Word of the Day Saturday, January 30, 2010
rapacious
\ruh-PAY-shuhs\ , adjective;
1. Given to plunder; seizing by force.
2. Subsisting on prey.
3. Grasping; greedy.
She sat towards the middle of the theater, slouched down slightly in her seat. She was a little embarrassed to be there, but not embarrassed enough not to show up. Granted, the Twilight books were really written for teenage girls, but she had enjoyed them, so what the hell?
"God Bella is an idiot," she thought to herself during the scene where Bella and Jacob were riding their motorcycles around, "She isn't good looking and basically has no redeeming qualities other than the fact that she can pull off skinny jeans."
She shook the box of Junior Mints trying to dislodge the last couple of candies from the bottom of the box. Finally she thrust one finger into the corner to scoop out the last one, and when she looked up Jacob was whipping off his t-shirt to wipe the blood from Bella's forehead and choked slightly on her Junior Mint.
Daaammmmn.
She sat there rapaciously enjoying the chiseled, seventeen year old chest muscles spread across the 50 foot screen.
"Well," she thought, "This is quite the movie. Vampires. Werewolves. And Cougars."
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thank you Jesus! Friday is finally here! I actually sent Ken an email this morning saying something along the lines of, "Hey, that party is Saturday night, so I'm thinking tonight...you, me, Netflix, and home-made pizza?"
I'm thinking I had a way better Friday night than you did.
I mean seriously just look at that frakkin' pie over there. Home-made crust!
So, yeah there was the pepperoni, spinach, onion and garlic pizza (awesome) and then we had gotten Solaris from Netflix. Turns out it is pretty hardcore science-fiction and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Different idea, cool cinematography, all the allusions to Greek mythology, George Cloony's ass....what could possibly make this movie any better???
Oh yes....
Hope your Friday night was as good as mine! Oh, late morning sleeping in here I come!
Word of the Day Friday, January 29, 2010
verboten
\ver-BOHT-n\ , adjective;
1. Forbidden, as by law; prohibited.
"I'm going to do it," he said playing with a french fry. "I bought my ticket last night."
"You bought a ticket???" she exclaimed.
He nodded smiling. She felt a sharp kick of shock in her stomach, and mentally knew that she had to support him, but her reaction time was clearly disappointing.
"That is so fantastic!" she exclaimed forcing a smile.
They were out at Denny's, sharing a plate of fries. She barely ate any and instead sucked down cup after cup of black coffee sweetened with large chunks of brown sugar. She always insisted that they were just hanging out, they weren't dates. I mean, they had never kissed, and now that she was thinking about it, had they ever actually touched? How could they be dating?
"Come with me," he said immediately looking her square in the eye, his sweet mouth set in a hopeful smile.
She felt another kick of adrenaline shoot through her stomach at the thought of actually traveling with him. Of getting on a plane and flying into some unknown country with just the two of them.
"I…I, can't," she stammered, her answer surprising herself more than it surprised him.
He rolled his eyes, "Of course you can't. I know that all fun and adventure is verboten in the life of Elliot. Why can't you come?" he asked mocking her slightly.
She twisted her napkin around and around in her fingers.
"I don't have enough money saved up," she replied.
"Oh, come on. I know you have a pile of money, you have been working all year and I know you don't spend it going out. And clearly you don't spend it on clothing," he said smiling.
"Hey!" she protested meeting his eye.
"Seriously," he said quietly, "Come with me."
She felt so helpless. This wasn't her plan. He was right of course, she had been hoarding every penny she earned to put away for art school. Granted, she hadn't applied yet, but she was going to. Eventually.
And now here he was, his smile lighting up the dark, dingy corner of Denny's.
"Ok, well, just promise me that you will think about it," he said picking up the last french fry on the plate.
"I promise," she nodded.
I'm thinking I had a way better Friday night than you did.
I mean seriously just look at that frakkin' pie over there. Home-made crust!
So, yeah there was the pepperoni, spinach, onion and garlic pizza (awesome) and then we had gotten Solaris from Netflix. Turns out it is pretty hardcore science-fiction and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Different idea, cool cinematography, all the allusions to Greek mythology, George Cloony's ass....what could possibly make this movie any better???
Oh yes....
Hope your Friday night was as good as mine! Oh, late morning sleeping in here I come!
Word of the Day Friday, January 29, 2010
verboten
\ver-BOHT-n\ , adjective;
1. Forbidden, as by law; prohibited.
"I'm going to do it," he said playing with a french fry. "I bought my ticket last night."
"You bought a ticket???" she exclaimed.
He nodded smiling. She felt a sharp kick of shock in her stomach, and mentally knew that she had to support him, but her reaction time was clearly disappointing.
"That is so fantastic!" she exclaimed forcing a smile.
They were out at Denny's, sharing a plate of fries. She barely ate any and instead sucked down cup after cup of black coffee sweetened with large chunks of brown sugar. She always insisted that they were just hanging out, they weren't dates. I mean, they had never kissed, and now that she was thinking about it, had they ever actually touched? How could they be dating?
"Come with me," he said immediately looking her square in the eye, his sweet mouth set in a hopeful smile.
She felt another kick of adrenaline shoot through her stomach at the thought of actually traveling with him. Of getting on a plane and flying into some unknown country with just the two of them.
"I…I, can't," she stammered, her answer surprising herself more than it surprised him.
He rolled his eyes, "Of course you can't. I know that all fun and adventure is verboten in the life of Elliot. Why can't you come?" he asked mocking her slightly.
She twisted her napkin around and around in her fingers.
"I don't have enough money saved up," she replied.
"Oh, come on. I know you have a pile of money, you have been working all year and I know you don't spend it going out. And clearly you don't spend it on clothing," he said smiling.
"Hey!" she protested meeting his eye.
"Seriously," he said quietly, "Come with me."
She felt so helpless. This wasn't her plan. He was right of course, she had been hoarding every penny she earned to put away for art school. Granted, she hadn't applied yet, but she was going to. Eventually.
And now here he was, his smile lighting up the dark, dingy corner of Denny's.
"Ok, well, just promise me that you will think about it," he said picking up the last french fry on the plate.
"I promise," she nodded.
Oh My God, Is This Week Over Yet?
Word of the Day Thursday, January 28, 2010
machination
\mack-uh-NAY-shuhn; mash-\ , noun;
1. The act of plotting.
2. A crafty scheme; a cunning design or plot intended to accomplish some usually evil end.
There was a good deal of gossiping as Marvin steered Diane onto the dance floor. Their divorce had been legendary in the social circles of LA, mostly because of their excessive art holdings but also because of the vehemence and ill will that had spilled all over town as their break up had become public.
They had both hired big name attorneys and had set them loose with no restrictions on the tool belt of shiny lawyer machinations. Marivn's attorney, an old friend named Jack, had actually pounded his desk with both fists in jubilation as unseemly photos were leaked to the press, "I'm going to nail that bitch to the floor!" he had howled. "Jack," Marvin had interjected immediately, "That is my wife you are talking about." "Marvin," Jack said disgustedly, "This is no time to get sentimental."
However, Marvin had gotten sentimental and had abruptly undone all the legal maneuvering he and his team had carefully set up without ever explaining himself. "What the fuck are you doing?" Jack had screamed at him, "She is going to clean you out!" "I know," Marvin had simply replied, "And that is fine. All I want is the Rothko. Everything else is negotiable."
Diane, of course, didn't trust him either. "What are you getting at?" she had asked him. They had met up at one of their old time regular cocktail bars for a drink after all was said and done.
"Nothing," he replied.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," she said caustically.
He chuckled. "It hadn't even crossed my mind." What had actually crossed his mind was how Neil Diamond had given his ex-wife half of his fortune when they divorced saying that she deserved it. Diane deserved it too. Although he'd never tell her that.
He spun her slowly as the photographers buzzed around them. "You did a nice job planning this party," he told her admiring the elegant tables and flower arrangements. She laughed, "Thanks. You should just be happy you didn't have to deal with Abby when it came to all the decision making," she said lightly. He pondered that, "You two are so much alike," he said, "But, you sure do know how to throw a party," he added smiling.
"Ah, well, I learned that from you," she replied smiling back.
machination
\mack-uh-NAY-shuhn; mash-\ , noun;
1. The act of plotting.
2. A crafty scheme; a cunning design or plot intended to accomplish some usually evil end.
There was a good deal of gossiping as Marvin steered Diane onto the dance floor. Their divorce had been legendary in the social circles of LA, mostly because of their excessive art holdings but also because of the vehemence and ill will that had spilled all over town as their break up had become public.
They had both hired big name attorneys and had set them loose with no restrictions on the tool belt of shiny lawyer machinations. Marivn's attorney, an old friend named Jack, had actually pounded his desk with both fists in jubilation as unseemly photos were leaked to the press, "I'm going to nail that bitch to the floor!" he had howled. "Jack," Marvin had interjected immediately, "That is my wife you are talking about." "Marvin," Jack said disgustedly, "This is no time to get sentimental."
However, Marvin had gotten sentimental and had abruptly undone all the legal maneuvering he and his team had carefully set up without ever explaining himself. "What the fuck are you doing?" Jack had screamed at him, "She is going to clean you out!" "I know," Marvin had simply replied, "And that is fine. All I want is the Rothko. Everything else is negotiable."
Diane, of course, didn't trust him either. "What are you getting at?" she had asked him. They had met up at one of their old time regular cocktail bars for a drink after all was said and done.
"Nothing," he replied.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," she said caustically.
He chuckled. "It hadn't even crossed my mind." What had actually crossed his mind was how Neil Diamond had given his ex-wife half of his fortune when they divorced saying that she deserved it. Diane deserved it too. Although he'd never tell her that.
He spun her slowly as the photographers buzzed around them. "You did a nice job planning this party," he told her admiring the elegant tables and flower arrangements. She laughed, "Thanks. You should just be happy you didn't have to deal with Abby when it came to all the decision making," she said lightly. He pondered that, "You two are so much alike," he said, "But, you sure do know how to throw a party," he added smiling.
"Ah, well, I learned that from you," she replied smiling back.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Hump Day
Tonight we ate dinner at the un-child friendly hour of 8:00 p.m. and have been in bed for the past hour. I don't know how you full time parents do it!
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 27, 2010
panjandrum
\pan-JAN-druhm\ , noun;
1. An important personage or pretentious official.
Eric glanced up in his rear-view mirror and watched the police officer climb out of his vehicle and saunter towards the car.
"Good morning officer," Eric said politely when the officer reached the window.
"License and registration," the officer replied curtly.
Eric handed the paperwork promptly through the window trying not to tap his foot impatiently. He had hit every, single stop light the entire way to work and had tapped his gas pedal to make it through the very last yellow. Of course there would be a police officer at that particular light.
"Eric Paghn?" the officer asked him his tone not quite so gruff. Eric looked up and behind him trying to get a look at the officer. God, he thought, these self-important….panjandrums! They always do that! Stand behind your head so you can't turn around and look at them.
"Eric Paghn from Wilsonview High School?" the officer continued. Eric froze, now how the hell would this guy know that?
"Um, yeah…do you know me?" Eric asked hesitantly.
"Yeah! It is Steve Burkowski! From Physics class! Don't you remember, we were lab partners for a month or so,"
Eric totally didn't remember, but figured it would be a mistake to blow this guy off.
"Steve! Of course! Hey man, how's it going? Clearly you are moving in the fast lane these days," he bullshitted. Steve's chest puffed up a little. "Yeah, an officer of the law. I really feel like I've made something of myself. And you know, occasionally I do give speeders a little lecture on inertia. That physics is still with me" he said conversationally tapping in temple.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Eric thought. "Ha ha! Yeah, I bet they don't even know what you are talking about. You going to the 10 year reunion? It is only a couple years away," Eric continued shifting in his seat a little.
"Oh yeah, I'll definitely be there, reliving the glory days," Steve replied. Eric was really hoping that with all the chit chat maybe he'd be able to talk his way out of a ticket.
"Now, just because we are friends and all, don't start thinking it is going to get you out of this ticket. I'm really moving up in my career right now and it would look bad to show favoritism towards friends. I'll be right back," Steve said abruptly and walked back to the police cruiser.
It was then, in one sweeping flashback, that Eric suddenly remembered Steve "Fart Train" Burkowski. Namely the extravagant amount of shit he and the other top cross country runners had given him throughout high school, and in one sinking moment realized that he was about to pay for every fart joke he had ever made.
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 27, 2010
panjandrum
\pan-JAN-druhm\ , noun;
1. An important personage or pretentious official.
Eric glanced up in his rear-view mirror and watched the police officer climb out of his vehicle and saunter towards the car.
"Good morning officer," Eric said politely when the officer reached the window.
"License and registration," the officer replied curtly.
Eric handed the paperwork promptly through the window trying not to tap his foot impatiently. He had hit every, single stop light the entire way to work and had tapped his gas pedal to make it through the very last yellow. Of course there would be a police officer at that particular light.
"Eric Paghn?" the officer asked him his tone not quite so gruff. Eric looked up and behind him trying to get a look at the officer. God, he thought, these self-important….panjandrums! They always do that! Stand behind your head so you can't turn around and look at them.
"Eric Paghn from Wilsonview High School?" the officer continued. Eric froze, now how the hell would this guy know that?
"Um, yeah…do you know me?" Eric asked hesitantly.
"Yeah! It is Steve Burkowski! From Physics class! Don't you remember, we were lab partners for a month or so,"
Eric totally didn't remember, but figured it would be a mistake to blow this guy off.
"Steve! Of course! Hey man, how's it going? Clearly you are moving in the fast lane these days," he bullshitted. Steve's chest puffed up a little. "Yeah, an officer of the law. I really feel like I've made something of myself. And you know, occasionally I do give speeders a little lecture on inertia. That physics is still with me" he said conversationally tapping in temple.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Eric thought. "Ha ha! Yeah, I bet they don't even know what you are talking about. You going to the 10 year reunion? It is only a couple years away," Eric continued shifting in his seat a little.
"Oh yeah, I'll definitely be there, reliving the glory days," Steve replied. Eric was really hoping that with all the chit chat maybe he'd be able to talk his way out of a ticket.
"Now, just because we are friends and all, don't start thinking it is going to get you out of this ticket. I'm really moving up in my career right now and it would look bad to show favoritism towards friends. I'll be right back," Steve said abruptly and walked back to the police cruiser.
It was then, in one sweeping flashback, that Eric suddenly remembered Steve "Fart Train" Burkowski. Namely the extravagant amount of shit he and the other top cross country runners had given him throughout high school, and in one sinking moment realized that he was about to pay for every fart joke he had ever made.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Hard Feelings
So, on top of the no sleeping-in weekend, which by the way is DESTROYING MY LIFE, we also seem to have gotten a tween all of a sudden.
