I've been reading some, as I am prone to do now and again, and this week it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
I want to go to Savannah. No, that is wrong. I need to go to Savannah.
I want to be Southern (never thought I'd say that). I want to drink mint juleps and talk with a slow, drawl and maybe even hit up a cotillion or two or four.
I want to go to there.
Like yesterday.
I have the travel bug again. It always hits after I've been somewhere fabulous or even remotely fabulous, or even just not Pittsburgh. And while I want to go to Savannah, to be honest I just want to go anywhere.
I want to be Samantha Brown. I want to work for the Travel Channel and see cool places and tell people about them. I want to go on crusies for free and I want to eat weird foods in weird places and I want to be Samantha Brown. Is her job available? Or you know, does she need a sidekick? Because I think all great heros and heroines need sidekicks. I'll be the Robin to her Batman, the Tonto to her Lone Ranger. The Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.
Or! We could be more like partners. I'll be Calvin and she can be Hobbes. Kavalier to her Clay. Whatever. As long as I get to eat exotic foods in exotic places, damn it!
I would try to find someone to try out for Amazing Race with me, but let's be honest. The minute they want me to climb something tall or climb into something small, I'm liable to tell Phil that he can suck it. (Is Phil's job available? I could totally do that. Uh, Joe and....Joe? You're team number one!)
I have a feeling I'm SOL on the whole taking Samantha Brown's job thing. And Phil, well, it seems as if his job is fairly safe. Damn it.
But as for Savannah?
Save a bottle of bourbon for me. I'm going to make it there if it kills me.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Where is Old Zealand?
What's up with Andorra? Is it even a real country? Has anyone ever been to Andorra? I know that it may or may not be located in Europe. I think that they are happy, healthy people. Maybe they have universal health care? Can you vacation in Andorra? Do they call them Andorrans?
Seriously, good people of Andorra, argue your cause. Because I think you might be an imaginary country used to test the geographical and historical skills of the rest of the world. And we fail. Epically.
Back in the day, when they were dividing up the former Soviet bloc, I think they got a little name crazy and had all these great country names and no actual countries to bestow them on. So we ended up with fake countries. So small that you can't even locate it on a map. Andorra. Malta. San Marino. All an elaborate hoax. Well played, Europe, well played.
And while we're on the subject of geographic oddities, what's New Zealand's deal? What continent are they considered a part of? Not Australia, right, because Australia is a continent and a country. That's their big claim to fame (as my good friend Jodi commented, "I think we're getting ripped off"). So, Asia then? Is Asia just collecting countries now? Soon they'll have the whole set!
There's a Jersey in England somewhere, hence the "New" part. There's a regular old Mexico. So New Mexico makes sense, but what happened to the Zealand? Who decided it was new?
I'd like to go to New Zealand, despite the fact that it's so pretty that it literally makes me want to die, but maybe I'd like to check out the Old Zealand first. You know, for comparison sake.
You know where in the world Carmen Sandiego is? She's totally hiding out in Zealand, which is off the coast of Andorra. No one's ever going to find her there.
Seriously, good people of Andorra, argue your cause. Because I think you might be an imaginary country used to test the geographical and historical skills of the rest of the world. And we fail. Epically.
Back in the day, when they were dividing up the former Soviet bloc, I think they got a little name crazy and had all these great country names and no actual countries to bestow them on. So we ended up with fake countries. So small that you can't even locate it on a map. Andorra. Malta. San Marino. All an elaborate hoax. Well played, Europe, well played.
And while we're on the subject of geographic oddities, what's New Zealand's deal? What continent are they considered a part of? Not Australia, right, because Australia is a continent and a country. That's their big claim to fame (as my good friend Jodi commented, "I think we're getting ripped off"). So, Asia then? Is Asia just collecting countries now? Soon they'll have the whole set!
There's a Jersey in England somewhere, hence the "New" part. There's a regular old Mexico. So New Mexico makes sense, but what happened to the Zealand? Who decided it was new?
I'd like to go to New Zealand, despite the fact that it's so pretty that it literally makes me want to die, but maybe I'd like to check out the Old Zealand first. You know, for comparison sake.
