Judge: As the acts depicted in the video for Chingy's "Holidae Inn" bear no resemblance to anything to ever occur at an actual Holiday Inn location, I am dismissing this suit as without merit. Case closed.
Everyone (excepting the Holiday Inn suits) cheers. Chingy, Snoop Dog, and Ludacris embrace. A single tear rolls down Snoop's cheek. They all walk out arm-in-arm with the hot baliff.
"Six years of algebra just isn't enough!" she said.
I tried to explain that I really had already done my time and that I was just back to catch up on some English, but she wasn't having any of it. And then the new guidance counsellor whooshed me to her office and tried to talk to me about becoming a more spiritual student. Whaa?
That's right, Trot. Here he is with his lovely wife and a picture of one of their children.
Route 2 is a gorgeous corridor of leaves, ranging from green to every shade of red my hair has ever been. And what did I find in our shred of a backyard the other day but GRAPES! Not on the ground or anything, deliberately growing on a vine on a tiny trellis. How come my neighbors and I never talk about plants? Grapes!
Here's a site that tells you weekenders where to go.
But also, people should accept that I know more than them about this stuff. Cos I do.
And I thought they would have been supportive. Santa, you win again.
"But Lauren," you must be thinking, "you have the most comfortable mattress in existence!"
Yes, dear readers, but imagine what I'd be like if I didn't!
I had a most enlightening Thai meal with Yuval from WW. We talked about lovelling, spiciness, beers, and a handful of other things I that don't get nearly enough airtime. Not to mention the super super drunken noodles that Nine Taste produces. Mmmmmm....
Mussina, are you falling apart? I hope you do it on your own, as your name is too long to fit on my boys' jackets
If it is you, why not click the little e-mail me link over there -----> and send me something.
If it isn't you, you have an internet fanclub. Congratulations!
Your pal,
Lauren K
Secondly, Oh, Johnny!
You'll notice what picture isn't here. I formally apologize a hundred times for every occasion on which I have wanted two fielders to collide, no matter how important it was for them to miss the ball. It's going to be a hard habit to break, but I never want to see anything like that again. I sure hope everyone is OK.
Third, Sigh:
We'll miss you William Steig.
It seems like just yesterday I was excitedly showing someone your latest book and talking about how vibrant and lively a nonogenarian you were. Turns out it was the day before.
Fourth, VICTORY!:
Once again, you (The Red Sox) are all invited over for brunch. Not that you were ever uninvited, I just wanted to reiterate. Also, let me hug you. Also, underhanded pitching is ugly. Also, Derek Lowe, you rule.
Was there something else? I'm sure there was, but that's what you get for not being able to post when you think of it. Grrr. My new sweater smells like perfume, and I'm already sneezy. Not a good sign. And I left my most comfortable shoes in Acton. But none of this is important right now.
Blog-city, you have been broken a lot during the last 24 hours or so. I hope that it's over.
Also, he owes it all to WIFFLE BALL! Nixon, you can come over any time and I will drop it all to play wiffle ball with you. And then we can have brunch. Your nice wife can probably come too.
YAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!
In my baseball movie, should it ever come about, there will be no intentional walking.
The Yankees just won their game against the Twins. I don't know what to think. Some part of me always wants the Twins to win, eventhough I have no stake in anything Minnesota. Then again, I would really like the Red Sox to beat the Yankees in the playoffs. Then again, I would like the scratches in the side of my car to magically heal themselves. And I would really like to be a pilot.
But back to intentional BS walks... cruddy cruddy cruddy. I think there should be a monetary fine every time a team chooses to pitch around someone. Or the offensive player who was IW'ed gets two bases. Or a cake. One base is simply not enough. Or the other team gets to switch anyone they want into the next spot after their scary power hitter was walked. ANYONE THEY WANT. Meaning the guy on third, someone from the other team, me, or someone they have to bring back from the dead.
I take it back, there will be intentional walking in my baseball movie. There will be an hilarious (tee hee) scene where the Mexican farm players intentionally walk everyone on the All-Star team. And then the US guys will teach the Mexicans how to hit when they are being pitched around. And the Mexican All-Stars will never intentionally walk anyone ever when they play in the Real World Series.