I have come to find out that a tween is a lot like a teenager in that they speak to you with that sassy, petulant tone to their voice, and they have a vocabulary filled with only five words, "I don't know", "I don't care" and "okay". Oh, and the lying, the unimaginable amount of lying.
The difference between teenagers and tweens is that tweens still throw tantrums.
Yay!!!
You know, I really don't think I took ages 6, 7, and 8 for granted. They were fantastically fun and we did a lot of really memorable stuff. But Holy Christ (on a stick).....I am not ready for what is next if it has been anything like the past five days.
Or maybe we will never again leave town because I might be able to deal with all the completely unacceptable behavior we have had recently if I was actually sort of caught up on my sleep.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 26, 2010
evince
\ih-VIN(T)S\ , transitive verb;
1. To show in a clear manner; to manifest; to make evident; to bring to light.
Looking back on that evening she was surprised at how all the details were still so crisp in her memory.
She had only gotten home a few minutes before them, enough time to grab a snack and use the bathroom before her husband and step-daughter had arrived filling the kitchen with their chatter.
"Since you are the keeper of the Christmas Present Idea List, I have an idea for my dad to tell you," her step-daughter had whispered loudly into her ear.
"Oh great!" she had replied, "But you are whispering really loudly. Why don't we go into a different room so your dad doesn't hear your idea, and I'll grab a piece of paper and a pencil to write it down so I don't forget."
She remembered that she had felt genuinely interested in hearing her step-daughter's idea, and pleased that the generosity and thoughtfulness of Christmas was carrying over into the new year.
"A Red Hot Chili Peppers album," her step-daughter had whispered to her. "That is a little odd," she thought as she scribbled the idea down on the scrap of paper, thinking that it would have been weird for her husband to express a specific desire for a Red Hot Chili Peppers album, but it was nice that her step-daughter was thinking of other people. Her husband did love music. She stood up and set the paper on the counter and opened the refrigerator door to start pulling out dinner ingredients.
"If she was suggesting the Red Hot Chili Peppers as a gift idea, that is something she wants, not something I want," her husband said swirling the computer chair around towards her.
It took a moment for his statement to evince the reality of what had just transpired between her and her step-daughter. The truth and self-centered motivations slowly unfurling like a lazy wave breaking upon the shore. It had seduced her with the familiar rhythm, the rise and fall of their typical routine, only to have it crash unexpectedly upon her. The momentum of the event then slowly sliding the rest of the way up the beach along her neck to her hairline.
Honestly, it surprised her. The feelings of betrayal, of the humiliation of being lied to and her silly gullibility, and at the very bottom of it, the overwhelming feeling of having been used, piercing through her chest.
And it was within that moment, as she looked back on it, that everything had changed for her.
I have come to find out that a tween is a lot like a teenager in that they speak to you with that sassy, petulant tone to their voice, and they have a vocabulary filled with only five words, "I don't know", "I don't care" and "okay". Oh, and the lying, the unimaginable amount of lying.
The difference between teenagers and tweens is that tweens still throw tantrums.
Yay!!!
You know, I really don't think I took ages 6, 7, and 8 for granted. They were fantastically fun and we did a lot of really memorable stuff. But Holy Christ (on a stick).....I am not ready for what is next if it has been anything like the past five days.
Or maybe we will never again leave town because I might be able to deal with all the completely unacceptable behavior we have had recently if I was actually sort of caught up on my sleep.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 26, 2010
evince
\ih-VIN(T)S\ , transitive verb;
1. To show in a clear manner; to manifest; to make evident; to bring to light.
Looking back on that evening she was surprised at how all the details were still so crisp in her memory.
She had only gotten home a few minutes before them, enough time to grab a snack and use the bathroom before her husband and step-daughter had arrived filling the kitchen with their chatter.
"Since you are the keeper of the Christmas Present Idea List, I have an idea for my dad to tell you," her step-daughter had whispered loudly into her ear.
"Oh great!" she had replied, "But you are whispering really loudly. Why don't we go into a different room so your dad doesn't hear your idea, and I'll grab a piece of paper and a pencil to write it down so I don't forget."
She remembered that she had felt genuinely interested in hearing her step-daughter's idea, and pleased that the generosity and thoughtfulness of Christmas was carrying over into the new year.
"A Red Hot Chili Peppers album," her step-daughter had whispered to her. "That is a little odd," she thought as she scribbled the idea down on the scrap of paper, thinking that it would have been weird for her husband to express a specific desire for a Red Hot Chili Peppers album, but it was nice that her step-daughter was thinking of other people. Her husband did love music. She stood up and set the paper on the counter and opened the refrigerator door to start pulling out dinner ingredients.
"If she was suggesting the Red Hot Chili Peppers as a gift idea, that is something she wants, not something I want," her husband said swirling the computer chair around towards her.
It took a moment for his statement to evince the reality of what had just transpired between her and her step-daughter. The truth and self-centered motivations slowly unfurling like a lazy wave breaking upon the shore. It had seduced her with the familiar rhythm, the rise and fall of their typical routine, only to have it crash unexpectedly upon her. The momentum of the event then slowly sliding the rest of the way up the beach along her neck to her hairline.
Honestly, it surprised her. The feelings of betrayal, of the humiliation of being lied to and her silly gullibility, and at the very bottom of it, the overwhelming feeling of having been used, piercing through her chest.
And it was within that moment, as she looked back on it, that everything had changed for her.
Monday, January 25, 2010
I Don't Have a Witty Title Tonight
Hence the old blog name of "Sometimes Witty"....I just can't bring my A-game every night of the year people. Especially not after getting my "sleeping in hours" this past weekend stolen from me because we were traveling. I'm just sayin'.
***Note***
I'm not sure what happened last night...I typed this all up while sitting in bed, and spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out a title, and then threw in the towel on the title, and then apparently didn't load the story....I blame it all on a lack of sleeping in....
Word of the Day Monday, January 25, 2010
plenipotentiary
\plen-uh-puh-TEN-shee-air-ee; -shuh-ree\ , adjective;
1. Containing or conferring full power; invested with full power; as, "plenipotentiary license; plenipotentiary ministers."
noun:
1. A person invested with full power to transact any business; especially, an ambassador or diplomatic agent with full power to negotiate a treaty or to transact other business.
"So, what, you're going on vacation or something?" Andy asked slightly confused.
"Well, yeah. I mean, it gets really tiring doing this job all day, every day and I just, you know, want a break from it all," Zeus replied shrugging.
"Can Gods take…breaks?" Andy asked frowning slightly.
"I can do whatever I want," Zeus replied flippantly.
"So, like, when I'm God I can just smite people for no good reason?" Andy asked perking up a little.
"Oh, totally! Watch this." Zeus made a sort of clear port hole through the clouds and Andy could see a busy street below like he was watching events unfold on TV. "Sca-doosh!" Zeus cried waving his pinky in a little circle. Down below on the TV screen porthole a bus suddenly veered off the street into the sidewalk, flattening a crowd of people.
"Oh my God!" Andy cried out.
"Um…that would be Gods, not God," Zeus quietly corrected him.
"How can you just kill people like that? Isn't that wrong?" Andy yelled at him, seriously shaken.
"No," Zeus said shrugging, "Watch this," and with another wave of his finger he set off an earthquake along the Pacific Rim.
"See, you are all caught up in the idea that human lives mean something. There have been billions and billions of humans on Earth throughout my life, they are like ants running around, and take it from me, it doesn't matter if you squish a few of them."
"Really?" Andy asked his voice screeching a little.
"Well, here, let me give you a plenipotentiary license, and let you take 're out for a spin, and you can tell me what you think," Zeus said waving his pinky finger at Andy briefly. Andy waited for something to change.
"Well?" Zeus asked.
"I don't feel any different," Andy replied gingerly holding his arms out from his body as if he were expecting them to puff out to the size of Zeus's arms.
"Oh, you aren't going to feel any different. You are still human, you just have the power to, well, transact business, so to speak," Zeus replied, turning to pick up his bags.
"This is so awesome! So, I can get any girl I want?"
Zeus nodded, "Oh yeah! That is one of the best perks, although, I prefer to change forms for that. You know, swans, bulls, golden clouds. You can get really creative, adds a little spice," he added with an eyebrow wiggle.
Andy buzzed with excitement and did the little finger swirl thing with his pinky. Traffic suddenly cleared along the I-5 freeway through Seattle. He turned to Zeus, "How long do I get to have all these powers?"
"Oh, until I decide to come back. I mean, you aren't going to mess up the world too badly. Those humans are pretty resourcefully, and if things go too badly I help them find a vaccine or get investor confidence to turn around. It's all no problem." he said with a wave of his hand, "In other words, don't bug me. I'm going to be on an island with lots of women, and I don't need the wifey bugging me." Zeus said giving him a stern look. After making sure he had driven home his point he walked out the door and disappeared.
"Aw, man," Andy thought, "I am totally going to break my top score at Rock Band!"
***Note***
I'm not sure what happened last night...I typed this all up while sitting in bed, and spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out a title, and then threw in the towel on the title, and then apparently didn't load the story....I blame it all on a lack of sleeping in....
Word of the Day Monday, January 25, 2010
plenipotentiary
\plen-uh-puh-TEN-shee-air-ee; -shuh-ree\ , adjective;
1. Containing or conferring full power; invested with full power; as, "plenipotentiary license; plenipotentiary ministers."
noun:
1. A person invested with full power to transact any business; especially, an ambassador or diplomatic agent with full power to negotiate a treaty or to transact other business.
"So, what, you're going on vacation or something?" Andy asked slightly confused.
"Well, yeah. I mean, it gets really tiring doing this job all day, every day and I just, you know, want a break from it all," Zeus replied shrugging.
"Can Gods take…breaks?" Andy asked frowning slightly.
"I can do whatever I want," Zeus replied flippantly.
"So, like, when I'm God I can just smite people for no good reason?" Andy asked perking up a little.
"Oh, totally! Watch this." Zeus made a sort of clear port hole through the clouds and Andy could see a busy street below like he was watching events unfold on TV. "Sca-doosh!" Zeus cried waving his pinky in a little circle. Down below on the TV screen porthole a bus suddenly veered off the street into the sidewalk, flattening a crowd of people.
"Oh my God!" Andy cried out.
"Um…that would be Gods, not God," Zeus quietly corrected him.
"How can you just kill people like that? Isn't that wrong?" Andy yelled at him, seriously shaken.
"No," Zeus said shrugging, "Watch this," and with another wave of his finger he set off an earthquake along the Pacific Rim.
"See, you are all caught up in the idea that human lives mean something. There have been billions and billions of humans on Earth throughout my life, they are like ants running around, and take it from me, it doesn't matter if you squish a few of them."
"Really?" Andy asked his voice screeching a little.
"Well, here, let me give you a plenipotentiary license, and let you take 're out for a spin, and you can tell me what you think," Zeus said waving his pinky finger at Andy briefly. Andy waited for something to change.
"Well?" Zeus asked.
"I don't feel any different," Andy replied gingerly holding his arms out from his body as if he were expecting them to puff out to the size of Zeus's arms.
"Oh, you aren't going to feel any different. You are still human, you just have the power to, well, transact business, so to speak," Zeus replied, turning to pick up his bags.
"This is so awesome! So, I can get any girl I want?"
Zeus nodded, "Oh yeah! That is one of the best perks, although, I prefer to change forms for that. You know, swans, bulls, golden clouds. You can get really creative, adds a little spice," he added with an eyebrow wiggle.
Andy buzzed with excitement and did the little finger swirl thing with his pinky. Traffic suddenly cleared along the I-5 freeway through Seattle. He turned to Zeus, "How long do I get to have all these powers?"
"Oh, until I decide to come back. I mean, you aren't going to mess up the world too badly. Those humans are pretty resourcefully, and if things go too badly I help them find a vaccine or get investor confidence to turn around. It's all no problem." he said with a wave of his hand, "In other words, don't bug me. I'm going to be on an island with lots of women, and I don't need the wifey bugging me." Zeus said giving him a stern look. After making sure he had driven home his point he walked out the door and disappeared.
"Aw, man," Andy thought, "I am totally going to break my top score at Rock Band!"
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Stick a Fork In Me!
Word of the Day Sunday, January 24, 2010
frangible
\FRAN-juh-buhl\ , adjective;
1. Capable of being broken; brittle; fragile; easily broken.
She slowly pushed the walker a few feet ahead and shuffled along behind it. Her grandchildren moving almost in slow motion to keep up with her agonizing pace. It was sweet of them, really, to come by and take her out to lunch every Saturday. Most of her neighbors within the retirement village didn't see their children and grandchildren that often. But at times their presence was almost enough to suffocate her with the slightly patronizing tone of voice, and how they presented choices to her like she was a child. Sure, she knew that she was stooped over with osteoporosis, and that she had a hard time remembering all the little details (and some of the big details), but watching them be so careful of her, gingerly handling her and her frangible body just made her want to scream at them.
Every Saturday when they brought her back to her room, promising to be by on time the following week, she would smile and wave and once they were gone she would quickly pull out her photo albums. The photos from way back when, when her body had been lithe and strong. It was almost as if she were rinsing the morning of being weak and feeble away from her mind. She would pour over the pictures from the lake, swimming with all of her brothers, splashing and racing in the water for hours. Her favorite picture, taken by Bobby, before they had even become a couple, was of her pulling herself up onto the edge of the dock. The sunlight reflecting off a thousand droplets of water around her, the photo slightly blurred by the motion of her body being effortlessly launched into the air, and the daring, fierce, triumphant look of joy in her dark eyes set ablaze with a dazzling smile.
Before her fall, the subsequent broken foot, followed by the endless therapy and set backs with her recovery, she had tried out the water aerobics class a few times at the community pool Gingerly mading her way into the pool an inch at a time, clutching the handrails with a death grip the entire way. It was only when that fat pig Jonica, who thought she was such hot shit because she was one of the entertainment coordinators on movie night, had made some comment about being the fastest swimmer back when she was in high school that she finally snapped.
"You still have the right stuff, Jonica?" she had asked haughtily.
"Of course," Jonica had scoffed.
"Prove it," she had taunted.
