Blame Canada
There was swaying. There was singing. There was crying. I didn’t get to punch anyone.
This morning I woke up with a wicked headache. After I cried into my pillow a little and nearly yakked in the shower, the Captain decided to buy me some Excedrin. I think he felt guilty since I was subjected to “the goddamn Titanic song.”
Suffering aside, I did learn a few things from last night’s concert experience:
1. Celine Dion is not actually ugly in person. (Who knew? Besides the Captain, who was highly offended that I had believed she was horse-faced until last night.)
2. However, she makes a whole range of ugly faces when she sings. (See, I was partially right.)
3. But you may not notice if you’re distracted by her gorgeous hair and smokin’ body. (Jealous? Yes.)
4. Celine speaks with an accent. (Honestly, people expected me to know this?)
5. And apparently has not mastered the English language. (Even the Captain admitted she’s not particularly articulate. Grammar? Pshaw!)
6. She also needs to enunciate. (I couldn’t understand 85% of the lyrics she was singing. During one song it wasn’t until she got to the chorus that I realized it was in English.)
7. Celine sucks at air guitar. (Seriously. I was embarrassed for her.)
8. She has a very powerful voice. (See migraine complaint above.)
9. And the venue had great acoustics. (See migraine complaint above.)
10. Yet I still loathe her music with a fiery passion. (See migraine complaint above.)
It Could Always Be Worse
What could be worse than having to endure a Celine Dion concert in the name of love and devotion?
Having to endure a Celine Dion concert several hours after receiving a summons for jury duty.
Yay, weekend.
Snippets
- Hell. Today is the dreaded day. I’ve told the Captain that if I have to endure anybody swaying and crying while singing “My Heart Will Go On,” I might have to punch someone.
- Freaks. Apparently because of this post and this one I now rank very high for “locker room naked” and its variations in Google. My blog has also been found with such interesting searches as “How much pubic hair would a eleven year old girl have if she already has breasts” and “at least my thighs funny email forward.” Kinda makes me miss the good ol’ days when people stumbled upon my site looking for the “boob fairy.”
- Weather. For the first time in five years, the Captain doesn’t have drill (or isn’t deployed) on the weekend of our local Harvest Fair. I’ve never been, so he’s excited to take me. Of course, it’s raining. Wet livestock anyone? I guess I don’t get my first taste of fried dough this weekend. Murphy’s Law, you know.
- Drama Queen. I have a birthday coming up, which is making me go batshit crazy on the Captain. Yesterday I started crying about being almost thirty and I’m not even engaged and then when I finally am it takes how long to plan a wedding and then after that I’d want some time alone with my husband before starting a family and then who knows how long it would take to be able to conceive and by the time I get to the point where I have kids I’ll be too old and there will be complications if I can even have kids at all. Yeah, I know. (In my defense, I’m menstruating. Totally not my fault.)
- Speed Reader. I’ve already blown through all my new books. There are plenty of books on my shelves that I haven’t looked at yet, but I think you’ve got to be in a certain mindset to tackle On Politics and Education by John Locke. Oh well. There’s always The Brothers Karamazov.
Deprived
Call it a social experiment if you will, but for the last ten and a half months I have been living a life without television.
No Olympics, no Grey’s Anatomy, no House, no Desperate Housewives, no CSI, no Prison Break, no Family Guy, no Jerry Springer, no Heroes, and no South Park. Why? Because we don’t have cable.
The Captain’s explanation for this self-inflicted horror goes something like: if I got cable, I would want all the premium movie channels and I’m not home enough to justify the cost.
So for the most part our television is mute, screen blank, rabbit ears stretching lazily towards the ceiling. I think we might actually get two channels, but I don’t know which ones because they both come in fuzzy.
A few times I’ve offered to foot the bill for the glorious Comcast service we could be enjoying, but my generosity was met with contempt. So rather than insult the Captain, I’ve soldiered on knowing that never will I see a single episode of Project Runway, Dancing with the Stars, or Lost.
It makes things awkward at work. What else it there to talk about?
“Oh my God, did you catch The Office last night?”
“Hahahahaha. Yeah. I love that show. Steve Carell is hilarious.”
“I want to have Steve Carell’s babies!”
“Me too!”
“Stacey, isn’t The Office the best show EVER?”
“Um . . . I don’t have tv.”
[awkward silence]
“What . . . well . . . what do you do at night then?”
“I have two cats and a laser pointer.”
“Oh, honey . . .”
Most people cannot possibly fathom how anyone could exist without Friends reruns. They look at me with a mix of confusion, sympathy, and disgust. I have even been treated like I have a terminal illness. My life is a reality show I’m not even able to tune in to.
But wait! I have Netflix! I can watch all those popular tv series episodes too . . . when the whole season is released on DVD. You’ll still want to talk about it then? Right?
Right?
No?
Alright, well, you enjoy the season premiere of Gossip Girl. I’m, um . . . I’m going to go read a book.
Clearly I’ve Been Living Under a Rock
You know the problem with having only guy friends? (Besides the fact that at inopportune times they feel the need to confess that at one point they really wanted to “get with you?”) Guy friends do not read hilarious memoirs by cute, ex-sorority girls, and therefore do not recommend such books to you.
This morning I finished reading Bitter Is the New Black by the delightfully snarky Jen Lancaster. She has officially replaced Augusten Burroughs as my favorite author. (Sorry, Augusten. I do love your books too.) I picked up Bright Lights, Big Ass and Such a Pretty Fat before withdrawal symptoms could set in.
While I do regret being friends with men who likely do not understand nor appreciate the literary value of these volumes, on the bright side, they won’t ask to borrow my copies! (I’m still waiting for my brother to return my Christopher Moore books. It’s been a couple years.)
Being the impulsive person I am, I very nearly emailed Ms. Lancaster. You know, just to tell her how awesome her book is like she isn’t aware of it. Then I reminded myself that the few times I’ve spoken with writers, I’ve made a complete ass of myself. So no “Hey, you write good!” email from me. (And, yes, I do know “good” is grammatically incorrect in that sentence.)
Anyway, as I can’t stand to think such an oversight could possibly occur again, please, if you think of any other amazing authors I may be missing out on, do tell!