... Michelle Duggar goes and gives us the BEST MOTHER'S DAY SURPRISE, LIKE, EVAR!!1111!11!1
Yes.
She's pregnant with her 18th. I'll be back later today (with a plug for a new, awesome video for kids), but it was too good to keep to myself.
Click here to read the good news and rejoice!
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And yes: for those of you who aren't up on How To Detect Written Sarcasm, if I had my tongue farther up my cheek, I'd be choking.
Hey, why not?
Go-go: I'm embarrassed to admit, I didn't know what Go-Go was until I moved here. And even then, still don't know much about it, until everyone seemed to think that the music for the new Nationals park was sorely lacking in.... yes.
Go-go. Sweet as catchy name, cool beat. Go Wiki-enlighten yourself at least, and then play yourself some go-go. You will actually feel like bustin' loose, y'all.
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Um yeah. A few months ago I whined about not being able to see "Ladrón Que Roba a Ladrón".
Enter Netflix. All is well, and how.
If you speak Spanish, you want to watch it because, well, you just want to. Coz it's a good movie and there are hot people in it-- really, do not need more than that.
If you speak English (and don't mind reading subtitles), you want to watch it because you want to see a fun heist movie; you want to see Latino people who aren't your average stereotype; and you want to see hot people in it-- really, do not need more than that.
But yes. GOOOOORGEOUSNESS has graced my corneas today. And I don't just mean the cat (whose name is Grace and who looks pretty cute herself); but do click here and tell me that I'm wrong in the gorgeousness category. Go on. Disagree with me and I'll probably just shrug and cower (and secretly tell you to go eff yourself, which would mean we'd go back a day).
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I ate too much Salvadorean-style oven-baked pork. Mmmm.
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And I'm just kicking back, enjoying Rev. Meow's visit. Whee!
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And for the gorgeousness record and the G-rated finale, here is a random picture of Gracie:
Gracias and good night, good-looking bloGGers!
Dude, okay. Jon Stewart was FUNNY just now.
I'm still chuckling over the "Atonement" joke and I'm not even Jewish, you know?
And lemme tell you, after having some major gastrointestinal disturbances --which shall heretofore be called "The Viral Gastroenteritis That Ate Tokyo", only that, you know, I've been here and not in Tokyo, and my skin didn't turn green and I didn't really become a giant lizard, nor has poor Herr Meow the dear little baby, and I haven't eaten anything either except for maybe some rice and some Gatorade, and if I start going into any bodily fluids PLEASE stop me-- it's hard to sustain a laugh for very long.
Aw. The acceptance montage. So sappylicious.
But seriously, this is just to say that I am enjoying the Oscars and I hope you are, too.
And really, when there is so much pop culture attacking your eyeballs, you must submit to the power.
Submit. To. The. Power.
Ooh! CUE MUSIC! RUTHLESSNESS AT WORK!!!!
And Katherine Heigl sucks. There. I said it. What's the matter, doll? Getting 50 words out in a live setting too much for ya? Rarg.
I loves me some Amy Adams, though. <3
It's seldom that there is a perfect storm of so many things happening in the zeitgeist, is there?
Today is Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday, or Shrove Tuesday, if you so desire) and across the nation millions are getting drunk and exploring the side of themselves that wants to participate on a "Girls Gone Wild" video. Hint: it's the boobs.
It's also Super Tuesday, which is pretty exciting even if you're a total moron who's forfeited her own right to vote on this momentous occasion.
Of course, I do wonder if there are millions of possibly topless and drunk people aimlessly voting for Ron Paul out there and/or doing us all proud, by exercising both their right to vote and party all in one glorious and alcohol-soaked golden day for democracy, but I highly doubt it.
To top it all off, this week is the beginning of the Lunar year of the Rat (it begins on the 7th) and so there is all that delicious red-papered kookyness fluttering around and making us feel glad and hungry for red bean paste dumplings. Or, well, making ME hungry for red bean paste dumplings. And really good dim sum, like the one I had yesterday at Yank Sing-- and oh, people, if you live long enough to make it to San Francisco and eat there, it's like you've died and gone to foodie heaven. The AMAZING food comes to you! The extremely nice servers ask you over and over and over and over and OVER! and over again if you'd like some of this or some of that or some more of this and.... *sigh*.
