1993: That was the year I got my first pair of glasses. I was walking around, essentially blind, with my face actually touching whatever book it was I was trying to read in the car. It wasn't until I was nine that my mom was noticing, 'Hey, that's weird' and took me to pick out my blue and purple swirled, round and yet square at the same time, obviously stylish as hell optical wear. They were awesome. I wish I still had them so I could sport them around the house (since public is clearly out of the effin question). My mom said that first day riding in the car I even looked out the windows the entire road home and turned to her in a fit of awe to say
**"I can see what all the signs say now!"
There was the first day of fourth grade when I got onto that gloriously shiny yellow bus and took a seat next to Kurt, this weird as hell kid with a head of hair like you wouldn't believe which, therefore, made him at least worthy of being socialable withbthe twenty minute ride to school, who had ALSO gotten glasses and we sat together on those green seats, greeting our fellow classmates like proud beacons for optical advertisements.
I traded those in for a pair of brown similars in the sixth grade and then, when seventh grade hit I met the CUTEST guy in my entire life in Exploratory Language and decided, whilst learning "La Cucaracha" (my rat bastard of a teacher also made us perform it in front of the class SOLO)I was mature enough for contacts.
I contracted an ulcer on my actual eyeball from those contacs three years later. I've gotten the Paul from the Wonder Years frames, another pair with lenses so thick they're actually constituted as coke bottle, purple ones, ones that no matter how many times you get them tightened they are too loose on even my hugely round head. I've fallen asleep in my glasses, stepped on them, lost them the second I take my contacts out so I'm walking blindly around my bathroom trying to find them right in front of my face while my sister, Satan, watches idly from the sidelines. I've walked in the halls wearing my glasses in high school, reading in between classes like a TRUE LOSER and don't regret it for a second.
My sight is so terrible these pieces of eyewear have even become a sort of joke amongst friends and family. Prescription like I'm Rick Moranis in any movie ever, they're the novelty people try on when they want to see what it's like to be drunk or incur a massive migraine quick.
I love my glasses. I've loved every single pair of them, functional or shade. Glasses make my life better. Glasses have allowed me to stop getting book ink on my nose and for that I'm eternally grateful. They've kind of defined who I am in a way for as long as I can remember.
You can only imagine my surprise when I went downstairs last night to get a delicious glass of soy milk. As I'm opening the fridge, my dad who is watching tv in the living room pivots in his seat at the noise and stares at me curiously from the next room. I give him the "Dude, what?" glance from the light of the fridge, pour my glass and put it away. As I'm headed back towards the hall to go upstairs and continue Twitter Stalking he calls out the three words I least expected to hear in my entire life:
"You wear glasses?"
Several seconds of shocked silence. He might as well have gotten up and screamed out while dialing 911 for this crazed, four eyed stranger to get the f out of his house.
I swear to God it took everything in my soul not to walk over there, set down my cup, stick out my hand and say in return:
"Hi, I'm not sure we've met. I'm your daughter. Glad to see you're finally in the freakin game."
As a side note, I don't think I thank Jesus enough for my mother. Nothing in particular. Just her mere existence and that she acknowledges mine. Or that perhaps she could at least pick me out of a line up if need be.
**However, how terrible is it that I went nine years without being able to look out the freakin car windows because I couldn't discern one golden arch from the sun? Geez, mom, look alive. I'll bet Helen Keller's mom was a little more on the ball, that's all I'm saying.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
NYC here we come
This is my room two hours before I had to leave:
Nothing is packed. Both of my suitcases are lying open, empty and covered in cobwebs (because I'm such an avid traveler) in the hallway going
"HELLO THEY'RE GOING TO BE HERE SOON AND YOU HAVENT EVEN DONE THE YES/NO DANCE WITH EVERYTHING YOU OWN BEFORE IT ALL GETS THROWN IN ANYWAY"
and I'm like, "Suitcases, relax. It's all going, even that empty blue bag on my bed that I won't need just so that when I get to the airport I can get 'randomly' chosen for a search, all of my liquid hair care products can be poured mercilessly down the drain and I can get charged the 50 buck over the weight limit fee."
