Tell me…

February 25, 2005

Is there any phrase grander than “TGIF!”? Is there? HUH?!

I didn’t think so.


February 24, 2005

Judd? JUDD?! America, are you freaking KIDDING me?!!
The others I totally agree with, couldn’t agree more, actually, but JUDD?!

Boo. Hiss. Other catcalls of utter displeasure.
Stupid American Idol.


February 24, 2005

Alli: (running into house, out of breath) Hannah talked to a Stranger Danger!
Momma: She did wha’?
Alli: She told him where we lived! He can probably kidnap us now, huh?
Momma: Well… I don’t think–
Alli: But don’t worry, Momma, ’cause I will do karate on him! Like this! Why-yah! WHY-YAH! (proceeds to demonstrate that she really DOES pay attention when Momma does Tae Bo, “why-yah!” notwithstanding.)

Despite the frightening lapse in city safety on my older daughter’s part (which was discussed at length, I assure you, so we will move on), it is slightly comforting to know that my youngest little spitfire is determined to give any would-be attacker-slash-kidnapper a run for his money.

Why-yah, indeed.

Right. As if I wouldn’t at least MENTION it…

February 23, 2005

Carrie “Farm Girl” Underwood is solid. I know some American Idol viewers are probably not convinced, but I think she will surprise them. And cornfed homegirl sang Tiffany! I SO wanted to see Tiffany during her mall tour (“The Beautiful You: Celebrating The Good Life Shopping Mall Tour”) back in ’87, and this was ALMOST AS GOOD, ya’ll! Now I can die happy. Oooooooooh, maybe she’ll sing “I Think We’re Alone Now” next! Dare I dream? I’m getting chills…

Um, Mikalah Gordon? Babs called. She wants her shtick back.

Life Lesson #314: Humidity is NOT My Friend

February 23, 2005

Having been raised in Phoenix, Arizona, where the temperature is known to soar above and beyond “just plain hot” into “fiery depths of hell,” it has always bothered me to hear tourists from the east coast declare, “Well, at least it’s a dry heat!”– which, let’s be frank, shall we?– seems like an ignorant thing to say, really. Ignorant. I mean, as far as I am concerned, 120 degrees is hotter than hell, no matter how dry you spin it. I often wondered how much worse a little humidity could be?

What a revelation, let me tell you.

Maybe I have a bit of the claustrophobic in me, but I don’t even like going into a sauna. Besides the obvious Unattractive Naked People Sitting Too Damn Close thing, I feel as if I can’t breathe in those suckers; it’s too steamy, too close, if you know what I mean. I had no idea that walking a few piddly miles along the sidewalks of the crowded, east coast city streets during the dog days of summer could be worse than a sauna, but it won’t be the first time I have been the victim of my faulty cognitive process. I have never been good with syllogisms.

And did you know that when the air is so wet and thick in your crappy, dirt-colored, swamp-cooled, studio apartment your bread turns to mush and your crackers disintegrate into an unrecognizable pseudo-masticated mess? Did you?

And did you know that if you accidentally spill milk on your crappy, snot-colored, shag carpeting in said crappy, dirt-colored, swamp-cooled, studio apartment, as God is my witness, even armed with an entire box of baking soda and Febreeze, no amount of frenzied scrubbing, hysterical crying, or frantic blow-drying can remedy the awful, vomitous stench of milk spilled and allowed to sour on dirty shag carpeting? I didn’t think so.

And, oh ho ho! Don’t EVEN get me started on the horrific Bigness that is my naturally curly hair.

Carpe dry heat, I say.

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