Dammit.
Also, Derek Lowe has a lot to be upset about. Derek Lowe takes number two from every dum-dum in this mickey-fickey neighborhood. But
THIS PICTURE
has got to be the worst thing ever.
Jim seems to think D. Lowe isn't a goat. Maybe. But I'd still be mad if that were my picture. Derek, you are charming, talented, and literate. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Speaking of goats though, I have rediscovered
Gregory the Terrible Eater,
which is a remarkable book. Goats are great, no?
Love,
Lauren, fan either way, dummies
An older gentleman asked today if my gigantic engagement ring was from an Arab oil sheik. I giggled.
If you buy the Old Fashioned Tomato Rice soup at Au Bon Pain, you will learn two things. The first: it is reduced sodium. The second: it requires more salt.
Tomorrow Lauren is in high-demand. And today I answered a lot of questions about chapter books for a lady with the Horn Book. And maybe you'll be proud or maybe you'll be disappointed, but I did not pester this lady about the Maira Kalman Horn Book event. I didn't even bring it up. But Ms. Book seemed to think that I am a superstar of the bookstore world, which is always nice to hear. Especially when you see no forseeable end to being in the bookstore world.
Some other lady made me give her a lot of recommendations as I was very obviously on my way to lunch, jacket (hey look, I remembered a jacket; happy Rocktober!) and bag and everything. She got her advice, and I told her that now I needed her advice on where to eat lunch. She told me she works for Harvard, therefore eats for free, therefore had no idea. Special no thank you to her.
And LAST NIGHT there was a guy who called the store for a mail order, and made me wait on a 3-way call to his daughter-in-law in D.C. and didn't tell her I was lurking in phonespace. It was like a flashback to junior high where you call your friend and then you call the boy and your friend stays quiet and you ask the boy what he thinks of your friend... SLIMY!
So that's the bookworld, sort of. Erin, are we getting ice cream or what?
Stay tuned for game 2, folks, happening soon!
--Your Queen of Space
Shakespeare Bats Cleanup by Ron Koertege
Yes, a poetry novel. Stop being such a snot and read it.
Speed of Light by Ron Carlson
Gorgeous.
Turning the page on the calendar, it occurs to me that I have neglected to write down the time, location, or any information about "Dermo in Burlington" on 21 October. I wonder if, in the big sweep of all things paper, I managed to toss that one important piece. Probably. I'll never clean my room again. Also, maybe the Burlington Dermo is the kind of office where they call to remind you the day or two before because of people like me. Here's hoping.
Check out Phatfirm Francophone and we can bob our heads together.
Oh, and, apparently I totally reek.
She wanted me to turn water into wine.
*(stick)
--and many, many more!
Also, looking closer, I'm pretty sure there are whole maraschino cherries in some of that sushi. Far out man.
Sushi Boat!
You can have all the shrimp ones.
This is not that ring.
My Pirate Personality:
Like anyone confronted with the harshness of robbery on the high seas, you can be pessimistic at times. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!
Get your own Pirate Name:
Click me, ya scurvy dog!
Master Cubist, as presented by The Acton Beacon
Also, I bet he is MAD they used his picture from senior year. In my yearbook, he drew a crazy braces smile over it. Spooky. Also, the last time I looked through it, I smashed it shut on a fly that had been stalking me. Then I circled the fly and put the date next to it to warn other flies.
"Anyone who's willing to practice it everyday for an hour, for a year, can solve it in under 30 seconds, I'm almost positive. After that it takes real dedication, and you really just have think 'cube' and dream 'cube',"
Yup.
Also, this article seems to imply that Mr. Knights invented the contest and then went on to win it. Hmmm... smacks somewhat like my other old friend, Dave Bergart, champion skier and archer, who later became the best ski-archer imaginable. Perhaps next year we will see a water-spitting & lying contest, sponsored by soon-to-be champion ME!
Seriously though, Dan, way to do exactly like I always thought you would. Get slightly famous for doing something completely weird, and manage to make money at the same time. Very impressive. I can't wait until 8 months from now when you announce that solving a Rubix cube in under 30 seconds actually prevents and reverses Alzheimers.
