stole Emma's stroller and a homeless man named Skinny, whom we fed Gushers and ambushed with snowballs. Our grandmother was visiting and she had a video camera. A video camera! Which she was willing, nay WANTED to use to film us doing what we do best...performing.
So the stage was set. I pulled out my best costume dress (light blue with tiny raised white polka dots and a big, full skirt, in case you wanted to know). I made tickets, and instructed Andrea as to how this was going to go. It was February. We had this Christmas tape we couldn't let go of, so yeah, we were going to do our Christmas song and dance show. In February. Not a big deal.
We had assigned songs. I took classics and slow ballads. Andrea got the perky, upbeat, kidzbop style. She was cut out for those. You had the spunk and the club moves. Sure, she fell down in the middle of one of her routines, but she also stopped dancing at one point to alert: "Look! Backwards pants!" What up, Criss Cross!
With what I perceived to be swan-like grace and the voice of an angel, I set out to move my audience with a beautiful rendition of 'Silent Night.' Something about this upset Andrea. Apparently, she didn't just want to be known for hip hop Christmas. As I was floating around (my) stage, joining the tape with my vocals, I hear the screeching sounds of another...Andrea. She was trying to join my song. This was obviously, and justifiably upsetting. I pleaded for her to stop. I reasoned that this was my song, my turn. She would now listen. So I did the only thing I thought would work. I started kicking her. But I didn't just stop dancing ops to take care of business....no no no. I worked it into my routine. Yeah, there was twirling, graceful hand motions, angelic choruses, and a KICK to the side. And repeat. This did not stop Andrea. Rather it encouraged her to continue. She started singing louder and kicking back. What's more is that the camera ceased to be just on me. Andrea! Sabotage! By the end of the song, I was pouty, near tears, and Andrea emerged as the clear victor of this little battle royale. She had ruined my song, ruined my dance, and stole attention away from me.
And so, the story of a Christmas routine, gone horribly awry. In February. And caught on tape. We watch it virtually every year. We are in tears every single time. And we always vow that if we would just send it in to America's Funniest Home Videos, we would win.
Coming next...Vignette Two: Walking is Hard.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
What an Offering.
A woman gave me her hair tie at the gym yesterday.
I was at the gym yesterday. I had run out of emergency hair ties in my gym bag and hadn't come with one. The one that's on the shifter in my vehicle was gonzo. I couldn't find one in my purse. I was, however, able to locate 5 barrettes & countless bobby pins. So I had to make it work and at first it looked like some horrifying midwest prom hair do. Yikes. While on the stairmaster, it transformed itself into something Heidi-esque with braids and strategically placed metal fasteners. It was a big ol mess. Something had to change.
So, I paused at the front desk asking for a rubber band and while the guy was trying to find one in the drawer and the woman standing there just took the one off of her wrist and gave it to me. It was a small, gentle gesture. But enormous.
By the way, I just heard my roommate say this:
"The big thing is they're all about the sausage and I don't really eat the sausage."
Uh.
TWSS?
I was at the gym yesterday. I had run out of emergency hair ties in my gym bag and hadn't come with one. The one that's on the shifter in my vehicle was gonzo. I couldn't find one in my purse. I was, however, able to locate 5 barrettes & countless bobby pins. So I had to make it work and at first it looked like some horrifying midwest prom hair do. Yikes. While on the stairmaster, it transformed itself into something Heidi-esque with braids and strategically placed metal fasteners. It was a big ol mess. Something had to change.
So, I paused at the front desk asking for a rubber band and while the guy was trying to find one in the drawer and the woman standing there just took the one off of her wrist and gave it to me. It was a small, gentle gesture. But enormous.
By the way, I just heard my roommate say this:
"The big thing is they're all about the sausage and I don't really eat the sausage."
Uh.
TWSS?
Friday, March 7, 2008
The Storm Was A-Brewin
This one has been brewing for a week. I don’t like to nor do I think it necessary to blog every day just to do it. You end up sharing the most asinine details that literally no one but your boyfriend/girlfriend or mother cares about. Thus, I let my stories brew up for a little while so I have several interesting things to share rather than 1 long pile of crapola. Cough.
