I really should be writing a post about my 8-day, 6-night, 3-country, 2-train-ride, 1000+-photo caper in Europe. For now though, I just want to give Fab.com a shoutout. You made my day. First with this real product called Ostrichpillow…
Then a great reminder for all…
I confess the reason why I took to Twitter so passionately was because I am the ultimate “idea man”. You know, like those people that go in front of movie studios execs to pitch movie ideas? (I learned of the movie industry from TV shows so YMMV) I have lots of one-liner ideas but that is the extent of my “genius”. Every day I walk through life making running commentaries on people I see, things I observe, news I hear, and [invisible] thought bubbles that pop up over my head. Not to mention the memes and quotes that make me laugh as I rapidly scroll through Facebook streams on my phone.
Oh, I should write about THAT.
I’d open my laptop, jotting a couple of lines down, and immediately running out of steam.
Dead. Nothing. Void. Hollow caverns echoing with the witty one-liners.
“There should never be a BUT following a true apology. Lance Armstrong apologizes like my husband.”
“Manti Te’o would have stood out like a sore thumb in NFL since he’d probably be the most faithful and gentlemanly boyfriend amongst all the NFL players.”
“Frankly I could care less that he lied. I am more concerned about the culture that forced Manti Te’o to fabricate a girlfriend who died of a [fake] tragic death.”
Echo. Echo. Echo.
I hope you will forgive me for the mental purge here. My brains are hurting with all the echo. Ok, smart ass. I know you can’t really get rid of echo by “purging” them. It’s just a figure of speech though I am definitely mixing analogies here.
I am sitting inside the train station again on a Saturday morning, waiting for Mr. Monk, my 10-year-old boy, to get out of the weekly religious class run by a Catholic Church that more than one Catholics have told me is TOO conservative even for them. There are reasons we are keeping him there and I will not get into them. Suffice it to say that my sons and I have had a lot of great discussions and I hope, we are “training” them to be critical thinkers.
What don’t kill you will only make you stronger.
What does it say about me that I love being in a crowd of strangers and feeling alive amongst the hustle and bustle? Invisible yet alive. This is the kind of crowd different from say, going to a conference or a party. There is no pressure, no obligation, no anticipation to socialize with each other. And absolutely no networking. I ABHOR the concept of “networking” by the way. I’d rather die. There I said it. Probably why I will never get ahead on the career ladder. I wish for my kids super-duper Google-Fiber-grade networking capability (ha ha I slay me). That’s all that matters nowadays isn’t it no matter what kind of job you are holding?
Got my new Kindle Paperwhite this week. I could not shut up about it, I know. I am sorry, ok? Leading to the moment before Marvin arrived (yes, I named my Kindle Marvin. 2 points if you guess Marvin who?) I had been restless, full of anticipation. I have never felt such excitement since… I can’t remember really. I lead a pathetic existence, yes. Now I curl up with Marvin in bed in the dark, caressing his comfortingly textured, paradoxically smooth skin (and promptly fall asleep. I like the concept of reading though). In the recess of my consciousness however I cry, “Traitor!” indignant for my deep love of rubbing my fingers with a book page in between, feeling the heft of somebody else’s words and thoughts in my palm.
Mr. Monk inherited the ex-Marvin now named Tardis. “Bigger on the inside”, get it? 10% into The Hobbit, he exclaimed, “I love Kindle!” he who previously had adamantly been on an anti-electronic-book tirade. “It is just so amazing. It’s like a book but more awe…” I held my tongue that wanted to argue as he curled up in bed with Tardis, so absorbed by what was happening in The Hobbit that he did not even bother to finish his sentence.
Facebook introduced GRAPH SEARCH this week. To me it boiled down to one thing: Discoverability. They are not changing their privacy policies per se and you continue to keep your privacy settings. The biggest (only?) difference now is that we can no longer afford to mindlessly LIKE or comment. Your friends will now see what you are liking and commenting on on their streams. We need to watch for WHAT we are liking, and if you are Interneting at work, WHEN you are liking because obviously when you are LIKING you are not WORKING.
I am not liking this.
