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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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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