We'll always be bosom buddies

It's BioGirl's birthday week, and this post is a gift from me to her, because I know how much she will enjoy it on many, many levels. Angela? Bea? A song from Mame? It's too much awesomeness to bear, is it not?



HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Lifelong Learning

Exhibit A:
Delium: It was like that episode of Scooby Doo. Where Scooby... Wait a minute. Scooby. Scooby DOO.
Me: What about him?
Delium: The name. It's referring to scatting. His name is a reference to scatting.
Me: You just got that?
Delium: I just got that!

Exhibit B:
Nordic Boy: You are such a good whistler. How do you do that? Right on key and everything!
Me: It's a gift.
Nordic Boy: Whistle something.
Me: (whistling 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.")
Nordic Boy: Really? Of every song in the world, you're whistling the ABC song?
Me: No, that was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Nordic Boy: Yes, which is also the tune to the ABC song.
Me: DUDE. I have never noticed that!!

We take lifelong learning very seriously around here.

Bride of Truckie

Friday night Nordic Boy and I went over to meet our new friend, Baby Soggy-Awesome (and how much of a happy accident is it that my friends' bloggy names hyphenate in just that way?). He was too cute for words and had the biggest eyes I have ever seen for a three-day-old. Huge gorgeous peepers giving me the most adorable staredown, just really. And also, the cutest squeaky noises ever. Cute, cute, cute. Baby Mama and Baby Daddy were both doing great and surprisingly spry considering the new babyness of it all. The perfection running amok in that family, I tell you.

I really don't know how to segue from that topic into any other in my life because nothing else that happened over the weekend could really warrant being in the same post as Baby Soggy-Awesome. New baby! And um, I did a bunch of laundry too! Come on, it's kind of all downhill from here, let's face it.

Still, I shall soldier onward.

About a decade ago (woo-doggy does that time frame make me feel old) Nordic Boy and I bought our first ever brand new car. It was a Saturn. Why did we buy a Saturn, of all things? If you may recall, back in the ye olden days when they still made Saturns, one of the big selling points was that they had a no dicker sticker policy. The price of the car was the price of the car, no haggling expected or allowed. This was a big enough selling point for us in our youth, being the new-car-buying 'fraidy cats we were. The knowledge of no dickering (dirty) was enough to get our business.

We got along for a few years with our Saturn, who I lovingly named Conrad. I named our car Conrad for three reasons.

(A) I always thought it sexist that cars and boats and such were always feminized ("that Corvette, she's a beaut!"), so I had a policy whereby I always named inanimate objects male names, you know, just to even the score a little bit. I have eased up on this policy since I don't tend to name things as much anymore, but it rears its head when necessary, as when we installed our kitchen Lazy Susan, which I stubbornly refer to as Lazy Nigel).

(B) I was in school then and was writing lots of papers on Joseph Conrad, who I had a love/hate relationship with, and who was on my mind a lot.

(C) The Saturn was red, and was the first co-purchase Nordic Boy and I ever made together, and both of these facts had, I decided, vaguely Commie undertones. A communal car? And a red one at that? Definitely Commie. And therefore, Conrad sort of sounds like "comrade."

The inner workings of my mind, ladies and gentlemen. It's a wonder I can manage to dress myself each morning, it's true.

So Conrad has been with us for many years. Nordic Boy used him mostly, for work, and I was more of a bus rider. Then when I was done with all my consarned book learning and got my librarian gig, wherein I have to often be at multiple locations within the span of one work day (as does Nordic Boy), we graduated to being a two-car family with the introduction of our Prius.