Oh! It had been so exhilarating! All the other women in the class had just stared at them as they started to splash their way across the pool. The teacher had been scolding them to stop from the cement deck, but they both ignored her. It was only when Merrill had shouted, "You get her Peggy!" that she knew she was going to pull ahead and touch the ledge first. And in her mind's eye, what the lifeguard on the other side of the pool saw was a triumphant and joy filled pair of dark eyes surrounded by a wall of shimmering light.
frangible
\FRAN-juh-buhl\ , adjective;
1. Capable of being broken; brittle; fragile; easily broken.
She slowly pushed the walker a few feet ahead and shuffled along behind it. Her grandchildren moving almost in slow motion to keep up with her agonizing pace. It was sweet of them, really, to come by and take her out to lunch every Saturday. Most of her neighbors within the retirement village didn't see their children and grandchildren that often. But at times their presence was almost enough to suffocate her with the slightly patronizing tone of voice, and how they presented choices to her like she was a child. Sure, she knew that she was stooped over with osteoporosis, and that she had a hard time remembering all the little details (and some of the big details), but watching them be so careful of her, gingerly handling her and her frangible body just made her want to scream at them.
Every Saturday when they brought her back to her room, promising to be by on time the following week, she would smile and wave and once they were gone she would quickly pull out her photo albums. The photos from way back when, when her body had been lithe and strong. It was almost as if she were rinsing the morning of being weak and feeble away from her mind. She would pour over the pictures from the lake, swimming with all of her brothers, splashing and racing in the water for hours. Her favorite picture, taken by Bobby, before they had even become a couple, was of her pulling herself up onto the edge of the dock. The sunlight reflecting off a thousand droplets of water around her, the photo slightly blurred by the motion of her body being effortlessly launched into the air, and the daring, fierce, triumphant look of joy in her dark eyes set ablaze with a dazzling smile.
Before her fall, the subsequent broken foot, followed by the endless therapy and set backs with her recovery, she had tried out the water aerobics class a few times at the community pool Gingerly mading her way into the pool an inch at a time, clutching the handrails with a death grip the entire way. It was only when that fat pig Jonica, who thought she was such hot shit because she was one of the entertainment coordinators on movie night, had made some comment about being the fastest swimmer back when she was in high school that she finally snapped.
"You still have the right stuff, Jonica?" she had asked haughtily.
"Of course," Jonica had scoffed.
"Prove it," she had taunted.
Oh! It had been so exhilarating! All the other women in the class had just stared at them as they started to splash their way across the pool. The teacher had been scolding them to stop from the cement deck, but they both ignored her. It was only when Merrill had shouted, "You get her Peggy!" that she knew she was going to pull ahead and touch the ledge first. And in her mind's eye, what the lifeguard on the other side of the pool saw was a triumphant and joy filled pair of dark eyes surrounded by a wall of shimmering light.
Enough Already!
Ok, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Enough with the social life! Please, for the love of God let me lead a boring life full of LotR on Friday nights with burritos and Brutal Bitter beer! Don't make me socialize anymore!
Ok, I don't really mean that. We headed up to Seattle/Everett this weekend to visit family, leaving town Saturday by 8:00 a.m. effectively KILLING any sleeping-in for the weekend. We are now home, and getting all geared up for work.
Once again, I did get my story written on Saturday, but we were too busy drinking port, playing Rock Band 2 (surprisingly fun, who knew??), and family Apples to Apples to get it posted. Don't worry, you'll have another one later tonight....oohhh, wait for it....waaaiiittt for iiittttt.....
Word of the Day Saturday, January 23, 2010
veritable
\VER-ih-tuh-bul\ , adjective;
1. Agreeable to truth or to fact; actual; real; true; genuine.
She briefly leaned over and checked for feet within the bathroom stall. Breathing a sigh of relief that it was empty, she bumped the door open with her elbow and gingerly locked the door behind her. She unbuttoned her jeans and assumed the "public restroom squat" since there were no seat covers available.
It had been a long 44 miles in-between rest stops. The asshole Suburban that had been tailing her in the middle lane had decided to pass on her in the right hand lane at the exact moment she was trying to get over for the rest stop exit. She had missed the exit and instead of turning back, she decided she would speed up and give the ass-hole driver a choice hand gesture. And then spent the next 43 miles in bladder agony.
She managed to walk into the restroom in a dignified walk, rather than the "pee gallop" but boy, was she happy to be faced with the volumes of veritable wisdom scrawled on the bathroom stall walls. There was a mathematical theorem proving men were the root of all evil, a limerick extolling the virtues of tits, and a rather eloquent tirade about the faults of a man named Tyrell.
Finishing her business as quickly as possible, she grabbed a piece of tissue to flush the toilet only to be greeted by a sign on the back of the stall wall information her to "Push Button to Flush." Only the "on" of the word button had been scratched off.
"Push Butt to Flush"
"Yeah," she thought, "I don't see that working." Yet, she still found herself pressing her index finger into her butt check with a smile, you know, just in case.
Ok, I don't really mean that. We headed up to Seattle/Everett this weekend to visit family, leaving town Saturday by 8:00 a.m. effectively KILLING any sleeping-in for the weekend. We are now home, and getting all geared up for work.
Once again, I did get my story written on Saturday, but we were too busy drinking port, playing Rock Band 2 (surprisingly fun, who knew??), and family Apples to Apples to get it posted. Don't worry, you'll have another one later tonight....oohhh, wait for it....waaaiiittt for iiittttt.....
Word of the Day Saturday, January 23, 2010
veritable
\VER-ih-tuh-bul\ , adjective;
1. Agreeable to truth or to fact; actual; real; true; genuine.
She briefly leaned over and checked for feet within the bathroom stall. Breathing a sigh of relief that it was empty, she bumped the door open with her elbow and gingerly locked the door behind her. She unbuttoned her jeans and assumed the "public restroom squat" since there were no seat covers available.
It had been a long 44 miles in-between rest stops. The asshole Suburban that had been tailing her in the middle lane had decided to pass on her in the right hand lane at the exact moment she was trying to get over for the rest stop exit. She had missed the exit and instead of turning back, she decided she would speed up and give the ass-hole driver a choice hand gesture. And then spent the next 43 miles in bladder agony.
She managed to walk into the restroom in a dignified walk, rather than the "pee gallop" but boy, was she happy to be faced with the volumes of veritable wisdom scrawled on the bathroom stall walls. There was a mathematical theorem proving men were the root of all evil, a limerick extolling the virtues of tits, and a rather eloquent tirade about the faults of a man named Tyrell.
Finishing her business as quickly as possible, she grabbed a piece of tissue to flush the toilet only to be greeted by a sign on the back of the stall wall information her to "Push Button to Flush." Only the "on" of the word button had been scratched off.
"Push Butt to Flush"
"Yeah," she thought, "I don't see that working." Yet, she still found herself pressing her index finger into her butt check with a smile, you know, just in case.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Resting Quietly
Word of the Day Friday, January 22, 2010
prevaricate
\prih-VAIR-uh-kayt\ , intransitive verb;
1. To depart from or evade the truth; to speak with equivocation.
I couldn't help but watch the single dad on the bus. He was clearly a professional, always appearing on the bus in neatly pressed button down shirts and carefully coordinated ties and shoes. The overly conservative look, and the leather briefcase lead me to believe he was probably an attorney. However, it wasn't his professional appearance that caught my eye, but the little blonde haired four year old that he toted along in the hand without the briefcase.
Like every other woman on the bus, a swift glance at his ring-less left hand left me secretly glancing his way whenever we happened to be on the same bus. I mean, he was attractive, but there was something about watching a man in his thirties carefully arrange hair into a ponytail while balancing a traveling mug of coffee between his knees that will cement an attraction.
However, on this particular evening bus ride he was all business. "Did you take a nap today?" he asked his daughter. She looked up at him, hesitating a moment too long, "Yes, da-da," she replied. "You did? I've been hearing from your teachers that you tend not to take naps anymore," he said to her. "Nope, I rested quietly," she prevaricated, her large brown eyes innocently peering up at him. "Hmmm," he replied. You could see the sharks starting to circle. "That is great, you must have had a good day," he continued. The little girl nodded, the blonde curls bouncing adorably. "So, what books did you read during nap time?" he asked nonchalantly. "Um, Green Eggs and Ham, and Elmo Goes to School," she immediately replied.
I glanced away tried to stifle my giggle into my book, but not before seeing the gleam of victory in her father's eyes.
Definitely an attorney.
prevaricate
\prih-VAIR-uh-kayt\ , intransitive verb;
1. To depart from or evade the truth; to speak with equivocation.
I couldn't help but watch the single dad on the bus. He was clearly a professional, always appearing on the bus in neatly pressed button down shirts and carefully coordinated ties and shoes. The overly conservative look, and the leather briefcase lead me to believe he was probably an attorney. However, it wasn't his professional appearance that caught my eye, but the little blonde haired four year old that he toted along in the hand without the briefcase.
Like every other woman on the bus, a swift glance at his ring-less left hand left me secretly glancing his way whenever we happened to be on the same bus. I mean, he was attractive, but there was something about watching a man in his thirties carefully arrange hair into a ponytail while balancing a traveling mug of coffee between his knees that will cement an attraction.
However, on this particular evening bus ride he was all business. "Did you take a nap today?" he asked his daughter. She looked up at him, hesitating a moment too long, "Yes, da-da," she replied. "You did? I've been hearing from your teachers that you tend not to take naps anymore," he said to her. "Nope, I rested quietly," she prevaricated, her large brown eyes innocently peering up at him. "Hmmm," he replied. You could see the sharks starting to circle. "That is great, you must have had a good day," he continued. The little girl nodded, the blonde curls bouncing adorably. "So, what books did you read during nap time?" he asked nonchalantly. "Um, Green Eggs and Ham, and Elmo Goes to School," she immediately replied.
I glanced away tried to stifle my giggle into my book, but not before seeing the gleam of victory in her father's eyes.
Definitely an attorney.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The "L" Word
Word of the Day Thursday, January 21, 2010
bibelot
\BEE-buh-loh\ , noun;
1. A small decorative object without practical utility; a trinket.
She wasn't quite sure how she came upon this particular shop, but once she walked inside she just had a visceral feeling that it was the right shop for her purpose. The old dusty furniture, the heavy jewelry, and tarnished brass bibelots tucked into every corner and cranny of space.
She had been agonizing for the past two weeks over this particular Valentine's Day, trying to come up with the perfect gift. She was so nervous, they had only been dating a little over a month, and things were going spectacularly although they hadn't yet used the "L" word. Not that she didn't think they would get there, it was just too soon. Why did she have to start dating him so close to Valentine's Day? How do you get through Valentine's Day without reference to love??
She picked up old, leather bound books pleased with their weight and heft in her hand. A hideous, carved, wooden man statue that was so ugly she immediately fell in love with it leaning on his cane next to a small hand drum. A stuffed iguana peered studiously down from on top of a large wardrobe.
She thought about his sleek downtown loft apartment. Very industrial with the polished concrete floors and the exposed pipes in the ceiling. His spartan furniture and minimalist artwork. The first time she had gone over there all she could imagine was the string of cool, elegant blondes that had paraded through that loft and couldn't imagine why she was there. She had been lost in the middle of figuring out how she was going to politely ditch him that evening when he had come out of his gourmet, stainless steel kitchen with an old chipped mug of mulled wine.
"This was my grandfather's recipe," he said handing her the mug, steaming with the warm smell of cloves and cardamom, "Actually, that was his mug too. He used to sip on a mug of mulled wine every night after dinner and tell me and my little brother wild made up stories. He lived with us for several years after my grandmother passed away."
She had no idea why he had told her the story. The had spent dinner at a trendy, over priced restaurant exchanging playful, witty banter. The usual verbal fencing match that constituted dating. When he had mentioned that he "just lived around the corner" she almost couldn't resist rolling her eyes at how contrived the whole thing seemed to be. Yet here he was, literally holding out his chipped facade for her to hold in her hands.
Maybe that was why the shop and all the old, spiced with life items seemed like the perfect place to find the right gift to express everything she felt without having to use the "L" word on Valentine's Day.
bibelot
\BEE-buh-loh\ , noun;
1. A small decorative object without practical utility; a trinket.
She wasn't quite sure how she came upon this particular shop, but once she walked inside she just had a visceral feeling that it was the right shop for her purpose. The old dusty furniture, the heavy jewelry, and tarnished brass bibelots tucked into every corner and cranny of space.
She had been agonizing for the past two weeks over this particular Valentine's Day, trying to come up with the perfect gift. She was so nervous, they had only been dating a little over a month, and things were going spectacularly although they hadn't yet used the "L" word. Not that she didn't think they would get there, it was just too soon. Why did she have to start dating him so close to Valentine's Day? How do you get through Valentine's Day without reference to love??
She picked up old, leather bound books pleased with their weight and heft in her hand. A hideous, carved, wooden man statue that was so ugly she immediately fell in love with it leaning on his cane next to a small hand drum. A stuffed iguana peered studiously down from on top of a large wardrobe.
She thought about his sleek downtown loft apartment. Very industrial with the polished concrete floors and the exposed pipes in the ceiling. His spartan furniture and minimalist artwork. The first time she had gone over there all she could imagine was the string of cool, elegant blondes that had paraded through that loft and couldn't imagine why she was there. She had been lost in the middle of figuring out how she was going to politely ditch him that evening when he had come out of his gourmet, stainless steel kitchen with an old chipped mug of mulled wine.
"This was my grandfather's recipe," he said handing her the mug, steaming with the warm smell of cloves and cardamom, "Actually, that was his mug too. He used to sip on a mug of mulled wine every night after dinner and tell me and my little brother wild made up stories. He lived with us for several years after my grandmother passed away."
She had no idea why he had told her the story. The had spent dinner at a trendy, over priced restaurant exchanging playful, witty banter. The usual verbal fencing match that constituted dating. When he had mentioned that he "just lived around the corner" she almost couldn't resist rolling her eyes at how contrived the whole thing seemed to be. Yet here he was, literally holding out his chipped facade for her to hold in her hands.
Maybe that was why the shop and all the old, spiced with life items seemed like the perfect place to find the right gift to express everything she felt without having to use the "L" word on Valentine's Day.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
On Time!
Ah...being back in the regular routine is good...jambalaya for dinner and movie night at home with Ken.
Perfect.
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 20, 2010
lacuna
\luh-KYOO-nuh\ , noun;
plural lacunae \luh-KYOO-nee\ or lacunas
1. A blank space; a missing part; a gap.
2. (Biology) A small opening, depression, or cavity in an anatomical structure.
The physician adjusted the focus of his presentation on the screen on the back wall of the room and cleared this throat, "We were, of course, very surprised when the Department of Defense brought the alien species into our laboratory for autopsy, seeing as how we are primarily a research lab with a focus on biological assays. However, it quickly became apparent that protein as well as nucleic acid analysis would be a vital part of a through report of the specimen."
He switched the slide on the screen to a photo showing an image of the alien from the waist up. "As you can see, the alien had been wounded fatally in an escape attempt from our security forces. Sustaining blunt and traumatic trama to the chest and the head. Incidentally, each of these injuries would have been fatal to the alien independent of each other.
