In the vein of 33 animals that are disappointed in you, I bring you 10 celebrities who are disappointed in you, and one who isn’t:
1. Robert Pattinson…
2. Kellan Lutz…
3. Josh Duhamel…
4. George Clooney…
5. Bradley Cooper…
6. Brad Pitt…
7. Orlando Bloom…
8. Channing Tatum…
9. Ryan Gosling…
10. Liam Hemsworth…
And finally…
Johnny Depp…
And this is why we love Johnny Depp!
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have a poltergeist. His name is Bas, short for Bastion of Evil. I’ve had him since college. I’m not quite sure why he started homing in on me, but I first noticed him when my random player for my music playlist started playing the same few songs over and over again. Apparently the Bastion of Evil is very fond of Bon Jovi, which I can’t say is surprising. Birds of a feather, you know.
Bas has expanded his repertoire since then. He makes all my important emails get caught in the spam filter, eats my socks (only the right sock, for some reason, and he favors patterned socks that can’t easily be paired with other sort-of-similar socks), and hides that thing I’ve been looking for. He also likes to put my flute in a different place every time I set it down, but I think that’s just because he doesn’t like my flute-playing, which, fair enough. You don’t have to be a spirit being of malicious mischief for that.
Truth be told, I’ve been impressed at the steady way in which Bas has been working to improve his skills. He’s been showing real initiative and discipline. I especially admired the way in which he recently caused two lightbulbs to burn out just after I’d put the ladder away after replacing three other bulbs that had been out for weeks. It’s Bas’s attention to detail that sets him apart from the other poltergeists.
He’ll go missing sometimes. It took a while for me to see the pattern, but once I started to look, I realized that, when I didn’t notice him around the apartment for a while, there would be odd stories on the news: one time after Bas disappeared, the Vice-President shot his friend in the face while duck-hunting. Another time not long ago, Bas vanished for a while and a British Petroleum oil well in the Gulf of Mexico exploded and started spewing oil uncontrollably. When Bas reappeared, he seemed particularly smug and put “It’s My Life” on loop for a week (longest week of my life).
Over the years, I’ve tried various techniques to overcome my poltergeist. Of course, I went with the ever-popular exorcism. This seemed to go well–no one’s head started spinning around, nothing caught on fire–until the end, when the priest turned to go and found that Bas had tied his shoelaces together. Subtle. The computer then started playing “You Give Love A Bad Name” without any apparent cause. Also, it turns out that holy water stains duvets. And Bas was still around.
I tried talk therapy, to see if there was some underlying issue we could resolve that would break this cycle of mischief. I would ask questions like “How does it feel when you inflict injury on others?” to a seemingly empty room. Then a crash would come from somewhere nearby, and I would run out to see a friend rolling around on the floor with a fork stuck in her foot, whimpering “It hurts!” And I would yank out the implement, clean up my friend, and stomp back to my room, muttering “You could have just mysteriously typed it on my computer screen, you know.”
Your Ghost Is a Gift (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In the end, I decided to embrace my poltergeist. Not literally, because I’m guessing that ectoplasm is even worse for fabrics than holy water is, but metaphorically. Bas is a poltergeist, and he’s mine. I check my email spam filter regularly, buy new socks to replace the ones he’s eaten and resign myself to listening to a lot of Bon Jovi. In return, Bas doesn’t blow up my apartment, and he stays out of the way when I’ve got a guy over. A poltergeist will do a lot for a woman who keeps him well-supplied with socks.
Picture of a Barbie doll (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I was playing with a friend’s kid the other day. She’s awesome and smart and cute and funny, but she likes to play with Barbies. She’s like I was at her age, though; she likes to shave their heads and pull off their arms and leave them lying naked and mutilated all around the house, so that’s all right. She also likes to dress up Ken in Barbie’s clothes (which will only go on him if you leave them unbuttoned, if you’re curious), which is a refinement of the art that was lost on the pre-teen Little Blind Girl. I was impressed.
She also likes to use props meant for other games and appropriate them for Barbie. One of the props she reassigned this time around was a wheelchair; Barbie had gotten in a car accident driving her convertible after taking her “evening soothers” (don’t ask) and had to trade in four wheels for two and kick it in a wheelchair for a while. This was fine until she got to her Dream House…and the wheelchair wouldn’t go in the door.