You know where in the world Carmen Sandiego is? She's totally hiding out in Zealand, which is off the coast of Andorra. No one's ever going to find her there.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Where are we?
I was ten minutes late to a fifteen minute wedding.
It probably should be noted that I am generally ten minutes early OR late for all things. I can never arrive on time. This time it happened to be ten minutes late. Apparently, a very important ten minutes.
We slid into the pew just in time to see the "I do's." The more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me what perfect timing this was. We merely skipped all the fluff and got right to the meat of it. Weddings are too long anyway. The church looked like the inside of Noah's Ark. Only, as Andrea pointed out, if Noah's Ark collided with The Poseidon Adventure. We wonder why we have terrible luck, this is why. I have been known to mock church inside church, and I really think God is pissed. Plus, I don't think He likes fornicators. At least that's what I've been told.
The most often heard phrase from me all night was, "Where are we?"
The answer? The middle of East Kabumfuck Nowhere. Population: 2.
There was a man whittling on his front porch as we passed. Whittling. Who knew people even did that anymore? And the road turned into dirt at one point. My GPS's head exploded. (I want a GPS that will yell at me, not just "recalculating route" but one that will go, "Bitch! Where the hell are you going? I told you left! I'm done with this shit.")
The view from the top was unbelievable. Mountains everywhere. But still, I decided the minute I heard a banjo I was getting the hell out of there. Congratulations Johnny and Heather. See ya. You be chopped up into a million pieces, I'm going back to the city.
The reception was fun. Beer and jell-o shots and Andrea almost breaking an ankle (actually, the jury is still out on that one. Might be broken. Looked pretty swollen. There's a lesson here kids: don't play wiffle ball in heels) and fire dancing. All in all, a fun time was had. And then I had to drive back down the scary, freaky dark, dirt road back to civilization.
I'm happy to back in the city. Where there are buildings instead of barns, and people instead of cows. As the great Ben Lee once said, "I was thinking about the city, it's living proof people need to be together."
Well said, Ben.
It probably should be noted that I am generally ten minutes early OR late for all things. I can never arrive on time. This time it happened to be ten minutes late. Apparently, a very important ten minutes.
We slid into the pew just in time to see the "I do's." The more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me what perfect timing this was. We merely skipped all the fluff and got right to the meat of it. Weddings are too long anyway. The church looked like the inside of Noah's Ark. Only, as Andrea pointed out, if Noah's Ark collided with The Poseidon Adventure. We wonder why we have terrible luck, this is why. I have been known to mock church inside church, and I really think God is pissed. Plus, I don't think He likes fornicators. At least that's what I've been told.
The most often heard phrase from me all night was, "Where are we?"
The answer? The middle of East Kabumfuck Nowhere. Population: 2.
There was a man whittling on his front porch as we passed. Whittling. Who knew people even did that anymore? And the road turned into dirt at one point. My GPS's head exploded. (I want a GPS that will yell at me, not just "recalculating route" but one that will go, "Bitch! Where the hell are you going? I told you left! I'm done with this shit.")
The view from the top was unbelievable. Mountains everywhere. But still, I decided the minute I heard a banjo I was getting the hell out of there. Congratulations Johnny and Heather. See ya. You be chopped up into a million pieces, I'm going back to the city.
The reception was fun. Beer and jell-o shots and Andrea almost breaking an ankle (actually, the jury is still out on that one. Might be broken. Looked pretty swollen. There's a lesson here kids: don't play wiffle ball in heels) and fire dancing. All in all, a fun time was had. And then I had to drive back down the scary, freaky dark, dirt road back to civilization.
I'm happy to back in the city. Where there are buildings instead of barns, and people instead of cows. As the great Ben Lee once said, "I was thinking about the city, it's living proof people need to be together."
Well said, Ben.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Chicken on a Stick is divine.
Is there anything better than music, chicken on a stick, a giant ass cup of lemonade and some good pals?