I love travel. Plus, I'm so excited I just peed a little.
Nothing is packed. Both of my suitcases are lying open, empty and covered in cobwebs (because I'm such an avid traveler) in the hallway going
"HELLO THEY'RE GOING TO BE HERE SOON AND YOU HAVENT EVEN DONE THE YES/NO DANCE WITH EVERYTHING YOU OWN BEFORE IT ALL GETS THROWN IN ANYWAY"
and I'm like, "Suitcases, relax. It's all going, even that empty blue bag on my bed that I won't need just so that when I get to the airport I can get 'randomly' chosen for a search, all of my liquid hair care products can be poured mercilessly down the drain and I can get charged the 50 buck over the weight limit fee."
I love travel. Plus, I'm so excited I just peed a little.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Redecorating
I'm home. I'm repainting my room. Repainting entails mudding all the holes your douche bag cousin left in your walls before he moved in with someone else. It also means having to wait twenty four hours to do ANYTHING while the mud dries and then sanding it which takes practically twenty four hours to do. It also means having to wear this:
Which is my official SUPER SEXY repainting gear. Yes, those are my new Forever21 sunglasses I was planning on wearing around New York like a fashionista and yes, that is a surgical mask that I wore the entire day simply because I forgot it was there, even when I went into the Walmart to buy paint stirring sticks and got funny looks from everyone.
Sanding hurts. Literally, it gets in your eyes and your mouth and your nose and for three days all you have are crusty eye boogers and nose boogers and it's just yucky. Long story short, I will not be taking up professional mudding as a new career endeavor. Unless the pay is phenomenal. Any be that, I mean they would have to pay me in bricks of solid gold, and of course, kleenex. More pics later when the room is complete. For now, look at where I'm sleeping during the renovations:
Yes, that bed is a foot from the wall behind it. That dresser immediately beside it is covered in plaster shavings and dust, those walls are freshly one coated painted for that "I love to get high" scent all night long. And also, yes, I slept in the bed with the laptop. I have nowhere else to put it.
And lastly, here are the fiendish devils that keep running upstairs when no one is looking to do things like step on freshly painted heating vents and then track white prints throughout the house while looking at you like, "What? It obviously wasn't me."
I'm pretty sure my favorite thing about this photo is Bailey's expression. Hers is the face that is clearly saying "God, pictures are so lame" while Bridget, the yellow one, waits patiently for yet another picture of her darling self to be taken and lastly, Barney...oh Barney. He's so stupid. Seriously, I can't even figure out how God created something that slow. Yesterday, he peed on his own foot. I love him anyway though. I've been particularly loving to him the past three days as next week he's getting the boys cut off. And that can't possibly be fun.
Which is my official SUPER SEXY repainting gear. Yes, those are my new Forever21 sunglasses I was planning on wearing around New York like a fashionista and yes, that is a surgical mask that I wore the entire day simply because I forgot it was there, even when I went into the Walmart to buy paint stirring sticks and got funny looks from everyone.
Sanding hurts. Literally, it gets in your eyes and your mouth and your nose and for three days all you have are crusty eye boogers and nose boogers and it's just yucky. Long story short, I will not be taking up professional mudding as a new career endeavor. Unless the pay is phenomenal. Any be that, I mean they would have to pay me in bricks of solid gold, and of course, kleenex. More pics later when the room is complete. For now, look at where I'm sleeping during the renovations:
Yes, that bed is a foot from the wall behind it. That dresser immediately beside it is covered in plaster shavings and dust, those walls are freshly one coated painted for that "I love to get high" scent all night long. And also, yes, I slept in the bed with the laptop. I have nowhere else to put it.
And lastly, here are the fiendish devils that keep running upstairs when no one is looking to do things like step on freshly painted heating vents and then track white prints throughout the house while looking at you like, "What? It obviously wasn't me."
