“No, don’t buy that, it needs to be Blu-Ray.”
“What’s a Blu Ray?”
“I don’t actually know, I just know that’s what we need.”
“Well I don’t get why, when it’s right here.”
“No, that’s a DVD!”
“I just don’t–”
“You can play Blu Rays on a DVD, you just can’t play DVDs on a Blu Ray. Wait, is that right?”
“Let’s just get a gift card.”
“Why are you adding corn starch to that?”
“Because it’s in the recipe, silly.”
“Yeah but you really should have added the milk first.”
“I’m doing it this way.”
“You really should add the milk.”
“I’m going to add the milk to your FACE in about–”
“Oooh, yum, good dip!”
“DIP!?!?”
“Oh, hush you–”
“No. There is no DIP coming into this house.”
“It’s clam dip! Mmm—”
“NO.”
“You really need to get over this dip issue of yours.”
“NO. NO DIP!!!”
(For reference, this feud between my aunt and father over the proper amount of dip to serve at the holidays has been going on, I’m not even joking, for decades. Her dip is really good though, so she always wins.)
“This bread is frozen.”
“Yeah, it’s easier to make them that way.”
“Yeah but if it’s frozen why does it have mold on it?”
“It doesn’t!”
“Oh, ok so bread is SUPPOSED to have blue spots.”
“OH, that’s not the frozen bread that’s the bread I used to make Grammie and Grandpa’s sandwiches.”
“Uhh….”
“What?….Oh. Ooops.”
Unlike last Christmas, I am crazy, chockerblock, shoot mistletoe up your butt til it comes out your ears, full of holiday spirit this year. Maybe I’m just in a better mood this year than last. Maybe it’s because I am not single at present and won’t have to get any “oh well I’m sure you’ll meet someone who enjoys corpulent, sarcastic misanthropes eventually, Sarah” remarks from family members. Maybe it’s a sugar-cookie induced psychotic episode. But I am psyched, just psyched, for Christmas.
I decorated the apartment. I’ve been burning smelly, pine-scented, candles. I’ve even been contemplating getting Christmas outfits for the kitties.
Okay, maybe not.
Regardless, I love Christmas. I’m going to force my boyfriend to watch “Elf” with me on Friday night, as (blasphemy!) he’s never seen it. I assume he’s next going to tell me that he hates freedom, cupcakes, freedom cupcakes, and everything else in the world that is awesome.
Speaking of “Elf,” let’s do a list!
Top Ten Favorite Holiday Movies That Aren’t “A Christmas Story”
(You love “A Christmas Story”, I love “A Christmas Story”. We ALL love it. Let’s see if we can do this list without it, shall we?)
10) Babes in Toyland – There have been several versions, I believe. But this 1986 version with Drew Barrymore, Keanu Reeves, and Mr. Miyagi as the Toymaster? Tour de force on all counts, and VERY 80s. Not convinced? There’s an entire song in it all about the awesomeness of….Cincinnati.
9) “The Family Stone” – I am surprised by how much I enjoy this movie. I don’t really like Sarah Jessica Parker, and she’s the main character. They don’t give Rachel McAdams nearly enough screen time or bitchy remarks at SJP’s expense, and Luke Wilson is sorely underserved by the script (though does have a spectacular moment in which he is clearly going commando in his sweatpants). To say nothing of the involvement of the truly vile Dermot Mulroney, who will forever encapsulate the “douche that women fight over in movies even though he is not even worth the nailpolish they will chip during the catfight for his affections”. And yet? I freaking LOVE this movie. It’s just so Christmasy! And it makes you cry! And the DVD has a recipe for a delicious sounding quichey thing they make in the movie that ends up splattering all over everyone! It’s just really good. Plus I liked the poster–hehe.
8. “A Muppet Christmas Carol” – Um, hello? Statler and Waldorf as Marley? Genius.
7) Speaking of takes on “A Christmas Carol,” – “Scrooged” – This movie was made before the Bill Murray renaissance of the last few years, in which he has Vince Vaughned himself into the “playing the same role in every movie” mold so much that I’m almost experiencing a personal Bill Murray backlash. But when in doubt, I can always consult “Scrooged.” Classic!