That’s right: Barbie’s Dream House is not handicapped-accessible. The imperfectly abled may not pass the threshold of Barbie’s home. Gimps and cripples must sleep outside. I was appalled at this message of intolerance and indifference to suffering that surrounds our children, insidiously infiltrating their still-forming minds and imparting a lasting disregard for the rights of others. We must stand up against this atrocity! Well, not Barbie, because she’s now enfeebled, but the rest of us must stand up!
And then I remembered that, if Barbie were a real person, her height would be 7’2, her weight would be 101 pounds, her bust would be 39FF, and both her head and her waist would be 19″ around, and I was like, screw it. Barbie can gimp it on the streets. I’m done wheeling her bony butt around. How’s that for a life lesson?
La Maldicion de la Bestia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
During movie night a while ago, a new friend was invited to join our sacred circle. Movie night for us involves finding the most cliched, predictable movies available and watching them while yelling insults, throwing things at the screen, drinking boxed wine, and eating horrifically unhealthy snacks. We don’t invite just anyone to join us while we do this. We make sure they have really good aim first. Then we make them buy the wine.
So we’re getting ready for movie night. We picked a werewolf movie, one of those where the werewolf is the love interest and there’s some sort of vague but agonizing destiny the lovers must overcome. We give bonus points to the movies if they contain gratuitous violence, so we had high hopes for this one. We like to take bets on how the movie is going to end before it even starts; winner picks the next movie. But the really important part about movie night is the snacks.
We’d been having movie night pretty regularly for a while, so we were operating at pro level. New Girl sat on the couch while the rest of us got the snacks ready. The key to enjoying movie night properly is to start out with decent wine. Then, when the spices have deadened your taste buds and the alcohol starts making its way into your system, switch to boxed wine. At that point, you won’t be able to tell the difference, and it’s much cheaper. Obviously, though, you have to choose spicy snacks to make this work properly. So my friends and I are taking out our supplies and putting together our snacks, all talking with each other and not really paying attention because we’ve done this so often. It went a little something like this:
Little Blind Girl: (Pulls out Nacho Cheesier Doritos bags) I predict that Werewolf Girl will have some sort of clan-approved Werewolf Mate that she’ll have to kill in order to be with Human Hottie.
Friend 1: (Heats up Texas Chili, Extra Hot, adding picante sauce) No, Werewolf Girl will be trying to deny her nature to be with Sanctimonious Loverboy, then she’ll go all wolfy and embrace her true destiny and kill the love interest.
Friend 2: (Adds Taco Seasoning to Texas Chili, Extra Hot; stirs) Yeah, and then she’ll be all consumed with remorse and fight her Wolf King brother, who’s been egging her on. She kills him and lopes off into the distance to be alone with her broken heart.
Friend 3: (Heats up storebought Nacho Dip, stirs in chunks of cheddar) No, she’ll bite Human Hottie and turn him into a werewolf. Then he goes all feral and kills her best friend, and then she has to kill him. Then she lopes off into the distance to be alone with her broken heart.
LBG: (adds chili-taco mix to Doritos bags, shakes enthusiastically, pours into large bowl) No, you’ve got to have the love triangle. Werewolf Mate tries to kill Human Hottie to try to get with Wolf Girl, then she kills Werewolf Mate in front of Human Hottie, who gets all traumatized and can’t look at her. Then she lopes off into the distance to be alone with her broken heart.
Friend 1: (pours cheese mixture over Chili Taco Doritos mix in bowl) Then Human Hottie finds her and convinces her that she can overcome her wolfy instincts and they can be together, and then they have a really awkwardly posed kiss and live happily ever after.
Friend 2: (dumps 2 tubs of sour cream over Cheese Chili Taco Dorito mix) You’re such a hopeless romantic! No. They have a really awkwardly posed kiss and then, as the screen fades to black, you hear a bunch of wolves starting to howl all around them.
Friend 3: (empties enormous tub of extra-spicy salsa over hot mess in bowl) No, no, no! After Wolf Girl lopes off into the distance to be alone with her broken heart, Human Hottie tries to follow her, despite being grievously wounded from his fight with Werewolf Mate. Just as he catches a glimpse of her and she looks at him, the moon comes out from behind the clouds and they realize they’re surrounded by the rest of the wolf clan. Cut to credits.
