Anyone that knows me knows I eat breakfast every single day. But a day will come when I won't. And the day I get no mo' Cheerios, will be a sad, sad day FOR ALL OF YOU.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sorry, I don't speak Crazy. (Or Chinese.)
I will give $100 to the first person that translates this video for me...
My grandmother is adorable.
*answering the phone*
"Hey Gigi, are you okay?"
"Hi love! Yeah, I'm fine..."
"Well, I saw you called earlier today, so thought maybe something was wrong."
"Oh, no! Everything's great. Just wanted to make sure you weren't hit by that fireball this weekend. Looks like it shot RIGHT over you!"
"Ah, well, no, I'm okay."
"Good, love. I'm so glad to hear that. Thought it might have shook the ground if nothing else!"
"Nope, everything was fine."
"Okay, well, I'm heading to bed..."
"At 6:45?"
"This old lady gets TIRED sometimes! Haha..."
"Well, thanks for calling, and love you. Sleep tight."
"You too, love, and so. so. glad you weren't hit by that fireball!"
*Picture of "fireball" over Austin, February 15th
"Hey Gigi, are you okay?"
"Hi love! Yeah, I'm fine..."
"Well, I saw you called earlier today, so thought maybe something was wrong."
"Oh, no! Everything's great. Just wanted to make sure you weren't hit by that fireball this weekend. Looks like it shot RIGHT over you!"
"Ah, well, no, I'm okay."
"Good, love. I'm so glad to hear that. Thought it might have shook the ground if nothing else!"
"Nope, everything was fine."
"Okay, well, I'm heading to bed..."
"At 6:45?"
"This old lady gets TIRED sometimes! Haha..."
"Well, thanks for calling, and love you. Sleep tight."
"You too, love, and so. so. glad you weren't hit by that fireball!"
*Picture of "fireball" over Austin, February 15th
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Winner, winner, chicken anal beads.
I haven't blogged in over a month, which makes me a loser. Only I won a fierce competition tonight, which not only makes me a winner, but also cured my writer's block.
Last week, I got a call from my friend Megan. "So, I'm calling you because you're the only person I know that would go to this with me." With that opener, I was already sold; but she went on to tell me about this show at a local theater called "The Sickest F***ing Stories I Ever Heard". It consists of a group of local comics sitting around a poker table telling disgusting, politically-incorrect stories. It's worth noting the three movies I've laughed hardest in are: Jackass, Jackass 2 and Borat. This was right up my alley.
The show tonight didn't disappoint. There were several times when I laughed as hard as I could, yet still wasn't laughing hard enough to satisfy my amusement. And probably due to his charming tales of rub and tugs, I developed a mild crush on KLBJ's Charlie Hodge, one of the comics. But the best was yet to come. When the show finished, they announced a competition for the sickest audience story. I'm competitive as all hell, but for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything. A chick with a clipboard came by and asked if I had anything to contribute and I shook my head, disappointed in myself. Members of the audience went up to the mic and told stories about poop in a bag, "retards fucking" and even a two-toned dick, the result of a middle school masturbation accident. Suddenly, not one, but two sick stories popped in my head. I headed to the mic, was unanimously voted the winner and went home with a lovely prize package consisting of porn, a dildo, and some anal beads.
And because I'm the most competitive person on earth, it was pitifully a win I needed as last week, I challenged my friends' four year-old to Mario Kart with disastrous results.
"Jackson, you're about to get OWNED!!!"
Jackson's dad shot me a look that was a mix of disbelief and horror. "Are you seriously trash talking my toddler?"
"I prefer to call it 'managing expectations', but potato, potahto."
The kid demolished me. He sailed into 2nd place while I did circles, trying to figure out how to get the "U-turn" signal off the screen. That, combined with continually driving off cliffs ensured I never made it past 12th place.
"He can't even form full sentences!" I howled in my defeat. "This SUCKS! Hey, you don't have Zelda on here, by chance, do you?"
I was still licking my wounds last night, when we introduced my 89 year-old grandmother to Mario Kart. My grandmother had her license taken away from her three years ago, gets driven around like Miss Daisy, and yet somehow managed to finish first.
All this to say that quick thinking and two different but equally disgusting stories have ensured I won't be sobbing myself to sleep again tonight.
Last week, I got a call from my friend Megan. "So, I'm calling you because you're the only person I know that would go to this with me." With that opener, I was already sold; but she went on to tell me about this show at a local theater called "The Sickest F***ing Stories I Ever Heard". It consists of a group of local comics sitting around a poker table telling disgusting, politically-incorrect stories. It's worth noting the three movies I've laughed hardest in are: Jackass, Jackass 2 and Borat. This was right up my alley.
The show tonight didn't disappoint. There were several times when I laughed as hard as I could, yet still wasn't laughing hard enough to satisfy my amusement. And probably due to his charming tales of rub and tugs, I developed a mild crush on KLBJ's Charlie Hodge, one of the comics. But the best was yet to come. When the show finished, they announced a competition for the sickest audience story. I'm competitive as all hell, but for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything. A chick with a clipboard came by and asked if I had anything to contribute and I shook my head, disappointed in myself. Members of the audience went up to the mic and told stories about poop in a bag, "retards fucking" and even a two-toned dick, the result of a middle school masturbation accident. Suddenly, not one, but two sick stories popped in my head. I headed to the mic, was unanimously voted the winner and went home with a lovely prize package consisting of porn, a dildo, and some anal beads.
And because I'm the most competitive person on earth, it was pitifully a win I needed as last week, I challenged my friends' four year-old to Mario Kart with disastrous results.
"Jackson, you're about to get OWNED!!!"
