If I see one more wedding hashtagged with some ridiculous combination of the bride and groom’s last name, I’m going to vom. Your nuptials are not trending. Unless you’re George Clooney, and you didn’t see him hastagging anything. #no
My dad was pestering me for not calling as much as I used to and how he has no idea what’s going on in my life. I said, “Dad! I started blogging again more regularly, just check there!” He said, “Newsflash, it’s not 1998, nobody fricken blogs anymore.” I am so behind the times. But I have so much more to say than could ever fit on twitter or instagram! Pictures are NOT worth a thousand words, I need to SAY all of those words!
On my walk this morning, I saw a surly teenager storm out of her house. After a couple of steps, she yells back at the door, “WHAT? No. Why, because you found something that wasn’t mine in my bag that you shouldn’t have been going through anyway? Whatever.” And she stomped off.
First of all, whatever Mom found was definitely Daughter’s. That beloved, well-used line, “I was holding onto it for a friend” makes me laugh every time. No. It’s hers.
However, I would be so upset, now and as a teenager, if someone went through my bag. I wonder what the appropriate thing to do there is. I’m not sure about human development, but I know there has to be a trust relationship between parents and teenagers. But parents also need to be aware when their kids are doing self-destructive stuff. Being involved is super important, they say. I’d have to look that one up. But I probably won’t, cos what do I care? I don’t have kids.
I usually bike without a helmet. On my way home the other day, a man pulled up next to me on his bike, wearing that ridiculous gear they all do with logos all over it and the clamps in the shoes. I’m going ahead and letting him look like a doofus without saying anything, though, cos live and let live, man. But does he do me the same courtesy? No! “You look good, but you’d look so much better with a helmet.” And off he rode! Hmph. Busybody. I’ll take the ‘you look good’ part, though. Ain’t gonna hate on a compliment, am NOT gonna hate on a compliment.
Today at work I got a cup of coffee (with cocoa, yes) late in the day. My coworker came in and said, “Coffee this late? Bad, bad habit, Ginger. Bad habit. You’ll never sleep tonight.” Thanks? And seriously, if he only KNEW my bad habits.
After a weekend of delicious homemade meals, including round after round of crêpes, my apartment smells like a deep fat fryer. There is nothing trashier than a house that smells like burning oil.
Someone pretty great brought me flowers and a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino, and we made eggplant parmesan together for dinner on Friday. Ever thoughtful, he put together a cheese platter and poured us two glasses of Madeira for dessert. My head almost exploded from how beautiful life is. Life, and good Emmentaler.
A group of like-minded friends and I have begun a sort of ‘artists’ enclave’ where we gather to discuss the artistic process, what we’ve produced recently, and support each other. Right now we are reading the book The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, in search of something to stimulate our collective and individual creativity. It is really opening a lot of new thoughts and emotions and creative pathways. The verdict is still out on how it will all pan out, but so far, I’m finding it helpful and I think the rest of the group is, too. I will keep you posted.
My man went to the University of Florida, is an avid sports fan, and wanted to show me around. So he took me on a trip to visit his parents in Flagler Beach for a few days, and then we drove over to Gainesville for a Gators football game in
Idk why I just gave that its own paragraph, it’s not like it’s spooky or anything, but holy schniz, do Gators fans have rabies or what? I have never experienced so many emotions as I did building anticipation on the drive over, reveling in vicarious nostalgia as we toured campus and met his friends, stomping around with the marching band, partying with the tailgaters, and just all-around building myself into a walking paroxysm of nerves by the time the game began. I nearly rent my garments at kickoff, such was my internal state. As the game went on, I was doing a nonstop Gator chomp (don’t call it a bite, it’s a Chomp™) and a scream that only stopped so I could take breaths.
In all seriousness, though, we had AMAZING seats, I had the cutest little spirit costume, the weather and people and food were all perfect, except
After which, I descended into pits of sorrow so deep I feared I would never come back out. I wondered aloud how and why people ever became sports fans, if only to feel such abject despair at a loss. I wondered aloud if I should perhaps cry. I wondered aloud if we were going to have to now loot something, or perhaps start something large on fire. I wondered aloud if there was any food left over from the tailgate (everyone knows depression makes you stress eat, please). In the end, I survived, ever more convinced that mass hysteria is very, very real. And very, very fun.
Somebody asks you how you are, and you say, “good,” and ask how they are, and they say, “I’m WELL,” and look at you pointedly, like, “too bad you’re an idiot that doesn’t know proper grammar,” and I just want to say, “did I say ‘good?’ I meant ‘eat shit, bozo.'” But I’m not that brave.
As you know, I usually attend operas, not musicals, but how do you say no to cheap Evita tickets? Besides, I need to work on not being so snobbish.
Unfortunately, Evita isn’t going to help. Yes, we got to hear “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” which was quite a kick, and the story is so surreal as to feel like fiction, and the period costumes were cool. But the ending is just crazy weird – disappointing, frankly. And the lyrics were too often difficult to decipher, and Miss Fancy here didn’t really like sitting in the upper tiers of the Opera House at the Kennedy Center. It was hot up there.
As much as I want to encourage theater-going, I have to tell you to give this one a pass. Or maybe just get better seats than I had.