Here’s what lit the fire this morning: I was driving to work approximately 7:45 A.M. The weather was cool, sunny, lovely. I was be-bopping along to some Brad Paisley, NBD, and glanced briefly to my right a noticed a PRIUS with a RON PAUL bumper sticker. I thought, “this person has got to be joking. They’ve got to be.” But I don’t think they were. Not the right neighborhood. I invite comparisons…as I am at a loss for words. Finish the sentence…Having Ron Paul sticker on your Prius is like…_____________________.
Second Topic of Discussion: The Girl Scouts: Sweet Cookie Sellers, or Satan’s Spawn? I’m pretty sure the Girl Scouts were put on earth by a wildly negative force. They dangled by Satan (assuming he somehow got up north to heaven…probably disguised…whatever whatever). They are not a good thing, and here’s why: A sweet little Girl Scout comes to your door and is like, “would you like some cookies? Our troop is trying to raise money to save the world.” What they are really saying, however, is, “We’re the Girl Scouts. We’re here to ruin all of the hard work that you’ve been doing at the gym and all the strict dieting you’ve been participating in with our Thin Mints. Here…buy a box and eat a sleeve in one sitting.” Ahhhhhh. So bad, but so good.
Well, the finale of Project Runway was this week. We were so excited for it (!) and then we unfortunately had the results ruined for us. Man, it sucks when someone takes the joy and surprise out of something you were looking forward to. If you still haven’t gotten the chance to watch it, I won’t ruin it here. I’ll let someone have some joy, at least. I will say that I was disappointed by the results.
Here’s what lit the fire this morning: I was driving to work approximately 7:45 A.M. The weather was cool, sunny, lovely. I was be-bopping along to some Brad Paisley, NBD, and glanced briefly to my right a noticed a PRIUS with a RON PAUL bumper sticker. I thought, “this person has got to be joking. They’ve got to be.” But I don’t think they were. Not the right neighborhood. I invite comparisons…as I am at a loss for words. Finish the sentence…Having Ron Paul sticker on your Prius is like…_____________________.
Second Topic of Discussion: The Girl Scouts: Sweet Cookie Sellers, or Satan’s Spawn? I’m pretty sure the Girl Scouts were put on earth by a wildly negative force. They dangled by Satan (assuming he somehow got up north to heaven…probably disguised…whatever whatever). They are not a good thing, and here’s why: A sweet little Girl Scout comes to your door and is like, “would you like some cookies? Our troop is trying to raise money to save the world.” What they are really saying, however, is, “We’re the Girl Scouts. We’re here to ruin all of the hard work that you’ve been doing at the gym and all the strict dieting you’ve been participating in with our Thin Mints. Here…buy a box and eat a sleeve in one sitting.” Ahhhhhh. So bad, but so good.
Well, the finale of Project Runway was this week. We were so excited for it (!) and then we unfortunately had the results ruined for us. Man, it sucks when someone takes the joy and surprise out of something you were looking forward to. If you still haven’t gotten the chance to watch it, I won’t ruin it here. I’ll let someone have some joy, at least. I will say that I was disappointed by the results.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
oh boy, where did february go?
Did you notice that today is March. Dude, even with a leap year, February just ripped on by. What craziness. What insanity. It's cool though, cause I'd say March is pretty rad too.
Did you ever notice how some things in life are worked out for you with out you even noticing that they HAD to be worked out? Okay, that sounds like I'm trying to be overly profound. If you must vomit over that, I'll hold your hair back; but let me finish:
It hit me this morning.
Drawers are basically created so an even number of Saran Wrap or aluminum foil cartons can fit in them. Even in retro kitchen land (unfortunately where our kitchen resides) the drawer seems to exactly fit all of the various wraps, foils, papers, etc. It's neither too tight a squeeze nor aching with awkward gappage. Someone somewhere just sort of worked that out for us. Without us even knowing it had to be worked out. To that person, Cheers!
