September 29, 2005
I always hated being It. I don’t know why. Honestly, does anyone ever REALLY want to be It? Really? Really really? I’m sorry, but I just can’t fathom the possibility. Everyone runs AWAY from you! It’s so unfair! Nevertheless, here I am, a grown woman, tagged. Yes, I am IT.
Wait. I’m kind of feeling this type of It. Nobody’s running. Nobody’s shouting “Nanny nanny boo boo!” at me. Nobody’s coming just… so… close… then running away again. Weird. Huh. I shall not let you down, Vajana!
Here are the instructions:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.
Monday, January 03, 2005
From “Got Some Dancing to Do.”
“I wanted it; God forgive me, I wanted it!”
Wow. Sounds like maybe I wanted something?
(*runs away laughing maniacally*)
September 29, 2005
Rob Thomas giveth (Logan was at the door!)… and Rob Thomas TAKETH AWAY (Logan reverts to Obligatory Psychotic Jackass! Again! So DUMPED.)! The classic bait and switch, y’all. I totally called it, when everyone and their dog kept referring to Veronica’s boyfriend as, well, “your boyfriend” instead of saying his name, but still. What a tease.
Man, I could hardly breathe throughout that entire episode which, while heavy-handed in the voice-over and flashback department, still packed a HEFTY punch, I tell you what. I was alternately laughing hysterically, almost in tears, and literally (no, really) banging my head against the wall. You know, when Logan hopped into bed with Whoredelia? (I loves me some Charisma!) GAH. They sure crammed a ton of information into one little episode. It seemed a little, I don’t know… rushed? They totally did that with the pilot episode, too, so even though I think some of it could have been stretched over into the next few episodes, I still have high hopes for a KILLER season.
Keith: “What, no premarital sex?”
Veronica: “Oh, yeah. Yes. But don’t worry, Dad – I swear you’re going to like these guys.”
“Where’s my turkey pot pie, woman?!” (Gotta love Daddy Mars…)
Veronica: “Can you think of anyone who doesn’t like you?”
Wallace: “Well, there’s the Klan…”
Logan’s worried “five more minutes” gesture and accompanying “I’m in love with you.”
“Also, pinching your own nipples works sometimes…” (Classic.)
OPJ Logan, who incidentally rocked the best use of a prop pillow EVER. Ha!
Stoner Meg (“Let’s go, let’s go! L – E – T- S ….???”)
Stoner Wallace rockin’ the Jamaican, man.
“Can Dick and Beaver come out to play?” (Hee! How do they get AWAY with these lines? Sure, those are Logan’s friends’ actual names, but still. And the dirty little hand gesture with Dick at the pool? OMG. I was APPALLED when I realized what that meant! EW! Logan, you skanky little man-ho, you!)
All of Dick’s lines.
Lilly “saving” Veronica.
The Shock and Awe of the Yellow Submarine.
Poor Meg… bitch. (Will she haunt Veronica now?)
Veronica and Duncan! (SPEW. Boring, much? And what’s romantic about STALKING?! Huh? Nothing, that’s what! Now I realize Veronica just wants her “normal” life back, but ARGH! DONUT?! You can’t go back, sistah-friend! You can never go back. Yeah, I give that relationship two or three more episodes, TOPS.)
PCHers going all Lord of the Dance atop Logan’s head at the bridge.
Guttenburg’s DAUGHTER! Mia? Gia? Whatev? Blech! Please let her be murdered or something at some point. You know, early on in the season? Super duper early? PUHLEEEEEZ.
OPJ Logan, burning down a community center (BUT, did he really? Dun, dun, DUN…).
Still, WOW. I am so very glad it’s back.
Breaking down the Mystery(s):
Who killed Felix? Why? To spark a class war? Revenge? What? And does Weevil know?
Who murdered everybody(?) on the Yellow Submarine of Death? Why? Why did the bus smell? Is that important? Who were they trying to kill? Veronica? Annoying Journalism Teacher? Poor, not-so-saintly-anymore Meg? Who?!
Will Aaron Echolls be convicted for Lilly’s murder and his attempted murder of Veronica, or will he get off a la OJ Simpson? Will we get to see the trial? Oh, I so want to see the trial.
