I sneezed a total of 23 times at work today. Yeah, I counted. That seems a little excessive, don’t you think? And I couldn't even hold them in like I usually do. I just kept letting ‘em fly. I went through this little phase where I’d go “eeehhh…” and then hold in the sneeze, and end it with a high-pitched little “tchew!” It was annoying. Plus, my mom always said I’d blow my ear drums out by holding in sneezes.
When I was hanging out at my parents a couple weeks ago, my mom almost divorced my dad over his sneezes. He was Thor, and his sneezes shook the house. “AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…..CHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” My mom yelled back at him, “What is with your sneezes?! You don’t need a drum roll!” regarding his thunderous sneeze set-ups. Thirty seconds later, he’d do the exact same thing. It was like Spite Sneezing. Glorious.
The point is, though, if my 23 sneezes are any indication, I think I might be getting a cold, which would really, ah hem, blow. All that sniffling and words sounding all dumb - Wait, Pharon. Did you say DUMB or DUBB? I can’t understand you with your nose all stuffed up like that. One of the definite pluses of having a cold, though, is the NyQuil. Sweet, sweet NyQuil. That cherry flavored, oozy, thick, slippery wonderful treat. Yes, a treat. I can’t take it very often, as it gives me suuuuuper messed up dreams. They are the wonderful hallucinations of a mildly sick young lady. There was the one where I was sinking into a giant ice cream cone (bacon flavored, if I remember correctly), that was guarded by a wart-covered parrot who squawked "Eat it allllll up, Buttonface." Then I had to eat my way out of it but found it difficult to breathe in all that ice cream. I vaguely remember waking up briefly to discover my pillow in my mouth, further complicating my breathing.
When I finally DO manage to wake from my codeiney slumber, I feel like I’ve got a hazy new lease on life. My nose is unplugged, but I have developed a trippy case of vertigo. I’m like a baby fawn. And though my head is no longer tight with cold germs, it’s cloudy with delusions of grandeur. I’ll be standing in the shower, crank it all the way up to scalding and proclaim that my skin is made of metal (or, “betal” in Cold-Speak) and I am unburnable. Only after the NyQuil wears off will I realize that the itchy redness that is my skin is but the skin of a mortal.
I have the same reactions with DayQuil, too, but to a much lesser degree. So it’s like not even HALF as fun as the gooey goodness of a great NyQuil trip. And the best part of taking NyQuil vs. Dayquil is that for most of the nighttime remedy, you’re just layin’ there, sleeping in the safety of your own bed, not operating heavy machinery, and gettin’ healthy.
Despite the obvious perks of being able to snooze away in a mushy, cold-medicine fog, I really don’t want to get sick just yet. It's my dad's birthday on Friday, and I got him a pretty awesome gift, so I'd like to see him open it WITHOUT paranoia that it will come to life or crazy hallucinations. "Happy Birthday Dad! Holy crap, watch out for that murder of crows wearing bow ties that are dive-bombing the room!!!"
Have a great (and healthy) weekend, everyone!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Dear Santa: Here's Your Naughty List
I’m in a perpetual state of outrage today. I want to run to my window, rip off the plastic, and scream “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” at the top of my lungs. What is going ON with people right now? Okay, so first, last night I read that an extremely talented Iowa Hawkeye football player, Derrell Johnson-Koulianos, was arrested for a number of drug violations. One of them was that he was LIVING IN A DRUG HOUSE. What a total moron…what a disappointment. Do people not learn ANYthing from other athletes who get arrested for stuff like that? And Brett Favre - HELLO!? Are you kidding me with the picture texts? Get it together, dudes.
Secondly, today I learned that the total JOKE that is the Justice System has failed again. Without getting into too many details, I’ll say this. The case Federated Insurance brought against my brother-in-law over 2 years ago has had a trial set for January on the books for over 6 months. Now that we’re getting close to FINALLY tasting justice, there appears to be a “scheduling error” and it’s been postponed. I think they mean “We still don’t have a shred of evidence that anything illegal has taken place.” In my opinion, I think they’ll be spending the holidays panicking, hiding their mistakes, and coming up with $25 words for “We’re effed”.