Well, I have gone several weeks bypassing telling you of one of the greatest reunions in the past six months in my life. Me and my ipod dock are back together. I know, it's great, right? Sometime in late August of 07, we broke up. And it had me down for a while. I mean, the carcass of the actual dock was haunting me, every time I looked at my desk. But it was unchargable. I had lost the AC adapter. And I couldn't find it ANYWHERE. The speakers were just TAUNTING me. "Listen to zee ipod on zis dock, eh?" (Oh yeah, my speakers have an odd German/French/Canadian sort of thing going on , not a big deal.) And I was like, "Well, I would LIKE TO." Anyway, after months of searching through various random nooks and crannies, searching Amazon to Ebay, Logitech to apple.com, I finally broke down and just called the logitech customer service folks, hoping that in a moment of weakness, driven my my utter pity, they would just send me a free charger. Turns out there's a link on their website for missing parts. $10 was all that stood between me and destiny. A shame that I can't apparently read. Anyway, we are sitting at the table right now, me posting on this weblog, my ipod dock serenading me with overly depressing Coldplay. It's harmony and melody and destiny. And not in a trashy, born-in-the-80's, "My name is Harmony" kind of way.
I had thought that, now that I am either 23 or 24 (not sure) I would stop getting acne. Blemishes. Pimples, zits, you know the deal. Well, this is horrifyingly untrue. They have seemed to utterly ignore the fact that I am an adult now. I mean, I wear high heels to work, meet friends for sushi, have money going into my 401K. An adult. Sometimes, I get these blemishes (ok, that makes it sound more adult) that no amount of Katherine's secret Murad blemish zapper can solve. That no amount of cursing, "BUT I AM AN ADULT! THIS IS UNFAIR," can fix. That no amount of pressure with a hot wash cloth can cure. Like right now. Something worthy of a zip code is cropping up right under my nose. So painful that it's hard to smile.
Was that too honest?
Did you ever notice how some things in life are worked out for you with out you even noticing that they HAD to be worked out? Okay, that sounds like I'm trying to be overly profound. If you must vomit over that, I'll hold your hair back; but let me finish:
It hit me this morning.
Drawers are basically created so an even number of Saran Wrap or aluminum foil cartons can fit in them. Even in retro kitchen land (unfortunately where our kitchen resides) the drawer seems to exactly fit all of the various wraps, foils, papers, etc. It's neither too tight a squeeze nor aching with awkward gappage. Someone somewhere just sort of worked that out for us. Without us even knowing it had to be worked out. To that person, Cheers!
Well, I have gone several weeks bypassing telling you of one of the greatest reunions in the past six months in my life. Me and my ipod dock are back together. I know, it's great, right? Sometime in late August of 07, we broke up. And it had me down for a while. I mean, the carcass of the actual dock was haunting me, every time I looked at my desk. But it was unchargable. I had lost the AC adapter. And I couldn't find it ANYWHERE. The speakers were just TAUNTING me. "Listen to zee ipod on zis dock, eh?" (Oh yeah, my speakers have an odd German/French/Canadian sort of thing going on , not a big deal.) And I was like, "Well, I would LIKE TO." Anyway, after months of searching through various random nooks and crannies, searching Amazon to Ebay, Logitech to apple.com, I finally broke down and just called the logitech customer service folks, hoping that in a moment of weakness, driven my my utter pity, they would just send me a free charger. Turns out there's a link on their website for missing parts. $10 was all that stood between me and destiny. A shame that I can't apparently read. Anyway, we are sitting at the table right now, me posting on this weblog, my ipod dock serenading me with overly depressing Coldplay. It's harmony and melody and destiny. And not in a trashy, born-in-the-80's, "My name is Harmony" kind of way.
I had thought that, now that I am either 23 or 24 (not sure) I would stop getting acne. Blemishes. Pimples, zits, you know the deal. Well, this is horrifyingly untrue. They have seemed to utterly ignore the fact that I am an adult now. I mean, I wear high heels to work, meet friends for sushi, have money going into my 401K. An adult. Sometimes, I get these blemishes (ok, that makes it sound more adult) that no amount of Katherine's secret Murad blemish zapper can solve. That no amount of cursing, "BUT I AM AN ADULT! THIS IS UNFAIR," can fix. That no amount of pressure with a hot wash cloth can cure. Like right now. Something worthy of a zip code is cropping up right under my nose. So painful that it's hard to smile.
Was that too honest?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)