Will Logan redeem himself? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? And a cherry? Mmm. Hungry.
Yeah, so all in all it was a’ight, yo?
Pure Speculation (I am unspoiled!):
My guess: Whordelia wants the Casablanca money, somehow rigged (had someone rig) the bus, and spent the afternoon boinking Logan to establish an alibi. How you like them apples, eh?… It could happen!!
Is it Wednesday yet?
September 28, 2005
“… I can scarce hear my lovah’s approach!” (Hardcore Gilligan’s Island fans will know EXACTLY how that should be pronounced. Gotta roll that R, yo? Couldn’t resist.) But, seriously? My heart? It totally DOES beat so.
You have been reminded. I wash my hands of it. That is all.
September 28, 2005
Um, horrified, maybe?
Okay, here’s the thing. Yes, I was a cheerleader in high school. Yes, I was full of Badger Pride, okay? I’m just putting it out there. If you haven’t figured out yet that the whole ex-cheerleader thing was a distinct possibility, then you obviously have not read enough of my blog. Do you have all the jokes out of your system yet? DO you? Yes? Ready? OKAY!
So I was rooting through our attic this morning searching for the “Winter Clothes” box, hopeful of finding my daughter’s poncho which she NEEDED because her new pink one felt itchy and kept snagging on the scab on her elbow and probably wouldn’t keep her warm enough and totally didn’t match her outfit anyway. Huh. Seven years old and already Miss Fashionista.
Sadly, I did not find the poncho, but fortunately I did find a kicky new hoody we had completely overlooked when unpacking. SCORE! I also happened across a huge bin that was chock full of pictures that I will someday use to create elaborate scrapbook pages that will be the envy of all the other Scrapbooking Mommas out there. You know, someday. Like, when I’m 80, at the rate I’m going. Seriously. There are THOUSANDS of pictures in there! The stress.
The ones in particular I zeroed in on were from my years as a PHS Cheerleader. Go Badgers! (Gah. It’s reflex even still. Sorry.) Now don’t think I was all vain and shizz and made my parents come to the games and snap picture after picture after picture of me performing. No, indeed. To the best of my knowledge, my parents never snapped a shot. Not one. I don’t know why. Maybe they were watching the game? Or I forbade them? I can’t remember. But, whatev. SO not important right now.
What IS important is that as I browsed through these pictures, I recalled this kindly old man who sat front and center at every game, yes sirree, Bob, every damn game– be it football, basketball, whatever–and he had the 80’s equivalent of a Big-A Mother eFfing camera, oh, yes he did. And he would just snap away throughout the game– sideline chants, time-out cheers, halftime performances, the works– and on Monday morning our cheer coach would have envelopes just FULL of pictures for each and every one of us. Seriously. Envelopes. With our names on them. Neatly sorted pictures. For free. It was AWESOME! I mean, FREE PICTURES!! Right? None of us knew who the hell this guy was, but we didn’t care. FREE! PICTURES! For which we paid no money and could keep!
Looking back, I think it’s a little creepy. Maybe WAY creepy. All right, maybe MAD WICKED creepy.
See for yourself. (I don’t have a scanner so these are pictures of pictures. But I think you will get the gist.)
Aw. How cute. (I’m in the middle.) Nothing creepy here, you say? Except that I look EXACTLY THE SAME NOW as I did when I was 15? Almost 20 years ago?! Okay. That IS creepy. Moving on…
Not too bad, I guess. I was a gymnast. I flipped around. Um, a LOT. In leotards. It was part of the gig. Shameless, I know. (Look how short those boys’ basketball shorts are! Woo-WHEE!)
Okay, hmmm. Good catch there, old dude. I mean, my eyes are closed and everything, but maybe that’s not what you were looking at?
Wow. It’s true what they say. Flashbulbs DO make clothes look see-through! Noted.
Yep. Here’s the money shot. Back then, I was all, “Ooooh, look at that extension! Gnarly!” Now? I’m leaning more towards a “Holy MOTHER of HEAVEN! Coooooooootch!” type of reaction. There are SEVERAL more just like this one, by the way, of me and my co-cheerleaders. Say it with me now: FREAK!
