Hey remember how I used to update this blog? Yeah, me neither.
Oh shoot, that was my opening line LAST time I posted... over two weeks ago. Unfortunately the brain farm is fresh out of creativity juice so it looks like I'll have to resort to recycling material.
Wow that was a terrible metaphor. But not even close to terrible enough for me to expend the energy required to come up with a replacement.
I'm tired, like really tired. Was the above paragraph at all an indication of that? My job is extremely busy right now, and my days are something like: go to work and run what feels like the clerical equivalent of a marathon, hit the gym and/or attend designated evening activity, come home and work until I go to bed. I realize that this is often the norm for other professions like teaching or law but in my defense, I don't get summers off nor do I pull down a six-figure salary.
But I'm not complaining, honestly- just wishing that it wasn't Lent so that I could unwind with a glass or six of wine at night. I'll be over the hump of a huge project in the next two weeks, and besides, I've discovered the secret to making it through the day in the office. Around mid-afternoon when I can feel my brain cells begin to melt out my ears, I turn my music down to 'soft white noise' level, cross my arms on my desk, and put my head down like I'm about to play a rousing game of 'Heads Up, Seven Up' with a classroom full of second-graders during indoor recess. Which is what I wish I did for a living. But ten minutes of that and I feel like a brand new person.
I know it might seem unprofessional to take a little 'rest' like that on the job, but if you want to talk unprofessional let's discuss what I've done the couple times I've been extremely sick at work or running on a couple hours sleep, which is to go downstairs into the production studio (essentially a cave), turn out all the lights, and lie down until my extremities regain feeling. That, my friends, is unprofessional. Though, I honestly don't think my boss would be fazed if he walked in and found me that way. Very little fazes him.
But, like I said, a couple more weeks and my professional life should return to its regular programming and by then, March will have kick-started into high gear with what I'm afraid is more goodness than I can handle. Next week is BRAD PAISLEY in concert, followed by a trip to Raleigh for work and a stop to see an old friend on the way, and then Holy week I say ASTA LA VISTA baby to the southland and head for greener (whiter?) pastures up north.
So forget the wine. I will relax with the promise of deep-dish Chicago pizza coming my way in just one month. I wish I were joking when I say that the cheesy deliciousness of a Giordano's masterpiece was a major part of the decision-making process when I chose my vacation destination...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Signs that I Might have been Lying about my College Degree
Remember how once upon a time I updated this blog? Yeah, me neither. Apparently I'm only capable of consistent blogging when the busyness of my life falls at some specific point in the spectrum between doing nothing but watching HGTV all day every day and being too busy to breathe.
Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.
Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.
I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.
Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.
But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.
Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"
The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.
I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.
Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.
I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.
Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.
But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.
Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"
The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.
I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Next Time we try Ghiradelli Squares
I could write a post every Saturday morning and it would say essentially the same thing every single time: how wonderful Saturday mornings are, how especially lovely this particular one was, all the ways in which I loved that one of my roommates works on the weekends and the other has a penchant for sleeping until noon. Of all the things I enjoy about my roommates, those qualities are at the top of the list.
On this particular Saturday, I'm a bit sore after a killer workout yesterday. I say 'killer work-out' but all that really means is that I ventured beyond the elliptical machine in a rare but painful foray into the world of shoulder presses and bicep curls.
I joined my gym back in November and I love love love it. It's situated directly on my way home from work, which gives me little excuse not to stop by for at least a brief affair with the equipment there. I was originally lured in because my apartment complex pays for more than half of the monthly fee, meaning it only costs me 20 bucks a month to torture myself. They have a ladies only section, so that I can avoid embarrassing myself in front of sweaty guys with nice arms. Granted, it also means that unless I make some serious lifestyle changes, the romantic comedy of my life probably won't start at the gym.
I was glad I pushed myself, however, because last night my friend Stacey had a bonfire at her house and not only does she make a fantastic pizza dip, but she also provided all the fixins' for gourmet s'mores. This is not your typical campfire fare, my friend. We're talking Reese's cups, caramel and chocolate, oreos (or 'smoreos...).
I'm not humble enough to pretend like it wasn't my idea- one I had previously brought to fruition myself on a camping trip with my family several years ago- and I'm happy to say that the gospel of Gourmet S'mores was well received amongst my friends. My friend Kerry took a bite and said "Oh my gosh, I think my life just changed." Actually it came out more like "Ho mgusgh, fink mlufust ed" but I'm pretty sure that's what she was getting at.
I'm off to mediate a battle between self-disciple and sloth- to work out or to not work out and instead watch episodes of Chuck online while casually reading my Rachael Ray magazines, that is the question.
