Each day when I wake up, three things are guaranteed:
If it's before 10 a.m., I'm pissed to be awake.
I will go straight to the bathroom to pee then to the coffee maker.
I will have a song repeating in my head.
This last thing, the song thing, is something that I have kept to myself for years. I just assumed that everyone, without fail, woke up everyday with a different tune in their head.
It's completely uncontrollable and most of the time it has nothing to do with a song I heard the day before. And this song selection process in my brain does not discriminate. It can be any song from any genre or any time period. It doesn't matter if it's a song I hate. Hell, sometimes it's even a jingle from a commercial.
And, more often than not, it has no bearing on what I'm thinking about or what sort of mood I'm in. So, I don't know where it comes from. I like to think of my brain as an intricate, mushy DJ that takes it upon himself to pick out a song all willy nilly for me to wake up to each day. Personifying organs makes me much happier than it should.
So! Does this happen to you? If so, won't you join me in my new super blog endeavor?
Everyday I will post my Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day and I'd love for you to share yours if you have one. It's like an interactive game thing! weee!
Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "If I Could Turn Back Time" (Cher)
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
merry christmas to me.
Since mid-November there has been this huge, obnoxious inflatable Winnie the Pooh (dressed as Santa, no less) on the front lawn of a house down the block.
Today I walked by and it's in a deflated heap on the ground.
Today I walked by and it's in a deflated heap on the ground.
Friday, December 15, 2006
three things.
one:
As if I needed another reason to stay away from Olive Garden.
two:
This fills me with such glee I may burst.
three:
And this?! gah! sheer awesome.
As if I needed another reason to stay away from Olive Garden.
two:
This fills me with such glee I may burst.
three:
And this?! gah! sheer awesome.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
conspiracy theory.
I'm convinced that there is a secret summit somewhere buried deep in the Alps where the heads of all the companies in the world get together to establish the programming schedule of daytime television.
The sole purpose of this gathering is to ensure that all of the worst shows imaginable are on between the hours of 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Thus, when people take time off of work whether for legitimate illness or just to spend a day on the couch, they are so MISERABLE with what is on television that they couldn't possibly be subjected to ONE MORE DAY of such mindless, horrifically acted, vomit-inducing shit.
Just how terrible it is blows my mind. Namely, the new iVillage Live (I want to smother every host on that joke of a "show"), any and all soap operas (especially Passions), the Megan Mullally Show, all talk shows (Springer and Maury just don't do it for me anymore) and all judge-type programs. All of it. It's all horrible.
I've been home most of the week dealing with a virus that has taken over my life. I could easily stay home and rest for the remainder of the week, but I'm out of movies here in the apartment and all that's left is daytime TV. I'm so physically aversed to such things that I am forcing myself TO GO BACK TO WORK. I'm choosing to NOT lay on my couch. Something is very wrong here.
I intend to expose the culprits behind this madness. Or, shit, start a career in daytime programming, it can't be that hard to put together complete crap.
The sole purpose of this gathering is to ensure that all of the worst shows imaginable are on between the hours of 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Thus, when people take time off of work whether for legitimate illness or just to spend a day on the couch, they are so MISERABLE with what is on television that they couldn't possibly be subjected to ONE MORE DAY of such mindless, horrifically acted, vomit-inducing shit.
Just how terrible it is blows my mind. Namely, the new iVillage Live (I want to smother every host on that joke of a "show"), any and all soap operas (especially Passions), the Megan Mullally Show, all talk shows (Springer and Maury just don't do it for me anymore) and all judge-type programs. All of it. It's all horrible.
I've been home most of the week dealing with a virus that has taken over my life. I could easily stay home and rest for the remainder of the week, but I'm out of movies here in the apartment and all that's left is daytime TV. I'm so physically aversed to such things that I am forcing myself TO GO BACK TO WORK. I'm choosing to NOT lay on my couch. Something is very wrong here.
I intend to expose the culprits behind this madness. Or, shit, start a career in daytime programming, it can't be that hard to put together complete crap.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
words from the couch.
I have mono.
For those of you who have had it, you know it sucks complete ass (as far as trying to lead the life of a normal, functioning human being).
So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.
For those of you who have had it, you know it sucks complete ass (as far as trying to lead the life of a normal, functioning human being).
So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
stay classy.
A laundry list of liquor consumed by yours truly between the hours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. on a random Wednesday night, for no reason, whilst still dressed in the suit I wore to an interview earlier in the day.
Ahem.
- one ketel one martini, straight up, dry, dirty
- one cosmo
- one bottle of shiraz
- 3 lemon drop shots
- one guinness
And then made out with a guy against the side of a car.
Ahem.
- one ketel one martini, straight up, dry, dirty
- one cosmo
- one bottle of shiraz
- 3 lemon drop shots
- one guinness
And then made out with a guy against the side of a car.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
hard candy.
On certain Sundays in November
When the weather bothers me
I empty drawers of other summers
Where my shadows used to be
Thank you, Adam Duritz, for that shining lyrical description of what I like to call "purposeful remembrance." You're down, having a hard day and you think, hey! this day could get SO much worse if I go and pull out a bunch of old crap that will make me terribly sad! It's like in the Dane Cook special where he's talking about crying and he, hilariously, explains the scenario where you are taken over by this uncontrollable need to cry, and once you're in it and getting that release, you come up with more really depressing shit so you can just go ahead and get it all out. So, similarly, you'll have those times where you take the gut-dropping, tear-inducing trip down memory lane. You look through old pictures, cards, letters, gifts, etc and then you have yourself a good old-fashioned depress-a-thon. And then you feel better. It's a catharsis.