But what has really gotten my goad, the proverbial straw breaking my camel’s back, the sharp pain in my fleshy backside is Kanye West. I copied his latest album/musical self-gropefest last night from Geo’s iTunes (thanks, Home Sharing!) So luckily, I didn’t have to pay a cent for it. I listened to it today, and discovered a secret. The best parts of his songs are the parts featuring other performers. The collaborations. The non-Kanye self-aggrandizing parts. And as I skipped through his pukey auto-tuned sections, it hit me. Kanye West is truly a celebrity I would like to fall off the face of the planet.
At one time, I followed him on Twitter because I thought it’d be a nice break in the day to read some total bonkers, nutjob rambles. I was wrong. Instead, my Twitter feed would be full of his nonsensical hate-fueled threats to Matt Lauer, Taylor Swift, and other completely innocuous people. Get a different hobby, man. So, I unfollowed him (he’s probably still reeling). I just can’t take it anymore. The sad thing is that musically, he’s crazy-talented. But I just realized I don’t care anymore.
Chances are, a lot of “geniuses” were insane in the membrane a la Mr. West. Van Gogh should have been medicated before his chop-off-the-ol’-ear trick, and I’ve seen Amadeus enough times to know that Mozart was one note away from the loony bin. But these guys let their work speak for them. They didn’t have platforms like Twitter from which to spew their particular brands of madness. So, I wish Kanye would take a cue from those dudes, and fall into obscurity. He’s lost touch with reality, which is just cliche. He’s not the first, he’s not going to be the last. But now is the time to go the way of Lauren Hill and live inside his own private la-la-land.
So, between the d-baggery of athletes, the morally-suspect (if not illegal) actions of big companies, and the celebrities who prophesize themselves as if they are the second coming of Crystal Clear Pepsi, I am over it. Something has got to give. There's got to be a tipping point where people stop acting like idiots and start behaving like proper humans. Is that really too much to ask? I really hope not. If it is, I'm totally moving to Sweden like Elin did to get away from Tiger. Sounds like the Promised Land to me...
P.S. There is actually a great song called Runaway by Kanye West that would be PERFECT for this post, but I'm definitely not posting it. Plus, I think he took down all the "unauthorized" videos of his songs. Seriously. D-Bag.
Secondly, today I learned that the total JOKE that is the Justice System has failed again. Without getting into too many details, I’ll say this. The case Federated Insurance brought against my brother-in-law over 2 years ago has had a trial set for January on the books for over 6 months. Now that we’re getting close to FINALLY tasting justice, there appears to be a “scheduling error” and it’s been postponed. I think they mean “We still don’t have a shred of evidence that anything illegal has taken place.” In my opinion, I think they’ll be spending the holidays panicking, hiding their mistakes, and coming up with $25 words for “We’re effed”.
But what has really gotten my goad, the proverbial straw breaking my camel’s back, the sharp pain in my fleshy backside is Kanye West. I copied his latest album/musical self-gropefest last night from Geo’s iTunes (thanks, Home Sharing!) So luckily, I didn’t have to pay a cent for it. I listened to it today, and discovered a secret. The best parts of his songs are the parts featuring other performers. The collaborations. The non-Kanye self-aggrandizing parts. And as I skipped through his pukey auto-tuned sections, it hit me. Kanye West is truly a celebrity I would like to fall off the face of the planet.
At one time, I followed him on Twitter because I thought it’d be a nice break in the day to read some total bonkers, nutjob rambles. I was wrong. Instead, my Twitter feed would be full of his nonsensical hate-fueled threats to Matt Lauer, Taylor Swift, and other completely innocuous people. Get a different hobby, man. So, I unfollowed him (he’s probably still reeling). I just can’t take it anymore. The sad thing is that musically, he’s crazy-talented. But I just realized I don’t care anymore.
