We've been a little heavy around these parts recently, what with the crazy Russian Religion and a little bit of politics, not to mention Patty Griffin's uber-depressing tune-age. We need something light hearted and happy. We need more parmesan cheese!
P.S. Would not recommend acid trip while watching this video.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Everybody Wants To Be Loved
Let's hear it for Ingrid Michaelson who is adorably quirky and a fantastic singer. She held a contest recently for her fans to cover her work and while I would love to post her original version, because she's just that fantastic and upbeat, these girls who cover her are just ADORABLE. You really have to pay attention to the girl on the right in the very beginning because the joy on her face is beyond what I think Ingrid was trying to portray when she first wrote this song.
I love a song with a good message. And when clapping is an instrument.
**UPDATE: Oh F. I found another that I really love and felt like sharing. This contest is probably over too. Only I could sit on Youtube and listen to forty different versions of the same song.
I love a song with a good message. And when clapping is an instrument.
**UPDATE: Oh F. I found another that I really love and felt like sharing. This contest is probably over too. Only I could sit on Youtube and listen to forty different versions of the same song.
Keeping To Myself
I don't know if you've heard, but now that I'm almost a MASTER at something, I've got all sorts of opinions about things. Politics and health care are only the tip of the iceberg. I've got something to say about EVERYTHING, being educated and all that.
Bagel flavors. Recycled paper. The iPad. Tennis shoe brands, laundry and wet versus dry cereal. I have an opinion about it all!
And I've come to see recently that having an opinion and being a teacher don't exactly go hand in hand. That, essentially, I have to teach our youth how to have an opinion and to think for themselves without instilling on them what those opinions should be...A.K.A. the RIGHT way to think.
And it's hard. It's extremely hard. You don't realize how different the way you feel about things is from the person next door...the parents of your best friends...even the mail guy has opinions about stuff and if you're not careful you could find yourself elbows deep in your Capital One Bills and Pizza Coupons, telling him that NO, it's not in your opinion that only the elderly and mentally ill should receive benefits at a decent price to get that heart transplant they need so desperately.
It also worries me though, that my own opinions were not built by myself, but maybe my own parents, just like everyone else's ideals were. They can't help it. They're parents. It's one of the few perks about the job, besides having a warm basement to live in when you get older...pushing your political opinions and ideals on your children is a RIGHT.
And it's not just with that. My mom and I were driving in the car the other day, on our way home from the grocery store or something like that, when she told me the most fascinating story I had ever heard about her father, the grandfather I never got a chance to meet because he passed away so young.
It turns out my mother's parents were both married and had children with other spouses...aunts and uncles existing somewhere of mine that I don't know which, trust me, is something that freaks me out all together and we'll discuss that some other day. My grandfather was extremely religious....belonged to the Russian Orthodox Church with his own family and when he began having an affair with a married woman, one that he divorced his own wife for and started a new family with (hence the creation of my mother! Ta-Da! Nice work gramps) he was expelled.
That's right. Expelled from the church. Thrown out on his butt, like in old stories. Though, now that I think about it, those old stories really aren't from so long ago. And like any normal guy, he was bitter about it. He had been a faithful member for so long, for so many years! He had grown up with these people, devoted several aspects of his life to them and their rules and their expectations and just like that, with one wrong move (albeit, a kind of big one) he was disowned.
Understandably, my mother explained, my grandfather had a huge problem with organized religion from that point on and while his own children took themselves to church and had their first communions all on their own, he simply refused to be part of any of it. Sure, he supported them and still believed in the possibility of God himself. It was just that he had come to realize that perhaps, if there is a God, he's the only one who can really determine who should be punished and who shouldn't. And if he ended up happily married to that same woman for several years, with four additional children and a passion for each of them that really can't be contained to a simple blog posting...what is there to punish anyway?
It was this story (that is probably a bit too heavy for the internet and for that, I'm sorry) that has founded every way my mother has raised us. That everybody is equal. That everyone deserves their own part of religion. That if there is a God, he loves us all despite the mistakes we make and that is up to us and him to decide if these are mistakes at all.
This isn't about religion, I promise and really, if you disagree with what's written above, I don't blame you. You were raised differently. Your parents had different ideals. You don't believe in God or you hate organized religion because of those stupid songs or you're such a devout Catholic, reading this blog is your biggest sin of the week. And that's ok.
It's just helped me to see...and maybe to wonder as well...what opinions are my own? What things will I give my own children...what stories from my own life shape my personal politics and the rights and wrongs of how I see the world? How much of who I am today is because of a decision my grandfather made that pissed off the Russian Catholics sixty years ago? And how much of it is me?
And how much will I give to others?
Perhaps I haven't Mastered anything at all.
Perhaps I've just begun the true process of learning.
Bagel flavors. Recycled paper. The iPad. Tennis shoe brands, laundry and wet versus dry cereal. I have an opinion about it all!
And I've come to see recently that having an opinion and being a teacher don't exactly go hand in hand. That, essentially, I have to teach our youth how to have an opinion and to think for themselves without instilling on them what those opinions should be...A.K.A. the RIGHT way to think.
And it's hard. It's extremely hard. You don't realize how different the way you feel about things is from the person next door...the parents of your best friends...even the mail guy has opinions about stuff and if you're not careful you could find yourself elbows deep in your Capital One Bills and Pizza Coupons, telling him that NO, it's not in your opinion that only the elderly and mentally ill should receive benefits at a decent price to get that heart transplant they need so desperately.
It also worries me though, that my own opinions were not built by myself, but maybe my own parents, just like everyone else's ideals were. They can't help it. They're parents. It's one of the few perks about the job, besides having a warm basement to live in when you get older...pushing your political opinions and ideals on your children is a RIGHT.
And it's not just with that. My mom and I were driving in the car the other day, on our way home from the grocery store or something like that, when she told me the most fascinating story I had ever heard about her father, the grandfather I never got a chance to meet because he passed away so young.
It turns out my mother's parents were both married and had children with other spouses...aunts and uncles existing somewhere of mine that I don't know which, trust me, is something that freaks me out all together and we'll discuss that some other day. My grandfather was extremely religious....belonged to the Russian Orthodox Church with his own family and when he began having an affair with a married woman, one that he divorced his own wife for and started a new family with (hence the creation of my mother! Ta-Da! Nice work gramps) he was expelled.
That's right. Expelled from the church. Thrown out on his butt, like in old stories. Though, now that I think about it, those old stories really aren't from so long ago. And like any normal guy, he was bitter about it. He had been a faithful member for so long, for so many years! He had grown up with these people, devoted several aspects of his life to them and their rules and their expectations and just like that, with one wrong move (albeit, a kind of big one) he was disowned.
Understandably, my mother explained, my grandfather had a huge problem with organized religion from that point on and while his own children took themselves to church and had their first communions all on their own, he simply refused to be part of any of it. Sure, he supported them and still believed in the possibility of God himself. It was just that he had come to realize that perhaps, if there is a God, he's the only one who can really determine who should be punished and who shouldn't. And if he ended up happily married to that same woman for several years, with four additional children and a passion for each of them that really can't be contained to a simple blog posting...what is there to punish anyway?
It was this story (that is probably a bit too heavy for the internet and for that, I'm sorry) that has founded every way my mother has raised us. That everybody is equal. That everyone deserves their own part of religion. That if there is a God, he loves us all despite the mistakes we make and that is up to us and him to decide if these are mistakes at all.
This isn't about religion, I promise and really, if you disagree with what's written above, I don't blame you. You were raised differently. Your parents had different ideals. You don't believe in God or you hate organized religion because of those stupid songs or you're such a devout Catholic, reading this blog is your biggest sin of the week. And that's ok.
It's just helped me to see...and maybe to wonder as well...what opinions are my own? What things will I give my own children...what stories from my own life shape my personal politics and the rights and wrongs of how I see the world? How much of who I am today is because of a decision my grandfather made that pissed off the Russian Catholics sixty years ago? And how much of it is me?
