I’m TOTALLY going to hell for mocking this in anyway, but I can’t resist. And anyway, I’ve never claimed to be perfect, so I’ll just pray for forgiveness tonight. Apparently last Sunday, Rev. Kyle Lake of University Baptist Church in Waco, Texas, died after adjusting a microphone while partially submerged in a baptismal pool. The charismatic leader was describe by one church member as being “really smart.” Hmmmmmmm. I mean, I’m sure it was just a reflex thing, ya know, you see the congregation straining to hear you and you naturally reach out to make a technical adjustment. But come on. Water + Wires = Death and you don’t need to go to no church to figure that out, I tell you what. Just read the little tag wrapped around your hair dryer cord and you’re pretty much set. Ok, I’m done. I’m a jerk.
WARNING: I’m going to say the word “nipple” and its variations a lot in this post. Take a lookie here:
Poor Giselle. It seems that in signing her contract with Victoria’s Secret, she accidentally signed away her nipples. Now, I’m not suggesting that nipples should be displayed in the catalog for all the world to see, but it just confirms that fact that in no way can you believe that models actually look anything like their pictures. They could have airbrushed away a full-grown beard for all we know! Millions of young girls across the world will now think that having nipples is gross!!!! We will see a swarm of barely-legals on “Dr. 90210″ asking for nipple-removal surgery, and knowing how sleazy this guy is…
…HE’LL DO IT! I can just imagine him saying, “Oh yes, Sally, that little snip-snip we gave you reeeeeaaaaly took care of the problem. You look so hot. Candy, come and look how hot she is. Stand real close to her and tell her she is hot.” But I digress.
Not only that, this lovely “undergarment” will cost you a reasonable $12.5 million. That’s right, $12.5 million to cover your nipples in freezing cold, sharp-cornered metal that actually looks like DOZENS OF DIAMOND AND RUBY ENCRUSTED NIPPLES. Oh please, please, please, let that be waiting under the Christmas tree for me.
Step One: Go to the bathroom. Nothing is worse than interrupting a long, autumn’s nap with the call of nature.
Step Two: Brush your teeth. I’m serious. By ridding your mouth of any residue of the day you will reduce the likelihood of waking up with kickin’ breath.
Step Three: Remove earrings, watches, and rings. We want you to be comfortable in any position you might end up in.
Step Four: If you are wearing skimpy underthings, change into the old, worn-out, backups that you typically save for laundry day. We all know those are the most comfortable anyway.
Step Five: Find something on TV that you have either seen before so you won’t get wrapped up in the show, or watch anything with Martha Stewart on it. Her voice will gently rock you to sleep.
Step Six: Make sure a glass of water is by your bed. Not a big glass, just enough to refresh you when you wake up.
Step Seven: Place your cell phone next to that glass of water. This way, if your phone rings you can easily screen or cut of the ringer if you decided to continue your peaceful slumber, rather than stumbling across the room to find the blasted thing.
Step Eight: If you have a big snuggly dog like mine, make sure he is on the bed with you. He aboslutely canNOT be touching you in any way, but he must be on the bed.
Step Nine: Go to the bathroom again, just to make sure.
Step Ten: Roll over on your belly and off you go into napland. I’m telling you, this position will put you to sleep the fastest. I think it’s something about getting your belly all warm that makes it so effective. It takes a while to get your arms and legs positioned correctly, but it’s completely worth it.
By following these steps, not only do you get a great nap, but it also makes you feel like you’ve really invested some time in taking care of yourself. Let me know how it works out, or if you have any steps I may have left out due to the rare nature of these quality naps in my life.
Ross took me out on Monday night as the last hoooorah of my birthday celebrations. We went to a nice dinner at The Hard Shell and then made our way to the University of Richmond’s Modlin Center to see Mr. Savion (sounds like “Evian”) Glover perform. Savion is best known for his work in Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk on Broadway, and has now begun a new adventure of combining classical music with tap dancing. But by tap dancing, I don’t mean top hat, tuxedo-wearing tap dancing. We’re talking wife-beater, rough-wood, sweaty-face tap dancing. He tapped to Vivaldi, Bach, and some other composers I can’t pronounce, backed by a 10 piece orchestra, as well as a pianist, flutist, drummer, and upright bassist. The juxtaposition of classical compositions and a smiling, sweaty, dread-locked, hot as anything man was a feast for the eyes and ears alike. And I must say, I am now a little bit in love.
