Apparently I just have Blog Fever today.
In a fit of total insanity, I have started a new blog over on Tumblr.
To be totally honest, despite my rather impassioned "competition" speech from earlier today, the thought having to come up with entire thematic entries that are worthy of posting, even if it is fueled by my psychotic desire to beat Sarah, was making me sweat in uncomfortable regions...
I am going to see if I am any funnier or more witty when taken in smaller doses.
Check it out and let me know what you think:
so-calledwriter.tumblr.com
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Girlfriend is goin' DOWN!
I wouldn't necessarily call myself a competitive person. I never really excelled at competitive sports (my poor mother who sat through two seasons of soccer games waiting to see if I made it off the bench can attest to this. Here's a hint: I didn't). I steer clear of Fourth of July pool volley ball games (where that same mother becomes a trash talking fiend). Truth be told, it is also a reason why I don't enjoy reality competitions like Top Model and Idol and the like (ignore for a moment that I adore project runway and gladiators), because I don't like seeing the monsters that people become when that competitive edge gets embedded deep into their soul.
However, I have come to realize that there are two major exceptions to my non-competitive state. 1) Sing Star and 2) Blogging.
Let's get that first one out of the way: I have only played it once, (ONCE!) but that was enough to make me dream about it at night and practice for in the car by day. Last night I dreamt that I was in an arcade in London (The Trocadero for those in the know) and that they had a large Sing Star machine, and I got up there to play against a stranger and a large crowd gathered round to chant my name and hoist me up on their shoulders. It is actually getting to the point that I might considering buying a video game system just to play sing star. That is just plain messed up. I hate video games. Because they are competitive and require hand eye coordination, which is not one of my skills (nor is hand, foot... hence the soccer bench warming). Regardless, let's just say that if I was to ever play you in Sing Star, I would murder you.
Now, as for #2. This is my dirty little secret. I only copped to it out loud for the first time yesterday while speaking to Ethan Cushing (www.ethancushing.com). About a month ago, ethan had challenged me to blog more often, and I agreed that it was probably a good idea, considering that I make money off of being a writer and I should be keeping my skills sharp. Also I have no hobbies. None. I don't even knit. So Blogging for a few minutes each day shouldn't really put a strain on the rest of my life activities. However, even after promising Ethan that I would blog with regularity, I felt uncompelled to do so. Until my friend Sarah did. (See Sarah Crosland's blog link on my sidebar.... just don't click it yet).
You see, Sarah and I are great buds. The best in fact. We were roommates for two years plus one summer. We can laugh about dumb, stupid things that no one else understands (Cheesy Delights!) and we speak a secret language of shared memories that will forever bond us in a most warm, loving way. Anyone who has lived with us or near us will tell you that our particular brand of togetherness can be downright exclusive and annoying... which just makes us that much more proud of it. Damn! Love that girl.
But, as it would happen, we are also both professional writers, which means, of course....
girlfriend is goin' down.
Understand, I don't mean to compete with Sarah. In fact, I shouldn't even bother. She is naturally funnier than I am (her self deprecation is so honed that it is like a fine art). Weird stuff happens to her like, daily, which makes for much better blog fodder (see the entry about her post man, and the part of her most recent entry that involves a man spitting peanut pieces on her on his way to rehab). Also, she went to journalism school which gives her blog a bit of professional credibility that mine just will never have. I've got a few big names on my resume, but she's got better job titles on hers. I have a few more published years than she does, but that just means that she caught up with me in less time, which gives her the edge again. There is even one magazine that we BOTH write for, and her name goes above mine in the masthead (that might have something to do with it being alphabetical.... but still!) As you can see, despite my deep unabiding love for this girl, I have these bubbling feelings of competitive rage and there is only one logical place for me to let them have their day: the blogosphere.
My blogs will never be as funny or readable as hers are, and I won't waste my key strokes trying to beat her there. No, this is about sheer quantity. Everytime I see that she has put up a new post, I feel compelled to immediately sit down and hammer out my own. And UGH! when she gets TWO up before I get up my next one it makes me want punch a wall! Like a dude! So yes Ethan. I will post more often. But not because I am inspired by creativity.... but because I am determined to stay pace for pace, post for post with Sarah Crosland until I have blogged her into submission.
If you are still reading this... thank you. Because I am assuming that most of you clicked on Sarah's blog a few paragraphs ago and never came back. You are probably going to want to bookmark her blog instead of mine. It's alright. No one can blame you. She is also like 5'10" blond and gorgeous, so you know. Ugh. (Love her though. seriously. besties forever.)
*** For those of you interested in following this one-sided (at least so far it is one sided... she hasn't read this yet) fight, you might be interested to know that starting Saturday, Sarah and I will be sharing one hotel internet connection for an entire week, which means that if we are going to competiblog, we will actually have to shove each other out of the way to access the computer to do it. This could get interesting, very very quickly.***
However, I have come to realize that there are two major exceptions to my non-competitive state. 1) Sing Star and 2) Blogging.
Let's get that first one out of the way: I have only played it once, (ONCE!) but that was enough to make me dream about it at night and practice for in the car by day. Last night I dreamt that I was in an arcade in London (The Trocadero for those in the know) and that they had a large Sing Star machine, and I got up there to play against a stranger and a large crowd gathered round to chant my name and hoist me up on their shoulders. It is actually getting to the point that I might considering buying a video game system just to play sing star. That is just plain messed up. I hate video games. Because they are competitive and require hand eye coordination, which is not one of my skills (nor is hand, foot... hence the soccer bench warming). Regardless, let's just say that if I was to ever play you in Sing Star, I would murder you.
