No, I haven't decided to post more. My life is just that much more exciting this week. Quit inviting me to stuff.
So our church had a dance last Saturday night with a it's-not-a-valentine's-dance-despite-all-the-hearts-and-crap-you-see-everywhere theme. Greta and I decorated for the event and were quite pleased to receive so many positive comments. And by "so many" I mean two grade school kids said it looked awesome. Hey, we're here to please.
You all know my thoughts on dancing, as I've expressed them in the past here. Bonny and I were comparing our various thoughts on the subject later in the evening and I told her what I'm going to tell you now: watching me dance is a terribly unsettling experience. I recall enjoying dancing at one point in my life. I danced at a wedding once as a young teenager, later saw the video, decided it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen in my life, and vowed to never subject another to such a sight ever again, including myself. I am not a good dancer. If I honestly can't resist the beat of a great song, I'll bob my head. Otherwise...no. So I sat at a table and instead enjoyed myself immensely watching other people who are far more talented than I dance for my personal pleasure. I was especially impressed with Jody and her husband getting their groove on, because they are wonderful dancers. I was also fascinated to learn that neither Stephanie nor Kristen have any shame at all whatsoever. Good for them, I say! Let it all hang out!
Towards the end, our DJ, Ryan (who happens to be Bonny's husband), played one of the songs I'd requested earlier: The Hustle by Van McCoy. You can't go wrong with The Hustle. The Husband was at one time quite the bar-hopping dancer in his day and when I mentioned the song earlier he treated me to a move or two. As always, I was delighted. As I sat next to a friend at the table at the dance, she leaned over and said, "Hey, wasn't there a dance that went with this song?" I said, "Yeah, the Husband said it went something like this..." and I proceeded to do a jerking arm motion or two to prove to her I wasn't lying. Two seconds later, Ryan stopped the music mid-song and inquired, "OK, does anyone actually know how to do the Hustle? I mean, besides Abby who's doing it at the table there at the back?" I was horrified that the entire dance floor of people then turned to stare at me, and even more so when he suggested I get up and teach them how to do the Hustle, which as I've explained, I only know like, two moves from. Personally, I was impressed that Ryan guessed what I was attempting to do at the time, let alone that he noticed I was doing it at all, given the quick and amateurish performance I had displayed to my table partner. I waved him and the whole fricking group off (really, for their own good) and they proceeded to dance however they wanted to, which is how it should have been anyway. I still like the song. Gets my head a-bobbin'.
Finally, DJ Ryan came to the end of the evening with his final as-yet unannounced song, and commanded everyone that this would be a full participation song. And I shivered to myself as I realized that there was only one song that had not been played yet, would be reserved to the end of a dance full up with white people, and that requires "full participation." Ryan said, "And that includes you, too, Abby." I responded, "IT BETTER NOT BE YMCA." And he said, "It IS YMCA." And the dance ended on a low note. I was curious to note that Kristen, who I mentioned was completely devoid of any self-consciousness as far as I could detect, also refused to dance to YMCA because she hates that song. So she has my approval, both for that and the fact that she clearly doesn't care what people think of her.
And in case you all were curious:
24 February 2009
23 February 2009
Have I Told You You're Wonderful Lately?
OK, so I was just about to come over here to write my own take on last night's Oscars when I decided to be impulsive and read Gwennifer's comments on the Oscars first. BIG MISTAKE. She wrote exactly what I was about to write, which makes the following post completely pointless. You'll notice that's not stopping me, however. But in case you want to read hers, too (the "original" one--whatever), it's here.
I was enjoying last night's Oscars immensely, including the crappy parts, up until Sean Penn took the stage. At this point I'm fairly certain that the only reason he performs his best in his films is so he can win awards and then use his acceptance speech as yet another opportunity to tell us all what's on his holier-than-thou mind. Let me give it to you straight, Sean. I don't care. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone on this earth who does. It seems to me that the only reason you use your acceptance speeches to torture us with your witless diatribes is because we are a ready and captive audience and you would be unable to get anyone to listen to your mind-numbingly idiot rants during any other opportunity in your life. This should tell you something. It should be telling you you're a moron and need to stop. And I have to ask, is this the first time an event you've attended been picketed by a group that didn't contain you as a fellow demonstrator? Is it so uncomfortable to you that someone disagrees with you or people you know that you have to whine about it on stage? I hate to tell you this, but I've been to TONS of events that were picketed by demonstrators outside and I've never felt the need to turn crybaby and complain to everyone I know. I realize this is all new to you in your little imaginary world and all, but those people who are demonstrating at the Oscars are perfectly legal in what they're doing, despite it not being sanctioned directly by you. Now, I'm not saying I agree with the demonstrators. I don't even know, or care, what they were demonstrating. The fact that you had to complain about it though, shows a lack of maturity on your part. Suck it up and move on with your life if you can. You'll be better for it.
Oh, and the "You should be ashamed of yourselves" and something retarded about their grandchildren being ashamed of themselves too, or of you, or something else, whatever the crap it was? Excuse me? Who told you that your definition of right and wrong was the last word on the subject?
I have no problem with gay people. I have gay friends, and while I would never encourage them to spread their genes around the human population because they are insane beyond measure and, gay or straight, should definitely not be procreating, I believe they should not be descriminated against for how their biological wiring has told them to feel. They're good people and I love them. I hate knowing that there are people out there who would gladly harm them, even kill them, simply because they are gay.
I am not homophobic. I don't live in constant fear that gangs of lesbians will surround me in the cereal isle of the supermarket and rape me and then give me a crew cut and make me wear plaid. I even had a lesbian hit on me once and the only thing I thought was, "Oh my gosh, BOTH sexes find me irresistable! I'm officially the most awesome person I know!" I wasn't disgusted, I was flattered. The fact that she wasn't hideous only made me feel that much more awesome. Because really, I got it goin' on, wedding ring and all. You know you wish you were me.
The issue of Prop 8 in CA was a difficult one for me and one I was glad I didn't have to make. I am at odds with the whole concept. Part of me says yes, and part says no. I imagine it was that way for a lot of people on both sides of the issue. I don't believe homosexual couples are evil; I believe they are doing what they believe to be right and good. As one example, I don't believe in denying homosexual couples the opportunity to welcome foster children into their homes, especially considering those homes possess a lot more love, affection, nutrition, education, and attention than many heterosexual homes where some of the parents only look forward to the monthly check they get and otherwise abuse and/or neglect the children in their care. I would much rather see these children go to a loving home, regardless of their orientation, than an abusive one simply because it there was one man and one woman occupying it. And thus, the same goes for adoption. There are many children who are mentally, physically, or medically handicapped who are unwelcome in many homes. But I've heard of loving homosexual couples who are more than willing to love and care for these children to the point of adopting them, but are unable to because they are gay. And so these children get shuffled around in the system for the rest of their lives because no one else will take them. That isn't fair to the children. And don't tell me that gay homes put out gay children. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The stark majority of gay children/adults come from hetersexual homes and a good, healthy number of heterosexual children come from homosexual homes. They just come out a little more liberal, and I imagine we can fix that with some good therapy. The point is, I believe homosexual people should not be denied these rights based on their orientation. The marriage issue is a sticky one for me because I don't believe their being married affects my own personal marriage in any way. It does not invalidate it, nor make it any less powerful on its own. And yet, I'm hesitant to say it's the one and only answer to the problem. I am divided on several different issues regarding the homosexual community. My heart says one thing and my head says something completely different. It's a difficult decision for me, and for a lot of people.