Friend 4: (scatters whole hot peppers throughout bowl, mixes up the hot mess, and reaches for the freaky hot green sauce) You know, maybe we should ask New Girl if she wants freaky hot green sauce on her Chili Taco Dorito Nachos. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea.
(We all look over at New Girl, who is staring in bewildered, uncomprehending horror at the Gigantic Bowl of Hot Mess on the kitchen table)
New Girl: Um, no, that’s okay, I think I’m just going to eat some fruit.
(Bewildered, uncomprehending horror from group of friends, which we cleverly cover with a change of topic)
LBG: So, New Girl, how do you think the movie will end?
New Girl: I think Wolf Girl and Human Hottie will have a movie night, eat Chili Taco Dorito Nachos, and immediately have fatal heart attacks.
(Pause)
LBG: I don’t remember seeing that in any of the promos.
Friend 1: Isn’t there a story where the heroine chokes on an apple?
Friend 2: That’s Snow White. No werewolves.
Friend 1: My point still stands.
Friend 3: What point would that be?
Friend 1: Never trust fruit. That stuff will kill you.
Turns out, movie night isn’t for everyone. But, you know, that just means more Chili Taco Dorito Nachos for the rest of us. I don’t remember how the movie ended or who won that particular round, which is usually the sign of a successful movie night. New Girl got over her horror and tried the nachos. I think I even had a slice of apple. But you don’t want to go overboard with that kind of thing. Aren’t apples what got us kicked out of the Garden of Eden in the first place?
Kurt Cobain (front) and Krist Novoselic (left) live at the 1992 MTV Video Music Awards. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I had occasion to hang out with some girls who are a bit younger than I am; I don’t want to admit how much younger because every time I try, I have to go sulk for a while and I want to get this blog post published tonight. We started out talking about current events, which went fine. I summarized world events and gave insightful and witty commentary, and the girls all nodded appreciatively because they had no idea what I was talking about. My favorite kind of audience.
I should add that, throughout the conversation, even when they were all talking excitedly to each other, they all had their cell phones out and were texting and surfing and twittering the entire time. They either have the most amazing abilities to concentrate on more than one conversation at once, or else they’re talking to me and simultaneously tweeting things like “Sky cloud sleeping greenly lol asdf qwerty #notreallypayingattention #godhelpthefuture”. I don’t know. I don’t really understand this Twitter thing.
Which brings me to tonight’s blog topic: I am not old! I’m not, really. It’s just these kids today, with their smart phones and their YouTube…did you know that MTV doesn’t play music videos anymore? I didn’t know that. I’m pretty sure I still wouldn’t have known that even if I owned a television. Oh, and no one actually uses a cell phone to call someone anymore. It’s all texting and tweeting. The only call I saw any of the girls get was from one of their parents.
One girl was typing away on her netbook (I think that’s what it was) and went to save her work, commenting “I’ve never understood why this icon means ‘save’. I don’t even know what it is.” I leaned over; it was the icon for a floppy disk. I tried really hard to not feel old. I was wearing low-rise jeans! And I was entitled to! You can’t do that and be old, right?
Then the conversation turned to our taste in music. I recognized at least half of the names they mentioned as their favorite artists, which was encouraging. Some of them even liked Adele and thought she was cool, and I was all “Me, too! Me too! Wow, you guys are awesome. We’re totally bonding.” Then I plucked up my courage and mentioned Kurt Cobain, musical genius and tortured soul, and how much I enjoy the body of work he left behind. Four blank stares and complete silence. Then, and I’m not kidding about this, one of them asked, “Who’s Kurt Cobain?”
And then I gave up. I’m old. I’d tweet it to the world if I knew how.
Vector drawing based on Image:Profanity.JPG English: swearing in cartoon Suomi: Kiroileva sarjakuvahahmo Nederlands: Schelden en vloeken in strips 粵語: 粗口 中文: 罵髒話 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Most of you who read my blog have never heard me swear. I’m a little sad about this, because I do it really well. By all accounts, I was born with a pronounced talent in that area, and I’ve honed that talent through many years of frustration, exasperation, and inappropriate overreaction. I can manage to swear in just about any context, though I try to keep it to a minimum during funerals.
For instance, I walked into the office the other day and, before I’d even taken off my coat and hung up my purse, I realized I’d forgotten to do something before I left home and let out a heartfelt “M@#*f%*#!” My officemate looked at me and said, “Really? That’s how you’re going to start the day?” I hung up my coat and purse and said, “You’re g@#d%*n right!” Without any warm-up at all. It was impressive.
