I hope you all enjoyed a prosperous and plentiful Druid Winter Solstice Light Festival. My gift to you all is the gift of blog, for it has been brought to my attention that I've been sucking something fierce at that. Now, in the holiday tradition of Amber at Airing My Dirty Laundry..., I give you validation.
Hey, it's okay...
...if you once bought unfrosted Pop-Tarts in an attempt to be "healthy."
...if, when you were 16 years old, you slept on the couch because you were convinced a tiny woodland creature was living in your headboard.
...to love Muppets.
...to hate puppets.
...if the highlights of your upcoming semester include a Spring Break trip to Seattle to see your brother, popping over to San Diego for a conference (and to frolic with SurferWife) and your dearest redheaded, Mormon tater tot, Lisa, returning to the U.S. from her mission in Finland.
...if you are damn near positive the scanner just growled at you.
...if you yelled a few choice phrases (such as "Butterfly nuggets!" and "Mrs. Clause's holiday wafers!") after dropping and shattering one of your parents' Christmas plates.
...if your dad walked past you and commented, "Your blog is old," to which you respectfully replied, "You are."
...if an adequate supply of doughnuts and cupcakes has become your most vital criteria for selecting a future city of semi-permanent residence.
...to not appreciate it when someone starts a sentence with, "I'm not complaining, but..." Yes, you are. Either own it or shut your hole.
...if Hoda Kotb taught you that you like Flo Rida.
...if you only got 4 hours of sleep last night because you couldn't stop wondering what the difference really is between grape, cherry and plum tomatoes.
...if the only reason you can pick Reggie Bush out of a lineup is thanks to Kim Kardashian.
...if you judged the hell out of the woman at the Chinese restaurant last night whom you overheard ask the waitress, "Do you have any ramen?"
...to love Harry Connick, Jr. so much, you wish you could buy him a fish sandwich.
...to have similar feelings for DVR.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Holiday highlights
I think it'll be a lot easier for everyone if I attempt to do this in an abbreviated version we can all appreciate- with pictures.
Kate is a straight up delight and I will throw
down with anyone who says differently.
- As you may or may not know, my car died, but I think I may have a new (to me) one:
It looks black, but the color is actually "evergreen mica".
- I met up with several good friends:
We like delicious dairy treats.
They have Disney eyes.
- I also had the opportunity to exchange presents with friends and family:
down with anyone who says differently.
The cover of that book says, "Grandma's dead." Grandma, by the way, was sitting to his right.
- Finally, Lisa (also known as the Blonde Blogette) and I traveled to Chicago to see the best musical of 2008:
IN THE HEIGHTS
Actually, the story of how Lisa and I got to Chicago is rather entertaining, but I'll save that for another time.
That's what I've been doing for the last two weeks.
So- what's up with you?
P.S. I need a name for my car. Aaaand..... GO.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Son of a Nutcracker!
I don't know if I've made this clear, but I am a Fanilow.
Not familiar with the term?
Well, first of all, shame on you.
Second, isn't it obvious? I am a fan of the Manilow. FANILOW.
For my money, he really does write the songs that make the whole world sing.
However, I caught a glimpse of him on the Today show this week, and boy howdy, does he look like he's been saran wrapped.
Even better, I found this fantastic video of him singing Rick Astley's hit, "Never Gonna Give You Up".
He can still sing, bless him, but it looks like he can't really move his face.
(The Man won't let me post it on here, so if you're so inclined, please observe.)
What really disturbs me is that the older he gets, the more he looks like Anne Murray. Lookit:
Which one is which?
You tell me.
On another note, I have given in to the holiday spirit.
My roommates and I got our tree yesterday. The whole experience was far less romantic than I imagined.
In this part of North Carolina, we grow us some pretty bitchin' trees as it turns out.
We tromped around the grounds of one such place, assessing height and shape. Having never been in such a place, I was overwhelmed with the fantastic smell and was all but taking hits off the branches.
When we had chosen our tree, someone came and cut it down. With a chainsaw. Then he dragged it away, tossed it on his little cart and drove it to our car.
I was sort of hoping he'd cut it down with an axe, while whistling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", then pull his corn-cob pipe out of his jacket and smoke it while telling us a story from his childhood.
He did not.
Either way, the tree is up!
Not familiar with the term?
Well, first of all, shame on you.
Second, isn't it obvious? I am a fan of the Manilow. FANILOW.
For my money, he really does write the songs that make the whole world sing.
However, I caught a glimpse of him on the Today show this week, and boy howdy, does he look like he's been saran wrapped.
Even better, I found this fantastic video of him singing Rick Astley's hit, "Never Gonna Give You Up".
He can still sing, bless him, but it looks like he can't really move his face.
(The Man won't let me post it on here, so if you're so inclined, please observe.)
What really disturbs me is that the older he gets, the more he looks like Anne Murray. Lookit:
Which one is which?
You tell me.