A friend of mine noticed that I LIKED this article:
I Can’t Stop Looking at These South Korean Women Who’ve Had Plastic Surgery (thank goodness it is not something I’d be ashamed of when caught liking) and shared a piece of wisdom from Tina Fey with me. Of course a long tirade swirled inside my head that would have become an awesome blog post were I able to form cohesive sentences and string them together logically into paragraphs. Instead, Imma taking the easy way out. Ctrl C. Ctrl V. SHARE.
I’m sitting on the plane waiting for takeoff so I can go home to the 22-degree paradise. It figures that on the last day of my vacation the temperate finally got to Florida normal and I stopped throwing up. Hurray 2013! So as my husband and my youngest went off to see the Outback Bowl and I stayed behind at the hotel before our flight that United decided to move earlier, I figured I had two hours to have a nice vacation. So I did. I am glad I decided to start reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower. It was a joy reading it while lounging by the pool facing the beach with a tropical drink in my hand and some nice mahi mahi fish taco that I will actually keep down.
Sorry for whoring the unedited pictures. They are closing the gate now. Love. Bye. See you on the other side!
Maybe it is because the release of the movie trailer for The Great Gatsby (2013) starring the Titanic “I am the king of the World” guy, the roaring twenties is certainly a popular theme for holiday parties this year. Based on the limited sample size of three, I confess: Two of the company parties (in different offices) I was fortunately enough to be invited to were of “The Roaring Twenties” and “Speakeasy” themes. And the hotel we will happen to be staying in on New Year’s Eve also will be a roaring twenties party.
So here is a tutorial on how to rock the 20s…
#1. Be white.
Ok, I am being facetious.
#1. Don’t tell your co-workers at a retro theme party that as a matter of fact if we were in THE era, you would not have been allowed to be in the same room as they, unless you were working as a waitress.
Hey, just want to get it out of the way.
#2. If you are a gentleman, wear your 3-piece suit and a gangster hat (i.e. expensive-looking fedora). You are done! See the gentleman in the picture who’s pointing his gun at me. Pretty sure he did not even have to dress up for his gangster acting gig.
#3. If you have short hair, wear a pretty elastic beaded headband the “wrong” way. Find any earrings that are dramatic and preferably in the Art Deco style (or, in fact, any geometrical shape will do. i.e. no hoop earrings…) at your local Marshalls and T.J.Maxx. If you have medium to long hair, you could be all professional actress-y and do the Finger Waves or Pin Curls. Or you could be lazy practical and tie your hair in a pony tail, tuck the tail inside the hair above the elastic band, stick 100 pins to keep the tucked hair in place and call it a day. See the crazy wombat on the right in the picture.
#4. You don’t need a dress strictly in the 20s style. Something with a simple silhouette will do. The key, I found out accidentally after the effect, is to have a nice, classy shawl.
#5. Take advantage of the fact that women did not know about “F* Me Heels” back then and spare your feet on the dance floor. Wear low heels with t-straps or some Mary Janes also look right for the occasion. I ended up with these.
#6. Scour your local second-hand stores for a beaded purse. I got mine for $12.
#7. Costume long black gloves, $8. Costume cigarette holder, $2. Going all out in lalaland, priceless.
#8. Take advantage of this opportunity to try out the “smokey eyes” makeup techniques from YouTube. Don’t fall asleep while watching this lady taking frigging 20 minutes to do her eyes and then think that you could just wing it. Don’t even attempt to draw in your eyebrows. Unless you have had practice before, let’s just stay away from the eyebrows. I don’t care if women in the 20s had strong eyebrows. If only we all looked like Louise Brooks and her amazing eyebrows!
#9. Make peace with your eyebrows.
#10. Perhaps you should consider getting enough sleep so the black circles under your eyes will not become augmented the night of the party and conveniently blend in nicely with the smokey eye look and turn it into a rabid raccoon look. Or, if you are Chinese like I am, it would be a nice panda look.
Ta da!
#11. When you walk into the second party and immediately realize that you and your date are the only two people who actually dress up for the theme, don’t panic.
#12. Charm the actors hired to be a gangster and a British Constable (yes, do ignore the fact that there is a British Bobby at a Speakeay party) so greatly that they grabbed you as soon as you walked in the door to have pictures taken with you, not with your camera. While you are at it, become simpatico with the actresses/flappers because of your awesome Louise Brooks choker.
