so he was like, “she

so he was like, “she fell out of her microflyer.” Whatever.
 
confusion sets in
too many books eats through brain
leaving mushy mess
 
Right now, seeing as I’m sort of “on vacation” I’ve decided to take up ye olde past time of reading. Once upon a time ago I used to do this reading thing a lot. Since the arrival of the wee one, though, my reading has suffered.
 
Well, I take that back. It hasn’t really suffered – I read a lot of books every day. I guess my reading level has suffered. Right now I’m at pre-K and Dr. Seuss level. I used to be at D.H. Lawrence and Don Delillo level.
 
Anyway, I’m trying to get back into the whole reading thing. So right now I’m reading Arthur C. Clarke’s The Songs of Distant Earth and Meg Cabot’s All-American Girl – at the same time. The decision to read both books at once is haunting me.
 
I find myself confusing the plots:
 
Say, didn’t the teenage girl just diss her mom so she could visit the archaic seedship landing spot. Uh, wait a minute…
 
Plus, my dreams are slowly rendering me insane.
 
While dreaming of the apocalypse is not a rare thing for someone to do while visiting North Dallas, dreaming of the apocalypse while at the same time dreaming about people from high school popping back into my life out of nowhere… well… it’s made me kind of jumpy. I’m afraid to go out of the house – less for fear that the world will end, but more from the fear that I might actually see someone I went to high school with.
 
And standing in the aisle at Kroger, clutching a stupid “scan it yourself” thingamabob while having to wear a plastered-on smile and say things like, “Where has the time gone? You look great… now” is just a terribly frightening prospect.
 
So I guess, out of the two books, All-American Girl might have to get the boot (at least until I get back to the relatively safe, high school alumni-free ground of Austin). Who knew reading a tale of a teenage girl, who wears all black and thinks of herself as a rebel would be scarier than reading about a future world spawned from the dying vestiges of a crumbling earth?
 
Actually, now that I think about it, I so totally could have figured that out. Cause like, there’s nothing scarier than, like, remembering yourself in high school. Especially if you were, like, the kind of girl who wore black (or, truthfully, navy blue) all the time, wrote pretentious (re: BAD) plays and thought of yourself as a rebel.
 
I’ll stick with seedships.

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ingenious marketing?   think we’re

ingenious marketing?
 
think we’re suckers, huh?
duped by “documentary”
for, like, two seconds
 
The wee one and I are in the Big D for the next week, just taking it easy and enjoying the wealth of cable channels offered up at my folks’ house. When I figured out that Sunday night was the night of the mysterious M. Night Shyamalan documentary on the Sc-Fi channel, I was (admittedly) kind of excited.
 
For one thing, I’m a sucker for the sci-fi channel. For another, I’m a sucker for anything billed as an unauthorized documentary. Plus, I’ve been reading in various newspapers and online things about this documentary. The articles claimed it was one of those documentaries that started off with the blessing of The Subject (Night) but then spiraled out of control as the guys making the movie started interviewing people Night didn’t want them to. So he backed out of the deal and said he didn’t want to have anything to do with it. The documentary guys, having discovered some interesting dirt, said, “Fine, whatever, we’re making the movie anyway” and turned the thing into this three-hour expose.
 
Sounds kind of interesting, right?
 
Right?
 
Just play along then.
 
So tonight, (after a rousing visit to a frozen custard shop, and some last minute channel surfing) I found the sci-fi channel and busted in on the documentary about an hour into it. It seemed pretty cool. The docu-guys were talking to Johnny Depp, who supposedly was the first actor chosen to be in Signs. Johnny talked about how he backed out because Night was a nutjob director, who wanted too much control, etc. He made some claims about Night requiring him to memorize statements to give to the press, and I thought, “hey, this is kind of entertaining.” (And Johnny looked cool in his hat.) 
 
The docu-guys then go talk to Adrian Brody, who’s starring in the new Night movie, The Village. He’s very cagey, won’t talk about the movie – and then spouts the SAME PRESS STATEMENTS Depp said he was supposed to memorize for Signs.
 
So I’m all, “haha,” settling back into my seat, popping the Wheat Thins and preparing to really enjoy myself.
 
Then, I figure it out.
 
The docu-guys go out with Night to shoot some pool and hang out. There are people at the pool hall who take pictures with the famous director, fawn over him a bit and blah blah. Then pool is over, Night goes home and the docu-guys go outside and wave by.
 
Once Night’s SUV is out of sight, the docu-guys race back into the pool hall and snatch up a picture someone had just taken with the director. It’s got these wispy things in it – like pictures have when there’s a ghost present. Spooky, eh?
 
This is when I start thinking, “Hey, wait a second. This isn’t a real documentary at all – this is a publicity stunt.”
 
And right I was. The “documentary” goes on to purport that Night is making movies that are autobiographical… he’s really some kind of medium who channels ghosts and stuff.
 
Yeah, yeah. The whole thing was really just a put on – an ingenious marketing ploy not only for the director, but for his next movie.
 
I wonder if I’d seen the first hour of the thing if I’d have caught on quicker? It was the bad acting of the “unapproved interview” subjects that first gave the ruse away. Then it escalated from there. Crazy coinkidinks, an interview with an obviously fake “occultist,” scary crows popping in out of no where, the boom guy dropping things at the perfect scary moment….
 
