Monday, February 28, 2005
How to be an Oscar winner*
*Winner of the ballot at your friendly neighborhood Oscar party, that is. I have no advice as to how one might go about actually winning an Oscar. Other than “Be Hilary Swank.” Or “Don’t be Martin Scorsese,” as the case may be.
Anyway, after I emerged victorious by picking the most winners last night (thanks in part to Million Dollar Baby’s Best Picture coup—after its many wins, and after Eastwood took Best Director, everyone was gunning for The Aviator, including me, but I was told I couldn’t change my original vote), I figured I should pass my winning strategy on to others. You see, I think a lot of people are confused about the best way to pick Oscar winners. Namely, they think they must watch all of the nominated films in order to make an informed decision. But I am here to tell you that this is simply not true.
In fact, I’ve come to believe that watching the films can actually be a detriment when it comes to picking the winners—and I am living proof of this theory. Three years ago, when I was a screen editor and had therefore seen most of the nominated films, I did much, much worse in my predictions than I did this year, when I had seen a grand total of four of the films nominated in any category (Ray, A Very Long Engagement, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Spider-Man 2). However, I informed myself in other ways, which I believe were much more valuable when it comes to making predictions. Witness my stellar Oscar-predicting strategy:
1. Listen to NPR. In the months leading up to the Oscars, NPR ran stories on The Sea Inside, Million Dollar Baby and Born Into Brothels, each of which won in their respective big-ticket categories. If it’s good enough to be mentioned on NPR, it’s good enough to win an Oscar, apparently.
2. Pick whatever Chase picks. Chase is the undisputed king of Oscar predictions—he completely smoked us all in the aforementioned ballot of three years ago. This is because Chase actually takes the time and effort to evaluate the merits of artistic effort against factors such as history and Hollywood politics. And I guess you could do that, too, but it’s so much easier to just ride his coattails to success. (Note: This strategy will not work if you happen to be betting against Chase, but I would not recommend doing that. You will probably lose.)
3. Spread the wealth. Sure, The Aviator and Million Dollar Baby were good movies (not that I’ve seen either of them), but they can’t possibly win everything. So choose some other critically acclaimed movies to win in lesser categories. I haven’t the faintest idea what the original score of Finding Neverland sounds like, but since it’s not going to win in any of the bigger categories, why not give it a nod here? It seems that many of the members of the Academy employed similar logic.
4. But don't spread it too much. When in doubt, you can never go wrong with picking one of the favorites. Usually, voting a straight Golden Globes ticket can also get you a long way, although that obviously wouldn’t have worked too well this year.
Next year, my friends, I hope you are able to put this strategy to good use and emerge victorious at your local Oscar party. I just hope, for your sake, that they have better prizes than the one I attended. (When I asked Chris, who hosted the party, what my prize was for winning, he responded, “You get to clean the kitchen!” Needless to say, I politely declined. I think he was just bitter because the Million Dollar Baby win allowed me to beat him at the last minute.)
*Winner of the ballot at your friendly neighborhood Oscar party, that is. I have no advice as to how one might go about actually winning an Oscar. Other than “Be Hilary Swank.” Or “Don’t be Martin Scorsese,” as the case may be.
Anyway, after I emerged victorious by picking the most winners last night (thanks in part to Million Dollar Baby’s Best Picture coup—after its many wins, and after Eastwood took Best Director, everyone was gunning for The Aviator, including me, but I was told I couldn’t change my original vote), I figured I should pass my winning strategy on to others. You see, I think a lot of people are confused about the best way to pick Oscar winners. Namely, they think they must watch all of the nominated films in order to make an informed decision. But I am here to tell you that this is simply not true.
In fact, I’ve come to believe that watching the films can actually be a detriment when it comes to picking the winners—and I am living proof of this theory. Three years ago, when I was a screen editor and had therefore seen most of the nominated films, I did much, much worse in my predictions than I did this year, when I had seen a grand total of four of the films nominated in any category (Ray, A Very Long Engagement, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Spider-Man 2). However, I informed myself in other ways, which I believe were much more valuable when it comes to making predictions. Witness my stellar Oscar-predicting strategy:
1. Listen to NPR. In the months leading up to the Oscars, NPR ran stories on The Sea Inside, Million Dollar Baby and Born Into Brothels, each of which won in their respective big-ticket categories. If it’s good enough to be mentioned on NPR, it’s good enough to win an Oscar, apparently.
2. Pick whatever Chase picks. Chase is the undisputed king of Oscar predictions—he completely smoked us all in the aforementioned ballot of three years ago. This is because Chase actually takes the time and effort to evaluate the merits of artistic effort against factors such as history and Hollywood politics. And I guess you could do that, too, but it’s so much easier to just ride his coattails to success. (Note: This strategy will not work if you happen to be betting against Chase, but I would not recommend doing that. You will probably lose.)
3. Spread the wealth. Sure, The Aviator and Million Dollar Baby were good movies (not that I’ve seen either of them), but they can’t possibly win everything. So choose some other critically acclaimed movies to win in lesser categories. I haven’t the faintest idea what the original score of Finding Neverland sounds like, but since it’s not going to win in any of the bigger categories, why not give it a nod here? It seems that many of the members of the Academy employed similar logic.
4. But don't spread it too much. When in doubt, you can never go wrong with picking one of the favorites. Usually, voting a straight Golden Globes ticket can also get you a long way, although that obviously wouldn’t have worked too well this year.
Next year, my friends, I hope you are able to put this strategy to good use and emerge victorious at your local Oscar party. I just hope, for your sake, that they have better prizes than the one I attended. (When I asked Chris, who hosted the party, what my prize was for winning, he responded, “You get to clean the kitchen!” Needless to say, I politely declined. I think he was just bitter because the Million Dollar Baby win allowed me to beat him at the last minute.)
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Dreamy
Have you ever had that dream where you're dating Topher Grace, and it's right at the beginning when you've just realized that you like each other, and it's all flirting and meaningful glances and smiling and finding excuses to touch each other, and he's just so cute and sweet and wonderful? If not, you really should. I've had this dream twice now, and it is pretty awesome. Even when George W. Bush is there, insisting on playing acoustic guitar in the middle of your calculus class.
Have you ever had that dream where you're dating Topher Grace, and it's right at the beginning when you've just realized that you like each other, and it's all flirting and meaningful glances and smiling and finding excuses to touch each other, and he's just so cute and sweet and wonderful? If not, you really should. I've had this dream twice now, and it is pretty awesome. Even when George W. Bush is there, insisting on playing acoustic guitar in the middle of your calculus class.
Friday, February 25, 2005
I wonder if reruns of M*A*S*H would inspire a similar reaction
When you work at a magazine, it's hard not to be plagued by feelings of worthlessness while watching ER. This is nothing new. In fact, Diana and I used to confront these feelings on a weekly basis in college. We could often be heard having variations of the following conversation:
Diana: God, what are we doing in journalism?
Me: I know! We should be in med school.
Diana: Yeah!
[Pause]
Me: Then again, perhaps we're serving the world better by not being doctors.
Diana: At least this way when we screw up, nobody dies.
Me: Yeah. And it could be worse. I mean, we could be actors.