So for Sean Penn to call people's motives into question because they used their American-given right to vote their consciences and announce that they should be ashamed of themselves is hypocracy to the extreme. How do you know what these people's motives were, or even if they were wrong to decide what they did? And if you're going to chide Americans for voting and/or contributing to a cause as they best see fit, then why aren't you also condemning those who then went to such extreme lengths to hunt these individuals down and attack them? If you want to boycott a certain store because its owner contributed to Prop 8, that's certainly within your right to do so. If you want to write letters to the editor and to your congressmen telling them how unfair Prop 8 was and how it should be overturned by the state supreme court, again, that's your constitutional right to do so. You are allowed to disagree all you like. Protest, congregate, demonstrate, boycott, all to your hearts' content. But when you take your anger to the point of desecrating churches, threatening citizens, and actually harming those who don't agree with you, you are no longer protected by this country. You literally HAVE NO RIGHTS TO DO THIS. So where is your scorn for those who took their hatred and anger to that point, Mr. Penn? Oh, I forgot, you don't care because you are too busy condemning to hell those citizens who don't happen to agree with your political stance. THIS is why I don't respect you, Sean Penn. You fare far better in life when you recite what someone else has written for you rather than what you've come up with on your own, so take the hint.
I had left the room when the Oscars for Best Screenplay(s) were handed out so I missed the "Milk" guy's diatribe on his evil Mormon parents/upbringing. Again, he's allowed to say it/believe it of course, but what is it with turning the Academy Awards into a political rally? And unwanted political rally? I'm quite certain most people were there to watch an entertainment broadcast, not be lectured, or listen to others be lectured, by a bunch of damn peons. Take it elsewhere.
I did love Hugh Jackman though. I especially loved that he sang about being Wolverine.
And a final note. Other than the bits mentioned above, I really did enjoy the Oscars. However, I began to note something along the way and I finally noted to The Husband, "I do believe this is the most self-absorbed Oscars I've ever seen." Honestly, it's bad enough that the entire industry insists on patting itself on the back throughout the entire year with awards show after awards show (do they really need that much validation? I mean, besides the trillions of dollars their industry brings in?), but to hike it up to this level? Doesn't the fact that being nominated for an Oscar tell you that others think you're one of the best in your chosen field? Do they have to then have these people individually singled out and told just how wonderful they are in their own little segment by Hollywood's past award winners in front of a billion people on top of that? Were their little egos so shaky they needed that extra boost ON OSCARS NIGHT, SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW AT THE OSCARS THAT THEY WERE INVITED TO BECAUSE EVERYONE AGREES THEY'RE THE BEST ACTORS THIS YEAR? Oh my goodness, spare me this. Yes, it was different at least, so that was a welcome change, and it was nice to see Hollywood legends out there doing their bit, but the whole "You're a wonderful person because blah, blah, blah, and I just know you'll continue to be a wonderful person because yada, yada, yada, and OH MY GOSH we just love you so fricking much we can hardly stand to be in your presence!" Please stop it. These people are validated enough, they don't need any more reassurances that they're good actors. Trust me, their self-confidence levels and the millions of dollars in their bank accounts tell them they're the best every single day. They're fine. Quit holding their little hands.
Oh, and Sean? In case it needs reiterating, for the love of all that's holy, just shut. Up.
I was enjoying last night's Oscars immensely, including the crappy parts, up until Sean Penn took the stage. At this point I'm fairly certain that the only reason he performs his best in his films is so he can win awards and then use his acceptance speech as yet another opportunity to tell us all what's on his holier-than-thou mind. Let me give it to you straight, Sean. I don't care. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone on this earth who does. It seems to me that the only reason you use your acceptance speeches to torture us with your witless diatribes is because we are a ready and captive audience and you would be unable to get anyone to listen to your mind-numbingly idiot rants during any other opportunity in your life. This should tell you something. It should be telling you you're a moron and need to stop. And I have to ask, is this the first time an event you've attended been picketed by a group that didn't contain you as a fellow demonstrator? Is it so uncomfortable to you that someone disagrees with you or people you know that you have to whine about it on stage? I hate to tell you this, but I've been to TONS of events that were picketed by demonstrators outside and I've never felt the need to turn crybaby and complain to everyone I know. I realize this is all new to you in your little imaginary world and all, but those people who are demonstrating at the Oscars are perfectly legal in what they're doing, despite it not being sanctioned directly by you. Now, I'm not saying I agree with the demonstrators. I don't even know, or care, what they were demonstrating. The fact that you had to complain about it though, shows a lack of maturity on your part. Suck it up and move on with your life if you can. You'll be better for it.
Oh, and the "You should be ashamed of yourselves" and something retarded about their grandchildren being ashamed of themselves too, or of you, or something else, whatever the crap it was? Excuse me? Who told you that your definition of right and wrong was the last word on the subject?
I have no problem with gay people. I have gay friends, and while I would never encourage them to spread their genes around the human population because they are insane beyond measure and, gay or straight, should definitely not be procreating, I believe they should not be descriminated against for how their biological wiring has told them to feel. They're good people and I love them. I hate knowing that there are people out there who would gladly harm them, even kill them, simply because they are gay.
I am not homophobic. I don't live in constant fear that gangs of lesbians will surround me in the cereal isle of the supermarket and rape me and then give me a crew cut and make me wear plaid. I even had a lesbian hit on me once and the only thing I thought was, "Oh my gosh, BOTH sexes find me irresistable! I'm officially the most awesome person I know!" I wasn't disgusted, I was flattered. The fact that she wasn't hideous only made me feel that much more awesome. Because really, I got it goin' on, wedding ring and all. You know you wish you were me.
The issue of Prop 8 in CA was a difficult one for me and one I was glad I didn't have to make. I am at odds with the whole concept. Part of me says yes, and part says no. I imagine it was that way for a lot of people on both sides of the issue. I don't believe homosexual couples are evil; I believe they are doing what they believe to be right and good. As one example, I don't believe in denying homosexual couples the opportunity to welcome foster children into their homes, especially considering those homes possess a lot more love, affection, nutrition, education, and attention than many heterosexual homes where some of the parents only look forward to the monthly check they get and otherwise abuse and/or neglect the children in their care. I would much rather see these children go to a loving home, regardless of their orientation, than an abusive one simply because it there was one man and one woman occupying it. And thus, the same goes for adoption. There are many children who are mentally, physically, or medically handicapped who are unwelcome in many homes. But I've heard of loving homosexual couples who are more than willing to love and care for these children to the point of adopting them, but are unable to because they are gay. And so these children get shuffled around in the system for the rest of their lives because no one else will take them. That isn't fair to the children. And don't tell me that gay homes put out gay children. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The stark majority of gay children/adults come from hetersexual homes and a good, healthy number of heterosexual children come from homosexual homes. They just come out a little more liberal, and I imagine we can fix that with some good therapy. The point is, I believe homosexual people should not be denied these rights based on their orientation. The marriage issue is a sticky one for me because I don't believe their being married affects my own personal marriage in any way. It does not invalidate it, nor make it any less powerful on its own. And yet, I'm hesitant to say it's the one and only answer to the problem. I am divided on several different issues regarding the homosexual community. My heart says one thing and my head says something completely different. It's a difficult decision for me, and for a lot of people.