Chances are, a lot of “geniuses” were insane in the membrane a la Mr. West. Van Gogh should have been medicated before his chop-off-the-ol’-ear trick, and I’ve seen Amadeus enough times to know that Mozart was one note away from the loony bin. But these guys let their work speak for them. They didn’t have platforms like Twitter from which to spew their particular brands of madness. So, I wish Kanye would take a cue from those dudes, and fall into obscurity. He’s lost touch with reality, which is just cliche. He’s not the first, he’s not going to be the last. But now is the time to go the way of Lauren Hill and live inside his own private la-la-land.
So, between the d-baggery of athletes, the morally-suspect (if not illegal) actions of big companies, and the celebrities who prophesize themselves as if they are the second coming of Crystal Clear Pepsi, I am over it. Something has got to give. There's got to be a tipping point where people stop acting like idiots and start behaving like proper humans. Is that really too much to ask? I really hope not. If it is, I'm totally moving to Sweden like Elin did to get away from Tiger. Sounds like the Promised Land to me...
P.S. There is actually a great song called Runaway by Kanye West that would be PERFECT for this post, but I'm definitely not posting it. Plus, I think he took down all the "unauthorized" videos of his songs. Seriously. D-Bag.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Footjoy
My foot is killing me. It’s been hurting for like a week. I chalked it up to wearing too-high, pinchy shoes that I squeeze into, despite the inevitable wobbly pain I’ll be in later. I simply don’t care though. I love the high shoes. I love that they put me at a towering 5’5” or even 5’6” if I’m lucky.
Naturally, I thought my foot was staging an uprising against the masochism in which I force it to live. So, when I felt the pinchy stab under my right foot, I simply ignored it. Just like I would a screaming toddler. Ignore it, and it’ll stop whining and leave me alone. But, it’s still hurting. And okay, so YES I’m currently wearing 4-inch wedged heels that are ADORABLE, and it’s probably not exactly “helping” the situation. But what am I supposed to do? NOT wear heels? Pshaw. Not a chance.
Finally, on Saturday afternoon, I bent down and decided to take a peek at the mysterious pain. (Why did I not take a peek right after it started hurting? I don’t know. Why does anyone not do anything?) Right there, at the exact spot of the pulsing pain, was a sliver. Deeeeeeeep in my foot. It’s almost like WALKING on it made it worse somehow. I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.
So after I spent Saturday night in 5 1/2-inch patent leather stilettos for a party (yes, despite the horrible throbbing pain), I think my injured foot finally had had enough. I went to my parent’s house on Sunday and I hesitantly mentioned the problem to my dad. I started with, “So, my foot has really been hurting for about a week now.” And he interjected with “Well, your shoes…” and before he could finish I said, “It’s NOT the shoes. I have a sliver way deep I think, and I can’t get it out.”
Unlike me, my dad IS a doctor. And he’s a pretty cool one, too. At a high school football game, Claire got hit in the head with a huge wooden toy airplane, and he stitched her up right there – WITH HER OWN HAIR. Baller! Anyway, he’s much less creative when it comes to family care, though. There are exactly 3 remedies for anything that ails you, according to my dad: Tylenol, icing the pain, and, as in the case of my foot, soaking it. Anything that requires more than that is, well, nothing requires more than that.
The most frustrating thing about it all is that He’s right. I’ve NEVER been to a doctor for anything other than a check-up. When I get the flu, I take some Tylenol, put some ice on my forehead or a heating pad on my stomach, and get through it. That exact same treatment also works for: cramps, broken toe, back pain, sprained ankle, headaches, hangovers, sliver-in-foot, and probably gingivitis for all anyone knows. The point is: I’m going to go ahead and trust my dad on this one. So I spent the night “soaking” my foot in the hopes that the sliver shimmies its way out of my achin’ foot. There was no shimmying. None. Impatient, I performed my own version of surgery, despite my dad's warning that "the treatment should not be worse than the injury". People? It didn't go very well.
Well, what do I do now? Hopefully I didn't give myself tetanus or something. I'm pretty sure I'm not up to date on that shot, and I don't know that applying a cold compress will help with that kind of thing.
