A good headline for an article about poisonous soup would be “From the ladle to the grave.”
Incidentally, what the hell is going on with me and puns today? Maybe this is some reaction to going freelance. Some kind of final pun flurry before my brain accepts that I no longer have to write headlines? Or maybe I’m actually slowly losing my mind?
I actually heard someone on TV say this while discussing whether women should go sleeveless to somber events. There are a lot of things I could say about this, none of which I have time to say right now. I’m sorry. I’m giving you blue blog.
Last weekend I went out to dinner with a group of five girls and as is inevitable when you’re dealing with those numbers, a camera was whipped out and everyone grouped together for a photo and instantly each girl pivoted and then jutted out a hip and bent a leg and then it came around to me, on the end, and I kind of thrust my mid-section toward the camera and then arched my back and then that felt wrong so I tried to pivot and undulate in another direction, as if negotiating an invisible limbo stick, and then I just gave up and smiled while my arms hung limply at my sides and my body was inclined in whatever direction is the least flattering.
You see, tragically, I never learned to pose. Somewhere I made it to the ripe old age of [but age is really just a number, now isn’t it] without learning how to do that hip-jutting leg lifted hand-on-hip thing that every other woman who wants to appear svelte and sassy learned. It’s as if I’ve never been to a bachelorette or grad night party! Am I not saucy?
So I repaired to the mirror and parked it there until I could figure out how to do it. I think I may have thrown my back out and at times I looked like a reject from a Fosse production, but should a red carpet unroll in front of me, or five girls and a camera, I’m ready.
The last time I spent that much time in front of a mirror trying to teach myself how to do something was when I was determined to learn how to raise one eyebrow. It’s one of my signature awesome-yet-weird things I can do with my body. I can also wiggle my ears. And I have a very squishy nose. Okay, those might be the only awesome-yet-weird things I can do.
Oh, duh, I can make myself burp! Took me till I got to college to find someone willing to really spend the time to show me how. Other people were always like “oh it’s easy, just swallow some air and then do this [burping]” but it’s really not that simple at all.
Also, I forgot to watch or record Hell’s Kitchen last night. I’m very very upset with myself about this.
Go here to watch tomorrow. http://www.paltalk.com/dianafalzone/
We’re going to be talking about dating and relationship stuff.
Then we’re going to make out with each other and give away a car!*
*It’s possible I’m making that up.
First I flip through “for pleasure” but don’t actually read any of the features. Then I go to the obits to make sure no one I knew or who was young died. Then I glance at the births to see if anyone I know had a kid and to make sure lots of people younger than I am aren’t popping out babies because if they are, there might be something wrong with me. Then I start looking at the alumni notes beginning with about ’85, I’m not sure why. I scan to see if anyone I know is doing anything interesting. Then I make sure no one younger than I am has published a book. Then I look at the photos to see if anyone I know has gone hiking, gotten married or visited the campus (photos are always only of these things). Then I think about emailing or calling classmates to ask them if they saw that so-and-so did this or that, but I don’t actually do this. This whole project eats up somewhere between six and eleven minutes.
Sometimes I’m so goth and emo I astound myself!
Here’s one side of an IM conversation I had with an old friend last night, shortly before I went into the bathroom and started cutting. (note: I didn’t start cutting.)
ME: hello!
ME: so I clicked on Satisfaction’s page on myspace
and then I saw a Smile profile and clicked on that
and listened to a song
ME: and it reminded me so much of the old days and playing in a band and even before that, just being at shows where you guys were playing and hanging out with you and rob over ten years ago
ME: that it was like this poignancy balloon burst in my heart
I think I had a nostalgia aneurysm
it was fairly unpleasant
ME: sometimes I get hit so hard by old memories I feel like my heart is getting squeezed
While watching Next Food Network Star! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That piece of crap Sex and the City movie didn’t pull any tears from me like it did everyone else with ovaries but this emotional roller coaster which, I might add, featured Martha Stewart tonight, did. “I don’t want to be annoying,” said Kelsey, through tears. And the thing is that she is annoying, but in that moment I felt for her. I, too, don’t want to be annoying. Is it her fault she’s really really really perky? I haven’t been this caught up in a show since… I don’t even know!
“Thanks for shopping at Duane Reade. You have a blessed day.” That’s what the check out person at Duane Reade said to me today after ringing up my purchase of band-aids and Aveeno Creamy Baby Wash. (I like to wash myself with creamy babies.) It was kind of jarring, for want of a better word. Then again, today is Sunday. Is this a special Sunday thing? Does she suit her salutation to the day of the week? Actually, I move that from now on clerks work the day of the week into their greeting because it can be hard to remember what day of the week it is. Also, they should say the time. They should basically just time-stamp their chatter. Like “Thanks for shopping at Duane Reade on Monday at 4:34.”
Usually when I watch awards show I think to myself, “my god, who writes this crap?”
This is no exception.
And Adam Duritz? With the dreadlocks? Still?
I just literally jumped from the thunder. Then I did a double axel, since I was already in the air, and I landed in the splits. I held it for a few extra seconds, breathing hard but making sure to smile at the judges, particularly that hard-hearted Olga who, well, let’s just put it this way, she’s… no, I’m just going to say it: She’s a bitch. I met her once at a cocktail party for the Seoul Olympics and she just gave off bad vibes. Like, get over yourself, Olga. You think you’re so fancy because you invented the figure skate? You think you’re all that because you survived a horrible cartwheel accident that left your partner in a coma? You think you’re so high and mighty because Oprah featured your book “Skating with God; My Life on the Rocks” on her show? Well I don’t think so, Olga. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have freezer burn on my legs.