On another note, I have given in to the holiday spirit.
My roommates and I got our tree yesterday. The whole experience was far less romantic than I imagined.
In this part of North Carolina, we grow us some pretty bitchin' trees as it turns out.
Look! Nature!
We tromped around the grounds of one such place, assessing height and shape. Having never been in such a place, I was overwhelmed with the fantastic smell and was all but taking hits off the branches.
He was a fatty and we liked him, but alas, too tall.
When we had chosen our tree, someone came and cut it down. With a chainsaw. Then he dragged it away, tossed it on his little cart and drove it to our car.
No pomp. No ceremony. All business.
I was sort of hoping he'd cut it down with an axe, while whistling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", then pull his corn-cob pipe out of his jacket and smoke it while telling us a story from his childhood.
He did not.
Either way, the tree is up!
Um... it's a little too tall. What to do?
So, what happens when your tree scratches the ceiling? One retrieves one's hatchet, of course!
Yeah, this really happened.
After James killed it and we got it all set up, we decorated.
I named him Hugh.
After that, I made James put his hatchet back in his car. He seemed confused as to why I was so uncomfortable with a MINI AXE IN THE HOUSE.
Idon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeit.
The soundtrack to Elf is currently in the CD player of my car. It's the next best thing when your mom steals your copy you can't find your copy of the DVD.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Christmas tree or scratching post?
I have gray hair. Frick.
I'm 23 years old and pushing 24 (does that mean I get to start telling kids to get off my lawn?) and I have little gray hairs next to my ears.
This hardly seems fair as I can't blame it on the stress of my job (don't have one), the exertion of raising children (nonexistent, thank God) or keeping the family orchard safe from apple thieves (if only).
This weekend, I chose to distract myself from the early onset of old age by helping my mom decorate our Christmas tree.
The IU mug and the Purdue fleece may seem like a conflict of interest, but that's kind of the house we live in.
Anyway, we only got to decorate the top 2/3 of the tree due to the fact that both our cats decided the Christmas tree is one big cat toy, constructed purely for their pleasure.
Because of these two furballs, since Sunday, most conversations in this house go a little something like this:
Sara: Are you hungry?
Dad: Yeah, what do you want for- Cindy, get out of the tree! -dinner?
Sara: I thought- Stella! No! -you were going to make chili.
Dad: I could make chili. When is your mom getting home?
Sara: I just talked to her and- Cindy, stop chewing on baby Jesus! Spit him out! - she said she should be home in about- Cindy, I said spit Jesus out!- 20 minutes.
Here is our finished tree, complete with homemade ornaments from my brother and I, circa 1989. (The breakables will stay in the box this year thanks to Spazzy McGee and Lady Eats the Tree.) I even got to put the angel on top of the tree! Sort of!
It's taller than it looks. 
Tomorrow, I will be going to the airport to collect my good friend, Lisa, from the Indy airport. She has many nicknames, like Lisa-Pants, Lises Pieces and my personal favorite, Love Chinchilla (don't ask me to explain that).
I imagine a blog full of all sorts of shenanigans and poppycock will show up very soon. And I warn you, most of it will involve eating... because that's what we do.
I'm 23 years old and pushing 24 (does that mean I get to start telling kids to get off my lawn?) and I have little gray hairs next to my ears.
This hardly seems fair as I can't blame it on the stress of my job (don't have one), the exertion of raising children (nonexistent, thank God) or keeping the family orchard safe from apple thieves (if only).
This weekend, I chose to distract myself from the early onset of old age by helping my mom decorate our Christmas tree.
The IU mug and the Purdue fleece may seem like a conflict of interest, but that's kind of the house we live in.
Anyway, we only got to decorate the top 2/3 of the tree due to the fact that both our cats decided the Christmas tree is one big cat toy, constructed purely for their pleasure.
Because of these two furballs, since Sunday, most conversations in this house go a little something like this:
Sara: Are you hungry?
Dad: Yeah, what do you want for- Cindy, get out of the tree! -dinner?
Sara: I thought- Stella! No! -you were going to make chili.
Dad: I could make chili. When is your mom getting home?
Sara: I just talked to her and- Cindy, stop chewing on baby Jesus! Spit him out! - she said she should be home in about- Cindy, I said spit Jesus out!- 20 minutes.
Here is our finished tree, complete with homemade ornaments from my brother and I, circa 1989. (The breakables will stay in the box this year thanks to Spazzy McGee and Lady Eats the Tree.) I even got to put the angel on top of the tree! Sort of!
It's taller than it looks. 
Tomorrow, I will be going to the airport to collect my good friend, Lisa, from the Indy airport. She has many nicknames, like Lisa-Pants, Lises Pieces and my personal favorite, Love Chinchilla (don't ask me to explain that).
I imagine a blog full of all sorts of shenanigans and poppycock will show up very soon. And I warn you, most of it will involve eating... because that's what we do.
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