Naturally, I thought my foot was staging an uprising against the masochism in which I force it to live. So, when I felt the pinchy stab under my right foot, I simply ignored it. Just like I would a screaming toddler. Ignore it, and it’ll stop whining and leave me alone. But, it’s still hurting. And okay, so YES I’m currently wearing 4-inch wedged heels that are ADORABLE, and it’s probably not exactly “helping” the situation. But what am I supposed to do? NOT wear heels? Pshaw. Not a chance.
Finally, on Saturday afternoon, I bent down and decided to take a peek at the mysterious pain. (Why did I not take a peek right after it started hurting? I don’t know. Why does anyone not do anything?) Right there, at the exact spot of the pulsing pain, was a sliver. Deeeeeeeep in my foot. It’s almost like WALKING on it made it worse somehow. I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.
So after I spent Saturday night in 5 1/2-inch patent leather stilettos for a party (yes, despite the horrible throbbing pain), I think my injured foot finally had had enough. I went to my parent’s house on Sunday and I hesitantly mentioned the problem to my dad. I started with, “So, my foot has really been hurting for about a week now.” And he interjected with “Well, your shoes…” and before he could finish I said, “It’s NOT the shoes. I have a sliver way deep I think, and I can’t get it out.”
Unlike me, my dad IS a doctor. And he’s a pretty cool one, too. At a high school football game, Claire got hit in the head with a huge wooden toy airplane, and he stitched her up right there – WITH HER OWN HAIR. Baller! Anyway, he’s much less creative when it comes to family care, though. There are exactly 3 remedies for anything that ails you, according to my dad: Tylenol, icing the pain, and, as in the case of my foot, soaking it. Anything that requires more than that is, well, nothing requires more than that.
The most frustrating thing about it all is that He’s right. I’ve NEVER been to a doctor for anything other than a check-up. When I get the flu, I take some Tylenol, put some ice on my forehead or a heating pad on my stomach, and get through it. That exact same treatment also works for: cramps, broken toe, back pain, sprained ankle, headaches, hangovers, sliver-in-foot, and probably gingivitis for all anyone knows. The point is: I’m going to go ahead and trust my dad on this one. So I spent the night “soaking” my foot in the hopes that the sliver shimmies its way out of my achin’ foot. There was no shimmying. None. Impatient, I performed my own version of surgery, despite my dad's warning that "the treatment should not be worse than the injury". People? It didn't go very well.
Well, what do I do now? Hopefully I didn't give myself tetanus or something. I'm pretty sure I'm not up to date on that shot, and I don't know that applying a cold compress will help with that kind of thing.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Don't Count On It
Another day, another failure at applying mathematics to real-world situations. I wish I would have worked a TITCH harder in 3rd grade math. Without that basic comprehension, I also have no concept of estimating, budgeting, or distance. Prinna and I did some shopping last night, and we were reminded why neither she nor I have any business using numbers. We stood at the check-out counter, trying to figure out the pricing, additional costs, a discount, and really trying to add everything up in our head (what are we, Einstein!?!). Then our heads exploded and flew across the counter, splattering on the register.
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
HO HO HOusekeeping
Welp, we didn’t quite get any of the Christmas holiday decorations up this weekend. We bought the tree, though, and it looks awesome. But it’s pretty sad without any lights or glittery crap hanging from it. And the wreath I DID hang on our front door came crashing to the floor minutes after I hung it. It’s like Christmas doesn’t WANT to hang out with me. Or if it does, it’s certainly not making it easy for me.
Anyway, I just wanted to kind of run through some reminders and changes that have happened and will happen here at Pharon Square headquarters. And in the spirit of the holidays, I’m going to try and make them into songs. I need a more exciting life planned on Sunday nights…
* Hark! The Herald Facebook Page iiiiiss Up and You Should “Like” It. AND pass it on to any friends who you think would enjoy some good ol‘ fashioned self-deprecating humor. Plus, you can post hilarious pictures and blog ideas. Just search FB for Pharon Square and you’ll be able to LIKE to your heart’s desire.