Please don’t think my affection is purely based on Savion’s appearance. It’s more about how he, and other artists like him, are able to get to a mental place where they can be that free and controlled at the same time. As he tapped, I could see him go to a somewhere in his mind where he was totally turned inside and focused on the movement of his feet, but also completely aware of the audience’s reaction to what he was doing, working them, interacting with them, pulling them in. And for duration of the show, he had the most peaceful smile on his face, even when he was slamming his feet down so hard I was sure the floor was going to crack. I guess I’m just envious of having something like that, of being so confident in the fact that the love for what I’m doing will make me successful at it. Maybe I’ll find it eventually. But for now, I’ll settle for being pretend-married to someone who has it figured out. So now, please feast your eyes on my new, imaginary husband:
I live 2 streets south of Carytown in a neighborhood where the majority of our homeowners are very old. However, with these old people come their grandchildren, nieces, and nephews who are mostly under the age of 21. Consequently, anytime that these young people aren’t in school or asleep, they are out in front of my house screaming, fighting, and standing in the middle of the street. I really don’t have anything else to say about this except a) They kind of make me want to move because I feel like they will get more obnoxious with age, and b) I can’t wait until winter when it’s too cold for them to be outside. I’m officially old and pissed off. GET A JOB, YOU HOODLUMS!
You’d think after spending the entire day with 5th graders that the last way I would want to spend my evening would be watching a documentary about them. WRONG-O. Last night the huuby and I watched the much anticipated (by me) film Mad Hot Ballroom. This documentary tracks three New York Public Schools as they prepare for a ballroom dancing competition. It’s full of humor, underdogs, and minors shaking what their mamas gave ‘em. And it is mad good.
We have three schools: the self-depricating and awkward bunch from Queens, the creepily self-aware kids from Manhattan, and the spunky, poor, and endearing group of Dominicans from Washington Heights. Queens and Manhattan were out at the quarterfinals. Queens attributed their short-lived efforts to their desire to “just have fun and not try very hard.” Manhattan chalked it up to the “subjectivity of dance” and decided that the judges just decided not to notice how good they were.
Meanwhile, the Dominicans made it all the way to the Grand Finals, competing against last year’s winners, the evil P.S. 144 and its stiff, plaster-smiled dancers. We Americans love the underdog, so of course I was filled with nervous jitters as I watched the dramatically disadvantaged, but amazingly determined Dominicans shake their groove things in the finals. We’ll just say that I was yelling “Dominicans!!!!!!” for the last 40 minutes of the movie. I won’t tell you who wins, but I was jumping up and down on the couch.
All in all, a great movie that makes you feel like there is justice in the world. And makes you realize that white people really can’t dance. GO DOMINICANS!!!!!!!!
Just to start off on the right foot (and to prevent Midas from spreading any rumors), no, I do not currently have a bun in the oven.
Yesterday, the hubs and I went to Patrick and Megan’s house to celebrate P’s 27th birthday in style. And by in style I mean with a swarm of children under the age of 2. Being that Patrick is so OLD, he and most of his friends are welcoming little bundles of joy into the world like nobody’s business. Most people who read this know that I have baby fever like none other, but I must admit that the throngs of children eventually wore me out so much that we had to leave.
Upon our arrival, Ross and I ooooohed and ahhhhhhed over little Joshua Creehan, who is hands down the cutest little buggar out there. I mean seriously, take a look:
He wasn’t in the bathtub when we saw him, but you get the point. Anyway, we played with Joshua for a little while. “Playing” consisted off Ross dangling a coaster in front of Joshua’s face, just far enough away so that the little guy couldn’t reach it. The game ended when Josh started screaming and his mother saying, “Well, maybe he should cry less.”‘ My kind of lady.
Anyway, so this was all pleasant and relatively mellow until suddenly the door bursts open and the continuous influx of diaper-clad guests began. All objects had to be removed from any low-lying tables; adults had to be on constant alert for jelly-coated hands grazing their thighs; Baby Eisten was frantically shoved into the DVD player; and all of the nonparent guests huddled together around the pizza dip, clenching our margaritas, and praising the sweet Lord that we were only responsible for bathing ourselves that night.