The Saturn had started to wear down a bunch this year. I really wanted to replace it with a Smart Car. Nordic Boy really wanted a little truck. In fact, Nordic Boy sees little trucks around town and looks at them with a silent yearning as if his uterus is tugging at him. He has never said anything about this because I think he knows that my opinion of trucks is YICK. I find them big and burly and not pretty. And you know how I feel about the pretty. No matter that he actually has to use a truck for work and home stuff quite often and so we end up spending money on renting trucks. Trucks, I think, have made me make Nina Garcia faces.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I had started to think about my silent disdain for trucks, and matching that up with his silent yearning. And I came to the conclusion that I need to stop being a silent pain in the ass. Nordic Boy doesn't have many yearnings for things. But this time he does. So stop with the Nina Garcia stuff, me.

So, this weekend, we bought him a truck. And he is so friggin' happy about it that it makes me happy too. I actually love that truck now. Weird.

Note to self: whenever you can stop being a pain in the ass, then stop it. It'll just work out better that way. Ok then.

Oh, and PS, remember how when we were young and dewey, how we were so afeared of the car dealer that we based our entire decision on what to buy on the no dicker sticker thing? Well, times have changed. Nordic Boy used his non-assholey bossy voice at the dealer and got them to knock $2500 smackers off of the price, plus they bought our Saturn from us for over the Blue Book value. We are definitely grown ups now: BRING ON THE DICKER. BOOYAH.

Consumables #13

Lo, it was consumed, and it was good. Well, it was mostly good. Some of it was good.

Lost
Lost loves to kill off the ladies, has anyone noticed? What am I saying- of course someone has noticed. There are people out there that count the number of times each character has blinked on that show.

Ke$ha on SNL
Wow, we were so embarrassed for her when we watched this. Like, watching with one eye open and slumping down in our seats embarrassed.

Tina Fey on SNL
I still love you, Tina, but that rant against Whores Who Steal Husbands made me love you a little less. Because if one's husband is getting "stolen" I think the husband may have a little something to do with it, call me cuckoo. I thought you were smarter than that, my Tina.

The Bird and the Bee does Hall and Oates
Whenever I hear the song "Maneater," I think about my friend Alli in elementary school and how she went through a phase where she and her other friend chased a kid named Chad mercilessly around the playground every recess singing "Whoa-oh here she comes! Watch out boy, she'll chew you up!" How awesome is that?

All Balanchine show
We went to see this and I think it was my favorite thing I've seen PNB do. Barebones, stripped down goodness. It took me right back to my childhood in the best way.

Don Draper and Lorelei Gilmore
Re-watched an episode of The Gilmore Girls where Lorelei goes out on a date with ultra-boring rich guy, and it was Jon Hamm! It's things like this that make me inexplicably happy.

Bushido: The Cruel Code of the Samurai
Come on, with a cover like that, we just had to get it.

Glee
Although I am not a full-fledged Gleek because there are a few things that sort of get me giggly at the wrong places (the girl who plays Rachel? Oh my how she loves to twirl and hold her fist to her breast in earnestness while she sings. It's to the point now where, whenever she sings, I say "TWIRL, RACHEL, TWIRL! and she is always happy to oblige me), there are times when I just adore this show. Like this week? The Madonna tribute show? So much to love. Jane Lynch in the Vogue video remake was just awesome. Awesome awesome awesome. And PS, I love it when I see SYTYCD dancers in other things.

Double Dog Date

It's been a while since I have regaled you with my childhood idiocy, hasn't it? Let's remedy that.

When I was in 9th grade, there was this kid. Let's call him Dolph. Dolph was, if not the most popular boy in school overall, he was up there. Particularly with the ladies. He had a sort of David Duchovny thing going on, which is apparently what the girls wanted a piece of back then. He had scads of girls after his bony behind. I don't really know why.

I don't remember being particularly into Dolph, like, for real. This was still back in the day when I sort of liked boys just for the idea of liking them, rather than liking them because they were making me feel a flip in my stomach. Real true likage didn't happen until 10th grade when I went kooky for Taco. Taco made my panties melt off whenever I looked at him. Dolph? Not so much.