And how much will I give to others?
Perhaps I haven't Mastered anything at all.
Perhaps I've just begun the true process of learning.
Master Patty Griffin
I'm currently plowing through my many, many, MANY assignments left before I am officially a Master of my Craft.
My craft being education, duh. Not simply being awesome. I mastered that long ago, doctored it, taught it to others and have several texts published on it found only at Ashinpitt's BlogSpot. But you already knew that.
No, what you didn't know, or maybe you did, is that I am mere weeks away from receiving my Masters degree from school in Secondary Education. That's right. A MASTERS. Only professionals in really nice offices have those. Only those dudes with the glasses and sweater vests and chicks with terrible haircuts have MASTERS degrees. And while I haven't informed my family yet that for at least two weeks I will insist upon them referring to me as Master Ashley around the house and on the telephone, I am practicing my regal bow and list of demands. Yogurt with no fruit on the bottom being a top priority. That shit is just gross.
Blah blah blah, I am avoiding the fact that the only thing that keeps my coffee high to a calm and constant work buzz is my complete collection of Patty Griffin looping on iTunes. She's calming. She's old and wise and needs to do something with that hair, but really, that's her deal. I don't have to look at the hair while her very talented bass player lulls me into the work zone.
And sure, there are certain songs of hers that can cause me to have complete meltdowns in the car on the way home from work, but that same song can later give me the strength to scream "MASTERS MASTERS MASTERS" over and over again at the top of my lungs as an exercise in futility to get this work done.
The finish line is so close, I can almost taste it. Then you'll all be sorry. And if you think I'm above getting a crown made and marching around my house with that little piece of paper for an entire day while eating chocolate eclairs that I insist someone feeds to me bite by bite, well then you would be wrong.
MASTERS!
My craft being education, duh. Not simply being awesome. I mastered that long ago, doctored it, taught it to others and have several texts published on it found only at Ashinpitt's BlogSpot. But you already knew that.
No, what you didn't know, or maybe you did, is that I am mere weeks away from receiving my Masters degree from school in Secondary Education. That's right. A MASTERS. Only professionals in really nice offices have those. Only those dudes with the glasses and sweater vests and chicks with terrible haircuts have MASTERS degrees. And while I haven't informed my family yet that for at least two weeks I will insist upon them referring to me as Master Ashley around the house and on the telephone, I am practicing my regal bow and list of demands. Yogurt with no fruit on the bottom being a top priority. That shit is just gross.
Blah blah blah, I am avoiding the fact that the only thing that keeps my coffee high to a calm and constant work buzz is my complete collection of Patty Griffin looping on iTunes. She's calming. She's old and wise and needs to do something with that hair, but really, that's her deal. I don't have to look at the hair while her very talented bass player lulls me into the work zone.
And sure, there are certain songs of hers that can cause me to have complete meltdowns in the car on the way home from work, but that same song can later give me the strength to scream "MASTERS MASTERS MASTERS" over and over again at the top of my lungs as an exercise in futility to get this work done.
The finish line is so close, I can almost taste it. Then you'll all be sorry. And if you think I'm above getting a crown made and marching around my house with that little piece of paper for an entire day while eating chocolate eclairs that I insist someone feeds to me bite by bite, well then you would be wrong.
MASTERS!
A Friendly Visit Of Sorts
This week I've been visiting with some dear friends in Kalamazoo while I get some much needed stuff done (shush up, I'm very busy and important). It's important I remain vague with details because I want to seem more intriguing and mysterious to you. Just know that all day today, and for several days to follow, I'm all over the place being busy. And important. And I'm putting on real pants several days in a row.
SHOCK AND AWE.
While I'm here I've been staying with the family I used to live with. They're fun and crazy, just like myself, which makes us a great fit. They have three daughters who are all old enough to carry on a decent conversation but just young enough that they're not obscenely boring and self centered yet. You know how that happens for chicks right around sixteen. It's all about the right pants and cell phones then. Right now, they're still cute and naive. Also, much like myself.
I offered to take them out last night for dinner and a movie for some serious girl gossip. I mean, it had been months since I had heard about the 10 year old's dramatic relationship with Justin who's also in her class at school. And I won't even go into how much of a YOU-KNOW-WHAT this girl in Madison's ELA class is with her low cut shirts and flirtacious behavior. If you spent one evening with these kids you would think that they were all for lynching to come back in style, but only if it applied to the threatening and cute girls in their schools who are after the same men they also are.
I'm sorry, did I say men? I meant pre-pubescent boys with boogers and dirty hands. However, when you're 10 1/2, you can't exactly be picky. Unless you go to the same school Justin Bieber does.
So we go to Chili's where they completely ignore their mother's pleas before we left the house of "can you please just get something mildly healthy so you don't die tomorrow on the soccer field?" and ate more chips and salsa than their little bodies could handle. They then proceeded to say the most bizarre shit that I have ever heard come out of their mouths.
It was then that I realized the only naive one was me. These were not the same girls that I had left! They had BECOME the kids obsessed with cell phones and the correct pants. Even the little one was all "You should have SEEN what she was wearing Ashley...I wouldn't be caught dead in it. Can I have another root beer?" while my gaping jaw just hit the table, trying to keep up with the flow of conversation.
They had been corrupted by middle school. My precious, sweet girls who two months ago didn't know what half of the things in the world really were when they were mentioned on TV.
Here's an example of what I mean. The hostess asked us how many and our smoking preference when we first came in and, of course, I said non-smoking please. The ten year old turns to me and puts her hands on her hips, big sarcastic smirk on her face as she says to me "Yeah, Ash, didn't you know? I started smoking Pot!"
FIRST OF ALL: WHAT? How do you even know what Pot is? And secondly, THAT'S NOT WHAT SHE MEANT WHEN SHE ASKED SMOKING OR NON. Please don't ever assume you can pull out a blunt at your local Applebee's because, trust me, you can't. Settle for the brownie sundae and wait until you get home.
After the longest dinner I've probably ever been through and a book store (lots of vampire/teen fiction...like, a lot more than I'd ever be willing to dig my way through and I am ALL ABOUT the teen fiction. And sex! Holy cow are teens in books having a lot of sex. A lot more than I am, anyway) we finally make it to How To Train Your Dragon where the 8 year old gets motion sickness from the 3-D and we end up spending the majority of the movie in the aisle way just outside our theater with a glass of water, not enjoying my lemon heads at all.
It was a rough evening all together. I couldn't really even explain to their parents when we came back just what I had endured, but tried to explain as politely as I could that, TRUST ME, how much broccoli I got them to eat with their dinner isn't the problem here. Not. At. All.
Becoming a teenager is treacherous. For everyone.
SHOCK AND AWE.
While I'm here I've been staying with the family I used to live with. They're fun and crazy, just like myself, which makes us a great fit. They have three daughters who are all old enough to carry on a decent conversation but just young enough that they're not obscenely boring and self centered yet. You know how that happens for chicks right around sixteen. It's all about the right pants and cell phones then. Right now, they're still cute and naive. Also, much like myself.
I offered to take them out last night for dinner and a movie for some serious girl gossip. I mean, it had been months since I had heard about the 10 year old's dramatic relationship with Justin who's also in her class at school. And I won't even go into how much of a YOU-KNOW-WHAT this girl in Madison's ELA class is with her low cut shirts and flirtacious behavior. If you spent one evening with these kids you would think that they were all for lynching to come back in style, but only if it applied to the threatening and cute girls in their schools who are after the same men they also are.
I'm sorry, did I say men? I meant pre-pubescent boys with boogers and dirty hands. However, when you're 10 1/2, you can't exactly be picky. Unless you go to the same school Justin Bieber does.
So we go to Chili's where they completely ignore their mother's pleas before we left the house of "can you please just get something mildly healthy so you don't die tomorrow on the soccer field?" and ate more chips and salsa than their little bodies could handle. They then proceeded to say the most bizarre shit that I have ever heard come out of their mouths.