...and failing miserably. I just wasted about five feet of scotch tape trying
to change the roll. It was so clear, it looked like it was done! Curse you,
magic, invisible tape!
People keep getting mad at me because I don't know the hours, the location, or the inventory of all the other stores in Harvard Square. Peeps, I only (sort of) know what we carry. I don't have time to spend in other stores buying the things I can't get here. I haven't been into the Coop since it was a Co-Op. YES, IT IS OWNED BY BARNES AND NOBLE.
You're right, I should be able to read minds as well as be all knowing where all products everywhere are sold. You're right to get mad. You're right to take it out on me. Thank you for showing me the error of my non-psychic ways.
I quit, dammit.
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(Captioned: Which Way to the Children's Bookstore?)
Now what will I grow up to be?
I couldn't have filled that thing if you had a gun to my head. Then again, it sort of felt that way anyhow.
Quest Diagnostics (now #1 on my "please let the asteroid fall here" list) in Brighton is in this building that's for rent and is being repainted. The door is wide open and the sign is hung crooked. Already my confidence in cleanliness and reliability is flagging. So I walk inside and there's a middle aged Chinese lady in a silk skirt standing in front of the water cooler (which, by the way, was half full but there were no cups. I thought about why not for a loooong time) and the receptionist is talking on the phone about somebody's wedding. I wait a minute, two minutes; she shows no sign of getting off the phone. I see the tiny sign that says to put your name on the clipboard and sit the f* down (not really). Moments later, the receptionist fills out my information on this very important sheet while still talking on the phone AND trying to have a conversation with me about Air Force health insurance.
Fine.
I drank a lot of water today. Probably somewhere near the obscene amount recommended. Maybe more. I walked to QD and really was eager to give them a sample. Really. But somewhere between learning that the receptionist was actually the clinician as well and the fact that they treat you like a suspect really ruined my chances. Also, the Chinese lady was allowed to flush and wash her hands. I had to stand there and watch QD Brighton's only employee pour my bodily fluids from container to container before I was allowed to do either. AND I had to leave my purse with this multitasker, just in case I had brought somebody else's urine with me. I didn't check to see if I still have the millions of dollars and Faberge egg collection that I usually carry around, but I would not be surprised if something were missing/broken.
So now we just sit back and wait to be mysteriously fired. But then at least I can tell everyone about crazy razors.
Also, did you know that your pee is between 95 and 100 degrees? Yep. There's a little cheater's checkbox on my form that, I imagine, can get you in big troubs if you don't, um, emit the right temperature.
Ok, enough. I wash my hands of this and all pee talk forever. Unless, of course, I get promoted.
Erin is suggesting that everyone with student loans should push nuts to the White House with their noses. She wishes American students would get as passionate about things as European ones. I sort of agree, but only if they're going to protest things in hilarious ways.
Once again, thank goodness for the Metro. (Although other sources reported this story a week ago.)
But really, isn't every day? Also:
You are The Cap'n!
Some men are born great, some achieve greatness and some slit the throats of any man that stands between them and the mantle of power. You never met a man you couldn't eviscerate. Not that mindless violence is the only avenue open to you - but why take an avenue when you have complete freeway access? You are the definitive Man of Action. You are James Bond in a blousy shirt and drawstring-fly pants. Your swash was buckled long ago and you have never been so sure of anything in your life as in your ability to bend everyone to your will. You will call anyone out and cut off their head if they show any sign of taking you on or backing down. You cannot be saddled with tedious underlings, but if one of your lieutenants shows an overly developed sense of ambition he may find more suitable accommodations in Davy Jones' locker. That is, of course, IF you notice him. You tend to be self absorbed - a weakness that may keep you from seeing enemies where they are and imagining them where they are not.
One and a half hours into today and it's already the kind of day that no matter what I do I'm going to look and feel terrible. Jen commented that my scattered schedule would be "great for your figure", meaning, I think, one's figure, but it's wreaking havoc on my face. I'm puffy! And not in a charming way either.
And last night I dreamed that Gillette was in my bedroom, telling me I wasn't working hard enough. At sleeping? No kidding!