Still, I was friends with Dolph. He lived in my neighborhood, and rode my bus, and we had lots of classes together. Particularly, we had German class together. I took German that year because my sister was living in Germany at the time and I basically wanted to do and be everything that my sister did so achtung, fraulein. Let's learn some German. Our German teacher was a weasley little guy with perpetual pit stains who made us sing beer-drinking German songs, many of which I can still bust out to this very day.

Ich bin der doktor Eisenbart!
Zwilli willi wick boom boom!

The class was taught in a lecture hall style room, where the seats were really close together. Dolph and I sat next to each other every day, and because we were literally hip to hip, this was conducive to non-stop note-writing back and forth and whispered conversations all hour each day. Dolph and I got pretty dang cozy. And then the flirting began.

The nature of the flirting was strangely aggressive. It was like we were still young enough to almost be in the stage where if a boy liked you, he would pull on your ponytail and run away. Almost in that stage still, but not really. The flirting would take place via these challenging statements to each other, given back and forth with lots of immature attitude.

Him: You didn't do your homework?
Me: No. So what do you care?
Him: You just think you can get away with stuff because you're PRETTY.
Me: Shut up! You just think that you can say stuff like that because you're CUTE.
Him: You shut up!

What the hell is that all about? He's telling me I'm pretty, but in a tone dripping with disdain. And I am telling him to shut up about it. Just you shut up about me being pretty! GOD.

It's like Lauren Bacall and Bogey. Or Hayes and Addison. Except, you know, stupider than that.

Each day the challenges got a tad more heightened. And somewhere along the line, not only was the kid-style attitude enough, but dare-like language got thrown into the mix.

Me: All these girls like you, but you are just too chicken to do anything about it!Him: Nuh-uh!
Me: Yeah-huh! You are. You wouldn't even know what to do alone with a girl. You've never even kissed a girl, I bet!
Him: Yes I have!
Me: What-EVUR.
Him: If we were alone right now, I would SHOW YOU.
Me: BIG TALK.

And on it went like this. Day after day, week after week. Things would get thrown into the conversation slowly, incrementally. It was like the momentum of our conversations had a mind of its own. I certainly didn't know what the hell I was talking about, and I doubt he did either.

Pretty soon, it started to morph even more.

Me: Funny how you only say that you know what's up when we're in school.
Him: So what?
Me: So you can't prove anything while we're in the middle of class, can you?
Him: So fine, come over after school! I DARE YOU.
Me: Don't you dare me!
Him: I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU!

First of all, we all know, as a society, that there are no stronger words in the English language than Double Dog Dare. Am I right? If only we could translate the import of that phrase into other languages, we could Double Dog Dare world peace into existence I am sure. Second of all, Dolph whipped out the Double Dog Dare before he could think it through. I am 100% positive about that, because the look of fear that crossed his face as soon as it came out of his mouth is a moment I will never forget. And I am also sure that I had a similar look on my face as well. But what could I do? My honor was at stake! I was raised to not refuse a Double Dog Dare. That was absolute kid code. So what did I say?

Me: FINE. I WILL. WHAT DAY?

At this point, Dolph tripped all over himself coming up with an excuse as to why it couldn't be that very day. And I was so relieved that he was putting it off. Not because he was repulsive. I wanted to kiss him, in that young, inexperienced way. Just out of curiosity more than anything else.

Him: Um, well not today. Next week. Next Monday. Yeah. Next Monday.
Me; Fine. Next Monday. Sucker.
Him: Shut up.

So we had a...date? Sort of? It felt kind of like a date. It also felt kind of like I imagine it feels when someone says that they want to meet you after school in the parking lot so you can beat the crap out of each other. Scary anticipation. Dread.

The days went by, and each day, the trash talk continued. We would pass each other in the hallway between classes.

Me: Three more days, fool!
Him: Bring it!
Me: As if you know what to do!
Him: You wait and see!
Me: I'm so SURE!
Him: Psh!

The witty repartee, right? I know.