It was then that I realized the only naive one was me. These were not the same girls that I had left! They had BECOME the kids obsessed with cell phones and the correct pants. Even the little one was all "You should have SEEN what she was wearing Ashley...I wouldn't be caught dead in it. Can I have another root beer?" while my gaping jaw just hit the table, trying to keep up with the flow of conversation.
They had been corrupted by middle school. My precious, sweet girls who two months ago didn't know what half of the things in the world really were when they were mentioned on TV.
Here's an example of what I mean. The hostess asked us how many and our smoking preference when we first came in and, of course, I said non-smoking please. The ten year old turns to me and puts her hands on her hips, big sarcastic smirk on her face as she says to me "Yeah, Ash, didn't you know? I started smoking Pot!"
FIRST OF ALL: WHAT? How do you even know what Pot is? And secondly, THAT'S NOT WHAT SHE MEANT WHEN SHE ASKED SMOKING OR NON. Please don't ever assume you can pull out a blunt at your local Applebee's because, trust me, you can't. Settle for the brownie sundae and wait until you get home.
After the longest dinner I've probably ever been through and a book store (lots of vampire/teen fiction...like, a lot more than I'd ever be willing to dig my way through and I am ALL ABOUT the teen fiction. And sex! Holy cow are teens in books having a lot of sex. A lot more than I am, anyway) we finally make it to How To Train Your Dragon where the 8 year old gets motion sickness from the 3-D and we end up spending the majority of the movie in the aisle way just outside our theater with a glass of water, not enjoying my lemon heads at all.
It was a rough evening all together. I couldn't really even explain to their parents when we came back just what I had endured, but tried to explain as politely as I could that, TRUST ME, how much broccoli I got them to eat with their dinner isn't the problem here. Not. At. All.
Becoming a teenager is treacherous. For everyone.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Mocking Other People's Children
How disgusting is it that I woke up this morning and thought to myself, if just FOR AN INSTANT, "God I wish I was Suri Cruise?"
Granted, there are plenty of other equally awful people to wish to be. I've seen my sister wish upon a star that she was the lead singer of Greenday and I was all "What? With the hair and the makeup? That would be AWFUL!"
And at least once, in my own terribly naive youth, I wished to be the serious girlfriend of one dream boat, Taylor Hanson. Can you imagine if such wishes had come true? I'd currently be the mother of a billion children, still on tour with Hanson.
HANSON. MMMBOP. DOP DOP BY DOOOWOP. SHOOBEEDOPBYDOOWOP. DOP.BY.DOO.
And sure, there's a portion of me that is very happy God didn't let that little wonder of a wish actually occur.
There does come a point though, I think with everyone, where you look at someone out there in the world who has no issues. Who literally seems to be walking around basking in the glory of fame and fortune with no actual work and know...you just KNOW they will be set for life, as long as they don't fall into the hands of hard narcotics or a gender identification issue.
Like Suri Cruise. Whom I just saw on the cover of some awful magazine eating a cupcake and wearing a tutu and a great pair of heels. And I was so overcome with "Why must I work so hard for so little, when she does so little for so much in return?"
And yes, perhaps it is a little insane and pathetic of me to be jealous of the life of a 4 year old who just had a princess birthday party and who's father is, certifiably if not officially identified as, crazy. There does come a point, with each of us I believe, where we want to say that enough is enough. I'm done working hard with no pay off.
I wish I was Suri Cruise.
And then, because we know these dreams are just impossible dreams, we sit back and make fun of what a boy Shiloh Jolie-Pitt has become most recently and how we're thankful we'll never have to deal with her load of crap. Seriously, brothers and sisters from the four corners of the world, but no one will get the kid a decent skirt and haircut?
POOR POOR SHILOH JOLIE-PITT.
Granted, there are plenty of other equally awful people to wish to be. I've seen my sister wish upon a star that she was the lead singer of Greenday and I was all "What? With the hair and the makeup? That would be AWFUL!"
And at least once, in my own terribly naive youth, I wished to be the serious girlfriend of one dream boat, Taylor Hanson. Can you imagine if such wishes had come true? I'd currently be the mother of a billion children, still on tour with Hanson.
HANSON. MMMBOP. DOP DOP BY DOOOWOP. SHOOBEEDOPBYDOOWOP. DOP.BY.DOO.
And sure, there's a portion of me that is very happy God didn't let that little wonder of a wish actually occur.
There does come a point though, I think with everyone, where you look at someone out there in the world who has no issues. Who literally seems to be walking around basking in the glory of fame and fortune with no actual work and know...you just KNOW they will be set for life, as long as they don't fall into the hands of hard narcotics or a gender identification issue.
Like Suri Cruise. Whom I just saw on the cover of some awful magazine eating a cupcake and wearing a tutu and a great pair of heels. And I was so overcome with "Why must I work so hard for so little, when she does so little for so much in return?"
And yes, perhaps it is a little insane and pathetic of me to be jealous of the life of a 4 year old who just had a princess birthday party and who's father is, certifiably if not officially identified as, crazy. There does come a point, with each of us I believe, where we want to say that enough is enough. I'm done working hard with no pay off.
I wish I was Suri Cruise.
And then, because we know these dreams are just impossible dreams, we sit back and make fun of what a boy Shiloh Jolie-Pitt has become most recently and how we're thankful we'll never have to deal with her load of crap. Seriously, brothers and sisters from the four corners of the world, but no one will get the kid a decent skirt and haircut?
POOR POOR SHILOH JOLIE-PITT.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I'm-A-Bite-Chu
This morning I watched my mother wrestle our dog, Bailey, around the living room for a good twenty minutes over a Caffeine Free Diet Coke can she found on the front lawn until the dog was just so plain fed up over the struggle that she growled threateningly at my mother from beneath the coffee table, causing her to scream out in frustration and put the dog directly into her kennel, Coke can and all. I think she even said something like "Tell your internal organs to enjoy that tasty shredded metal treat YOU EVIL GOAT" and then spent the next half an hour furiously vacuuming the kitchen.
My mother vacuums when frustrated. Well, that and drinks but we won't really go there.
This is not the first time one of our dogs has threatened to bite us over something menial either. Barney will growl at you if you scratch his tender spot on the side of his belly too hard. Don't you dare try and go under the coffee table into their 'secret lair' of destroyed Kong Wubba toys and rawhide because you'll come out missing fingers. In fact, don't even approach the coffee table too quickly or tell them that the Shamwow is, in fact, NOT theirs because they get possessive of such things.
So while all of this madness is going on at my house, I go to work last week with the best possible outlook you can have when dealing with ten one year olds on a daily basis. It looks something like "Poop! Let's hear it for more poop! Creamed peas on my pants! HOOORRRAAAYYY! I LOVE UNNECESSARY SCREAMING AND CRYING!!!"
And just as I'm beginning to think that my job is really hysterical (I just watched a little boy run into a cabinet door while chasing a bubble!) I go to solve a fight between two little ones and a board book and one of them BITES ME.
On the arm. With his teeth. And saliva.
And just like that I've realized we're not actually the civilized people on two legs that we all think we are. We're no better than cavemen or laboradors. We're safe nowhere. At your place of employment or in your own living room. Biting is back and in full force and I've decided, screw it. If you can't beat them (especially if you're me) you must join them. I'm going to start biting people as well.
Which means I'll be calling you in about six days to bail me out of prison and stand with me during my temporary insanity trial because I bit the guy at 7-11 over the last cup of blueberry coffee. I won't go down without a fight!
My mother vacuums when frustrated. Well, that and drinks but we won't really go there.
This is not the first time one of our dogs has threatened to bite us over something menial either. Barney will growl at you if you scratch his tender spot on the side of his belly too hard. Don't you dare try and go under the coffee table into their 'secret lair' of destroyed Kong Wubba toys and rawhide because you'll come out missing fingers. In fact, don't even approach the coffee table too quickly or tell them that the Shamwow is, in fact, NOT theirs because they get possessive of such things.