Now that Diana's not around, I have to have these conversations with myself. And it's not quite so easy to quiet the feelings of worthlessness when ER hits me with the double whammy: doctors and soldiers. But still, as well off as the world is without me being a doctor, it's even better off without me being in the middle of the war. (And seriously, war? Who are we kidding? I'd never even make it out of basic training.) So instead, I must be content to do what I can do well, which is criticize television.
To wit: I thought the Spider-Man homage (or rip-off, depending on how you want to look at it) at the end of The O.C. was really sweet, even though I saw it coming a mile away. And I liked being reminded how much I used to love the song "Champagne Supernova" when I was that age. But while we're on the subject of nostalgic music cues: Uh, Schwartz? I know you love these little forays into nostalgia, and I love them, and the actors who are playing your characters probably love them (seeing as most of them are the same age as me), but I feel that I must again point out that the characters themselves would never make such allusions. I mean, if we're really supposed to believe they're seventeen, that means they would have been, what, three when Cooleyhighharmony came out? So I doubt any of them would really select "End of the Road" as a melancholy moping song.
Oh, and ER? If you want to know how to do the whole sex/death montage well, see Desperate Housewives. Or The Godfather, although that was really more of a death/baptism montage. But it was still well done. Yours, on the other hand, was not. However, I did like the fact that, in the last scene, Neela was wearing the same necklace that I bought my sister for Christmas a couple of years ago. That was pretty cool, and for just a moment it made me forget about continuity problems and sub-par montages and feelings of worthlessness.
When you work at a magazine, it's hard not to be plagued by feelings of worthlessness while watching ER. This is nothing new. In fact, Diana and I used to confront these feelings on a weekly basis in college. We could often be heard having variations of the following conversation:
Diana: God, what are we doing in journalism?
Me: I know! We should be in med school.
Diana: Yeah!
[Pause]
Me: Then again, perhaps we're serving the world better by not being doctors.
Diana: At least this way when we screw up, nobody dies.
Me: Yeah. And it could be worse. I mean, we could be actors.
Now that Diana's not around, I have to have these conversations with myself. And it's not quite so easy to quiet the feelings of worthlessness when ER hits me with the double whammy: doctors and soldiers. But still, as well off as the world is without me being a doctor, it's even better off without me being in the middle of the war. (And seriously, war? Who are we kidding? I'd never even make it out of basic training.) So instead, I must be content to do what I can do well, which is criticize television.
To wit: I thought the Spider-Man homage (or rip-off, depending on how you want to look at it) at the end of The O.C. was really sweet, even though I saw it coming a mile away. And I liked being reminded how much I used to love the song "Champagne Supernova" when I was that age. But while we're on the subject of nostalgic music cues: Uh, Schwartz? I know you love these little forays into nostalgia, and I love them, and the actors who are playing your characters probably love them (seeing as most of them are the same age as me), but I feel that I must again point out that the characters themselves would never make such allusions. I mean, if we're really supposed to believe they're seventeen, that means they would have been, what, three when Cooleyhighharmony came out? So I doubt any of them would really select "End of the Road" as a melancholy moping song.
Oh, and ER? If you want to know how to do the whole sex/death montage well, see Desperate Housewives. Or The Godfather, although that was really more of a death/baptism montage. But it was still well done. Yours, on the other hand, was not. However, I did like the fact that, in the last scene, Neela was wearing the same necklace that I bought my sister for Christmas a couple of years ago. That was pretty cool, and for just a moment it made me forget about continuity problems and sub-par montages and feelings of worthlessness.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
A good idea in theory, but…
Last night I was struck with the following thought: Since I seem to do most of my best thinking in the shower, imagine how brilliant I would be if I stayed in the shower all the time!
Of course, I would also be rather pruny. And if it didn’t work for Kramer, it’s probably not going to work for me. So I guess I’ll have to settle for only being brilliant for about 20 minutes a day. Which is still better than nothing.
Speaking of brilliance, props to Kristen for directing me to this site, which is absolutely hilarious. I have not yet had a chance to peruse it in its entirety, but I’ve already found several particularly quotable lines, including:
“They meet, fall in love and kiss. Eight months later, Maria is pregnant.”
“When you burst into flames every day, life can be a little hectic.”
“Ducks, The Killer Breed: They Swim, They Quack…They KILL!”
You know, if that last one is ever actually made into a movie, I’m thinking I’ll probably stay away.
Last night I was struck with the following thought: Since I seem to do most of my best thinking in the shower, imagine how brilliant I would be if I stayed in the shower all the time!
Of course, I would also be rather pruny. And if it didn’t work for Kramer, it’s probably not going to work for me. So I guess I’ll have to settle for only being brilliant for about 20 minutes a day. Which is still better than nothing.
Speaking of brilliance, props to Kristen for directing me to this site, which is absolutely hilarious. I have not yet had a chance to peruse it in its entirety, but I’ve already found several particularly quotable lines, including:
“They meet, fall in love and kiss. Eight months later, Maria is pregnant.”
“When you burst into flames every day, life can be a little hectic.”
“Ducks, The Killer Breed: They Swim, They Quack…They KILL!”
You know, if that last one is ever actually made into a movie, I’m thinking I’ll probably stay away.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
That’s it
No one else I know is allowed to get married during the month of October. I already have three (three!) friends getting married this October, so I must declare it off-limits for anyone else. Although the fact that I have three friends getting married in the same month is somewhat odd, it is even more so when you consider the fact that I can’t remember having ever been to a wedding in October before. And when your father is a minister, you go to a lot of weddings. (And a lot of funerals, too, although that’s not as much fun.) (Also, I would like to point out that I have not once seen Hugh Grant at any of these weddings or funerals, which I think is grossly unfair.)
Anyway, this presents me with somewhat of a dilemma: I have no idea what one wears to an October wedding. Spring and summer weddings I can do: ‘50s-style sundress, kitten-heel sandals. This is my standard wedding outfit, some form of which has been worn to every wedding I’ve attended in the past three years. But what’s the fall version of that? I’m not sure, but I have a sinking feeling it will probably involve pantyhose.
The good news is that October is still seven months away, which gives me ample time to plan my wedding outfit. Not to mention find a date. Any of you guys out there available for the entire month?
No one else I know is allowed to get married during the month of October. I already have three (three!) friends getting married this October, so I must declare it off-limits for anyone else. Although the fact that I have three friends getting married in the same month is somewhat odd, it is even more so when you consider the fact that I can’t remember having ever been to a wedding in October before. And when your father is a minister, you go to a lot of weddings. (And a lot of funerals, too, although that’s not as much fun.) (Also, I would like to point out that I have not once seen Hugh Grant at any of these weddings or funerals, which I think is grossly unfair.)
Anyway, this presents me with somewhat of a dilemma: I have no idea what one wears to an October wedding. Spring and summer weddings I can do: ‘50s-style sundress, kitten-heel sandals. This is my standard wedding outfit, some form of which has been worn to every wedding I’ve attended in the past three years. But what’s the fall version of that? I’m not sure, but I have a sinking feeling it will probably involve pantyhose.
The good news is that October is still seven months away, which gives me ample time to plan my wedding outfit. Not to mention find a date. Any of you guys out there available for the entire month?