There was a fad that year, where the vandalism of choice was to break hood ornaments off of fancy cars and run away with them. Classy. The day before the appointed make-out challenge day, Dolph came by my locker and gave me a Mercedes Benz hood ornament. It was only then that I realized OMG I HAVE TO GO THROUGH WITH A MAKEOUT SESSION WITH THIS BOY. Not just one kiss, most likely, which is what I had done in the past. But a SESSION. At his house. Where his parents would not be. We would be alone. For extended smooching. He had double dog dared me and now the hood ornament! This was 9th grade courtship, for serious!

This whole story is just so romantic, I know. Like there should be Sade playing in the background the whole time or something.

Monday morning rolled around, and I got up early. I put my curling iron into overdrive and wore my best outfit. I still remember to this day what that was: a light pink sweater, a brown pencil skirt made out of a sort of canvas-like material, and low pink heels. (Yes, I was the type of girl who already wore semi-heels to school when I was that age. SO WHAT). I felt dumb dressing up. Were we really going to go through with the Double Dog Date? I didn't think so, but damned if I was going to be the one to blink first.

I showed up for school a few minutes early. My friend Donna had journalism class for first hour, and I knew that Dolph did too. I made a pretense of going to visit Donna before the bell rang. I walked in that classroom and SHIT, people. He was dressed up too! A nice shirt and sweater, with nice non-jean pants.

Me: (said like Seinfeld to Newman) Hello, Dolph.
Him: (said like Newman to Seinfeld) Hello.

And then we went about our day. I was freaking out.

Because A: he was dressed up too and was not blinking! The session was imminent! Abort! Abort! But maybe not! I think I want to go through with it! Shit, I don't know!

And also because B: I was dressed up, yes, but I was a dressed up-ish kind of girl, so that wasn't suspicious. But HE WAS ALSO. Would everyone wonder why the two of us were dressed up? Would everyone know that some lip action was forthcoming between us?

I trembled my way through the first half of my day. And then, at lunch, Dolph came over to my table, sporting Seriousface.

Him: Can I talk to you?
Me: Sure.

He pulled me aside, and informed me that um, it turns out that, um, my mom will be home after school today after all, and um, so it doesn't look, like, um, it will work out today.

Me: I KNEW IT!
Him: What?
Me: BAWK BAWK BAWK! HA HA HA!!!!
Him: SHUT UP!

It was off, people, and I HAD WON! IN YOUR FACE! In the Double Dog Staredown, I had emerged victorious as the one with the most balls.

Except, did that mean that he didn't want to kiss me? Aw crap.

It turns out that it didn't mean that. The following week we met up at a football game and made out like banshees (do banshees make out? whatever) during half time. And that was kind of the end of that (until a relapse years later when we were seniors at a party).

So me. CLEARLY THE VICTOR.

However, I swore off taking Double Dog Dares after that. It's just too much power in one phrase.

Zwilli willi wick boom boom.

Oh Baby!

My dear friends Hopscotch and Rambo (aka The Soggy Librarian and Mr. Awesome) had their baby last night, y'all! I got the photos this morning and that kid is a doggone knockout, just like his parents.

When I got the news (which I was obsessively, and I mean OBSESSIVELY waiting for, checking email, texts, voicemail every five minutes) I was listening to the radio. I wish it had been a momentous song that I was listening to, just so I could tell Baby Hopscotch-Awesome when he is older about the beautiful strains of music I was immersed in when I first heard of his arrival into the world. But what was actually playing? Was this.

Sorry, Baby.

I switched the station though, and the first song that came up after that was this one, which made me think about my friends and get a little weepy. Happy birthday to my brand new friend and his happy parents!

Mamma Mia

Me: If we ever had a kid, what would we name it?
Him: Well, if it's a girl, how about Bruschetta?
Me: Ok, one, that is a food. And two, you didn't even hestitate.
Him: Bruschetta. I am sticking with Bruschetta.
Me: And then if we had a boy, we could name him Boboli.
Him: To me, this conversation shows why we belong together.
Me: Interesting. Because to me, this is a birth control commercial.