* Joy to the World, I Bought my Own Website. www.pharonsquare.com is, for now, forwarding to my blogspot blog. But in the coming weeks, I’ll be switching over to my own site which will give me the freedom to poll your eyes out, and place pictures any place I damn well please. So, get excited for that. Seriously. Mark your calendars, if you haven’t already…
* Oh Comment, all Ye Faithful Don’t be afraid to comment or click on your reactions (under the videos). And if you’re terrified of being caught reading the World’s Best Blog for some reason, you can always stay Anonymous. Though, I like talking back to people with names, so feel free to make up a handle for yourself (a la LanaMadonna) so you’ll know for sure when I’m talking trash right to you.
* I Saw Santa Sharing Pharon Square Dudes, I will definitely NOT be mad if you tell your friends about this blog if you like it. In fact, I’d totes appreciate it. FB links, tweets, writing a letter to your great aunt Mildred and mailing it to her with a 41-cent stamp works too, but it seems like a lot of work, and no one likes to do a lot of work. You can always follow me on Twitter or FB by clicking those handy links up there on the left. And when you want to share a blog, you can do so with 1-click by using those neato little icons after each post. Technology…what WILL they think of next!?
*Finally, Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, Pharon Laid an Egg Okay, that one doesn’t actually make any sense or mean anything, but If you have any questions, suggestions, death threats, stalker letters filled with my hair, or general comments you can always comment directly on the blog or on the FB page for now. I’ll be setting up a new email account for the blog too, but I’m too tired to right now and I’m having trouble deciding between pharonsquare@gmail.com and pharon.square_funblogtime18347983626@aol.org/dialup Decisions, decisions…
Now that all that garbage is out of the way, we can all move on. How was your weekend? Did you see any good movies? Discover a ginormous splinter in your foot that has been hurting for a week now (I’ll give you one guess as to who that was)? Anyone get arrested? Buy a car? Elope to Vegas? Tell me some good stories.
(Sorry, there’s no video today. Comcast is down AGAIN, so I couldn’t get to youtube to get a video. If I ever stop hating Comcast, maybe I’ll add one later…we thank you for your patience.)
Anyway, I just wanted to kind of run through some reminders and changes that have happened and will happen here at Pharon Square headquarters. And in the spirit of the holidays, I’m going to try and make them into songs. I need a more exciting life planned on Sunday nights…
* Hark! The Herald Facebook Page iiiiiss Up and You Should “Like” It. AND pass it on to any friends who you think would enjoy some good ol‘ fashioned self-deprecating humor. Plus, you can post hilarious pictures and blog ideas. Just search FB for Pharon Square and you’ll be able to LIKE to your heart’s desire.
* Joy to the World, I Bought my Own Website. www.pharonsquare.com is, for now, forwarding to my blogspot blog. But in the coming weeks, I’ll be switching over to my own site which will give me the freedom to poll your eyes out, and place pictures any place I damn well please. So, get excited for that. Seriously. Mark your calendars, if you haven’t already…
* Oh Comment, all Ye Faithful Don’t be afraid to comment or click on your reactions (under the videos). And if you’re terrified of being caught reading the World’s Best Blog for some reason, you can always stay Anonymous. Though, I like talking back to people with names, so feel free to make up a handle for yourself (a la LanaMadonna) so you’ll know for sure when I’m talking trash right to you.
* I Saw Santa Sharing Pharon Square Dudes, I will definitely NOT be mad if you tell your friends about this blog if you like it. In fact, I’d totes appreciate it. FB links, tweets, writing a letter to your great aunt Mildred and mailing it to her with a 41-cent stamp works too, but it seems like a lot of work, and no one likes to do a lot of work. You can always follow me on Twitter or FB by clicking those handy links up there on the left. And when you want to share a blog, you can do so with 1-click by using those neato little icons after each post. Technology…what WILL they think of next!?