#13. Yes, it’s ok to let the gangster kiss you on the cheek as he points his gun at you. (What you gonna do about it anyway?)
#14. When someone you know upon recognizing you actually bursts out laughing, and instead of approaching to say hi and telling you how awesome you are for having the guts, turns in another direction, stay cool.
#15. Make belief that you and your date are at some random bar surrounded by strangers (which may as well be the case, the part about “being surrounded by strangers”). The only difference is — Everything is FREE! Have more fun than everybody else around you.
That’s the best revenge of all: happiness. Nothing drives people crazier than seeing someone having a good fucking laugh. — Chuck Palahniuk
And finally, as always, channel Louise Brooks wherever you are.
For two extraordinary years I have been working on it – learning to write – but mostly learning how to tell the truth. At first it is quite impossible. You make yourself better than anybody, then worse than anybody, and when you finally come to see you are “like” everybody – that is the bitterest blow of all to the ego. But in the end it is only the truth, no matter how ugly or shameful, that is right, that fits together, that makes real people, and strangely enough – beauty…
— Louise Brooks on writing a memoir
Before she started telling you the story, she would have said, before anything else, “This journal entry has a happy ending.”
The red light on her phone was blinking. Somehow she’d missed a phone call when she knew that nobody would be calling her. Not on her cell anyway. Her husband was out of the country, her children only TXT now, and her mother would only call the landline (because she’d never bothered to give her her cellphone number) and always when it was way past bedtime (because figuring out time zone difference becomes a lot harder once day light savings time change is (not) taken into account)
The unfamiliar number shown had the local area code. With smart phones nowadays our relationship is discreetly judged by whether you show up as a name (from Contacts) or as a mere phone number. The persistent blinking red light indicated that the person had left a voice mail. She was annoyed. Really. Who in this day still leaves voice mails? She dreads checking her voicemails on the very few occasions when some un-indoctrinated people leave them. The problem is they never ever come out clear. Press 1 to repeat the message. Press 1 to repeat. Press 1. Often she ends up pressing 7, reasoning that if the message is important enough, the person will surely call back.
It was a call from some doctor’s office but she could not make out which. She did not think twice when she missed another call from the same number later that day. The call showed up as a mere number and therefore automatically deprioritized. Funny how stupid her logics sound in hindsight.
She jumped when her phone suddenly rang in the midst of the somber silence as she and her children huddled in front of the television, watching the retelling of the horror in Aurora, CO, unfold.
Hello. You need to go in for a follow-up. It’s probably nothing. But we just want to make sure. They noticed something… that looked… calcification…
She held her breath and blinked. She’d forgot about the mammogram the day before.
The doctor wants you to schedule an appointment with the hospital right away and she will fax the order in. Call me right back and let me know the time.
She knew that the doctor’s office was concerned when they waited to hear from her. She went back to sit in front of the television at first as if she had just received a phone call from a telemarketer. The chaos on the screen made her comment out loud how fragile life is.
Oh.
She remembered the call and what it could possibly mean. She wanted to cry.
What if? No… It can’t be, right? No way this is happening to me. Maybe I should be freaking out now? She asked herself. Let’s see how good I really am at compartmentalizing.
She shook her head violently. Stop thinking about it! There is nothing you can do about it except waiting until Monday morning.
When her mind immediately, out of habit, presented silver linings to the worst case scenario, “I can finally quit my job!” I am such a fucking idiot, she chastised herself, ashamed and worried that if her friends who had fought and survived knew this was her first thought, they’d be offended by how she’s trivializing the whole thing. It’s not a fucking excuse! This is no child’s play. For some people, this is real. Too many people actually.
She shook her head violently. Stop thinking about it! There is nothing you can do about it.
She did not tell anybody about the phone call. In fact, by Monday, she herself had forgot about the follow-up appointment and almost missed it. She woke up late on Monday morning because for three nights she stayed up channel surfing. She cried through Brideshead Revisited.
At the hospital, the technician made her stay for the result. Just in case he needs to see something more, she said.
When she pulled her book out from the purse, she felt guilty for not feeling anything. Maybe I should cry, she wondered, what’s the proper behavior at a moment like this? When the radiologist walked into the gowned waiting room and called her husband’s name, she was startled by how scholarly he looked. Almost bookish. Like a professor. He blurted out even before their hands parted, “Everything looks fine,” and smiled. “I didn’t want you to walk down the hallway wondering.”