I spend most of my time trying to avoid peeing in a cup. This doesn't seem fair.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew.
I think it's my fault that the sky is falling. Someone told me my hair looked nice. Now it doesn't.
And don't even get me started about other people and umbrellas.
Perhaps if I'd had TV back sooner, I might have expected this weather, although I still wouldn't have done anything about it.
Nuts to you,
Lauren
I signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I can't tell you about the products that will change your shaving life 2-5 years from now. But I can tell you that there was a fire drill, and a dude was in the middle of de-bearding and had to go outside with foam face.
I can also tell you, without hesitation or violation of anything, that I really would like a hamburger.
What's that dad? Classic what kind of dream? Speak up, it's 5:15 AM and I have 15 hours of work ahead of me.
Bleah.
And then, further continuing my lovely train of thought, I tried to eat some chicken that I cooked up yesterday (or Friday?) but there was the grossest layer of yellow gelatin looking fat disgustingness underneath the chicken. I tried so hard to get past it, and eat the chicken anyway, knowing full well that this phenomenon was OK and natural, but I just couldn't. Result? Pasta, of course.
While we're on the subject of pasta... I saw a snippet of How to Boil Water yesterday (again, maybe I meant Friday?). It's supposed to be a kitchen help show for real novices. They have this woman asking (intentionally or not, I can't tell) the most inane questions of the chef about simple cooking. So they're making pasta, and she says "we're going to rinse it off, right?" and he's all "NO! Don't ever do that! The starch can thicken your sauce!" and they went over this about 4 or 5 times... I have heard this MANY times on the Food TV, and I'm just wondering... WHO RINSES THEIR PASTA? I mean, aside from it making the hot noodles cold (ick!), I can see no reason to do this.
Now, slimy chicken, that I can understand rinsing.
Keep
radiating
uranium
emit
glee
eat
raisins
from David K (no relation)
Good Idea: having Gina pick me up a hot Peachy White tea from Tealuxe.
Bad Idea: drinking it, and then being left alone on the floor for most of an hour...
If this show were 30 minutes long, I'd like it better.
Hey, and remember when UPN was going to do 15 minute shows? Nope, neither do I.
Also, I feel like every mention of the name "Spike TV" is lending too much creedence to that stupid concept. From now on I will try not to.
Not to even mention that this is hardly the first network for the men. I was pretty sure almost all networks were for the men. Then again, this has been said before.
Oh the hilarity!
Tee hee!
______________________ (mon)
______________________ (tues)
______________________ (wed)
______________________ (thu)
______________________ (fri)
______________________ (sat)
______________________ (sun)
See, it's a great deal because not only do I get fed, but you get to hang out with me and watch television. Whee!
Also, the cable was repaired by a dopey fox. Very sweet and apologetic and confused looking. I would have kept him here, but then you'd have to bring both of us food. And I know that would be asking a lot.
Thanks in advance... now I have to go watch stuff.
I can't even talk about it.
Mini Shark!
Eventhough The Spark told me I had an IQ of 124, clearly my mental age is hovering somewhere around three or four. How else to explain my hands being covered in pen day after day.
And I'm not talking about a smudge or two; it looks like I belong on Pen-Molokai.
Is it on my face too?!
I was under the impression that if I put that photo anywhere I would find myself in trubs. Thank you for the clarification and suggestions. Additionally, I was always taught to believe that drinking alone was a no-no, but if you say it's Kosher, it's cool by me.
Dave needs this computer, so I have to flee, but thanks again,
Single and Sort of Fed
Also, people wearing bad perfume, that is, most perfume, should be put in glass boxes until their noses explode from the overpowering grossossity. Thank you.
I could have sworn I just saw some snowflakes.
Oddly enough, I'm dissappointed that I'm wrong.
Goats. Heh.
Also, I was mesmerized by the grace and elegance of the cables below the elevator at Porter as the big metal box descended down its chute. Moments later, I was stunned by my own corniness, but seriously, it was lovely.