On this particular Saturday, I'm a bit sore after a killer workout yesterday. I say 'killer work-out' but all that really means is that I ventured beyond the elliptical machine in a rare but painful foray into the world of shoulder presses and bicep curls.
I joined my gym back in November and I love love love it. It's situated directly on my way home from work, which gives me little excuse not to stop by for at least a brief affair with the equipment there. I was originally lured in because my apartment complex pays for more than half of the monthly fee, meaning it only costs me 20 bucks a month to torture myself. They have a ladies only section, so that I can avoid embarrassing myself in front of sweaty guys with nice arms. Granted, it also means that unless I make some serious lifestyle changes, the romantic comedy of my life probably won't start at the gym.
I was glad I pushed myself, however, because last night my friend Stacey had a bonfire at her house and not only does she make a fantastic pizza dip, but she also provided all the fixins' for gourmet s'mores. This is not your typical campfire fare, my friend. We're talking Reese's cups, caramel and chocolate, oreos (or 'smoreos...).
I'm not humble enough to pretend like it wasn't my idea- one I had previously brought to fruition myself on a camping trip with my family several years ago- and I'm happy to say that the gospel of Gourmet S'mores was well received amongst my friends. My friend Kerry took a bite and said "Oh my gosh, I think my life just changed." Actually it came out more like "Ho mgusgh, fink mlufust ed" but I'm pretty sure that's what she was getting at.
I'm off to mediate a battle between self-disciple and sloth- to work out or to not work out and instead watch episodes of Chuck online while casually reading my Rachael Ray magazines, that is the question.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Mi Madre
This is my mom:
*Hi mom!* (She loves natural pictures like this)
Today is my mom's birthday. She's turning 37 or some other attractive young age like that.
I often hear people talk about how great their mom is, how she's the best cook in the world, etc etc. And look, I think that's really sweet- and I'm sure your mom is a lovely person. But, I'm sorry; there's such a thing as objective truth, and that means not all of our moms can claim the title of greatest. If everyone's special, nobody's special, right?
And my mom? Is the best. The B-E-S-T. Do you see what I did there? I SPELLED the word 'best', so you know I mean business.
When I was in third grade, the first year we got lockers at my school, I opened up my locker one day to find a brand new bookbag with a little note pinned on, wishing me a great day. It was one of those drawstring knapsacks, made entirely of denim, with a red plaid flap that buckled over the opening- clearly there's no accounting for my taste, but I loved that thing.
When I turned 20, she threw me a surprise birthday party, and when I turned 21, she made pina coladas for us in the blender. I can't tell you how many parties she helped me host in junior high and high school- surprise parties for friends, New Year's celebrations, swim team functions, going away parties. She suffered through exploded hot dogs in the microwave, water fights, pop spilled on the keyboard (that was probably more suffering on my dad's part), and the great Christmas Cookie Scottie Dog Expedition of Infamy.
Growing up, I did everything- tee ball, soccer, gymnastics, tap, cheer-leading, ice skating, band, horseback riding, choir, piano, school plays, basketball, swimming... I don't recall ever being told I couldn't try something. She sweated through 10 years of swim meets, which has got to be the most boring sport in the world, and even went so far as to interest herself in the whole thing, supporting me and my entire team- not to mention feeding us. She quizzed me for spelling bees, ran lines with me, drove me to morning practice at 5am, and she's the reason I was able to go to college.
She's my shopping buddy, my confidant, my number one fan and who I hope to be as a wife and mother. Quite simply put, she is the best with all capital letters and spelled out backward and forwards at least three times.
So happy 37th birthday, Mom! Thanks for being the B-E-S-T-T-S-E-B-B..... oh, you know what I mean.
*Hi mom!* (She loves natural pictures like this)
Today is my mom's birthday. She's turning 37 or some other attractive young age like that.
I often hear people talk about how great their mom is, how she's the best cook in the world, etc etc. And look, I think that's really sweet- and I'm sure your mom is a lovely person. But, I'm sorry; there's such a thing as objective truth, and that means not all of our moms can claim the title of greatest. If everyone's special, nobody's special, right?
And my mom? Is the best. The B-E-S-T. Do you see what I did there? I SPELLED the word 'best', so you know I mean business.
When I was in third grade, the first year we got lockers at my school, I opened up my locker one day to find a brand new bookbag with a little note pinned on, wishing me a great day. It was one of those drawstring knapsacks, made entirely of denim, with a red plaid flap that buckled over the opening- clearly there's no accounting for my taste, but I loved that thing.