So while all of this madness is going on at my house, I go to work last week with the best possible outlook you can have when dealing with ten one year olds on a daily basis. It looks something like "Poop! Let's hear it for more poop! Creamed peas on my pants! HOOORRRAAAYYY! I LOVE UNNECESSARY SCREAMING AND CRYING!!!"
And just as I'm beginning to think that my job is really hysterical (I just watched a little boy run into a cabinet door while chasing a bubble!) I go to solve a fight between two little ones and a board book and one of them BITES ME.
On the arm. With his teeth. And saliva.
And just like that I've realized we're not actually the civilized people on two legs that we all think we are. We're no better than cavemen or laboradors. We're safe nowhere. At your place of employment or in your own living room. Biting is back and in full force and I've decided, screw it. If you can't beat them (especially if you're me) you must join them. I'm going to start biting people as well.
Which means I'll be calling you in about six days to bail me out of prison and stand with me during my temporary insanity trial because I bit the guy at 7-11 over the last cup of blueberry coffee. I won't go down without a fight!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Miss Popular
I got a new follower on Twitter this week. THAT ISN'T A COMPUTER GENERATED SEX-BOT.
Do you know how happy it makes me to generate followers on Twitter?
It's like making a new friend. It's like a small pat on the back that someone out there thinks you're kind of cool. AND THEY'RE REALLY ALIVE.
And sometimes these followers are super neat-o musicians hoping to catch a break in the ridiculous industry known as Show Biz. Seriously...why we're still allowing Ke$ha to wander around without a real name and literally singing the words "blah blah blah" on the radio is beyond me.
BEYOND ME.
But this kid...this sultry boy from London named Colin Macleoud is so adorably charismatic through song that I almost couldn't be distracted by the background expanse and beautiful beach he's walking across.
Almost, though. He's on some place called Isle of Lewis in the UK and it is officially on my list of places to visit right after I figure out where that foot lake is in Asia. You know. Before it completely disappears.
The EP is called The Boy Who Trapped The Sun and when I sent him a friendly message via Twitter(of course) to say how great I thought he was doing, he sent me a direct message back thanking me. Just like Rosi Golan did here! And I'm pretty sure this solidifies my celebrity status on Twitter. I'm basically just waiting from someone from the company to call me to confirm it is THE REAL Ashley Earp so they can put that fancy little "Verified Profile" check mark on it that all the celebrities have.
That's right, a2earp's 38 followers. You're in the presence of a legend.
Do you know how happy it makes me to generate followers on Twitter?
It's like making a new friend. It's like a small pat on the back that someone out there thinks you're kind of cool. AND THEY'RE REALLY ALIVE.
And sometimes these followers are super neat-o musicians hoping to catch a break in the ridiculous industry known as Show Biz. Seriously...why we're still allowing Ke$ha to wander around without a real name and literally singing the words "blah blah blah" on the radio is beyond me.
BEYOND ME.
But this kid...this sultry boy from London named Colin Macleoud is so adorably charismatic through song that I almost couldn't be distracted by the background expanse and beautiful beach he's walking across.
Almost, though. He's on some place called Isle of Lewis in the UK and it is officially on my list of places to visit right after I figure out where that foot lake is in Asia. You know. Before it completely disappears.
The EP is called The Boy Who Trapped The Sun and when I sent him a friendly message via Twitter(of course) to say how great I thought he was doing, he sent me a direct message back thanking me. Just like Rosi Golan did here! And I'm pretty sure this solidifies my celebrity status on Twitter. I'm basically just waiting from someone from the company to call me to confirm it is THE REAL Ashley Earp so they can put that fancy little "Verified Profile" check mark on it that all the celebrities have.
That's right, a2earp's 38 followers. You're in the presence of a legend.
Only Mildly Refreshing
I don't know about the rest of you but I essentially live out of my car on a weekly basis. Late Friday afternoons I unload from it all kinds of useless crap that I can't even believe is part of my weekly list of necessities....
Cans of Spaghettios. Spare pants. Exercise bras. Homework books. Camera charger. Phone charger that will never actually leave my car and therefore my phone will be near death ALL WEEK LONG. Jet's Pizza Bags. Cat hair from the clothes I'm currently wearing. Magazines I've just received in the mail. Half empty bottles of Diet Coke. The list goes on and on and if you think the show Hoarders is bad there should be a car version because, seriously...peoples cars are nasty. Mine is no exception.
What's even worse, though, is that I will use these items over and over again from Monday to Friday in an attempt to just make it from one place to the next. Is there still some peanut butter residue on that granola bar wrapper? Who NEEDS lunch when you have that? Can I brush my hair with these four pencils I found under my seat next to a discarded cd case that has been smashed to smithereens? Why, yes. If I've learned anything from Obama it is at least YES. YES WE CAN.
The one thing, however, that I cannot stand happened to me just last Tuesday. I was late leaving work because they hate me there and will suck the life out of you at every chance they get and so I was pulling a rather impressive, albeit rather dangerous quick-change in the car before exercise class on Rochester Road. After the great "Sports bra is near the temperature of melting from being in car all day" fiasco I found my water bottle from that morning still sitting in my cup holder and without even thinking, took a giant swig.
It as like drinking molten ass in liquid form. I don't even know what I was thinking. I mean, maybe it was just my basic human instincts kicking in. Water. MMMM. You know, the same way you get when you see Patrick Dempsey on TV every Wednesday. Man Meat. MMMMMMMM. Am I not an animal too??!!
The wretching that ensued...the God-Awful Prissiness of the situation as I hacked and hemmed and hawed and cried like a tiny baby without it's mama is almost too shameful to mention.
HOWEVER. HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER.
I must mention it. Because in one of the earlier mentioned magazines, National Geographic to be more specific (it's more than just pictures of naked people!) they did an entire edition on clean water. How everyone needs it. How we're running out. How we all need to pitch in.
And here I go, getting all Nancy Reagan on you ("Eat your green beans! Don't have sex! Drugs=Yucky!") but in that edition I got to read the step by step process of water purification in Nigeria.
Are you ready for this? Taking old water bottles and filling them with water that is laden with bacteria...cloudy from WHO KNOWS WHAT and laying it on sheets of metal in the sun for up to six hours. It's called the SODIS Water Purification System (that's right...it's real...like Brita, but not as advanced??Oh and yes, their site is written in Swedish or something) and it has helped their students grow from a 10% graduation rate in the sixth grade due to diseases they contracted in water to over 95% passing.
And while I don't want to freak you out, that is essentially what my water went through last Tuesday during my horrified princess bit in the car.
Warm water! Ew! How can I be happy it's purified when it's too hot to drink?!
I'm not saying go out and buy six gallons of water for a child in Kenya today. I'm not saying that I'm a world water activist who is suddenly jumping from one plight in need to the next (although, it would appear that way according to this blog). I'm just saying that world water is a serious problem, regardless of how easily it comes out of our taps.
And that this amazing lake that looks like a foot in Asia, as well as the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro, are slowly disappearing and we're all blisfully unaware as we throw away one half full bottle of water after another.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to time myself in the shower and to read more on that whole "Golden Water From the IceCaps" thing Paris Hilton was involved in last year. I'm not saying these things will fix the world. I'm just hoping to become smarter about it overall.
Cans of Spaghettios. Spare pants. Exercise bras. Homework books. Camera charger. Phone charger that will never actually leave my car and therefore my phone will be near death ALL WEEK LONG. Jet's Pizza Bags. Cat hair from the clothes I'm currently wearing. Magazines I've just received in the mail. Half empty bottles of Diet Coke. The list goes on and on and if you think the show Hoarders is bad there should be a car version because, seriously...peoples cars are nasty. Mine is no exception.