On to the next,
Lauren
So now I'm awake, and thinking that I feel OK about this, why not check out their website. Bad idea. Looks like the paid assistant editor position that opened up just after I left is a real thing, and that they're doing pretty well, if web sites are to be believed. I certainly hope they are doing well, although it still stings. I'm sure I'll be able to move past it once my baseball movie is produced, but there's a big obstacle to that happening, and that is the fact that I'm not writing it.
Further compounding my sense of uselessness is the fact that two people I'm working with are taking (and talking about) screenwriting classes. Good for them, really. But I'm jealous and territorial and neither of those things helps with writing. I'd love to get something done just to shove it in everyone else's faces, but everyone would probably be happy for me, and also it just won't happen. This baseball movie is such a great idea. It's something everyone who hears about wants to see. So what though? Is knowing this helping? No, it isn't.
I'm such a whiner. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Maybe when I find the patience pill they can throw in a shut-up serum and a butt-kicker. Maybe I can drink a productiveness smoothie with all of those admirable things thrown in as powdery add-ons that never quite blend in. Of course, it will have bananas in it, being a traditional smoothie, and I'll have to go to the hospital, but at least I'll be more pleasant.
Furthermore, if you don't hear what I said the first time, let's make us both happy; just make something up that was brilliant and clever and satisfying. Pretend I said exactly what you wanted me to say. Repeating the ridiculous thing you thought you heard only makes us both sound like jerks.
Additionally, there should be a little prerecorded message that comes along the line when the other phone runs out of batteries, right before it plunks you into oblivion. "We're sorry, but the cell phone you were previously connected to has run out of juice. Please remind your associate or friend to have more foresight in the future. Thank you for using AT&T". Or something. Anything. I thought Steve was offended because I made fun of a Canadian vegan. In order to avoid such misunderstandings in the future, an automated notice would be appreciated. Thanks.
And in conclusion, I miss face to face interaction. That way we can talk and watch TV. That way I have my hands free to eat the baked potato, rather than staring at it wistfully. The phone is for suckers. And anybody who didn't hear me the first time is out of luck.
Once again,
Lauren
I'm trying the all-pasta diet again. Not so much on purpose as by coincidence. Can one make oneself diabetic by consuming too much starch? Is tomato sauce enough lycopene to protect me from scurvy? Can I be a pirate if I get scurvy?
Can I quit my job if I'm a pirate? Do pirates eat pasta?
Arr!
Mmm!
Ugh...
The prices are all on the stickers. I think we have a lot of illiterate customers. Is it more satisfying to ask me how much something costs than to read it yourself?
Gina thinks customers think we're magical and smart. Gosh I hope so.
And awake. Someone come clobber me to sleep please.
Jim's place is amazing... recently vacated by an Italian old man (who is hopefully zooming around the afterlife on a Vespa...surely he's not confined to the violent 7th level of hell) but chock full of the guy's stuff including books and slides and espresso machines. We ate some linguini and Hunt's Botulism Sausage Sauce on a table with no bottle of San Peligrino and drank Fanta (soon to be replaced, fittingly, by Orange Crush). Burp.
I'm willing to make the first meal, anyway, get the ball rolling. We can rent the VFW or something. How does lasagna or chili sound? Or chili lasagna? We can watch sad baseball games and thumb wrestle. And maybe save up for that decorative bottle of water, someday.
Neat how it happened on my lunch though...
Not moments after getting that offer for the discreet delivery of the Generic Viagra, my close friend Elna Mcellistrem has informed me (with the same graphic, nonetheless) that I can be getting my GV FOR FREE!!! Why pay when it's free? Indeed. If only I had not been in such a rush for my discreet delivery...
Elna Mcellistrem, by the way... Who makes up these names? I think I could do a lot better (see yesterday's entry about baby names that are also cheeses)
Do it now, lkrueger!
Up until now I had been turning down Generic Viagra offers left and right, but this morning, an e-missive arrived from my close personal friend Marilyn Chummun promising that it would be delivered discreetly. I hadn't realised until this moment that the only thing keeping me from Generic Viagra and all it has to offer was the potential for the neighbors to find out. Now I feel like I've learned something about myself, and my Generic Viagra is on the way. Thank you Marilyn Chummun.