So for Sean Penn to call people's motives into question because they used their American-given right to vote their consciences and announce that they should be ashamed of themselves is hypocracy to the extreme. How do you know what these people's motives were, or even if they were wrong to decide what they did? And if you're going to chide Americans for voting and/or contributing to a cause as they best see fit, then why aren't you also condemning those who then went to such extreme lengths to hunt these individuals down and attack them? If you want to boycott a certain store because its owner contributed to Prop 8, that's certainly within your right to do so. If you want to write letters to the editor and to your congressmen telling them how unfair Prop 8 was and how it should be overturned by the state supreme court, again, that's your constitutional right to do so. You are allowed to disagree all you like. Protest, congregate, demonstrate, boycott, all to your hearts' content. But when you take your anger to the point of desecrating churches, threatening citizens, and actually harming those who don't agree with you, you are no longer protected by this country. You literally HAVE NO RIGHTS TO DO THIS. So where is your scorn for those who took their hatred and anger to that point, Mr. Penn? Oh, I forgot, you don't care because you are too busy condemning to hell those citizens who don't happen to agree with your political stance. THIS is why I don't respect you, Sean Penn. You fare far better in life when you recite what someone else has written for you rather than what you've come up with on your own, so take the hint.
I had left the room when the Oscars for Best Screenplay(s) were handed out so I missed the "Milk" guy's diatribe on his evil Mormon parents/upbringing. Again, he's allowed to say it/believe it of course, but what is it with turning the Academy Awards into a political rally? And unwanted political rally? I'm quite certain most people were there to watch an entertainment broadcast, not be lectured, or listen to others be lectured, by a bunch of damn peons. Take it elsewhere.
I did love Hugh Jackman though. I especially loved that he sang about being Wolverine.
And a final note. Other than the bits mentioned above, I really did enjoy the Oscars. However, I began to note something along the way and I finally noted to The Husband, "I do believe this is the most self-absorbed Oscars I've ever seen." Honestly, it's bad enough that the entire industry insists on patting itself on the back throughout the entire year with awards show after awards show (do they really need that much validation? I mean, besides the trillions of dollars their industry brings in?), but to hike it up to this level? Doesn't the fact that being nominated for an Oscar tell you that others think you're one of the best in your chosen field? Do they have to then have these people individually singled out and told just how wonderful they are in their own little segment by Hollywood's past award winners in front of a billion people on top of that? Were their little egos so shaky they needed that extra boost ON OSCARS NIGHT, SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW AT THE OSCARS THAT THEY WERE INVITED TO BECAUSE EVERYONE AGREES THEY'RE THE BEST ACTORS THIS YEAR? Oh my goodness, spare me this. Yes, it was different at least, so that was a welcome change, and it was nice to see Hollywood legends out there doing their bit, but the whole "You're a wonderful person because blah, blah, blah, and I just know you'll continue to be a wonderful person because yada, yada, yada, and OH MY GOSH we just love you so fricking much we can hardly stand to be in your presence!" Please stop it. These people are validated enough, they don't need any more reassurances that they're good actors. Trust me, their self-confidence levels and the millions of dollars in their bank accounts tell them they're the best every single day. They're fine. Quit holding their little hands.
Oh, and Sean? In case it needs reiterating, for the love of all that's holy, just shut. Up.
18 February 2009
Hired!
I occasionally peruse a website called "Not Hired." It's a website where people can send various cover letters and resumes they've received or otherwise run across that simply boggle the mind; there are actually people like that out there? Who tell the truth on their resumes? The wrong kinda truth? Oh, my. I won't link to the website directly in order to save my viewers' virgin eyes from the bawdy language that is sometimes included in these resumes (only one of the many reasons these people were not asked for an interview I imagine). But gosh, it is funny. And then I got to thinking: I haven't written a resume in ages. What if I needed a job tomorrow? Holy crap, we'll all be in the poor house! I better get crackin' on that list of what makes me a winner!
Abby is the greatest person you'll ever meet, let alone employee. Here's why she's so mind-blowingly superb:
* I can type 470 wpm (less without mistakes--or using words you'd recognize)
* I have professional experience yelling at children, adults, objects, and random passers-by.
* I excell at stalking those I love, hate, don't even know, and anyone else. Especially you.
* Given the opportunity, I can tan beyond normal physical comprehension.
* I enjoy eating cheese.
* I think mild swearing is hilarious.
* I avoid hanging out with my "friends," so I won't have to get dressed.
* Birds avoid me.
* I'm terrified of pennies. And wet lettuce.
* I was self-elected president of the Abbys Only Club in 5th grade.
* I personally supply my entire neighborhood's pharmaceudicals.
* I totally kicked Mickey Mouse in the head at Disneyland.
* I am not permitted on Walt Disney Co. property, nor are my future descendents.
* I am obsessively lazy.
* I can file paperwork alphabetically, or using the less-traditional letters-I-think-they-should-start-with-instead method.
* I think I have several undiagnosed mental illnesses.
* I have been arrested twice for selling narcotics to children and small animals, but I wasn't convicted so it doesn't count.
* I am phone-tapping the FBI without a warrant.
* I believe the gastrointestinal tract is holy, and thus can only be filled with Hostess Snowballs and Hawaiian Punch.
* I can do your taxes for you. I can also hide a body for you.
* I sleep with a Jack-in-the-Box toy. His name is Hunny.
Future employer, I am everything you've been looking for, even if you don't realize it yet. Hire me! Shoot, I'll even work for free! If I can live with you and use your toiletries and eat directly from your pantry! I'll even pat your various pets if you can get them to hold still long enough and not scratch my eyes out like I'm imagining they will! I will rock your world, employer! NOW HIRE ME AND GIVE ME AWESOME BENEFITS OR I WILL SO TOTALLY SLASH YOUR TIRES.
Love Forever,
Abby
ABBY'S ROCKIN' RESUME
PROCEED WITH AWESOMENESS
Abby is the greatest person you'll ever meet, let alone employee. Here's why she's so mind-blowingly superb:
* I can type 470 wpm (less without mistakes--or using words you'd recognize)
* I have professional experience yelling at children, adults, objects, and random passers-by.
* I excell at stalking those I love, hate, don't even know, and anyone else. Especially you.
* Given the opportunity, I can tan beyond normal physical comprehension.
* I enjoy eating cheese.
* I think mild swearing is hilarious.
* I avoid hanging out with my "friends," so I won't have to get dressed.
* Birds avoid me.
* I'm terrified of pennies. And wet lettuce.
* I was self-elected president of the Abbys Only Club in 5th grade.
* I personally supply my entire neighborhood's pharmaceudicals.
* I totally kicked Mickey Mouse in the head at Disneyland.
* I am not permitted on Walt Disney Co. property, nor are my future descendents.
* I am obsessively lazy.
* I can file paperwork alphabetically, or using the less-traditional letters-I-think-they-should-start-with-instead method.
* I think I have several undiagnosed mental illnesses.
* I have been arrested twice for selling narcotics to children and small animals, but I wasn't convicted so it doesn't count.
* I am phone-tapping the FBI without a warrant.
* I believe the gastrointestinal tract is holy, and thus can only be filled with Hostess Snowballs and Hawaiian Punch.
* I can do your taxes for you. I can also hide a body for you.
* I sleep with a Jack-in-the-Box toy. His name is Hunny.
Future employer, I am everything you've been looking for, even if you don't realize it yet. Hire me! Shoot, I'll even work for free! If I can live with you and use your toiletries and eat directly from your pantry! I'll even pat your various pets if you can get them to hold still long enough and not scratch my eyes out like I'm imagining they will! I will rock your world, employer! NOW HIRE ME AND GIVE ME AWESOME BENEFITS OR I WILL SO TOTALLY SLASH YOUR TIRES.
Love Forever,
Abby
16 February 2009
Sucks to Be in the Spotlight, Don't It?
Three posts within a fortnight? Madness you say! Indeed. INDEED.