When I turned 20, she threw me a surprise birthday party, and when I turned 21, she made pina coladas for us in the blender. I can't tell you how many parties she helped me host in junior high and high school- surprise parties for friends, New Year's celebrations, swim team functions, going away parties. She suffered through exploded hot dogs in the microwave, water fights, pop spilled on the keyboard (that was probably more suffering on my dad's part), and the great Christmas Cookie Scottie Dog Expedition of Infamy.
Growing up, I did everything- tee ball, soccer, gymnastics, tap, cheer-leading, ice skating, band, horseback riding, choir, piano, school plays, basketball, swimming... I don't recall ever being told I couldn't try something. She sweated through 10 years of swim meets, which has got to be the most boring sport in the world, and even went so far as to interest herself in the whole thing, supporting me and my entire team- not to mention feeding us. She quizzed me for spelling bees, ran lines with me, drove me to morning practice at 5am, and she's the reason I was able to go to college.
She's my shopping buddy, my confidant, my number one fan and who I hope to be as a wife and mother. Quite simply put, she is the best with all capital letters and spelled out backward and forwards at least three times.
So happy 37th birthday, Mom! Thanks for being the B-E-S-T-T-S-E-B-B..... oh, you know what I mean.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Hello, Good-Bye
I figured now that we're a solid two weeks into 2010, it would be a good time to recap 2009.
At the beginning of last year, I sat down and made the most realistic list of goals I've ever done. And by the grace of God (and in certain cases, the federal government), I was able to accomplish a good portion of them.
Successes: I paid off my car (thank you, Obama), put a good amount of money in savings (thank you, Christmas bonus), became a more consistent blogger, read a good amount, learned to produce a live radio show, began teaching Religious Ed classes at church, worked out regularly, picked up a 'little' through the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, expanded my cooking horizons, and found a hairdresser I can tolerate reasonably well.
Fails: I didn't read a single book on my specific reading list, I still can't knit a scarf, I only watched a handful of the entire collection of Hugh Grant movies that I had committed to, and I never did run a 5K (though that one's up for debate).
Favorite book: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (say that three times fast... just say it three times, period. You'll be here until tomorrow)
Favorite movie: The Blind Side
Favorite new TV show: Glee
Favorite new food: black beans. Soup, hummus, chili, burritos... I'm obsessed
Best memory: Surprising my mom (and most of the rest of my family) on my birthday
Most embarrassing moment: While this category has so many contenders I feel like it deserves its own post, for the sake of my dignity, I'll highlight just one and choose the time I realized 15 minutes into Mass that my dress was unzipped halfway in the back. And that my boss and his entire family were sitting two rows behind me. Yay.
I rang in the year in Sterling Heights with Hannah and I rang it out (is that a thing?) in Orlando with Sarah and roughly 4,000 other Catholics. In between, I attended four beautiful weddings, moved into a new apartment with my lovely roommates, was visited by six wonderful friends, traveled to Minneapolis, Hillsdale, Monroe, Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta and Orlando. I was blessed with a whole passel of fabulous new friends, and welcomed my precious godson into the world. I got my first filling, but didn't break any bones.
So yay, 2009. 365 wonderful more days God blessed me with. Maybe in 2010 I'll finally legitimize that 5k.
At the beginning of last year, I sat down and made the most realistic list of goals I've ever done. And by the grace of God (and in certain cases, the federal government), I was able to accomplish a good portion of them.
Successes: I paid off my car (thank you, Obama), put a good amount of money in savings (thank you, Christmas bonus), became a more consistent blogger, read a good amount, learned to produce a live radio show, began teaching Religious Ed classes at church, worked out regularly, picked up a 'little' through the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, expanded my cooking horizons, and found a hairdresser I can tolerate reasonably well.
Fails: I didn't read a single book on my specific reading list, I still can't knit a scarf, I only watched a handful of the entire collection of Hugh Grant movies that I had committed to, and I never did run a 5K (though that one's up for debate).
Favorite book: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (say that three times fast... just say it three times, period. You'll be here until tomorrow)
Favorite movie: The Blind Side
Favorite new TV show: Glee
Favorite new food: black beans. Soup, hummus, chili, burritos... I'm obsessed
Best memory: Surprising my mom (and most of the rest of my family) on my birthday
Most embarrassing moment: While this category has so many contenders I feel like it deserves its own post, for the sake of my dignity, I'll highlight just one and choose the time I realized 15 minutes into Mass that my dress was unzipped halfway in the back. And that my boss and his entire family were sitting two rows behind me. Yay.