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Pantless Tuesday Morning
Granted, it’s no Pantless Lunch Tuesday, but you kind of have to seize these opportunities for pantlessness where you find them, you know? At least I got the correct day of the week. This morning, I had a photo shoot at 9:00 at a salon near my house, so I got to go straight there…which meant an extra hour of sleep. (Which was highly deserved, in my opinion, since I spent part of the weekend working. Even though, in this case, “working” meant decoupaging hatboxes, which was quite fun. But it still counts.)
Since the salon was only about 5 minutes away, I also had some extra time to kill before I left, which I took advantage of by putting on some Iron & Wine (which is, like, the best warm, sunny morning music ever) and checking my e-mail in my underwear. I must admit that my lack of pants was due more to the dual goals of wanting to put on lotion and not wanting to wrinkle my skirt, and not so much about rejecting the tyranny of pants (or skirt, as it were). But still, it was a nice change to my morning routine.
And even though I had to remain fully clothed at lunch, I did get some free food as part of a taste-test for our cooking magazine. Mmmm.
Tomorrow, I will not get to sleep in, and there probably won’t be any free food at lunch, and it’s supposed to be cold and rainy, so I expect we’ll return to our regularly scheduled listlessness.
Granted, it’s no Pantless Lunch Tuesday, but you kind of have to seize these opportunities for pantlessness where you find them, you know? At least I got the correct day of the week. This morning, I had a photo shoot at 9:00 at a salon near my house, so I got to go straight there…which meant an extra hour of sleep. (Which was highly deserved, in my opinion, since I spent part of the weekend working. Even though, in this case, “working” meant decoupaging hatboxes, which was quite fun. But it still counts.)
Since the salon was only about 5 minutes away, I also had some extra time to kill before I left, which I took advantage of by putting on some Iron & Wine (which is, like, the best warm, sunny morning music ever) and checking my e-mail in my underwear. I must admit that my lack of pants was due more to the dual goals of wanting to put on lotion and not wanting to wrinkle my skirt, and not so much about rejecting the tyranny of pants (or skirt, as it were). But still, it was a nice change to my morning routine.
And even though I had to remain fully clothed at lunch, I did get some free food as part of a taste-test for our cooking magazine. Mmmm.
Tomorrow, I will not get to sleep in, and there probably won’t be any free food at lunch, and it’s supposed to be cold and rainy, so I expect we’ll return to our regularly scheduled listlessness.
Monday, February 21, 2005
It's official
I am the biggest baby, like, ever. At least when it comes to waterfowl, that is. I thought I was doing so well, too. The other geese had left the lake, and Herbert and Judy and I were getting along just fine--each respecting the other's personal space. In fact, I even passed Judy (or Herbert, I don't know) on the path today at lunch, coming within a few inches of her, and neither of us batted an eye. (Although can geese actually bat their eyes? Whatever.) The point is, I had finally made my peace with our fine feathered friends, and I felt pretty good about it.
All that changed this afternoon, when I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and do another lap around the lake. About halfway around, I ran into Herbert and Judy, said hello as usual, and went on my merry way. But then, when I was almost back to my building, I spotted them. Remember when Doug was talking about the birds he'd seen in Myrtle Beach, the ones that swim in the molten lakes of hell? Yeah, there were two of them (or two of their relatives, because they weren't quite as scary as the ones Doug described) in the middle of the path. One was standing slightly behind the other, so it would take some pretty deft maneuvering to get around them both. As I was trying to work out a strategy, the one in the back started making its way toward me, emitting silent gasps of terror. (I guess it was trying to quack? I don't know. It was frightening.) It came and stood next to its mate, forming an impregnable fortress across the path. So I did what any normal, bird-fearing person would do in this situation: I turned and ran like hell in the other direction, praying that they wouldn't follow me.
Shut up. It was seriously scary.
I am the biggest baby, like, ever. At least when it comes to waterfowl, that is. I thought I was doing so well, too. The other geese had left the lake, and Herbert and Judy and I were getting along just fine--each respecting the other's personal space. In fact, I even passed Judy (or Herbert, I don't know) on the path today at lunch, coming within a few inches of her, and neither of us batted an eye. (Although can geese actually bat their eyes? Whatever.) The point is, I had finally made my peace with our fine feathered friends, and I felt pretty good about it.
All that changed this afternoon, when I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and do another lap around the lake. About halfway around, I ran into Herbert and Judy, said hello as usual, and went on my merry way. But then, when I was almost back to my building, I spotted them. Remember when Doug was talking about the birds he'd seen in Myrtle Beach, the ones that swim in the molten lakes of hell? Yeah, there were two of them (or two of their relatives, because they weren't quite as scary as the ones Doug described) in the middle of the path. One was standing slightly behind the other, so it would take some pretty deft maneuvering to get around them both. As I was trying to work out a strategy, the one in the back started making its way toward me, emitting silent gasps of terror. (I guess it was trying to quack? I don't know. It was frightening.) It came and stood next to its mate, forming an impregnable fortress across the path. So I did what any normal, bird-fearing person would do in this situation: I turned and ran like hell in the other direction, praying that they wouldn't follow me.
Shut up. It was seriously scary.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
"Poems, mostly"
"I used to think I had the answers to everything,
But now I know that life doesn't always go my way."
Sing it, Britney.
"I used to think I had the answers to everything,
But now I know that life doesn't always go my way."
Sing it, Britney.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Get a clue
Earlier today, I was walking back to my apartment after dropping off some proofs at my freelance job, and I decided to stop in the park and swing for a while, which was one of my favorite things to do last summer when I was unemployed and walked to drop off my proofs all the time. Anyway, no sooner did I sit down on the swing than I noticed several people running down the hill into the park. As they scattered to different corners of the park, I wondered if they were setting up for a game of kickball or something. This didn't seem to be the case, as they didn't have any equipment and kept scattering well past the parameters of a makeshift kickball field.
As I mused further, the one girl in the group came up to me and asked, "Do you have a clue?" I sensed that she meant this in the literal rather than figurative sense, so I told her no. (Not that I had much of a figurative clue, either, at least not to the impetus for her inquiry.) She eyed me warily and then asked, "Are you a clue?" As much as I really, really wanted to be able to answer yes to that question, I reluctantly told her no again and added for good measure, "I have no idea what you're talking about." She seemed to find this answer satisfactory and ran off to check behind trees and under trash cans. A few more people came running into the park, including a guy in a green sports jacket and a neon-green clown wig, also presumably looking for this "clue." They seemed so intent on finding it that I decided not to interrupt their concentration by asking exactly what it was they were doing. Were they contestants on The Amazing Race? (Highly doubtful, as they lacked both the Amazing Fanny Packs and the requisite cameramen.) Were they part of the Urban Challenge, or something like it? Or was it perhaps that one of their magazine-editor friends had convinced them to race across the state so she could make a cover story out of it? We shall never know. I like to think it's the last one, though.
Earlier today, I was walking back to my apartment after dropping off some proofs at my freelance job, and I decided to stop in the park and swing for a while, which was one of my favorite things to do last summer when I was unemployed and walked to drop off my proofs all the time. Anyway, no sooner did I sit down on the swing than I noticed several people running down the hill into the park. As they scattered to different corners of the park, I wondered if they were setting up for a game of kickball or something. This didn't seem to be the case, as they didn't have any equipment and kept scattering well past the parameters of a makeshift kickball field.