In honor of President's Day, I will now make fun of the president. And when I say the president, I mean the former president. And when I say the former president, I actually mean the former president's family. Do you see how I just did that?
Now, these photos have been in my collection for some time, awaiting their natural debut. And given that I can't think of anything else to write about on President's Day (which I just remembered it was two minutes ago), today's the day!
You all remember George W. Bush, right? And that he had two kids? And one of them got married somewhat recently, like within the last decade or something? I stole some photos of the wedding off the internets for my own amusement. Note how everyone looks very normal and relaxed except for one glaring example (nevermind that the groom looks like Howdy Doody; I don't mean him). Tell me if you see what I see:
In honor of President's Day, I will now make fun of the president. And when I say the president, I mean the former president. And when I say the former president, I actually mean the former president's family. Do you see how I just did that?
Now, these photos have been in my collection for some time, awaiting their natural debut. And given that I can't think of anything else to write about on President's Day (which I just remembered it was two minutes ago), today's the day!
You all remember George W. Bush, right? And that he had two kids? And one of them got married somewhat recently, like within the last decade or something? I stole some photos of the wedding off the internets for my own amusement. Note how everyone looks very normal and relaxed except for one glaring example (nevermind that the groom looks like Howdy Doody; I don't mean him). Tell me if you see what I see:
You see it too, right? The other one? Looking...strange beyond words? I suppose it's not her fault she's dressed like that chick from "Clash of the Titans" at her sister's wedding, possibly by her own sister's behest, but what the hell is she doing? Is she posing for the new Sears catalog or something? Who is she trying to impress with that stance? Is she attempting to land her own husband by looking as abnormal as possible? Sweetheart, just stop it. You're embarrassing yourself. And seriously, I should know, because I embarrass myself constantly. But at least I'm not the president's daughter when I'm doing it. (And can we get a quick round of applause for the Old Man there? For once he's not the most awkward looking person in the photograph. High-five, W.!)
12 February 2009
What Oprah Wants, Oprah Gets
I'm not excited about this post, I will tell you right now. So you shouldn't get excited either. But I have nothing else to write about, or rather nothing I actually want to take the time to write about right now, so this is what you're getting.
So I had a dream the other night (are you peeing with excitement yet?). Allow me to tell you about it, won't you?
Brian Williams and I were partners in a cake decorating class together. We decided to go with an Air Force One theme on ours (we're nerdy!) and I went off to find a model of the aircraft so we could make one for our cake. As dream-like luck would have it, a fellow running a presidential tourist shop was operating within our classroom.
Me: Excuse me, do you have a model of Air Force One amongst your wares?
Him: A model of what?
Me: Air Force One.
Him: I don't know what that is.
Me: You're joking of course. Please be serious.
Him: No, I don't know what an air force one is.
Me: It's the most photographed aircraft in the entire world, you run a U.S. presidential nicknack shop, and you've never heard of Air Force One before??
Him: Don't get sassy with me lady, I don't know what it is!
Me: Bad news, Brian. No luck.
Brian: *Sigh* OK, well then I guess it'll have to be orcas.
Me: ...as in, killer whales?
Brian: YES, you KNOW that's what Oprah wanted, so let's get started.
Oprah: I do love those orcas!
Me: Fine. Orcas. And how are we supposed to make those?
Brian: Fondant of course. Duh.
Me: FONDANT?? AHHHHGGGGGGGGG, I HATE FONDANT!!!
If I recall, I woke up hating fondant even more than I did before, if that's at all possible. DAMN YOU BRIAN WILLIAMS. AND OPRAH, COME TO THINK OF IT.
Did I ever tell you that the ONE thing I told the idiot who did our wedding cake to do was to frost the cake instead of using fondant because I HATE fondant? Hey, hey, hey, guess what he used instead of frosting? And guess what pissed me off royally when I saw the wedding cake at my reception? And guess which words I was thinking of as I pinched a fake smile across my face when the Husband and I cut into our cake?
So I had a dream the other night (are you peeing with excitement yet?). Allow me to tell you about it, won't you?
Brian Williams and I were partners in a cake decorating class together. We decided to go with an Air Force One theme on ours (we're nerdy!) and I went off to find a model of the aircraft so we could make one for our cake. As dream-like luck would have it, a fellow running a presidential tourist shop was operating within our classroom.Me: Excuse me, do you have a model of Air Force One amongst your wares?
Him: A model of what?
Me: Air Force One.
Him: I don't know what that is.
Me: You're joking of course. Please be serious.
Him: No, I don't know what an air force one is.
Me: It's the most photographed aircraft in the entire world, you run a U.S. presidential nicknack shop, and you've never heard of Air Force One before??
Him: Don't get sassy with me lady, I don't know what it is!
Me: Bad news, Brian. No luck.
Brian: *Sigh* OK, well then I guess it'll have to be orcas.
Me: ...as in, killer whales?
Brian: YES, you KNOW that's what Oprah wanted, so let's get started.
Oprah: I do love those orcas!
Me: Fine. Orcas. And how are we supposed to make those?
Brian: Fondant of course. Duh.
Me: FONDANT?? AHHHHGGGGGGGGG, I HATE FONDANT!!!
If I recall, I woke up hating fondant even more than I did before, if that's at all possible. DAMN YOU BRIAN WILLIAMS. AND OPRAH, COME TO THINK OF IT.
Did I ever tell you that the ONE thing I told the idiot who did our wedding cake to do was to frost the cake instead of using fondant because I HATE fondant? Hey, hey, hey, guess what he used instead of frosting? And guess what pissed me off royally when I saw the wedding cake at my reception? And guess which words I was thinking of as I pinched a fake smile across my face when the Husband and I cut into our cake?
10 February 2009
Let the Whining Commence!
So yesterday I had a migraine. Hosed up my entire schedule for the day and thus the entire week because instead of doing chores I had to spend the day wandering in a pained haze, telling my kids to sit in the corner and stop looking at me like that or get the crap out and get a job. I'm better now, thank you for asking, but I still have that migraine hangover that comes the day after you've survived an attack. Even now I am telling Peawhistle every five minutes to QUIT RACING AROUND THE ROOM OR I WILL CHOP YOUR LEGS OFF. *sigh*
I've had migraines since I was about seven, so I'm used to them; or rather, I'm accustomed to the idea of getting them. The worst migraines I've ever had have either lasted a week or landed me in the ER, which is frustrating in and of itself because they don't do anything for you anyway except give you Tylenol. Of course! Tylenol! Why didn't I think of that before?? Should I also not slit my wrists, because I'm considering that right now, doctor! I've learned to avoid the ER.
I do recall one episode that I'll share here. It was my first week at BYU and I was living in the dorms. My roommate, whom I'd never met, had just joined me two days prior. Normally, I would have had access to a freezer with which to freeze things to place on my forehead to help calm the pain a mite should a migraine present itself. However, no such freezer existed in the dorms. So when a bad migraine hit me one afternoon, it went quickly downhill. The roommate was concerned of course, but not nearly as much as when I began scraping my head against the cinder-block wall next to my bed. She began pleading with me to stop when I graduated to rhythmically banging my head against the brick wall (have I mentioned that migraines strip you of your ability to think clearly? They essentially drive you temporarily insane, and I'm not exaggerating this point). And then she nearly cried when I stopped moving altogether, too exhausted to even close my eyes all the way, and she thought I was dead. I still recall through my blurred vision her creeping up on what she assumed was the fresh corpse of her new roommate, checking for any sign of breathing, quietly calling out my name, which I did not have the energy to respond to. I eventually got better, we laughed about it weeks down the road, and she never totally forgave me for that heart attack I gave her. Who said college days aren't good times?