I'm pretty sure my favorite thing about this photo is Bailey's expression. Hers is the face that is clearly saying "God, pictures are so lame" while Bridget, the yellow one, waits patiently for yet another picture of her darling self to be taken and lastly, Barney...oh Barney. He's so stupid. Seriously, I can't even figure out how God created something that slow. Yesterday, he peed on his own foot. I love him anyway though. I've been particularly loving to him the past three days as next week he's getting the boys cut off. And that can't possibly be fun.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
My daily conversations astound even me
We've already covered that I don't sleep. It's usually on Sunday's and while I'd like to remain blissfully ignorant and therefore, faultless, as to why it is that I can't fall asleep EVER on Sunday night's it's probably due to the four pots of coffee Scott and I consume throughout the day while trying to get our homework done in between blaming one another for the condition of the bathroom. By the time nine p.m. rolls around I'm asking, "Does anybody else feel like the room is alive?" and really it shouldn't come to any surprise to me that it's suddenly four in the morning and I'm buying jewelry I'll never wear online saying out loud, "Why is there nothing better on at this time than the Mr. T infomercial??!"
Alas, alack, this happened again this week like so many in the past. So while it was convenient to me that morning to have all kinds of spare time to weed through underwear I do and do not feel is worth keeping, by the time four p.m. on Monday rolled around I was a zombie. (It should also come as no surprise that I balanced 185.00 short that day because, hello, zombie's don't realize when they're giving money away accidentally. Frankly, I blame this economy for the desperation and lies of my customers. Jerks.)
So, 4:36 was when I stumbled in the door, 8 pm is when I shook myself like a baby to stay awake long enough to watch Big Bang Theory and 8:31 was when I was dead to the world. Funny I should put it that way as the next morning Scott sees me in the kitchen and is like, "Hey did you get ahold of your mom? She was looking for you last night, I guess your phone was off or down when you went to bed. She texted me."
(Yes my mother can text. She learned one day, God knows who taught her, and sent me a very cryptic "Tori Spelling looks like a horse". It took me like, two hours to figure out it was my mom. I shouldn't have been surprised. She really hates T.Spell)
Cue fourteen voicemails from my mother over like, an hour and a half period and two text messages that say, in quite demanding text I might add, "WHERE IS ASH".
So I email her at work and I'm like, "Hey, relax, sorry...took a coma, I'm here now" and SHE responds with:
"That's alright. I just thought Scott had killed you."
Now, thats absurd. However, I don't even know how to formulate responding to that because directly after is the sentence:
"Do you want to go see Taylor Swift in concert with your sister?"
And this is just a foreshadow, I'm assuming, of what life will be like the older my parents get. She watches approximately 76 hours per week of judge shows and MSNBC murder mysteries (most of which, according to her, always end by finding the semen of the perpetrator somewhere in the house and solving the crime based on that alone) and because of that is ridiculously paranoid that my live in ex-boyfriend who has never so much as tickled me too hard for fear of me wetting myself or vomiting not only bludgeoned me to death but then dragged my carcass out to the trunk of the car and Oh yes, left a trail of the aforementioned substance as the only clue to solve the crime.
It has become clearer to me though, that I'm really not that much better than her when it comes to the brain filter.
Take for example, my rant about 50 Cent the other day while scott and I were digging through the cupboards to make dinner. I had just read this awful 10 question interview with the rapper from his fans and SOMEHOW he managed to slip in there that his current album sold 21 million copies, his home in Connecticut is the size of a country club and that he won the bet with Kanye that his sales would be bigger for their dual release dates. None of these comments, by the way, were answers to questions his fans actually asked and so I was livid! ALMOST as livid as I was when I found out Lauren Conrad from The Hills had gotten a three-book fiction deal but really, let's not get into that. Let's just go straight for what Scott will most likely refer to as "The Conversation that earned me a ticket to Hell."
"Can you believe he said all of that? Like, who the F cares you have a big house?"
"Yeah, that is pretty conceited of him."
"Didn't he get shot in the face?"
"I think so."
"Well, BIG SURPRISE THERE!"
"You...you can't actually say stuff like that. It's rude and...terrible."
"All I'm saying is that if he's curious why someone shot him in the face this would be a pretty obvious answer. What's wrong with that?"