These little episodes decline in frequency as you move on from whatever it is you're getting over. They help with the healing, blah blah, and then one day, you think about that drawer or box where all of those memories are and you realize that, holy shit, you haven't touched that in so long you can't even remember the last time it happened. And then this little smile comes to your face and you think, wow, I didn't think I'd ever get over that or feel as good as I do now. And the best part is, you didn't even realize you got over it. It's like, when you forgot about remembering that you needed to get over it, you got over it. Or something like that.
So there you are, all healed and whatnot. Christ, you can barely even see the scar anymore. Kinda like that little place on your right ring finger, right between the top two joints, where there's a scar from where you closed your fingers in a door when you were six. It's been so long and it's healed so well that now you almost have to look for the scar to find it. It's kinda like that. So you feel really great. General happiness with life is back to a nice high, I'd say an 8 out of 10 (9 if you were getting some good sex on a regular basis).
Then one night you pull out this job interview book that you haven't looked through in years. You've boxed it up and moved it 3 or 6 times, but you haven't had a need to read it. But, gloriously, now you do because you have an interview scheduled the following week for what seems to be an incredibly fantastic job. You crack the spine, start flipping through to get some great pointers to "Knock 'Em Dead" and from between two pages somewhere in the middle, out falls an envelope.
You're totally perplexed. What the hell could it be? Why is it in this book? You take the card out of the envelope and there it is. One of those pieces from a previous relationship that you thought you'd lost. A piece that's in the top 3 on the List of Valued Things that came from that particular time in your life. You look over at your roommate and all you can say is, "oh no."
You so don't want to open that card. You know what's in that card, what's written on the inside. You know that if you open it and read it you're going to remember the day you got it. And how you cried stupid emotional girl tears of happiness when you read it. You'll remember how full it made you feel. How right it made the world. And how that all went away. But, of course, since you enjoy pain a little more than the average bear, you open that bad boy up and give it a peruse.
And then you cry a little. Just a little. Because looking back on lost love is bittersweet. And then you wipe away the tears with your palms and take a sharp inhale through the nose and grit your teeth and remind yourself that this isn't something you cry about anymore. Remember?
And it's not like it rips open the healed scar or anything like that. If anything it's akin to those weird, random pains you get sometimes where you had surgery years ago or maybe like the phantom pains people get after they lose a limb. You feel it, sure, but it's dull, almost distant, and quickly passes.
The card goes back in the envelope, the envelope goes back in the book and the book goes back on the shelf. You won't need it anyway, that interview will be your bitch.
When the weather bothers me
I empty drawers of other summers
Where my shadows used to be
Thank you, Adam Duritz, for that shining lyrical description of what I like to call "purposeful remembrance." You're down, having a hard day and you think, hey! this day could get SO much worse if I go and pull out a bunch of old crap that will make me terribly sad! It's like in the Dane Cook special where he's talking about crying and he, hilariously, explains the scenario where you are taken over by this uncontrollable need to cry, and once you're in it and getting that release, you come up with more really depressing shit so you can just go ahead and get it all out. So, similarly, you'll have those times where you take the gut-dropping, tear-inducing trip down memory lane. You look through old pictures, cards, letters, gifts, etc and then you have yourself a good old-fashioned depress-a-thon. And then you feel better. It's a catharsis.
These little episodes decline in frequency as you move on from whatever it is you're getting over. They help with the healing, blah blah, and then one day, you think about that drawer or box where all of those memories are and you realize that, holy shit, you haven't touched that in so long you can't even remember the last time it happened. And then this little smile comes to your face and you think, wow, I didn't think I'd ever get over that or feel as good as I do now. And the best part is, you didn't even realize you got over it. It's like, when you forgot about remembering that you needed to get over it, you got over it. Or something like that.
So there you are, all healed and whatnot. Christ, you can barely even see the scar anymore. Kinda like that little place on your right ring finger, right between the top two joints, where there's a scar from where you closed your fingers in a door when you were six. It's been so long and it's healed so well that now you almost have to look for the scar to find it. It's kinda like that. So you feel really great. General happiness with life is back to a nice high, I'd say an 8 out of 10 (9 if you were getting some good sex on a regular basis).
Then one night you pull out this job interview book that you haven't looked through in years. You've boxed it up and moved it 3 or 6 times, but you haven't had a need to read it. But, gloriously, now you do because you have an interview scheduled the following week for what seems to be an incredibly fantastic job. You crack the spine, start flipping through to get some great pointers to "Knock 'Em Dead" and from between two pages somewhere in the middle, out falls an envelope.
You're totally perplexed. What the hell could it be? Why is it in this book? You take the card out of the envelope and there it is. One of those pieces from a previous relationship that you thought you'd lost. A piece that's in the top 3 on the List of Valued Things that came from that particular time in your life. You look over at your roommate and all you can say is, "oh no."
You so don't want to open that card. You know what's in that card, what's written on the inside. You know that if you open it and read it you're going to remember the day you got it. And how you cried stupid emotional girl tears of happiness when you read it. You'll remember how full it made you feel. How right it made the world. And how that all went away. But, of course, since you enjoy pain a little more than the average bear, you open that bad boy up and give it a peruse.
And then you cry a little. Just a little. Because looking back on lost love is bittersweet. And then you wipe away the tears with your palms and take a sharp inhale through the nose and grit your teeth and remind yourself that this isn't something you cry about anymore. Remember?
And it's not like it rips open the healed scar or anything like that. If anything it's akin to those weird, random pains you get sometimes where you had surgery years ago or maybe like the phantom pains people get after they lose a limb. You feel it, sure, but it's dull, almost distant, and quickly passes.
The card goes back in the envelope, the envelope goes back in the book and the book goes back on the shelf. You won't need it anyway, that interview will be your bitch.
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