Now, as for #2. This is my dirty little secret. I only copped to it out loud for the first time yesterday while speaking to Ethan Cushing (www.ethancushing.com). About a month ago, ethan had challenged me to blog more often, and I agreed that it was probably a good idea, considering that I make money off of being a writer and I should be keeping my skills sharp. Also I have no hobbies. None. I don't even knit. So Blogging for a few minutes each day shouldn't really put a strain on the rest of my life activities. However, even after promising Ethan that I would blog with regularity, I felt uncompelled to do so. Until my friend Sarah did. (See Sarah Crosland's blog link on my sidebar.... just don't click it yet).
You see, Sarah and I are great buds. The best in fact. We were roommates for two years plus one summer. We can laugh about dumb, stupid things that no one else understands (Cheesy Delights!) and we speak a secret language of shared memories that will forever bond us in a most warm, loving way. Anyone who has lived with us or near us will tell you that our particular brand of togetherness can be downright exclusive and annoying... which just makes us that much more proud of it. Damn! Love that girl.
But, as it would happen, we are also both professional writers, which means, of course....
girlfriend is goin' down.
Understand, I don't mean to compete with Sarah. In fact, I shouldn't even bother. She is naturally funnier than I am (her self deprecation is so honed that it is like a fine art). Weird stuff happens to her like, daily, which makes for much better blog fodder (see the entry about her post man, and the part of her most recent entry that involves a man spitting peanut pieces on her on his way to rehab). Also, she went to journalism school which gives her blog a bit of professional credibility that mine just will never have. I've got a few big names on my resume, but she's got better job titles on hers. I have a few more published years than she does, but that just means that she caught up with me in less time, which gives her the edge again. There is even one magazine that we BOTH write for, and her name goes above mine in the masthead (that might have something to do with it being alphabetical.... but still!) As you can see, despite my deep unabiding love for this girl, I have these bubbling feelings of competitive rage and there is only one logical place for me to let them have their day: the blogosphere.
My blogs will never be as funny or readable as hers are, and I won't waste my key strokes trying to beat her there. No, this is about sheer quantity. Everytime I see that she has put up a new post, I feel compelled to immediately sit down and hammer out my own. And UGH! when she gets TWO up before I get up my next one it makes me want punch a wall! Like a dude! So yes Ethan. I will post more often. But not because I am inspired by creativity.... but because I am determined to stay pace for pace, post for post with Sarah Crosland until I have blogged her into submission.
If you are still reading this... thank you. Because I am assuming that most of you clicked on Sarah's blog a few paragraphs ago and never came back. You are probably going to want to bookmark her blog instead of mine. It's alright. No one can blame you. She is also like 5'10" blond and gorgeous, so you know. Ugh. (Love her though. seriously. besties forever.)
*** For those of you interested in following this one-sided (at least so far it is one sided... she hasn't read this yet) fight, you might be interested to know that starting Saturday, Sarah and I will be sharing one hotel internet connection for an entire week, which means that if we are going to competiblog, we will actually have to shove each other out of the way to access the computer to do it. This could get interesting, very very quickly.***
Monday, January 14, 2008
Yes. This is a post about Jessica Simpson.
Okay - so. I've never been a J-Simp fan. (With the exception of her gorgeous Vera Wang wedding gown, which I did covet for many years.)I definitely am on "Team Nick" when it comes to her divorce, and good for him for finding love with a woman who doesn't want their entire courtship and marriage to be captured on MTv (also, I blame Newlyweds for all of the quasi-scripted, relationship-heavy reality crap that now clogs much of basic cable). However, I feel the poor gal has been dealt an unfair hand.
No, I am not talking about the Tony Romo Curse (though seriously dude, vacay with your paparazzi-stalked girlfriend days before a major playoff game? Not your smartest play.), and I am not talking about how her sister got a nose job and turned out to be hotter than her (how much does THAT suck). What I am talking about is the bum rap she's gotten for her latest box-office effort, Blonde Ambition.
No. I haven't seen it. No, I don't plan to (unless it airs on TV one day and I have nothing better to do. This is also how I ended up seeing Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen). No, I am not saying that maybe critics have been too harsh, I am sure it is crap. I can't really vouch for Jessica's acting chops (other than the acting she may or may not have been doing on Newlyweds). I never saw Dukes of Hazzard or Employee of the Month or anything that she is in.
So Jenn, you ask, what is your point? My point is this: EVERY gossip blog and magazine from one coast to the other has given her a load of guff about how her movie was only open on 8 screens in Texas and made less money in one weekend than a teenager working minimum wage at Jimmy John's Gourmet Subs. But they neglect to mention that Jessica was NOT the only person to make the poor decision to be in this Daddy Simpson-produced monstrosity.
Just take a gander at Blonde Ambition's IMDB page. Go ahead. I'll wait here.
Actually, I'm gonna grab a Perrier, but I'll be here when you get back.
Okay, am I right?
There are like at least four other legit actors in that movie!
Where is their verbal lashing?
Where is their public castration?
Memo to the following actors/actresses: As dear old Stevie C. would say, I am putting you ON NOTICE!