"I dont...you can't see how that's awful? Really?"
and so on and so forth. My point? IF in the next few days I go missing and my body turns up somewhere (ditch, alley, 50 Cent's basement) you'll know it was one of a few options. According to my mother, Scott did it and according to Scott, 50 or one of his many fans did.
My advice from beyond the grave? You can never go wrong testing that semen.
Time to pack. That's code for "Time to bop around to good music while pilfering through some of my old junk until I get distracted by the internet and the sudden urge for Ben & Jerry's".
Alas, alack, this happened again this week like so many in the past. So while it was convenient to me that morning to have all kinds of spare time to weed through underwear I do and do not feel is worth keeping, by the time four p.m. on Monday rolled around I was a zombie. (It should also come as no surprise that I balanced 185.00 short that day because, hello, zombie's don't realize when they're giving money away accidentally. Frankly, I blame this economy for the desperation and lies of my customers. Jerks.)
So, 4:36 was when I stumbled in the door, 8 pm is when I shook myself like a baby to stay awake long enough to watch Big Bang Theory and 8:31 was when I was dead to the world. Funny I should put it that way as the next morning Scott sees me in the kitchen and is like, "Hey did you get ahold of your mom? She was looking for you last night, I guess your phone was off or down when you went to bed. She texted me."
(Yes my mother can text. She learned one day, God knows who taught her, and sent me a very cryptic "Tori Spelling looks like a horse". It took me like, two hours to figure out it was my mom. I shouldn't have been surprised. She really hates T.Spell)
Cue fourteen voicemails from my mother over like, an hour and a half period and two text messages that say, in quite demanding text I might add, "WHERE IS ASH".
So I email her at work and I'm like, "Hey, relax, sorry...took a coma, I'm here now" and SHE responds with:
"That's alright. I just thought Scott had killed you."
Now, thats absurd. However, I don't even know how to formulate responding to that because directly after is the sentence:
"Do you want to go see Taylor Swift in concert with your sister?"
And this is just a foreshadow, I'm assuming, of what life will be like the older my parents get. She watches approximately 76 hours per week of judge shows and MSNBC murder mysteries (most of which, according to her, always end by finding the semen of the perpetrator somewhere in the house and solving the crime based on that alone) and because of that is ridiculously paranoid that my live in ex-boyfriend who has never so much as tickled me too hard for fear of me wetting myself or vomiting not only bludgeoned me to death but then dragged my carcass out to the trunk of the car and Oh yes, left a trail of the aforementioned substance as the only clue to solve the crime.
It has become clearer to me though, that I'm really not that much better than her when it comes to the brain filter.
Take for example, my rant about 50 Cent the other day while scott and I were digging through the cupboards to make dinner. I had just read this awful 10 question interview with the rapper from his fans and SOMEHOW he managed to slip in there that his current album sold 21 million copies, his home in Connecticut is the size of a country club and that he won the bet with Kanye that his sales would be bigger for their dual release dates. None of these comments, by the way, were answers to questions his fans actually asked and so I was livid! ALMOST as livid as I was when I found out Lauren Conrad from The Hills had gotten a three-book fiction deal but really, let's not get into that. Let's just go straight for what Scott will most likely refer to as "The Conversation that earned me a ticket to Hell."
"Can you believe he said all of that? Like, who the F cares you have a big house?"
"Yeah, that is pretty conceited of him."
"Didn't he get shot in the face?"
"I think so."
"Well, BIG SURPRISE THERE!"
"You...you can't actually say stuff like that. It's rude and...terrible."
"All I'm saying is that if he's curious why someone shot him in the face this would be a pretty obvious answer. What's wrong with that?"
"I dont...you can't see how that's awful? Really?"
and so on and so forth. My point? IF in the next few days I go missing and my body turns up somewhere (ditch, alley, 50 Cent's basement) you'll know it was one of a few options. According to my mother, Scott did it and according to Scott, 50 or one of his many fans did.
My advice from beyond the grave? You can never go wrong testing that semen.