I wanted to thank again, eventhough I'm sure she'll never read this, the kind woman at Ben & Jerry's who re-scooped an ice cream for me after I dumped mine on the ground. I was in the middle of explaining to Gina about how no one should have to hold their ice cream until after they are finished with the money transaction. And then, poomph, it was on the floor of the Garage Mall. But by the time I got back from throwing out my dirty scoop, the woman at the counter had made me another. There truly is some goodness in the world.
Fontina (can be called "Tina" for short)
Feta
Colby (I know a Colby, and she's rad)
Monchego ("Che")
Jack (or Pepper Jack)
Monterey ("Terry", "Rey", and covering both bases of naming a child after cheese and a pretentious location)
Chevre
Asiago
Edam
Romano
Spreadable Port Wine Cheddar
Muenster
Lindberger (not to be confused with the poor, unfortunate Lindbergh baby who disappeared)
and
Velveeta
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Moderate |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Moderate |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Very High |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Moderate |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Very High |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | High |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Moderate |
The 7th level?! I can't believe it. Or, maybe I shouldn't be surprised.
My plan was to wake up around 1030, go to the gym, and then meet someone for lunch around 12 or 1. Instead, I got up around 12, went to the gym, and now my lunch date (all lunch, no date) says that Springsteen-related traffic will probably delay him until 3.
At the gym, I was subjected to what must be someone's idea of a practical joke. Two TVs on separate frequencies showing Jessica Simpson and Nick BoyBand and their weird attempt at marriage and being adults. One TV on Discovery Kids, but it was time for Croc Files, not Kenny the Shark. And the other TV was set to some channel that was devoting its programming to fine cooking and food prep. That's right... as we were pumping away on stair steppers and treadmills and The Gauntlet, above our heads, people were chopping and slicing and devouring cakes, pastries, and pork chops.
Looking around, nobody seemed to mind. Perhaps my empowered-woman fitness center is immune to beautiful beckoning foodstuffs. Or maybe it was motivation. Or maybe, like the in-your-face nudity of the locker room, we were showing our strength and courage. See, I can work out and look at eclairs! Profiteroles don't tempt me! I am the Queen of the Eliptical Machine!!!
My other thought was that all these ladies are so crazy and so fitness-minded that looking at food is the only nourishment they get. Watching Eat TV while working out fills some need that in real people would be filled with consuming food at some point.
But not me, not yet.
On the way to the gym, I noticed that the tomato plants at the neighbors have morphed into a tomato forest. Most of the fruits are green and humongous. I think I want to live there. I mean, if I'm not going to have cable anyway, I may as well live in a tomato forest, right?
On the way home from the gym, I wasn't hungry until I saw a woman sitting on a bike, eating a banana. She had elbow pads on. I couldn't tell you anything else about her or the bike, but I wanted to snatch the banana out of her hands and devour it. Please keep in mind that I haven't (knowingly) eaten a banana since 1998 and that they make my throat swell and breathing difficult. But I WANTED it. Weird.
I'm going to go get a glass of water.
None of this xylophone crap or X-Mas garbage. In this book, each letter has a personality, and little X is xeonophobic! He/she dislikes EVERYONE! How lovable!
There's another alphabet book that's fairly good, with nice illustrations and an interesting overall concept.
But even after looking up 'xystus' I can't quite decide what it means. There does seem to be a Dutch metal band with the same name.
And of course, my perrenial favorite: What Pete Ate from A-Z: Where We Explore the English Alphabet (In Its Entirety) in Which a Certain Dog Devours a Myraid of Items Which He Should Not.
Although I don't remember what Pete ate for X, and it was probably a xylophone. Oh well.
Chorus:
No cares have I to grieve me
No pretty little girls to deceive me
I'm happy as a lark believe me
As we go rolling, rolling home
Rolling home (rolling home)
Rolling home (rolling home)
By the light of the silvery moo-oo-on
Happy is the day when we line up for our pay
As we go rolling, rolling home.
I've got fourpence
Jolly, jolly fourpence
I've got fourpence to last me all my life
I've got twopence to spend
And twopence to lend
And no pence to send home to my wife-poor wife.