Never have I been so lovingly attacked by food, and I loved every moment of it.
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But so okay.... the seventh is Rat-year, and it also happens to be a very special day in the Meowhold (read: anniversary). And then a week after that it's the most beloved and dreaded day of the year, which would be Valentine's Day.
It's almost too much, too soon, you know? The year is still young but this week feels like a celebration best reserved for when the year is older and more tired --a bit of energy reserves to jolt us all back into a better and more jovial mood and to beat the blues.
But here we are, drinking and eating pancakes where applicable and being merry and sitting, eyes glued to the nifty graphics that have delightful little numbers that in the long run mean nothing.
Someone just said that they voted for Ron Paul because they wanted a charismatic leader. This makes me wonder if there is more to that squeaky little voice than I previously thought. Or maybe it's just confirmation that there are, in fact, drunken and possibly topless people voting out there. God bless 'em all.
And here we sit, another year coming and going (a rat year no less! Busy and purposeful! Squee!) and wondering what this celebratory mood means, and what politics really mean, and whether we can have some more Carmel cream sherry please because this is why people drink. (We can. Mmm!)
Because soon, the celebration and the honeymoon will all be over. And we'll be on to celebrating anniversaries.
And that's pretty nice unless you voted for the wrong reasons, is it not?
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PeeEss: Blogging + Côtes du Rhône= entertaining results.
As I start to watch "Talk To Me" --a movie I'm excited about watching-- all I can think about is this:
The movie is what matters.
The acting, directing, editing, music, they matter.
The writing, of course, is what made it all possible, so of course it matters the most (though methinks there is more than one greedy gos around there).
The Golden Globes happened last night, right?
But what are the GGs without the lavish and blatant display of wealth and ostentation? Without overpaid figureheads getting shitfaced while the world sits glued watching them?
They are nothing. They are a couple of columns printed somewhere in the Style section of the paper.
Nothing but the reminder that the Hollywood Foreign Press Association is a Mickey-Mouse organization. That the awards the give out, just like so many other awards, are relatively meaningless because all the public cares about is the ostentation and the wealth and the booze and the designer clothes.
So we can all feel a little more bitter and a little more disenfranchised and a little more lackluster, starting with the people elbowing each other while guzzling the finest champagne the world has to offer.
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Tomorrow: with 100% less bitter edge!
I find it irresistible to blog about good weather, such as today's --high 73 at 2 pm!
A day like this is one of those rare occasions where life itself is in charge of reassuring us that things can be this good from time to time; that it is possible for the sun to shine benevolently and with insouciant warmth in the middle of winter.
Today's thoroughly positive, happy energy is a welcome respite for everyone, I think. Even if winter is a favorite season and even if you look forward to donning all your warm woolies for three months straight, you might find a little pleasure in a day that lets you walk around in short sleeves, even for a couple of hours, right?
I mean, I am pretty sure that the corollary statement-- that an unusually cool day in the middle of summer is also a delightful and welcome event-- stands as well as it delights, right? Variety is the spice of life, and so huzzah for today!
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I am the only soul on this green earth who has not blogged about Britney's latest debacle, huh.
Remember what I just wrote about variety being the spice of life?
When was the last time the Britney steamroller surprised us with anything out of the ordinary-- anything where we can get to root for her and feel good for her and maybe get back to secretly envying the rock-hard abs and the tight butt and the fake boobs on the red leather leotard?
When was the last time Britney stopped being entertainment with a high wince factor?
I think the last time she was able to cast herself in any kind of positive light was back in the fall of 2006-- shortly before the world at large became her impromptu gynecologist. Now every time there is a news item about this sad little sick fool, anyone who still cares to stomach reading the whole story gets to play amateur psychiatrist (is she bipolar? is it PPD? is it psychosis? is she just dumb? is she on drugs? illegal ones?) and single-mindedly recommend that someone show enough sense and charity for this woman and get her committed to a mental institution.