Time to pack. That's code for "Time to bop around to good music while pilfering through some of my old junk until I get distracted by the internet and the sudden urge for Ben & Jerry's".
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Let's write about something that matters
I know. I just blogged and for that I'm sorry and don't expect any of you to read the following rant. I'm just pissed and since I don't have a lot outlets and I don't feel like strangers will take kindly to me approaching them at my local Starbucks while screaming out random, "It's just not fair!", this is what I got and you have to deal with me. Deal.
An arrest warrant was issued for Omar Al-Bashir yesterday by the ICC for war crimes and crimes against humanity but they couldn't find sufficient evidence to prosecute him for genocide.
First of all...are you fucking kidding me? Sufficient evidence COULDN'T BE FOUND? Hey, how about you explore some of those mass graves he's been digging to dump bodies by the hundreds in so that he can adjust the rising death toll of his country by the hundred thousands?
Perhaps you'd like to interview one of the many sudanese janjaweed soldiers who have come forward recently to talk about how their participation in the destruction of towns, not to mention innocent young girls, was because instruction involved the motto "kill or be killed".
And I mean, really, if you want to get vocal about it you could ask someone like George Clooney or Mia Farrow. That's right...George Freakin' Clooney has seen genocide first hand but the ICC can't find sufficient evidence?
I am so beside myself I don't even know what to say. Hey, here's the best part. The ICC doesn't have backed support by major countries yet. You know...like The U.S. or China, the two countries with the most powerful influence on a country like Sudan. ON TOP OF THAT...the majority of their arrests are all still fugitives!
SO hmm.....if I were in the ICC, what would i do? I know!
Game plan time: I would issue an arrest warrant for one of the wildest monster's the world has seen since Hitler himself. You know, just to piss him off.
Because I know I don't have the man power to go in there and get him...because I know that his country won't turn him over...because I know that two huge countries I might need help from to pull this off aren't going to do squat because they don't support me. ALready this plan is going to go GREAT I can tell.
THEN I'll just sit back and watch while this awakened beast finds his inner rage and pulls 13 world wide volunteer programs from his country to spite his arrest warrant. 4 of which the WFP rely on to provide food to 1.1 million people daily in that country alone.
As of today 91000 people missed out on a meningitis vaccine. And as of tomorrow, another 1.1 million individuals won't eat the meager 800 calories a day of food stuff that tastes like paste but is all they have to survive off of until finally, not a single living soul will be found in the region of Darfur.
And maybe then you'll have your sufficient proof of genocide, hey ICC?
An arrest warrant was issued for Omar Al-Bashir yesterday by the ICC for war crimes and crimes against humanity but they couldn't find sufficient evidence to prosecute him for genocide.
First of all...are you fucking kidding me? Sufficient evidence COULDN'T BE FOUND? Hey, how about you explore some of those mass graves he's been digging to dump bodies by the hundreds in so that he can adjust the rising death toll of his country by the hundred thousands?
Perhaps you'd like to interview one of the many sudanese janjaweed soldiers who have come forward recently to talk about how their participation in the destruction of towns, not to mention innocent young girls, was because instruction involved the motto "kill or be killed".
And I mean, really, if you want to get vocal about it you could ask someone like George Clooney or Mia Farrow. That's right...George Freakin' Clooney has seen genocide first hand but the ICC can't find sufficient evidence?
I am so beside myself I don't even know what to say. Hey, here's the best part. The ICC doesn't have backed support by major countries yet. You know...like The U.S. or China, the two countries with the most powerful influence on a country like Sudan. ON TOP OF THAT...the majority of their arrests are all still fugitives!
SO hmm.....if I were in the ICC, what would i do? I know!
Game plan time: I would issue an arrest warrant for one of the wildest monster's the world has seen since Hitler himself. You know, just to piss him off.
Because I know I don't have the man power to go in there and get him...because I know that his country won't turn him over...because I know that two huge countries I might need help from to pull this off aren't going to do squat because they don't support me. ALready this plan is going to go GREAT I can tell.