As I mused further, the one girl in the group came up to me and asked, "Do you have a clue?" I sensed that she meant this in the literal rather than figurative sense, so I told her no. (Not that I had much of a figurative clue, either, at least not to the impetus for her inquiry.) She eyed me warily and then asked, "Are you a clue?" As much as I really, really wanted to be able to answer yes to that question, I reluctantly told her no again and added for good measure, "I have no idea what you're talking about." She seemed to find this answer satisfactory and ran off to check behind trees and under trash cans. A few more people came running into the park, including a guy in a green sports jacket and a neon-green clown wig, also presumably looking for this "clue." They seemed so intent on finding it that I decided not to interrupt their concentration by asking exactly what it was they were doing. Were they contestants on The Amazing Race? (Highly doubtful, as they lacked both the Amazing Fanny Packs and the requisite cameramen.) Were they part of the Urban Challenge, or something like it? Or was it perhaps that one of their magazine-editor friends had convinced them to race across the state so she could make a cover story out of it? We shall never know. I like to think it's the last one, though.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Honestly
Lately, it seems like every bar I go into is playing the Garden State soundtrack. (Except for the one I went to last Friday, which played Fatboy Slim’s “Rockefeller Skank,” like how 1999 is that?) I really wish I’d known they were going to do that; otherwise, I might not have bought a copy for myself.
I miss Ruben
Apparently, it’s too much to ask for people from Birmingham to stop going on reality shows. And I guess it’s also too much to ask for the local news channels and radio stations to stop doing stories on them at every conceivable opportunity. This phenomenon was mildly annoying when I had to suffer through promos for stories like “Ruben Studdard: The Most Talented Fetus in the World!” But now that our new local “celebrity” is fucking Bo Bice, who has earned the distinction of being one of American Idol’s two poser “rockers,” it’s a little bit more than I can handle.
Because, really, there’s nothing that makes me want to get out of bed less than being awoken to the sound of some inane DJ prattling on about fucking Bo Bice. Seriously, “Bo”? I’m sorry; I know “Harold” isn’t a very “rocker” name (but oh, how I love the insistence of Simon, who appears to hate this guy nearly as much as I do, on referring to ol' Harold by his proper name), but couldn’t you have picked something better than “Bo”? “Bo Bice” sounds like…well, I’m not exactly sure what it sounds like, but it sure as hell isn’t a name.
I guess it could be a lot worse, though. At least I’m not cursed with being from the same city as Constantine “I Know I Don’t Have a Shot in Hell of Convincing Anyone I’m the Next Kurt Cobain, But That’s Not Gonna Stop Me From Trying” Maroulis or Mikalah “Seacrest Doesn’t Know From Famewhore” Gordon. I have a feeling The Alliance is going to be working overtime this year.
Lately, it seems like every bar I go into is playing the Garden State soundtrack. (Except for the one I went to last Friday, which played Fatboy Slim’s “Rockefeller Skank,” like how 1999 is that?) I really wish I’d known they were going to do that; otherwise, I might not have bought a copy for myself.
I miss Ruben
Apparently, it’s too much to ask for people from Birmingham to stop going on reality shows. And I guess it’s also too much to ask for the local news channels and radio stations to stop doing stories on them at every conceivable opportunity. This phenomenon was mildly annoying when I had to suffer through promos for stories like “Ruben Studdard: The Most Talented Fetus in the World!” But now that our new local “celebrity” is fucking Bo Bice, who has earned the distinction of being one of American Idol’s two poser “rockers,” it’s a little bit more than I can handle.
Because, really, there’s nothing that makes me want to get out of bed less than being awoken to the sound of some inane DJ prattling on about fucking Bo Bice. Seriously, “Bo”? I’m sorry; I know “Harold” isn’t a very “rocker” name (but oh, how I love the insistence of Simon, who appears to hate this guy nearly as much as I do, on referring to ol' Harold by his proper name), but couldn’t you have picked something better than “Bo”? “Bo Bice” sounds like…well, I’m not exactly sure what it sounds like, but it sure as hell isn’t a name.
I guess it could be a lot worse, though. At least I’m not cursed with being from the same city as Constantine “I Know I Don’t Have a Shot in Hell of Convincing Anyone I’m the Next Kurt Cobain, But That’s Not Gonna Stop Me From Trying” Maroulis or Mikalah “Seacrest Doesn’t Know From Famewhore” Gordon. I have a feeling The Alliance is going to be working overtime this year.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Well, that’s one way to do it
It appears that someone thought the best way to make the grass around my office green again would be by…um, spray-painting the yellowish grass blue. Which, yes, yellow and blue do make green, and the grass does look somewhat convincingly green from a distance, but this just seems to me a rather unorthodox approach. Then again, I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, a lawn-care professional. So what do I know?
Write on
There are days (many days, actually) when I question my decision to be a writer. Days when the writer’s block gets so bad that I practically have to beat the story out of my brain, days when the subject at hand seems so foreign that I can barely understand it, let alone write about it in any meaningful fashion for several hundred words.
And yet I continue to do it, simply because there are those little moments that remind me why it's worth all the agony. Moments like having one of your turns of phrase quoted in the Chicago Tribune. (Granted, they were kind of making fun of me, but still. I’ll take it.) Moments like having a source call you up and say that the profile you wrote on her is the best one she’s read so far. I just wish these moments didn’t always seem to be so few and far between.
It appears that someone thought the best way to make the grass around my office green again would be by…um, spray-painting the yellowish grass blue. Which, yes, yellow and blue do make green, and the grass does look somewhat convincingly green from a distance, but this just seems to me a rather unorthodox approach. Then again, I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, a lawn-care professional. So what do I know?
Write on
There are days (many days, actually) when I question my decision to be a writer. Days when the writer’s block gets so bad that I practically have to beat the story out of my brain, days when the subject at hand seems so foreign that I can barely understand it, let alone write about it in any meaningful fashion for several hundred words.
And yet I continue to do it, simply because there are those little moments that remind me why it's worth all the agony. Moments like having one of your turns of phrase quoted in the Chicago Tribune. (Granted, they were kind of making fun of me, but still. I’ll take it.) Moments like having a source call you up and say that the profile you wrote on her is the best one she’s read so far. I just wish these moments didn’t always seem to be so few and far between.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
The continued melting of my cold, cold heart
So as you may have guessed from yesterday's post, there are very few things capable of reducing me to, as Nikki is fond of saying, "glittery pink goo." However, it just so happens that teeny-tiny puppies are one of those things. (Dave, of all people, you should have known that.)
Behold:
Go ahead, try to resist the cuteness! Just try! You can't do it, can you? When my sister sent me this picture of my new "nephew" this morning, it was all I could do not to hop on the next plane to West Virginia so I could give him a good cuddle. All together now: Awwww!
Today's mail was brought to you by the letter "H"
This evening, I opened my mailbox to find two slightly belated Valentines: One from Holly, which featured the phrase "Love Is the Union of Two Souls" accompanied by a picture of a Teletubby in a tutu holding hands with a tuxedoed SpongeBob SquarePants (awesome), and one from Hannah, relating in a Bridget-Jones-esque fashion a good Valentine's Day scenario I somehow neglected, i.e. buying your husband a bottle of vodka and getting sotted, which she was also kind enough to relate in the comments on yesterday's post.
See what I mean about the best stuff happening after Valentine's Day? Told you so.