What's even worse, though, is that I will use these items over and over again from Monday to Friday in an attempt to just make it from one place to the next. Is there still some peanut butter residue on that granola bar wrapper? Who NEEDS lunch when you have that? Can I brush my hair with these four pencils I found under my seat next to a discarded cd case that has been smashed to smithereens? Why, yes. If I've learned anything from Obama it is at least YES. YES WE CAN.
The one thing, however, that I cannot stand happened to me just last Tuesday. I was late leaving work because they hate me there and will suck the life out of you at every chance they get and so I was pulling a rather impressive, albeit rather dangerous quick-change in the car before exercise class on Rochester Road. After the great "Sports bra is near the temperature of melting from being in car all day" fiasco I found my water bottle from that morning still sitting in my cup holder and without even thinking, took a giant swig.
It as like drinking molten ass in liquid form. I don't even know what I was thinking. I mean, maybe it was just my basic human instincts kicking in. Water. MMMM. You know, the same way you get when you see Patrick Dempsey on TV every Wednesday. Man Meat. MMMMMMMM. Am I not an animal too??!!
The wretching that ensued...the God-Awful Prissiness of the situation as I hacked and hemmed and hawed and cried like a tiny baby without it's mama is almost too shameful to mention.
HOWEVER. HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER.
I must mention it. Because in one of the earlier mentioned magazines, National Geographic to be more specific (it's more than just pictures of naked people!) they did an entire edition on clean water. How everyone needs it. How we're running out. How we all need to pitch in.
And here I go, getting all Nancy Reagan on you ("Eat your green beans! Don't have sex! Drugs=Yucky!") but in that edition I got to read the step by step process of water purification in Nigeria.
Are you ready for this? Taking old water bottles and filling them with water that is laden with bacteria...cloudy from WHO KNOWS WHAT and laying it on sheets of metal in the sun for up to six hours. It's called the SODIS Water Purification System (that's right...it's real...like Brita, but not as advanced??Oh and yes, their site is written in Swedish or something) and it has helped their students grow from a 10% graduation rate in the sixth grade due to diseases they contracted in water to over 95% passing.
And while I don't want to freak you out, that is essentially what my water went through last Tuesday during my horrified princess bit in the car.
Warm water! Ew! How can I be happy it's purified when it's too hot to drink?!
I'm not saying go out and buy six gallons of water for a child in Kenya today. I'm not saying that I'm a world water activist who is suddenly jumping from one plight in need to the next (although, it would appear that way according to this blog). I'm just saying that world water is a serious problem, regardless of how easily it comes out of our taps.
And that this amazing lake that looks like a foot in Asia, as well as the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro, are slowly disappearing and we're all blisfully unaware as we throw away one half full bottle of water after another.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to time myself in the shower and to read more on that whole "Golden Water From the IceCaps" thing Paris Hilton was involved in last year. I'm not saying these things will fix the world. I'm just hoping to become smarter about it overall.
Do I Have The Heart To Go And Try It Again?
I'm currently in bed with my cat (God, Ash. WHAT ELSE IS NEW?) as we fight over my pillow and pad of paper. She seems to think that To-Do List materials are for her reclining pleasure and I'm pretty sure if she flops down on my highlighter one more time and acts like she doesn't know where it is as I tear my bed apart frantically looking for it....because HELLO I can't move on in life if I don't get to cross this one thing off the list immediately....I'm going to wreck her with said unshared pillow.
Did you ever notice how the process of making a To-Do List is essentially a reason to procrastinate even longer on things you actually have to get done? You get your cute pen and matching Hello Kitty stationary out and you think of everything...EVERYTHING you could possibly need to get done for over ten minutes that you could spend actually doing really productive tasks.
"Recap old markers.....God, that has been bothering me for a while....OH and I need to call So-And-So about that thing that I need her to do in July of next year...what else, what else? OH...that's right...come up with shelter plan for post-apocalyptic attack...." and so on and so forth until my To-Do list looks like a receipt from whenever I go to Target and I'm still in my sweatpants with nothing actually done.
This is my long and terribly drawn out way of saying that I am listening to The Rifles at top Laptop Speaker Performance and occasionally pushing my cat off my side of the bed, avoiding all responsibility for today.
And you can too. I give you permission.
Did you ever notice how the process of making a To-Do List is essentially a reason to procrastinate even longer on things you actually have to get done? You get your cute pen and matching Hello Kitty stationary out and you think of everything...EVERYTHING you could possibly need to get done for over ten minutes that you could spend actually doing really productive tasks.
"Recap old markers.....God, that has been bothering me for a while....OH and I need to call So-And-So about that thing that I need her to do in July of next year...what else, what else? OH...that's right...come up with shelter plan for post-apocalyptic attack...." and so on and so forth until my To-Do list looks like a receipt from whenever I go to Target and I'm still in my sweatpants with nothing actually done.
This is my long and terribly drawn out way of saying that I am listening to The Rifles at top Laptop Speaker Performance and occasionally pushing my cat off my side of the bed, avoiding all responsibility for today.
And you can too. I give you permission.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Karma Inducing Love
I realized the other day that while I endorse a lot of different things (great clothing, weird music, random boys walking to Miami) I never really do any follow up postings. That's actually very irresponsible of me. Of COURSE you want to know if I actually cried myself to sleep the night after I wore Black and White dress seen here. Of COURSE you want to know if the Easter Bunny will ever reappear in our psychotic household seen here and if Santa Claus is, just maybe, as hostile if not more so as E.B. can be.
I should get a slap on the hand for such ignorance. My readers have needs and I must meet them!
For some updates and perhaps a helpful reminder that love is always welcome, Jordan Dibb has made it all the way to Wisconsin so far with over six thousand people following his journey. You can too, here.
And if you feel like you need to do a little more recently for humanity than contributing a quarter in your local 7-11 for the missing children in exchange for a piece of candy, the Michigan Darfur Coalition raises $10,000 annually for the cause. And considering that Sudan's elections are next week and Omar Al-Bashir or some slime-ball predecessor will be elected because he runs a monopoly on the entire country, any and all contributions would be welcome. Action Against Hunger, as well as nine other major food and health contributors for people in need around the world, have had limited access to the country's regions in need for the last several months due to Al-Bashir's dictatorship.
And while I'm not typically political and all "Activist Ashley" I am a firm believer and advocate for a new game America should consider coming out with.
It's called "Whack-a-Dirty-Worldly-Politican" and resembles something like that gopher game with the mallets you can play at Chuck E. Cheez. Scott recommends I play it with the children I work with but I think this might be putting our talents to better use.
Be better. Love more. Help where you can.
And thank you for reading.
I should get a slap on the hand for such ignorance. My readers have needs and I must meet them!
For some updates and perhaps a helpful reminder that love is always welcome, Jordan Dibb has made it all the way to Wisconsin so far with over six thousand people following his journey. You can too, here.
And if you feel like you need to do a little more recently for humanity than contributing a quarter in your local 7-11 for the missing children in exchange for a piece of candy, the Michigan Darfur Coalition raises $10,000 annually for the cause. And considering that Sudan's elections are next week and Omar Al-Bashir or some slime-ball predecessor will be elected because he runs a monopoly on the entire country, any and all contributions would be welcome. Action Against Hunger, as well as nine other major food and health contributors for people in need around the world, have had limited access to the country's regions in need for the last several months due to Al-Bashir's dictatorship.
And while I'm not typically political and all "Activist Ashley" I am a firm believer and advocate for a new game America should consider coming out with.
It's called "Whack-a-Dirty-Worldly-Politican" and resembles something like that gopher game with the mallets you can play at Chuck E. Cheez. Scott recommends I play it with the children I work with but I think this might be putting our talents to better use.
Be better. Love more. Help where you can.
And thank you for reading.
What Exactly Is Lisztomania?
How come everyone is holding out on me? I feel like every time I start a new post about music I'm one step behind. I'm all "Have you heard about this crazy dude that died on the toilet?! His name is Elvis something and he is FANTASTIC" and everyone else is, of COURSE, "Yawn, Ashley. Blue Hawaii is so yesterday."