Once we had started the autopsy we immediately noted the numerous lacunae in the body of the alien. Most of the cavities turned out to be part of one long tube and appears to be part of a digestion and excrement system. Some, such as the lacuna in the middle of the abdomen, we are still puzzled about and are in the process of performing further experiments.
We were shocked to learn that this alien species has almost no exoskeleton. The primary defense against microorganisms appears to be a thin membrane made up mostly of collagen. Almost more shocking than the lack of an exoskeleton, is the meager endoskeleton protecting most of the vital organs.
Upon probing the thoracic wound, resulting from the attack by our guards, we found that one of his vital organs, a four chambered pump necessary for fluid and oxygen circulation, had been irreparably damaged. Interestingly, his inadequate protective endoskeleton actually fractured and punctured a necessary organ for oxygen exchange from the atmosphere.
At a molecular level all organic tissue in the alien is quite sensitive to radiation and proteases. Exposure to both, at relatively benign levels, quickly lead to apoptosis. After we had finished our laboratory analysis multiple live subjects were collected from the caves along the Balthium Cliffs and numerous studies were performed on the strength and durability of all the organic structures at the gross and molecular level. The details are quite fascinating, and Dr. Hskuki and I will be publishing our first of several papers next month.
However, let me turn the microphone over to our head of security who will outline our basic defense plan. Focusing primarily on the areas most vulnerable to attack on the alien species in the most cost efficient manner."
Dr. Plstzar collected his notes as the audience shuffled their brow plates, gossiping in muted hisses.
The lack of an exoskeleton on the alien had been intriguing. Especially in contrast to his own species which carried sixty percent of their body weight in organic carbon fiber armor. Clearly these aliens spent a significant calorie investment in maintaining their large valuable organs, but with very little protection. "They must be a very peaceful species," he thought to himself as the Director of the Department of Defense stood up.
But that just made it all the more baffling that this alien species would just show up and immediately start exporting raw materials without a trade agreement in place.
Perfect.
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 20, 2010
lacuna
\luh-KYOO-nuh\ , noun;
plural lacunae \luh-KYOO-nee\ or lacunas
1. A blank space; a missing part; a gap.
2. (Biology) A small opening, depression, or cavity in an anatomical structure.
The physician adjusted the focus of his presentation on the screen on the back wall of the room and cleared this throat, "We were, of course, very surprised when the Department of Defense brought the alien species into our laboratory for autopsy, seeing as how we are primarily a research lab with a focus on biological assays. However, it quickly became apparent that protein as well as nucleic acid analysis would be a vital part of a through report of the specimen."
He switched the slide on the screen to a photo showing an image of the alien from the waist up. "As you can see, the alien had been wounded fatally in an escape attempt from our security forces. Sustaining blunt and traumatic trama to the chest and the head. Incidentally, each of these injuries would have been fatal to the alien independent of each other.
Once we had started the autopsy we immediately noted the numerous lacunae in the body of the alien. Most of the cavities turned out to be part of one long tube and appears to be part of a digestion and excrement system. Some, such as the lacuna in the middle of the abdomen, we are still puzzled about and are in the process of performing further experiments.
We were shocked to learn that this alien species has almost no exoskeleton. The primary defense against microorganisms appears to be a thin membrane made up mostly of collagen. Almost more shocking than the lack of an exoskeleton, is the meager endoskeleton protecting most of the vital organs.
Upon probing the thoracic wound, resulting from the attack by our guards, we found that one of his vital organs, a four chambered pump necessary for fluid and oxygen circulation, had been irreparably damaged. Interestingly, his inadequate protective endoskeleton actually fractured and punctured a necessary organ for oxygen exchange from the atmosphere.
At a molecular level all organic tissue in the alien is quite sensitive to radiation and proteases. Exposure to both, at relatively benign levels, quickly lead to apoptosis. After we had finished our laboratory analysis multiple live subjects were collected from the caves along the Balthium Cliffs and numerous studies were performed on the strength and durability of all the organic structures at the gross and molecular level. The details are quite fascinating, and Dr. Hskuki and I will be publishing our first of several papers next month.
However, let me turn the microphone over to our head of security who will outline our basic defense plan. Focusing primarily on the areas most vulnerable to attack on the alien species in the most cost efficient manner."
Dr. Plstzar collected his notes as the audience shuffled their brow plates, gossiping in muted hisses.
The lack of an exoskeleton on the alien had been intriguing. Especially in contrast to his own species which carried sixty percent of their body weight in organic carbon fiber armor. Clearly these aliens spent a significant calorie investment in maintaining their large valuable organs, but with very little protection. "They must be a very peaceful species," he thought to himself as the Director of the Department of Defense stood up.
But that just made it all the more baffling that this alien species would just show up and immediately start exporting raw materials without a trade agreement in place.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I Said Goddamn!
Holy Christ! Boy did that little weekend visit from my dad sure mess up my WOTD stories or what?? Sheesh, I got them written each day, but woo-boy did a social life ever mess up the whole posting part of the plan!
Luckily for all of you, I have a paltry social life, so here ya go.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 19, 2010
perambulate
\puh-RAM-byuh-layt\ , intransitive verb;
1. To walk about; to roam; to stroll; as, "he perambulated in the park."
transitive verb:
1. To walk through or over.
2. To travel over for the purpose of surveying or inspecting.
Back in the day before I started riding public transportation to work, I used to view sidewalks as a venue purely for urban perambulation. Whenever I saw someone sprinting down the sidewalk in the middle of downtown, I was always partially horrified, and partially curious as to what would make a sane person in dress clothes run through the business district of a crowded city.
However, it was during one lucid moment, as it crossed my mind to shove the porky police cyclist cruising down the middle of the sidewalk at a much slower pace than my own all-out sprint, that maybe all those crazy business people were trying to out run the jack-ass bus driver to the next closest bus stop because the driver had "pretended" not to see them as they had knocked on the bus door at the red light a half block back.
***Author's Note***
Ok, I'll fess up....this TOTALLY happened to me today. I hate that jack-ass bus driver. But HA HAHAHAHAH, I'm faster than his bus (ok, with a little head start, and some help from a couple of red lights), and he totally had to pick me up at the next stop even though I could have sworn he was trying to out race me so he wouldn't have to pick me up.
Luckily for all of you, I have a paltry social life, so here ya go.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 19, 2010
perambulate
\puh-RAM-byuh-layt\ , intransitive verb;
1. To walk about; to roam; to stroll; as, "he perambulated in the park."
transitive verb:
1. To walk through or over.
2. To travel over for the purpose of surveying or inspecting.
Back in the day before I started riding public transportation to work, I used to view sidewalks as a venue purely for urban perambulation. Whenever I saw someone sprinting down the sidewalk in the middle of downtown, I was always partially horrified, and partially curious as to what would make a sane person in dress clothes run through the business district of a crowded city.
However, it was during one lucid moment, as it crossed my mind to shove the porky police cyclist cruising down the middle of the sidewalk at a much slower pace than my own all-out sprint, that maybe all those crazy business people were trying to out run the jack-ass bus driver to the next closest bus stop because the driver had "pretended" not to see them as they had knocked on the bus door at the red light a half block back.
***Author's Note***
Ok, I'll fess up....this TOTALLY happened to me today. I hate that jack-ass bus driver. But HA HAHAHAHAH, I'm faster than his bus (ok, with a little head start, and some help from a couple of red lights), and he totally had to pick me up at the next stop even though I could have sworn he was trying to out race me so he wouldn't have to pick me up.
Pieces of Me
Word of the Day Monday, January 18, 2010
accord
1.
To be in agreement or harmony; agree.
transitive verb:
1. To cause to conform or agree; bring into harmony.
2. To grant; bestow.
noun:
1. Agreement; harmony.
2. A settlement or compromise of conflicting opinions.
3. A settlement of points at issue between nations.
Elliot kicked the acorn up the sidewalk aiming it over towards Leonard's general side of the sidewalk. She felt so clumsy and secretly hoped she wouldn't kick and miss the acorn each time it was her turn to kick.
"So, what would you rather be doing than working at The Office?" Leonard asked. They had started spending their lunch breaks kicking an acorn around the block about a month prior when the snow had finally melted off and spring had finally seemed to take hold.
"God. Anything. Well, almost anything. I don't think being a janitor for The Office would be any better. You know, with Loretta and her monster work twosies and all," she replied immediately.
He smiled, "That's not really what I meant. I mean, if you could do anything, in the whole world, what would it be? What would be your dream job?" he asked effortlessly tapping the acorn ahead of them.
"Hmm," Elliot said trying to cover the panic she felt. She hated questions like that. The type of questions that actually required her to share a part of herself. She got all caught up in over-thinking the whole thing. What if he laughed at her? What if he thought she was completely ridiculous? What if she opened up and told him the true answer to his question and she lost that little part of herself forever?
"I don't know," she replied lamely. He stopped and turned toward her, "You don't know what your dream job would be??" he asked incredulously, "Wow, that is all I think about while I'm at work."
"Well, what is your dream job then?" she asked, secretly relieved to have dodged his question even with the mocking. "I'll tell you, but you still have to tell me yours," he said smiling.
She loved to see his smile, his face split in two with joy. "Ok," she agreed only half believing that she would actually tell him.
He took a deep breath. "I want to go to Africa," he said solemnly. Elliot immediately thought of the opening scene of The Lion King and that large, omnipresent sun rising majestically from the horizon, so intense that heat waves radiated through the air, and though the whole idea was perfect. Perfectly Leonard.
"You think it is dumb, right? That I don't even have a real plan?" he said his face falling slightly. "No!" she said immediately, "No, not at all. I can't think of a more perfect place for you to be," she said sincerely and seriously, meeting his eye. His doubtful eyes broke into a smile again, "Really?" he asked sounding so vulnerable that all Elliot could do is nod because she was afraid she'd get a frog in her throat.
"I know it is kind of weird. But it means a lot to hear that. From you," he said. She smiled and turned toward the acorn again, giving it a little kick. "But I guess it isn't that weird. I mean, you are my best friend and all," he added. "I'm your best friend?" she asked, stopping in mid-kick. "According to me, yes, you are my best friend," he said, "Is that alright with you?"
She looked down at the acorn again and then back up at Leonard. "My dream job is to paint. Paint huge building sized canvases. To paint an entire city. In bright, livid colors," she blurted out not even expecting that to have been her response.
He bent over and scooped up the acorn from the sidewalk and put it in his pants pocket, and smiled, "I knew it," he replied. She looked at him quizzically, his bizarre response getting her to finally look up at his face. "I always knew you were like this cottage, and from the outside you can just see a little wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney, but if you are brave enough to knock on the door and ask to be let in, that there would be a warm, raging fire waiting inside," he said.
Astonishingly, she had never anticipated that she would actually want him to keep the little piece of herself that she had reluctantly offered for display. Yet here she was.
accord
1.
To be in agreement or harmony; agree.
transitive verb:
1. To cause to conform or agree; bring into harmony.
2. To grant; bestow.
noun:
1. Agreement; harmony.
2. A settlement or compromise of conflicting opinions.
3. A settlement of points at issue between nations.
Elliot kicked the acorn up the sidewalk aiming it over towards Leonard's general side of the sidewalk. She felt so clumsy and secretly hoped she wouldn't kick and miss the acorn each time it was her turn to kick.
"So, what would you rather be doing than working at The Office?" Leonard asked. They had started spending their lunch breaks kicking an acorn around the block about a month prior when the snow had finally melted off and spring had finally seemed to take hold.
"God. Anything. Well, almost anything. I don't think being a janitor for The Office would be any better. You know, with Loretta and her monster work twosies and all," she replied immediately.
He smiled, "That's not really what I meant. I mean, if you could do anything, in the whole world, what would it be? What would be your dream job?" he asked effortlessly tapping the acorn ahead of them.
"Hmm," Elliot said trying to cover the panic she felt. She hated questions like that. The type of questions that actually required her to share a part of herself. She got all caught up in over-thinking the whole thing. What if he laughed at her? What if he thought she was completely ridiculous? What if she opened up and told him the true answer to his question and she lost that little part of herself forever?
"I don't know," she replied lamely. He stopped and turned toward her, "You don't know what your dream job would be??" he asked incredulously, "Wow, that is all I think about while I'm at work."
"Well, what is your dream job then?" she asked, secretly relieved to have dodged his question even with the mocking. "I'll tell you, but you still have to tell me yours," he said smiling.
She loved to see his smile, his face split in two with joy. "Ok," she agreed only half believing that she would actually tell him.
He took a deep breath. "I want to go to Africa," he said solemnly. Elliot immediately thought of the opening scene of The Lion King and that large, omnipresent sun rising majestically from the horizon, so intense that heat waves radiated through the air, and though the whole idea was perfect. Perfectly Leonard.
"You think it is dumb, right? That I don't even have a real plan?" he said his face falling slightly. "No!" she said immediately, "No, not at all. I can't think of a more perfect place for you to be," she said sincerely and seriously, meeting his eye. His doubtful eyes broke into a smile again, "Really?" he asked sounding so vulnerable that all Elliot could do is nod because she was afraid she'd get a frog in her throat.
"I know it is kind of weird. But it means a lot to hear that. From you," he said. She smiled and turned toward the acorn again, giving it a little kick. "But I guess it isn't that weird. I mean, you are my best friend and all," he added. "I'm your best friend?" she asked, stopping in mid-kick. "According to me, yes, you are my best friend," he said, "Is that alright with you?"
She looked down at the acorn again and then back up at Leonard. "My dream job is to paint. Paint huge building sized canvases. To paint an entire city. In bright, livid colors," she blurted out not even expecting that to have been her response.
He bent over and scooped up the acorn from the sidewalk and put it in his pants pocket, and smiled, "I knew it," he replied. She looked at him quizzically, his bizarre response getting her to finally look up at his face. "I always knew you were like this cottage, and from the outside you can just see a little wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney, but if you are brave enough to knock on the door and ask to be let in, that there would be a warm, raging fire waiting inside," he said.
Astonishingly, she had never anticipated that she would actually want him to keep the little piece of herself that she had reluctantly offered for display. Yet here she was.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Every Which Way But Loose
Word of the Day January 17, 2010
apposite
\AP-uh-zit\
1. Being of striking appropriateness and relevance; very applicable; apt.
"Your name is Edward?"
He looked up. She was giggly, brunette, maybe thirteen years old, still in braces and with bright, shiny eyes.
"Um, yeah, my name is Edward."
She grinned, her mouth full of metal, "That's, like, my favorite name." He nodded, forcing a smile back at her.
"Have you ever read Twilight?" she asked. He took a deep breath, "No, I haven't gotten to that one yet," he replied. She started at him. "Um, is it any good?" he asked after an awkward pause. "Oh my god! The Twilight books are like, the best books ever. The main character, Edward, is like the hottest guy," she said giggling.
