On the meaning of things…


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Fortunes are funny.

One day the smallest things mean everything…and another day the big things seem quite small and insignificant.  There are days when I look around at all the things I have and I ask myself what do they even matter?  What does the couch matter??  What is important?  Is it the organization of the shoes by the door? Is it the thoughts that I think?  In the end, you can’t take anything with you, but you can leave things behind.  How should they be left?

Can people feel thoughts?  Can you feel my imagination?

It’s amazing how something as small as a little piece of paper inside of a stale fortune cookie can make you think about life….even if it is sort of a cliche quote.

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Super-stitious


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Friday the 13th?  Full moon?

Sounds like the makings of an awesomely terrible sci fi comedy/thriller starring on screen love interests Ian Ziering and Candace Cameron.  The villain, a superstitious werewolf, would be played by my newly appointed favorite, Rick Moranis.  Guest appearances by Dolly Parton, Keanu Reeves, and Dave Coulier.

Side note…I recently just learned that Dave Coulier is the rumored subject of Alanis Morrisette’s famous song, You Outta Know.  Blew my mind.  Uncle Joey?? From Full House??? Broke Alanis’s heart?  And gave her a cross eyed bear?!?  Inconceivable. 

I imagine this made-for-tv movie to become a cult favorite…if not for the mind blowing storyline and acting, but for the kick ass soundtrack.  More music than talking, perhaps. We’ll even throw an Alanis song in there when Dave ironically bites the bullet. 

It’s like rain on your wedding day…

I am not athletic.


The lovelies and I caught a few ice skating performances on the Olympics last night. 

I remember being young and watching in awe…gawking at the girls in sparkly outfits spinning and hurtling themselves through the chilly air.  I always wondered how they got those nude colored leggings around their skates without tearing holes in them. 

There was a woman who skated to Pink Floyd last night.  Shine on you crazy diamond. 

I began to think of all the great songs I would skate to if I were talented and not a weak ankled, fat knee’d, awkward faced, cynical mom with unachievable, athletic, childhood dreams. 

Of course, you know me, and I would have to skate to Eddie.  I noticed everyone tries to skate to beautiful and moving pieces of music.  I would have to make a medley of Pearl Jam.   A little Chris Cornell and Soundgarden action could be great too. 

Maybe Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch? Color Me Badd??  Vanilla Ice???  Salt n Peppa?  Matchbox 20??  Stone Temple Pilots?  Nirvana???

Grunge is like poetry, arguably, and so is ice skating, I guess. 

I could wear a signature Cobain cardigan.  I could have a pair of Doc Marten ice skates fashioned as well.

I wouldn’t smile.  I would keep an air of angst and dirt and just enough self doubt.  I might even flip people off but I would school some fucking ice skating haters.  I would be so good on those triple axles and so visually and musically ironic, no one could handle it. 

I would be the best role model for young girls.  My own kids would roll their eyes and say, ugh mom, not Pearl Jam again. 

Brussel Sprout


So my co-worker’s boyfriend is really great at awesome craft cocktails. He makes his own bitters and puts together really interesting liquors and syrups and what not.  They sound like really delicious combinations.  My co-worker’s job is to name the cocktails and she told us this and asked for input.

Now, knowing me, I couldn’t help but think of really stupid names, like Pippy Pear or Spicy Brutus.  But, then I thought, how hilarious would it be if the name had absolutely nothing to do with the actual cocktail and as something super mundane and completely opposite?  It’s not really that funny, but I couldn’t help but cackle about it.

I mean, what if the cocktail was called the Brussel Sprout and it was really just a cider beer?

Or a drink called The Chicken Strip Basket…oh man, I’m dying over here…and it’s really just a whiskey and coke?

Or a Corn Dog…that’s a strawberry daiquiri.

Maybe there could be a plain old mimosa called the Cobb Salad.

Yes, easily amused and over caffeinated.

 

Hover-mom


While at the park in the sunshine yesterday, I noticed something about parents. 

Parents hover. 

Well, moms hover more than dads, actually.  At our park, at least. 

They hover and protect and correct and ask questions and ruin all the fun, actually. 

I probably seemed like a terrible parent…(someone is probably writing a blog about me not watching my kids…ha!) sitting, watching, allowing things to happen.  For interactions and manners and creativity and imagination to happen without me. 

And it does.  Kids don’t really need us…unless they need us.  Unless they ask. 

Just let them play and have fun, right?  I mean, you can’t really play pirates with laser beam eyeballs with mom saying veal about tummy noses.

Of course, when they pull out the sticks and start beating and dive-bombing each other…then it’s time to offer some peace-making chips or juice or something.