I've got twopence
Jolly, jolly twopence
I've got twopence to last me all my life
I've got twopence to spend
And no pence to lend
And no pence to send home to my wife-poor wife.
I've got no pence
Jolly. jolly no pence
I've got no pence to last me all my life
I've got no pence to spend
And no pence to lend
And no pence to send home to my wife-poor wife.
Or maybe I'd do better if someone were singing to me now. Sigh.
Once you told me long ago
To the prom with me you'd go
Now you've changed your mind it seems
Someone else will hold my dreams
A white sports coat and a pink carnation
I'm in a blue blue mood.
I'm all dressed up for the dance
I'm all alone in romance
Once you told me long ago
To the prom with me you'd go
Now you've changed your mind it seems
Someone else will hold my dreams
A white sports coat and a pink carnation
I'm in a blue blue mood.
Rubber Duckie, joy of joys
When I squeeze you, you make noise
Rubber Duckie, you're my very best friend it's true
Oh, ev'ry day when I make my way to the tubby
I find a little fellow who's cute and yellow and chubby
Rub-a-dub-dubby
Rubber Duckie, you're so fine
And I'm lucky that you're mine
Rubber Duckie I'm awfully fond of you
Rubber Duckie I'm awfully fond of
Rubber Duckie I'd like a whole pond of
Rubber Duckie, I'm awfully fond of you
(SQUEAK SQUEAK!)
Fare the well for I must leave thee
Do not let the parting grieve thee
but remember that the best of friends must part, must part.
Adieu, adieu kind friends, adieu.
I can no longer stay with you, stay with you
Hang my hat upon the willow tree and never, never think of me.
I have worn out both sides of many pillows, exploiting the coolness that can only be found on the bottom. My radio is mumbling quiet hip hop from the MIT radio station (or maybe it's Harvard, I don't care). It's late and I'm preoccupied, thinking about the day, and what happened and what didn't and what I need to do tomorrow.
Somehow, mentioning Josh Green in a post the other day made him call me. That's especially weird considering I don't think he's aware of the InterWeb. Who else can I conjure up? Ari Missry? Benji Rapaport? Owen Tripp? Todd Quackenbush?!!
Well that's asking for Google trouble. Did I really just leave those names there? How brave! How stupid! How utterly tired I am!
In other strange person sightings, I got what must sort of be spam from someone else I haven't thought of in (quick count on fingers...) 7 years. Or maybe I was googled and intentionally sent this email, I don't know, but I have been lying in bed for the past several hours hoping he will write back and it will have been a coincidence, and we'll have a happy but consequence free e-mail reunion.
Tomorrow is Crush List Friday. What does it all mean?
I have to write back to my cousin at Brandeis. I should write to her sisters as well. Who else do I owe email to?
Should I pursue the people who didn't hire me with suggestions for projects that they should outsource to me? I hear all sorts of family and friend voices in my head saying "the worst they can do is say no" but I know it can be much worse than that.
Is weight loss really as simple as burning more calories than you take in? Is it possible?
Can I write a sestina? Should I write my beginnings down right now so that I don't forget them in the morning? Would it be better to forget them in the morning?
It's hot in here. I have all my blankets on the bed and no fans on. Last night and the night before it was cold. Will it be worth it to peel back the comforter or will I settle for keeping most of my legs outside the blankets?
Am I more or less likely to fall asleep if I stay in bed thinking about these things or post them?
That salmon I made for dinner was pretty good. How would it have been better? Do I need to reseason my pan? How do I go about doing that? Forget it, this will never happen.
I wish Steve had a secret phone line that didn't ring anywhere else in the house. Or that I wasn't afraid of the phone in general.
Too bad I have to work tomorrow. I wonder how Nicole will do as manager. I fully intend to be as unhelpful as possible. I wonder if she'll put me downstairs. I hope I'm downstairs all day.
Crud, I sure didn't do laundry like I meant to. I did go to the gym, but who cares? I wonder if they keep track at the gym of how many times you come in? It would be easy enough, but why bother?
What can I do to make myself fall asleep? I'm sure the answers are not to be found sitting in this chair, at this angle, typing and looking into a bright screen. Oh well.
Good night.