Edward did everything he could not to roll his eyes. Every since those goddamn books came out they had been the bane of his existence. He hated them, but needed them at the same time. They had become his bread and butter
"So, um, can I help you pick something out?" he asked shifting his weight uncomfortably. She giggled again, and appositely the next words out of her metal lined mouth were, "I like totally want a vampire costume. I'm like, going to go to the Halloween party dressed up like Bella," she giggled.
He suppressed a smile. Every other girl that had been into the costume store in the past week was going to their Halloween costumes as Bella. "You know, I bet you'll be the only girl there with that idea," he said, the twinkly metal in her mouth shining out at him.
apposite
\AP-uh-zit\
1. Being of striking appropriateness and relevance; very applicable; apt.
"Your name is Edward?"
He looked up. She was giggly, brunette, maybe thirteen years old, still in braces and with bright, shiny eyes.
"Um, yeah, my name is Edward."
She grinned, her mouth full of metal, "That's, like, my favorite name." He nodded, forcing a smile back at her.
"Have you ever read Twilight?" she asked. He took a deep breath, "No, I haven't gotten to that one yet," he replied. She started at him. "Um, is it any good?" he asked after an awkward pause. "Oh my god! The Twilight books are like, the best books ever. The main character, Edward, is like the hottest guy," she said giggling.
Edward did everything he could not to roll his eyes. Every since those goddamn books came out they had been the bane of his existence. He hated them, but needed them at the same time. They had become his bread and butter
"So, um, can I help you pick something out?" he asked shifting his weight uncomfortably. She giggled again, and appositely the next words out of her metal lined mouth were, "I like totally want a vampire costume. I'm like, going to go to the Halloween party dressed up like Bella," she giggled.
He suppressed a smile. Every other girl that had been into the costume store in the past week was going to their Halloween costumes as Bella. "You know, I bet you'll be the only girl there with that idea," he said, the twinkly metal in her mouth shining out at him.
Chris Pine, beer, and more Chris Pine = Chris Pine sandwich
So, apparently my social life is hopping when my dad is town. Because once again, I did get my story written just not posted. However, I have seen my sister two days in a row, which never happens, so yes, the social life comment (as outrageous as it seems) appears to have some weight to it. However, I have two things to say for my Day-o-Fun yesterday.
1) This has got to be the best Rogue Nation Card picture.....ever. God, my dad is awesome.
2) Holy CHRIST is Chris Pine hot. The new Star Trek movie, which I have now finally seen, has definitely walked onto shaky territory with creating an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE and all to plunk the original crew of the Enterprise into. However, as I have pointed out, Chris Pine is insanely good looking, and I haven't watched the original series yet, AND Chris Pine is really fucking hot, so eh, I'll let that minor plot point slide.
Now, on with the show.
Word of the Day Saturday, January 16, 2010
countervail
\kown-tur-VAYL\ , transitive verb;
1. To act against with equal force, power, or effect; to counteract.
2. To compensate for; to offset; to furnish or serve as an equivalent to.
intransitive verb:
1. To exert force against an opposing, often bad, influence or power.
He planted his feet and shifted all of his weight into the countervailing wind. To his surprise he found that he could lean to a very sharp degree without falling over. He pressed the green button on the side of his titanium shell and activated the oscillating magenta function on his boots, allowing him to release one foot at a time from the ground. Back on the ship they called it the "Fido Button", the one that let them go for a walk.
Free to move around, he slowly started to walk forward. The surface of Quadriga was polished almost to a mirror like surface so iron rich that the magnetic boots had been a huge asset to the mission. Especially considering that the unpredictable, not to mention 100 miles per hour and upward, winds and precarious cliffs on the planet had lead to the deaths of sixty percent of their staff only two months into the project.
Eric had only arrived at the space dock in orbit around Quadriga a week prior and was just finishing up his mission training. He remembered watching "The Deadliest Catch" on the archives and figured this must sort of be like what those fishing boat trips must have been like back when there were actually fish still in the ocean.
"Ok Eric. You seem to have a good feel for the magnetized forward progression. Why don't you try moving down the face of the cliff," the voice came in directly to his implanted ear piece. "Roger," Eric replied moving to the edge of the cliff and taking a step off of the edge. The intensity of the wind gusts was shocking. Instead of using his strength to lean forward into the wind he had to use all of his strength just to stand upright. He crouched down into a hunker to reduce his exposed surface area and slowly make his way down the cliff face.
"Ok, there should be a cave coming up right in front of you," the crackle on the ear piece came in. "Try to keep your pace even. Time is critical." Eric continued forward, trying to keep his pace steady and saw the opening of the cave. "Weird," he thought as he walked over the lip of the opening and onto the ceiling of the cave.
The cave offered relief from the wind and he walked easily down the side of the cavern wall and switched the magnet function off. Slowly his eyes started to adjust to the lack of light and the sweet, money-lined sight of the odium crystals fluorescent glow started to emerge out of the darkness.
1) This has got to be the best Rogue Nation Card picture.....ever. God, my dad is awesome.
2) Holy CHRIST is Chris Pine hot. The new Star Trek movie, which I have now finally seen, has definitely walked onto shaky territory with creating an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE and all to plunk the original crew of the Enterprise into. However, as I have pointed out, Chris Pine is insanely good looking, and I haven't watched the original series yet, AND Chris Pine is really fucking hot, so eh, I'll let that minor plot point slide.
Now, on with the show.
Word of the Day Saturday, January 16, 2010
countervail
\kown-tur-VAYL\ , transitive verb;
1. To act against with equal force, power, or effect; to counteract.
2. To compensate for; to offset; to furnish or serve as an equivalent to.
intransitive verb:
1. To exert force against an opposing, often bad, influence or power.
He planted his feet and shifted all of his weight into the countervailing wind. To his surprise he found that he could lean to a very sharp degree without falling over. He pressed the green button on the side of his titanium shell and activated the oscillating magenta function on his boots, allowing him to release one foot at a time from the ground. Back on the ship they called it the "Fido Button", the one that let them go for a walk.
Free to move around, he slowly started to walk forward. The surface of Quadriga was polished almost to a mirror like surface so iron rich that the magnetic boots had been a huge asset to the mission. Especially considering that the unpredictable, not to mention 100 miles per hour and upward, winds and precarious cliffs on the planet had lead to the deaths of sixty percent of their staff only two months into the project.
Eric had only arrived at the space dock in orbit around Quadriga a week prior and was just finishing up his mission training. He remembered watching "The Deadliest Catch" on the archives and figured this must sort of be like what those fishing boat trips must have been like back when there were actually fish still in the ocean.
"Ok Eric. You seem to have a good feel for the magnetized forward progression. Why don't you try moving down the face of the cliff," the voice came in directly to his implanted ear piece. "Roger," Eric replied moving to the edge of the cliff and taking a step off of the edge. The intensity of the wind gusts was shocking. Instead of using his strength to lean forward into the wind he had to use all of his strength just to stand upright. He crouched down into a hunker to reduce his exposed surface area and slowly make his way down the cliff face.
"Ok, there should be a cave coming up right in front of you," the crackle on the ear piece came in. "Try to keep your pace even. Time is critical." Eric continued forward, trying to keep his pace steady and saw the opening of the cave. "Weird," he thought as he walked over the lip of the opening and onto the ceiling of the cave.
The cave offered relief from the wind and he walked easily down the side of the cavern wall and switched the magnet function off. Slowly his eyes started to adjust to the lack of light and the sweet, money-lined sight of the odium crystals fluorescent glow started to emerge out of the darkness.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Blazer Mania, and Chalupas
So, it turns out that my social life on Friday night's is totally hopin'! I mean sheesh, here I am again on another Friday night out so late, and having so much fun that I didn't get my story posted.I got it written mind you. I just didn't get it posted. See I even have a picture of my story written out in my Blazers game program.
Blazers game program you say?
Indeed! I say.
Remember that "Big 6-0" blog I wrote a couple weeks ago? You know where I asked you all to toast my dad who was turning 60? What? You didn't toast him? Sheesh, you are you people?!?!
Anyway, so my sister and I decided, since you all didn't toast him and everything, that we were going to buy tickets for our dad to ride the train down to Portland and take him out to a Blazers game as a birthday present. And that Blazers game was last night.
And seriously.
It couldn't have been more cool.
I was born in Portland, I spent a good deal of my childhood growing up in Oregon (during the early 90's when the Blazers were actually good), and I have now lived here as an adult for almost seven years, and last night was the first time I had ever been to a Blazers game.
For shame!
Of course, we were way up in the 300 level of the Rose Garden, but it actually wasn't too bad, you could see them playing and it didn't feel like you had to pull out the binoculars. I was a little concerned about whether or not it would be a very good game because practically the entire team is injured, I mean, even the head coach is injured. No seriously.
But the Blazers actually lead the entire game, and ultimately ended up winning by around 20 points.
But more importantly, they won with the score of 102-something.
Why is this important?
Chalupas.
Yes, if the Blazers score 100 points or more at a home game everyone at the game wins a free Chalupa from Taco Bell. And they really ran it to the wire. They were barely on pace to score 100 the entire game, hitting 77 points just as the third quarter ended. And with a minute left they were at 99 points.
"Cha-Lu-Pa! Cha-Lu-Pa!" the crowd starts chanting. The Blazers have the ball, drive to the basket and.....MISS. Orlando brings the ball back down the court and I don't remember what happened but somehow, with 0.07 seconds or something Steve Blake hits a three to take the score over 100 right before the game ends!
:::WILD CHEERING:::
We then waited in line for forever to get our coupon. But awww baby! It is gonna be worth it!
So, of course, after the game we went out for a beer, and we had ridden the MAX to the game so we had to ride the MAX back home, and by the time we got home it was 12:30, and you know, I had to go to bed. So, today will be another twofer day in regard to WOTD stories.LUCKY you!
Word of the Day Friday, January 15, 2010
pal⋅lid
ɪd
[pal-id] –adjective
| 1. | pale; faint or deficient in color; wan: a pallid countenance. |
| 2. | lacking in vitality or interest: a pallid musical performance. |
He watched in horror as the remote control batteries cut out and the Ford Motor blimp at the Blazer game suddenly went adrift around the arena.
"Jeff! What are you doing?" Stephanie hissed at him frantically.
"The remote went out," he said feebly whacking the side of the remote a couple times, but to no avail.
They watched in fascinated horror as the motorized blimp aimlessly traveled on its own in spurts and jerks starting a slow spiral above the crowd. At first the patrons laughed and cheered thinking it was all a publicity stunt, and only when the blimp started to noise dive in a tight spiral, careening out of control that the collective gasps from the crowd could be heard.
Jeff watched, his nose pressed to the glass of the upper box as the blimp came down, front bumper first, the middle aged man underneath it frozen like a deer caught in the headlights, his face pallid with fear. The crowd let out screams and small children pointed as the blimp crashed into the crowd flipping upside down, and then erupted into cheers as the gift certificate dispenser on the bottom of the of the blimp malfunctioned spurting all the remaining gift certificates into the air in a flourish of confetti.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Work Place Blues
Word of the Day Thursday, January 14, 2010
draconian
\dray-KOHN-ee-uhn; druh-\ , adjective;
1. Pertaining to Draco, a lawgiver of Athens, 621 B.C.
2. Excessively harsh; severe.
Loretta let out a sigh. One of those deep, loud, passive aggressive sighs that are meant to send the message that one is annoyed. And she was egregiously annoyed. She looked back down at the form she was transferring into the computer and tried to concentrate. There they were again. Giggling about something on the other side of the cubicle. She sighed again and heard one of them distinctly whisper something about "huffing and puffing like a train".
That is it, she thought. She logged out of her computer, pulled her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk, and marched off to the bathroom. She made a bee-line for the single stall bathroom where she could lock the door and have the entire bathroom to herself. Happily it wasn't occupied, and she gratefully locked the door behind her.
She set her purse down on the counter top and took a look at herself in the mirror. A little on the plump side, with the beginnings of jowls. She stretched her neck out to make them disappear. She tightened the hair tie around the draconian bun she wore on the top of her head and smoothed out the collar of her shirt and cardigan.
Those two obnoxious kids paling around the office like they were Batman and Robin, thinking they were such hot stuff and too good to be working there. They didn't know how lucky they were to even have a job. She knew plenty of people at her church and the clinic where she volunteered that would be ecstatic to be in their position.
She knew she shouldn't let them upset her so much, but the unfairness of it all just wound her up. Luckily she always came to work prepared.
She pulled the chair from the corner of the bathroom into the middle of the room and flipped the loud, old ceiling fan on. She climbed on top of the chair and pulled the pipe of pot and lighter out of her purse. She quickly lit up and took a deep drag. She blew the smoke directly into the ceiling fan and sprayed a generous amount of Aqua and Silver, the old lady perfume of choice, around the bathroom.
Ha, she thought climbing down off the chair, feeling much more relaxed, and they all thought she was in here taking a shit.
draconian
\dray-KOHN-ee-uhn; druh-\ , adjective;
1. Pertaining to Draco, a lawgiver of Athens, 621 B.C.
2. Excessively harsh; severe.
Loretta let out a sigh. One of those deep, loud, passive aggressive sighs that are meant to send the message that one is annoyed. And she was egregiously annoyed. She looked back down at the form she was transferring into the computer and tried to concentrate. There they were again. Giggling about something on the other side of the cubicle. She sighed again and heard one of them distinctly whisper something about "huffing and puffing like a train".
That is it, she thought. She logged out of her computer, pulled her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk, and marched off to the bathroom. She made a bee-line for the single stall bathroom where she could lock the door and have the entire bathroom to herself. Happily it wasn't occupied, and she gratefully locked the door behind her.
She set her purse down on the counter top and took a look at herself in the mirror. A little on the plump side, with the beginnings of jowls. She stretched her neck out to make them disappear. She tightened the hair tie around the draconian bun she wore on the top of her head and smoothed out the collar of her shirt and cardigan.
Those two obnoxious kids paling around the office like they were Batman and Robin, thinking they were such hot stuff and too good to be working there. They didn't know how lucky they were to even have a job. She knew plenty of people at her church and the clinic where she volunteered that would be ecstatic to be in their position.
She knew she shouldn't let them upset her so much, but the unfairness of it all just wound her up. Luckily she always came to work prepared.
She pulled the chair from the corner of the bathroom into the middle of the room and flipped the loud, old ceiling fan on. She climbed on top of the chair and pulled the pipe of pot and lighter out of her purse. She quickly lit up and took a deep drag. She blew the smoke directly into the ceiling fan and sprayed a generous amount of Aqua and Silver, the old lady perfume of choice, around the bathroom.