Luke Wilson
Did he get confused and think this was Legally Blonde 3: Blonde Ambition? I mean, I can see how that might happen, it seems like a likely title. Perhaps he has a clause in his contract that says he will appear in "all Blonde movies", thinking it was shorthand for Legally Blonde sequels, but not realizing it would make him liable for this as well. Could happen. Does this mean he should be forgiven for appearing in this movie.... ehh... not so much. You were in Old School. Sack up and try to salvage a little credibility before you end up taking the role Jason Lee turns down for Chipmunks 2 (assuming Lee turns it down. JASON LEE, TURN IT DOWN! Do you hear me?)
Rachel Leigh Cook
Okay, not a major star, but someone with a little bit of established indie cred.... Wait, what's that? That was her in Josie and the Pussycats? Oh. Okay. Nevermind then. Wait! But wait. She was in the Babysitters Club Movie, and starred in Dawson's first full length feature film on Dawson's Creek, so that counts as credibility in my book.
Andy Dick
Now, not really an actor or credible person in any sense of the word (even though yes, he too was also in Old School, but in the only scene I find unwatchable), but why then isn't HE being blamed for the unsuccessfulness of this movie? Why aren't we pinning this failure on the complete psychotic mess that is Andy Dick instead of making Jessica bear all the weight of failure? That just doesn't seem fair.
Penelope Ann Miller
Her IMDB resume lets me know that she was on The Facts of Life, Family Ties AND she played Winnie in Big Top Pee Wee, one of my favorite childhood movies. So, we are thus going to count her as credible as well. (She has also appeared and will appear in The Closer and Saving Grace, which I am to understand are big time hits on cable, "Especially for shows that are centered around a female character!"... I am far too bored by the previews to watch either of them. Sorry Sister Sufferagette. I have let you down.)
Drew Fuller
Adult Chris from Charmed!!! How could you. True, that decision to team up with Little Miss Sunshine for that tear jerker "last day before I die" type movie probably was the first sign that you don't know how to manage a film career. But, honestly, I expected more from you and your blue blue, oh so blue eyes.
So, my point here - Jessica isn't the only star who should be shouldering the blame for this cinematic dung-pile, so give the girl an f-ing break.
Also, I need to put Big Top Pee Wee in my Netflix Queue.
No, I am not talking about the Tony Romo Curse (though seriously dude, vacay with your paparazzi-stalked girlfriend days before a major playoff game? Not your smartest play.), and I am not talking about how her sister got a nose job and turned out to be hotter than her (how much does THAT suck). What I am talking about is the bum rap she's gotten for her latest box-office effort, Blonde Ambition.
No. I haven't seen it. No, I don't plan to (unless it airs on TV one day and I have nothing better to do. This is also how I ended up seeing Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen). No, I am not saying that maybe critics have been too harsh, I am sure it is crap. I can't really vouch for Jessica's acting chops (other than the acting she may or may not have been doing on Newlyweds). I never saw Dukes of Hazzard or Employee of the Month or anything that she is in.
So Jenn, you ask, what is your point? My point is this: EVERY gossip blog and magazine from one coast to the other has given her a load of guff about how her movie was only open on 8 screens in Texas and made less money in one weekend than a teenager working minimum wage at Jimmy John's Gourmet Subs. But they neglect to mention that Jessica was NOT the only person to make the poor decision to be in this Daddy Simpson-produced monstrosity.
Just take a gander at Blonde Ambition's IMDB page. Go ahead. I'll wait here.
Actually, I'm gonna grab a Perrier, but I'll be here when you get back.
Okay, am I right?
There are like at least four other legit actors in that movie!
Where is their verbal lashing?
Where is their public castration?
Memo to the following actors/actresses: As dear old Stevie C. would say, I am putting you ON NOTICE!
Luke Wilson
Did he get confused and think this was Legally Blonde 3: Blonde Ambition? I mean, I can see how that might happen, it seems like a likely title. Perhaps he has a clause in his contract that says he will appear in "all Blonde movies", thinking it was shorthand for Legally Blonde sequels, but not realizing it would make him liable for this as well. Could happen. Does this mean he should be forgiven for appearing in this movie.... ehh... not so much. You were in Old School. Sack up and try to salvage a little credibility before you end up taking the role Jason Lee turns down for Chipmunks 2 (assuming Lee turns it down. JASON LEE, TURN IT DOWN! Do you hear me?)
Rachel Leigh Cook
Okay, not a major star, but someone with a little bit of established indie cred.... Wait, what's that? That was her in Josie and the Pussycats? Oh. Okay. Nevermind then. Wait! But wait. She was in the Babysitters Club Movie, and starred in Dawson's first full length feature film on Dawson's Creek, so that counts as credibility in my book.
Andy Dick
Now, not really an actor or credible person in any sense of the word (even though yes, he too was also in Old School, but in the only scene I find unwatchable), but why then isn't HE being blamed for the unsuccessfulness of this movie? Why aren't we pinning this failure on the complete psychotic mess that is Andy Dick instead of making Jessica bear all the weight of failure? That just doesn't seem fair.
Penelope Ann Miller
Her IMDB resume lets me know that she was on The Facts of Life, Family Ties AND she played Winnie in Big Top Pee Wee, one of my favorite childhood movies. So, we are thus going to count her as credible as well. (She has also appeared and will appear in The Closer and Saving Grace, which I am to understand are big time hits on cable, "Especially for shows that are centered around a female character!"... I am far too bored by the previews to watch either of them. Sorry Sister Sufferagette. I have let you down.)