*Finally, Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, Pharon Laid an Egg Okay, that one doesn’t actually make any sense or mean anything, but If you have any questions, suggestions, death threats, stalker letters filled with my hair, or general comments you can always comment directly on the blog or on the FB page for now. I’ll be setting up a new email account for the blog too, but I’m too tired to right now and I’m having trouble deciding between pharonsquare@gmail.com and pharon.square_funblogtime18347983626@aol.org/dialup Decisions, decisions…
Now that all that garbage is out of the way, we can all move on. How was your weekend? Did you see any good movies? Discover a ginormous splinter in your foot that has been hurting for a week now (I’ll give you one guess as to who that was)? Anyone get arrested? Buy a car? Elope to Vegas? Tell me some good stories.
(Sorry, there’s no video today. Comcast is down AGAIN, so I couldn’t get to youtube to get a video. If I ever stop hating Comcast, maybe I’ll add one later…we thank you for your patience.)
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wicked! Grindahs and Cowfee? No suh!
All I wanted to eat for dinner tonight was comfort food. It’s cold, it’s dark out, it’s the perfect night for a childhood favorite: a Peanut Butter and Mayonnaise sandwich. Please try and control your gag reflexes. It’s delicious, people. I suggest you try it. Unfortunately, I opted for a healthier option without so much, uh how do I say this? Oh, FAT. But the dinner debacle left me wanting the comfort of a home-cooked peanut butter sandwich. Lamely enough, even if I WERE to go home to my parents and sit waiting for my sandwich and pint glass of milk, I’d be waiting for days. My mom is out of town. How could she LEAVE me like that?! Geez! Rude, I know. Well, she went back out East to visit some of her sisters. They grew up in Rhode Island, and so they are probably just sitting around, talking about pahking cahs and ahrange scissahs and pockabooks.
Hearing my mom tell stories about growing up in Rhode Island is both hilarious and a little sad sometimes. One of the gems my whole family loves is that my mom didn’t have a pillow until she married my dad. Zing! We think it’s funny, my mom thinks it’s totally normal. My mom has six sisters and one brother. Catholics…. They all talk the same, laugh the same, and are like 8 mini clones of each other. They’re all still pretty tight, which is impressive. Every year, they have a Christmas Ornament Exchange where they slap some seashells and glitter on stuff and hand them out to each other to hang on their respective trees. Usually, the East Coasters have to mail a box of ornaments to my mom, but this year my mom brought HER party to THE party. So that’s where my mom is. THAT’S why I shall have no PB&M tonight.
Like I was saying, though, my mom has some awesome childhood stories. She always prefaces stories with, “Now, you have to remember it was a different time.” And then we’ll be watching a random movie, and she’ll sigh and say something like “I had a dresser like that growing up. My sisters and I all shared it. We each had our very own drawer.” Then my siblings and I will laugh and laugh. And she has her very own version of “Walking to school in 3-foot snow, uphill both ways.” When I complain about only having 3 pairs of red strappy sandals, she’ll say “I only had one pair of shoes growing up. Then I’d hand them down to Caroline when they got too small.” I know it’s supposed to make me be less materialistic, but instead it reminds me that I need a good pair of walkin’ shoes.
So her East coast side of the family comes to visit us here every once in awhile. And growing up, my whole family used to drive cross-country to their beach house in Rhode Island. All day every day, one aunt or another would come buzzing into the beach house with huge ideas of fashion shows and carnivals to entertain us kids. They’d dress up like Big Bird and Cookie Monster. They’d sing songs and tell us stories while we dug through boxes of costume jewels having a mosaic-making contest. They created these alternate universes for us to get lost in. They’re all fabulous and fun and awesome. And my grandmaman had this wicked old-school convertible that she’d drive us around in it to get Awful Awfuls. (They’re delicious delicious.)
Lest you forget, though, my mom is totally awesome. And now that everyone is aware that my mom and her siblings are high-functioning, well-adjusted, and responsible members of society, I won’t feel so bad about telling you for a treat, my mom would eat bread with butter that was slapped into a sugar bowl, or that in the Catholic school my mom attended, they tried to force my mom to be right-handed - apparently the devil himself is left handed. Or the fact that all around the neighborhood, kids would graffiti “FOT” in huge letters. It meant Fart. Who tags a wall with “FART?!” And misspells it?! Rhode Islanders, that’s who.