I don't suppose you recall my adventures with Dr. @#$%&*$%, the doctor who found her medical license in the bottom of a trash bin, do you? One more reason I hate her is because she knows nothing about headaches. Now, by the time I was forced to see her I had been diagnosed by several doctors, many of them trained neurologists who specialized in migraines, as a chronic migraine sufferer. I believe Dr. @#$%&*$% was the first doctor--and only doctor come to think of it--to ever question this diagnosis made by physicians far more learned in this field than she. She announced that I suffer from tension headaches, not migraines. And the reason? Because "people with migraines get nausea, but they don't actually throw up." But people with tension headaches do? What? So by her reasoning, everyone gets nausea with headaches, but the only people who would never conceivably vomit as a result of that nausea are the folks with migraines. Makes perfect sense to me, you fricking whackjob! Nevermind that every medical journal on earth describes vomiting as a major symptom of migraines, but whatever. You see what I mean about my knowing more about medicine than she. It's scary.
So what do I do in case of migraine? I know you're on the edge of your seats so I won't tease you any longer. Drugs are only effective at the beginning, unfortunately. After that they have no effect and you're just blowing your stash. So I lie in bed, in as dark a room as possible, as toasty warm as possible, with as freezing an icepack as my ridiculously under-performing freezer will produce attached to my forehead. Now, if I'm not too insane at that point, a little light and relaxing music can help the process. Only two CDs are acceptable migraine fare. The first is the soundtrack to "Chariots of Fire." It's kinda weird technocrap music if you recall, but I grew up listening to it, I love it, and it relaxes me. That is, until I get to the "Jerusalem" number by the Westminster Cathedral Choir, complete with full pipe organ. Then I get excited and hallucinate that I can actually play the organ that well too, instead of the comedic performance I usually treat the congregation to on Sundays. So I try not to listen to that specific number with a migraine (drives my blood pressure up).
The other CD I listen to is even preferable to the first and it is "Christopher Cross," by none other than Christopher Cross. I don't think I've ever made it through the entire album at one sitting/lying down. It is so peaceful and relaxing that faster than you can say "self-induced coma" you're out for 12 hours and you wake up wondering where you are and why your CD player's batteries are dead again. "Oh man, I love this soZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ." That pretty much sums up the result of that CD, which is why I resort to it sparingly lest I become immune to its wonderful morphine-like effects. It's also the main reason I don't ever listen to it while driving, lest I wake up in the front grill of an oncoming 18-wheeler.
God bless you and your strangely puffy features, Christopher Cross! May your soothingly smooth voice be recorded in medical journals everywhere under safe and effective anesthetics, suitable for knocking out migraine sufferers to organ transplant patients.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
I've had migraines since I was about seven, so I'm used to them; or rather, I'm accustomed to the idea of getting them. The worst migraines I've ever had have either lasted a week or landed me in the ER, which is frustrating in and of itself because they don't do anything for you anyway except give you Tylenol. Of course! Tylenol! Why didn't I think of that before?? Should I also not slit my wrists, because I'm considering that right now, doctor! I've learned to avoid the ER.
I do recall one episode that I'll share here. It was my first week at BYU and I was living in the dorms. My roommate, whom I'd never met, had just joined me two days prior. Normally, I would have had access to a freezer with which to freeze things to place on my forehead to help calm the pain a mite should a migraine present itself. However, no such freezer existed in the dorms. So when a bad migraine hit me one afternoon, it went quickly downhill. The roommate was concerned of course, but not nearly as much as when I began scraping my head against the cinder-block wall next to my bed. She began pleading with me to stop when I graduated to rhythmically banging my head against the brick wall (have I mentioned that migraines strip you of your ability to think clearly? They essentially drive you temporarily insane, and I'm not exaggerating this point). And then she nearly cried when I stopped moving altogether, too exhausted to even close my eyes all the way, and she thought I was dead. I still recall through my blurred vision her creeping up on what she assumed was the fresh corpse of her new roommate, checking for any sign of breathing, quietly calling out my name, which I did not have the energy to respond to. I eventually got better, we laughed about it weeks down the road, and she never totally forgave me for that heart attack I gave her. Who said college days aren't good times?
I don't suppose you recall my adventures with Dr. @#$%&*$%, the doctor who found her medical license in the bottom of a trash bin, do you? One more reason I hate her is because she knows nothing about headaches. Now, by the time I was forced to see her I had been diagnosed by several doctors, many of them trained neurologists who specialized in migraines, as a chronic migraine sufferer. I believe Dr. @#$%&*$% was the first doctor--and only doctor come to think of it--to ever question this diagnosis made by physicians far more learned in this field than she. She announced that I suffer from tension headaches, not migraines. And the reason? Because "people with migraines get nausea, but they don't actually throw up." But people with tension headaches do? What? So by her reasoning, everyone gets nausea with headaches, but the only people who would never conceivably vomit as a result of that nausea are the folks with migraines. Makes perfect sense to me, you fricking whackjob! Nevermind that every medical journal on earth describes vomiting as a major symptom of migraines, but whatever. You see what I mean about my knowing more about medicine than she. It's scary.
So what do I do in case of migraine? I know you're on the edge of your seats so I won't tease you any longer. Drugs are only effective at the beginning, unfortunately. After that they have no effect and you're just blowing your stash. So I lie in bed, in as dark a room as possible, as toasty warm as possible, with as freezing an icepack as my ridiculously under-performing freezer will produce attached to my forehead. Now, if I'm not too insane at that point, a little light and relaxing music can help the process. Only two CDs are acceptable migraine fare. The first is the soundtrack to "Chariots of Fire." It's kinda weird technocrap music if you recall, but I grew up listening to it, I love it, and it relaxes me. That is, until I get to the "Jerusalem" number by the Westminster Cathedral Choir, complete with full pipe organ. Then I get excited and hallucinate that I can actually play the organ that well too, instead of the comedic performance I usually treat the congregation to on Sundays. So I try not to listen to that specific number with a migraine (drives my blood pressure up).
The other CD I listen to is even preferable to the first and it is "Christopher Cross," by none other than Christopher Cross. I don't think I've ever made it through the entire album at one sitting/lying down. It is so peaceful and relaxing that faster than you can say "self-induced coma" you're out for 12 hours and you wake up wondering where you are and why your CD player's batteries are dead again. "Oh man, I love this soZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ." That pretty much sums up the result of that CD, which is why I resort to it sparingly lest I become immune to its wonderful morphine-like effects. It's also the main reason I don't ever listen to it while driving, lest I wake up in the front grill of an oncoming 18-wheeler.
God bless you and your strangely puffy features, Christopher Cross! May your soothingly smooth voice be recorded in medical journals everywhere under safe and effective anesthetics, suitable for knocking out migraine sufferers to organ transplant patients.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
03 February 2009
"We Help Daddy Win a Lawsuit Against Big Tobacco"
See, here's the thing, folks. I only have so much free time in a day. I use that time either writing on my blog or reading yours. And when I have many writer-crazy friends that means I spend two hours reading their stuff instead of writing my own. You can't have it both ways, people. So quit writing about your families and other crap you love. Then we'll be getting somewhere here.
I just finished reading Peawhistle her bedtime story. She chose "We Help Daddy," one of the classic Golden Books I had as a child and passed along to her. I am always struck by the shear number of chores these people (Daddy, Benjy, and little Sue) are able to accomplish, particularly given the fact that two of the three contributors are apparently under the age of five and by definition a liability rather than an asset. Any other man in "Daddy's" situation would take upwards of 56 hours to accomplish what this fellow does in just one day. He amazes me. And on top of that, "Daddy" also smokes like a chimney. He's like the Energizer Bunny, but with emphysema.