Drew Fuller
Adult Chris from Charmed!!! How could you. True, that decision to team up with Little Miss Sunshine for that tear jerker "last day before I die" type movie probably was the first sign that you don't know how to manage a film career. But, honestly, I expected more from you and your blue blue, oh so blue eyes.
So, my point here - Jessica isn't the only star who should be shouldering the blame for this cinematic dung-pile, so give the girl an f-ing break.
Also, I need to put Big Top Pee Wee in my Netflix Queue.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
"This would be the third best thing. Having a baby. Gettin' Married. And Whoopin' his Ass."
As an avid Tivo addict, there is perhaps no one as distraught by the persisting writer's strike than I. In preparation for the months ahead I have ambitiously amped up my Netflix cue, easily forgetting the fact that I kept a copy of Dead Poet's Society for 4 and a half months and then mailed it back covered in dust without even watching it.
However, I have managed to find one completely supercalifragilisticexpialamazing upside to the strike: The return of American Gladiators to broadcast television.
I cannot even count the hours of my youth that were spent watching two blissful, back to back hours of American Gladitors on USA (10am to 12pm). Every morning of my summers I was greeted with a buffet of awesomely bad TV... Gladiators followed by such gems as My Two Dads, Major Dad, Just the Ten of Us, Facts of Life and, of course, Parker Lewis Can't Lose. The bowls of velveeta shells that were consumed... the many sunny afternoons that could have been spent outside... Childhood doesn't get much better than that.
So please, try to imagine my glee as I watched, in complete awe, as 5 foot 4 inch contestant Venus practically had a heart attack on the eliminator which now features A TWENTY FOOT SWIM UNDERWATER WHILE FLAMES BLAST OVER YOUR HEAD (???!!!) The Gladiators are more terrifying (by a long shot) and the contestants, from what I can tell, might actually possess some athletic talent (Anthony the Fire Fighter kicked that swinging bridge's ass). Who ever the television executive was that risked his career by proposing a renaissance of American Gladitors as the next reality television sensation - kudos my friend. I hate reality television (except for anything on HGTV and Bravo. Those don't count.) And now, I am officially going to TIVO reality TV on NBC.
Justice, Titan, Big Bad Wolf, Crush, Venom, Fury, Stealth,Mayhem - welcome to my living room. I am f-ing psyched to see you.
And, just for funsies, here is my list of Truly Terrifying Gladiator Names that didn't quite make the cut:
Hymen
Menses
Bosom
Pex
8-Pac
The Dude
Roids
Hernia
Tanorexia
‘Stache
Homeland Security
Mr. Jiggles (The Clown, obviously)
Hangnail
Peroxide
Atomic Wedgie
Botox
The Clap
However, I have managed to find one completely supercalifragilisticexpialamazing upside to the strike: The return of American Gladiators to broadcast television.
I cannot even count the hours of my youth that were spent watching two blissful, back to back hours of American Gladitors on USA (10am to 12pm). Every morning of my summers I was greeted with a buffet of awesomely bad TV... Gladiators followed by such gems as My Two Dads, Major Dad, Just the Ten of Us, Facts of Life and, of course, Parker Lewis Can't Lose. The bowls of velveeta shells that were consumed... the many sunny afternoons that could have been spent outside... Childhood doesn't get much better than that.
So please, try to imagine my glee as I watched, in complete awe, as 5 foot 4 inch contestant Venus practically had a heart attack on the eliminator which now features A TWENTY FOOT SWIM UNDERWATER WHILE FLAMES BLAST OVER YOUR HEAD (???!!!) The Gladiators are more terrifying (by a long shot) and the contestants, from what I can tell, might actually possess some athletic talent (Anthony the Fire Fighter kicked that swinging bridge's ass). Who ever the television executive was that risked his career by proposing a renaissance of American Gladitors as the next reality television sensation - kudos my friend. I hate reality television (except for anything on HGTV and Bravo. Those don't count.) And now, I am officially going to TIVO reality TV on NBC.
Justice, Titan, Big Bad Wolf, Crush, Venom, Fury, Stealth,Mayhem - welcome to my living room. I am f-ing psyched to see you.
And, just for funsies, here is my list of Truly Terrifying Gladiator Names that didn't quite make the cut:
Hymen
Menses
Bosom
Pex
8-Pac
The Dude
Roids
Hernia
Tanorexia
‘Stache
Homeland Security
Mr. Jiggles (The Clown, obviously)
Hangnail
Peroxide
Atomic Wedgie
Botox
The Clap
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thank you Pop Candy!
I wanted to say a quick thanks to Whitney and the Pop Candy readers for stopping by my blog. Now that I know that I have greater readership than just my college roomie (hi Sarah!), my L.A. buddy Ethan (hi Cush!) and my aunt (hi Nancy!) I will start posting with a bit more urgency! Stay tuned for my next post, live to you from Metamora, Illinois (don't know exactly where that is? yeah, me either.)
I'll post soon! Thanks again for making me the reader of the day, Whit! My 15 minutes of internet fame was delicious!
I'll post soon! Thanks again for making me the reader of the day, Whit! My 15 minutes of internet fame was delicious!