So I ask you. Was this (A) a nice elderly gentlemen bringing joy to young girls by taking and personally developing hundreds of pictures– at a great cost to himself in both time and money, I am sure–every single week, rain or shine, out of the goodness of his heart? Or (B) MAD CREEPY OLD DUDE using his own copies of these cootchie shots for his own icky, personal perverted pleasure?! HUH?! I mean, if we had the internet back then, I betcha we would have totally been featured weekly on some “Hot Hot Hot Underage Cheerleaders!” website!! ! Oh NO! Maybe there are old black-market porno mags out there with me in them!! What if THERE ARE?!! There TOTALLY COULD BE!! OH MY GAWSH! And EW!
Call me cynical, but I am going with Option B.
September 27, 2005
Okay. I admit it. I like TV. A LOT. God help me, I DO. I want to buy it flowers and sweet-talk it and have my way with it. I do try to limit my intake of television, but it is just so HARD right now, what with the dearth of decent television programming over summer hiatus followed by the virtual smorgasbord of simply fabulous season premieres we’ve got going on right now! (*cough* Veronica Mars *cough*) It is not my fault! I have been STARVED for good TV! Resistance is futile!
And though I may come off as a bit fan-girly at times when it comes to my favorite programs (*cough* American Idol *cough*), I pride myself on my ability to exude professionalism and maturity while at work. Don’t let my Reef flip-flops fool you. I’m all business, with comfy feet to boot. But on occasion– seriously, like practically never, I swear!– I must admit that the fan-girl in me has flared up at the most inopportune times. Such was the case the other day, I am sad to report, when an event transpired that has caused me to genuinely reflect upon and reevaluate my TV-watching habits.
But first, a little background: A coworker (he occupies the cube across the aisle from me) and I were discussing high school class reunions the other day. Now, I must confess, though I went home for my 10-year reunion, I didn’t “officially” attend it. Because it was, like, $400, or something! I don’t remember the exact amount! But that’s in the ballpark! FOUR HUNDRED FREAKING DOLLARS! I don’t care if it is open bar, that is just too damn expensive, you know what I’m saying?! Can I hear a big “hell, yeah!”?! Good lord. $400?
Okay, I must admit that my reluctance to fully and officially attend may have had something to do with the fact that the reunion fell on a date two weeks after I gave birth to my Tater. TWO WEEKS. So I was, um, chunky, let’s say. And embarrassingly mammiferous. Those suckers? Working breasts. We’re talking ha-yuge. Well, for me anyway. Might I add that I simply do not understand the desire for big boobages? I’ve had ’em. Didn’t care for ’em. But I digress.
So anyway, I sort of– what do you call it? “crashed”?– the mixer held at the ritzy resort on the hill (which already held bad memories for me related to a little mix-up with the law). I couldn’t stay long, you know, due to the working breasts and all– oh, and the two-week-old baby incessantly attached to ’em, of course– but as I trolled the lounge with Di and a few other close friends, I noticed several things: (1) the Homecoming Queen did NOT age well; (2) people are just as stupid drunk at 28 as they were at 18– quite possibly even stupider; (3) people really DO decide to reinvent themselves, concocting shamefully outrageous fantasies of wealth and success; and (4) many of the people I could only vaguely remember– the shadowy kids, the fringe crowd, the geeks, the goody-goodies, the book nerds (I won’t divulge my category)– well, a majority of them had totally made good for themselves: doctors, engineers, entrepreneurs, university professors, even a major network executive, for cripe’s sake. And some of them? GOT HOT. OMG, y’all. I kid you not. HOT.
So I was commenting to my coworker that teenagers have a hard time seeing beyond “popular” and what the crowd perceives as “good-looking” and they miss out on some really spectacular kids in the process. My coworker was all, “Yeah, the kid that created Google with one of his friends? Sergey Brin? He was one of the biggest geeks at my school. We all knew he was smart, but total geek. Now look at him. Number 16 on Forbes list of world billionaires.”
Huh. Not bad. I was suitably impressed. To the best of my knowledge there are no PHS Badger Billionaires. Shame, really. Wait. One girl did do a Taco Bell commercial. Oh, and I am pretty sure her breasts made a brief yet impressive appearance in the movie Breast Men. I believe IMDb credits her as “Pleased Post-Op Girl.” So there’s that.