So as you may have guessed from yesterday's post, there are very few things capable of reducing me to, as Nikki is fond of saying, "glittery pink goo." However, it just so happens that teeny-tiny puppies are one of those things. (Dave, of all people, you should have known that.)
Behold:
Go ahead, try to resist the cuteness! Just try! You can't do it, can you? When my sister sent me this picture of my new "nephew" this morning, it was all I could do not to hop on the next plane to West Virginia so I could give him a good cuddle. All together now: Awwww!
Today's mail was brought to you by the letter "H"
This evening, I opened my mailbox to find two slightly belated Valentines: One from Holly, which featured the phrase "Love Is the Union of Two Souls" accompanied by a picture of a Teletubby in a tutu holding hands with a tuxedoed SpongeBob SquarePants (awesome), and one from Hannah, relating in a Bridget-Jones-esque fashion a good Valentine's Day scenario I somehow neglected, i.e. buying your husband a bottle of vodka and getting sotted, which she was also kind enough to relate in the comments on yesterday's post.
See what I mean about the best stuff happening after Valentine's Day? Told you so.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Valentine’s Day sucks. This is why.
So I have this theory (which I’m surprised I have yet to publish here) that Valentine’s Day is a truly horrendous holiday for 99.9 percent of the world’s population. The prevailing wisdom is that only single and jaded people hate Valentine’s Day. And while I can’t deny belonging to both of these categories, I would argue that this is simply not true. In fact, although I’ve never had the opportunity to find out for sure due to the unfortunate timing of my love season, I’d be willing to bet that I’d hate Valentine’s Day just as much, if not even more, if I were in a relationship. Why? Because as I see it, there are very few romantic scenarios that are conducive to a good Valentine’s Day. To wit:
Scenario #1: You’re in a relationship. This means the pressure is on to come up with a good Valentine’s Day gift. And if you think choosing the perfect gift is an activity fraught with peril on normal gift-giving holidays (birthdays, Christmas), just stop and consider the extra layer of romantic pressure that Valentine’s Day spackles on. Ugh.
Scenario #2: You’re not in a relationship, nor do you even have a crush on anyone, and you’re pretty sure no one has a crush on you, either. In this case, being surrounded by seemingly happy, lovey-dovey couples can be almost too much to bear. Best to hide out under the duvet until the deluge of hearts, roses and other Valentine’s-themed paraphernalia is blessedly over.
Scenario #3: A heretofore unbeknownst-to-you suitor chooses this day to make his affections known. And as it turns out, you don’t really feel the same way about him. Awkward. This is particularly painful should he choose to express these feelings by way of a stuffed animal. (Though why anyone over the age of eight would choose to do this, I have no idea. Guys, take the hint.)
Scenario #4: You’ve been pining away for someone and decide Valentine’s Day would be the best time to reveal your crush. Don’t do this. Just please, don’t. Wait until the 15th, for the love of God. If you want to know why, see above. And when you do reveal your feelings on the 15th, again, do not let a stuffed animal of any kind figure into the mix. (Girls, take the hint.)
Scenario #5: Going against all of my well-intentioned advice, you decide to reveal your feelings for your beloved anyway. And you discover that he or she feels the same way about you, and you ride off into the sunset, scattering rose petals and feeding each other Russell Stover chocolates from a heart-shaped box. While this is the only plausible good Valentine’s Day scenario I can think of, I’m pretty sure it’s a myth. Seriously, has this ever happened to you? Or your best friend’s brother’s cousin’s hairdresser, or anyone else you remotely know? Yeah, I didn’t think so. This kind of stuff doesn’t even happen on TV, because good Valentine’s Days are totally cliché and provide absolutely no romantic tension.
Plus, did I mention that the longer Valentine’s Day candy stays on the shelves, the longer we have to wait for the arrival of the Cadbury Egg? See, now we’re getting to the real root of my Valentine’s Day hatred.
The good news is, Valentine’s Day is only one day out of the year, and so there are 364 other pressure-free days on which romance doesn’t seem quite so trite and contrived. If you still need further proof that the best, sweetest moments in life don’t happen on Valentine’s Day, read this story of Rachel’s. At the very least, it might just melt your jaded and bitter heart. I know it did mine.
So I have this theory (which I’m surprised I have yet to publish here) that Valentine’s Day is a truly horrendous holiday for 99.9 percent of the world’s population. The prevailing wisdom is that only single and jaded people hate Valentine’s Day. And while I can’t deny belonging to both of these categories, I would argue that this is simply not true. In fact, although I’ve never had the opportunity to find out for sure due to the unfortunate timing of my love season, I’d be willing to bet that I’d hate Valentine’s Day just as much, if not even more, if I were in a relationship. Why? Because as I see it, there are very few romantic scenarios that are conducive to a good Valentine’s Day. To wit:
Scenario #1: You’re in a relationship. This means the pressure is on to come up with a good Valentine’s Day gift. And if you think choosing the perfect gift is an activity fraught with peril on normal gift-giving holidays (birthdays, Christmas), just stop and consider the extra layer of romantic pressure that Valentine’s Day spackles on. Ugh.
Scenario #2: You’re not in a relationship, nor do you even have a crush on anyone, and you’re pretty sure no one has a crush on you, either. In this case, being surrounded by seemingly happy, lovey-dovey couples can be almost too much to bear. Best to hide out under the duvet until the deluge of hearts, roses and other Valentine’s-themed paraphernalia is blessedly over.
Scenario #3: A heretofore unbeknownst-to-you suitor chooses this day to make his affections known. And as it turns out, you don’t really feel the same way about him. Awkward. This is particularly painful should he choose to express these feelings by way of a stuffed animal. (Though why anyone over the age of eight would choose to do this, I have no idea. Guys, take the hint.)
Scenario #4: You’ve been pining away for someone and decide Valentine’s Day would be the best time to reveal your crush. Don’t do this. Just please, don’t. Wait until the 15th, for the love of God. If you want to know why, see above. And when you do reveal your feelings on the 15th, again, do not let a stuffed animal of any kind figure into the mix. (Girls, take the hint.)
Scenario #5: Going against all of my well-intentioned advice, you decide to reveal your feelings for your beloved anyway. And you discover that he or she feels the same way about you, and you ride off into the sunset, scattering rose petals and feeding each other Russell Stover chocolates from a heart-shaped box. While this is the only plausible good Valentine’s Day scenario I can think of, I’m pretty sure it’s a myth. Seriously, has this ever happened to you? Or your best friend’s brother’s cousin’s hairdresser, or anyone else you remotely know? Yeah, I didn’t think so. This kind of stuff doesn’t even happen on TV, because good Valentine’s Days are totally cliché and provide absolutely no romantic tension.
Plus, did I mention that the longer Valentine’s Day candy stays on the shelves, the longer we have to wait for the arrival of the Cadbury Egg? See, now we’re getting to the real root of my Valentine’s Day hatred.
The good news is, Valentine’s Day is only one day out of the year, and so there are 364 other pressure-free days on which romance doesn’t seem quite so trite and contrived. If you still need further proof that the best, sweetest moments in life don’t happen on Valentine’s Day, read this story of Rachel’s. At the very least, it might just melt your jaded and bitter heart. I know it did mine.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Things you shouldn't say to your daughter
When my parents called this afternoon for their weekly chat, the first thing my mom said to me was, "Your dad has some exciting news he wants to tell you!" She put him on the phone, and he goes, "Congratulations! You're an aunt!"