The humid air rushed into her lung when she pushed open the heavy door to the garage. Her breath suddenly caught in her throat. She fled into the car and shut the door before the violent tears came.
You are such an idiot, she murmured.
I went to a grade school talent show on Friday evening that lasted 2.5 hours. Yesterday we had Catholic brainwashing religious class, band festival at our local senior high school, gymnastics meet and team dinner. Today is the Chinese school New Year celebration performance: reporting for rehearsals at 9 am [it’s now 3 am] and we won’t be let out until 4 pm the earliest. My youngest has two book reports/reading projects due on Monday. I may have replied to my boss’ email yesterday and promised I would send out something this weekend…
If I survive this weekend…
The following are the thoughts that went through my head over the first half of the action-packed fun-filled weekend: [And if you are lucky, I may just spare you the second half]
Why am I here at the talent show? I must be the only parent here whose child is not in the show.
Ok. Do they just let anybody in the show? I guess it would have been mean to have some sort of application process and to insist on some criteria.
Look at all these extroverted kids on stage.
Look at all these people confusing ham-ish-ness with talent.
I like Bollywood song and dance and costume. I hope the older white couple behind me don’t die of shock.
Another Bollywood number? Well, Bollywood style dance is the only thing that can fill up this huge stage with 3 tiny kids performing anyway. And this suburb needs some culture.
Pink and Adele sure are popular.
Why do girls think their dance in front of the mirror in the bathroom is going to translate well to the stage? Ok. Am I being a jackhole for even saying this inside my head?
What was that Daniel Radcliff said in his “You CAN do anything” SNL skit? “I tried, and therefore, no one should criticize me.”
Ok. You are probably just being an asshole.
But I am hungry. I did not have dinner yet!
It is very important to know how to do a cartwheel.
When is this going to end?
People probably think my kids are in every act the way I am applauding. Every act gets me closer to the end of this.
Mother. 1.5 hour. This is only the first act?
When you have an awesome set of pipes, you are set for talent shows for life.
What a stupid question in the workbook: “Is Jesus a man or God?” Of course, he’s a man. He’s the Son of God I will give them that. I can rote memorize with the best of them.
Why does the religious textbook insist on Jesus being The Son of God AND God at the same time?
How did I miss this? I thought I’ve read the Bible the first thing for college… Oh… Old Testament. Dude was not even in it.
This is confusing. So all of a sudden I have to tell my son that Jesus IS, somehow, also God?
This does not even make sense. How is he the son and the father at the same time? Do people really believe in this?
How do I say this with a straight face? Am I rolling my eyes too obviously right now? [I guess this is something you just have to believe. You either believe it or you don’t. Leap of faith required]
I did not sign up for this. This feels like lying through my teeth. I refuse to say it.
I am such an idiot! Why did I not know until now?!
Good. The kid figured the “correct” answer out on his own from the textbook. We will just pay for his therapy in the future.
I am going to kill my husband.
[Later, I did express with strong emotions my inability to even verbalize the statement so could he please handle that from now on should this subject resurface again. And he laughed out loud. He just laughed. What’s up with that?! and I should probably explain: I am agnostic and did not grow up in a predominantly Christian country. My husband is one of those twice-a-year Catholics. We are bringing the kids up Catholic. Or as I believe, we are waiting for them to be confirmed to make my mother-in-law happy. I feel like I have signed some important agreement without having read the fine prints first. I feel like an idiot…]
[Listening to Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me] That is Gary Oldman? Gary Oldman is British?
Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
Cars should come equipped with the ability for me to tweet and update my Facebook status and to write on my blog just by me thinking out loud.
I would be the most prolific blogger ever.
Gary Oldman is such a great character actor. I have never heard him speak as himself!
This is absolutely scary and amazing and awesome.
He scares the bejeezus out of me in The Professional.
Nobody ever cracks their neck in such a scary way. The scariest neck-cracking ever.
Interesting. The percussion section has quite a few tall blonde young male persons. Look in the opposite direction!!!
Yeah. And they are complaining about too many Asian kids in this neighborhood. Look who are the nerds now.
Ha ha.