After a lovely breakfast at CanCan with the hubs and the in-laws, settled down for a long autumn’s nap before our schedule trip to FXburg. Apparently I was in dire need for such a rest because I passed out for multiple hours and had one effing crazy dream.
It all started with a very loud fight between my mother and my brother. They were yelling and screaming and Ross and I were just sitting there very awkwardly. Suddenly, my brother looked outside and said, “Hey, look! There’s a rabbit!” My mother and brother then decided that the best way for them to reconnect and stop fighting would be to kill the rabbit together. So my mother grabbed a pillowcase and they stalked outside to catch the little guy. They trapped him in the pillowcase AND THEN BROKE HIS NECK. Stunned, Ross and I went home and found one of my students, Makia, sitting on our porch with a suitcase. He said he came to live with us because Anson (someone from high school who obviously has no connection to this child) wouldn’t let him play video games anymore. To this we just nodded and welcomed him inside for a nice dinner and started our life together as a new, interracial family.
This dream could mean several things:
a) I subconsciously think my mother and brother are capable of killing small mammals with their bare hands.
b) Deep down, I want Makia to come and be part of our family.
c) I need to not be such a whacko.
What do you think?
On June 30th of this year, my cousin Jennifer and her husband Steve welcomed their first child into the world: Sidney Paige Walters. This is the first grandchild for both sets of grandparents, and Jen was the first of the cousins to have a kid, so naturally Sidney is spoiled beyond belief. But, I think after you look at these pictures you will understand why she has us all under her spell.
This weekend Ross, Van, and myself trucked it down to Hotlanta for the wedding of my college friend Amanda to MJ, the boy with whom she’s been “living in sin” for the past 2 years. We picked Van up at 7:00am and began what turned out to be our 101/2 journey to the land of Coca-Cola and Peaches. A rain cloud lurked over us for the length of the trip, but was unable to obscure our view of the Adult-themed billboards that dot the shoulders of route 85 South. Meanwhile, Van and I belted out Garth Brooks classics, much to the dismay of Ross, and I spent a lot of time sleeping with my mouth hanging wide open.
After a quickie-lunch at Wendy’s, I was behind the wheel for the remainder of the trip. We were slow going once we hit Atlanta around 4 and didn’t reach our hotel until 5:30. During the last legs of the trip I had to pee really badly and Van had to sing “Blackhole Sun” really loudly. Not the best combination. But we made it to the hotel unscathed and Stephanie quickly whisked Van off the the rehearsal dinner, leaving Ross and I to take a nap and then hunt down dinner. We eventually arrived at Varsity (a burger joint much loved by those who go to Georgia Tech) looking like drowned rats. We timidly ordered our meal, taken aback by the abruptness of our server (you would think they’d be nice in Atlanta-they weren’t), and then headed back to the hotel, still in the rain. As we trecked through puddles along one of the 5486797 Peachtree Streets criss-crossing Atlanta Proper, we were approached by a friendly, umbrella-carrying man named Anthony who asked us to buy him dinner. We lied and said we had no cash, and then he said that God loves us. Then we felt guilty. But just a little.
Saturday morning/afternoon was the wedding. Weddings are old hat for Ross and I, but this was new because it was actually one of my college friends getting married and we would be spending time with people I went to college with. Now I see Stephanie all the time so that was no biggie. However, Ross and I were seated at a table with people that I spent 4 of my most formative years with, but to whom I really had nothing to say. Luckily half of them were engaged so we could talk about weddings while at a wedding, but that was pretty much it. I spent the remainder of the time looking longingly at Stephanie who sitting at the head table because she was actually in the wedding.
All in all, I learned a lot this weekend. I learned that I love Van very much, but spending 10 hours in a car with him again might be damaging to our relationship. I learned that the deep South really isn’t as square as it’s made out to be, what with the porn propaganda lining its section of the interstate. I learned that it’s really ok to lose touch with people, especially with people that you had nothing in common with in the first place. I learned that I never want to leave Richmond ever. Ever. And, perhaps most importantly, I learned that it’s ok to not give a homeless man cash if you’re walking in the rain and he has an umbrella. It all balances out in the end.