Monday, December 17, 2007
A word from our sponsors
A few years back I blogged about my dislike for some of the products that companies like to hawk for Valentines day, namely, hideous heart-shaped jewelry that should have been taken off the production line around the time that Back to the Future Part II came out. (Speaking of which, where the hell is my hover conversion, Doc?) Well, my animosity for that stupid cupid-inspired necklace pales in comparison to the harsh feelings I am currently harboring. Before I delve into my current complaints, let me give you a little bit of background.
I have Tivo. I love my Tivo. I love my Tivo a little too much. And I am sure that if you have a Tivo, you understand where I am coming from. I was not an early adopter of the Tivo. I laughed and scoffed and belittled those who were so television obsessed that they had to purchase this pricey device to record live TV. "How frivilous!" I thought. But then, upon my move to Chicago, I was told by the nice customer service agent at Direct TV that I could have a Tivo box for free with my service, and all I had to do was pay a few extra dollars a month for the package. Seemed simple and harmless enough, also, I was entering into my first full time job in the real world and I smartly realized that I may not be able to do normal things like catch Gilmore Girls in real time as it was airing anymore. "This is a sensible decision." I congratulated myself.
Well, if you have a Tivo, you know what happened next. First it was The West Wing marathon Mondays on Bravo. Then it was the Daily Show which I had always been meaning to start watching. Then it was episodes of One Tree Hill that I could fast forward through looking for any appearances by Lee Norris. Then it was the old episodes of Gilmore Girls that ran as reruns on ABC family in ADDITION to the new episodes on the WB. Not to mention the stand by must see's like Lost and 24, and new shows that normally I never would have had time to consider, but hey! They were recording all by themselves! No pressure.
I was addicted. And it was glorious.
Now another fantastic side effect of Tivo addiction is that you don't have to watch commercials anymore, obviously a plus. But there is a hidden, nasty side effect that no one bothers to tell you about.... on the rare occasions that you actually watch live TV, the commercials become absolutely intolerable. Never before had I realized how many gratingly terrible commercials there are on the air. I find that it is somewhat comparable to living in a city like Los Angeles or Chicago that has smoke free bars and then coming home to North Carolina and realizing just how stomach churning and putrid it is to spend your evening standing in a cloud of second hand smoke. Now, this has brought me back around to the original purpose of this post: to bitch about some truly horrendous commercials. I have a feeling that this is a list that may grow in its scope on a daily basis, so this may be just the beginning of a truly epic rant.
Here it goes:
"Brain Training" video games for aging adults.
You know the one. Two men with their wives meet on the street. "Honey, this is Bill, we went to high school together!" "Oh yeah, honey this is uh... uh...uh... uh... uh... uh... uh..." That ear splitting echo effect while the dufus just stands their with his mouth hanging open. First of all, any good spouse would jump right in and introduce herself and save her husband the humiliation of standing there slack jawed, secondly, these video games are nonsense. Have you seen the other one that supposedly trains your periphreal vision? Because obviously the best way to train the outer corners of your visual field is to stare at a 3 inch screen that is right in front of your face. Unless you decide to actually hold your gameboy out to the side of your head and try to play the game, you aren't doing jack for your periphrial vision. End o' story. Then there is the one with the elementary math problems that flash across the screen followed by the haunting computerized face of a man asking "Does looking at these numbers give you a headache?" No, but your creepy face just gave me nightmares.
Related Offenses: Miracle drugs with a fake doctor wearing a lab coat who vouches for their medically proven effectiveness. Aside from being total crap, these commercials truly concern me as there are plenty of people in this country who need serious medical help but are afraid to seek it, and instead spend hundreds of dollars ordering "miracle" drugs off of the television and probably endanger their health even further. Also, any doctor worth his degree would never go on a commercial to lend their name to a product like this. If they truly did support it they would just tell their patients about it one on one, as a doctor recommendation.
Any commercial featuring a man being overly proud of himself for purchasing a "Journey" diamond necklace, or any woman who looks touched and honored to have received one.
Yes, this complaint is similarily related to my hatred for the heart pendant, but actually, I think this one is worse. A Journey diamond necklace is made up of, typically, SEVEN diamonds. Seven whole, sparkly diamonds arranged in one soul-chewing DNA-strand shape. There are SO MANY ways that those seven diamonds could be put to better use. SEVEN! DIAMONDS! AT least one or two of which are actually quite large in size! Those poor diamonds could have been made into beautiful stud earrings and a three-stone ring and STILL had diamonds left over. They could have adorned a simple, thin cuff bracelet. They would even have been better off as a brooch. But instead, they met the fate of so many other diamonds... destined only to be set inside a cliche of affection. If that weren't bad enough, there are at least two commercials per jeweler on the air RIGHT NOW that do nothing but extol the perfection of this incredibly unattractive piece of jewelry. Men, slapping high five on their way out of a Kay Jewelers, Journey necklace safely inside their little Kay bag. Man, declaring "surrender" to the snowball attack by his wife and kids by waving the jewelry bag from behind a bush, causing his wife to weaken in the knees ( in her defense, she didn't know what was inside the bag. She might have been hoping for that cuff bracelet). I could go on, but it is just too depressing to chronicle all the many different instances in which this truly terrible jewelry design has been exalted.
Related offenses: "He went to JARED!" - enough said.