THEN I'll just sit back and watch while this awakened beast finds his inner rage and pulls 13 world wide volunteer programs from his country to spite his arrest warrant. 4 of which the WFP rely on to provide food to 1.1 million people daily in that country alone.
As of today 91000 people missed out on a meningitis vaccine. And as of tomorrow, another 1.1 million individuals won't eat the meager 800 calories a day of food stuff that tastes like paste but is all they have to survive off of until finally, not a single living soul will be found in the region of Darfur.
And maybe then you'll have your sufficient proof of genocide, hey ICC?
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Today was super weird
Let's start off with the fact that I watched approximately forty seconds of Rock of Love: Season 651816 because clearly the man is milking this until he dies. Now, obviously, I'm stupider due to this forty seconds. It's like oxygen deprivation. I watched one chick work her magic on a stripper pole and WILL never be the same.
Also, I was watching reruns of That 70's show while cleaning my apartment today and suddenly, I obsessed....I mean OBSESSED with Danny Masterson. More specifically, why him and Donna never worked out in season one. I wish I could go back to 1998...er, rather, 1973 and help them figure that out. Him, his curly hair and those awesome sunglasses are adorable and she needs to Recognize (with finger snap and 'tude).
Lastly, I was surfing the net at work, per the usual, and came across The Giraffe Hotel. Thus inspired the top ten places in my life right this second I would give anything to see before I die. Ahem.
1. The Giraffe Hotel. Duh. They wander the hotel grounds in Africa and STICK THEIR HEADS IN THE DINING ROOM WHILE YOU ARE EATING. Steal your biscuits. They like...hang out all around and you can stand next to them like it's totally normal to be hanging out with 18 feet tall creatures (googledit). I need to get to Kenya pronto.
2. J.D. Salinger's house in New Hampshire. Did anyone else know he's still alive? HE IS. How ridiculous is that? He's like in his nineties, apparently completely off his rocker and hiding out in some quiet town. I need to get there. I need him to sign my terrible copy of The Catcher in the Rye and straight up ask him why Holden is such a whiney baby. Run away before I get slapped. Sell my autographed copy for 2.5 million dollars. Use that money to get...to the Giraffe Hotel in Kenya.
3. Make Your Own Muppet stop in FAO Schwarz, NY. Clearly that one need no explanation.
4. Greece. Just in general. I've seen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 1 & 2. I know how beautiful it is. The place AND Kostos.
5. California Wine Country. With Beth and Kelley. And, obviously, a designated driver. (I just noticed that Make your own Muppet hit the list before Greece and while I'm a little embarassed, there will be no editing. I want what I want.)
6. The Boston Public Library. Is that super lame? I don't even care. That place would be my Mecca and I would die from overwhelming happiness. Also, it turns out that I steal from libraries a lot more often than I should. Not on purpose. I'm just forgetful. Since I never plan on living in Boston and giving them my contact information for a borrower's card, this should make that feat a lot easier. Just need ski mask which is not at all suspicious.
7. The Alexander Palace in Russia. I am a COLOSSAL dork and ever since reading The Kitchen Boy like two years ago am weirdly obsessed with the last Royal Tsar of Russia and his family. I don't even know why I just admitted that. Seriously, the last place the family lived has recently been reopened in certain sections to the public and I would love to see it. I don't even know why. This is my loser equivalent to being a Trekky or something. I don't care. I <3 Anastasia.
8. Cereality Cafe. This is all Beth's fault. She told me about a restaurant that you can go and create your own cereal concoction for your dining pleasure. Apparently the one in Chicago is closed now or I would be on the first train there with her to stalk it down and enjoy some Lucky Charms. Alas, I believe Philadelphia and The Best Breakfast of My Life is in the near future.
9. Jon and Kate Plus Eights new house in eastern Pennsylvania complete with screaming Kate, oblivious Jon and eight wild children. I think, technically, showing up there would be considered a crime and therefore this, much like the Boston Public Library, will require some stealth. I just want to SEE the kids in person. I'll explode from their cuteness and get the F out.
