a few things.
One.
I have been so soul-suckingly busy with work for the last three weeks that although I pop onto LJ every day or two to read y'all's entries, I have found nothing to say that was worth the extra thirty seconds of effort and concentration it takes to post. Anyway, most of the entries I would have posted would have been something along the lines of "Work. Irk. Dirk. Shirk. GET ME A DRINK." You ain't missing much. This ridiculousness will continue until July, when I expect it to abate somewhat.
Two.
Lately, random lines from horrifically bad poems I wrote as a teenager have been dive-bombing my brain. I think I recently must have been very bad indeed, because I can only think of this development as karmic reimbursement. This morning I suddenly remembered the line "Reading my diary is like doing my soul's laundry." I think if it was possible to overdose on introspection and Indigo Girls, my parents would certainly have found me dead in the bathroom several times over.
Three.
These here are just the thing if you are currently planning a wedding, and both you and your intended are employed as clowns: www.fiestaroses.com/PhotoGallery.asp
Four.
Our internet has developed the habit of flickering on and off to a steady beat (I think it's the beat of "Future" by Cut Copy, or maybe Guns N' Roses' "Paradise City") when I take the laptop into the bedroom. It's mystifying, because the desktop, also in the bedroom, has no such problems accessing the wireless signal. After several fruitless attempts at figuring this out by my IT-savvy fiancee, I've accepted it as one of those theological puzzles life poses and taken to only requesting information from the Internets on the downbeat. (When I go to update this, I'll be singing "TAKE...ME...HOOOOME!!" to myself.)
Five.
Today I finally procured a copy of Heather Armstrong's book It Sucked and then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, A Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita. The last four places I tried to buy it were sold out, which speaks for how enjoyable it's supposed to be. Also confirming its worth is Nicole's review, which is basically that she laughed so hard while reading it that strangers asked her what she was reading. I've been reading her blog (www.dooce.com) for about three years and have high, high hopes. In fact, I put it down for fifteen minutes so I could write this post. Don't say I never did anything for you. You can get her book much more easily (and much cheaper) than I did by hitting this up: www.amazon.com/Sucked-Then-Cried-Breakdown-Margarita/dp/1416936017 And isn't THAT an enticing URL.
Six.
The grackels who live in my porch have had their babies, which I can tell from the beautiful eggshells they've tossed out of the nest. These birds have no compunction whatsoever about covering my porch in Jackson-Pollack-esque poop drawings, but they're so interesting I don't mind at all. They will often sit in the ironwork holding up the porch with a piece of straw or a branch in their beak, then notice me watching them and say "graack!" and drop their materials in a really twitchy, irritated manner. Then they fly up to the top of the board their nest is behind (it's kind of like a tall trough), watch me from the side of their eyes for a while and grumble "gleep" and "kikkle", and then they get into their nest. There's apparently no way to do this without flinging themselves down the narrow space between boards, meaning that they make this "flappity-bump-THONK" noise combo that I never get tired of. Last year I could often hear the babies going peep-peep-peep (they have to work up to the more interesting sounds), but nothing yet this year. Here's hoping.
Seven.
I also bought a pair of flip-flops today. They're Tevas, not the multi-strappy kind but just plain old flip-flops that happen to be made by Teva, and they were $24. I actually snorted when I saw the price tag, and then I put them on to see what some foolish shopper might think were worth $24. Sorry, non-Pittsburghers, but you won't get this: The only way I can describe it is that it's like stepping on the tongue of the whale at the old Noah's Ark. And the tongue is made of velvet. And the velvet is made of moleskin. It's the best flip-flop experience that I can conceive of having, and I gladly plunked down the $24. Now I just need to buy a ticket to Kennywood so I can take these babies to their spiritual home.
Eight.
I've seen the Star Trek movie twice now. I expect to catch it at least twice more once it goes to the cheap theaters. Everything J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof touch turns to gold.
Nine.
Trader Joe's strawberry lemonade plus vodka is one of the most beguiling summer drinks I've ever concocted, especially with a slice of lime and maybe a sprig of mint. In fact, I'm going to go make myself one right now to accompany me as I read about the sucking and the crying.