[Just so we are clear on this: My son is in the band]
[Also, I love nerds and geeks and dorks and whatever labels you throw on cerebrals]
Look. There is this kid that looks like a younger Jesse Eisenberg!
And wow. He even has the same smugness about him [as Eisenberg in The Social Network]
I think I have a crush on Jesse Eisenberg.
And now whenever I think of Marc Zuckerberg, I think of Jesse Eisenberg’s face.
Does that mean I have a crush on Zuckerberg?
Shudder.
I am convinced that I will now think of that kid as Zuckerberg as played by Eisenberg. He can be a totally good person and I will still see him as a smug jerk.
Poor kid. Being judged by me.
Movies are so powerful.
[Watching my oldest lifting himself straight up in the air on p-bars at his gymnastics meet] Whoa. That kid’s got some awesome biceps. When did this happen? Where did those come from?
He can probably snap my neck just like that. Ha ha. Awesome.
My blogging friend Nance over at Mature Landscaping posted about the new issue of Time Magazine with a cover story titled:
“The Upside Of Being An Introvert (And Why Extroverts Are Overrated).”
Oh yeah. Oh yeah. It’s about time!
I have written about Introverts, or rather, the misunderstanding, mishandling, and under-appreciation of this group of people in the past. Ok, I ranted with foams at the corners of my mouth. I LOVE this paragraph below and will quote it again, and again, whenever I have a chance:
The American dream is to be extraverted. We want our children to be “people who need people.” We want them to have lots of friends, to like parties, to prefer to play outside with their buddies rather than retire with a good book, to make friends easily, to greet new experiences enthusiastically, to be good risk-takers, to be open about their feelings, to be trusting. We regard anyone who doesn’t fit this pattern with some concern. We call them “withdrawn,” “aloof,” “shy,” “secretive,” and “loners.” These pejorative terms show the extent to which we misunderstand introverts…
Introverts need to learn about the positive benefits of their personality type. They need to be taught that reflection is a good quality…
The time has come to respect the introverts in our families and classrooms, and the hidden introvert in ourselves.
Source (1999)
This was written in 1999. It is now 2012. About time that a major publication such as the venerable Time rights the wrong, sets the record straight.
I was ready to take out my credit card in order to walk through that pay wall Time.com cleverly set up so I could read the said cover story.
Then I took a good look at the cover Time has chosen for this issue.
No. No. No. No. No.
Introversion does not equal shyness.
Introverts are not necessarily shy. In fact, psychologists have been warning adults from labeling children “shy” if they seem reserved. This will only create a self-fulfilling prophesy. This is ironic since Susan Cain, whose book Quiet this Time article was based on, wrote an article titled “Don’t call introverted children shy” published by Time Online at the same time. She specifically addressed this common mistake of confusing introversion with shyness:
Shyness and introversion are not the same thing. Shy people fear negative judgment, while introverts simply prefer less stimulation; shyness is inherently painful, and introversion is not. But in a society that prizes the bold and the outspoken, both are perceived as disadvantages.
Though I along with many others are excited that the undue attention paid to the extroverts in this country is finally being brought to light by such a widely-read magazine, I believe this cover is doing a lot of people, esp. children a disservice by reinforcing a misconception.
And, that’s what I have been doing these past two nights. I tweeted, I Facebooked, I google+’ed. I could not let it go.
So here it is. A Facebook page for Introverts are not shy.
LIKE the page if you agree! Chances are nothing will get changed. I don’t have the self-grandiose illusion of this starting a movement. BUT, it certainly makes me feel better tonight.
And I am going to bed.
p.s. Now it’s two days later. Still cannot let it go. I added a Google Plus page for good measure.
When last summer was over, finding pants that fit all of a sudden became my obsession. Oh not for myself (I mean, that’s another, sad sad story). For the strange teenager that took over my oldest boy. Overnight the pants from BOYS’ department no longer fit him and those from MEN’s department won’t for a while. My choice seemed to be either highwater pants or a barrel.
Of course my son was no help.
“Can’t you just ask your friends where they buy their pants? For sure you cannot be the only person built with crane legs!” He looked at me with horror.
For weeks I had to refrain myself from asking random model-grade teenage boys with legs rivaling Manga characters (ok, to be fair, so you won’t tzk tzk me, they look almost 20. I think.) where they got their jeans.