Consumables #12

Life
Still watching this. And you know what they should call this show? They should call it DUDE THAT IS FUCKED UP. Because that's what we say, over and over, when we watch it. And we watched it with friends this week, and they said it too. Nature, man. It's fucked up.

Project Runway
Team Seth Aaron. Just because.

America's Next Top Model
Remember how I said that I watched a hockey game and there wasn't one fight in the whole game? Well, the shit is going down on ANTM. Those girls are vicious. I'm scared of models.

Couples Retreat
I watched this on the plane on the way to Chicago. I am convinced that the only reason this movie exists is because Vince Vaughn wanted to work on a movie while on a nice tropical island so he just threw something together. There just can't be any other explanation. That said, I am not too proud to admit that the yoga instructor guy made me laugh, out loud.

Staying Alive
The sequel to Saturday Night Fever! Directed by Sylvester Stallone! Featuring terrible dance technique! And many rainbow unitards! And I had the novelization of this movie when I was a kid and I ate it up. I rewatched the movie this week, and oh, it hurts so good. Just look at this. LOOK AT IT, I SAY.



White Lines
I heard this song this morning and it totally brought me back to when I was a kid. "Rang dang diggity dang dee dang." Indeed, sir.

That Toddling Town

Nordic Boy and I hightailed it to Chicago!



It was just for a quick weekend to see one of my top five all-time favorite people on the planet: my childhood bff. Plus her hubby who isn't too shabby either. Let me state it as clearly as I possibly can. We love them to smithereens. They are awesome. More than awesome: they are the shits. (That doesn't sound right when you say it plural, does it?)

We had the kind of weekend that does my soul good, where we just bummed around, talked each others' ears off, and ate a lot of food. The highlights!

1. I sat through my very first hockey game ever. It was on tv, not in person. The childhood bff and her hubby are crazyfaced hockey consumers. The hockey love, it is all encompassing. If you would have told me that I would be interested in hockey, I would have told you to eat another magic shroom and ride off on your Liger. But when you're around people who love something that much, and you love them, the excitement is totally transferable. It was fun to watch. The fact that they fast forwarded through all of the commentating also helped. I actually like watching sports, but my hatred for commentating is so deep and wide that it turns me off of the whole dang thing. Also, there was not one fight in the whole hockey game. Isn't that what hockey is all about? I wanted to see a fight. We must've been watching the hippie playoffs or something.

2. My friend and I have conversations that sound like we are completely stoned, only we aren't. I don't know what that is all about or why we have this effect on each other, but we always have. When we were seniors in high school we watched Field of Dreams together and convinced ourselves FOR REAL that the movie was talking to us. Freaked ourselves right out, sitting on the floor of my parents' living room, holding onto each others' arms in fright because a baseball movie was speaking to us as if in tongues, so only we could understand. She and I, no weed necessary.

3. We explored some junk stores. Excuse me, not junk stores. ARCHITECTURAL SALVAGE stores. The kind of places where you can't really move around without sucking in your gut and walking sideways through the tiny spaces lest you get impaled by a rusty sconce. What is better than a place that sells interesting garbage? Not much.


4. We drove up to Madison, where we met up with The Pop Quiz Kid for a quick minute. We asked her where Wisconsinites get off describing their state as The Mitten State. Us Michiganders don't have a lot ok? We have to be the only Mitten State! No one else can Mitten! The Pop Quiz Kid taunted us with Wisconsin Mitten-ness, as we clearly so richly deserved. Our goat was got, for sure. Nicely played, PQK.

5. I was reminded of how friggin' huge Chicago is, and how long it takes to drive a couple of miles. That traffic is not a joke, y'all. I will never complain about Seattle traffic again. Well, maybe not until like, next month, at least.