Where was I? Oh, yes, my descent into fan-girliness. I’m getting there! Just hold on! FREAK.
My coworker went on. He was all, “Blah, blah, didn’t go, blahdy blah, was in the Bahamas, blah, blah, blah, my friends told me all about it…” yackety yack and so forth, but I have to confess something. In truth, I was not paying attention to him because suddenly? I found myself transported into this little daydream where Mr. Sergey “Google” Brin arrived at his 10-year reunion a la Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, you know, in an Armani suit, flashing a little bling, arriving via helicopter and whatnot. And all his classmates were all, “Ooooh! Sergey!” I do that sometimes, the daydreamy thing. I can’t help myself. It’s a hardship on TGIM, I tell you what. It’s a mercy he hasn’t just completely given up speaking to me.
Anyway, I had just reached the point in my fantasy where Sergey and some random hot girl he had crushed on in high school were on the dance floor performing a dreamlike interpretive dance, when something my coworker was saying caught my attention. And it is important to note that this moment? Right here? Is where my unfortunate descent into fan-girliness began.
“Wait. What?” I interrupted him.
“Yeah, this guy, friend a mine in junior high, he showed up and all the girls were flocking to him. ‘Oooh, Jamie! Ooooh!’ Some sorta actor or something…”
Oh, ho, ho. An actor, you say? Intriguing. I needed to know more.
“So, what? Like, a D-list actor doing extra work or something?” I asked. Obviously, as he was so laid back about it, I knew it couldn’t be anyone really famous.
“He was on CSI a few time. You watch CSI?”
I nodded, losing interest quickly. I mean, “on CSI a few times”? YAWN…
“You know the one with the pro athlete who was accused of murder? He was one of the cops, or a lawyer or something…”
“Oh… I think… maybe… hmmm…” I began fiddling with my keyboard, the universal signal for, “Well, better get back to work! Nice chatting with you! Good day! I said ‘good day’!”
“…yeah, his name is Jamie, but I think he goes by J. August Richards–”
I twirled around in my chair so hard I almost tipped over. “GUNN?! You went to school with GUNN?!” I turned back to my computer and quickly typed “J. August Richards” into Google and brought up his picture. “This guy?!”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes were bugging at least an inch out of my head at this point. “Oh. My. Gawsh. Why didn’t you SAY so! Forget CSI! Good LORD, man, he’s GUNN! From Angel!”
Blank stare. I must say, I admire his fortitude. If our roles were reversed I would have been backing away… slowly…
“You know, Angel! The TV show!… C’mon… Joss Whedon? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Angel?! GUNN!… Still nothing? SHUT. UP. Really? Wow! Wait. Gunn’s from Maryland? Who knew?… OMAHGAWSH! You know GUNN!”
Okay, I was in full-on fan-girl mode. I mean it. FULL-ON. And on that last exuberant “GUNN!” heads starting popping up over cubicles, y’all. I’d be lying if I did not admit to turning twenty shades of red, but DUDE. My coworker knows Gunn.
Luckily for future office harmony, my coworker did not completely freak out at my unprecedented and not a little embarrassing departure from office etiquette. Dude even promised me the next time he ran into old Jamie he’d hook me up with an autograph. GOSH.
“I didn’t realize he really did have fans,” he said with a chuckle, to which I replied, “‘Cha!”
It took me the better part of an hour to settle down. I found myself periodically whispering, “Huh… Gunn!” under my breath and shaking my head in disbelief, which just goes to show you that too much television will indeed rot your brain and accelerate your descent into fan-girliness at the least provocation. Such as finding out a coworker attended school with a bonafide TV star. A TV star whose show is not even on the air anymore, but still. You may use my story as a cautionary tale for all your boob-tube-riveted friends and family if you wish. It’s my gift to you. Oh, and one more thing:
The season premiere of the freaking fantabulous Veronica Mars is tomorrow night! 9 PM! UPN! With Angel alumus Cordelia Chase, I mean Charisma Carpenter! And Buffy‘s Willow, I mean Alyson Hannigan! Tune in! Veronica kicks some ass!
What?! I KNOW I told you resistance is futile. Sheesh. Pay attention.