That's how I feel about Phoenix. I don't know who listens to them besides apparently my friend Matt who had them playing in his car the other day but I was intrigued and it turns out they're huge and I've been blind to their wonder.
They look a little old school and perhaps they are, I don't know nor do I care. All I do know is that I'm grabbing their CD next weekend as well as Elvis' Greatest Hits. And you should too.
*Here's a concept, kittens. When my link isn't working to actually hear the music: COMMENT SO I CAN FIX IT.
you bunch of dummies. This blog ain't gonna run itself, ya know.
That's how I feel about Phoenix. I don't know who listens to them besides apparently my friend Matt who had them playing in his car the other day but I was intrigued and it turns out they're huge and I've been blind to their wonder.
They look a little old school and perhaps they are, I don't know nor do I care. All I do know is that I'm grabbing their CD next weekend as well as Elvis' Greatest Hits. And you should too.
*Here's a concept, kittens. When my link isn't working to actually hear the music: COMMENT SO I CAN FIX IT.
you bunch of dummies. This blog ain't gonna run itself, ya know.
Take All The Time You Need
This past week my friend from Western, Amelia, got engaged to her long time boyfriend, Josh. The facebook wall posts that ensued were simply darling from all of her supportive friends. Lots of well wishes and high fives and people "liking" the fact that she posted this new change from "In a Relationship" to "Engaged".
And we were all happy for her.
I'm sorry, did I only mention Amelia here? I meant to mention my good friend Linsey as well, that I've known since Junior High. Oh and Mark, another good friend from college who also just made the big switch on FB even though he got engaged on New Years Eve. My friend Amanda and Kelley's sister Jamie just had babies. And oh, how adorable, my friend Kristen and her TWO BABIES and her HUSBAND are going to go VISIT all of these other people with all of their marrital/baby bliss and I'm not trying to complain or anything but I'm pretty sure that FACEBOOK IS TRYING TO GIVE ME AN ANEURYSM.
And that it is also the reason why I feel the need to drink heavily on a Tuesday. That little "So-and-So is now Married to your other friend, Equally Happy And Married So-and-So" is going to kill me one day at a time.
I'm not bitter. I just need a reminder that I can take my time. I don't need to be married and have babies tomorrow.
I just need everyone else to stop doing it so I don't feel so far behind.
And we were all happy for her.
I'm sorry, did I only mention Amelia here? I meant to mention my good friend Linsey as well, that I've known since Junior High. Oh and Mark, another good friend from college who also just made the big switch on FB even though he got engaged on New Years Eve. My friend Amanda and Kelley's sister Jamie just had babies. And oh, how adorable, my friend Kristen and her TWO BABIES and her HUSBAND are going to go VISIT all of these other people with all of their marrital/baby bliss and I'm not trying to complain or anything but I'm pretty sure that FACEBOOK IS TRYING TO GIVE ME AN ANEURYSM.
And that it is also the reason why I feel the need to drink heavily on a Tuesday. That little "So-and-So is now Married to your other friend, Equally Happy And Married So-and-So" is going to kill me one day at a time.
I'm not bitter. I just need a reminder that I can take my time. I don't need to be married and have babies tomorrow.
I just need everyone else to stop doing it so I don't feel so far behind.
Negative Nancy
My mother and I went out together this past Sunday for the weekend Walmart/Kroger/Walgreens run around (and no, I did not get paid to mention them. I mentioned them because they have the best prices, period, and should be endorsed at every opportunity. So you can kindly EAT IT, TRADER JOES).
We're meandering around Kroger, trying to find something my mother insists is fat-free cream cheese (neuf-chatel?) and as we exit the building we're behind these two teenaged boys and one EXTREMELY OLD LADY with a buggy. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Do you think they're with her or are they just pulling her buggy?
Mom: Oh, they're with her. Did you see what's in her buggy? She can't eat all that.
Me: Well it's still nice of them to take their grandma to the grocery store.
Mom: She bought them Toblerone. They did it for the candy. They're no better than six year olds.
Me: What the F is Toblerone?
Mom: And now the younger one is on one of those old people automated carts while she unloads all the groceries into the car by herself.
Me: Shut UP.
Mom: And LOOK.AT.THAT. A whole bag of returnable bottles in the trunk that no one took in.
Me: How are you seeing all of this?
Mom: Those teenage boys are useless.
Me: You're kind of a weird, stalkerish people-watcher. You know that right?
Mom: If that were me I would have KICKED YOUR BROTHER'S ASS. Buys them Toblerone. Are you kidding me?
Me: So...we should go now huh?
Mom: HE'S STILL RIDING THE AUTOMATED BUGGY.
And that is how my mother can take any nice gesture and turn it into the selfish work of the devil in a Kroger's parking lot.
We're meandering around Kroger, trying to find something my mother insists is fat-free cream cheese (neuf-chatel?) and as we exit the building we're behind these two teenaged boys and one EXTREMELY OLD LADY with a buggy. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Do you think they're with her or are they just pulling her buggy?
Mom: Oh, they're with her. Did you see what's in her buggy? She can't eat all that.
Me: Well it's still nice of them to take their grandma to the grocery store.
Mom: She bought them Toblerone. They did it for the candy. They're no better than six year olds.
Me: What the F is Toblerone?
Mom: And now the younger one is on one of those old people automated carts while she unloads all the groceries into the car by herself.
Me: Shut UP.
Mom: And LOOK.AT.THAT. A whole bag of returnable bottles in the trunk that no one took in.
Me: How are you seeing all of this?
Mom: Those teenage boys are useless.
Me: You're kind of a weird, stalkerish people-watcher. You know that right?
Mom: If that were me I would have KICKED YOUR BROTHER'S ASS. Buys them Toblerone. Are you kidding me?
Me: So...we should go now huh?
Mom: HE'S STILL RIDING THE AUTOMATED BUGGY.
And that is how my mother can take any nice gesture and turn it into the selfish work of the devil in a Kroger's parking lot.
Yes I know I'm Going To Hell In A Leather Jacket
There's something about that lyric that just lights my fire (and not in the yucky way) with inspiration. There's something about acknowledging your human-ness - your ability to screw things up royally and embrace it.
I have had quite a few of those moments recently. Real, true, honest-to-God "Own up to the fact that you really f'ed this one up here, Ash" days these past few weeks. And while there is always a part in each of us that is too hard on what we've done - we're too judgmental, we're too full of expectation, we expect more than we know we're even capable of - we can still sit back and say out loud to no one....or maybe whoever we believe is listening that, Yeah, I DID really mess this up. I'm embracing it.
As my best friend Beth says "Take your medicine". And I'd like to follow that up with "and chase it with some tequila, because you will live. You have learned. You are better for your mistakes".
This kid is apparently the lead singer from The Strokes and while I'm not so up on my musical education that I really even know what they sing, I do know that he's a little bit techno, a little bit of a The Who channeler and looks like he could be the front runner of The Ramones.
And in my book, that is what I like to call SEX-AY.
I have had quite a few of those moments recently. Real, true, honest-to-God "Own up to the fact that you really f'ed this one up here, Ash" days these past few weeks. And while there is always a part in each of us that is too hard on what we've done - we're too judgmental, we're too full of expectation, we expect more than we know we're even capable of - we can still sit back and say out loud to no one....or maybe whoever we believe is listening that, Yeah, I DID really mess this up. I'm embracing it.
As my best friend Beth says "Take your medicine". And I'd like to follow that up with "and chase it with some tequila, because you will live. You have learned. You are better for your mistakes".
This kid is apparently the lead singer from The Strokes and while I'm not so up on my musical education that I really even know what they sing, I do know that he's a little bit techno, a little bit of a The Who channeler and looks like he could be the front runner of The Ramones.
And in my book, that is what I like to call SEX-AY.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Black And White Dreams
Some of the best things in life come in Black and White.