Immediately, my mind started racing. Is it possible that I'm so out of touch that my sister had had a baby, and I didn't hear about it until it was actually born? Nah. Then was my sister pregnant, and had my dad meant to say, "You're going to be an aunt? And if that were the case, why would he be so happy about the prospect of his barely-out-of-college daughter having a baby out of wedlock?
Finally, it dawned on me. When I talked to my parents last week, they'd mentioned that my sister and her boyfriend were looking for a puppy. And indeed, this is the new "nephew" to which my dad was referring: They are now the proud parents of an 8-week-old black lab named Tar. (This was actually one of the names, along with Diesel, that my dad had considered for his next dog. When I asked him if he was mad that they stole his puppy name, he was like, "I'm going to name my dog Seven!" Because, you know, it's practically impossible for my dad and me to have a conversation without at least one Seinfeld reference.)
After this news was related, my mom got back on the phone and mentioned that they had eaten dinner the previous night with some friends who have daughters my age, and they'd been trying to remember who had been in their Lamaze class. At which point my mom asks me, "Clare, do you remember who was in Lamaze class with us?" My reply was something along the lines of, "Well, not really, Mom, seeing as I was kind of in your womb at the time."
I swear, my parents can be so strange sometimes.
When my parents called this afternoon for their weekly chat, the first thing my mom said to me was, "Your dad has some exciting news he wants to tell you!" She put him on the phone, and he goes, "Congratulations! You're an aunt!"
Immediately, my mind started racing. Is it possible that I'm so out of touch that my sister had had a baby, and I didn't hear about it until it was actually born? Nah. Then was my sister pregnant, and had my dad meant to say, "You're going to be an aunt? And if that were the case, why would he be so happy about the prospect of his barely-out-of-college daughter having a baby out of wedlock?
Finally, it dawned on me. When I talked to my parents last week, they'd mentioned that my sister and her boyfriend were looking for a puppy. And indeed, this is the new "nephew" to which my dad was referring: They are now the proud parents of an 8-week-old black lab named Tar. (This was actually one of the names, along with Diesel, that my dad had considered for his next dog. When I asked him if he was mad that they stole his puppy name, he was like, "I'm going to name my dog Seven!" Because, you know, it's practically impossible for my dad and me to have a conversation without at least one Seinfeld reference.)
After this news was related, my mom got back on the phone and mentioned that they had eaten dinner the previous night with some friends who have daughters my age, and they'd been trying to remember who had been in their Lamaze class. At which point my mom asks me, "Clare, do you remember who was in Lamaze class with us?" My reply was something along the lines of, "Well, not really, Mom, seeing as I was kind of in your womb at the time."
I swear, my parents can be so strange sometimes.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Saturday-night geometry
I've spent the better part of this evening doing my taxes. That is not a euphamism, but believe me, I wish it were. I hate doing taxes, but that should come as no surprise. I mean, who really likes doing taxes? Actually, my friend Robyn does--she says it gives her a sense of accomplishment. And I guess accountants probably do, because otherwise why would they become accountants? However, I am neither Robyn nor an accountant and I HATE IT.
This year has been particularly painful, what with the two jobs and the unemployment and the freelancing and the IRA and God knows what else. For a while, TurboTax and I were locked in a bitter debate as to whether or not I had a farm. (I don't, but try telling that to TurboTax.) We went around in circles for a while until I finally figured out what I was doing wrong to make it believe that I did have a farm. (I'm not going to take the time to explain it because a) it's really boring, and b) I'm not sure I even understand it.) Anyway, during the course of the evening, I went from having a refund of $950 to owing the government $6. (Seriously, $6. You'd think they could live without that. They can be so petty sometimes.) However, I managed to get back in the green thanks to my student loan payments, but I'm not quite through with the return, so that could change.
But for now, I'm taking a break to visit the weekend's other geometric shape of choice: the triangle. I checked out The Last Picture Show from the library this afternoon, precisely because it was the movie Dawson was watching (in an attempt to be meta during the whole Dawson-Pacey-Joey love triangle drama at the end of Season 3) in the episode of Dawson's Creek I watched this morning. I'm not usually one to take film recommendations from Dawson Leery, but the lady at the library assured me it was very good. (She offered this sentiment unsolicited, by the way; it's not like a told her what a big freak I am, checking out movies that were referenced in episodes of Dawson's Creek.) She also expressed her approval of my selection of The Royal Tenenbaums, and since I've already seen it and know it's good, I tend to think that I can trust her judgment. At the very least, it's got to be better than doing my taxes.
I've spent the better part of this evening doing my taxes. That is not a euphamism, but believe me, I wish it were. I hate doing taxes, but that should come as no surprise. I mean, who really likes doing taxes? Actually, my friend Robyn does--she says it gives her a sense of accomplishment. And I guess accountants probably do, because otherwise why would they become accountants? However, I am neither Robyn nor an accountant and I HATE IT.
This year has been particularly painful, what with the two jobs and the unemployment and the freelancing and the IRA and God knows what else. For a while, TurboTax and I were locked in a bitter debate as to whether or not I had a farm. (I don't, but try telling that to TurboTax.) We went around in circles for a while until I finally figured out what I was doing wrong to make it believe that I did have a farm. (I'm not going to take the time to explain it because a) it's really boring, and b) I'm not sure I even understand it.) Anyway, during the course of the evening, I went from having a refund of $950 to owing the government $6. (Seriously, $6. You'd think they could live without that. They can be so petty sometimes.) However, I managed to get back in the green thanks to my student loan payments, but I'm not quite through with the return, so that could change.
But for now, I'm taking a break to visit the weekend's other geometric shape of choice: the triangle. I checked out The Last Picture Show from the library this afternoon, precisely because it was the movie Dawson was watching (in an attempt to be meta during the whole Dawson-Pacey-Joey love triangle drama at the end of Season 3) in the episode of Dawson's Creek I watched this morning. I'm not usually one to take film recommendations from Dawson Leery, but the lady at the library assured me it was very good. (She offered this sentiment unsolicited, by the way; it's not like a told her what a big freak I am, checking out movies that were referenced in episodes of Dawson's Creek.) She also expressed her approval of my selection of The Royal Tenenbaums, and since I've already seen it and know it's good, I tend to think that I can trust her judgment. At the very least, it's got to be better than doing my taxes.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Happy Chocolate Day!
Bet you didn’t know it was Chocolate Day, did you? I didn’t either, until today. But when one of my co-workers began plying me with chocolate to help alleviate the bad mood I’ve been in pretty much all week and I received a chocolate-filled Valentine’s package from my parents on the same day, I figured that today must be Chocolate Day.
So Happy Chocolate Day! Celebrate appropriately.
Bet you didn’t know it was Chocolate Day, did you? I didn’t either, until today. But when one of my co-workers began plying me with chocolate to help alleviate the bad mood I’ve been in pretty much all week and I received a chocolate-filled Valentine’s package from my parents on the same day, I figured that today must be Chocolate Day.