It was all great fun to watch, and I can’t believe I was fooled for even the brief time that I was. I feel a little duped, but mostly I’m jealous. This M. Night Shyamalan guy is one smart dude. Or he has smart people that work for him. I don’t think most marketing people are this brilliant though – Hey! Let’s make a documentary about your new movie, but have the documentary guys start making it about you, then have you get pissed, back out of the project, get the AP to run a story about it, but really have the whole thing be a marketing push for the film and for your cult of personality. Whaddaya say?
 
Crazy smart. And if the acting had been better I might have been fooled.
 
Or I could have just read this and just watched The 4400 instead.

maybe I’m in the minority,

maybe I’m in the minority, but
 
convicted felon
yet I still feel bad for her
to me, Martha rocks
 
I’ll never be able to make my own pillows or suffer through a bouillabaisse, but even so, I still think Martha is cool. Her show mended my spirit after some pretty stinkin’ bad months in my life. And she inspired me to tear the ulnar collateral ligament in my thumb while cooking chicken. Not a lot of people can claim credit for that.
 
I love Martha Stewart, and I think there are a million fat cat, big shot, pin-stripe suit wearing, cigar-chomping, SEC-evading men out there in the business world who have done things ten times worse than Martha has. But she’s a successful woman, she’s a pop-culture figure, and she’s a you-love-her-or-you-hate-her celebrity. So she’s a target.
 
Poor Martha’s going jail. As Chris Rock says, “If Martha’s going to jail, everybody’s going to jail.”
 
(And, yes, I know, she’s a convicted felon, so that means she broke the law. But still. Mike is Sexxy, who tries to run me over everyday… who runs every red light in town… who goes 60 in a 30. Mike is Sexxy should go to jail for five months. Not Martha.)

worst. milkshake. ever. paying three-fifty

worst. milkshake. ever.

paying three-fifty
to drink foamy chocolate milk
not very thrifty

Before I get to the milkshake thing, though, I have a question… Did any of you folks jump rope or play those silly hand-clapping games when you were a kid? For some reason, those chant-y songs have been coming back to me. This one in particular. I can’t remember all of the words, but I’ll type what I know and see if any of you guys know what the hell I’m talking about.

Here goes:

Miss Suzy had a steamboat
The steamboat had a bell
Miss Suzy went to Heaven
the steamboat went to

hello operator
please give me number nine
and if you disconnect me
I’ll kick you from behind

the fridgerator
there lay a pice of glass
miss suzy sat upon it
and hurt her little

ask me no more questions
I’ll tell you no more lies
miss suzy told me all this
the day before she died

then there’s something about a doctor and a nurse and lady with an alligator purse – or that may be a diffent song entirely. Does this sound familar to anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

###

OK. The milkshake thing. Last night a friend and I went out for a baby-free evening. Being the bad girls we are, we went to Waterloo Icehouse – for milkshakes. Normally, Waterloo is awesome. Their burgers are the kind that are steaming hot, but piled with crisp, cold lettuce and tomatoes. It’s a yummy, greasy, hot, cold mess. And the fries are even better – because they’re real. They taste just like the ones you eat out of a paper cup at the state fair.

Anyway, my friend and I weren’t hungry for burgers, as we had appeased our husbands by eating dinner ate home. So off we went for a raucous night of milkshake drinking.

But, dude.

Those Waterloo milkshakes blew. BLEW.

There was just way too much milk, and not enough shake. The chocolate flavor was all watered down… there were little chunks of floating ice cream debris. It was just a horrible mess.

So Waterloo Icehouse on IH 35 – yes, you, I’m pointing my finger at you – shape up with the milkshakes, OK? You gotta fix those things. Nursing mommies who can’t have beer (and other mommies who fall down drunk after about four sips of beer) need milkshake alternatives.

For the love of god, we need our milkshakes. And we don’t need them to suck.

this is as close as

this is as close as you’ll get

I made a picture of myself:

So there you go.

I noticed all the cool kids were doing it so I had to figure out how to do it to. Of course, if this were a true picture of me, you’d see the tired circles under my eyes, the giant zit on my chin and the insidious gray that seems to be creeping into my hair (in a quite unattractive mohawk-y way).

Thankfully, the computer makes me look young and perky.

You can go here in case you want to be cool, too.

scumbags nothing more thrilling than

scumbags

nothing more thrilling
than wasting taxpayer cash
on frivolous votes

Senator Rick Santorum said today, “Isn’t that the ultimate homeland security, standing up and defending marriage?”

No, you shit biscuit, the ultimate homeland security is for me and my family to be able to go shopping without being blown to smithereens by idiot terrorists.

The ultimate homeland security is to not wage a war that works as a precious recruiting vehicle for more terrorists and kills hundreds of Americans in the process.

The ultimate homeland security is to not panic the American people by constantly announcing that the country is under imminent threat and then not backing up your Chicken Little screeching with any facts or specifics.

The ultimate homeland security is adequate, well-funded assistance to all 50 united states, instead of blowhard unfunded mandates.

The ultimate homeland security is kicking you and your simple-minded ilk OUT OF THE GODDAMNED CONGRESS AND WHITE HOUSE.

The ultimate homeland security has nothing whatsoever to do with two people in love who want to commit to each other and enjoy the same federal benefits everyone else gets.

Stupid Moron.