Like Oreos. Or the actual cookie named "Black and White". Stars in a night sky. Newspapers full of interesting facts to bother people with on Sunday mornings and a whole crossword of pointless questions to ask those same people until they throw an empty mug of coffee at your head over the dining room table and announce "What's a four letter word for AGGRAVATION?"
Coincidentally, eyes can become shades of "black". Teeth, before getting knocked out of heads (as my mother so often threatens to do to our dogs) are white at one point or another.
Print on book pages. My cat, Midnight. Sentimental photographs. Lemurs. Penguins and Panda Bears!
And this dress. This idyllic dress that I stumbled upon on Modcloth today.
Which only reminds me that I've also never been invited to a Black and White Ball and that life is, ultimately, unfair in every way possible. That, of course, I will purchase this for all of it's overpriced wonder and put it on as soon as it arrives at my house and sit in it in the dark of my bedroom for hours on end with no where to go and no one to see and reenact a sort of "This my Prince/Red Carpet with Ryan Seacrest" moment that will never actually happen.
And I am just thankful that I don't dream in black and white. Dreaming of these things in color is so much better.
Like Oreos. Or the actual cookie named "Black and White". Stars in a night sky. Newspapers full of interesting facts to bother people with on Sunday mornings and a whole crossword of pointless questions to ask those same people until they throw an empty mug of coffee at your head over the dining room table and announce "What's a four letter word for AGGRAVATION?"
Coincidentally, eyes can become shades of "black". Teeth, before getting knocked out of heads (as my mother so often threatens to do to our dogs) are white at one point or another.
Print on book pages. My cat, Midnight. Sentimental photographs. Lemurs. Penguins and Panda Bears!
And this dress. This idyllic dress that I stumbled upon on Modcloth today.
Which only reminds me that I've also never been invited to a Black and White Ball and that life is, ultimately, unfair in every way possible. That, of course, I will purchase this for all of it's overpriced wonder and put it on as soon as it arrives at my house and sit in it in the dark of my bedroom for hours on end with no where to go and no one to see and reenact a sort of "This my Prince/Red Carpet with Ryan Seacrest" moment that will never actually happen.
And I am just thankful that I don't dream in black and white. Dreaming of these things in color is so much better.
I Think You're Crazy Just Like Me
I don't think there's a limit to my love for Ray Lamontagne. Even when I'm not sure I'm saying his last name right, I'm still vowing my undying affection for everything that he is and every fantastic note that comes out of his romantically, fantastically, amazing mouth. And maybe...just maybe...I'm his stalker.
I need to go see him in concert, I don't care at what cost. In the meantime, I'm listening to this cover of Gnarls Barkley's Crazy that I hated...I HATED and loathed with all my soul until I heard it here.
And just like that, it is my new anthem for life and will be playing when they lock me up for accosting Ray at a venue in Wisconsin.
I need to go see him in concert, I don't care at what cost. In the meantime, I'm listening to this cover of Gnarls Barkley's Crazy that I hated...I HATED and loathed with all my soul until I heard it here.
And just like that, it is my new anthem for life and will be playing when they lock me up for accosting Ray at a venue in Wisconsin.
This Is What Jesus Had In Mind
Early on Easter morning I caught my mother elbow deep in the shades of our living room lamps, completely stricken faced, as I meandered downstairs to find her hiding the eggs and she holla'ed at me "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" because...apparently that's her natural reaction to being caught being the Easter Bunny. I turned around then, because I know when I'm not wanted! Let all of our labs eat those GD eggs! Get ready for Stink House 'o' Eggs 2010, folks, because the Easter Bunny is PISSED AND HAS NO PEOPLE SKILLS EARLY IN THE MORNING.
I then proceeded to go upstairs where my sister accosted me in the hallway with the following blurb of useless information:
"Have you ever SEEN this movie? He just came up out of the water and ate him and she was all VERY FUNNY GRIFFIN but she didn't KNOOOWWWWW...she didn't KKKNNNOOOWWW ASH that it had eaten him and then he came up out of the water and it was the SCARIEST THING EEEEVVVEEEERRRRRRR!!!!" to which I had to push her aside on my way to the bathroom because, yes, I've seen Anaconda before. No, it's not as scary as you're making it seem this very early Easter morning. No, I will not watch it with you. Please stop shouting at me down the hallway every time someone becomes dismembered in the water.
Words of Wisdom: They ALL become dismembered in the water, even in the one where Jennifer Lopez stars. Go away, go away, go away.
I come out of the bathroom a few minutes later with my copy of Ahab's Wife because there is a terrible commotion in the hallway that sounds like, roughly, forty elephants fighting over the biggest bath towel and I realize I'm not going to get any quality reading done right then. I come out to find Bridgette, the worst dog in the history of the world, tap dancing her way around a torture game with the cats, both of which are hovering behind the laundry basket with faces of sheer terror as my mother stands at the bottom of the steps in all of her angry Easter Bunny glory shout-whispering to "GETYOURASSDOWNHERE...I swear, I'm re-homing you this week. Take her picture, Ash, and PUT IT ON CRAIG'S LIST!"
(Did I, or did I NOT tell you she was the happiest damn Easter Bunny in Sterling Heights?)
We get the dog downstairs. I coax both cats out of the laundry. My sister comes out one last time to tell me how truly scary and horrific Anaconda REALLY is, I crawl back into bed and vow never to come out again.
Until it's time to find those damn eggs. I have the upper hand and am going straight for the lamp shades before I feed all of my findings to the dogs for some quality dog smells over the next several hours and yell "How do you like THEM APPLES, Easta Bunnayyyyy?!?" at my mother before running for my life.
Just another quality Easter at the Earp House. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
I then proceeded to go upstairs where my sister accosted me in the hallway with the following blurb of useless information:
"Have you ever SEEN this movie? He just came up out of the water and ate him and she was all VERY FUNNY GRIFFIN but she didn't KNOOOWWWWW...she didn't KKKNNNOOOWWW ASH that it had eaten him and then he came up out of the water and it was the SCARIEST THING EEEEVVVEEEERRRRRRR!!!!" to which I had to push her aside on my way to the bathroom because, yes, I've seen Anaconda before. No, it's not as scary as you're making it seem this very early Easter morning. No, I will not watch it with you. Please stop shouting at me down the hallway every time someone becomes dismembered in the water.
Words of Wisdom: They ALL become dismembered in the water, even in the one where Jennifer Lopez stars. Go away, go away, go away.
I come out of the bathroom a few minutes later with my copy of Ahab's Wife because there is a terrible commotion in the hallway that sounds like, roughly, forty elephants fighting over the biggest bath towel and I realize I'm not going to get any quality reading done right then. I come out to find Bridgette, the worst dog in the history of the world, tap dancing her way around a torture game with the cats, both of which are hovering behind the laundry basket with faces of sheer terror as my mother stands at the bottom of the steps in all of her angry Easter Bunny glory shout-whispering to "GETYOURASSDOWNHERE...I swear, I'm re-homing you this week. Take her picture, Ash, and PUT IT ON CRAIG'S LIST!"
(Did I, or did I NOT tell you she was the happiest damn Easter Bunny in Sterling Heights?)
We get the dog downstairs. I coax both cats out of the laundry. My sister comes out one last time to tell me how truly scary and horrific Anaconda REALLY is, I crawl back into bed and vow never to come out again.
Until it's time to find those damn eggs. I have the upper hand and am going straight for the lamp shades before I feed all of my findings to the dogs for some quality dog smells over the next several hours and yell "How do you like THEM APPLES, Easta Bunnayyyyy?!?" at my mother before running for my life.
Just another quality Easter at the Earp House. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Girlie Action
Because I'm a 'who reads me' stalker, last week I happened to notice that the media involved with One Eskimo that I posted about here, checked out my blog. Probably to make sure they didn't have to sue me for saying inappropriate things about real Eskimos, no doubt. Like how awful it is that they SEND THEIR OLD OUT TO SEA TO DIE ALONE.