It makes me love summer. And Pittsburgh. It was hard to imagine loving Pittsburgh more, but there you are. Plus we had a fun van ride in which everyone but me was convinced that the garage we parked in began getting smaller the higher we went. (False. It did not. It was an optical illusion. We were not Alice, this is not Wonderland.)
Plus, did I mention chicken on a stick? Everything is better on a stick. Chicken. Chocolate covered strawberries. Chocolate covered mallows. Veggies. Popsicles. Things on sticks rock. It's a proven fact that 100% of people enjoy food more when it comes on a stick (Note: this fact has only been proven by me in a field study where I asked exactly one person if they preferred food on a stick. And that person may or may not have been myself.)
I pretty much love everything this night chooses to be.
It makes me love summer. And Pittsburgh. It was hard to imagine loving Pittsburgh more, but there you are. Plus we had a fun van ride in which everyone but me was convinced that the garage we parked in began getting smaller the higher we went. (False. It did not. It was an optical illusion. We were not Alice, this is not Wonderland.)
Plus, did I mention chicken on a stick? Everything is better on a stick. Chicken. Chocolate covered strawberries. Chocolate covered mallows. Veggies. Popsicles. Things on sticks rock. It's a proven fact that 100% of people enjoy food more when it comes on a stick (Note: this fact has only been proven by me in a field study where I asked exactly one person if they preferred food on a stick. And that person may or may not have been myself.)
I pretty much love everything this night chooses to be.
Monday, June 8, 2009
You, sir, are dead to me.
I have an ever growing list of things/people/corporations that are dead to me.
This hockey playoff season has offered up just more and more opportunities to add to this list.
First, I was told I was being harsh by placing Bill Cowher on my Dead to Me list. But now, now, I am chiseling his name in stone. Bill Cowher, you can suck it. You and your freakishly tall and athletic daughters and wife can stay down in whatever Carolina you call home now. I think I can safely speak for the whole city of Pittsburgh when I say, good riddance.
Second, and probably most importantly, Marion Hossa. You, sir, are dead to me. You can take your stupid red beard and your stupid Red Wings and suck it.
Actually, the whole city of Detroit can suck it. Up until this point I've felt sorry for you. Come football season you have to cheer for the Lions, and that's just lame, but now? You've earned your spot on the DtM list. Go join Bill Cowher and make some drinks and hang out, because you're going to be on there awhile.
This hockey playoff season has offered up just more and more opportunities to add to this list.
First, I was told I was being harsh by placing Bill Cowher on my Dead to Me list. But now, now, I am chiseling his name in stone. Bill Cowher, you can suck it. You and your freakishly tall and athletic daughters and wife can stay down in whatever Carolina you call home now. I think I can safely speak for the whole city of Pittsburgh when I say, good riddance.
Second, and probably most importantly, Marion Hossa. You, sir, are dead to me. You can take your stupid red beard and your stupid Red Wings and suck it.
Actually, the whole city of Detroit can suck it. Up until this point I've felt sorry for you. Come football season you have to cheer for the Lions, and that's just lame, but now? You've earned your spot on the DtM list. Go join Bill Cowher and make some drinks and hang out, because you're going to be on there awhile.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Hi-ya!
There are questions that vex me.
Such as, is there anything more badass than a ninja? They're totally badass. They can probably kill you with their pinkies. Maybe just even their baby toes. Not even their big toes. Amateurs can kill you with their big toes. Only a ninja can slice you in half with their little toe.
And why do they keep letting M. Night Shyamalan make movies? They aren't good. And they keep getting worse. The Happening? Really? Because I love Zooey and Marky Mark and his funky bunch, but that movie sucked. Maybe more than any movie has ever sucked ever. There have been worse movies, I'm sure (I'm looking at you Zohan), but no one making say, The Love Guru was under any kind of delusion that they were making a good, or even decent movie. They were fully aware that it probably sucked huge donkey balls. But M. Night thinks his movies are good. And that's what makes them so bad.