Ha, she thought climbing down off the chair, feeling much more relaxed, and they all thought she was in here taking a shit.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
My Husband Is A Geek
We just finished watching The Gamers: Dorkness Rising on Netflix.
That is all I have to say about that. =)
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 13, 2010
lapidary
\LAP-uh-dair-ee\ , adjective;
1.Of or pertaining to the art of cutting stones or engraving on them.
2.Engraved in stone.
3.Of or pertaining to the refined or terse style associated with inscriptions on monumental stone.
noun:
1.One who cuts, polishes, and engraves precious stones.
2.A dealer in precious stones.
Marvin looked across the table at his ex-wife and winked. She did a quick double take and squinted her eyes at him.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You know what," she replied, "You winked at me." She crossed her arms.
Marvin mimicked her, crossing his arms as well. "Is it a crime? The winking?" he asked her seriously.
"Well, in case you haven't noticed," she said leaning towards him slightly lowering her voice, "we're divorced."
"Ahh," Marvin replied leaning back in his chair, nodding in agreement. "That's right, we got divorced. It was very nasty."
"I took you to the cleaners," she said taking a sip of wine.
"Oh right. I remember that. Speaking of, how does the Warhol look in the new place?" he asked conversationally.
"It's in the foyer. Very dramatic," she replied smiling.
"So, are you going to dance with me now?" he asked.
"We hate each other, darling."
"Hmm, how true. What with the divorce and all," Marvin murmured. "Is this a lapidary rule? Or could we maybe make an exception at our daughter's wedding?" he asked holding out his hand.
She raised her eyebrow at him, "You are going to ruin my reputation," she replied taking his hand.
That is all I have to say about that. =)
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 13, 2010
lapidary
\LAP-uh-dair-ee\ , adjective;
1.Of or pertaining to the art of cutting stones or engraving on them.
2.Engraved in stone.
3.Of or pertaining to the refined or terse style associated with inscriptions on monumental stone.
noun:
1.One who cuts, polishes, and engraves precious stones.
2.A dealer in precious stones.
Marvin looked across the table at his ex-wife and winked. She did a quick double take and squinted her eyes at him.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You know what," she replied, "You winked at me." She crossed her arms.
Marvin mimicked her, crossing his arms as well. "Is it a crime? The winking?" he asked her seriously.
"Well, in case you haven't noticed," she said leaning towards him slightly lowering her voice, "we're divorced."
"Ahh," Marvin replied leaning back in his chair, nodding in agreement. "That's right, we got divorced. It was very nasty."
"I took you to the cleaners," she said taking a sip of wine.
"Oh right. I remember that. Speaking of, how does the Warhol look in the new place?" he asked conversationally.
"It's in the foyer. Very dramatic," she replied smiling.
"So, are you going to dance with me now?" he asked.
"We hate each other, darling."
"Hmm, how true. What with the divorce and all," Marvin murmured. "Is this a lapidary rule? Or could we maybe make an exception at our daughter's wedding?" he asked holding out his hand.
She raised her eyebrow at him, "You are going to ruin my reputation," she replied taking his hand.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Look Out World!
I applied for my passport today =D
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 12, 2010
torpor
\TAWR-per\ , noun;
1. Lacking in vitality or interest.
2. A state of mental or physical inactivity or insensibility.
3. Lethargy; apathy.
What is the point? We just eat, shit, and sleep. That is life. What kind of God would create that sort of existence? Well, maybe there isn't a God. Then there really isn't a point. Or is that the point? That there is no meaning to any of this. That can't be right. What kind of sick social experiment would that perspective be? Maybe we all have to create our own meaning. Could that be the point? But how do you create meaning? Especially meaning in a life? Does my life even mean anything to anyone else? Maybe my parents? But if I died, who would even notice or remember after a few years. Here lived the guy that played a lot of Xbox after school. Definitely not. Well, if the whole point is to create meaning for myself, what exactly is meaningful? Or would it be what society thinks is meaningful? If I'm the one creating meaning do I even need to take into account what society believes? Hmm. I'll have to think about that more. So, what is meaningful to me? Mom would probably make some snide remark about Xbox, or girls in bikinis, or dirt bikes. But that wasn't it. She didn't understand. What means something to me is understanding something. How something works. Yeah, but how does that create meaning? Especially meaning to life? Maybe understanding something bigger. Something that would affect a lot of people. That would definitely mean something. What would that be? Research? Exploration? History?
Marion watched her son out of the corner of her eye as she read at the dining room table. His long teenage body was sprawled out over the sofa in a pose of effortless torpor. A pile of socks and over-sized shoes had been kicked off next to an empty sandwich plate and soda can. How is it that he can lie there, staring into a magazine, thinking about nothing for hours on end, she wondered to herself.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 12, 2010
torpor
\TAWR-per\ , noun;
1. Lacking in vitality or interest.
2. A state of mental or physical inactivity or insensibility.
3. Lethargy; apathy.
What is the point? We just eat, shit, and sleep. That is life. What kind of God would create that sort of existence? Well, maybe there isn't a God. Then there really isn't a point. Or is that the point? That there is no meaning to any of this. That can't be right. What kind of sick social experiment would that perspective be? Maybe we all have to create our own meaning. Could that be the point? But how do you create meaning? Especially meaning in a life? Does my life even mean anything to anyone else? Maybe my parents? But if I died, who would even notice or remember after a few years. Here lived the guy that played a lot of Xbox after school. Definitely not. Well, if the whole point is to create meaning for myself, what exactly is meaningful? Or would it be what society thinks is meaningful? If I'm the one creating meaning do I even need to take into account what society believes? Hmm. I'll have to think about that more. So, what is meaningful to me? Mom would probably make some snide remark about Xbox, or girls in bikinis, or dirt bikes. But that wasn't it. She didn't understand. What means something to me is understanding something. How something works. Yeah, but how does that create meaning? Especially meaning to life? Maybe understanding something bigger. Something that would affect a lot of people. That would definitely mean something. What would that be? Research? Exploration? History?
Marion watched her son out of the corner of her eye as she read at the dining room table. His long teenage body was sprawled out over the sofa in a pose of effortless torpor. A pile of socks and over-sized shoes had been kicked off next to an empty sandwich plate and soda can. How is it that he can lie there, staring into a magazine, thinking about nothing for hours on end, she wondered to herself.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Just do it, and do it, and do it do it doit....Tonight's the Night!
It constantly surprises me that the most mundane activities can bring some of the most fun.
Ken and I cooked up fish tacos tonight, taking turns chopping veggies, lightly frying tortillas, and grilling up fish. As is my routine, after dinner is finished we clear off the table, I put on my apron, and bring up the Kitchen Cleaning Playlist on iTunes.
This is no ordinary playlist.
Rule #1) Whoever cleans the kitchen gets to choose the music (most of the time it is my music, and it is always bad music baby!)
Rule #2) Whatever music being played must be played fucking loud
Rule #3) If you ain't havin' fun, get out of the kitchen
So here is the scene.....I'm in my turtle apron, the music is cranked up....
:::Tonight's the night! Let's live it up!:::
:::start the ass shaking:::
:::follow up with finger dancing:::
:::complete the scene with bad singing and general craziness:::
I don't know if I've ever had more fun cleaning the kitchen. Tootsie-pop was flailing around crazy dancing, Ken was doing some ass-wiggling over in the corner, we were all singing loudly and badly.
Tootsie-pop goes running out of the kitchen and comes back sporting her OWN apron.
Dood.
My dancing inspires children to clean.
:::Bow down to my awesomeness!!!:::
So, not only did my little family have a ridiculously fun moment together, but poof next thing you know, the kitchen is spotless and it was the most fun I'd had all day. Aren't you all inspired to go clean your kitchen now? Good god, I'm practically a miracle worker over here!
Now, hold onto those good thoughts because I'm going to totally bum you out with today's story....
Word of the Day Monday, January 11, 2010
flagitious
\fluh-JISH-uhs\ , adjective;
1. Disgracefully or shamefully criminal; grossly wicked; scandalous; -- said of acts, crimes, etc.
2. Guilty of enormous crimes; corrupt; profligate; -- said of persons.
3. Characterized by enormous crimes or scandalous vices; as, "flagitious times."
His eyes jumped across the computer screen as the home page of the news website reloaded. The same headlines appeared as he quickly scrolled down the page. He had been antsy all morning knowing that the Supreme Court was expected to announce their ruling on the case that day.
It had been a long, hard, ugly journey since 2004. Of course, it had been punctuated with heady, exhilarating events. Ones that had seemed too good to be true.
They had spent more money on champagne during those several weeks than they had ever thought possible. "This is the last one…" Jeff said smiling, pulling out another bottle from the wine cabinet, "....of that case we bought." He felt himself grinning stupidly, "Isn't it great?" he replied, "To have a moment in your life that requires a dousing of champagne?"
Of course, they had been right to celebrate so intensely, with such enthusiasm, because all too quickly those heady moments had all been ripped out from underneath them. The fallout like nothing he could have imagined. It seemed like he was a cartoon character, one that was falling backwards, head over heels, down an upward escalator with the end nowhere in sight. Just landmarks out of the corner of his eye. Proposition 8. New York. New Jersey. Maine.
He shook his head thinking about the flagitious times that the country had been swirling within. So much nastiness that he couldn't begin to understand. The hate, the bigotry. The deeply offensive comments, the moments of gut wrenching disappointment.
All for what?
But that question was all too easy to answer.
It was for the tender heart breaking moments when he fell so in love, over and over, with the small things. The sunsets, the dinner over candle light, the day hikes, morning coffee while sharing the newspaper. For those liquid brown eyes melting with the same love, gazing into his own.
He refreshed the page again, his heart a cork thrashing around in a sea of uncertainty and apprehension. Hope, that buoyed him to the surface gasping for air, tumbled painfully against his throat.
Ken and I cooked up fish tacos tonight, taking turns chopping veggies, lightly frying tortillas, and grilling up fish. As is my routine, after dinner is finished we clear off the table, I put on my apron, and bring up the Kitchen Cleaning Playlist on iTunes.
This is no ordinary playlist.
Rule #1) Whoever cleans the kitchen gets to choose the music (most of the time it is my music, and it is always bad music baby!)
Rule #2) Whatever music being played must be played fucking loud
Rule #3) If you ain't havin' fun, get out of the kitchen
So here is the scene.....I'm in my turtle apron, the music is cranked up....
:::Tonight's the night! Let's live it up!:::
:::start the ass shaking:::
:::follow up with finger dancing:::
:::complete the scene with bad singing and general craziness:::
I don't know if I've ever had more fun cleaning the kitchen. Tootsie-pop was flailing around crazy dancing, Ken was doing some ass-wiggling over in the corner, we were all singing loudly and badly.
Tootsie-pop goes running out of the kitchen and comes back sporting her OWN apron.
Dood.
My dancing inspires children to clean.
:::Bow down to my awesomeness!!!:::
So, not only did my little family have a ridiculously fun moment together, but poof next thing you know, the kitchen is spotless and it was the most fun I'd had all day. Aren't you all inspired to go clean your kitchen now? Good god, I'm practically a miracle worker over here!
Now, hold onto those good thoughts because I'm going to totally bum you out with today's story....
Word of the Day Monday, January 11, 2010
flagitious
\fluh-JISH-uhs\ , adjective;
1. Disgracefully or shamefully criminal; grossly wicked; scandalous; -- said of acts, crimes, etc.
2. Guilty of enormous crimes; corrupt; profligate; -- said of persons.
3. Characterized by enormous crimes or scandalous vices; as, "flagitious times."
His eyes jumped across the computer screen as the home page of the news website reloaded. The same headlines appeared as he quickly scrolled down the page. He had been antsy all morning knowing that the Supreme Court was expected to announce their ruling on the case that day.
It had been a long, hard, ugly journey since 2004. Of course, it had been punctuated with heady, exhilarating events. Ones that had seemed too good to be true.
They had spent more money on champagne during those several weeks than they had ever thought possible. "This is the last one…" Jeff said smiling, pulling out another bottle from the wine cabinet, "....of that case we bought." He felt himself grinning stupidly, "Isn't it great?" he replied, "To have a moment in your life that requires a dousing of champagne?"
Of course, they had been right to celebrate so intensely, with such enthusiasm, because all too quickly those heady moments had all been ripped out from underneath them. The fallout like nothing he could have imagined. It seemed like he was a cartoon character, one that was falling backwards, head over heels, down an upward escalator with the end nowhere in sight. Just landmarks out of the corner of his eye. Proposition 8. New York. New Jersey. Maine.
He shook his head thinking about the flagitious times that the country had been swirling within. So much nastiness that he couldn't begin to understand. The hate, the bigotry. The deeply offensive comments, the moments of gut wrenching disappointment.
All for what?
But that question was all too easy to answer.
It was for the tender heart breaking moments when he fell so in love, over and over, with the small things. The sunsets, the dinner over candle light, the day hikes, morning coffee while sharing the newspaper. For those liquid brown eyes melting with the same love, gazing into his own.
He refreshed the page again, his heart a cork thrashing around in a sea of uncertainty and apprehension. Hope, that buoyed him to the surface gasping for air, tumbled painfully against his throat.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Storm Watch
Word of the Day Sunday, January 10, 2010
onus
\OH-nuhs\ , noun;
1. A burden; an obligation; a disagreeable necessity.
2. a: A stigma. b: Blame.
3. The burden of proof.
She rubbed her fingers deeply into the middle of her forehead and scrunched her eyes shut as she often did when tired or under immense stress. This situation would definitely fall into the stress category.
The orange pee-chee folder in front of her shone like a beacon of obligation and duty. Or maybe the bright orange of hazard signs. She cautiously flipped it open with one finger having semi-convinced herself that bio-hazard material might be in there. Nope, just the usual pamphlets and fliers.
She felt her hand creeping back up towards her forehead.
"Stop! Stop rubbing your goddamn face! People do this all the time, it is normal, some people even look forward to this!" she scolded herself internally. "Just pull the first flier out."
She willed the hand, now fiddling with her left earring, down to the flier and flipped the page open. The onus of the endeavor washed up against her with the force of a coastal storm surf as she looked down at the brightly colored, glossy cookie sheet.
"Lord help me," she whispered out-loud to herself, hoping the other mothers hadn't over heard her plea.
The Girl Scout cookie sale season had started.
onus
\OH-nuhs\ , noun;
1. A burden; an obligation; a disagreeable necessity.
2. a: A stigma. b: Blame.
3. The burden of proof.
She rubbed her fingers deeply into the middle of her forehead and scrunched her eyes shut as she often did when tired or under immense stress. This situation would definitely fall into the stress category.
The orange pee-chee folder in front of her shone like a beacon of obligation and duty. Or maybe the bright orange of hazard signs. She cautiously flipped it open with one finger having semi-convinced herself that bio-hazard material might be in there. Nope, just the usual pamphlets and fliers.