6) “Gremlins” – No one ever thinks of this as a holiday movie! Everyone forgets that Gizmo started out as the world’s best Christmas present! You know, before the whole water thing resulting in Gremlins springing out of his back and trying to eat everyone. And you should love this movie based on the sequel alone, which stands as one of the most underrated sequels in movie history, and the first since “Godfather II” that honestly blows the original out of the water.
5) “Bad Santa” – Not even the sight of Lorelai Gilmore as a woman with a Santa fetish can diminish my love for this movie. Not even Billy Bob Thornton torturing some poor radio host interviewing his band and comparing himself to Tom Petty (snerk) can diminish it. It’s just that good.
4) “Love Actually” – I watch this movie approximately 5 to 7 times per Christmas season. This season I made my mom watch it with me, and even her repeated inquiries as to who was who, who was with whom, and whether Hugh Grant was the prime minister or Emma Thompson’s husband (repeated, repeated inquiries) couldn’t spoil it for me. That’s how it cracked the top five.
3) “It’s a Wonderful Life” – I know, I know. (No seriously, I know.) But despite all my sister’s repeated claims that I am a stone-hearted Grinch without a soul, this movie makes me weep every time. I’m powerless against it. I get choked up thinking about it, so we’d better move on before it gets dusty in here.
2) “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” speaks for itself with the cord-chewing wrapped up cat exploding.
“You realize it’s still dark out, right now, right? And we’re about to run around and up and down hills and such? Dark out.”
“Yeah! Isn’t it great!?”
“Are we expanding the definition of ‘great’ to include ‘ridiculous’ and ‘nauseating’?”
“You’ll be so glad to have it done and out of the way!”
“I’ll be so glad when I can go back to bed. And what is this? Seriously, I thought the advantage of exercising before dawn was that it’s nice and cool. The air feels like pea soup mixed with phlegm.”
“Well, just imagine how much worse it would be if the sun were out!”
“This is supposed to comfort me? I’m going to end up like that rat in The Abyss that they made breathe in the liquid oxygen. That rat wasn’t too happy.”
“Maybe not, but it survived.”
“Damn you.”
HALP!!!!!
In related news, I received the following email from my dad last week. Now we see where I get it from.
“Wow. I knew I was in bad shape as I have done nothing for some time now. Did not realize how bad it was, but am determined to do something about it….again. I took my man boobed, muffin top body to the treadmill yesterday at my hotel in GA and gave her hell for twenty two minutes (that means a fast walk with varied inclines). After narrowly avoiding a major quad cramp, I survived. So sore today, could not face treadmill, so I brilliantly went to the hotel pool, a small affair outside, but it is a nice day. Water was warm, and while I never swam competitively, I know how to swim. Nobody was mistaking me for Michael Phelps as I looked more like the turd from Caddyshack having a seizure as I wheezed my way across the pool with a vicious breast stroke. Laps and lengths be damned in this event, I carried on for my twenty plus minutes, and now am totally crippled. Capped it off with a few sit ups on the incline board and can’t even laugh at how pathetic this situation is as the painful abs revolt. Upside is I worked up an appetite, and a thirst so tall it casts a shadow.”
I know the feeling, Dad–but the thing is you’re pushing sixty and I’m supposed to be young and strong. After two days of Jillian Michael’s evil “Shred” and one early morning of cross training through Old Town, I am weak in the knees like Timer. I clearly need some cheese.
A slice, a slab, a chunk-a!
Hey, remember when I was training for the marathon? Yeah, technically, I still am. But in reality, I’ve been sidelined for weeks now and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to do it. My sister claims otherwise. By the plantar fasciitis pain coursing through my foot right now after a morning that included only some running (and also some stairs and some hills and lots of power walking after two girls who claim to not be in great shape but, uh, are) is really saying otherwise.
Regardless, I guess it’s time to get ready for work, to say nothing of my currently desperate coffee situation that needs attending to.