TJ Maxx "Moment" commercials
These are the commercials featuring a woman being so overcome with joy about the deal she just got on some last season designer clothes that she inappropriately blurts out her accomplishment of frugality in front of an audience of people who don't give a crap. There is several things wrong with these commercials. First of all, all women know that the true joy that one experiences upon finding a great deal is contingent upon people thinking that you paid full price. There is nothing more satisfying that hearing someone say "Oh my gosh, great bag!" and you saying, "Thanks! I snagged it on clearance at Target and it has become one of my favorites!" Not only does this make you seem style saavy and money-smart, it makes the complimenter instantly envious that something they just sincerely coveted was as cheap as it is adorable. Some women are even known not to ever reveal that they got something discounted, no matter how many people ask "Where did you get that!" They do this not out of shame but so that they and they alone can revel in the pleasure of knowing they scored such a find. But no woman, and I mean NO woman would ever PRE-announce that something was super cheap before anyone has had the chance to tell her that they like it. That is like telling your boss that you had a hangover and therefore only spent 15 minutes working on the presentation you are about to give, eliminating any chance that someone is going to be impressed, but increasing your chances of someone looking at your presentation and saying, "Well, yes, that looks like you spent about 15 minutes on it after waking up face down in the bathroom." If you tell someone that you got something cheap or off season, that is what they will see when they look at it, and therefore you have to take any compliments that come after such an admission to be total lies.
Related offense: Have you ever noticed the reaction from the other people who have to bear witness to the crazy lady freaking out over her cheap clothes? There are two versions of this commercial that I have seen, one with a classroom full of children and one with an auditorium full of adults trying to watch their children's christmas pageant. In both instances, the sea of faces looking up at the bat-shit nuts woman all have the expression of total disbelief, disinterest, and/or total embarassment for the apparent fit of insanity that she seems to be experiencing. Now, call me crazy, but if I was trying to advertise how awesome my discounted prices are, I would ask that the reaction from the crowd in the commercials be one of elation, excitement or at least feigned interest, wouldn't you?
The Yoplait "Dieter Desserts" commercial
This is the little diddy featuring the woman who would like to have all her pants taken in at the waist because of all "desserts" she has been indulging in. The premise could have been tolerable - white chocolate strawberries and apple turnovers that make you skinny! oh ha ha! how clever! - except for the fact that they decided to make it into a running joke that goes on interminably. "So you mean you want your pants let out?" "No, in." "You mean out." "No, in." "I don't understand." "Take them in." "But you said." "I want them taken in." JESUS woman! Just tell her you were talking about yogurt! The joke has died! You killed it. Repeatedly.
Related offense: If you are craving a hot apple turnover from McDonalds, a 80-calorie container of artificially flavored yogurt is not going to help you. It will, however, leave a really nasty aftertaste of aspartame in your mouth, which in order to get rid of it, you will have to eat at least two other things to cancel out the flavor. Sorry to destroy the dream.
You would be shocked, and I imagine somewhat disturbed, to know how many other commercials I could go on about in this post. For your sake, and my sanity, I will stop here. But rest assured that I will be keeping my eye out for more offenses of the advertising variety, and I may even keep my finger off the fast forward button on my Tivo just for funsies.
I have Tivo. I love my Tivo. I love my Tivo a little too much. And I am sure that if you have a Tivo, you understand where I am coming from. I was not an early adopter of the Tivo. I laughed and scoffed and belittled those who were so television obsessed that they had to purchase this pricey device to record live TV. "How frivilous!" I thought. But then, upon my move to Chicago, I was told by the nice customer service agent at Direct TV that I could have a Tivo box for free with my service, and all I had to do was pay a few extra dollars a month for the package. Seemed simple and harmless enough, also, I was entering into my first full time job in the real world and I smartly realized that I may not be able to do normal things like catch Gilmore Girls in real time as it was airing anymore. "This is a sensible decision." I congratulated myself.
Well, if you have a Tivo, you know what happened next. First it was The West Wing marathon Mondays on Bravo. Then it was the Daily Show which I had always been meaning to start watching. Then it was episodes of One Tree Hill that I could fast forward through looking for any appearances by Lee Norris. Then it was the old episodes of Gilmore Girls that ran as reruns on ABC family in ADDITION to the new episodes on the WB. Not to mention the stand by must see's like Lost and 24, and new shows that normally I never would have had time to consider, but hey! They were recording all by themselves! No pressure.
I was addicted. And it was glorious.
Now another fantastic side effect of Tivo addiction is that you don't have to watch commercials anymore, obviously a plus. But there is a hidden, nasty side effect that no one bothers to tell you about.... on the rare occasions that you actually watch live TV, the commercials become absolutely intolerable. Never before had I realized how many gratingly terrible commercials there are on the air. I find that it is somewhat comparable to living in a city like Los Angeles or Chicago that has smoke free bars and then coming home to North Carolina and realizing just how stomach churning and putrid it is to spend your evening standing in a cloud of second hand smoke. Now, this has brought me back around to the original purpose of this post: to bitch about some truly horrendous commercials. I have a feeling that this is a list that may grow in its scope on a daily basis, so this may be just the beginning of a truly epic rant.
Here it goes:
"Brain Training" video games for aging adults.