The book also shows "Mommy" baking cookies in the kitchen--I'm assuming all day long, because really, that's why I don't bother with them. Peawhistle pointed and said, "Look! That Mommy's making cookies! Just like BStephanie!" You'll notice she did not bother to assume I would ever do the same, or was even capable of such. At least her expectations aren't high.
Halfway through their day, the kids help Daddy bathe Zip, their dog, who according to legend hates baths. Zip reminds me of Peanut, who has despised baths since the day he was born. And I don't mean that he fusses or cries a little. He FREAKS THE HELL OUT. He begins to tremble the second you even start to clean the bathtub. You'd think I were pouring acid on him or something (I'm not). This is why I strongly suspect he's a witch.
Today it snowed again. Snow twice in the course of 30 days?? Crazy talk you say! Indeed. I was especially pleased though, that the snow didn't confuse our refuse collection fellows today as it did last week when the dusting of snow on our white trash bags camouflaged them so effectively that ours were the only trashbags left on our entire street after the fellows had come and gone. Nevermind that our trashbags were sitting right there on the sidewalk and thus created unnatural two-foot-high lumps on said sidewalk. Why no, we haven't installed sidewalks two feet higher than everyone else's, although we are trying to discourage visitors! (TAKE THE HINT ALREADY.) But white=snow, so no trash collection for you, jerks!
One last thought. No, two. First I have to click my tongue at Bob Carol on principle. No wonder he wound up in London running a halfway house. And second, it's also no wonder Congress has no trouble handing out cash left and right to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, Inc. since it's not their money they're giving away. PAY YOUR TAXES YOU SPENDTHRIFT HOSERS. We have little enough respect for you as it is without being forced to also give you a completely free ride for the rest of your worthless term in office. There's a place specially reserved for the worst of the worst of society like you, you leeches! It's called Annapolis! NO GPS FOR YOU!!
I just finished reading Peawhistle her bedtime story. She chose "We Help Daddy," one of the classic Golden Books I had as a child and passed along to her. I am always struck by the shear number of chores these people (Daddy, Benjy, and little Sue) are able to accomplish, particularly given the fact that two of the three contributors are apparently under the age of five and by definition a liability rather than an asset. Any other man in "Daddy's" situation would take upwards of 56 hours to accomplish what this fellow does in just one day. He amazes me. And on top of that, "Daddy" also smokes like a chimney. He's like the Energizer Bunny, but with emphysema.
The book also shows "Mommy" baking cookies in the kitchen--I'm assuming all day long, because really, that's why I don't bother with them. Peawhistle pointed and said, "Look! That Mommy's making cookies! Just like BStephanie!" You'll notice she did not bother to assume I would ever do the same, or was even capable of such. At least her expectations aren't high.
Halfway through their day, the kids help Daddy bathe Zip, their dog, who according to legend hates baths. Zip reminds me of Peanut, who has despised baths since the day he was born. And I don't mean that he fusses or cries a little. He FREAKS THE HELL OUT. He begins to tremble the second you even start to clean the bathtub. You'd think I were pouring acid on him or something (I'm not). This is why I strongly suspect he's a witch.
Today it snowed again. Snow twice in the course of 30 days?? Crazy talk you say! Indeed. I was especially pleased though, that the snow didn't confuse our refuse collection fellows today as it did last week when the dusting of snow on our white trash bags camouflaged them so effectively that ours were the only trashbags left on our entire street after the fellows had come and gone. Nevermind that our trashbags were sitting right there on the sidewalk and thus created unnatural two-foot-high lumps on said sidewalk. Why no, we haven't installed sidewalks two feet higher than everyone else's, although we are trying to discourage visitors! (TAKE THE HINT ALREADY.) But white=snow, so no trash collection for you, jerks!
One last thought. No, two. First I have to click my tongue at Bob Carol on principle. No wonder he wound up in London running a halfway house. And second, it's also no wonder Congress has no trouble handing out cash left and right to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, Inc. since it's not their money they're giving away. PAY YOUR TAXES YOU SPENDTHRIFT HOSERS. We have little enough respect for you as it is without being forced to also give you a completely free ride for the rest of your worthless term in office. There's a place specially reserved for the worst of the worst of society like you, you leeches! It's called Annapolis! NO GPS FOR YOU!!
26 January 2009
I Smell An Oscar!!
The Husband and I watched a movie the other night. I was so delighted by it that I can't possibly withhold it from you any longer. This movie is so superb, yet I still don't know what its name is, and apparently neither does the internet. Husband and I were bored Saturday night, what with having exhausted both our and Stephanie's collection of Netflix movies, so we cornered Comcast On Demand and selected some free film called "Survival/Mountain," whatever that means. The description, a couple who survive an avalanche in the Himalayan Mountains and struggle to survive afterwards, sounded interesting enough. We're all about watching pathetic attempts to live. So we started it up and were immediately thrilled to see that it was a made-for-TV movie; few things afford laughs better than made-for-TV survival films, especially after the Husband's last choice about killer locusts devouring America who are finally defeated by a giant makeshift bug zapper. Brilliant!
Back to our Oscar-winning show. The movie was advertised as being based upon a true story. I have my doubts about this as I will explain later, or at least their definition of "based upon" and "true." Also, "story." The film begins with a snippet of what is later to come, I'm assuming to rope its viewers into hanging around. It certainly worked. I wanted to know how the hell two perfectly healthy looking individuals could be whining about dying. They looked fine to me, and I should know, since you all know I'm a trained doctor. The film goes back to two weeks prior in these healthy individuals' lives when we learn that Wife is turning 40, going through a midlife crisis (I'm assuming), and is insistant that she and Husband go hiking in the Himalayas in November. "We'll have two seasoned guides and a cook with us! What could go wrong?" they tell her wise, avalanche-nightmare-having mother who does not want them to go. We know what's going to happen of course, because Mom is worried sick for her daughter and son-in-law. And because we read the movie description beforehand.
These idiots show up and sure enough, set off with their crew, who are natives of Nepal and supposedly know what they're doing since they say so, and start hiking up this mountain. They camp overnight. The couple points out that one of the guides isn't wearing clothes, or at least not weather-appropriate clothes. Head Guide explains he's from the South (I don't think he means Mississippi, although that would explain it too) so he'll just have to learn the hard way to wear a coat the next time he goes up A MOUNTAIN WITH SNOW ON IT. Yeah, OK. Husband never ceases to vocally fret about Southern Boy. During all this, weather stations are freaking out because some weather system is coming--a hurricane or something (I don't pretend to know these things)--and everyone should get off the mountain in a hurry. And most do, except this troupe.
During the night, Head Guide says it's Bad Weather and they need to pack up and leave. They pack up one or two things, abandon the rest (like food and tents) and hurry off. Then the Weather System arrives in the form of the blizzard, followed shortly thereafter by the aforementioned avalanche. The avalanche misses them, but apparently covered up Head Guide's breadcrumb trail, because for some unfathomable reason, he has NO clue how to go back to the city they just came from, like, 12 hours ago. So these idiots wander around the Himalayans for days, looking for the city, and failing that, any settlement at all. During all of this, I am persistently quizzing the Husband about why they continue to climb UP the mountain when the city they just came from is below them. He assures me he has no clue, but it's thoroughly entertaining to him just the same. After another avalanche finally gets the cook and Southern Boy, the crew really starts taking this seriously. Well, after they miraculously find the two buried in snow (what, are they cadaver dogs or something?) after digging for two minutes. Southern Boy ain't looking so hot, so fretting Husband gives him his coat, and later his boots, and finally his gloves. Husband, or Martyr as I like to call him, goes largely without.