I have admit, while I am much happier in DC, I miss living in the same state as my mom. Back home I had easy access to lunches and shopping and manicures and mojitos whenever I wanted. My mom is in her late 50s, but probably still one of the coolest chicks to hang out with.
Even if she does give me a hard time about my domestic failings, she manages to refrain from giving me a hard time about just about everything else that’s wrong with my big, dumb, life. And for that, I am grateful. She’s also totally trendy, loves Coach bags and highlights and fun shoes, tries to like the movies I recommend, and can hold her own drinking beers and playing cards until 2 am. She’s the coolest.
I’m not really into shmoopy sentiments, and frankly neither is she–a true Mainer, after all. And so I’ll just say Happy Mother’s Day, to Brenda (aka Mean Mouse), the coolest mom ever. And probably the best shoe shopping/mojito drinking partner I could ask for.
I’m a big fan of Meg Fowler’s blog–she’s funny as hell and writes about interesting things, but she also does one of my favorite blog staples really well. List writing! I don’t know why, in the last couple weeks when I’ve been a bit tapped out for things to write about, I didn’t turn to list-making sooner.
Meg usually calls them “love lists,” so here’s a list, with full hat-tip to Ms. Fowler, of things I’m Loving This Lazy Saturday:
Corn Pops–I took some grief from a couple different people for mentioning eating Corn Pops in my Facebook status update. What’s wrong with Corn Pops? They’re delightful! Let me tell you something, I go on plenty of health kicks from time to time where I will only buy Kashi. If you have ever gathered up a bunch of twigs and pine needles to make a fire, except instead of making a fire, dumped them into a bowl and poured milk over them, then you know what Kashi tastes like. I reserve my right to corn pops!
Moving on with the rest of the list:
- Chipotle guacamole
- New bright green springy handbag from Target
- New living room chair! (Which is this one but with a totally different color pattern.)
- Convertible weather on the horizon
- Irish drinking songs
- Jameson
- Being Elaine
- Plans for summer
- Liz Lemon (yes, this is 9 minutes long, but WORTH it)
- Jack Donaghy
- The smell of fertilizer in my building’s courtyard (”stings the nostrils!” but means that soon there will be flowers)
- Pandora
- New Blackberry–still longing for an iPhone, but it’s an upgrade I am psyched about!
- Underdogs and Upsets - Candles that smell like clean clothes (how do they DO that?)
- Back cracks (James, why do I have to do this alone? When are you done chiropractor school again? I need adjusting!)
- Scandalous behavior
- Rationalizations
- Coach Taylor:
- My mom, who came to see me while here on business, and agreed to split the cost of the chair so my living room would stop looking so barren!
- Breakup songs, for no reason in particular, as I’ve not been through one in a year. But I can’t stop listening to “More Like Her” on my iPod, make of that what you will. (Oooh, and “You’ll Think of Me“)
- Shooz
- The fact that there is a huge treasure trove of “fake ‘Lost’ opening credits” on YouTube that I only recently discovered. My fave:
(They also have “Veronica Mars” set to “Buffy” music, and while thinking of that, maybe I also present this, as I remain ever-hopeful that the VM movie WILL one day happen…le sigh.)
This weekend, I took my cat Butters (diagnosed with incurable effusive FIP about a month ago) in to be put to sleep. I decided to go by myself despite requests from all my friends to come along for moral support. I’m not really good with the whole “public weeping” thing, no matter how much a situation calls for it. (You could cut off my arm, and if people I knew were present, I’d be sitting there trying to choke back the tears, because how embarrassing.)
It is written somewhere, mostly likely in the Official Sarah Wurrey Catalogue of Things That Are Crappy, that if you own more than one cat, the cooler one is most likely to meet its maker early. Or at least this has been my experience. Allow me to present, my Feline History of Death and Despair:
Example #1 – Rocky and Apollo.
