Some things.

1. If I do not see Zombieland straight away, I might lose the ability to breathe. Zombies AND rollercoasters??? *heave* My only issue is that they did not make it in 3D. This must be remedied, You hear me, Columbia Pictures??? Hop to it. I'll be waiting with my 3D glasses on.
2. I love froot loops so very much.
3. My ipod touch is taking way too long to update. Blast!! It is also not allowing me to use my itunes giftcard. I have $14.01 in riches to fritter away spend on important business application upgrades and such. *UPDATE* after reading the stupid fine print on the stupid giftcard, I've found out that I can't buy applications with it. I feel irrationally angry about this.
4. The Lovesong of J.Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot still makes me weep like a little pantywaist (which technically I am, seeing as I always wear them. Ladies do). It also makes me want to roll up my trousers (and start calling pants, 'trousers'... or start calling panties, 'trouserettes' because hey- awesome new word. That would make me a trouserettewaist, which sounds a little like tourette's. Tourette'swaist sounds edgier.. like don't mess with THAT chick. See what I'm talking about? No Self, don't delete that last bit. It was solid blogging gold!). It also makes me want to paint the cat yellow.

Silence of the Yams

*LOUD OMINOUS THUMP*

6 year old: Um... I need some paper towel.

Me: Hurgh?

6 year old: The watermelon broke and it's leaking.

Me: The watermelon BROKE? How did the watermelon break?

6yo: I was going to wake you up with it.

Me: With a GIANT WATERMELON? How was that going to go down?

6yo: I was going to surprise you.

*silence*

And there it is. A watermelon laying on the floor, cracked open like a giant, delicious skull. That could have been me....

So my son plots against me with produce. I guess it IS a bad idea to buy him a potato cannon after all... or is it? Maybe I should nurture his interests. Good moms do that, right? Maybe I should be encouraging him to be a produce villain, maybe we should put in a garden for the young Lord Vitamin C so that he can pursue his ultimate goal of ruling the world through fruit violence. Lord knows if I don't support him, I may wake up one morning, impaled by some celery & cheeze whiz. Messy messy business.

That freakshow, Captain Vegetable had better be looking over his freakin' shoulder from now on, that's all I know.

This is still bugging me.

So the other day we went to the beach. It was a very nice day. Very nice weather. The same day that I ran up the hill, actually. Anyhow, we'd decided to all stumble around in the sand. The kids were finding shells and dismembered crab claws and garbage etc to stick in their pockets for me to find later and throw up.

Not too far from us, was a nice little family building a sand castle. Oh how delightful it was- until we wandered closer to them and found that the Father was like, the angry, jaded foreman of sandcastle building and his 3ish and 5ish year old crew members were just not making the cut. I'd say borderline ass on the line, almost fired if they didn't watch it.

Never in my life have I seen someone more frustrated at sandcastles being built unevenly by preschoolers:

"No no no, it's NOT STRAIGHT. We have to remake it", and he mashes down the new tower.

"No, it's not symmetrically lining up" Mash Mash

"That will never work!, COME ON! Line it up!"

"I SAID don't put the tower there!"

Among other confidence building statements.

Like, take a step back and a big breath of fresh air, guy. Mebbe count to 12 or something or picture baby chickens and rainbow unicorns for a minute or two. Was he worried that clients were watching? Was he worried that the Mike Holmes of sandcastle critique would pop out of a bush and criticize their shoddy workmanship and he'd never work in this town again? "Gee whiz there Buddy, if that's any indication of how you would build a real castle, you and your crew here are just not going to be able to work for our massive, global sand-home building enterprise. Better luck next time. It's a shame because you stood to make gajillions of dollars. We're also going to be filming a shameful exposé about the substandard work we see here today".


I dunno, Maybe that WAS the case. There were quite a few strangers there after all. Mike Holmes is pretty much everywhere. Him and Christopher Lloyd. Anyhow, the point is that I've finished publicly judging him and it was very cathartic for me.

Carry on.

Wikipedia is the opiate of the masses

I don't have to be smart anymore as long as I carry some kind of handheld device that will take me to wikipedia. My brain now has all kinds of room for other things that nonspecific knowledge used to take the place of. It's like an external hard drive for my mind.