So Happy Chocolate Day! Celebrate appropriately.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
I don’t know about the rest of you, but about 20 minutes into last night’s finale, I was so annoyed by Hayden that I was actually contemplating turning the show off. And I probably would have if, by some miracle, she and Aaron had made it into the top three. Like, seriously. Flo much? Anyway, if after witnessing this same horrendous display of whining and bitchiness and freaking out, Aaron not only does not feel compelled to run away from this woman as fast as possible, but actually decides he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, I can only surmise one of two things: a) this is true love, or b) he’s been taking relationship advice from Victoria.
The best part of that impromptu proposal was Adam and Rebecca standing in the background, looking at him like, “Dude, what the hell are you doing? Were you on this last leg?”
The last five minutes of the show were just heartbreaking. Poor Kris and Jon. That had to be the saddest scene involving a train since Anna Karenina. But although I can’t deny being disappointed with the outcome, I really can’t begrudge Freddy and Kendra the win. I mean, the guy ate his own vomit, for God’s sake! That’s gotta count for something.
Did anyone else happen to notice what the last word spoken this season was? BABY. How incredibly fitting.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but about 20 minutes into last night’s finale, I was so annoyed by Hayden that I was actually contemplating turning the show off. And I probably would have if, by some miracle, she and Aaron had made it into the top three. Like, seriously. Flo much? Anyway, if after witnessing this same horrendous display of whining and bitchiness and freaking out, Aaron not only does not feel compelled to run away from this woman as fast as possible, but actually decides he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, I can only surmise one of two things: a) this is true love, or b) he’s been taking relationship advice from Victoria.
The best part of that impromptu proposal was Adam and Rebecca standing in the background, looking at him like, “Dude, what the hell are you doing? Were you on this last leg?”
The last five minutes of the show were just heartbreaking. Poor Kris and Jon. That had to be the saddest scene involving a train since Anna Karenina. But although I can’t deny being disappointed with the outcome, I really can’t begrudge Freddy and Kendra the win. I mean, the guy ate his own vomit, for God’s sake! That’s gotta count for something.
Did anyone else happen to notice what the last word spoken this season was? BABY. How incredibly fitting.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
It is a small world after all
Just in case you were in doubt about the tininess of the blogging universe, here's a little reminder: Yesterday I found out, through the blog of someone I do not know, the preferred method of birth control used by one of my college friends, whom I haven't really talked to...well, since college.
"Random" doesn't even begin to describe it.
Also, if you're into that sort of thing: There's a new post up on the Saved by the Bell Blog! And there will be more in weeks to come! (And even more in weeks after that, provided that someone intends to keep his New Year's resolutions!) You can thank me later.
Just in case you were in doubt about the tininess of the blogging universe, here's a little reminder: Yesterday I found out, through the blog of someone I do not know, the preferred method of birth control used by one of my college friends, whom I haven't really talked to...well, since college.
"Random" doesn't even begin to describe it.
Also, if you're into that sort of thing: There's a new post up on the Saved by the Bell Blog! And there will be more in weeks to come! (And even more in weeks after that, provided that someone intends to keep his New Year's resolutions!) You can thank me later.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Oh, February
Why must you torture me like this? You act like spring, and yet I know you're not. I know that just as I get excited and pull out all of my favorite spring things--my jean skirts and flip-flops and Erykah Badu CD and that cute little purse Kate bought me at the Baby Gap a few years ago--you're going to hit me with another blast of winter. Honestly, February? It's getting kind of old. And I don't know how much more of this I can take.
So guess what? I've decided two can play at this game. Yesterday at the store, they had these wonderful ripe peaches, which I bought, along with some whipped cream and pie crust, to create my favorite summer treat. That's right--summer! What, you thought you were the only one who could switch seasons?
Why must you torture me like this? You act like spring, and yet I know you're not. I know that just as I get excited and pull out all of my favorite spring things--my jean skirts and flip-flops and Erykah Badu CD and that cute little purse Kate bought me at the Baby Gap a few years ago--you're going to hit me with another blast of winter. Honestly, February? It's getting kind of old. And I don't know how much more of this I can take.
So guess what? I've decided two can play at this game. Yesterday at the store, they had these wonderful ripe peaches, which I bought, along with some whipped cream and pie crust, to create my favorite summer treat. That's right--summer! What, you thought you were the only one who could switch seasons?
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Laundry for dummies
OK, let me just preface this by saying that I know you're supposed to separate your whites and colors and do two separate loads. But honestly, if you're using a coin-operated machine, like I have to, this is just not practical. I mean, who has that many quarters? I certainly don't. So over the years, I've learned that you can pretty much throw everything into one machine and, as long as you wash it on cold, it all should come out okay. Sure, it's not ideal, but it works.
Of course, there is one caveat to this method of laundry-doing, which is that all of the colored items in the machine should have been washed without whites at least once, to allow for any bleeding. This means that you must keep track of the washing history of all of your clothes, which apparently I cannot do, judging by the fact that my favorite winter-white sweater just came out of the washing machine with large purplish spots on it. Crap. Fortunately, after an emergency session with a bottle of Woolite and my bathroom sink, I think I've managed to return it to its normal color. Only time will tell if it will ever really be the same. Sniffle.
OK, let me just preface this by saying that I know you're supposed to separate your whites and colors and do two separate loads. But honestly, if you're using a coin-operated machine, like I have to, this is just not practical. I mean, who has that many quarters? I certainly don't. So over the years, I've learned that you can pretty much throw everything into one machine and, as long as you wash it on cold, it all should come out okay. Sure, it's not ideal, but it works.
Of course, there is one caveat to this method of laundry-doing, which is that all of the colored items in the machine should have been washed without whites at least once, to allow for any bleeding. This means that you must keep track of the washing history of all of your clothes, which apparently I cannot do, judging by the fact that my favorite winter-white sweater just came out of the washing machine with large purplish spots on it. Crap. Fortunately, after an emergency session with a bottle of Woolite and my bathroom sink, I think I've managed to return it to its normal color. Only time will tell if it will ever really be the same. Sniffle.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Have you ever bought milk at a quarter to midnight at a sketchy convenience store? (And by "sketchy," I mean "glass partition between you and the cashier.") Because if you haven't, it's quite an experience.
The plan for the rest of the evening/tomorrow:
-Take a hot bath
-Watch some scenes from the Garden State DVD I bought today
-SLEEP
-Wake up at an obscenely late hour
-Make pancakes
-Perhaps go hiking. To be quite honest, I haven't really thought much past the pancakes. It's highly possible I just might sleep for the rest of the day. Oh, sleep.
The plan for the rest of the evening/tomorrow:
-Take a hot bath
-Watch some scenes from the Garden State DVD I bought today
-SLEEP
-Wake up at an obscenely late hour
-Make pancakes
-Perhaps go hiking. To be quite honest, I haven't really thought much past the pancakes. It's highly possible I just might sleep for the rest of the day. Oh, sleep.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
I know it's early, but
I think I may have found my new American Idol boyfriend. I know. I know! But seriously. There was this guy on last night, Christopher Something-or-other, who was like the love child of Mike D and Adam Brody, with a little Napoleon Dynamite thrown in for good measure. And he. Was. Awesome. He came in and did this rap about the judges that was just so utterly fabulous that I am remiss I cannot reprint it here in its entirety. I do know that in the verse about Paula Abdul, he rhymed "Midol" with "American Idol." I think that's when I knew I loved him.