The story hasn't varied. The cast keeps getting more and more transient and shady, and the sick person just gets sicker. Meanwhile, an entire city seems to be the hostage in this situation, and the two poor children she brought into this world get to be raised by the one parent most people thought was the incompetent one, while the incompetence of her own parenting becomes painfully and starkly evident. Adding to this is the bitter irony that she seems to be exposing herself of her own volition-- no one is setting her up, but instead she makes dates and tips off the paparazzi, who by now seem to be her only stable if obtrusive friends.
At this point, all I can hope for is a drop-off in the volume of stories related to her, and that she gets the help that she needs.
Like, yesterday.
Oooh... day one of NaBloPoMo and I must confess I am very excited. A whole host of possibilities to write about and honestly--from Herr Meow's colossal sugar rush and party-hearty antics last night to the ABO diet to how when you're craving sweets you should really try reaching for a piece of fruit you like instead and watch your sugar craving go away-- I'm giddy with possibility.
Let's see... what else shall I blog about? Here's a tip for the uninspired: I've found that if you make a quick yet public jot of things that have popped into your mind, it makes it kind of easy to go back and, days later, read your own blog when you're stuck for idea. Also, anytime you commit things to writing it makes it easier to remember without looking back at your notes. True story-- I believe it has something to do with using different pathways in your brain to remember, such as your visual and kinesthetic areas when writing a list, as opposed to just one pathway (your inner monologue). Which is why lists work, unless you forget where you put the list.
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Back to the ABO types, though.
I guess that one thing lead to another and I found several interesting-for-different-reasons sites.
The first one is the Wikipedia explanation of the blood type diet. If you've never heard of this, it was a theory that was popular a number of years ago and explained your diet preference and/or what you should eat as your ancient world preference thing or whatnot. Wait. That was confusing.
Well anyway, what struck me as funny is that this diet claims that type B blood people are the only people who can handle dairy products. It struck my fancy for two reasons:
1. Maybe type B people were truly meant to be cows?
2. Doesn't that assertion kind of negate the prevalence of lactose intolerance in certain ethnic groups, notably Asians?
So to check this point, I found this site on blood type distribution across the world and I found it interesting that type B blood's prevalence is not very high across the world's populations --so I guess there aren't too many people who are meant to be cows-- but that for instance in Japan, a whole 22% of the population is type B-- if you look at the native Ainu, that number jumps to an amazing 32%!!!!! So at least 22% of the population should be perfectly fine with eating dairy, but it could be as high as 32 percent-- and for people who consider it an insult to put cream cheese in sushi rolls, I find that chuckle-worthy.
(Incidentally, Philly rolls are a disgusting concept to me. Ew.)
(OMG! I JUST FOUND OUT TODAY IS SUSHI DAY!!!! DRAGON ROLL HERE I COME!)
By contrast, the Swiss --those devils of candy and dairy confectionery goodness, and fondue! fondue! (and raclette..... mmmm)-- have only 8% of their population as the dairyholic B type. So, ha!
Of course, I didn't need to go through this wormhole, considering that this theory is highly criticized, but wasn't it fun? Well, at least I had fun.
The internet: a delicious waste of time.
Incidentally, I'm an O-type, and the ABO diet thingy says that we're meant to be carnivores. And yes, I must admit, I do love meat.
But honestly, that's me and 75% of the world population or some ridiculous number like that. One of us was bound to like meat, right?
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So anyway, back to the blood type stuff, a friend of mine had mentioned something about how in Japan horoscopes are nowhere near as popular as your lover's bloodtype.
And I hadn't really thought about it until I ran across this website on the temperament descriptions of the four types. So of course here I am sharing with you and asking you to tell me in the comments (if you'd be so kind),
1. What's your sign blood type, baby? (this would make an excellent Halloween pick-up line)
2. Does the description fit? If so, a lot or a little?
I love impromptu social experiments!