10. The Michigan Theater in Ann Arbor. April 19th most specifically. Will have to work on convincing someone to do that with me. Must be a responsible individual as I will need them to mop up my melted remains at the end of the evening, put me in a ziploc bag and hand me over to my mom in one piece. Ray in Real Life Recovery should last 7-10 days.
ok, time to catch the end of Jeopardy and pretend to do homework while really surfing the net for the seasons of That 70's Show I don't currently own. Danny Masterson, why do you toy with my heart??
Also, I was watching reruns of That 70's show while cleaning my apartment today and suddenly, I obsessed....I mean OBSESSED with Danny Masterson. More specifically, why him and Donna never worked out in season one. I wish I could go back to 1998...er, rather, 1973 and help them figure that out. Him, his curly hair and those awesome sunglasses are adorable and she needs to Recognize (with finger snap and 'tude).
Lastly, I was surfing the net at work, per the usual, and came across The Giraffe Hotel. Thus inspired the top ten places in my life right this second I would give anything to see before I die. Ahem.
1. The Giraffe Hotel. Duh. They wander the hotel grounds in Africa and STICK THEIR HEADS IN THE DINING ROOM WHILE YOU ARE EATING. Steal your biscuits. They like...hang out all around and you can stand next to them like it's totally normal to be hanging out with 18 feet tall creatures (googledit). I need to get to Kenya pronto.
2. J.D. Salinger's house in New Hampshire. Did anyone else know he's still alive? HE IS. How ridiculous is that? He's like in his nineties, apparently completely off his rocker and hiding out in some quiet town. I need to get there. I need him to sign my terrible copy of The Catcher in the Rye and straight up ask him why Holden is such a whiney baby. Run away before I get slapped. Sell my autographed copy for 2.5 million dollars. Use that money to get...to the Giraffe Hotel in Kenya.
3. Make Your Own Muppet stop in FAO Schwarz, NY. Clearly that one need no explanation.
4. Greece. Just in general. I've seen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 1 & 2. I know how beautiful it is. The place AND Kostos.
5. California Wine Country. With Beth and Kelley. And, obviously, a designated driver. (I just noticed that Make your own Muppet hit the list before Greece and while I'm a little embarassed, there will be no editing. I want what I want.)
6. The Boston Public Library. Is that super lame? I don't even care. That place would be my Mecca and I would die from overwhelming happiness. Also, it turns out that I steal from libraries a lot more often than I should. Not on purpose. I'm just forgetful. Since I never plan on living in Boston and giving them my contact information for a borrower's card, this should make that feat a lot easier. Just need ski mask which is not at all suspicious.
7. The Alexander Palace in Russia. I am a COLOSSAL dork and ever since reading The Kitchen Boy like two years ago am weirdly obsessed with the last Royal Tsar of Russia and his family. I don't even know why I just admitted that. Seriously, the last place the family lived has recently been reopened in certain sections to the public and I would love to see it. I don't even know why. This is my loser equivalent to being a Trekky or something. I don't care. I <3 Anastasia.
8. Cereality Cafe. This is all Beth's fault. She told me about a restaurant that you can go and create your own cereal concoction for your dining pleasure. Apparently the one in Chicago is closed now or I would be on the first train there with her to stalk it down and enjoy some Lucky Charms. Alas, I believe Philadelphia and The Best Breakfast of My Life is in the near future.
9. Jon and Kate Plus Eights new house in eastern Pennsylvania complete with screaming Kate, oblivious Jon and eight wild children. I think, technically, showing up there would be considered a crime and therefore this, much like the Boston Public Library, will require some stealth. I just want to SEE the kids in person. I'll explode from their cuteness and get the F out.
10. The Michigan Theater in Ann Arbor. April 19th most specifically. Will have to work on convincing someone to do that with me. Must be a responsible individual as I will need them to mop up my melted remains at the end of the evening, put me in a ziploc bag and hand me over to my mom in one piece. Ray in Real Life Recovery should last 7-10 days.
ok, time to catch the end of Jeopardy and pretend to do homework while really surfing the net for the seasons of That 70's Show I don't currently own. Danny Masterson, why do you toy with my heart??