I have been so soul-suckingly busy with work for the last three weeks that although I pop onto LJ every day or two to read y'all's entries, I have found nothing to say that was worth the extra thirty seconds of effort and concentration it takes to post. Anyway, most of the entries I would have posted would have been something along the lines of "Work. Irk. Dirk. Shirk. GET ME A DRINK." You ain't missing much. This ridiculousness will continue until July, when I expect it to abate somewhat.
Two.
Lately, random lines from horrifically bad poems I wrote as a teenager have been dive-bombing my brain. I think I recently must have been very bad indeed, because I can only think of this development as karmic reimbursement. This morning I suddenly remembered the line "Reading my diary is like doing my soul's laundry." I think if it was possible to overdose on introspection and Indigo Girls, my parents would certainly have found me dead in the bathroom several times over.
Three.
These here are just the thing if you are currently planning a wedding, and both you and your intended are employed as clowns: www.fiestaroses.com/PhotoGallery.asp
Four.
Our internet has developed the habit of flickering on and off to a steady beat (I think it's the beat of "Future" by Cut Copy, or maybe Guns N' Roses' "Paradise City") when I take the laptop into the bedroom. It's mystifying, because the desktop, also in the bedroom, has no such problems accessing the wireless signal. After several fruitless attempts at figuring this out by my IT-savvy fiancee, I've accepted it as one of those theological puzzles life poses and taken to only requesting information from the Internets on the downbeat. (When I go to update this, I'll be singing "TAKE...ME...HOOOOME!!" to myself.)
Five.
Today I finally procured a copy of Heather Armstrong's book It Sucked and then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, A Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita. The last four places I tried to buy it were sold out, which speaks for how enjoyable it's supposed to be. Also confirming its worth is Nicole's review, which is basically that she laughed so hard while reading it that strangers asked her what she was reading. I've been reading her blog (www.dooce.com) for about three years and have high, high hopes. In fact, I put it down for fifteen minutes so I could write this post. Don't say I never did anything for you. You can get her book much more easily (and much cheaper) than I did by hitting this up: www.amazon.com/Sucked-Then-Cried-Breakdown-Margarita/dp/1416936017 And isn't THAT an enticing URL.
Six.
The grackels who live in my porch have had their babies, which I can tell from the beautiful eggshells they've tossed out of the nest. These birds have no compunction whatsoever about covering my porch in Jackson-Pollack-esque poop drawings, but they're so interesting I don't mind at all. They will often sit in the ironwork holding up the porch with a piece of straw or a branch in their beak, then notice me watching them and say "graack!" and drop their materials in a really twitchy, irritated manner. Then they fly up to the top of the board their nest is behind (it's kind of like a tall trough), watch me from the side of their eyes for a while and grumble "gleep" and "kikkle", and then they get into their nest. There's apparently no way to do this without flinging themselves down the narrow space between boards, meaning that they make this "flappity-bump-THONK" noise combo that I never get tired of. Last year I could often hear the babies going peep-peep-peep (they have to work up to the more interesting sounds), but nothing yet this year. Here's hoping.
Seven.
I also bought a pair of flip-flops today. They're Tevas, not the multi-strappy kind but just plain old flip-flops that happen to be made by Teva, and they were $24. I actually snorted when I saw the price tag, and then I put them on to see what some foolish shopper might think were worth $24. Sorry, non-Pittsburghers, but you won't get this: The only way I can describe it is that it's like stepping on the tongue of the whale at the old Noah's Ark. And the tongue is made of velvet. And the velvet is made of moleskin. It's the best flip-flop experience that I can conceive of having, and I gladly plunked down the $24. Now I just need to buy a ticket to Kennywood so I can take these babies to their spiritual home.
Eight.
I've seen the Star Trek movie twice now. I expect to catch it at least twice more once it goes to the cheap theaters. Everything J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof touch turns to gold.
Nine.
Trader Joe's strawberry lemonade plus vodka is one of the most beguiling summer drinks I've ever concocted, especially with a slice of lime and maybe a sprig of mint. In fact, I'm going to go make myself one right now to accompany me as I read about the sucking and the crying.