Jackson's dad shot me a look that was a mix of disbelief and horror. "Are you seriously trash talking my toddler?"
"I prefer to call it 'managing expectations', but potato, potahto."
The kid demolished me. He sailed into 2nd place while I did circles, trying to figure out how to get the "U-turn" signal off the screen. That, combined with continually driving off cliffs ensured I never made it past 12th place.
"He can't even form full sentences!" I howled in my defeat. "This SUCKS! Hey, you don't have Zelda on here, by chance, do you?"
I was still licking my wounds last night, when we introduced my 89 year-old grandmother to Mario Kart. My grandmother had her license taken away from her three years ago, gets driven around like Miss Daisy, and yet somehow managed to finish first.
All this to say that quick thinking and two different but equally disgusting stories have ensured I won't be sobbing myself to sleep again tonight.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas cards of the rich and famous.
Who am I kidding. Of course I'm not going to run out of things to write about, particularly if it's Christmas. I'm currently in the middle of what is proving to be the most ridiculous Christmas ever but while I continue to let that play out, I have something else I'd like to discuss: the lameness of the Cruise family's Christmas card.
My friends clearly know cooler people than I do, but that's not the point. How lame is this thing? I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't a card wrapped in gold thread without so much as a picture. I mean, this is Tom Cruise. Shouldn't this have come with a little booklet on the story of Xenu and the Galactic Confederacy? Or perhaps some WWII memorabilia to promote Valkyrie? Better yet, why not send everyone a small bit of his vast fortune to help stimulate the economy? Hell, even a $20 would be something. Instead he invested all $20 in a gold stamped card, wrapped in gold thread, in a hand-calligraphied (with gold ink) envelope.
Yeah, well, Happy Holidays to you, too, TomKat, and may your family be blessed with only the highest levels of Operating Thetans.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
My final post?
As we head into the final stretch of 2008, if I could sprint at this point, I would. This year has absolutely kicked. my. ass., as my therapist noted yesterday in our last session of the year. I should clarify which therapist I'm referring to, as over the past few months I've amassed three: a traditional therapist (who I visited yesterday), a hypno-therapist, and a massage therapist. The fact that I even have this therapeutic triumvirate, with a diminutive Scottish healer thrown in for good measure, is a testament to what a mess I've been the past twelve months.
Really, if I were being honest with myself, I've been hanging out in my "pain cave" - as my friend Karen so brilliantly termed it - for the past year and a half. That's an exceptionally long time to spend in a not-so-great place but just in time for the holidays, I've emerged like Scrooge on Christmas morning, and jimmy-kicked my way back into the land of the living.
Truly, things lately have been nothing short of spectacular. So much so, my therapist actually jumped out of her chair mid-session yesterday, threw her fists into the air and cheered. I've been in therapy consistently since I was five (which begs the question as to what I'd be like had this NOT been the case), and I have never had a therapist cheer. Ever. Quite the milestone, but also not entirely unwarranted.
For starters, I've rediscovered all sorts of things I used to love doing. Like going out with friends, for example. Turns out I'm fairly social. (Who knew, right?) I'm also running regularly again, but more than that I'm back doing yoga and pilates, two other things I used to really enjoy. I meditate every day. I'm reading books. I did a week-long detox for the first time in my life and when it was over, I detoxed my house and got rid of 18 trash bags-worth of stuff in the process. My living area is spotless now, but more than that, there's hardly anything in it. It's like the W in here - so peaceful and cozy. It's almost unnerving. Almost.
A few months ago, my roommate (who has been in her own pain cave for about as long as I've been in mine) asked me what made me happy, because she was trying to think what made her happy and couldn't come up with anything. At the time, I pitifully couldn't think of anything either. "Riding horses. Riding horses makes you happy," she finally said. And in the most wonderful twists of fate, I'm also now exercising a horse every week for a woman short on time due to her new job.
There's only one problem with all this greatness: I'm no longer angry. Like, at all.
What the hell am I going to write about now???
Really, if I were being honest with myself, I've been hanging out in my "pain cave" - as my friend Karen so brilliantly termed it - for the past year and a half. That's an exceptionally long time to spend in a not-so-great place but just in time for the holidays, I've emerged like Scrooge on Christmas morning, and jimmy-kicked my way back into the land of the living.
Truly, things lately have been nothing short of spectacular. So much so, my therapist actually jumped out of her chair mid-session yesterday, threw her fists into the air and cheered. I've been in therapy consistently since I was five (which begs the question as to what I'd be like had this NOT been the case), and I have never had a therapist cheer. Ever. Quite the milestone, but also not entirely unwarranted.
For starters, I've rediscovered all sorts of things I used to love doing. Like going out with friends, for example. Turns out I'm fairly social. (Who knew, right?) I'm also running regularly again, but more than that I'm back doing yoga and pilates, two other things I used to really enjoy. I meditate every day. I'm reading books. I did a week-long detox for the first time in my life and when it was over, I detoxed my house and got rid of 18 trash bags-worth of stuff in the process. My living area is spotless now, but more than that, there's hardly anything in it. It's like the W in here - so peaceful and cozy. It's almost unnerving. Almost.
A few months ago, my roommate (who has been in her own pain cave for about as long as I've been in mine) asked me what made me happy, because she was trying to think what made her happy and couldn't come up with anything. At the time, I pitifully couldn't think of anything either. "Riding horses. Riding horses makes you happy," she finally said. And in the most wonderful twists of fate, I'm also now exercising a horse every week for a woman short on time due to her new job.
There's only one problem with all this greatness: I'm no longer angry. Like, at all.
What the hell am I going to write about now???
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