Having no shelter, these people who have been on this mountain with no food or shelter for about a week, cheerily build themselves a snow cave. And not even with impliments of any sort, but their bare hands. And within an hour or two they have a wonderfully spacious and firmly packed snow cave the size of a hotel lobby. They sleep comfortably and not at all fitfully, or you know, dyingly, like any other human would. Eventually, Martyr gets tired of Head Guide giving them an undesirable tour of the mountains and announces he's going to save them all once and for all, starting with following that there river down there. "Finally," I said to the Husband, "They're actually doing something sensible. I don't believe it." Not to worry pets, it didn't last long. Yes, the river does flow downhill and since most settlements can be found near watersources, following the river is a very good idea. But apparently these people don't know that you can actually follow the river on the side of it, because they insist that each and everyone of them, including those barely surviving hypothermia as it is, get IN the water and start following it that way. I'm convinced they would have slept in the water too, had they not already been so in love with their snow caves. Perhaps they were tired of walking in wet snow and were hoping the river would be less wet? I don't know.
Anyway, two minutes later Head Guide and Cook decide that the other three were slowing them down and they needed to beat feet. They take off, leaving Southern Boy half-dead and Martyr with obvious frostbitten hands and feet. Mind you, throughout the entire movie Wife is perfectly chipper at all times. Upbeat, never weary, hungry, cold, nothing. It'd be irritating if it weren't so funny. The three decide to camp for the night, and with Martyr and Southern Boy being out of it, Cheery Wife builds the snow cave with her own hands by herself in an afternoon. Perhaps not the Ritz-Carlton this time around, but at least a DoubleTree. SouthernBoy dies in the night and Martyr goes wandering off in a stupid haze and goes careening off a short cliff. He lies there and waits for Cheer Bear to show up and comfort him, despite the fact both of them look perfectly fine and healthy as horses. Oh, but the smudge of blood on Martyr's lip means he's dying! Right, forgot that. Then Wifey's dead father shows up in Mafia garb and throws up weird and disturbing gang signs and suddenly the couple see a band of a dozen hikers tromping past them up ahead. The couple argue about this, with Martyr saying things like, "Leave me, I'm done for! Save yourself! Get help!" And Wife saying, "No, I won't leave you! I can't! A soldier never leaves a fallen comrade behind, Semper Fi, Oorah!!" That last one may not have happened. But you get the idea. By the time Wife finally takes off running (again, through the river) to catch up to the hikers, she's completely lost them, despite the fact they were maybe five minutes ahead of her. And they left tracks in the snow for her to follow. Which she didn't. Of course.
We see Wife literally crawling through snowy mountains that have never been touched by humans, all the while thinking she can still catch up with the hikers. Hikers who had obviously never been there. The movie cuts back to Marytr, still on the side of the river (I wonder why she didn't just put him in it?), waiting patiently as he freezes to death, never thinking that perhaps that dead guy in the cave up there might have some coats, boots, gloves, pants, underwear, and whatever else Martyr gave him that he won't be using anymore. We're supposed to believe that Wife went crawling and stumbling forEVER, which she did, and did she find help? Of course she did. She accidentally wanders into the city they started from. No joke. These idiots have been lost for weeks and she crawls back in a day? Why wasn't she put in charge from the beginning? Oh wait, she was following those hikers, not trying to find the city, so logic would tell us had she been looking for the city, she would instead have found Hell. Or something like that. Anyway, she wasn't in charge for good reason.
So Helicopter guy takes her up and they start looking for Martyr. "I left him next to a river." "What, not in it?" (But I kid these retards.) She gives very helpful clues like, "We were around a bend in the river," and, "I think we were near some trees." Of course, they find Martyr, still waiting patiently for death. They yell down to him that they can't reach him on the banks of the river; he'll have to get in the river to reach him. Of course. What is it with these people and getting in the water in subfreezing conditions? When they get back to the city, they find Head Guide and Cook and Martyr more or less tells them they're going to hell for leaving them. Sounds good to me.
They get home to the States, Martyr loses his toes and fingers due to frostbite, and they all go on and on about how grateful they are to be alive. Indeed, Idiots. And it is here that I have to take serious issue with this being a true story. Without the aid of Hollywood (or whatever back alley company made this film) this couple would have died years ago with a collective hand on a fork in a light socket, and you and I both know it. People that stupid simply cannot survive something like that without artistic license on their side.
Even after reading this, if you have Comcast on Demand and a free hour and a half, check it out. You honestly can't go wrong with a movie like that.
Back to our Oscar-winning show. The movie was advertised as being based upon a true story. I have my doubts about this as I will explain later, or at least their definition of "based upon" and "true." Also, "story." The film begins with a snippet of what is later to come, I'm assuming to rope its viewers into hanging around. It certainly worked. I wanted to know how the hell two perfectly healthy looking individuals could be whining about dying. They looked fine to me, and I should know, since you all know I'm a trained doctor. The film goes back to two weeks prior in these healthy individuals' lives when we learn that Wife is turning 40, going through a midlife crisis (I'm assuming), and is insistant that she and Husband go hiking in the Himalayas in November. "We'll have two seasoned guides and a cook with us! What could go wrong?" they tell her wise, avalanche-nightmare-having mother who does not want them to go. We know what's going to happen of course, because Mom is worried sick for her daughter and son-in-law. And because we read the movie description beforehand.
These idiots show up and sure enough, set off with their crew, who are natives of Nepal and supposedly know what they're doing since they say so, and start hiking up this mountain. They camp overnight. The couple points out that one of the guides isn't wearing clothes, or at least not weather-appropriate clothes. Head Guide explains he's from the South (I don't think he means Mississippi, although that would explain it too) so he'll just have to learn the hard way to wear a coat the next time he goes up A MOUNTAIN WITH SNOW ON IT. Yeah, OK. Husband never ceases to vocally fret about Southern Boy. During all this, weather stations are freaking out because some weather system is coming--a hurricane or something (I don't pretend to know these things)--and everyone should get off the mountain in a hurry. And most do, except this troupe.
During the night, Head Guide says it's Bad Weather and they need to pack up and leave. They pack up one or two things, abandon the rest (like food and tents) and hurry off. Then the Weather System arrives in the form of the blizzard, followed shortly thereafter by the aforementioned avalanche. The avalanche misses them, but apparently covered up Head Guide's breadcrumb trail, because for some unfathomable reason, he has NO clue how to go back to the city they just came from, like, 12 hours ago. So these idiots wander around the Himalayans for days, looking for the city, and failing that, any settlement at all. During all of this, I am persistently quizzing the Husband about why they continue to climb UP the mountain when the city they just came from is below them. He assures me he has no clue, but it's thoroughly entertaining to him just the same. After another avalanche finally gets the cook and Southern Boy, the crew really starts taking this seriously. Well, after they miraculously find the two buried in snow (what, are they cadaver dogs or something?) after digging for two minutes. Southern Boy ain't looking so hot, so fretting Husband gives him his coat, and later his boots, and finally his gloves. Husband, or Martyr as I like to call him, goes largely without.