I’ve been considering this for a while, and I’ve come to an important decision: I’ve decided to turn pro. Agents have been contacting me for a while with offers, and a number of sponsors have expressed interest. I’ve turned down several offers from HBO, though I was tempted. I just didn’t feel that I was ready yet. But now I think I’ve got my swearing to such a high level of consistency that I believe I’m ready for the spotlight. I feel good about this.
It’s been a long time coming. I’ve been competing in the amateur leagues since I was a teenager. In college, my profanity during the exam period reached legendary heights. They still tell stories about me to this day. My thesis on The Evolution of Expletives in Anglo-Saxon Literature has become the leading work in its field. Once I hit the workforce, the sheer complexity of my obscenity blew away the competition. Office meetings, conferences, late night projects; I cursed them all.
It’s time, I think. I wanted to share with all of you this important decision in my life. When you’re watching me at the Swearing and Hateful Imprecations Tournament, I want you all to know that your support is a big part of what has brought me this far. See you in the winner’s circle! You may want to bring your earplugs. I’m just that good.
Multiple choice questions being asked on Deal or No Deal, 2006. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s been a while since I did a quiz, so I thought I’d lay another one on you. Lately, I’ve been biting my tongue a lot and expending a lot of energy making myself do what I’m supposed to as opposed to what I want to do (example: what I want to do is watch all four Pirates of the Caribbean movies back to back. What I actually do is file my taxes). I think it’s taking its toll!
So here, gentle readers, is a quiz about some common situations with what I actually do in those situations, and you have to choose what you think I wanted to do! How well do you know your Little Blind Girl? Let’s find out:
A. The Little Blind Girl is walking home after work in the rain, being passed by car after car while trudging through every puddle on the sidewalk. One car deliberately drives close to the sidewalk and splashes through the water at the edge of the road, drenching the LBG. What the LBG does: sighs, shakes off the worst of the water, and keeps going. What does the LBG actually want to do in this situation?
B. On the way out of her apartment, the LBG passes her neighbor’s miniscule dog, which is tethered to a post by its leash. As usual, the dog starts barking like crazy the minute it sees the LBG, attempting to break its restraints and eviscerate her as a suspected malefactor. What the LBG does: hisses at the dog like she’s a cat. What does the LBG actually want to do?
C. The LBG receives a friend request on Facebook from someone she doesn’t know. Upon further investigation, it turns out that the person is her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend. What the LBG does: pretends not to notice the request. What does the LBG actually want to do?
D. The LBG is attempting to take care of some personal business. The person with whom she is dealing hands her a 22-page contract in eight point font, single-spaced, with half-inch margins and says, “Here, have a glance at this and then sign it.” What the LBG does: patiently explains that it’s not going to be possible for her to read it in its current format and requests a large-print version, taking secret satisfaction in the flummoxed expression on the man’s face. What does the LBG actually want to do?
Here are the answers: A, 1. B, 5. C, 3. D, 4. Ha! You were totally thinking the answer to the last question was 5. I am passive-aggressive, but I have dreams of being just plain aggressive. So how well did you do? Do you know your LBG? Post your results in the comments and let me know!
Title: "No, No! Not That Way" Location: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
So taxes are due again. There’s a reason death and taxes are so linked, and it’s not just because they’re both so reliable. Though, if you think about it, death only comes around once. But anyway, if you’re like me and you put things off until the absolute last second and then, when the last second pokes its head in the door and says “Hey, I’m here!” you throw a pillow at it and tell it to go away, then you’ll understand me when I complain to you about my deep and abiding hatred of all things tax-related.
I don’t just hate income tax, either. I resent sales tax. I seethe inwardly about restaurant tax. I mean, these things are supposed to go toward…I don’t know…keeping the roads paved and regulating businesses and stuff. I’m cool with the businesses getting regulated, probably because I don’t run a business. But the roads in my area are not particularly well-maintained, which makes me wonder where my money is going and why I’m paying it in the first place. It’s getting to the point where, when I see footage on television of one of those expensive fighter jets, I’ll shake my fist at the set and scream “You’re welcome!” Not really, but inside, you know?
