Famous among dozens
Eden over at Fussy has just christened National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo), during which participants agree to post every day during November.
She has quite a list of participants going, and I’m falling in line. I can’t resist tidy little packets of accomplishment. Won’t you join me? Yes! Do!
And please don’t tell me you can’t think of anything to write about. By now, you know what to do about that.
Me: You know the weirdest thing about these boobs?
Bryan: What?
M: Every night when I change into pajamas, I realize crumbs of food have been collecting in my cleavage all day long. It’s not hot.
B: I love how you say “these boobs” instead of “my boobs.” Like they’re an inconvenient college roommate who’s been assigned to you.
M: I can’t relate to them.
Does anyone else have this running through their heads?
“SHOT THROUGH THE HEART!
And you’re to blame,
Darlin’ you give looooove a bad name (bad name).”
What about now, suckers?
This is a follow-up to yesterday’s entry, so please read that first.
Though one of my strongest beliefs is that any individual can make a profound difference in society, movies seem to be less entertaining all the time. I pulled the quote below because it had me shaking my head, but then nodding a little. I get what he means. There’s a right place for fun, and if the entertainment industry isn’t the right place, then what the hell is?
At one extreme, you have Hotel Rwanda, and at the other you have Nacho Libre. What do you watch when you’re too exhausted to delve into the social implications of genocide, but you’d still like to keep your brain switch set to “on?”
That’s been a real frustration for me. Not enough movies in the last few years have made me feel both happier and smarter. In fact, only Amelie and Junebug come to mind–and Junebug isn’t everyone’s idea of a feel-good flick.
So I guess I’m wondering if this is a real trend, or just my personal experience. What movies have left you feeling smarter and sunnier afterward?
From Esquire‘s October 2006 edition:
“I don’t think I can affect anything about the political decisions in our country or in other countries. I just want to make movies. I want to entertain people and make it a funner place. Wars and stuff: That’s not fun.” –David Lehre, Filmmaker (age 21)
Alice, over at Finslippy, just posted about one of my very favorite prompts fromNo One Cares What You Had for Lunch. It’s about bringing back beloved words that no one uses any more. A few of my favorites pulled from her comments section:
Cinchy, meaning easy to do.
Fie as a curse word.
“I’m all sixes and sevens,” meaning “off my game.”
Poppycock, as an expression of disbelief.
“I’ve got a hitch in my git-along,” meaning “I feel stiff.”
Zozzled, meaning drunk.
What words do you adore?
My innie is finally a full-fledged outie, which kinda grosses me out. It’s killer sensitive and the skin is soft. People, the insides of your belly buttons are soft as the downy feathers of a baby chick! Of course, try to touch a newly hatched outie and you get an electric zing of discomfort. It’s similar to chewing tinfoil. But still. Soft!
In other pregnancy news, I’m starting to have No One Hurts This Baby dreams. In these dreams I have superhero baby-protection powers. I dreamt that terrorists tried to take me and Bryan hostage with hundreds of other people, and I knew I had to get out before they realized I was pregnant. I kee-yahed, and throat-punched, and clawed my way free. Then I sent Bryan a text message that said, “We’re safe. Get out.” And I waited for him at a coffee shop.
Yesterday I woke up obscenely early for an interview on the KFOG morning show. I love radio interviews, as DJs are the only people on the planet who are more uncomfortable with conversational lulls than me. Anyway, have a listen.
A few days ago, Bryan and I made our first trip to Borders just to see my book in its natural habitat. We found a few copies in the Web Design section (beh?), and Bryan took them up to the counter so I could sign them.
I didn’t realize this was a thing, authors going into random Borders and signing their books, so I felt all sheepish. Afterward, a clerk stuck “SIGNED BY THE AUTHOR!” stickers on the cover and put them back on the shelf. I gazed upon them lovingly. Still, it felt like I’d paid to have them printed by some vanity press and then snuck them in to a real bookstore just to see them on the shelf.
Also, they didn’t check my ID or author photo or anything. This made me wonder what other books I could sign at random bookstores. Would they believe me if I said I was Nora Ephron? Jonathan Safran Foer?
In conclusion, I encourage you to go into bookstores and surreptitiously sign copies of my book, as I think it would be funny.
Mighty Girl 