Confession time: when I was younger I was obsessed with the Olsen Twins. I wanted to be their best friend -- I even used to have dreams that I was their step-sister. To a vain 12 year old with no friends, being friends with a celebrity was the ultimate compliment, coveted enough to make me wake up from those dreams a tiny bit mad at my parents for still being married.
Anyway, my friend Leila was (and is!) The Cute Girl and had the privilege of calling Brian her boyfriend. I bet they even held hands. But I'm sure she'll tell a better version of that story on her blog soon.
I'm still a little bitter that I don't have access to John Stamos and a closet full of oversized old lady afghans (and a billion dollar fortune) but at least I might be able to get a discount on bejeweled dentures. What more could a girl ask for?
The farmer's market, where so far I've picked up peaches, blackberries, strawberries, corn and other various vegetables, goat's milk soap, a lavender plant, and a lemon verbena plant. The peaches and blackberries turned into Olivia at Everyday Musing's peach and blackberry crisp.
I read about this book, Palace of Illusions, in a magazine awhile ago and added it to my to-read-someday list. I found it at an outlet mall outside of Austin and bought it immediately, partly because I want to read it and partly because it's sparkly.
I think I still have a headache from the lunch break I spent picking out a new perfume a few days ago. I ended up with Wish by Lollia. The pretty bottles may have been part of what sold me.
Blueberry picking, which actually happened about 3 weeks ago. It was scorching, but the lemon blueberry cheesecake bars, blueberry muffins, and bowls of Greek yogurt, honey, and blueberries were kind of worth it.
Today I accidentally locked Y outside in the rain for 20 minutes, only to get stuck in the rain myself and end up like a drowned rat on my doorstep, ruined suede shoes in hand. Karma, right? This awkward, wet day brought out the worst in both of us: my utter pathetic-ness... and Y's, um, awesome spelling.
My tale of awkwardness revolves around this guy:
You see, today was one of those days where I left my windowless closet of an office maybe once and spoke to a total of ONE person the entire day. So when I got home and Y asked me how my day was, I had nothing to talk about... except my new twitter friend.
I literally must have told 5 different stories about the stupid snake's tweets. I had to tell Y about how it went on a Sex and the City tour and declared itself a "SSSSSSamantha". And how it went to the Seinfeld restaurant. After going on about the snake for a few minutes, I stopped, thought about the conversation, and realized how incredibly alone in the world I am.
Y's tale of awkwardness occurred while writing the first draft of his personal statement, which is necessary for applying to residency programs. It really needs no explanation:
In case you didn't notice the oversaturation yourself, or read it here first, let me just reiterate/confirm: the cupcake is no longer cool.
But you know why? Well first of all, I like to bake, and they're easy. It isn't because I have some weird obsession with cupcakes. It's also because when you show up somewhere carrying a dozen cupcakes, it makes people happy. And who doesn't like making people happy? The same people who don't like cupcakes: Communists.
Because I'm in the midst of a terrible case of blogger's block (and Ike hasn't really done anything especially exciting lately), I'm going to lump together what's been going on since we last spoke. A refresher: my husband has the same shaped head as Abraham Lincoln.
Y has actually been told more than once this week that he looks like Josh Lucas from Sweet Home Alabama. One of those times was by one of his patients. Bet you didn't know that elderly war veterans enjoy rom-coms. Can anyone resist Dr. McDreamy?
I love to read, but my choice of books is usually pretty questionable. Case in point: On my color coded bookshelf I've read the entire pink shelf but only two or three books out of the three black and white shelves. Funnily enough, black/white books are usually more respectable than pink ones.
One of my favorite series of books might make my father in law (and his collection of world history books) raise his eyebrows, but surprisingly I don't think any of them are pink. They might as well be, since they are about high school and crushes, but the author's dry humor and sarcasm make me feel comfortable admitting that I read most of these books during or after college. Plus, since most of my friends read them, I have allies who can back me up when I say I sped through 3 Jessica Darling novels in 6 hours at the age of 24 but quietly sat in the background when JD Salinger died because I haven't read Catcher in the Rye. (It's on my list, OKAY?!)