She felt her hand creeping back up towards her forehead.
"Stop! Stop rubbing your goddamn face! People do this all the time, it is normal, some people even look forward to this!" she scolded herself internally. "Just pull the first flier out."
She willed the hand, now fiddling with her left earring, down to the flier and flipped the page open. The onus of the endeavor washed up against her with the force of a coastal storm surf as she looked down at the brightly colored, glossy cookie sheet.
"Lord help me," she whispered out-loud to herself, hoping the other mothers hadn't over heard her plea.
The Girl Scout cookie sale season had started.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Told You So!
And you all thought it was the beginning of the end.
Word of the Day Saturday, January 09, 2010
nebbish
\NEB-ish\ , noun;
1. A weak-willed, timid, or ineffectual person.
"Just go over and ask already," Rachel hissed at her without looking up from her text book. Courtney felt a flush creep up her neck and in studied calculation leaned away from the table with a quick glance across the room.
He was still over at the table by the window. And still completely oblivious to the fact that she and Rachel were watching him. "Seriously. You are starting to piss me off. All you do is talk about how much you like him. I'm sick of hearing it, go tell him. Not me," Rachel whispered.
Courtney glanced over at him. "I have no idea how to start a conversation with him," she whispered back. Rachel gaped at her, "You are in the same class. You are both at the library studying. Do you really need me to connect the last dot?" Courtney nodded, started to stand up and then collapsed back into the chair, her head buried in her hands, "I can't. What if I make an idiot out of myself. He is so gorgeous," she moaned.
"You are such a nebbish. Go do it!" Rachel snapped.
Courtney raised her head, staring at her friend, "What did you just call me?" she asked half laughing at her.
"What? It is Yiddish or something. My grandmother always used to call my grandfather a nebbish when he was being a chicken-shit twit. Like you are being now," Rachel replied.
They stared at each other a moment and started giggling.
"Ok, I'm leaving. I don't need to stalk some guy. Or study for that matter. See you back at the dorm," and with that Rachel scooped up her book and trailed out of the room.
Courtney peeked another glance at him. He was gazing out the window, tapping his pen softly against the edge of the table. Maybe Rachel was right, she thought pushing her chair back, what was the worst thing that could happen?
Word of the Day Saturday, January 09, 2010
nebbish
\NEB-ish\ , noun;
1. A weak-willed, timid, or ineffectual person.
"Just go over and ask already," Rachel hissed at her without looking up from her text book. Courtney felt a flush creep up her neck and in studied calculation leaned away from the table with a quick glance across the room.
He was still over at the table by the window. And still completely oblivious to the fact that she and Rachel were watching him. "Seriously. You are starting to piss me off. All you do is talk about how much you like him. I'm sick of hearing it, go tell him. Not me," Rachel whispered.
Courtney glanced over at him. "I have no idea how to start a conversation with him," she whispered back. Rachel gaped at her, "You are in the same class. You are both at the library studying. Do you really need me to connect the last dot?" Courtney nodded, started to stand up and then collapsed back into the chair, her head buried in her hands, "I can't. What if I make an idiot out of myself. He is so gorgeous," she moaned.
"You are such a nebbish. Go do it!" Rachel snapped.
Courtney raised her head, staring at her friend, "What did you just call me?" she asked half laughing at her.
"What? It is Yiddish or something. My grandmother always used to call my grandfather a nebbish when he was being a chicken-shit twit. Like you are being now," Rachel replied.
They stared at each other a moment and started giggling.
"Ok, I'm leaving. I don't need to stalk some guy. Or study for that matter. See you back at the dorm," and with that Rachel scooped up her book and trailed out of the room.
Courtney peeked another glance at him. He was gazing out the window, tapping his pen softly against the edge of the table. Maybe Rachel was right, she thought pushing her chair back, what was the worst thing that could happen?
Better Late Than Never!
So, first off let me just say that I did write a story for January 8th. I wrote it on my bus ride home scribbling away while feeling immensely paranoid that the person sitting next to me is trying to read what I am writing over my shoulder.
I just didn't get the story typed out because I was biz-eh.
Busy with what you might ask? Well, after many, many credible sources (yes Doug, sad to say that you are a credible source) informed me that I HAD to go see Avatar in the theater in 3D I decided that they were probably right (I mean, everyone told us that we should go see the new Star Trek movie in the theater, and we didn't, and actually we still haven't seen it and I'm sure I will regret that because I just saw the preview for it a couple weeks ago....I know, I know....and it looks awesome) and made plans with my sister and J to go see it.
But we didn't just make any plans, we made plans to go see it at Cinetopia in the Living Room theater. Fatty leather seats. A plush foot rest. Stadium seating set up so that you can even see the row below you. At all.
Being wicked smart and all I had purchased our tickets the night before which was good because the movie ended up being sold out. We got in line, got our glasses, and managed to find four seats together. So we sit down and the waitress comes by.
Oh yeah? Did I forget to mention that the theater was 21+ (no punk-ass kid texting in THIS movie!) and has a menu you can order from before the movie? So Ken and I ended up tucking in to a glass of port and a chocolate lava cake as the movie started. Ok, so the chocolate lava cake was totally gone by the time the movie started, but the glass of port was pretty damn tasty.
So, we are all chatting and eating and this guy pops up in this balcony thingy off to one side of the theater and starts talking on a microphone.
"Did you guys know that Cinetopia has live music on Friday and Saturday nights?" he asked.
No. No we did not.
So, we got a live classical guitar serenade before the show as well.
It was awesome.
And the movie hadn't even STARTED yet. I actually had no idea what the movie was about, but I enjoyed the hell out of it (yes, Doug, Eric you were totally right....and thanks for the suggestion). I wouldn't have gone to see this movie without the recommendation, but that would have sucked. It is a pretty good story, the 3D is pretty amazing, and there is nothing I like better than to see a military dumbass become an environmentalist. So James Cameron, you are an arrogant fuck, but you make good movies....I'll give him that.
So, THAT is why I didn't get my story typed up. But I did the work and it still counts because you all are basically guests in my life around here (mawh-ha-hahahahahah) so deal. I'll post another one tonight for sure-sies.
Word of the Day Friday, January 8, 2010
gesticulate \juh-STIK-yuh-layt), intransitive verb:
1. To make gestures or motions, especially while speaking or instead of speaking.
I leaned up against the bar, squeezed between the mash of people in the club, and tried to catch the bartender's eye. She nodded at me, "What's it going to be?" she yelled leaning towards me.
"A Dirty Girl Scout!" I shouted back over the din of the crowd and the blaring music throbbing from the dance floor.
I had been hoping for a smirk with my drink choice, and was grudgingly mollified with a slight eye-brow loft. "What is in that" she asked.
"That's what she said," I quipped laughing at my own joke until I saw the corners of her mouth tighten, "Ah, um, vodka, Crème de menthe, Baily's and Kaluha," I added quickly. She brought my drink back in short order in a very wide martini glass, "You didn't spit in this, did you?" I joked as she handed the drink over to me. "That'll be nine bucks," she responded dryly. I clumsily tried to juggle my dangerously top heavy drink, cocktail napkin and ten dollar bill under her un-waivering stare, "Thanks!" I said finally getting the money to her.
Quickly I took a sip off the top of my drink hoping to make it easier to carry without spilling and started to make my way over towards my sister and her crowd of friends. Cushioning my drink I slipped my way through the crowd. A little spin move here, another sip of the cocktail there, I'm a full on drink suspension machine baby! Followed by, fatal arm jostle.
"Fuck!" I shouted, now wearing half of my Dirty Girl Scout. I pounded the remaining bit of my drink, haphazardly placed the glass on the nearest flat surface, and proceeded to dab at my shirt with my itty-bitty cocktail napkin. "Fuck!" I shouted again suddenly aware of the fact that I had just sopped up a good two dollars worth of vodka into the napkin. I pulled my shirt up to my mouth to suck whatever leftover vodka I could find out of my shirt.
"Want some help with that?" a male voice sneered at me.
"No thanks. I'm married. To a man." I replied pulling the shirt out of my mouth.
"What are you doing at a lesbian club then?" he asked sourly.
"I'm with my sister. What are YOU doing at a lesbian club?" I asked back pointedly.
He shrugged and walked off, probably in hopes of finding another girl sucking on her shirt. Unincumbered I plowed my way through the crowd over to my sister.
"Hey, I thought ou were getting a drink? Why do you smell all minty?" my sister asked when I finally joined up with them. I looked over at Bethany, two years younger than me and with every feminine gene I didn't get. Her swishy flower printed skirt and matching dainty pink shoes in stark contrast to my black, and minty smelling, tank-top.
"What is wrong with these cocktail glasses?!?" I exclaimed gesticulating wildly, "It is like they are made to ensure you will dump out half your drink," and at that moment, in slow motion, I watched as my hand, the one pointing emphatically at the wide mojito-filled martini glass Bethany was holding, smacked into the edge of her glass, sloshing its contents across the swishy flower printed skirt.
"Oooooh," her crowd of friends gasped, collectively taking a step away from me while unconsciously tucking their drink glasses away.
Bethany looked up at me, her face contorted with fury.
"Look at what you did! Look at what you did to me! I was cute before you came over here!"
"That's what she sa....Um, there is a guy over there that willing to suck on your shirt for you," I suggested unhelpfully.
"Just go buy me another drink," she said not handing me any cash, "The one you are wearing smells good. And try not to spill this one."
***Author's Note***
Sadly this is based on a true story. All witty banter and shirt sucking is complete fantasy, but I the entire drink spilling scene is completely true. And my sister did accuse me of making her less cute. Which I will sadly have to live with for the rest of my life.
I just didn't get the story typed out because I was biz-eh.
Busy with what you might ask? Well, after many, many credible sources (yes Doug, sad to say that you are a credible source) informed me that I HAD to go see Avatar in the theater in 3D I decided that they were probably right (I mean, everyone told us that we should go see the new Star Trek movie in the theater, and we didn't, and actually we still haven't seen it and I'm sure I will regret that because I just saw the preview for it a couple weeks ago....I know, I know....and it looks awesome) and made plans with my sister and J to go see it.
But we didn't just make any plans, we made plans to go see it at Cinetopia in the Living Room theater. Fatty leather seats. A plush foot rest. Stadium seating set up so that you can even see the row below you. At all.
Being wicked smart and all I had purchased our tickets the night before which was good because the movie ended up being sold out. We got in line, got our glasses, and managed to find four seats together. So we sit down and the waitress comes by.
Oh yeah? Did I forget to mention that the theater was 21+ (no punk-ass kid texting in THIS movie!) and has a menu you can order from before the movie? So Ken and I ended up tucking in to a glass of port and a chocolate lava cake as the movie started. Ok, so the chocolate lava cake was totally gone by the time the movie started, but the glass of port was pretty damn tasty.
So, we are all chatting and eating and this guy pops up in this balcony thingy off to one side of the theater and starts talking on a microphone.
"Did you guys know that Cinetopia has live music on Friday and Saturday nights?" he asked.
No. No we did not.
So, we got a live classical guitar serenade before the show as well.
It was awesome.
And the movie hadn't even STARTED yet. I actually had no idea what the movie was about, but I enjoyed the hell out of it (yes, Doug, Eric you were totally right....and thanks for the suggestion). I wouldn't have gone to see this movie without the recommendation, but that would have sucked. It is a pretty good story, the 3D is pretty amazing, and there is nothing I like better than to see a military dumbass become an environmentalist. So James Cameron, you are an arrogant fuck, but you make good movies....I'll give him that.
So, THAT is why I didn't get my story typed up. But I did the work and it still counts because you all are basically guests in my life around here (mawh-ha-hahahahahah) so deal. I'll post another one tonight for sure-sies.
Word of the Day Friday, January 8, 2010
gesticulate \juh-STIK-yuh-layt), intransitive verb:
1. To make gestures or motions, especially while speaking or instead of speaking.
I leaned up against the bar, squeezed between the mash of people in the club, and tried to catch the bartender's eye. She nodded at me, "What's it going to be?" she yelled leaning towards me.
"A Dirty Girl Scout!" I shouted back over the din of the crowd and the blaring music throbbing from the dance floor.
I had been hoping for a smirk with my drink choice, and was grudgingly mollified with a slight eye-brow loft. "What is in that" she asked.
"That's what she said," I quipped laughing at my own joke until I saw the corners of her mouth tighten, "Ah, um, vodka, Crème de menthe, Baily's and Kaluha," I added quickly. She brought my drink back in short order in a very wide martini glass, "You didn't spit in this, did you?" I joked as she handed the drink over to me. "That'll be nine bucks," she responded dryly. I clumsily tried to juggle my dangerously top heavy drink, cocktail napkin and ten dollar bill under her un-waivering stare, "Thanks!" I said finally getting the money to her.
Quickly I took a sip off the top of my drink hoping to make it easier to carry without spilling and started to make my way over towards my sister and her crowd of friends. Cushioning my drink I slipped my way through the crowd. A little spin move here, another sip of the cocktail there, I'm a full on drink suspension machine baby! Followed by, fatal arm jostle.
"Fuck!" I shouted, now wearing half of my Dirty Girl Scout. I pounded the remaining bit of my drink, haphazardly placed the glass on the nearest flat surface, and proceeded to dab at my shirt with my itty-bitty cocktail napkin. "Fuck!" I shouted again suddenly aware of the fact that I had just sopped up a good two dollars worth of vodka into the napkin. I pulled my shirt up to my mouth to suck whatever leftover vodka I could find out of my shirt.
"Want some help with that?" a male voice sneered at me.
"No thanks. I'm married. To a man." I replied pulling the shirt out of my mouth.
"What are you doing at a lesbian club then?" he asked sourly.
"I'm with my sister. What are YOU doing at a lesbian club?" I asked back pointedly.
He shrugged and walked off, probably in hopes of finding another girl sucking on her shirt. Unincumbered I plowed my way through the crowd over to my sister.
"Hey, I thought ou were getting a drink? Why do you smell all minty?" my sister asked when I finally joined up with them. I looked over at Bethany, two years younger than me and with every feminine gene I didn't get. Her swishy flower printed skirt and matching dainty pink shoes in stark contrast to my black, and minty smelling, tank-top.
"What is wrong with these cocktail glasses?!?" I exclaimed gesticulating wildly, "It is like they are made to ensure you will dump out half your drink," and at that moment, in slow motion, I watched as my hand, the one pointing emphatically at the wide mojito-filled martini glass Bethany was holding, smacked into the edge of her glass, sloshing its contents across the swishy flower printed skirt.
"Oooooh," her crowd of friends gasped, collectively taking a step away from me while unconsciously tucking their drink glasses away.