I rang in the year in Sterling Heights with Hannah and I rang it out (is that a thing?) in Orlando with Sarah and roughly 4,000 other Catholics. In between, I attended four beautiful weddings, moved into a new apartment with my lovely roommates, was visited by six wonderful friends, traveled to Minneapolis, Hillsdale, Monroe, Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta and Orlando. I was blessed with a whole passel of fabulous new friends, and welcomed my precious godson into the world. I got my first filling, but didn't break any bones.
So yay, 2009. 365 wonderful more days God blessed me with. Maybe in 2010 I'll finally legitimize that 5k.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
It's Like Seven Steps to Kevin Bacon Except With Stress and Television Shows
Everybody reacts to stress differently. Some people get ulcers, others canker sores- I once knew a girl who dealt with crippling anxiety by ripping all her eyelashes out. I'll give you a minute here to thank God that's not your coping mechanism.
For me, it's my eyelids- they twitch. You can't see it unless you're close enough to count my pores, but it's pretty creepy-looking and feels even weirder. Not my favorite.
Due to all my exhausting vacation-ing recently (and perhaps a few other, actually stressful, factors), the twitch has been non-stop lately and after a marathon cleaning session on Friday night, all I've wanted to do all weekend is lie in the fetal position watching television online. It's not... the only... thing I've done, but I would say it has taken a certain precedence the past few days. Hey, I'm still recovering from four blissful days at a world-class resort in sunny Florida, okay? Don't judge.
I did venture out on Saturday for a brief post-Christmas shopping trip with V, where we ravaged the Borders going-out-of-business sale, and I picked up a shirt for the Brad Paisley concert in March, to go with my kickin' new cowboy boots. (One day, the words 'cowboy boots' there will link to a yet-to-be-written post, most likely in haiku form, about my favorite new Western possession)
I also hosted the shortest Christmas party ever, whose brevity was due in large part to my sick roommate. She's got the laryngitis, m'am, and because she's a teacher, she's doing everything possible to preserve her voice for the classroom. Which has made things kind of hilarious, mostly because I keep forgetting that I still have the power of speech. She'll write down on a notecard "what are you making for dinner?" and I'm sitting there thinking "hmm, how can I pantomime 'chili'?" And she's sitting there thinking "I can't believe my roommate is such an idiot". She doesn't say it, of course, but only because she can't.
Anyway, did I have a point here somewhere? Oh yes- fetal position, online television. I won't go on about my deep and undying love for Jimmy Fallon, his twelve days of Christmas sweaters, or the fact that he plays beer pong on late-night with his guests. I'll save you from excessive talk about how adorable he looks in a suit, like an eight-year-old dressed up for a wedding, or how he cutely referred to Taylor Swift as 'Swifty' for an entire segment. You won't find me blathering on about how endearing he was in his first episode, where Robert DeNiro made some of the most awkward late-night television known to man or beast. No siree, not here.
Sidenote: Future husband, if you're out there? Take me to see a Jimmy Fallon show someday. There is nothing I would love more. On second thought, maybe don't. That could spell trouble for our marriage. Might be better to go to the Stars on Ice route. Look, we'll talk about it later.
So INSTEAD of talking on and on about Jimmy, an endeavor in which I have clearly already failed, let me introduce you to Better Off Ted. While Glee won the spot for my new favorite show of 2009, it's a new year and with it comes a fresh comedic slate. Especially since Glee is on hold for American Idol until April. Damn you, Ryan Seacrest.
Better Off Ted has taken the lead for best sitcom by a long shot, and not just because we're only less than two weeks into 2010. It's a cross between The Office and Arrested Development, with a touch of Scrubs bromance via the partnership of the show's two scientists, Phil and Lem. I'm terrible at describing things, so I promise you your time is better spent checking out a few minutes on hulu. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, from me to you.
For me, it's my eyelids- they twitch. You can't see it unless you're close enough to count my pores, but it's pretty creepy-looking and feels even weirder. Not my favorite.
Due to all my exhausting vacation-ing recently (and perhaps a few other, actually stressful, factors), the twitch has been non-stop lately and after a marathon cleaning session on Friday night, all I've wanted to do all weekend is lie in the fetal position watching television online. It's not... the only... thing I've done, but I would say it has taken a certain precedence the past few days. Hey, I'm still recovering from four blissful days at a world-class resort in sunny Florida, okay? Don't judge.
