Category: Random

I don’t know where to file these posts.

The Definition of Insanity

  • The condition of being insane, a derangement of the mind
  • Law Such unsoundness of mind as affects legal responsibility or capacity
  • Psychiatry (formerly) Psychosis
  • Extreme folly; senselessness; foolhardiness

I’ve heard it a eleventy billion times:  “Isn’t that the definition of insanity?  Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?”

Just so we’re clear, No.  Not the definition of insanity.  If I want to do the same thing over and over and expect a different result, that might mean I’m persistent, or insistent, or hopeful, or maybe even dumb.  But I’m not insane.

Why Am I a Total Geek?

Why does Netta……………..Ullabe pause for six seconds between her first and last name?

Why do all the anchors call her Soraya Sa-har-di Nelson, when she clearly calls herself Soraya Sar-hadi Nelson?

Why does Terry Gross welcome people to Fresh Air but not allow them to thank her for having them?

Why does Lynne Rosetto Casper shout ‘Hey!’ before phrases like ‘take care’ and ‘thanks for calling’?

Why does Guy Raz get to have a name like that?

Why don’t all the other journalists sign off like Eufebia Quistarkten (Dakaaaaaaar)?

Why isn’t Ira Flatow punished for his bad jokes?

Why can’t I find how to spell Dwahali Saicowtow?

Why can’t callers understand that Neil Conan just wants you to state your damn point and does not want you to thank him for taking your call?

Why doesn’t Ira Glass realize that “a variety of different kinds of stories” is redundant?

Why can’t Carl Kasell—UNC alum and basketball fan and so freaking adorable—be my grandpa?

Why does Ann Taylor sound like she’s being goosed in the middle of the phrase ‘Dow Jones InDUStrial Average’?

Why, Terry Graedon?  Why?

Blink, and You Might Miss It

I absolutely LOVE “Friday Night Lights”.  I mean, it’s not “The Wire” or anything, but I find the premise compelling, the writing tight, and a lot of the acting heart-breakingly organic.  The show provides some of the most drool-worthy cleavage on network television.  And, as I may have mentioned, Tim Riggins makes me feel all tingly in my lady bits.

Now.  Some of the story lines are pat.  There’s the occasional stinker of a performance (yeah, you, little neighbor kid from Season 2—just because you’re, like, 7 doesn’t mean you can stink up the joint).  And many episodes include Important Lessons about Teamwork, Asking for Help, and The Dangers of Alcohol Consumption.

But look closer!  Here’s a list of other lessons I’m gleaning from the show:

  • If you light a girl’s hair on fire in science class and your parents are called in for a meeting, and then they find out you’ve been playing football without their permission (because, after all, you’re not a football family), all will be resolved when they come to one of your games.  They will be inspired enough to forget about your bad behavior and the fact that you forged their signatures on the athletics permission slip.
  • If you kill a dude and dump the body in a river, the police will drop all charges.  Just make sure you tell ’em you really felt threatened.  Most importantly, make sure he’s a serial-rapist.
  • If you spend two school years as a guidance counselor after fifteen years of being out of the workforce, you can be hired as principal of a high school.  It doesn’t matter that you have no experience in school administration.  You have a whole lot of heart and an amazing rack.

Setting the Bar Low

I’m inspired to write down some New Year’s resolutions…primarily by my friend Dan, who has resolved not to miss an episode of “The Jersey Shore”.  But also by an e-crush who grew an ironic mustache for his friend’s New Year’s Eve wedding, and resolved to shave off his ironic mustache.

Here goes:

  1. I’ll wear clothes to work.  What I slept in the night before can still count.
  2. I’ll water my plants when (a) I remember, (b) they turn yellow, or (c) they grow a pair and ask for what they need.

Feel free to make suggestions or add your own resolutions in the comments section.

Veni, Vidi, Vici

Along with my ability to generate copious amounts of ear wax, I inherited from my father a propensity to cook up some gourmet negativity and then just sit and stew in it until it turns cold and gives me goosebumps.  I’ve heard for a long time that a good counter to negative thoughts is to feed yourself positive ones. That’s my plan for the new year.

AND, at the same time, I don’t think I can look at myself in a mirror and say things like, “I say YES to life!” and “I am my own unique self—special, creative, and wonderful!”

Those are for people who think small.  I’m coming up with some affirmations of my own:

  • I am glorious to behold.
  • I’m better than everyone else at most things and equally good as everyone else at the remaining few things.
  • HelLO, Sex Monster!
  • The fruit of my womb will be the next Messiah.
  • I will win the lottery without even buying a fucking ticket.  That’s how badly wealth wants to be mine.
  • Tim Riggins’ heart flutters at the sound of my name.
  • My spoken and written words enlighten, entertain, and edify all audiences.  And cure some diseases.
  • My abs should be bronzed.
  • Even hard-core Christians covet all that junk in my trunk.

Please add your own in the comments section.

They Can Never Take Away Our Freedom

I was 16 years and 3 months old when I got my driver’s license.  My dad took me to the DMV.  I drove the nice DMV lady around the block in an ’89 Nissan Stanza and then sat waiting for 20 minutes while they printed up my card, stuck my Polaroid onto it, and slid it through the laminator.  I could feel the glow of that plastic rectangle through my purse as I drove my dad and me home, but I didn’t really get it until I was in the kitchen.  Nobody else was home.  Dinner was a couple of hours away.  I didn’t have any homework.  And I had my driver’s license!  I didn’t have to have an adult in the car with me anymore!  I turned to my dad and said, “Can I go to the mall and get David a Christmas present?”  He looked about as excited about the prospect as you would’ve expected him to, but to his credit, he handed me the keys and said, “Watch out for the other guy.”  I kept giggling to myself on the 10-mile (yes, 10-mile) trek from my house to the Boone Mall.

Let’s be frank.  The Boone Mall is a piece of shit.  I mean, nowadays there’s an Old Navy, so it’s slightly less of a piece of shit, but back then we’re talking JCPenney, McCrory’s, and K&W Cafeteria.  The most exciting retail outlet was either the Walden Books or that place where you’d buy ridiculously over-priced gummi bears and jelly beans just because they were displayed tantalizingly in those jars under the glass counter.  I don’t remember whether I bought any gummi bears that day, but I did buy my best friend David a Christmas present, a truly stupid, stupid Christmas present:  a toy saxophone from the K&B Toys.  Anyway, my point is, despite the fact that it’s a piece of shit, because it was the destination of my first solo trip ever, the Boone Mall still feels like freedom to me.

My friend Sean has a similar association.  His older brother was driving the two of them home from school one day, and when they paused at a light, his brother said, “Do you feel like going through the drive-thru at Taco Bell?”  It had never occurred to Sean that they might be able to divert the car from the school-home track, and to this day, freedom comes in the form of a Taco Bell bean burrito.

Going hiking is my dogs’ favorite thing in the whole wide world.  Of course, watching them be happy makes me happy, AND letting them off the leash is simultaneously nerve-wracking for obvious reasons.  I take a pocketful of goodies whenever we go, so they’ll have some incentive to come back to me.  And I bet if Violet and Redford could talk, they’d tell you that freedom tastes like chopped up hot dogs.

What says freedom to you?