Bethany looked up at me, her face contorted with fury.
"Look at what you did! Look at what you did to me! I was cute before you came over here!"
"That's what she sa....Um, there is a guy over there that willing to suck on your shirt for you," I suggested unhelpfully.
"Just go buy me another drink," she said not handing me any cash, "The one you are wearing smells good. And try not to spill this one."
***Author's Note***
Sadly this is based on a true story. All witty banter and shirt sucking is complete fantasy, but I the entire drink spilling scene is completely true. And my sister did accuse me of making her less cute. Which I will sadly have to live with for the rest of my life.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Big 6-0
Today is my dad's 60th Birthday and I just want to give him an Internet shout out congratulating him on being 60 years young!
As I have gotten older I find that I look at each birthday as an excuse to throw a bigger party, and so birthdays are actually still a lot of fun. And with this mind-set I also get super exciting for other people on their birthday because, hell, it's another party!
So, if you are drinking a beer, or a glass of wine, or are enjoying a low-fat, vegetable laden snack ;-) Give my dad a toast, because he always comes down for my parties, and I'm looking forward to many, many more good times!
Word of the Day Thursday, January 07, 2010
quotidian
\kwoh-TID-ee-uhn\ , adjective;
1. Occurring or returning daily; as, a quotidian fever.
2. Of an everyday character; ordinary; commonplace.
"Hey! Look at this!" Leonard exclaimed popped his head abruptly over the top of the cubicle wall.
Elliott sighed and looked up at whatever it was that Leonard was dangling over her head.
"What is that?" she asked in her usual semi-annoyed-semi-sarcastic-sounding-work monotone.
"Cough drops," Leonard said. He pulled one out of the bag and tossed it down to her.
As expected, she didn't catch it and had to fish out from behind her magnetic paperclip container.
"Why are you showing this to me? I don't have a cough," she continued, flinging the cough drop back at Leonard's head, "Do you hear me coughing through these paper thin cubicle walls?"
He ducked the projectile cough drop and grinned at her, "It is a special cough drop, just wait and see. But first you have to eat one."
"I'm not going to eat a cough drop. That is inappropriately medicating myself. Besides I'm at work. Are there any warnings on there about operating machinery? I AM using a computer at the moment. I could get fired," Elliott continued trying to keep up her bored, annoyed tone of voice while consciously stifling the smile starting to play on her lips.
She actually adored Leonard.
He had been sitting on the other side of her cubicle wall for the past six months and even though she would complain bitterly to anyone who listened about how much she hated the quotidian slog of being an insurance company data-entry drone, she actually looked forward to going to work each morning specifically because Leonard would eventually pop his head up over her cubicle wall.
She always tried to feign indifference or annoyance, but they both knew they were partners in crime.
The crime, of course, being that they were both too smart to be data-entry drones.
"C'mon, just put one in your mouth. Here I'll unwrap it for you, and feed it to you. It'll be like communion," he said his eyes twinkling. He held the lozenge out over her mouth.
"Gimme that," she said snatching the unwrapped cough drop and popping it in her mouth, the lock-down smile leaking out at the corners of her mouth.
They both waited there in silence for a moment sucking on their throat lozenges.
"Ok, so what is so special about this?" Elliott finally asked thickly through a mouth full of saliva.
"Look!" he thrust the little plastic lozenge bag towards her face, "It is "Blue Ice Flavored"! At this moment we are tasting a color!"
She looked up at his triumphant face, shining down at her like the sun rising through an office gray sky, and finally turned the key on that smile.
As I have gotten older I find that I look at each birthday as an excuse to throw a bigger party, and so birthdays are actually still a lot of fun. And with this mind-set I also get super exciting for other people on their birthday because, hell, it's another party!
So, if you are drinking a beer, or a glass of wine, or are enjoying a low-fat, vegetable laden snack ;-) Give my dad a toast, because he always comes down for my parties, and I'm looking forward to many, many more good times!
Word of the Day Thursday, January 07, 2010
quotidian
\kwoh-TID-ee-uhn\ , adjective;
1. Occurring or returning daily; as, a quotidian fever.
2. Of an everyday character; ordinary; commonplace.
"Hey! Look at this!" Leonard exclaimed popped his head abruptly over the top of the cubicle wall.
Elliott sighed and looked up at whatever it was that Leonard was dangling over her head.
"What is that?" she asked in her usual semi-annoyed-semi-sarcastic-sounding-work monotone.
"Cough drops," Leonard said. He pulled one out of the bag and tossed it down to her.
As expected, she didn't catch it and had to fish out from behind her magnetic paperclip container.
"Why are you showing this to me? I don't have a cough," she continued, flinging the cough drop back at Leonard's head, "Do you hear me coughing through these paper thin cubicle walls?"
He ducked the projectile cough drop and grinned at her, "It is a special cough drop, just wait and see. But first you have to eat one."
"I'm not going to eat a cough drop. That is inappropriately medicating myself. Besides I'm at work. Are there any warnings on there about operating machinery? I AM using a computer at the moment. I could get fired," Elliott continued trying to keep up her bored, annoyed tone of voice while consciously stifling the smile starting to play on her lips.
She actually adored Leonard.
He had been sitting on the other side of her cubicle wall for the past six months and even though she would complain bitterly to anyone who listened about how much she hated the quotidian slog of being an insurance company data-entry drone, she actually looked forward to going to work each morning specifically because Leonard would eventually pop his head up over her cubicle wall.
She always tried to feign indifference or annoyance, but they both knew they were partners in crime.
The crime, of course, being that they were both too smart to be data-entry drones.
"C'mon, just put one in your mouth. Here I'll unwrap it for you, and feed it to you. It'll be like communion," he said his eyes twinkling. He held the lozenge out over her mouth.
"Gimme that," she said snatching the unwrapped cough drop and popping it in her mouth, the lock-down smile leaking out at the corners of her mouth.
They both waited there in silence for a moment sucking on their throat lozenges.
"Ok, so what is so special about this?" Elliott finally asked thickly through a mouth full of saliva.
"Look!" he thrust the little plastic lozenge bag towards her face, "It is "Blue Ice Flavored"! At this moment we are tasting a color!"
She looked up at his triumphant face, shining down at her like the sun rising through an office gray sky, and finally turned the key on that smile.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Also Applicable To Most Bus Rides....
Word of the Day Wednesday, January 06, 2010
flibbertigibbet
\FLIB-ur-tee-jib-it\ , noun;
1. A silly, flighty, or scatterbrained person, especially a pert young woman with such qualities.
He glanced at her crossly from across the cab of the pick-up truck.
She noticed the slight movement on his part and interpreted it as an invitation to continue the monologue brimming behind her lips.
"What makes your truck so loud grandpa? Because our car at home never makes this much noise. It sort of sounds like our neighbor's car. The ones down the street with the dog that barks when you walk by. My dad says the....mutter....or something like that on their car must be broken and the city should be notified that they are a noise nuisance."
He clutched the steering wheel tighter as she continued to chitter on about noise nuisances, the irony completely lost on her.
"I don't know, if a car is a noise nuisance, why isn't a hair dryer a nuisance? It seems pretty loud to me…"
"Stop talking!" he finally bellowed drowning out the noise of the motor. "Why must you be such a flibbertigibbet?!?"
His granddaughter, her eyes wide with surprise, stopped talking in mid-sentence, her lips still frozen in position to form the next word on the tip of her tongue.
He immediately felt remorseful, snapping at her that way. She was only seven after all, and being the youngest of five children he imagined she had been trained as a squeaky wheel.
"Grandpa?" she asked timidly after a moment.
"Yes?" he replied trying to mold his tone from gruff to kind.
"Is that even a real word?" she asked.
"Of course it is a real word!" he declared indignantly, the gruffness appearing briefly in his voice. "It happens to be dictionary.com's Word of the Day today. I always try to learn the word of the day and use it in a sentence. I was skeptical this morning if I would even be able to find a use for flibbertigibbet today. However, I had anticipated that your Grandmother would be picking you up this afternoon, not me," he mused almost to himself.
The girl was quiet for a moment, the coughing motor filling the silence.
"That is really lucky that you could use your word," she said earnestly, turning to face him with those large brown innocent eyes, genuinely pleased for him, "I hope the next time I come to visit the word of the day is crotchety so I can use it in a sentence. I just learned that one from my dad this morning."
flibbertigibbet
\FLIB-ur-tee-jib-it\ , noun;
1. A silly, flighty, or scatterbrained person, especially a pert young woman with such qualities.
He glanced at her crossly from across the cab of the pick-up truck.
She noticed the slight movement on his part and interpreted it as an invitation to continue the monologue brimming behind her lips.
"What makes your truck so loud grandpa? Because our car at home never makes this much noise. It sort of sounds like our neighbor's car. The ones down the street with the dog that barks when you walk by. My dad says the....mutter....or something like that on their car must be broken and the city should be notified that they are a noise nuisance."
He clutched the steering wheel tighter as she continued to chitter on about noise nuisances, the irony completely lost on her.
"I don't know, if a car is a noise nuisance, why isn't a hair dryer a nuisance? It seems pretty loud to me…"
"Stop talking!" he finally bellowed drowning out the noise of the motor. "Why must you be such a flibbertigibbet?!?"
His granddaughter, her eyes wide with surprise, stopped talking in mid-sentence, her lips still frozen in position to form the next word on the tip of her tongue.
He immediately felt remorseful, snapping at her that way. She was only seven after all, and being the youngest of five children he imagined she had been trained as a squeaky wheel.
"Grandpa?" she asked timidly after a moment.
"Yes?" he replied trying to mold his tone from gruff to kind.
"Is that even a real word?" she asked.
"Of course it is a real word!" he declared indignantly, the gruffness appearing briefly in his voice. "It happens to be dictionary.com's Word of the Day today. I always try to learn the word of the day and use it in a sentence. I was skeptical this morning if I would even be able to find a use for flibbertigibbet today. However, I had anticipated that your Grandmother would be picking you up this afternoon, not me," he mused almost to himself.
The girl was quiet for a moment, the coughing motor filling the silence.
"That is really lucky that you could use your word," she said earnestly, turning to face him with those large brown innocent eyes, genuinely pleased for him, "I hope the next time I come to visit the word of the day is crotchety so I can use it in a sentence. I just learned that one from my dad this morning."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Blast from the Past...Specifically, 2002!!!
This story is actually one I started writing several years ago when I first started writing WOTD stories (turns out dictionary.com totally repeats the words they use for their word of the day emails). But I like this story so much, and really when will I get another chance to put this story out there with this project? So I'm going to go ahead and rework it and then use it for today's story.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 05, 2010
atelier
\at-l-YAY\ , noun;
1. A workshop; a studio.
He was an artist. The dark brooding type; intense like a live grenade. The wounded, bitter, wrong type of guy. The bane of every nice guy's existence.
I had a unique perspective into this strange world of art, as the window of my studio apartment looked directly into his curtainless atelier. And you thought reality television was addictive? It was a fabulous silent film where I was free to make up my own names, dialogue and rationale. He soon became the son of a fantastically wealthy family, his golden older brother being groomed to become a Senator. Early on his undiagnosed dyslexia labeled him as a "problem" child, and as he continued to spiral out of control the family decided it best to send him off with a monthly allowance in order to segregate the black sheep from the family.
He had a steady stream of tall, dangerously thin models as the subject of his work, draping, and later, bending them, over the sparse furniture. I ran into one of his models at the coffee shop on the corner one morning, and I remember asking her why she stayed with him through his bouts of depression and mania, his apathy and cruelty. She said that when you looked into his eyes you could see the passion of his art consuming him from the inside out and she wanted to be part of that magnificently brilliant funeral pyre. "How pathetic", I thought feeling nothing but pity as I watched her leave the coffee shop turning every head in the room, "that she doesn't feel that her own funeral pyre will ever be able to burn brightly enough."
On several occasions I would watch him retrieve an object left on the curb and bring it up to his room as a prop. One afternoon as he was vacantly starring off into space on his balcony I went out to the curb with an ornate table and left it on the street. I scurried back up to my room and watched, a few moments later, as he hauled the table upstairs into the set of my entertainment. I felt a giddy excitement, possibly what a novice set designer feels on opening night, or an inexperienced extra on a movie set, a small part of the show. I watched him paint that night, and felt the power of being able to manipulate others wash over me.
I stared up at my own apartment through the curtainless window, seeing the dim light from my table lamp glowing out into the darkness. I took a sip of wine and turned around to watch him light the dozens of candles all around the room. They twinkled like fireflies at dusk, and I thought to myself that they gave off a beautiful luminous light and I should look for that brand of tea lights the next time I was at the corner market.
Word of the Day Tuesday, January 05, 2010
atelier
\at-l-YAY\ , noun;
1. A workshop; a studio.
He was an artist. The dark brooding type; intense like a live grenade. The wounded, bitter, wrong type of guy. The bane of every nice guy's existence.
I had a unique perspective into this strange world of art, as the window of my studio apartment looked directly into his curtainless atelier. And you thought reality television was addictive? It was a fabulous silent film where I was free to make up my own names, dialogue and rationale. He soon became the son of a fantastically wealthy family, his golden older brother being groomed to become a Senator. Early on his undiagnosed dyslexia labeled him as a "problem" child, and as he continued to spiral out of control the family decided it best to send him off with a monthly allowance in order to segregate the black sheep from the family.
He had a steady stream of tall, dangerously thin models as the subject of his work, draping, and later, bending them, over the sparse furniture. I ran into one of his models at the coffee shop on the corner one morning, and I remember asking her why she stayed with him through his bouts of depression and mania, his apathy and cruelty. She said that when you looked into his eyes you could see the passion of his art consuming him from the inside out and she wanted to be part of that magnificently brilliant funeral pyre. "How pathetic", I thought feeling nothing but pity as I watched her leave the coffee shop turning every head in the room, "that she doesn't feel that her own funeral pyre will ever be able to burn brightly enough."
On several occasions I would watch him retrieve an object left on the curb and bring it up to his room as a prop. One afternoon as he was vacantly starring off into space on his balcony I went out to the curb with an ornate table and left it on the street. I scurried back up to my room and watched, a few moments later, as he hauled the table upstairs into the set of my entertainment. I felt a giddy excitement, possibly what a novice set designer feels on opening night, or an inexperienced extra on a movie set, a small part of the show. I watched him paint that night, and felt the power of being able to manipulate others wash over me.
I stared up at my own apartment through the curtainless window, seeing the dim light from my table lamp glowing out into the darkness. I took a sip of wine and turned around to watch him light the dozens of candles all around the room. They twinkled like fireflies at dusk, and I thought to myself that they gave off a beautiful luminous light and I should look for that brand of tea lights the next time I was at the corner market.
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