It's a slow day, but the Meowhold is intensely excited about this: The Solar Decathlon! Geeks bringing their extremely efficient houses out to pasture -- so to speak, but not really-- to the National Mall is for my husband like waving cotton candy in front of normal people.
(I mean that in a nice way.)
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So J. Lo. and Halle Berry and Salma Hayek are all in several states of pregnancy.
I don't know what to say, honestly.
Other than, of course, um..... I guess most people get clobbered by the biological clock sometime? And isn't it nice to have ahem... help, when that happens?
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Oh, Britney Spears.
You've become even more unbelievable than "The Young and The Restless"-- and about as lengthy. Yesterday I was browsing through the channels and watched a little bit of Anna Nicole Smith's story -- you know, about how she didn't even make it past 10th grade and was a young mama and stripped and seduced a super old guy and became a Playmate and all that stuff-- and I just had to shake my head. Because as cheesy and unbelievable and weird and speaks-badly-of-America ANS's rise to fame was, she at least was a good mother whose meltdowns were charming enough to make her one of the first true reality tv stars.
You're just pathetic at this point. Holy crap.
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But not as pathetic as Pamela Anderson.
Rick Salomon? Seriously?
The guy who poked Paris AND SOLD IT??
Ah.... has-beens. What would we ever do without you?
Okay. Confession time: I've been spending a little more time on Facebook that I should.
Maybe more time than is seemly for a matron of my age.
Way too much time-- mostly spent warding off zombie attacks and throwing stuff at people with SuperPoke!
Yes... it is inevtable: Facebook is yet another thing in my life that will get the label of "evil" while at the same time completely holding me in thrall.
It's innocent enough to toss those sheep and cows around and take tests to see just how well you'd get along with a friend during a movie-watching slumber party (if any such a one is still had by people working hard on their fourth decade of life), and there are mirthful little groups such as the "I Flip My Pillow Over To Get To The Cold Side" group; one that charmed we with its wordy yet heartfelt and I'm-not-a-weirdo premise.
But then you start looking for people you knew. In The Past.
Not just the "oh yeah, it's been a couple of years, how ya doin'?" past. I mean THE Past.
As in the people that time has either erased completely, only to bring them forth out of the shadows as you see them, arms draped over unknowns or holding bridesmaids' bouquets or doing any number of poses ranging from the candid, through the innocuous, and arriving grandly at the "total tool" denomination; or others whose faces, names, and actions live in your constant memory for better or worse.
You know that they can no longer hold sway over your emotions or hurt you or even hug you or make you laugh, but there is still that weird feeling that somehow they know you're looking at their profile.
The shifty glances around and the heart beating faster give way, in the theoretical privacy of your living room,
to the rationalizations that are inevitable:
* People do grow up and apart.
* The past only comes back to haunt you if you let it.
* Flying livestock is still fun.
* He who pokes last wins.
Happy Monday, all!
(Want to add me so I can toss a cow at you? Please shoot me an email so I know you're not a creepy weirdo who wants to slash my throat.)
(Or, well, you know... *specifically* one who wants to bodily harm me. All you other creepy weirdoes who are already my friends need not fear)
Dear 80s Sky FM,
Thank you for playing "Stand" just right now.
I am sure that deep inside, in some motivational poster hanging in some distant hallway somewhere in the bowels of your company you have some sort of phrase addressing the sheer force, joy and power of music that you can effortlessly deliver and its uncanny ability of placing you in front of the television set circa 1992, scouring MTV to just play the damn video already because, okay, it is a few years old but c'mon and then finally getting your hours' worth of watching and seeing the giddiness of the silly people dancing around the compass and all that fun stuff but most of all for just the sheer joy of dancing that silly dance again and feeling fifteen and clueless and innocent and distant all wrapped in one sweet chord of what, at one not-so-distant point in time was possibly THE BEST BAND EVAR!!11!!11
Yes. Thank you for taking me back.
But I'm so not thanking you for playing Dazz Band right afterward, totally killing it for me.
Dazz band? More like Razz band, seriously. Yeah, yeah. But the name doesn't give me much to work with, now does it?
Somewhat soured despite having had a beautiful moment,
Madame Meow
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