As if we’re not in the news enough for our pratfalls (can’t balance a budget, can’t stop fighting the civil war), we have to go and do something like this (the may 12th entry).
Last night the better-half and I went in search of a gift for my sister for her graduation on Sunday. We went to the new “lifestyle center” (what utter bullshit–who thought of that stupid name?) in the West End and we’ve decided that two people who basically hate to shop should not be allowed to get together to shop. But, we gave it our best shot which basically meant walking around saying things like “no, not that”, “i hate this place”, “what are we going to do about dinner”, “i should have just ordered it off the internet, when has it ever failed me”. It didn’t help that we were dressed nearly identically (both wearing golf shirts and jeans) and that we’re the geekiest shopping-impaired couple ever. While we were making our way towards (but not into) one of the big department stores, a group of teen girls scuffed, scuffed, scuffed along behind us and eventually passed us. The better-half said they traveled like a school of fish. I snarled that at least one of them should learn how to lift their feet when they walk. Clearly, we needed to get back in the car.
I’ve seen “arras” used twice already this week. And, while I may have come across this word at some point in the past, I think it is a bit weird to see it twice this week and today is only Tuesday.
As some of you may know, I majored in English and up until my senior year, I was an English Lit major. I hastily switched to English with a writing concentration just so I could take a creative writing seminar from one of my favorite professors. This, my friends, is how I have the degree I have and I never had to suffer through a journalism class. But, believe me, after not one but two linguistics courses, I more than made up for the suffering.
All of this is to alert you to the fact that aside from the time I had to read Romeo and Juliet in junior high, I’ve never really cared for Shakespeare. I know this is blasphemy, but I don’t give a fig. I’ll say it again–I don’t care for Shakespeare. I’d rather find out all manner of interesting things about his life, his times, the Globe, etc. I just don’t want to read his poetry or his plays. With all of this said, it is with great pleasure that I share with you this adaptation of Hamlet.
Yesterday my friend J. and I went out to lunch and had some fabulous Thai. Really very good and we both agreed to keep that restaurant in our minds for the next time we need something spicy at lunch.
During one of our conversations, we talked about how sad we both are that the Lemon Verbena hand soap we both use is about all out at both of our houses. She had some and I used it at her house and then she gave me a container (she had to since I was running into the bath to wash my hands simply because the soap smelled so good). She went to two different Marshall’s over the weekend looking for the soap and came up with nothing. I looked on the company’s website and they don’t sell from their site (in fact, I couldn’t even find liquid soap on their site). I’ve checked all the usual suspects on the web and can’t find the soap. How horrific is that?
If you know how/where I can get this soap, please leave me a comment.
The specifics: Bain de~luxe aloe and glycerin liquid soap, lemon verbena.
Thanks.
For the past three nights our neighbor has fired up the heavy equipment after 8:30pm. Twice he ran the tractor (he has 3 acres of heavily wooded property–how much tractoring do you need to do) around for more than a half hour. Tonight, at 8:45pm he started cutting his grass. Newsflash, dude, it is dark outside. Like it is night, man.
We put together the new shelving units for my side of the garage yesterday. They are actually 3 units that we’ve attached to each other. Each unit has 5 shelves. That’s a boat-load of storage space. I’m pretty thrilled. Today, I’m applying a quick coat of paint to the particleboard shelf boards. The manufacturer recommends that the boards are sealed to prevent warping and mold.
The shelves are Gorilla Shelves so the entire time we were assembling them yesterday morning we had to make monkey noises. I even invented a monkey dance.
This is how we entertain ourselves.
Today at lunch we sat in a booth next to two women who started off talking about TV shows they watch and then they dipped into a little political conversation. I don’t really know what they said about recent political events but I’m sure it was uninformed. How do I know this? Because of what they said about the TV shows. Specifically, one of them asked the other if the reason why a storyline on ER featured the Dr. Romano character losing his arm was because the actor actually lost his arm.
Allow me to explain….
Paul McCrane has both of his arms.
David Boreanaz isn’t really a vampire.
Gary Sinise didn’t have his leg(s) cut off for Forrest Gump and then re-attached for all the other movies he’s done.
On the way to work I saw a Lance truck and the ad “I’ve Got Lance In My Pants” on the back of the truck cracked me up. So, like a good little product of the marketing age, I went to their website. Whoa Nelly, the genius of the site…their mouths move…SWEET.
Does the administration want me to believe they didn’t know about the torture in Iraq until it was aired on 60 Minutes II?
How is it that the administration is about as informed as I am about what is going on over there? Last time I checked, I didn’t have the big red Bat phone in my house. I’m not supposed to know every last detail…the administration is supposed to know.
The other day I was filling a form out online and with my recent birthday I jumped into the next age range bracket. I didn’t think much about it. Those little age range bracket things are pretty arbitrary it seems–no rhyme or reason why “they” choose to put ranges together. Really, are the tastes of a 32 year old that different from a 34 year old’s?
Today, I was filling out another form online and had to enter my actual age. 36. I winced when I did it and it surprised me. I’ve never really cared about my age. Heck, I’ve been going grey since my late 20s–it runs in my family. Something about typing in 36 made me realize I’m on the slippery slope to 40. Not that 40 is a big milestone for me. In fact, most of the women I’ve ever admired have been close to or past 40. So, I’m not sure what the big deal is. Maybe it is just the first time I’ve actually had to declare that I’m 36 in writing.
