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!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
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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