Do you think Dick Cheney eats babies for breakfast? He might. He's pretty much the embodiment of all that is wrong in this world. And why won't he go away? Can't he join Horse Face Ann Coulter and slink off into the evil GOP lair to plot world domination once again? He's obviously been foiled by an adversary much smarter and more awesome than he (I tip my hat at you Mr. Obama), isn't it time for him to go somewhere that's not here? Why, oh why, must I still have to hear about him? Go away, Dick. Go AWAY.
Why can't I huggle a lion? Why will it eat me if I try to be his friend? Simba totally wouldn't eat me. We'd be pals. I'd like to be the lion at the zoo's pal. We can hang out and talk about how lame the leopard is. I think we could be good friends given an opportunity.
I would not like to see a ninja on the street. But I would if I was with my friend the Lion. And together all three of us could hunt down Dick Cheney and shove him and Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly on a boat and send them out to sea. I don't want harm to befall them. I just want them off my television and out of my newspapers. And maybe somehow they could all lose the ability to talk. I'd like that. A lot.
And seriously, M. Night. Stop trying to be clever. Just. Stop. Please. No more movies.
Such as, is there anything more badass than a ninja? They're totally badass. They can probably kill you with their pinkies. Maybe just even their baby toes. Not even their big toes. Amateurs can kill you with their big toes. Only a ninja can slice you in half with their little toe.
And why do they keep letting M. Night Shyamalan make movies? They aren't good. And they keep getting worse. The Happening? Really? Because I love Zooey and Marky Mark and his funky bunch, but that movie sucked. Maybe more than any movie has ever sucked ever. There have been worse movies, I'm sure (I'm looking at you Zohan), but no one making say, The Love Guru was under any kind of delusion that they were making a good, or even decent movie. They were fully aware that it probably sucked huge donkey balls. But M. Night thinks his movies are good. And that's what makes them so bad.
Do you think Dick Cheney eats babies for breakfast? He might. He's pretty much the embodiment of all that is wrong in this world. And why won't he go away? Can't he join Horse Face Ann Coulter and slink off into the evil GOP lair to plot world domination once again? He's obviously been foiled by an adversary much smarter and more awesome than he (I tip my hat at you Mr. Obama), isn't it time for him to go somewhere that's not here? Why, oh why, must I still have to hear about him? Go away, Dick. Go AWAY.
Why can't I huggle a lion? Why will it eat me if I try to be his friend? Simba totally wouldn't eat me. We'd be pals. I'd like to be the lion at the zoo's pal. We can hang out and talk about how lame the leopard is. I think we could be good friends given an opportunity.
I would not like to see a ninja on the street. But I would if I was with my friend the Lion. And together all three of us could hunt down Dick Cheney and shove him and Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly on a boat and send them out to sea. I don't want harm to befall them. I just want them off my television and out of my newspapers. And maybe somehow they could all lose the ability to talk. I'd like that. A lot.
And seriously, M. Night. Stop trying to be clever. Just. Stop. Please. No more movies.
This blog is brought to you by the letter L. And the number 1.
I made a startling, and quite honestly all together unwelcome, observation.
I may be getting dumber.
Without constant stimulation, I think my brain might be turning into nothing more than mush. Actually, it's probably more Jell-o like than mush, because I still remember the words to the theme song of the "Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire" which gives me minimal hope that some things are being retained.
I find myself being stumped with even the most basic math. 1+1=what? 2? Someone find me a calculator. (Side note: What I can do with a calculator is write out the words boobs and boobless, which is still as funny as it was in fifth grade. Boobs is a funny word. So is poop. Double oo's get me every time.)
Whereas in college I would often choose movies which would stimulate me intellectually, I now choose movies staring Keanu Reeves.
It's terrible, and something must be done. I cannot let any more brain cells drift away into obscurity only to be replaced by the words to some Beyonce song. I must save myself from myself. Read Proust instead of Jodi Picault. Listen to Vivaldi instead of Kanye.
I think I've figured out a five step plan. Which is as follows:
1. Learn a new language. I figure the good people at Rosetta Stone can help me out with this one. Polish maybe? Brush up on my French? (and by brush up, obviously I mean relearn everything that has fallen out of my brain in the six years since I was in high school). I could try to learn Arabic and get a job with the CIA. I'm pretty stealth. Like a ninja. Only clumsier.