What a load off. Now I can access the inner sanctum of my brain without all that clutter in the way and start being able to levitate objects just like that creepy blonde kid in "Escape to Witch Mountain".

But what will we do when the internet crashes and the it's the end of the world? How will we know how to rub sticks together without access to instant communal knowledge banks? Will we even know where to find sticks? How will we go off subject and find out all about the mating habits of owls and the Tudors.. then see how similar they might be? How will we follow directions without some weirdo on youtube showing us the gradual steps?

Huh? How? HOW?

Just a second... I'll check.

Note to Self:

Don't microwave your slippers again.
Love Self.


Dear Self,
You don't have to tell me twice.
From: Self.

Self, What gets the smell of melted rubber out of your microwave? -Self.

Self,
Try microwaving a lemon
Love Self

Self, Have you done that before? -Self.

Self,
No. Dummy.
Love Self.

Dear Self,
Look. they are supposed to be magic-bag microwavable slippers, OKAY?
Love Self.

Self- Yeah.. watch for those zippers next time. You nuke the INSERTS. Love from: Self.

Self- good tip. Love Self.

My baby girl was on the news :)

Clapping away at the Rollbots premiere.
AwwWWWwW!


In other news, it's Groundhog day. Here in Canada, if the groundhog sees his shadow, we'll get 6 to 74 more weeks of winter. If he comes out of his hole, freezes up and dies, then we'll get 6 to 74 more weeks of winter and some groundhog stew.

MyStERiOuSnESs....>>..>>S>>.

Guess what, Power Pals!

Someone snuck & shoveled my driveway while I sat on my duff at Boston Pizza this afternoon. I left home, ignoring the foot of snow that fell yesterday, fully expecting to have to come home and drive over it again and again until it was packed flat (and thusly, no longer a problem)- but when I got home, it was all gone, Readers! Magically! It might have been magic... Or perhaps there is something about going to Boston Pizza that causes people to feel charity toward me- since the last time Libby and I were there, a stranger bought us our Shirley Temples while we waited for take-out. I tell you, I thought of several other viable explanations until I spotted THIS on my driveway:

!1!!!!

Yep. See that? I know what you're thinking and you are on the right track. It was Scooby Doo. (Or a guy in a tiny bear costume...)

Mystery. Solved.

Stupid Animals.

Tell me this. Really. If you know, then tell me. Why exactly are we all so obsessed with the configuration of lumps and holes on the tops of our necks? Why do some of us scrimp & save our money for literally years to have the bumps and lumps increased or decreased by centimeters or even millimeters, while allowing other people on the planet to actually starve? The arrangement and hue of the long strands of dead cells that grow from the top of us and the need to remove the strands from other areas of our flesh fascinates us, but why? Is it our instinct to groom gone outrageously haywire?? We will even speculate about other sacks of bones & flesh, wondering if their protrusions have been voluntarily scraped off, bloated, rearranged or not. We sit and gossip while acting scandalized as we paint the dark circles from under our eyes with layer upon layer of foundation and concealer and powders... Pretty sneaky stuff, that makeup.

Which part of our brain forces us to obsess over this and decide which is the most physically desirable grouping of said lumps and holes? Surely not the same cerebral region that separates us from the beasts! We'll even break our bones to lessen the size of our noses. We'll happily inject chemicals into our lips and paralyze our foreheads or staple our wrinkles behind our ears- all to make them appear ever so slightly larger, smaller, smoother, younger or more 'rested looking' and we'll delightedly pay very dearly to have it done, even more if there is a reputable plastic urchin who can make it all look 'natural'.

How much can these things actually even matter on a grand scale? In the end, are we not still some of the ugliest, baldest bags of meat to occupy the earth? Think "Ashes, the hairless monkey." Gross, right? Or is it that somewhere, deep inside our psyche, we KNOW that we are even uglier than those fish with the light bulbs attached to their faces who lure curious prey to their eager chops, because they accept and embrace that bizarre appendage. Angler fish. That's what. (I didn't even have to google it- I just knew because I'm like a sponge full of useful information and ideas.)

What.

I know. She still looks hot. How depressing.