Not that that has anything to do with the band. These are just some of the things people should think about, naturally, when naming their bands though. Backlash is bound to occur. This is why no one out there has named their band "Adolf's Regime" and, if there is, they're obviously not topping the charts (according to my latest edition of Rolling Stone). I'm not saying being an Eskimo is bad! Sure, it's cold and you're more than likely a resident of the great state of Alaska which means your political party members are sorely lacking...but maybe Eskimos can't vote? Crap...is my Eskimo historical and geographical information inaccurate? I'll bet they DON'T live in Alaska.
But I'll bet those old people stories are true. Shame, shame.
MOVING ON. I visited their website (and you can too at Girlie Action Media and Marketing) because I was curious as to who else they represented, and, surprise surprise, because I'm sheltered and know nothing about nobody, I didn't recognize a single name on their list EXCEPT...One Eskimo.
I have been digging around though and haven't been disappointed to say the least. In particular, this one chick named Gin Wigmore has caught my attention. I've listened to a few songs on Youtube and I can't really describe her voice...it's a bit raspy, a bit sarcastically Amy Winehouse, but with less booze obviously. I like it. Some of the music videos are, I'm not going to lie, a bit hard to watch. She looks like she has a neurological tick in one. I am intrigued though. I think I might even go see her in Royal Oak when she comes in late April.
Word of warning: total chick music, for all my dude readers who were waiting for more music fantasticalness this week. Fear not! I'm all over it and will have something just for you by Thurday. In the mean time, ladies, get the new cd and have your girlfriends over for some Cosmos and wreckless dancing in your living room while listening to this chick. She's pretty stinking amazing.
Not that that has anything to do with the band. These are just some of the things people should think about, naturally, when naming their bands though. Backlash is bound to occur. This is why no one out there has named their band "Adolf's Regime" and, if there is, they're obviously not topping the charts (according to my latest edition of Rolling Stone). I'm not saying being an Eskimo is bad! Sure, it's cold and you're more than likely a resident of the great state of Alaska which means your political party members are sorely lacking...but maybe Eskimos can't vote? Crap...is my Eskimo historical and geographical information inaccurate? I'll bet they DON'T live in Alaska.
But I'll bet those old people stories are true. Shame, shame.
MOVING ON. I visited their website (and you can too at Girlie Action Media and Marketing) because I was curious as to who else they represented, and, surprise surprise, because I'm sheltered and know nothing about nobody, I didn't recognize a single name on their list EXCEPT...One Eskimo.
I have been digging around though and haven't been disappointed to say the least. In particular, this one chick named Gin Wigmore has caught my attention. I've listened to a few songs on Youtube and I can't really describe her voice...it's a bit raspy, a bit sarcastically Amy Winehouse, but with less booze obviously. I like it. Some of the music videos are, I'm not going to lie, a bit hard to watch. She looks like she has a neurological tick in one. I am intrigued though. I think I might even go see her in Royal Oak when she comes in late April.
Word of warning: total chick music, for all my dude readers who were waiting for more music fantasticalness this week. Fear not! I'm all over it and will have something just for you by Thurday. In the mean time, ladies, get the new cd and have your girlfriends over for some Cosmos and wreckless dancing in your living room while listening to this chick. She's pretty stinking amazing.
High Recommendations
I had so much to do this weekend that I literally made a To Do list and then counted the items on it (52!) which was, obviously, immediately followed by raucous screaming and tantrum throwing where I finally collapsed on my bed, picked up a new book that I bought last weekend and said "F it. Being an adult is stupid anyway" and then ignored all responsibility from that point forward.
Needless to say, the list still has 52 items on it and I'm SO ROYALLY SCREWED.
But so happily read!
I wandered around Barnes and Nobles with Scott last weekend in hopes to cross some books off the ever-growing list in my purse when what to my wondering eyes did appear but the NEW Jodi Picoult book on the front table, like a shining beacon from Heaven that screamed, "YES ASHLEY...THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!" and my coronary began and Scott was like "Woman, pull yourself together we are in public!" and I was like "Don't you smother my happiness, this is the most WONDROUS of all surprises God could have sent me!" and, of course, his shameful head shaking started and didn't stop until it was safely in my clutches, amongst my many other purchases and we made it to the car where no one could actually witness the tears of joy shed over this hard cover dream.
Now that I think about it, we probably won't be book shopping together anytime in the near future. It only ends in my ridiculous squealing while he carries my heavy stuff, yet tries to pretend he's not actually with me because I'm browsing the "Who else has written a Vampire love story?" section in the Young Adults. I don't even feel bad. This is who I am and getting me in a book store is like releasing a Lion in Sal's Butchery and being all 'Now, don't touch anything and for Heaven's sake, DON'T get excited!"
The new book, now that I've finally gotten around to it, is House Rules by Jodi Picoult and is flipping fantastic. Sometimes my love for Jodi wains...sometimes she comes out with a new one and I'm so excited for it that my heart actually thuds to the floor when I finish it and am left with the "that's it?" feeling that shreds my insides. But THIS one I'm talking about in particular because I truly feel like anyone could enjoy it, guys and girls alike.
Synopsis: Autistic teenage boy gets caught up in a murder that the reader doesn't know if he committed or not because he's so oddly socially inept and autistic that by the end of the book you really think to yourself that he might just be capable of what they said he was.
And I loved it! I'm not a book reviewer or anything...I wouldn't know how to do that professionally and my reviews would be so unbelievably biased that everytime someone picked up the crap magazine I reviewed in weekly they'd be like, "Great...I have no idea how the new Stephen King novel is but, of course, Ashley is LOVING Vampire Love Story #892" and thus, I would be fired.
But this! I give my highest recommendations! I review whole heartedly just for my loving readers! Buy it! Procrastinate Today!
Needless to say, the list still has 52 items on it and I'm SO ROYALLY SCREWED.
But so happily read!
I wandered around Barnes and Nobles with Scott last weekend in hopes to cross some books off the ever-growing list in my purse when what to my wondering eyes did appear but the NEW Jodi Picoult book on the front table, like a shining beacon from Heaven that screamed, "YES ASHLEY...THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!" and my coronary began and Scott was like "Woman, pull yourself together we are in public!" and I was like "Don't you smother my happiness, this is the most WONDROUS of all surprises God could have sent me!" and, of course, his shameful head shaking started and didn't stop until it was safely in my clutches, amongst my many other purchases and we made it to the car where no one could actually witness the tears of joy shed over this hard cover dream.
Now that I think about it, we probably won't be book shopping together anytime in the near future. It only ends in my ridiculous squealing while he carries my heavy stuff, yet tries to pretend he's not actually with me because I'm browsing the "Who else has written a Vampire love story?" section in the Young Adults. I don't even feel bad. This is who I am and getting me in a book store is like releasing a Lion in Sal's Butchery and being all 'Now, don't touch anything and for Heaven's sake, DON'T get excited!"
The new book, now that I've finally gotten around to it, is House Rules by Jodi Picoult and is flipping fantastic. Sometimes my love for Jodi wains...sometimes she comes out with a new one and I'm so excited for it that my heart actually thuds to the floor when I finish it and am left with the "that's it?" feeling that shreds my insides. But THIS one I'm talking about in particular because I truly feel like anyone could enjoy it, guys and girls alike.
Synopsis: Autistic teenage boy gets caught up in a murder that the reader doesn't know if he committed or not because he's so oddly socially inept and autistic that by the end of the book you really think to yourself that he might just be capable of what they said he was.
And I loved it! I'm not a book reviewer or anything...I wouldn't know how to do that professionally and my reviews would be so unbelievably biased that everytime someone picked up the crap magazine I reviewed in weekly they'd be like, "Great...I have no idea how the new Stephen King novel is but, of course, Ashley is LOVING Vampire Love Story #892" and thus, I would be fired.
But this! I give my highest recommendations! I review whole heartedly just for my loving readers! Buy it! Procrastinate Today!