*elephants
*nailing something into the ceiling (their floor)
*in trouble and are attempting to seek help by repeatedly pounding on the ceiling (their floor)
*learning to tap dance (and THEY SUCK AT IT)
*harboring a giant
*juggling a bowling ball, a watermelon, and a typewriter
for the last twenty minutes at least.
UNFORTUNATELY
...it isn't in my room.
Can that happen? Is there some way I can have a little cable node coming out of the wall and NOT be getting cable? Will this involve a splitter? Didn't I major in this crap?
Also, all you Lauren doubters should seriously shut up for a little while. I have been on two actual job interviews in the last 2 weeks and fielded several job related phone calls. And none of it works.
And somehow, on the busride to the T, my sense of smell has become sharper than ever. It's awful. The guy two seats away smelled like cigarettes and pipe smoke. The air like maple syrup. Every little person and thing anywhere near me smelled and smelled intensely and bad. I almost couldn't contain my shellfish.
I did find the best deal in the airport though: at Philadelphia's bends and twists, a pretzel wagon near gate B8, you can get two (2) stale pretzels for $1.25. Mmmmm.
But otherwise the trip was fantastic. I ate well: 2 cheese steaks (good, but not superior to what you can get at Leo's), most of a half gallon of chocolate marshmallow ice cream, many meat products and several varieties of chicken. The company was unbeatable. And I walked more than most people will walk in a year.
I have yet to visit the garden. I wonder if asking my roommates to water the plants also implied they should pick whatever was ripe. I bet they didn't make the leap. Shudder.
Still nearly one third fat,
Lauren K
Sorry for:
...but evidently the stewardess was hessled by security and she was none too pleased.
"I had to take my shoes off and everything!!!" all the way down the aisle, pushing the drink cart.
And after Philadelphia, the flight continued on to Jamaica, so there were a lot of Girls on their way to Going Wild. Not as much fun as you might picture. But overall, not so bad either.
And now, instead of writing about going out, we are going out.
Ta.
There's a cast-iron skillet in my suitcase. I wonder if they'll let me through security?
I can't help but feel as if I'm sneaking out, but everyone (EVERYONE) knows that I'm going, so that's ridiculous. See you all from Philly. So there.
In other news, ex-boyfriend Dan evidently just re-claimed the Rubix Cube title. I feel, more than ever, that my life is a gen-X book. Josh Green, where are you?I keep finding new and interesting things to do on the InterWeb-Online! I wrote a Crushlist for Jim's Famous Monkey. Before that, I wrote an email about how I wasn't going to write a Crushlist. And then I got inspired to name my top ten favorite crushworthy Jims. Only the name Jim started looking funny to me and I couldn't come up with all that many crushworthy Jims. Or that many Jims at all for that matter. Happily, I was able to remember Jim Hodge and his spiky hair, and I apologize once more for ranking you only 6th. At the time, you were pretty crushworthy, but now, who knows.
I should write more verses to the "Procrastination Song".
What am I doing?!
Probably the "Interrobang" is something my dad made up, but I'm always disappointed that there's no way to superimpose a question mark over an exclamation point on the computer. Come on everyone, it's 2003 for crying out loud.
This is super dumb because I'm not putting off anything bad. I want to wake up at 4:45 tomorrow and go to the airport and fly to Philadelphia. I'm very very very excited to go. If I get into bed right now and make a serious effort, I can probably fall asleep for real by 3:30/4...
Alright, alright, I'm going to try it. Here's hoping the new New Yorker is very boring and puts me out instantly.
Pleasant dreams, internetters.
Well, much to my surprise, the chicken was wings with bones (as G-d and Nature intended, but not as I prefer) and it was so sticky and over breaded and slimy and kind of gross. A half-waste. And the pasta is pesto, but not creamy. More greasy than anything else. A single artichoke heart quarter in the center. Too many sundried tomatoes. And this stuff is supposed to be "satisfaction guaranteed" by the deli manager, but I just can't see myself stomping back over there to protest the quality of my meal in a plastic container.
But fortunately, my Brazillian mail order bride should be arriving any day now and I won't have to suffer these indignities any longer.
Belch.