But income taxes hold a special place in my personal hell. All the other kinds of taxes are at least light on paperwork, which is probably why I don’t make more of a fuss about them. Income taxes, though, I have to get all kinds of receipts and forms and statements for, and then I have to calculate my taxes several different ways so I know what kind of deduction I should take, and then I have to calculate them again because it seems like, even though I’ve got the same information to plug in, I get a different result every time. Then I give up and go online to TurboTax or some other program and shell out money so that a computer program can tell me what an idiot I’m being and get all the math right.
Charge calculations 4 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
And while we’re on the subject, does anyone out there understand tax math? It’s not like any other math I’ve ever encountered. It’s worse than trying to figure out who owes what on a shared phone bill. It’s like the rules of math get sucked into some kind of IRS wormhole so they get warped and distorted, and then when they come through the other side, 2+2 suddenly does not equal 4. I don’t understand.
I can face attempted burglary, attempted mugging, drunken groping in bars, crap at work, crap at home, crap randomly around town, and I’m like, whatevs. You’re gonna have to try harder than that. But taxes make me want to crawl into bed and wait until my mommy makes it go away, or maybe does it for me like she used to do with my science projects. She can make an awesome diorama. But, since I doubt the IRS people will accept a diorama in place of my tax return, I’m stuck in Grownupland with everyone else, with a desk full of papers, a bottle of painkillers, and one of those big, clunky calculators they use on TV when they want to show Serious Calculation being done. Is it too late to secede from adulthood?
Two friends (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I was talking with some friends the other day. We hadn’t spoken in a while, and we were comparing all the exciting developments in our lives. Friend #1, a gorgeous blonde who compounds the offense by being both smart and nice, says “I just gave birth to my third child!” This after posting a picture of herself on Facebook with said child while wearing a sheath dress and sporting a perfect tan. Hate her. No, I don’t.
Friend #2, a sexy dark-eyed brunette with lips people go through multiple painful surgeries to emulate, says “I just got promoted! I’m now running the company I started working for when we graduated from school!” I have her Christmas card in my apartment. It has a picture of her with her huge, loving, crazy, amazing family all mugging cheerfully for the camera while seated around a truly fantastic-looking dinner table. Hate her. No, I don’t. She sends me cookies.
Friend #3, another brunette with incredible light eyes that show up like stars against her dark skin, confides “It’s been four years since I was widowed. I thought I would never love again, but I’ve found someone wonderful, and we’re getting married this fall! It’s been a kind of miracle, the kids love him just as much as I do. I’m so glad they’ll have a father-figure they really care about.” Can’t hate her. Really happy for her.
So then they all ask me what’s been going on in my life. And there’s just nothing. I’ve been scrounging around in my brain during the entire conversation, trying to come up with something, and I’ve got nothing. What do I do? Make something up? Tell them about how I read the Hunger Games trilogy in one day? I’m on the spot, and having a bad hair day to boot, and I blurt out “My blog got Freshly Pressed!” Crickets. Well-meaning, supportive crickets, but crickets nevertheless. Finally, Friend #1 (and this is why I can’t hate her) says “That’s great that you’re still keeping a blog, honey! I’ve always thought that’s so brave.”
And I thought: That’s it, I’m going skydiving!
Shakespeare 'Chandos portrait' (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I was thinking there should be a blogger’s day, or maybe a WordPress online day of appreciation for those who put their close-kept thoughts and most dearly-held opinions online for the pleasure of people they’ve never so much as met. It takes a great deal of courage to say what you think and invite literally the entire world to read and comment on it. When you stop to consider it, it’s an extraordinarily powerful phenomenon.
Then I got all defensive on behalf of bloggers, thinking about the random vicious comments people make on blogs just because they can do it anonymously, and about all the blogs that are so passionate and into which people put so much work, but that are virtually ignored. Then, predictably, I got to adapting Shakespeare’s St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V in my head, which is the kind of thing I do when I get bored. And then, of course, I had to type it out and share it on my blog!
So here you are, fellow bloggers, readers, and commenters: my St. Blogger’s Day speech for you (it helps to imagine Kenneth Branagh delivering it):
And WordPress Holiday shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the ‘Net,
But we in it shall be remember’d–
We few, we happy few, we band of bloggers;
For he online that comments on my blog
shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
this blog shall respond to his comments;
and bloggers on WordPress now a-bed
shall think themselves accurs’d they weren’t online
and hold their bloghoods cheap whiles reading those
that blogged with us on WordPress Day!
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