Rocky and Apollo were my first childhood cats. While Rocky was a perfectly serviceable, if a bit persnickety, cat, Apollo was the absolute man. Dad called him as his “dog,” as he was prone to coming when called, playing fetch, and following my dad around like a puppy. (It is unclear if he also enjoyed wearing short-shorts and frolicking on the beach.) Like his namesake, he was cut down in his prime, albeit by kidney stones the size of cantaloupes rather than a taciturn Russian boxer (I like to think of the kidney stones as “Little Dragos”). All I remember about Apollo’s death is that my dad brought me and my sister candy after it was done, and it was the first time I ever saw him cry. I keep meaning to ask my dad if he dressed Apollo in a crazy Uncle Sam costume and listened to James Brown on the trip to the vet, which might have brought some much needed levity to the situation.
So while Apollo only made it to the age of 3 (a common trend, you’ll discover), Rocky lived a long and nice life, killing rodents and one day growing so fat she became unable to keep her backside clean, leaving little “Rocky Roads” all over the window sills and making my mom nuts. It is unclear why she chose to refrain from moving to Russia, growing some disturbing facial hair and single handedly ending the Cold War.
Example #2 – Roo and Tucker
After Rocky’s ultimate demise when I was about 13, we got two new kittens. I named mine Tucker for no reason whatsoever, and it quickly became clear that Tucker was basically the greatest cat since Apollo (once we got rid of his humping issues…Prior to being fixed he was really fond of violating blankets, there are some nice afghans my grandmother knitted that really, will just never be the same). Although even after the old “snip snip,” he would still curl up in a blanket and knead it with his paws as if he were making biscuits, and try to suck milk out of it–this compulsion was his only real downfall as a cat, because he ended up having hairball issues due to his love of the nonexistent afghan breast milk.
Regardless, he was a huge weirdo, and also totally awesome. He liked sleeping in the sink, stretching out on the floor with his back legs extended behind him, and following me around on my bike like a dog (another dog-like cat!). He would also wrap his paws around your neck like a little kid when you picked him up, which totally killed me. Roo, my sister’s cat, was also quite cute and loveable and all that, but she had about one tenth of Tucker’s personality. So naturally, he croaked a the age of 3 after getting hit by a car. Second time I ever saw my dad cry. Roo would live to be about 13. How is this fair?
Example #3 – Butters and Chloe
I decided to adopt a two shelter kitties a couple years ago, almost on a whim. I guess I just missed having cats around, and probably hated how clean and puke-free my carpets were and how un-ripped up my furniture. I wanted to name them Jack and Chloe after my favorite terrorism-fighting duo on “24,” but it became clear, no matter how much butt she may have kicked, Butters was no Jack Bauer. So I named her after another goofy-yet-loveable TV character. (Chloe, on the other hand, was a perfect fit for her namesake, snooty and full of herself, and lacking social skills.)
Butters had only half a tail, and some would argue half a brain. She would chase the laser pointer in a circle until she dropped, could never figure out the best way to drink water (her preferred method was to dunk her paw into the bowl and lick it one drop at a time, and wagging her little half a tail rapidly back and forth like a dog when she was pleased. When she and Chloe would play fight, her standard move was to drop immediately to her back and use her back feet as waving defensive thumpers (this never, ever worked, and Chloe was always, always victorious). She also was the apparent guard dog of the bed, keeping it safe from the evils of those “feet” things that would move around under the blankets (always a fun treat at 3 in the morning).
These clothes didn't seem to have any hairs on them. Just fixing that for you.
She was just a really fun, cute, ridiculous, awesome cat. So naturally, at age 3, she’s gone. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. 100% fatal, rapidly advancing, one second cat’s fine, next thing you know you’re signing the form to authorize the “procedure.”
RIP, Butters, you were cursed by your own coolness. Tell Apollo and Tucker I said what’s up.
“Yeah, but when was the last time you did your dry cleaning?
Oh. Okay, so check it. I don’t really iron. What?
I am always presentable, I actually do enjoy wearing nice things, and I personally don’t think I ever look gross or rumpled or unkempt. Well, at least not when it’s unacceptable, I make no excuses for the delightful “drunken hobo” outfits I tend to sport at, say, the gym, or the grocery store, or dinner at my parents’ house (see, you think that’s a joke, but the number of times my mother has said the words to me, “What are you wearing?” upon arriving at home, well…).