After repeated whining of “mom I need new pants!” for a few weeks, I managed to drag him along to the mall. To be honest, the only store I was familiar with was The Gap. But somehow their designers have decided that the waist on boys doubles as soon as they outgrow Size 18. I was gearing up to go home with Erkel when I walked past this store with a name that I could not (and still cannot) pronounce.
Aéropostale. (I am still calling them Apocalypse just to annoy my children)
Why didn’t anybody tell me about this store? They call their two departments “Guys” and “Girls” for goodness sake! And because this store is for teens, there is no BASIC items, no STAPLES, no CLASSICS. You know what this means right? SALES. DRASTIC DISCOUNT, every season. Before the season ends.
$18 for a pair of jeans. 50% off of sales price.
AND they carry size 28*32 for jeans.
As I was grabbing at sweatpants, jeans, hoodies, shirts with the cut for gazelles, I was at the same time telling myself:
I am a good mother. I am a good mother. I will NOT wear matching clothing with my son esp. the way the clothes are emblazoned with the logo.
I did get a Peace bracelet for $6. And this:
Love the bag. It's now my favoriate bag. Only $15.
Love the fuzzy hoodie too. But…
I will not wear the same clothes as my son. I will not buy another hoodie for myself.
But, it is fuzzy. Did I mention that it is fuzzy. It’s like if you scalpe a teddy bear and line the hoodie with the fur. You head is cushioned by the dead teddy bear’s fur.
On top of that, once we got home, he repaid my kindness by pulling on his new jeans without unzipping first.
Zooom. The jeans were on him. Zooom. They were off.
Like a potato sack. It irked me to no end.
I am an adult. I will not wear clothes from the same store as my teenage son and his friends. I do not have anything to prove. I do not need to dress in clothes from “teen stores” nor will I covet those clothes. I am not going through some mid-life crisis. I will not (threaten to) steal my son’s cool new hoodie lined with teddy bear furs… (repeat the mantra)
I told him. I hate you. Seriously.
He beamed and demonstrated the ease with which he pulled on the jeans a few more times.
I said, “I love you. And that is why I will not wear clothes from this store so we won’t seem to be wearing matching clothes.”
He did not seem to appreciate the sacrifice I made for him.
* SHOES are the exceptions. Of course.
Chris Brogan is at it again. Chris Brogan, who I really have no idea of, is apparently a very famous person on the Internet and the social media scene. Dude apparently is an inspiration to many, esp. with his annual New Year post “My 3 Words for 20XX”.
In 2011, his 3 words were: Reinvest. Package. Flow.
For 2012, his 3 words are (or will be?): Temple. Untangle. Practice.
Well, Mr. Brogan, I guess I have to thank you for inspiring the head honcho of my company to ask all of us to come up with 3 words to laser-focus our energy/ambition/breathing towards. Unfortunately, the fist thing that jumped into my mind was:
Move. That. Bus.
And then I was stuck. I shook my fists at your well-defined cheek bones, Ty Pennington! The rest of my ideas were more like a plea for help from an insane asylum:
I do everything. Like your mom. Kill me now. Let me out. Set me free. HELP ME PLEASE!
From Elly @ Bugginword:
Evangelize. Inform. Seduce. Innovate. Inspire. Support is for bras, dudes.
Distract. Disarm. Destroy.
[Can we just describe you instead?] Pure, undiluted possibility. <— Seriously, with friends like this, who needs bras?!
How about “Social Media Whore,” Lin? I mean whore in the nicest possible way. Obviously. <— She gets me. She really really gets me.
From Wicked Shawn @ WIcked Girls Think It, Do You?
Wrangler of assholes.
Excite. Conquer. Devour.
Taker of souls.
Giver of (helping) Hand (jobs) “your choice”
From Kelly @ Dufmanno’s Blog:
Fight, win, destroy. [that would be mine] —> Yes, Kelly, nobody would dare to doubt it.
Astound, problem flatten, monarch in training.
Create, confound, excite. [I’m getting a great visual of you with flames shooting out of your eyes but you probably don’t do that at work. Can you pretend you are a prehistoric warrior goddess with a battle axe because that just adds pages of job titles to your resume.] —> Srly, I have the best ladies in the world ever. No bras! Woohoo!
