it's always sunny on my couch

So...there's this show. Well, if we're splitting hairs here, there's two shows...Family Guy and It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia. They are awesome, and they are shows my mother hates.

I started watching Family Guy in college, and it's the cause of my reoccuring sprained ankle injuries. It's a long story, but it involves the Shapoopie song from Music Man and myself dancing enthusiasticly with Peter Griffin. Also, it really, really, really hurt. I love all of Family Guy, because it's terrible. It's horrible. And it's wonderful, and hilarious. There are things on that show that keep me chuckling for days, and I'm at the point where when watching, the Hoosband just looks at me, knowing I'm going to start laughing like an idiot.

And I really am an idiot, because I also like It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia.

It's also terrible, and horrible, and much more so than Family Guy. But it's hilarious. Much like Family Guy, they start out doing one thing, and something totally different happens. But with the gang, it's most likely illegal, immoral, involving drugs, or people in green body suits. That show is guilty humor to the max. If you haven't seen it, it centers around these 5 people; a brother (Dennis), sister (Dee), their dad (Frank), and two friends (Charlie and Mac). Dee is probably my favorite character, but the triangle between Dennis, Charlie and Mac is my favorite dynamic. They're always competing and ganging up on each other, and, of course, shenanigans ensue. My favorite episodes cover topics like rum hams, crack, YouTube videos, bar advertisements, and North Korea. The gang takes care of business, okay?

So I encourage you to watch an episode, but please don't judge me.

April, you shouldn't watch any of them, because you will throw up all over Mark, the computer, or the sofa. Or all three.

running to the hills

When I get interested in something, I really get interested. And the first thing I do, after Wikipedia-ing it to death, is go to the library and check out way too many books on the subject. Then, I proceed to think about it all the time and obsess about it in general. Recent topics have included Appalachia, Amsterdam and earthquake preparedness.

In the last month or so, I've been obsessing about survival. I mean, when the world ends and junk, we're going to have to go to the hills. And I'm totally going to be prepared. Justin, a friend down here who actually COULD survive in the hills if need be, assured me that when the time comes to go to the hills, I'll be ready. But I want to be the ready-est, if you know what I mean.

I remember reading My Side of the Mountain when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade and being amazed that a kid could just run away and live in the mountains. I re-read this book in college and found it still interesting, but it was a bit of wake-up call. I know no practical skills that would help me stay alive. I can write papers. I can find information. I can't tell you what plants to eat, or how to grow my own food. Or build a house. Or anything along those lines.

Living in an area that is prone to earthquakes coupled with my worrywart tendencies have created a perfect storm of paranoia surrounding disasters and survival. Christine, Justin's wife, is more than ready to join me in the paranoia, and we've compiled large earthquake kits and worked out a plan to get us together at the university if something should happen. Not that it will. Hopefully. Anyway.

Luckily, my best good friend Brianna humors me, and even checked out books on survival as well; in my mind, it was so that we could compare trapping tactics and sod-house building, but I really know it's because she thinks I'm ridiculous (which I fully admit I am). She also, to further demonstrate her awesome-ness, got me this for my birthday. We're going in the spring in the Santa Cruz mountains, and it's going to be a great story to tell people later on. Plus I'll learn how to make a fire! And find things to eat! And stuff! Junk!

So, when the time comes to go to the hills, you can come with me. Unless you become a zombie, and then I'm going to ask you to forget that I mentioned going to the hills and stay in the abandoned cities, if you please.

the sound of silence

I have a confession.

I don't really listen to music.

I'll listen to the radio, and there are artists I like, but I'm fairly indifferent to the whole thing. My Hoosband, on the other hand, loves music. I shudder to think about the number of albums he has. He loves going to concerts and watching documentaries on music or artists or whatever. He was even going to be a music teacher at one point in his life. My lack of appreciation of music is, I believe, quite a thorn in his side.

I know I'm in the minority. I see people walking around with their iPods or whatever in their ears at all times, and I'm constantly amazed by how much stimulation they can handle. How do they think? I barely think, and I don't listen to music.

Again, I do like music, I just don't listen to it much. It's like sweet potatoes; I like them, if other people are having them I will too, but I don't think I want to eat them every day, like cheese or anything. The music I do listen to (usually in the car or cleaning the house) falls into two categories: "how awesomely ridiculous is this song" or "how great are these lyrics?" The former deals with mostly pop songs, which are awesomely ridiculous in themselves for the most part. The latter has artists like James Taylor, and the Beatles, Johnny Cash and others; songs that meant something to the writer or the musician.

If I had the choice between music or books, it would be books all the time. Hands down. I even choose to listen to books on tape when I work out. I feel like that's on par with buying a sweet sound system for your car and then blasting NPR, with the bass turned up. Which, probably, is something I would do also.

absolutes

I am, as my husband would assure you, a person of absolutes. Many of my statements begin with "can I just say how much I love ______?" The blank can be filled with anything from socks to money that grows on trees, but it always begins on with how much I either love or hate something. Hyperbole like this is common in my speech, but rarely so stridently defined in my actual thoughts. Now, if you had to pin me down on my favorite color, that would be easy. Favorite book? Psh, that depends on the day and the time. I don't want to commit myself to just one favorite, right? There are many favorites out there for many moods. Food is an excellent example.

I am a woman of simple tastes. Simply delicious tastes, really. There are many things that I think I could eat a lifetime of: cheese and saltines, cheese quesadillas, cheesecake, or brie en croute (fancy for cheese and dough). Cheese, my friends--good cheese especially--is why I don't think I could be a vegan. I'm pretty sure that I could give up all other animal products or by-products, but not cheese. Well, to be more specific, melted cheese. Or maybe just cheddar. Or melted cheddar? It's too hard.