Sadly, he did not make it to Hollywood, so my on-screen love affair with him came to an abrupt end. But Christopher Something-or-other, you rapping hipster doofus, if you happen to stumble upon this site, call me. I mean it.
Caustic and sensual
If you, like me, abhor Valentine's Day with every fiber of your being (or at least every fiber that isn't already reserved for abhoring Abercrombie & Fitch and people who stand on the moving sidewalks in airports), then you should check this out. So awesome. But I must say, while I do love Nikki for knowing how much I would appreciate these cards, I do wish she hadn't chosen to alert me to their presence by sending me one predicting that I would die alone in a puddle of cat pee. Because, you know, if that's a hint, it's not very subtle.
I think I may have found my new American Idol boyfriend. I know. I know! But seriously. There was this guy on last night, Christopher Something-or-other, who was like the love child of Mike D and Adam Brody, with a little Napoleon Dynamite thrown in for good measure. And he. Was. Awesome. He came in and did this rap about the judges that was just so utterly fabulous that I am remiss I cannot reprint it here in its entirety. I do know that in the verse about Paula Abdul, he rhymed "Midol" with "American Idol." I think that's when I knew I loved him.
Sadly, he did not make it to Hollywood, so my on-screen love affair with him came to an abrupt end. But Christopher Something-or-other, you rapping hipster doofus, if you happen to stumble upon this site, call me. I mean it.
Caustic and sensual
If you, like me, abhor Valentine's Day with every fiber of your being (or at least every fiber that isn't already reserved for abhoring Abercrombie & Fitch and people who stand on the moving sidewalks in airports), then you should check this out. So awesome. But I must say, while I do love Nikki for knowing how much I would appreciate these cards, I do wish she hadn't chosen to alert me to their presence by sending me one predicting that I would die alone in a puddle of cat pee. Because, you know, if that's a hint, it's not very subtle.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
Jonathan and Victoria have to go on Dr. Phil! And not just regular Dr. Phil, a Dr. Phil primetime special! Granted, this was not actually part of The Amazing Race itself (which was rather blah, and nothing that happened this week makes a damn bit of difference, so...whatever), but rather a commercial during The Amazing Race. But still: Bwahahahaha! I wonder if this was mandated by CBS after everything that happened on the show, or if it's just a lame attempt by Jonathan and Victoria to prolong their totally undeserved 15 minutes of fame. I'm hoping it's the former, but I fear it's actually the latter.
While we're on the subject of commercials, file this under something I never thought I'd see: L.L. Cool J in a commercial for Caress. But oh my God, I had forgotten how hot that man is. Kristen, you totally should have tried out for American Idol in Cleveland, because he was handing out hugs like it was going out of style. (And so what if you're married? If your husband can go on so many reality shows, you can at least get a little lovin' from L.L.)
Also: There's a new commercial for one of our local grocery chains (Publix, which is still where I do my grocery shopping, despite this unfortunate incident) that has me reeling with disbelief. In the commercial, a boy (probably around 8 or 9) comes home and asks his mom to help him bake a cake from scratch. Together, they bake this really yummy-looking heart-shaped marble cake. As they're baking, she asks him all these questions about the girl they're making the cake for, but he gives her a bunch of really vague answers. The next day, she drops him off at school, and he runs out of the car without the cake. The mom is like, "Hey, you forgot your cake!" And the kid just turns around and gives her this knowing look, and she's, like, totally touched. And I am like, "YEAH, RIGHT."
OK, first of all, there is no way a boy of that age would have the forethought to come up with such a plan, at least not by himself, as we're led to believe this kid does. Not that I know that many 8- or 9-year-old boys, but the last time I saw my cousin (about a year ago, when he was almost 7), his favorite activity was pretending to be a goat and head-butting my sister and me at every possible opportunity. (Actually, this is still a favorite pastime of his, according to my sister, who saw him this summer.) Anyway, I have a hard time believing that the same kid (or any kid his age) would come up with such a sensitive and thoughtful mom-appreciation gesture.
Second, I have a hard time believing that anyone who attempted this plan, regardless of age or gender, would leave the big reveal until they were in the car at school. I mean, why not just tell her at home, when you finish making the cake? It seems a bit cruel to me to make the mom cart the cake all the way to school when you know she's just going to have to take it back home again.
Finally, I can't help but notice that the mom has not wrapped the cake in plastic wrap or a similar protective covering for its journey to school. It's just sitting out there on the plate. I ask you, what kind of mom does not wrap a cake in plastic wrap when taking it somewhere? Not a very good one, which suggests to me that perhaps she didn't even deserve the cake in the first place.
Jonathan and Victoria have to go on Dr. Phil! And not just regular Dr. Phil, a Dr. Phil primetime special! Granted, this was not actually part of The Amazing Race itself (which was rather blah, and nothing that happened this week makes a damn bit of difference, so...whatever), but rather a commercial during The Amazing Race. But still: Bwahahahaha! I wonder if this was mandated by CBS after everything that happened on the show, or if it's just a lame attempt by Jonathan and Victoria to prolong their totally undeserved 15 minutes of fame. I'm hoping it's the former, but I fear it's actually the latter.
While we're on the subject of commercials, file this under something I never thought I'd see: L.L. Cool J in a commercial for Caress. But oh my God, I had forgotten how hot that man is. Kristen, you totally should have tried out for American Idol in Cleveland, because he was handing out hugs like it was going out of style. (And so what if you're married? If your husband can go on so many reality shows, you can at least get a little lovin' from L.L.)
Also: There's a new commercial for one of our local grocery chains (Publix, which is still where I do my grocery shopping, despite this unfortunate incident) that has me reeling with disbelief. In the commercial, a boy (probably around 8 or 9) comes home and asks his mom to help him bake a cake from scratch. Together, they bake this really yummy-looking heart-shaped marble cake. As they're baking, she asks him all these questions about the girl they're making the cake for, but he gives her a bunch of really vague answers. The next day, she drops him off at school, and he runs out of the car without the cake. The mom is like, "Hey, you forgot your cake!" And the kid just turns around and gives her this knowing look, and she's, like, totally touched. And I am like, "YEAH, RIGHT."
OK, first of all, there is no way a boy of that age would have the forethought to come up with such a plan, at least not by himself, as we're led to believe this kid does. Not that I know that many 8- or 9-year-old boys, but the last time I saw my cousin (about a year ago, when he was almost 7), his favorite activity was pretending to be a goat and head-butting my sister and me at every possible opportunity. (Actually, this is still a favorite pastime of his, according to my sister, who saw him this summer.) Anyway, I have a hard time believing that the same kid (or any kid his age) would come up with such a sensitive and thoughtful mom-appreciation gesture.
Second, I have a hard time believing that anyone who attempted this plan, regardless of age or gender, would leave the big reveal until they were in the car at school. I mean, why not just tell her at home, when you finish making the cake? It seems a bit cruel to me to make the mom cart the cake all the way to school when you know she's just going to have to take it back home again.
Finally, I can't help but notice that the mom has not wrapped the cake in plastic wrap or a similar protective covering for its journey to school. It's just sitting out there on the plate. I ask you, what kind of mom does not wrap a cake in plastic wrap when taking it somewhere? Not a very good one, which suggests to me that perhaps she didn't even deserve the cake in the first place.
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