6. I ate my annual serving of Superman ice cream. I think my guts were glowing with radioactivity for the rest of that day. Because really. This shouldn't be a food.


7. The weather was delightful. I got to smell that midwest cut grass smell and walk around without a coat on. Oh baby.

I'm back from my trip now and trying not to be cranky that my friend lives so far away. We grew up from birth to age 18 pretty much able to walk to each others' house at the drop of a hat (ok, so maybe we weren't walking that at birth, but by kindergarten for sure), and I still don't think I have accepted that I can't do that anymore. Sometimes visiting people helps you to not miss them so bad, but when I visit her it just makes me miss her more. That's why I'm already hatching a new scheme for us to see each other soon, this time in the Mitten State. The real Mitten State.

Roll With It

Most days, work is pretty cool. I like my job and I feel a lot of pride in what I do. It's intellectually stimulating, and it fulfills my do-gooder needs, and really, it's great. But yesterday? Yesterday was heinous. Yesterday I had to deal with glamorous things that boss ladies get to deal with such as public toilets that explode and library patrons that want to get in fights and various other things that don't feel intellectually stimulating nor do-gooding in any way.

So after my work day was done, all I could think of was to get home, take some ibuprofen, take a hot shower and get into my pjs. Which is just what I did. When I got done and was all towel-turbaned-wet-hair-on-the-couch-under-a-blankie jimjammed up, I realized that I was supposed to stop on the way home from work and pick up orange juice and toilet paper. The orange juice probably could wait, but we were down to 10 sheets of buttpaper which everyone knows is code red for household emergencies. But the blankie! And the jimjams!

I called Nordic Boy and left him a message, which was totally a baby whiny copout thing to do since he was already working late and fighting traffic. But he didn't pick up, and so I figured he was already on the road and it was too late to catch him. Phooey.

Next thing? I called Biogirl. Oh yes. I called my friend who doesn't even live with me and whose responsibility in doing my household chores for me is exactly to the tune of BUT NOT AT ALL and asked her if she would buy my toilet paper for me. And she said yes.

Her = Nobel Prize for friendship.
Me = Seriously. What the hell?

Soon after, Nordic Boy showed up. With a huge honking pack of toilet paper. Turns out he got the message. Not two minutes after that, Biogirl shows up, also with lots o' toilet paper.

All because I had spent the evening calling my loved ones and demanding toilet paper from them from my towel-turbaned throne. It was like Halloween, except instead of people getting things for showing up at my house, they brought me stuff. And instead of it being candy, it was tushie tissue. Ok, so it's not like Halloween at all.

Moral of the story? I am awesome. Also, if you have any toilet paper needs, I am your lady, because I am fully stocked.

Well, maybe not ANY toilet paper needs.

So meaty

Fair warning: this blog post might make you puke. Maybe you want to take your laptop near the toilet or something.

A few days ago, Nordic Boy and I celebrated the day we met. This is the only anniversary we celebrate. Not because there weren't other days that merit celebration. But just that compared to that day, it seems overkill. We have been together for a long time. And we have shared many, many experiences together. New cities we've moved to, family births and deaths, financial ups and downs, new jobs, old jobs, college, grad school, travel, illnesses, things that have been unbelievably joyous and things that have broken each of our hearts. If we started counting up the first date and the first kiss and the day we moved in and the day we went from dating to best friends to dating to best friends again and the day we first ate a burrito together blah blah blah, it starts to get a little ridiculous. So we just stick with the day we met because everything comes from that. It's like the birthday of us.

I hear that some people call this a meetiversary. Which just sounds like meaty-versary, and I find that thought so disgusting that I sort of love it.

In past years, we have tended to do something special on the meaty-versary. Go on a weekend trip, or go see a show, or go get a fancy meal or something. As the meaty-versary weekend approached this year, we kept talking about what we wanted to do, but not settling on anything. Finally, we figured out what we wanted to do.

