I'm Rubber, You're Glue

I just got back from a lunch-time run to Target. I was missing a key article of clothing for my upcoming part-time gig at the Spooky Woods, which starts on Thursday. And judging from last night's training session, I can go ahead and assure you that something hilarious will happen during our six week adventure. For example, I found out that I have control of the skeleton top of the ticket booth that "pees" on people who are waiting in line. How much fun is that going to be?
But I digress...
While in the store today, I passed a Mom walking about twenty feet ahead of her tear-streaked, crimson-faced little boy.
He yelled ahead to her, "Yeah, well, I DON'T LIKE YOU VERY MUCH!!"
To which she replied, talking back over her shoulder, "Eh, I could live with that."
This is the parenting stage commonly referred in scholarly journals as "Giving up and Not Liking Your Kids- The Only Healthy Option"
Make a note.

I'b Nod Feelig Bery Well

So death is stalking me. Which sucks. I'm not sure how exactly I got on the Reaper's "naughty" list, but He appears to have it in for me. When I woke up this morning, I cursed my sinuses for yet another night of fitful sleep brought on by the ever-present junk in my nose. I may have said something to the effect of, "Jesus, Joesph, and Mary, I can't take this snot anymore! Kill me now!" And while laying on the couch last night, I became quite alarmed. I heard, off in the distance, that synth-clicking sound that the Predator makes as he's roaming the jungle. And it sounded as if it was getting closer.
I muted the TV. (Shutting it completely off was too time consuming. If I'm going to die at the hands of our alien overlords, it going to be with the television on, by God)
I listen again, more intently. There it was. Bone chilling. And then again, faster this time.
Um, yeah.
The sound is coming from MY LUNGS. I'm sure that's really healthy. So much for quitting smoking a year ago. Fat lot of good that did me. My professional opinion is that I either have the creepy crud or pneumonia. Either way, I've missed out on a lot of menthol goodness for nothing.

The Emmys

I realize that Paula's dress is like this on purpose. I do. And in theory, I don't disapprove.

But in practice, it's PAULA ABDUL. She has to know that, simply by dint of being Paula Abdul, people would take one look at this and blindly assume not that her dress was designed that way, but rather that she was too busy drinking butterfly tears from the hoof of a centaur to know that her sparkly undergarment was showing. And when you're Paula Abdul, surely at this point you are tired of people staring at you with furrowed brows, wondering things like whether you can complete a sentence, or if anyone in your inner circle thoughtfully dosed you with mind-altering drugs to erase the memory of your vanity-project reality show. SURELY, given ALL that, you would want to wear something safe, something that couldn't possibly make anyone leap to the conclusion that you are in a constant state of confusion. Then again...well, I said it already: It's PAULA ABDUL. Nothing is certain except that she enjoys how you've grown, both with your soul and in your cup of Coca-Cola that angels rained into your heart. Plus, at this point, it's possible she can't wear anything without me finding a reason to scratch my chin and ponder her clarity of mind. I should probably be content with the fact that she's fully clothed and didn't have any lines during the telecast.

Nice Rack

I went to Starbucks this morning because I needed at least 44 ounces of caffeine before I could even think about starting my day, and the little cashier girl behind the counter had the most adorable haircut. It was short and tousled and fit her cute face perfectly.
"I love your hair," I told her as she handed me the caffeine equivalent of getting an electric shock treatment. "I wish I could pull off something that short."
"Thanks!" The cashier smiled, running a hand through it. "I don't know how it would look on a girl, though."
At which point I immediately grounded my brain to a halt before I could ask what perfume he was wearing or if he got his pants at The Limited. Next up is to ask a big girl if she is pregnant, a bearded lady where she buys her jock straps, and a little person if they wear lifts.

The 11th Day of September

I was in my cubicle at the Oakwood Building in Greensboro. I had just returned from visiting one of my best friends in New York City the previous afternoon. I didn't know how to feel then and I don't know how to feel now. Empty is all. In the lobby of our office building, I sat with a co-worker and wondered aloud...
How?
Why?
Pulling his eyes from the TV, he looked at me and said nothing. Airplanes screamed past the five story glass windows as planes were being grounded immediately and the terror was all around us. Did you hear they hit the State Department? I heard the White House. They're firebombing the Pentagon, my friend told me. There's smoke coming from the Old Executive Building. The towers fall.
No.
Here, it's on TV now.
The Pentagon.
I wanted to go home, because home sounded safe, but home is only a place in my heart and safe is concept in my mind. Home is building now. Safe is memory. Maybe the world didn't change that day. Maybe we all realized that it's not the place we hoped.
Six years later, that's still the hardest lesson.

Twins

Do you ever find yourself driving down the road and you see a car exactly like the one that you're driving and you think to yourself, "Ooo! We're twins!" And you just want to get out and knock on their window and say, "Hey there stranger, look! We're car buddies! Automotive chums!! Let's hug!" Or maybe you just make a little gesture at your car and then theirs as if to say "Wow, this is so great. We should meet and get married."
Yeah, me neither. So move along, rubbernecker. There are a billion cars on the road today and we match. You didn't just win the lottery or something. Get over yourself. I've got stuff to do.

Bay-Bees

A week ago yesterday, some of our dear friends, had their first child together. She is teeny-tiny and appears to be filled with lollipops, gum drops, and cotton candy. Mmmmm. This little slice of heaven pie is named Sydney Elizabeth. Everyone say hi to Sydney!!



Next, on Wednesday of last week, two of our favorite people, had their first child. A perfect bouncing baby boy whom they named William Randolph. Now, I can't stop singing "Big Bad Billy's Sweet William". Everyone say hello to Will!!

Will, age 6 days old, is a genius. I know now that my prime objective is to live his lifestyle. For the foreseeable future, I will be devising a plan wherein I can get other humans to serve me. The basic points for my scheme are as follows:

1. More pacifiers. Whatever happened to sucking on pacifiers? Who says we should have to stop at a certain age? I would love to just pop in a pacifier when things are making me angry. Also, there are many times during meetings that I want to throw a pacifier at a co-worker and tell him/her to chill out. I'm tellin' ya, the world would be a happier place.

2. I want my blankie. I'm not just talking about a security blanket that I use during naps. This would be a complimentary item to the pacifier, to be used in moments of stress, large and small. Inherent in this item comes the ability to lay it down on the floor at any time and take a nap.

3. I want to start using grunting noises to convey every conceivable thought, idea or need. The speaking of actual words only seems to confuse people, so it is my assertion that the grunt and point system is much more practical. The real beauty of this arrangement is that it is a multi-tiered process, wherein if the thought is not understood correctly, I just grunt louder and point with more urgency. It's really a fantastic means of communication.

And finally, these two points are key to my plan:

4. I'm tired. Pick me up and carry me.

5. I am not getting what I want. I will cry until satisfied.

Gotta go now-time for my nap.