(I have a point, I promise.)
Megan McCafferty, the author of the Jessica Darling books, has a blog. She calls it her (retro)blog and posts old pictures of herself and old journal entries she wrote and makes fun of herself. I love this idea! I love making fun of myself.
I don't think I'll end up copying her idea, because a) I like to think I'm more creative than that and b) I'm not that funny, but I started looking through old journals just in case I needed material, and I stumbled across an old online journal from when I was 19.
(I'm getting reaaallly close to the point.)
My memory is broken, I think. Yoni will tell me a piece of trivia and I'll forget it 5 minutes later. I can't retain ANYTHING I learn in classes. I'll read a really interesting article about something and when I go to tell someone about it, I won't be able to remember any of the details. BUT: I remember what I was wearing on most given days when anything of mild importance happened. If you tell me you really like something, I'll most likely file it away and get it for you for your next birthday. And one time, when I was 19, a guy stepped on my foot at a crowded bar at LSU and then yelled at me for being in his way. I remember it like it was yesterday. He had blonde hair and looked vaguely like Abe from a season of Road Rules, back when people still watched that show.
6 years later, I'm on the elevator on my way in to work, 4 hours north of where we went to college, and he gets on. I recognize him immediately and call all of my friends - it had been a big deal when we were nineteen but apparently my friends have been too busy remembering important things (they all have masters degrees...) and have no recollection of this most important moment in my life.
After that initial elevator ride, that guy was on the elevator with me at least once a week. I would be behind him in line for coffee. We would be on the shuttle to the parking lot together. Every time it happened, I texted my friends and pleaded with them to remember. No luck. A few weeks ago, I found out that he is going to be a brain surgeon and I had no one to share this information with. I started to think I made the whole incident up because what kind of friend wouldn't remember a guy stepping on my foot 6 years ago and ruining my night?
Well, while browsing my old journal looking for material for a rip off of (retro)blog by Megan McCafferty, who writes some of my favorite books, I found PROOF: (See how my mishmash post came together all of the sudden)?
[29 Feb 2004|01:54am]
the new dirty dancing came out last night and all we wanted to do was dance. so me rache and dana went out to fred's to do just that. we get in the door, some guy steps on my foot, spins around and yells "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, BITCH!!!!"
It happened! I knew it.
Thanks for the tip, 19 year old me. PS, Your run on sentences and excess of exclamation points are embarrassing me and I will never share you with anyone. I'm also going to pretend I didn't just find an entry where you admitted that you wanted a trucker hat.
I know at least some of you out there had blogs before they were blogs... care to share any wisdom from your younger selves?
Yeah, I know - 2 blogs in a row with a wedding picture. You probably think I'm sitting at my computer in my wedding dress, staring blankly at my pictures while stuffing frozen wedding cake in my mouth. You might be right. Or you might not. I'll just let you imagine.
Regardless, I was inspired to post that picture by something I read yesterday in Glamour magazine's "What men are really thinking" feature.
Sidenote: I'm tempted to give up on Glamour. How many ways are there to say that whole grain bread is better than white bread? That runway styles can be adapted to real life? That your significant other doesn't care about cellulite and ps there is no cure but a tan can make it less obvious but omg not a real tan our MD says so. But I can't stop reading it. Pretty. Pictures. Must. Buy.
Anyway, men were asked what they were thinking as their future bride walked down the aisle and I'm pretty sure Lorin from Sacramento and I share a brain.
"Well, I'm Jewish and Kristen is Asian and Jewish, so it occurred to me that when we have kids, we should definitely have dumplings at their bar mitzvahs."
I mean, not that I thought that as I walked down the aisle. But you should HEAR some of the similar stuff that my brain comes up with, at the most inopportune moments. Maybe one day I'll share. But not until after my frozen wedding cake, thanks.
So, it's been awhile. But only unblogworthy things have been happening. If you don't believe me, just the other night, Y dreamed that his toenail fell off, and when I fully woke up 30 minutes later I rolled over onto a severed toenail. And that was the most interesting thing I could come up with.
In other unblogworthy news, we did our taxes. My W-2 was apparently on the mail truck next to a shipment of bacon.