I did venture out on Saturday for a brief post-Christmas shopping trip with V, where we ravaged the Borders going-out-of-business sale, and I picked up a shirt for the Brad Paisley concert in March, to go with my kickin' new cowboy boots. (One day, the words 'cowboy boots' there will link to a yet-to-be-written post, most likely in haiku form, about my favorite new Western possession)
I also hosted the shortest Christmas party ever, whose brevity was due in large part to my sick roommate. She's got the laryngitis, m'am, and because she's a teacher, she's doing everything possible to preserve her voice for the classroom. Which has made things kind of hilarious, mostly because I keep forgetting that I still have the power of speech. She'll write down on a notecard "what are you making for dinner?" and I'm sitting there thinking "hmm, how can I pantomime 'chili'?" And she's sitting there thinking "I can't believe my roommate is such an idiot". She doesn't say it, of course, but only because she can't.
Anyway, did I have a point here somewhere? Oh yes- fetal position, online television. I won't go on about my deep and undying love for Jimmy Fallon, his twelve days of Christmas sweaters, or the fact that he plays beer pong on late-night with his guests. I'll save you from excessive talk about how adorable he looks in a suit, like an eight-year-old dressed up for a wedding, or how he cutely referred to Taylor Swift as 'Swifty' for an entire segment. You won't find me blathering on about how endearing he was in his first episode, where Robert DeNiro made some of the most awkward late-night television known to man or beast. No siree, not here.
Sidenote: Future husband, if you're out there? Take me to see a Jimmy Fallon show someday. There is nothing I would love more. On second thought, maybe don't. That could spell trouble for our marriage. Might be better to go to the Stars on Ice route. Look, we'll talk about it later.
So INSTEAD of talking on and on about Jimmy, an endeavor in which I have clearly already failed, let me introduce you to Better Off Ted. While Glee won the spot for my new favorite show of 2009, it's a new year and with it comes a fresh comedic slate. Especially since Glee is on hold for American Idol until April. Damn you, Ryan Seacrest.
Better Off Ted has taken the lead for best sitcom by a long shot, and not just because we're only less than two weeks into 2010. It's a cross between The Office and Arrested Development, with a touch of Scrubs bromance via the partnership of the show's two scientists, Phil and Lem. I'm terrible at describing things, so I promise you your time is better spent checking out a few minutes on hulu. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, from me to you.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Sweet, Sweet Togetherness
Hello, Weekend.
How are you, old friend? I've missed you. How long has it been, anyway? Gosh, I don't think we've spent any quality time together since- my goodness, November? Mmmm how sweet this reunion will be.
Lest you feel sorry for me, the reason the past month or two have been void of 'weekends' for me is because I've been traveling and spending time with friends and family- rough life, I know. There was Thanksgiving with my family, an extended weekend in Savannah with my brothers and Meg, then home to Monroe for a pre-Christmas celebration, followed Christmas with the Jagos, and finally New Year's in sunny-but-stupid-cold Orlando.
Coming back to reality calls to mind the mornings when my dad would get me out of bed at 6 in the morning by pouring cold water on my face. That's right, feel free to call Child Protection Services. It's an outrage.
But seriously, working five days a week? What is this?
Despite this crazy 40-hour workweek thing, 2010 already holds some fantastically bright spots. For instance: They've made Little House on the Prairie into a musical. The crazy thing is, I had just been joking about the possibility with a friend a couple nights ago, in the context of "super awesome things that could happen to me". Not only does it exist, but it's playing in Raleigh the very weekend I'm going to be there for work. I'm taking that as a sign.
And I think in preparation, the weekend and I should pass the time by re-reading the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder series.
How are you, old friend? I've missed you. How long has it been, anyway? Gosh, I don't think we've spent any quality time together since- my goodness, November? Mmmm how sweet this reunion will be.
Lest you feel sorry for me, the reason the past month or two have been void of 'weekends' for me is because I've been traveling and spending time with friends and family- rough life, I know. There was Thanksgiving with my family, an extended weekend in Savannah with my brothers and Meg, then home to Monroe for a pre-Christmas celebration, followed Christmas with the Jagos, and finally New Year's in sunny-but-stupid-cold Orlando.
Coming back to reality calls to mind the mornings when my dad would get me out of bed at 6 in the morning by pouring cold water on my face. That's right, feel free to call Child Protection Services. It's an outrage.
But seriously, working five days a week? What is this?
Despite this crazy 40-hour workweek thing, 2010 already holds some fantastically bright spots. For instance: They've made Little House on the Prairie into a musical. The crazy thing is, I had just been joking about the possibility with a friend a couple nights ago, in the context of "super awesome things that could happen to me". Not only does it exist, but it's playing in Raleigh the very weekend I'm going to be there for work. I'm taking that as a sign.
And I think in preparation, the weekend and I should pass the time by re-reading the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder series.
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