August 20, 2013
Confession: Up until two weeks ago, I had never, ever watched an episode of Lost. Not one. Unless you count that one time years ago when Paige made me watch an episode with her, which I don’t, because it was like, the middle of season 5 or something and let’s face it– even with her stellar running commentary to guide me I had NO FREAKING IDEA what the hell was going on. I mean, honestly. What. The. Hell?
(Seriously. Are they in hell? NO! Don’t tell me! DON’T TELL ME! But is it hell? Seems like hell. Or purgatory. Or limbo. I need to brush up on my theology. But don’t tell me.)
It wasn’t a conscious choice on my part to shun the show or anything. No, indeed. I just hadn’t seen it from the beginning, so I missed out on a lot of the culture. You know how it is. Then I heard talk of polar bears and hatches and a bald dude named Locke– which, intriguing?– but by the time season three rolled around I was feeling super stubborn and just didn’t feel like being a joiner.
(Seriously. Why is there a polar bear in hell? I’m only asking. Wait! NO! Don’t tell me! It’s probably not even hell. I’m just spitballing here…)
So I totes missed the boat.
(Get it? Missed the BOAT? Like, “Yay! A boat! We’re saved! Just joking, evil people are going to steal our babies and shoot us and blow up our handmade boat! Nooooo!”?)
Then? THEN?! Along comes Netflix, with all the seasons of Lost, just right there, and BOOM. I’ve spent the past several evenings yelling “What the WHAT?!” and “Sawyer sucks!” and “OMG! What?! Just?! HAPPENED?!” and “Michael! NOOOO!!” at my TV. My throat hurts, my kids think I’m crazy(er), my dreams are FUNKY, but I can’t stop watching. For reals.
(Okay. It’s hell or an alternate dimension. I’m just saying. This is J.J. Abrams, after all. Hey. I’ve seen Alias. I’ve seen Fringe. Dude lives for that stuff. But DON’T TELL ME! Don’t even.)
So… tonight I’m watching the Season 2 finale. It’s a two-parter! Woot! There will be popcorn and chocolate treats involved! And a beverage of some sort! I hope Michael dies! Because he KILLED Libby! Hurley’s LIBBY! And Ana Lucia! Also, so I don’t have to hear “Waaaalt! Waaaaaaaalt!” anymore! Good LORD, man. S that D! Shut it down.
I know, I know. I need help, y’all. I’m utterly, irrevocably Lost.
Edited to add: TD is watching with me, and what with me asking him, “What just happened?! Huh?! No! Don’t tell me!” and punching him in the arm at the end of each episode yelling “WHAT?!”, I’m fairly certain it’s his favorite time with me ever! Yep. We’re building memories here.
July 15, 2012
You know how sometimes you hear a seemingly throwaway quote– a line in a movie, a voice-over on a television show– that catches your attention, I mean really grabs you when you least expect it, just sneaks up and has you by the short hairs before you even know it, and it hurts, because it burns into your brain and soul, and it doesn’t let go? Ever? You know how that happens?
No? Me neither. That’s so totally weird.
But if that were to happen, not that it did, because apparently that is not a “thing,” I’m just saying if it WERE in fact a thing, then this quote from In Plain Sight (thank you, Netflix!)– which, super good show, by the way, I am NOT even kidding, but it’s over now and why didn’t anyone tell me about it, because RUDE?– well, you could say it still has a mighty firm grip on me, a figurative vice-grip tightening on my poor short hairs which is not a pleasant feeling, I tell you what:
Mary Shannon: [voice-over] We all live in hiding. In one way or another, each of us conceals pieces of ourselves from the rest of the world. Some people hide because their lives depend on it, others because they don’t like being seen. And then there are the special cases, the ones who hide because… because… because they just want someone to care enough to look for them.
And while you may read this and wonder, What is she on about? Well, first of all, have you met me? And B, it’s the damnedest thing because I know I can’t ever go back to NOT understanding that I… well, I’m one of the special cases. And honestly? I don’t know what to do with that.
Seriously. What do I do with that?
Yep. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking Diet Dr. Pepper.
And with that lame (but, come on, still funny) play on the classic Airplane bit… Cat out.
May 30, 2012
Today I was suddenly overcome with an irresistible urge to do something crazy. Specifically, sneak into the office lounge and shake every single bottle and can of soda in the community fridge. All of ’em! Every last fizzy one! Leave no can unshaken!
Let’s be clear. This has happened before, this urge, but it’s totally NOT because I am off the Diet DP again, you know, due to it being super unhealthy–not even in a food group, people!–no, not at ALL, because hello? Grown woman, here? I’m mature and shizz. And anyway, water is BEST so I don’t even care at ALL if other people are drinking nasty caffeinated food-groupless beverages that are NOT water and are therefore NOT best. Whatever! DRINK the soda! TASTE the rainbow! I don’t even care! You know why? Because come lunch time… well, there’d be a whole lot of excitement up in hey-ah! Woo!
Fine. Whatever. I’m just a bad person. A bored, bad person with evil soda-shaking thoughts. But I didn’t succumb to temptation so I hope you admire my restraint.
