is it wise to mime a natalie imbruglia song? the answer is a resounding yes!

This is also brilliant!

damn funny

Watch this to the end. (It is safe for work.) It's a Thing Of Great Beauty. And many thanks to The Bunny for making me aware of such genius.

Also, everyone else may have had more sex than me. Okay, probably. It's been a while.

pocketses?

The Silver Fox has been very productive recently... writing about stuff that would make for fun pub conversation.

But this post demonstrates the subtle (okay, maybe not so subtle) differences between Mars and Venus. What have I got in my pocketses? Um. Well, often I lack pocketses. You see, pants pockets are a whole different thing in ladies fashion. If they exist at all, they're rather small and if you try to stuff them full of stuff, then you look kinda bulgey. While being bulgey can be a good thing for guys, it's generally frowned upon for chicks. At least in the stomach, hip and rear sections.

So, what do I usually have in my pocketses?

During the work week: at the most, my metro SmarTrip card. My badge hangs off a little retractable lanyard. If I'm wearing a suit jacket, then I have room for lip gloss and kleenex. Again, I try to avoid the bulgey.

On the weekends: a little money, id, lipstick.

Now, if the question was "what has it gots in its handbags?" I'd be posting till Sunday afternoon. There's a lot of crap in there right now: a book, a new smackberry, bills/receipts/shoe coupon for Bloomingdales shoe sale, Laura Mercier pressed powder compact, a Laura Mercier pink lip gloss, a red-tinted Burt' Bee's chapstick, wallet, checkbook, a little notepad for my musings/books I need to buy/grocery list, Altoids tin that's currently carrying five aspirin, eyedrops, contact lens case, a box of bandaids...

I like to be prepared.

can't sleep. clown'll eat me.

Serious Simpsons fans out there might recognize my title right away. It was either that, or "dances with ambien".

As I get older, the insomnia worsens. There doesn't appear to be a serious health reason, though I'm sure the medicine prescribed for my allergies doens't help. All I know is that I can't sleep more than a couple hours without some help. I've tried earplugs, sleep sound machines, limiting all caffeine intake to before 2 pm, limiting alcohol intake, watching what I eat, taking hot showers/baths, lavendar linen spray, not exercising after 7 pm, Tylenol PM, sominex, nytol, nyquil, and ambien. To name a few.

So, the doctor is trying out a long-term sleep aid (lunesta) on me and it seems to be helping. Although, the dreams have been surreal in the extreme. I've dreamt of car engines that drive themselves (albeit poorly), being saved by Elvis from a lightning storm, and being Queen (no idea of what, but the King was hot and I got to be imperious with everyone else, which was wicked satisfying).

but where am i going to sleep?

Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers. He is a master of language and satire without being overbearing. (Usually.)

Welcome to the Monkey House is one of the finest collections of short stories ever. Love it love it love it from "Harrison Bergeron" to "Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow".

You can probably guess that I hold a very special place in my heart for all things satiric and hyperbolic. And not just from this recent declaration regarding Vonnegut's writing. I do, after all, have the gall to write about the poor guys that actually want to date me. (And don't even ask about the most recent sad soul.)

In fact, the latter story was recently recalled as I related my family's current housing situation. My parents have sold the ancestral manse (30+ year old 2-story) and moved in with my sister, brother-in-law and their rug rats. They are all, collectively, buying and building a much larger house for them to all live in. Together. Yes, I'm more than a little amazed since WASP's don't do this very often. When the WASPy chicks flee the nest the parentals grieve briefly, and then turn the chicks' former rooms into sewing rooms and offices. Then they stop answering phone calls because they're out having fun or something ridiculous (as opposed to sitting by the damn phone waiting anxiously for my a call... why haven't you called me back, mommy?).

Well, back to the weird matter at hand. They're all living together. Of course, there's a brand new baby to care for and my dad can't sit still for more than 25 minutes so all the yard work is getting done and flowers have been planted…

The story "Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow" is about a family of 23 living in a one-bedroom apartment. Ya see, it's the year 2158 AD and the world population has reached 12 billion or something and the planet can't handle the overflow as a result of pharmaceuticals keeping folks alive till they reach 150. The eldest member of the family controls everything in the apartment; he has the private room, sits in front of the tv, controls said tv and determines who gets to sleep where. Members of the family grow frustrated and conspire to water down his medications so that he dies sooner. The geezer discovers this and shows mercy on his family by having them arrested and sent to prison where they have their own rooms for the first time ever. And then they conspire to see about lengthening their prison stays.

So, for the first time since ever, I will be relegated to couch city when I visit in two weeks. And with a new and adorable baby it's not like I can wait to visit till the new house is ready next November. I have an obligation to make the other aunts (the in-laws) look really bad in comparison and this necessitates coming home every 2-3 months. I won't be able to escape from the parental, sibling, giant hairy neurotic dog, or sobrino factions. On top of all this, I am no longer allowed to call after 8:30 pm CST as this wakes my sister and the babe. I was okay with not being encouraged to call my parents on Sunday nights as that was their big HBO night forever, but this is out. of. hand.

larks v. night owls (damn the larks)

ok - i had this feckin' brilliant post done on how feckin' awful daying savings time is and blogger feckin' crapped out on me. Feck all.

scottish kegel exercises, the strand, shoes and spamalot

Just back from a quick trip to NYC and, good lord, am I beat.

The trip was taken to accomplish two goals: to celebrate the Alabama Slama's b-day (belatedly) and to see Spamalot. As usual, it was so much more.

The highlight of the trip took place on Saturday evening. The Freckler, The Slama, and I repaired to the St. Andrew's pub about two blocks away from the Shubert Theatre to enjoy a few wee drams. It so happens that Tartan week has kicked off in NYC, so the pub was particularly lively. We were treated to a vigorous demonstration of Scottish Kegel exercises by some young Scots-American lads. These boys were gifted, I tell you. Or so drunk that they could no longer feel anything below the waist. Either way, some sort of record was surely set in the field of pelvic thrusting.

I was finally made acquainted with the miracle that is The Strand. Purchased books include Welty's The Optimist's Daughter, Medina's The Cigar Roller (bought a reviewer's copy for half the list price!) and Russo's The Whore's Child. Borrowed titles include Ha Jin's War Trash, Lahiri's The Namesake, Niefenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife, and Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy. On top of those, I've just started both Docx's The Calligrapher (which incorporates a lot of poetry of John Donne) and Seth's A Suitable Boy. Who needs dating? I've got books!

Lastly, I now have a new pair of completely frivolous shoes. I was displeased about not being able to find a pair in the exact shade of desired green (not the yellow-limey shade that is so popular, but a green with a little more blue in it), but they are open-toed and absurdly high. I'd post a link, but can't find one right now. Argh.