And despite all that, or maybe BECAUSE of all that, my mom still went back to Rhode Island to see her family. I’m sure my kids are going to think I was living in destitution as a child because I didn’t have a cell phone until high school. Or that I prefer eating PB&Ms instead of sushi or macaroni in a pill or whatever. Crappy kids…
Well, enjoy the weekend everyone! Hope all yoh cayahs disappeah…
Hearing my mom tell stories about growing up in Rhode Island is both hilarious and a little sad sometimes. One of the gems my whole family loves is that my mom didn’t have a pillow until she married my dad. Zing! We think it’s funny, my mom thinks it’s totally normal. My mom has six sisters and one brother. Catholics…. They all talk the same, laugh the same, and are like 8 mini clones of each other. They’re all still pretty tight, which is impressive. Every year, they have a Christmas Ornament Exchange where they slap some seashells and glitter on stuff and hand them out to each other to hang on their respective trees. Usually, the East Coasters have to mail a box of ornaments to my mom, but this year my mom brought HER party to THE party. So that’s where my mom is. THAT’S why I shall have no PB&M tonight.
Like I was saying, though, my mom has some awesome childhood stories. She always prefaces stories with, “Now, you have to remember it was a different time.” And then we’ll be watching a random movie, and she’ll sigh and say something like “I had a dresser like that growing up. My sisters and I all shared it. We each had our very own drawer.” Then my siblings and I will laugh and laugh. And she has her very own version of “Walking to school in 3-foot snow, uphill both ways.” When I complain about only having 3 pairs of red strappy sandals, she’ll say “I only had one pair of shoes growing up. Then I’d hand them down to Caroline when they got too small.” I know it’s supposed to make me be less materialistic, but instead it reminds me that I need a good pair of walkin’ shoes.
So her East coast side of the family comes to visit us here every once in awhile. And growing up, my whole family used to drive cross-country to their beach house in Rhode Island. All day every day, one aunt or another would come buzzing into the beach house with huge ideas of fashion shows and carnivals to entertain us kids. They’d dress up like Big Bird and Cookie Monster. They’d sing songs and tell us stories while we dug through boxes of costume jewels having a mosaic-making contest. They created these alternate universes for us to get lost in. They’re all fabulous and fun and awesome. And my grandmaman had this wicked old-school convertible that she’d drive us around in it to get Awful Awfuls. (They’re delicious delicious.)
Lest you forget, though, my mom is totally awesome. And now that everyone is aware that my mom and her siblings are high-functioning, well-adjusted, and responsible members of society, I won’t feel so bad about telling you for a treat, my mom would eat bread with butter that was slapped into a sugar bowl, or that in the Catholic school my mom attended, they tried to force my mom to be right-handed - apparently the devil himself is left handed. Or the fact that all around the neighborhood, kids would graffiti “FOT” in huge letters. It meant Fart. Who tags a wall with “FART?!” And misspells it?! Rhode Islanders, that’s who.
And despite all that, or maybe BECAUSE of all that, my mom still went back to Rhode Island to see her family. I’m sure my kids are going to think I was living in destitution as a child because I didn’t have a cell phone until high school. Or that I prefer eating PB&Ms instead of sushi or macaroni in a pill or whatever. Crappy kids…
Well, enjoy the weekend everyone! Hope all yoh cayahs disappeah…
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Classic Phraud
Book Club tonight, kids. So far we've read some really great books in our fun little club. We scour Book Club and Bestseller lists for new titles, and with only a couple exceptions, they've all been great. Have you guys noticed the amount of Book Lists going around? Like the top 10 autobiographies, or the top 10 books about canker sores or whatever? It must be the time of year. They're everywhere. BUT: The one that really flips the script on me is the list of The Top 50 Books You Should Have Read By Now. (Or some variation of that...)
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
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