You know the one. Two men with their wives meet on the street. "Honey, this is Bill, we went to high school together!" "Oh yeah, honey this is uh... uh...uh... uh... uh... uh... uh..." That ear splitting echo effect while the dufus just stands their with his mouth hanging open. First of all, any good spouse would jump right in and introduce herself and save her husband the humiliation of standing there slack jawed, secondly, these video games are nonsense. Have you seen the other one that supposedly trains your periphreal vision? Because obviously the best way to train the outer corners of your visual field is to stare at a 3 inch screen that is right in front of your face. Unless you decide to actually hold your gameboy out to the side of your head and try to play the game, you aren't doing jack for your periphrial vision. End o' story. Then there is the one with the elementary math problems that flash across the screen followed by the haunting computerized face of a man asking "Does looking at these numbers give you a headache?" No, but your creepy face just gave me nightmares.
Related Offenses: Miracle drugs with a fake doctor wearing a lab coat who vouches for their medically proven effectiveness. Aside from being total crap, these commercials truly concern me as there are plenty of people in this country who need serious medical help but are afraid to seek it, and instead spend hundreds of dollars ordering "miracle" drugs off of the television and probably endanger their health even further. Also, any doctor worth his degree would never go on a commercial to lend their name to a product like this. If they truly did support it they would just tell their patients about it one on one, as a doctor recommendation.
Any commercial featuring a man being overly proud of himself for purchasing a "Journey" diamond necklace, or any woman who looks touched and honored to have received one.
Yes, this complaint is similarily related to my hatred for the heart pendant, but actually, I think this one is worse. A Journey diamond necklace is made up of, typically, SEVEN diamonds. Seven whole, sparkly diamonds arranged in one soul-chewing DNA-strand shape. There are SO MANY ways that those seven diamonds could be put to better use. SEVEN! DIAMONDS! AT least one or two of which are actually quite large in size! Those poor diamonds could have been made into beautiful stud earrings and a three-stone ring and STILL had diamonds left over. They could have adorned a simple, thin cuff bracelet. They would even have been better off as a brooch. But instead, they met the fate of so many other diamonds... destined only to be set inside a cliche of affection. If that weren't bad enough, there are at least two commercials per jeweler on the air RIGHT NOW that do nothing but extol the perfection of this incredibly unattractive piece of jewelry. Men, slapping high five on their way out of a Kay Jewelers, Journey necklace safely inside their little Kay bag. Man, declaring "surrender" to the snowball attack by his wife and kids by waving the jewelry bag from behind a bush, causing his wife to weaken in the knees ( in her defense, she didn't know what was inside the bag. She might have been hoping for that cuff bracelet). I could go on, but it is just too depressing to chronicle all the many different instances in which this truly terrible jewelry design has been exalted.
Related offenses: "He went to JARED!" - enough said.
TJ Maxx "Moment" commercials
These are the commercials featuring a woman being so overcome with joy about the deal she just got on some last season designer clothes that she inappropriately blurts out her accomplishment of frugality in front of an audience of people who don't give a crap. There is several things wrong with these commercials. First of all, all women know that the true joy that one experiences upon finding a great deal is contingent upon people thinking that you paid full price. There is nothing more satisfying that hearing someone say "Oh my gosh, great bag!" and you saying, "Thanks! I snagged it on clearance at Target and it has become one of my favorites!" Not only does this make you seem style saavy and money-smart, it makes the complimenter instantly envious that something they just sincerely coveted was as cheap as it is adorable. Some women are even known not to ever reveal that they got something discounted, no matter how many people ask "Where did you get that!" They do this not out of shame but so that they and they alone can revel in the pleasure of knowing they scored such a find. But no woman, and I mean NO woman would ever PRE-announce that something was super cheap before anyone has had the chance to tell her that they like it. That is like telling your boss that you had a hangover and therefore only spent 15 minutes working on the presentation you are about to give, eliminating any chance that someone is going to be impressed, but increasing your chances of someone looking at your presentation and saying, "Well, yes, that looks like you spent about 15 minutes on it after waking up face down in the bathroom." If you tell someone that you got something cheap or off season, that is what they will see when they look at it, and therefore you have to take any compliments that come after such an admission to be total lies.
Related offense: Have you ever noticed the reaction from the other people who have to bear witness to the crazy lady freaking out over her cheap clothes? There are two versions of this commercial that I have seen, one with a classroom full of children and one with an auditorium full of adults trying to watch their children's christmas pageant. In both instances, the sea of faces looking up at the bat-shit nuts woman all have the expression of total disbelief, disinterest, and/or total embarassment for the apparent fit of insanity that she seems to be experiencing. Now, call me crazy, but if I was trying to advertise how awesome my discounted prices are, I would ask that the reaction from the crowd in the commercials be one of elation, excitement or at least feigned interest, wouldn't you?
The Yoplait "Dieter Desserts" commercial
This is the little diddy featuring the woman who would like to have all her pants taken in at the waist because of all "desserts" she has been indulging in. The premise could have been tolerable - white chocolate strawberries and apple turnovers that make you skinny! oh ha ha! how clever! - except for the fact that they decided to make it into a running joke that goes on interminably. "So you mean you want your pants let out?" "No, in." "You mean out." "No, in." "I don't understand." "Take them in." "But you said." "I want them taken in." JESUS woman! Just tell her you were talking about yogurt! The joke has died! You killed it. Repeatedly.
Related offense: If you are craving a hot apple turnover from McDonalds, a 80-calorie container of artificially flavored yogurt is not going to help you. It will, however, leave a really nasty aftertaste of aspartame in your mouth, which in order to get rid of it, you will have to eat at least two other things to cancel out the flavor. Sorry to destroy the dream.