We had a completely normal, fun, common weekend at home. Because what better thing to do with our meaty-versary (no I will NOT stop saying that) than celebrate our life? It's a pretty good one.

So here's a super exciting list of the things we did all weekend:
1. We lolled around in bed both mornings.
2. We went to the hardware store.
3. We made a simple dinner of enchiladas and greens.
4. We watched movies on the couch.
5. Nordic Boy measured up our laundry room and cut some boards for new laundry cabinets while I read a book.
6. We walked to the corner Thai restaurant and shared a mound of Pad Thai.
7. We went to the Apple store to play with an iPad.
8. We acted a bit mushy, it's true.
9. We got calls from parents wishing us a happy anniversary. I love them.
10. We danced around the house.
11. We bought a lottery ticket and didn't win a goddamn thing but talked for an hour about what we'd do if we did win.
12. We went on a walk even though we got rained on. I only complained about the cold for half of the walk, which was quite an improvement for me.

I never, never thought I would be living this life, not in a million years. But every day I just...want to. I never feel like I have to make it work. It just does. Because I love that guy to pieces. It's bonkers.

So I guess I sort of have won the lottery. Pretty cool.

Consumables #11

This week!

I read The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender. I'm not usually a fan of novels about food, which this one sort of is, at least on the surface. However, this one totally got me. I liked it. You should read it. Trust me, I'm a professional.

Life, on the Discovery Channel
Nordic Boy and I are not big sports-watchers, so when I see people who are, and they yell at the screen, I wonder what the hell is wrong with them. But it turns out that nature shows are what makes Nordic Boy and I yell at the screen. "GRASSHOPPER WATCHIT! CHAMELEON TONGUE IS AFTER YOUR ASS! RUN RUN RUN!" If only they made big foam fingers for nature shows.

America's Next Top Model
FINE yes I still watch this. Last week Tyra was wearing a jumpsuit that, in the awesome words of my friend Hannah, "was like a full body bandaid." This week, another jumpsuit, of the grape variety a la Violet Beauregard. And if I ever use the word "dreckitude" in any way other than to mock Tyra and Andre and all the rest, you all have my permission to cut me out of your life.

Project Runway
At first, I was just SO HAPPY to see Nina and Michael back on the panel this season. And now, week in and week out, I am enraged by their choices. They keep letting shit slide that they never would have in the past. Every week. I don't know when the last time their decisions made any sense to me. But perhaps I just have lost faith ever since I read Nina Garcia's book wherein she said that every woman who has ever worn fishnets is pretty much a raging strumpet and that every woman must own a pair of old-fashioned driving shoes with rubber gussets on the soles. Rubber gussets. A MUST HAVE. Nina, you have totally lost me.

Up In the Air and Parenthood
What might this Academy Award nominated movie and this family tv melodrama have in common, you ask? They both have stars that give you exactly what you want out of them. I want George Clooney to be as George Clooney-ish as possible, and not since his portrayal of Booker on Roseanne does he give us the Full Clooney treatment as he does in this movie. And Parenthood gives us back Lauren Graham acting just as Lorelei Gilmore-ish as we could want. Up in the Air is a better product, but if I have to choose who I have more of a crush on, it's Lorelei. I mean, Lauren. No, actually, it's Lorelei.

The song of the week, for some reason, has been New York Minute, by the Eagles. Nordic Boy had to go and answer some question I had for him regarding how fast something was happening by saying "It's going to happen in a New York Minute." And then I had to reply (and by "had to," I literally HAD TO) by saying "Ooh-eeh-oooh!" And the sick thing is, Nordic Boy knows that if he says the words "New York Minute" that I have to respond this way. Hence, he has been saying it all week. I'm like a dog that hears another dog howl and I have to howl too. Only mine comes out in the form of an Eagles song. Which is a very unfortunate thing to have to admit about oneself.