And let’s face it, the fact I look as good as I do as often as I do is nothing less than a five-star miracle. I used to think I’d like to be a full-time freelance writer and work from home, but I’m fairly certain if I did I’d end up owning nothing but Homer Simpson mumus and never leaving the house.
Not a good look for me.
But it occurs to me that my FAIL at domesticity is comprehensive, rather than ironing-specific.
Cooking:
My pots and pans are all from the early 80s, when my parents purchased them. They are my own personal antique collection, complete with the funny story accompanying the dent on one of the saucpans–acheived when it hit the wall after barely missing my dad’s melon. We Wurrey women are hot tamales, okay?
I love these pots and pans, but they are ancient–so it’s probably a good thing they don’t really get used for cooking. Example: We attempted to use the amazing “Batter Blaster” to make pancakes in my 25 year old frying pan when my friends were visiting a couple of weeks ago, with purely disastrous results. They blamed my pots and pans, I blame the Batter Blaster. Which is a shame, because it seems like such a brilliant concept.
Batter blaster aside, my attempts at cooking generally skew between “minor gastrointestinal distress” to “moderate kitchen fire,” and that’s just when I try to like, boil water for pasta.
The cooking gene, I no has it.
And honestly? I could give a crap–I work until 6ish, sometimes go out after, sometimes go to the gym after, my average arrival time back at the homestead is between 7 and 8, why would I take an hour to make dinner, then have to eat it at 9pm, which everyone says is bad to do, and then spend another freaking half an hour cleaning up after the dinner and then it’s 10 o’freaking-clock and I’ve missed “Lost.” I don’t think so.
Cleaning:
I am not a slob. My apartment is very cute and always looks fine. I clean, but it’s like…something is always wrong. The vacuum clogs or breaks (I’ve gone through three vacuum cleaners in two years, no lie, and let me tell you what, those things don’t come cheap. I’ve spent enough of on vacuum cleaners to get at least one pair of Louboutins, and that ish is not fair–which would YOU rather have?). No matter how much I swiffer and sweep and scrub, there always manages to be stray dust or kitty hair somewhere. Me and a spic and span perfect apartment? Just doesn’t seem to want to be.
Maybe it’s all a part of having cats; kind of hard to keep a clean house when you have to put a box of poo in the corner.
Laundry:
I own a fairly neverending supply of underwear and a fairly large wardrobe for the sole purpose that I despise doing laundry. It’s just such a pain. Especially when the laundry room is in the basement, and is frequently either crowded or populated by weirdos (okay, that was more true in my old building than in my current one).
And yet, every time I let it pile up, then ultimately break down and do it, I say to myself, “This time will be the time that I keep on top of it! This time will be the time that it will not take one of those giant-sized Hefty lawn bags to transport everything down to the laundry room! This time, I swearz!”
And yet…fail.
Please, no one tell my mom about this post, she already thinks she’s failed as a mother somehow just because of my complete inability to make a bed properly or fold up a fitted sheet.
So my sister, Brooke, is running the Mardi Gras Marathon in New Orleans tomorrow, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t write a post wishing her luck. She’s been training for about a year now, is in redonkulously fantastic shape (and taking no end of grief from me about it, considering I myself am only “in shape” if the shape you are referring to is “spherical”), and I’m sure she’s going to do great.
Growing up with her was basically what it must have felt like to have been Prince Harry (before Harry got all smoking hot and Prince William grew a little more balding and horsey-faced with each passing day). She was always thin, blonde, blue-eyed, and gorgeous where I was chunky, frizzy-haired, lazy-eyed and generally troll-like.
just about right...
So the fact that we made it through adolescence (despite a few awful incidents that involved flying books, one steak knife, and lots of spitting) (don’t ask) and ended up in adulthood as great friends without me resenting the hell out of her whole existence speaks volumes about her coolness (clearly, my own coolness was never in question).