2. Read War and Peace. The whole damn thing. Not just the beginning chapters and the last page, but every word in between. And then read Ulysses. And not just use them as paper weights or carry them around just so people think I'm smart. I want to actually be smart.
3. Teach myself to play violin. Nothing's classier than the violin. Smart people play the violin. And then they debate the merits of the teachings of Nietzche over a glass of red wine. I can totally do that. Probably.
4. Stop watching So You Think You Can Dance and watch CSPAN more often. I have a secret theory that those senators go a little crazy right when they think no one's watching. They have Champagne Fridays and make margs for Hump Day. They just assume people are flipping right past CSPAN. False! I will be watching. Senator Spector from Pennsylvania, I saw you beat Senator Kerry at flip cup. He's been practicing, I'd watch out.
5. Learn how to do chemistry. And not just basic chemistry, but like the really serious stuff. I want to know more than just the periodic table. I want to tell you the point of the periodic table. It's not just so college students can replace it with types of alcohol and hang it on their walls. It has a point. I just don't know what that is.
This plan is going to save me. Save my brain cells. I'm going to be a Arabic speaking, CSPAN loving, violin playing, chemist who loves her some Tolstoy.
Or else, DVR So You Think You Can Dance for me while I go listen to the latest Britney Spears song and I'll watch it after I read the last Twilight. If I kill off enough brain cells maybe I won't miss the ones I've lost.
I may be getting dumber.
Without constant stimulation, I think my brain might be turning into nothing more than mush. Actually, it's probably more Jell-o like than mush, because I still remember the words to the theme song of the "Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire" which gives me minimal hope that some things are being retained.
I find myself being stumped with even the most basic math. 1+1=what? 2? Someone find me a calculator. (Side note: What I can do with a calculator is write out the words boobs and boobless, which is still as funny as it was in fifth grade. Boobs is a funny word. So is poop. Double oo's get me every time.)
Whereas in college I would often choose movies which would stimulate me intellectually, I now choose movies staring Keanu Reeves.
It's terrible, and something must be done. I cannot let any more brain cells drift away into obscurity only to be replaced by the words to some Beyonce song. I must save myself from myself. Read Proust instead of Jodi Picault. Listen to Vivaldi instead of Kanye.
I think I've figured out a five step plan. Which is as follows:
1. Learn a new language. I figure the good people at Rosetta Stone can help me out with this one. Polish maybe? Brush up on my French? (and by brush up, obviously I mean relearn everything that has fallen out of my brain in the six years since I was in high school). I could try to learn Arabic and get a job with the CIA. I'm pretty stealth. Like a ninja. Only clumsier.
2. Read War and Peace. The whole damn thing. Not just the beginning chapters and the last page, but every word in between. And then read Ulysses. And not just use them as paper weights or carry them around just so people think I'm smart. I want to actually be smart.
3. Teach myself to play violin. Nothing's classier than the violin. Smart people play the violin. And then they debate the merits of the teachings of Nietzche over a glass of red wine. I can totally do that. Probably.
4. Stop watching So You Think You Can Dance and watch CSPAN more often. I have a secret theory that those senators go a little crazy right when they think no one's watching. They have Champagne Fridays and make margs for Hump Day. They just assume people are flipping right past CSPAN. False! I will be watching. Senator Spector from Pennsylvania, I saw you beat Senator Kerry at flip cup. He's been practicing, I'd watch out.
5. Learn how to do chemistry. And not just basic chemistry, but like the really serious stuff. I want to know more than just the periodic table. I want to tell you the point of the periodic table. It's not just so college students can replace it with types of alcohol and hang it on their walls. It has a point. I just don't know what that is.
This plan is going to save me. Save my brain cells. I'm going to be a Arabic speaking, CSPAN loving, violin playing, chemist who loves her some Tolstoy.
Or else, DVR So You Think You Can Dance for me while I go listen to the latest Britney Spears song and I'll watch it after I read the last Twilight. If I kill off enough brain cells maybe I won't miss the ones I've lost.
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