Destroyer of enemies.
Thwarter of evil.
Creator of animal pelts…
From Sue @ Lagunatic:
Instigate. Resonate. Fascinate.
Can you submit “I like boobies” just to see what they say? —> So. Fucking. Tempting. Unfortunately my family’s health insurance depends on my employment…
From Vapid @ A Vapid Blonde:
Divide. Conquer. Unite. (or Untie, if they are hot)
Solver. Slayer. Soother.Rockstar Fire Fucker… (not sure they would like that one)
Personally my mission statement would be Cocktail Maker, ShakHER.
From Amanda @ Brilliant Sulk:
How about a fun, interesting seminar: Noose making 101
From Patty @ Patty Punker:
drop kick this (motherfucker)
my shit rips!
veritable meth lab
old like deniro (or pacino, you pick)
Then Elly (aka Ms. Bugginword) followed up with this email:
Is anyone else craving INXS now? Can you deliver your three words with a boom box, some posterboard, and a giant black marker?
Yes. Yes. Yes! Remember these and the awesome music video?
Hallucinate Desegregate Mediate
With my ladyfriends’ encouragement, support and blind faith, right now, sitting in my official corporate profile is my 3 word mission that says:
Desegregate. Mediate. Alleviate.
1. Buying a duvet cover in DEEP RED rather than white like those nice glistening duvet covers in hotels
Around 1 am today, as I was wrapping up my work and was looking forward to hitting my head against that pillow, I heard my 9-year-old boy make a familiar sound. A sound from the past. A sound I have forgotten. A sound that makes every mother’s heart skip a beat while screaming “OMFG Not again?!” inside. I rushed upstairs and confirmed my worst fear.
He looked like this.
The green plants covering his entire upper body, shoulders, back, neck and cheeks would be regurgitated broccoli.
And the green swamp would be my bed.
And like the Swamp Thing, Mr. Monk has left a trail of bits and pieces of his green self as he moved about.
2. Agreeing to settle for the fake, and cheaper, down comforter that The Husband found at an outlet. Can we all cheer for the words “machine wash” on the tag?
Broccoli. Mr. Monk had eaten a whole bowl of broccoli for dinner. And cupcakes with blue frosting. And chicken. I was able to remember the dinner menu while surveying the aftermath. It’s amazing how the frosting retained its neon blue color.
3. Deciding to leave the plastic cover over my bed long after the kids had stopped wetting the bed. Deep down I know it’s because I was too lazy to do anything about it. Laziness pays off sometimes, just remember to pass it off as being laid-back, or zen-ish.
Otherwise there would be no trash bag big enough to toss my memory foam bed into it the way I was forced to toss my memory foam pillow into a trash bag and sealed it with a hazardous material sticker.
4. Buying the Christmas Tree bedsheet set on massive sale from a website that is not Pottery Barn.
I followed my first instinct, crumpled up the bedsheet and tossed it into a trash bag. I am sitting here right now staring at it, trying to decide how awful it would be if I simply throw it away so I do not have to deal with the swamp within.
Since I only paid $20 for the fitted sheet, I now have the liberty to even ponder this. If it were one of those $300 Pottery Barn gilded* bedsheets, I’d be crying right now.
5. (The credit should go to The Husband for this one) Buying new washer and dryer for me even though I strongly dislike receiving appliances as gifts. Don’t try to kill two birds with one vacuum cleaner, just sayin’ man. You would not like to receive an iron, do you? But tonight? Hallelujah for FRONT LOADING, baby!**
My 9-year-old. Before he turns into the Swamp Thing.
This is why instead of having my head firmly on my pillow, I am listening to Maroon 5 on Spotify while laundering the duvet cover, bed cover, comforter, towels and pillow cases in the comfort of my own home.
6. Starting my blog many moons ago.
Minor disasters and mishaps in life seem so much more tolerable, even humorous, now that I can see all of them as potential blogging fodders. “Oh, I am picking up regurgitated brocoli at 2 in the morning. How funny!” Standing from outside looking in. Everything seems hilarious as if I were watching a sitcom based on my own life.
So. This is my Monday morning. How has your Monday been so far?
* For the price they are asking for, I simply assume their sheets are gilded.
** Is it just me or does this somehow sound dirty to anybody else?