You would be shocked, and I imagine somewhat disturbed, to know how many other commercials I could go on about in this post. For your sake, and my sanity, I will stop here. But rest assured that I will be keeping my eye out for more offenses of the advertising variety, and I may even keep my finger off the fast forward button on my Tivo just for funsies.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A Christmas Miracle Come Early
I can't whistle.
It is (one of) my secret shame(s).
My dad can whistle any tune in two part harmony. My mom can do that really loud finger whistle thing that can be heard for three square miles. My brother, who used to be similarly afflicted with a lack of whistling ability actually sat down and TAUGHT himself to whistle and is now on his way to pro status. I can't produce anything except this pathetic, anemic, "mostly just sounds like breathing through a small hole" type sound. It is truly a sad sound to behold. I am convinced it has something to do with my remarkably small, and strongly attached tongue (see, I do have more than one secret shame).
Then came the miracle.
The other day, on my way home from the vet's office, I was waiting in the right hand turn lane for the road that leads to my house and I was attempting to do to the "sexy girl" wolf whistle (Why? I don't know). It was my usual pathetic display until the light turned green, and something truly incredible happened. I could whistle. Strong and clear and exactly the right notes. My lips were curled with perfection. Just the right amount of moisture and dryness. The right amount of pucker. (This sounds a little gross, but it is all true). This magical confluence of whistling talents lasted exactly 90 seconds. Just long enough for me to turn on Hwy 51, wait at another red light, and turn onto Fullwood Ln. And just as quickly as it came... it was gone again. I turned into our neighborhood, and with one last gasp, my whistling prowess died in the wind, and all I was left with was the sad sound of soundless, tuneless, talentless oxygen being forced through my lips. But in those 90 seconds I experienced a thrill unlike any other. I mastered the sexy whistle and quickly moved on to other songs I had always wished I could whistle, like "Happy Birthday", "My Girl" and (inexplicably) "Achy Breaky Heart". It was pure magic.
Of course, since that day, I have been whistling in the car non-stop, trying to recreate those perfect circumstances and rediscover my "sweet spot". All I have achieved is the subsequent chapping and cramping of my lips, and the permanent lodging of "Achy Breaky Heart" in my brain.
Perhaps this year I will ask Santa to bring me the ability to whistle. He still owes me from Christmas 1987 when I asked him to bring me magical powers in a glowling Glenda the Good Witch-type orb that I would somehow absorb inside myself and thus be imbued with said powers. All I got was as sparkly purple scooter and a white tutu with pink rosettes sewn on the skirt, which obviously was not that shabby of a runner up prize, but still.
Happy Holidays kiddos. Give thanks for those you love... and, if you've got it, the ability to whistle whenever the whim strikes you. For that is truly a beautiful thing.
It is (one of) my secret shame(s).
My dad can whistle any tune in two part harmony. My mom can do that really loud finger whistle thing that can be heard for three square miles. My brother, who used to be similarly afflicted with a lack of whistling ability actually sat down and TAUGHT himself to whistle and is now on his way to pro status. I can't produce anything except this pathetic, anemic, "mostly just sounds like breathing through a small hole" type sound. It is truly a sad sound to behold. I am convinced it has something to do with my remarkably small, and strongly attached tongue (see, I do have more than one secret shame).
Then came the miracle.
The other day, on my way home from the vet's office, I was waiting in the right hand turn lane for the road that leads to my house and I was attempting to do to the "sexy girl" wolf whistle (Why? I don't know). It was my usual pathetic display until the light turned green, and something truly incredible happened. I could whistle. Strong and clear and exactly the right notes. My lips were curled with perfection. Just the right amount of moisture and dryness. The right amount of pucker. (This sounds a little gross, but it is all true). This magical confluence of whistling talents lasted exactly 90 seconds. Just long enough for me to turn on Hwy 51, wait at another red light, and turn onto Fullwood Ln. And just as quickly as it came... it was gone again. I turned into our neighborhood, and with one last gasp, my whistling prowess died in the wind, and all I was left with was the sad sound of soundless, tuneless, talentless oxygen being forced through my lips. But in those 90 seconds I experienced a thrill unlike any other. I mastered the sexy whistle and quickly moved on to other songs I had always wished I could whistle, like "Happy Birthday", "My Girl" and (inexplicably) "Achy Breaky Heart". It was pure magic.
Of course, since that day, I have been whistling in the car non-stop, trying to recreate those perfect circumstances and rediscover my "sweet spot". All I have achieved is the subsequent chapping and cramping of my lips, and the permanent lodging of "Achy Breaky Heart" in my brain.
Perhaps this year I will ask Santa to bring me the ability to whistle. He still owes me from Christmas 1987 when I asked him to bring me magical powers in a glowling Glenda the Good Witch-type orb that I would somehow absorb inside myself and thus be imbued with said powers. All I got was as sparkly purple scooter and a white tutu with pink rosettes sewn on the skirt, which obviously was not that shabby of a runner up prize, but still.
Happy Holidays kiddos. Give thanks for those you love... and, if you've got it, the ability to whistle whenever the whim strikes you. For that is truly a beautiful thing.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Guilt Tripping
Well, nothing will inspire a girl to blog better than feeling guilty about not blogging.
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
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