Having no shelter, these people who have been on this mountain with no food or shelter for about a week, cheerily build themselves a snow cave. And not even with impliments of any sort, but their bare hands. And within an hour or two they have a wonderfully spacious and firmly packed snow cave the size of a hotel lobby. They sleep comfortably and not at all fitfully, or you know, dyingly, like any other human would. Eventually, Martyr gets tired of Head Guide giving them an undesirable tour of the mountains and announces he's going to save them all once and for all, starting with following that there river down there. "Finally," I said to the Husband, "They're actually doing something sensible. I don't believe it." Not to worry pets, it didn't last long. Yes, the river does flow downhill and since most settlements can be found near watersources, following the river is a very good idea. But apparently these people don't know that you can actually follow the river on the side of it, because they insist that each and everyone of them, including those barely surviving hypothermia as it is, get IN the water and start following it that way. I'm convinced they would have slept in the water too, had they not already been so in love with their snow caves. Perhaps they were tired of walking in wet snow and were hoping the river would be less wet? I don't know.
Anyway, two minutes later Head Guide and Cook decide that the other three were slowing them down and they needed to beat feet. They take off, leaving Southern Boy half-dead and Martyr with obvious frostbitten hands and feet. Mind you, throughout the entire movie Wife is perfectly chipper at all times. Upbeat, never weary, hungry, cold, nothing. It'd be irritating if it weren't so funny. The three decide to camp for the night, and with Martyr and Southern Boy being out of it, Cheery Wife builds the snow cave with her own hands by herself in an afternoon. Perhaps not the Ritz-Carlton this time around, but at least a DoubleTree. SouthernBoy dies in the night and Martyr goes wandering off in a stupid haze and goes careening off a short cliff. He lies there and waits for Cheer Bear to show up and comfort him, despite the fact both of them look perfectly fine and healthy as horses. Oh, but the smudge of blood on Martyr's lip means he's dying! Right, forgot that. Then Wifey's dead father shows up in Mafia garb and throws up weird and disturbing gang signs and suddenly the couple see a band of a dozen hikers tromping past them up ahead. The couple argue about this, with Martyr saying things like, "Leave me, I'm done for! Save yourself! Get help!" And Wife saying, "No, I won't leave you! I can't! A soldier never leaves a fallen comrade behind, Semper Fi, Oorah!!" That last one may not have happened. But you get the idea. By the time Wife finally takes off running (again, through the river) to catch up to the hikers, she's completely lost them, despite the fact they were maybe five minutes ahead of her. And they left tracks in the snow for her to follow. Which she didn't. Of course.
We see Wife literally crawling through snowy mountains that have never been touched by humans, all the while thinking she can still catch up with the hikers. Hikers who had obviously never been there. The movie cuts back to Marytr, still on the side of the river (I wonder why she didn't just put him in it?), waiting patiently as he freezes to death, never thinking that perhaps that dead guy in the cave up there might have some coats, boots, gloves, pants, underwear, and whatever else Martyr gave him that he won't be using anymore. We're supposed to believe that Wife went crawling and stumbling forEVER, which she did, and did she find help? Of course she did. She accidentally wanders into the city they started from. No joke. These idiots have been lost for weeks and she crawls back in a day? Why wasn't she put in charge from the beginning? Oh wait, she was following those hikers, not trying to find the city, so logic would tell us had she been looking for the city, she would instead have found Hell. Or something like that. Anyway, she wasn't in charge for good reason.
So Helicopter guy takes her up and they start looking for Martyr. "I left him next to a river." "What, not in it?" (But I kid these retards.) She gives very helpful clues like, "We were around a bend in the river," and, "I think we were near some trees." Of course, they find Martyr, still waiting patiently for death. They yell down to him that they can't reach him on the banks of the river; he'll have to get in the river to reach him. Of course. What is it with these people and getting in the water in subfreezing conditions? When they get back to the city, they find Head Guide and Cook and Martyr more or less tells them they're going to hell for leaving them. Sounds good to me.
They get home to the States, Martyr loses his toes and fingers due to frostbite, and they all go on and on about how grateful they are to be alive. Indeed, Idiots. And it is here that I have to take serious issue with this being a true story. Without the aid of Hollywood (or whatever back alley company made this film) this couple would have died years ago with a collective hand on a fork in a light socket, and you and I both know it. People that stupid simply cannot survive something like that without artistic license on their side.
Even after reading this, if you have Comcast on Demand and a free hour and a half, check it out. You honestly can't go wrong with a movie like that.
22 January 2009
I Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress
The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.
And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.
And now, for your edification, here are the answers:
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.
Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.
And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.
And now, for your edification, here are the answers:
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.
Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.
15 January 2009
Free Books and Quizzes for NieNie
Hey, hey, hey, remember when I told you about that blogger book that was being made for the NieNie Recovery Fund? And how a bunch of funny blog entries were chosen from 43 different authors (even me if you can stomach that) to make up this book to make it as funny as possible? And that all profits would go towards helping pay for the Nielson's medical bills and such? And how I would give you more information once the book was ready for purchase? WELL HANG ON TO YOUR HATS, 'CAUSE THE BOOK IS HERE. Grab a Kleenex if you have to.
SO. How can you procure this marvel for your very own coffee tables to wow and impress your friends, family, and unwanted houseguests (assuming they aren't all one and the same)? By clicking here, you silly ducks! Now, you'll also note that there is a downloadable version, allowing you to obtain The Brilliance within minutes rather than days, plus you avoid that mindboggling $5 shipping charge. On the other hand, you won't have anything to show off to people, plus it's hard to read it in the bathroom like that unless you drag your computer in there with you (if you do this, please don't tell me). But I'm not your mother so do whatever makes you happy. You know, just as long as you spend at least $19.60 (or multiples thereof) in the process. BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE. If there are two things my readers have in common, it's that they're incredibly cheap and lazy. I am nothing if not accommodating in this regard. This is why I've sold my soul for charity and will host The First and Hopefully Only Delusions of Grandeur Giveaway!! Here's how this will work. This will work for all you tightwads out there since as the prize you will get one hardcopy of "Something Cleverish" for your very own on my dime. As an added bonus, you will be getting the Special Limited Edition of "Something Cleverish!" Why so special you ask? Because I will personally forge all 42 autographs of every other author in the book, accompanied by personal wishes from each and every one! I will now place my fingers in my ears since I hear you all screaming something about illegalities and lawsuits. LA LA LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MY CHARITABLE HEART IS DROWNING OUT ALL OF YOUR BUMMER WORDS.
For all you lazy folks (same folks mind you), you won't be as into this next part. You'll have to answer questions to get it, and don't tell me it ain't gonna happen because at least one person already said she'd do it; if you don't want her to get it, then get on the ball. The person who answers the most questions correctly (emailed to me; any answers posted in the comments section will be deleted) will get a FREE book either hand delivered or mailed to his or her very own residence! If more than one of you actually bothers with this and answers the same number correctly, I'll close my eyes and choose at random. Fair enough? Good. Then the rest of you hosers will have to buy the book on your own. (Remember! It's for charity! And it's funny! Buying it counts for 25+ points for getting into Heaven.) All of the answers for this quiz can be found within the bowels of this blog (i.e., you don't have to know me to get them right). All responses are due in my inbox by Tuesday (the 20th) night at midnight EST. And...GO!
THE DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR QUIZ OF A LIFETIME
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis?
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous?
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you?
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name?
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF?
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs?
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they?
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants?
See? Too easy. Remember, no answers in the comments; please email your answers instead. Feel free to use the comments section to ask questions about the blog book, though.
Seriously though, buy the book. Everyone always says to themselves, "Gosh, I'd love to help but I don't know how!" Here's how. It even makes it easy by taking PayPal. Go on. Do the right thing: buy and feel good about it now, and then feel amused several days from now. It's win-win.
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