If you’re interested in running, you should definitely check out her blog–it’s actually really popular, I’m amazed at how many comments her posts get–and maybe leave her a comment wishing her luck. It’s her first marathon, so she’s just looking to finish without any of the following happening:
Massive coronary
Excessive toenail casualties
Loss of bladder control
And, of course, pants-crapping. I told her today that all I really know about running marathons is that sometimes people crap their pants, and that she really ought to be careful. She assured me that would not be an issue, but like a good little sister I reminded her that generally when people crap themselves it’s becasue they had no choice in the matter. She appears, however, undeterred.
I wish I could be there, because I would insist that she celebrate the accomplishment by going to the drive-thru daquiri place, and then maybe that bar near her place with all the hula-hoops. WHOO!
Huuula hooop!
Now, if you’re excuse me, I have to go to the gym to start in on my catching up with her fitness train—even if I’m currently still holding out hope that after 31 years, she’ll enter her “balding, horsey-faced, Prince William” phase any moment.
It’s been almost a week since I last published. So much has happened it’s tough to keep my head on straight. Between several movies, a phlegm-rocket of a cold, spending more time than should be allowed by the Geneva Convention in the DMV, and the rejuvenation of one Jack Bauer (to say nothing of Tony Alameida’s soul patch), I can hardly keep up.
I don’t know about you, but I like to break things down by the numbers:
3: Number of Oscar-bait movies I saw in the last week. On Saturday, despite perhaps feeling a bit under the weather with what I like to call a bit of a Bud Light Flu, I pulled myself off the couch and into a bin of Junior Mints and Diet Coke to take in both “Doubt” and “The Reader.” The first I had hardly any interest in, but figured whenever you’re pitting Streep vs Hoffman, that’s a bit of like a Bauer vs Bourne death-match. Something you don’t want to miss. (By the way, I’d take Bourne in about two seconds if I wasn’t convinced Bauer was monitoring my blog for disloyalty.)
This film basically blew me away, and I could have a four-hour debate over the ending, which set out to do exactly as the title suggests, leave you in doubt. It was remarkable.
“The Reader,” on the other hand, left me a bit perplexed. Compelling, and with a great performance from Kate Winslet (who managed to play her character so well that I didn’t even notice she spent half the film in the nude) (then again, I’m a straight female, so maybe not as easily distracted by such things). But in the end, I found myself checking my watch. The greatest test of a movie is whether you check your watch more than once–I checked mine three times. Regardless, might be worth seeing for Winslet’s performance alone, she should bring home an Oscar (a long overdue Oscar, and one she should have won for “Little Children”).
Sunday, after mimosas, bakery doughnuts and brunch at the Carlyle with the girls, we took in “Revolutionary Road.” Another great Winslet performance, another Oscar-bait film that left me checking my watch. I heard some critics referring to this one as “American Beauty, minus the laughs.” That assessment is quite unfortunately true. There are a few good laughs, but I cracked up mostly at how hard poor Leo was working to keep up with Winslet, who was so far out of his league acting-wise that he seemed borderline terrified for most of the movie. He’s a fine actor, but she is just about other-worldly.
This criticism is all irrelevant, naturally, because the crux of “Revolutionary Road” can best be written by my 18 year-old “Titanic”-era self, which pretty much spent the entire two hours going “OMG Kate and Leo, omg..so, it’s like, they survived the boat sinking, and totally escaped her witchy mother and her totally jerkface fiance–who was way cute, but dude, he HIT her and called her a tramp, that is just like, sooo not cool, even though his manservant was pretty badass. But anyway, it’s like they totally survived and then got married, and OMG, their kids are SO cute. But yeah then she like, wants to move to Paris and OMG, just like in Titanic when he talks about being in Paris and she’s like WE should go to Paris, and omgomgomgomgomg.”
In other words, I loved every minute.
Moving right along…
7: The number of times I rolled my eyes at the cringe-inducing banter at the Golden Globes. I love the Golden Globes. Everyone knows that injecting a few hundred gallons of booze into a roomful of celebrities who are probably already a bit high (either on various drugs or their own sense of self importance) (coughTomCruisecough) is a recipe for hilarity. But aside from Ricky Gervais chugging beer onstage and griping about his lack of nominations, I didn’t think there were many “Wow” moments. Darren Aronofsky flipping the bird at Mickey Rourke (on camera) was probably the most scandalous thing to happen all night, and even that was basically something of a “meh” moment. Worst presenters of the night: Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman, who engaged in nonsensical, chemistry-free banner that left me taking “Last Chance Harvey” right off my “to-see” list post haste.