Right, then. Moving on…
…I cannot recommend this show enough– BBC’s Sherlock.
BBC One describes it thus: “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson’s adventures in 21st Century London. A thrilling, funny, fast-paced contemporary reimagining of the Arthur Conan Doyle classic.”
Yep, they’ve shed the Victorian trappings but preserved the dark humor and clever wordplay of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and guys? It’s genius.
The casting is spot-on; I’ve never seen this Benedict Cumberbatch chap before, but I tell you what. He is absolutely mesmerizing as the enigmatic genius detective. And if you don’t just want to hug Dr. John Watson (Martin Freeman) after watching the show, well, I wash my hands of you.
Because really. It’s ace! Absolutely BRILL. Okay, not every episode is perfect, but the character moments, especially between Watson and Holmes, usually make up for it. And when everything is clicking… dude, it is ON. FIRE. Like nothing else on television! True story. Plus the production value is amaaahzing, so check it out. Or don’t. I don’t even care. It’s your life.
May 21, 2012
Now I’ve always heard you need to repeat a task for approximately twenty-one days to condition a habit. So here I am, five (week)days in at DWM, and I’m not about to let a little thing like writer’s block, AKA sleep deprivation/exhaustion, (also) AKA Fear of Sucking at This, stop me from conditioning my blogging habit!
But here’s the thing… I’m in a funk.
I know, right?! Now don’t misunderstand, there ARE thoughts being thunk. Yes indeedy. But there is definite funkage going on here. Funk-o-ramma. Feeling funky! Funk! (SNL? Richmeister? The Copy Guy? Anyone? Anyone? Dude, I’M OLD!) Not to mention the fact that there, unfortunately, do not seem to be enough hours in my day to plunk out said thoughts being thunk… it’s a funk…
Aaaaand now I seem to have gone all Dr. Seuss on your behinds. How incredibly lame of me.
Anyway, on one level, the rational one, I understand this happens to everyone, that everyone hits a funk, and it’s perfectly normal to experience a momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad sometimes. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless.
And because I’ve spent years–years!–compartmentalizing and burying the myriad thoughts I used to express so freely at my blog, now that I’m here again and it’s TIME, I’m just feeling a teensy bit giddy, disoriented, a little off-kilter, like, “Whoa, well, let’s stop this crazy whirligig of fun! I’m dizzy!”
Because it’s swirling and rolling–the fanatical TV snark, the parenting moments, the random introspection, the questionable political commentary, and, yes, even the occasional emotional honestly– and I am so totally out of practice and it’s all rushing, no, surging at me in this giant wave of WORDS and ideas and I know it’s just a matter of time before I blurt out something awesome. Just unleash it into the blogosphere. Let it explode out of me the way occasional bouts of introspective verbal diarrhea have a way of doing at the most embarrassing times.
And, wow. There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for THAT mental image (sorry). I see that now. But my point is this… this funk? No WAY can it withstand the awesome power of my imminent verbal explosion, which I don’t think I could stop even if I tried. Which I won’t be. Trying to stop, that is. Not likely.
So I’m breaking up my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party and giving myself a figurative “Get it together, fool!” slap across the face. It’s time to take an interest in those who weren’t on the invite list to my party of one. TGIM. My kiddos. My family. My friends.
Because even in the depths of self-pity I understand that while I may have doubts, they don’t need any kind of proof of my awesomeness. They see it in me, the awesomeness, or see the lack thereof, yet they love me. Unconditionally. Yup. Verbal diarrhea and all.
And that? Is totally awesome.
So I promise here and now… when I shake off this funk and gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk!
(My apologies to Dr. Seuss.)
May 18, 2012
It’s official. I need a maid. Unless “maid” is not the PC term anymore, in which case I need a maid or manservant. (No gender insensitivity here! No siree, Bob…bie…?)
Oh, “housekeeper” works, too.
Because, I tell you what, there never seems to be enough time in the day to get stuff DONE… Do you know what I’m saying? Do you?!
Yeah, you’re feeling me. I can tell.
Because my day is SUPER busy. Every day it’s like, wake up, get the kids up and out the door in the morning, commute to and from work, knit stuff out of yarn, watch awesome television programming, exercise, nag the kids about cleaning, spend quality time with TGIM, nag TGIM about cleaning, play video games (with the children! obviously! mostly!), remind myself that I really should be cleaning, get dinner going, ignore my email inbox, check Facebook and other Web-related stuff… you know the drill.
Sometimes I like time to bathe, also. Because smelly is bad. I have that on good authority. (I wish a few of my fellow subway commuters would get THAT memo. No, seriously.)
So what usually suffers? Housecleaning, that’s what! Mostly because I hate it with the fiery passion of ten thousand suns, but also because of the aforementioned there’s-only-24-hours-in-a-day thing. But mostly I just hate it. So SO much.
So there it is. Irrefutable evidence. There’s no way around it, y’all.
I need a maid…
…or a sister-wife who enjoys housework.