0: Me. As in, Patient Zero. It appears that the minor cold I suffered at the start of the new year, has launnched itself through jsut about everyone I know. I’m not shouldering all of the blame, it is cold and flu season after all. But four co-workers and two friends have all been taken out by it. I’m thinking of blaming my father, when he drove me to the airport after Christmas he spent more time coughing than talking–a deadly combination.
3: Number of times I had to go back to the lovely Alexandria DMV before I was able to get my car registration and new driver’s license squared away.
(Redacted): Amount of money it cost to do this. Bye, new living room chair and dining set! It was nice thinking of you for the time I was standing in line at the DMV, but it appears we won’t be meeting any time soon.
75: The number of people in the queue while there were only 6 of 15 possible service windows open. Keeping in mind that this queue is the second of two queues, the first being the wait to actually get handed a deli-style number. The lady I dealt with was alerted to the 75 people waiting by her subbordinate, who suggested they open another window or two. The response? “They’ll live.” Ladies and gentleman, your tax dollars at work!
1: Jack’s official body count (according to the Bauer Kill Count tracker) on season seven of “24″ thus far. Granted, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of that count, because I have only seen the first episode and still have three others backed up on the DVR. And yes, I am duly ashamed. And terrified…if you see Jack, do not inform him of this transgression. I will watch them tonight, I swear!
13,084: Number of times the cats have scratched their brains out on my bedroom rug, despite all my best efforts and spray bottle aversion therapy. I’ve been meaning to get them a cat tree from PetSmart at some point this week, that is rapidly moving up to priority one. At least they’ve left the couch alone…for now. Something tells me Jack Bauer wouldn’t have these problems. His cats would be trained ninjas who didn’t need a litter box.
Sniper skillz. I has them.
That’s about it–I’ll be back tomorrow with thoughts on Social Media Club DC, which I’m attending tonight. And I should have a new column up on Media Bullseye soon, I’ll post the link when I have it!
Over Christmas, I got stuck going with my sister and brother-in-law to watch the Ultimate Fighting Championship pay-per-view event. I had zero interest in doing this, but no other plans. When faced with the options of watching UFC or watching my dad try out his 136th juice recipe of the day on the citrus press I bought him for Christmas, there was really only one question–which has more pulp?
(This is where my friend Matt would say, “Ba dum bump.”)
I ended up sitting at Jillian’s in Manchester and watching the event, grousing the whole time about having had to pay five dollars for the honor (not to mention seven bucks a drink).
Oddly enough, I actually have great fondness for violent movies, I especially like all the parts in “Bloodsport” where you hear things snap and crack and blood sprays everywhere and it’s horrible and you want to look away but you can’t and you just keep repeating to yourself that it’s fake and that makes it easier to watch but then the guy’s BONE is coming through his SKIN, and then you just have to mute it or change the channel or something.
But when it comes to “real life” violence, I tend to go green at the gills. I can’t even watch the slow-mo replays of injuries in sporting events without having vivid flashbacks to being laid out on the side of a mountain waiting for the ski patrol while my knee manages to serve up searing, acute, wrenching agony from my teeth to my toes.
And yet somehow, even with UFC 92 serving up a guy’s knee popping out, I was totally riveted during every single fight. Mainly because absolutely nothing happens for a few minutes except for a couple of shirtless dudes just kind of wrestling (I kept waiting for one of them to pin another one down and slowly drool on his face the way my sister did to me)…and then WHAM! The next second there’s a guy on the floor and the other guy jumps on top of him and starts pounding away on his face like he’s tenderizing some meat, which…yeah. That’s kind of what he’s doing.
I couldn’t get enough! I can’t really explain it. Maybe I have a lot of rage built up?