For instance, let's say your next meal would be your last meal. What would that be? This is where it gets too hard, like cheddar versus melted cheddar. Becuase if I knew my next meal was my last meal, I'd have to consider some very important things. First, how do you know it's your last meal? How long after that meal would you be dying? 10 minutes? 10 hours? 10 days? How would that food sit on your nervous stomach? Would it make for some super funky nervous-burps? If, after the meal, would you be attempting a long trek though snowy wastelands? Would the eating of that food as your last meal then ruin that food? There are so many implications to such a simple problem. I don't know how people can decide something like that.

But seriously, can I just say how much I love nachos? Because I could eat that every meal every day for the rest of my life.

writing

Writing is something I forget I love to do. In actuality, I should really sit down and make a list of things I persistently forget I like. This list would include, among other things, hot showers, eating whole apples, pilates, and talking to friends I haven't seen in forever on the phone. The latter always seems to be a chore until the other person picks up the phone. Looking at that short list, it becomes apparent that I forget I like things that are good for me, and writing definitely falls into that category.

When I go back and read old posts, or papers, or journals, I'm always amazed at how well it sounds. Not to brag or boast, but it continually surprises me that my jumbled mind can put together coherent and sometimes entertaining strings of words together. I forget that I can do that; there are days that it seems like the only thing I know how to do is make my daughter throw temper tantrums (I am stellar at that, and rarely forget it).

Like few things in my life, I don't feel like I need to work at it to make it decent. The only other things I can think of in my life like that are going to sleep within 5 minutes of laying down and swimming. Not the most helpful of lists, unless I find myself in a situation that requires me to swim somewhere, write something, and then fall asleep...perhaps a shipwreck? Though, if shipwrecked, my skill set would diminish quickly after the sleeping part of the program.

Upon re-reading, it seems I am also fairly adept at making lists. I should remember to write that down.

math

Did you know I'm kind of a big deal at work now?

And I mean the "kind of." I'm not a really big deal, and I don't want to be. That's a lot of responsibility, and the world (and me) just isn't ready for that. Also, I don't think that sentance is grammatically correct. But you know what? I count enough money each night that if that money were mine, I could pay someone to not only ghost-write for me, but ghost-speak.

I'm not sure what that would look like; a sheet with eye-holes standing in front of me? Do you actually have to pay a ghost-speaker in money, or endoplasm, or maybe kryptonite?

But anyway. I am no longer the queen in my small principality of a campus store. I'm more like the daughter of the empress of a much larger empire, and one that counts at least 10 cash register drawers a night now.

The summer is (FINALLLY) fast approaching, and those students are (FINALLY) about to leave to wherever they are going for the summer (FINALLY). I realize that students are the reason for my job. But they still drive me crazy, because for a fairly selective school, they can be astronomically dumb. I was going down the stairs last night at the student center, and I heard this conversation:

"I just really want to be naked right now, you know?" said a girl.
"Yeah? It's a good thing you aren't fat then." said her friend.
"I know. I just want to take my clothes off. Ugh."

This actually happened. I had to hear it. I couldn't not hear it, as I was needing to go downstairs, and they were 2 steps ahead of me, and I couldn't just turn around at that point since I was halfway down the second flight of stairs. Plus, I might miss some other pearls of wisdom falling from their lips.

It turns out I didn't miss anything.

oh hi

Birdy is playing with Mr. and Mrs. Potato head. I was tempted to get her another Mrs. and have them be Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head with Extra Lesbian Lover. But I didn't, even though it would be culturally relevant since we are so close to San Francisco. But it made me chuckle anyway. She might show up regardless; if so, I'm sure photos will follow.

She insists on making potato versions of Brandon and myself. I usually have wings instead of ears, and wear high heels. Anyone who knows me knows I look like that all the time.  Except for when I wear my flowered hat and 3 purses.

It's sunny and nice and California like here. Is it still winter where you are? That's too bad. Perhaps you should move down here. Stanford is hiring.

I'm thinking about it, HM.

a bit of a loner

Continuing with the theme of adolescent-humor movie themes, we're moving on to The Hangover.

Let's be clear: I'm not really a fan. I've seen it twice, and both times it was a little (lot) bit much for me. And the end credits? With the photos? And the "eeuuwww"? You know? Yeah, you know. My favorite part is about the first 30 minutes. Specifically, the scenes with Zach Galifianakis. Like the wolfpack thing.

So.

I had checked out several books on running from the library two weeks ago. Because you might not know this internets, but I have reached the tipping point with running. I'm going to do it. For the last year, when I've pictured myself happy, satisfied, and excited about life, I've pictured myself running. I'm out on a run, wearing something cute (because when you are imagining things, you can wear what you want. Ask Anne Shirley.), and its awesome. Its amazing. And I decided its time for me to get out of my dreams and get into my car, if you get me.

So. I checked out these books, loaded my little mp3 player up with the Outlander audio tape (yes, I exercise to a book on tape. I have become the most boring person you know.), and planned to head out to the Y. I did some thinking and realized that in my imagination, I was running outside, not on a treadmill. So I decided to run outside, which is something I've only done once since high school gym class. I was going to be a lone wolf, running free at night wherever the paths on campus took me. But then I realize that I have seen way too many Law & Orders to run by myself at night, regardless of the location.

So then I asked my friend Nicole to come with on my first run last Tuesday. And then she said yes. And then I asked Laura, and she said yes, and then Laura asked Lesley. And now my lone wolf pack has become four.

Four!

We can run outside of campus at night! Like some sort of slightly to very overweight fitness gang! I'm in a gang! In California!

This kind of exciting life has always seemed to allude me. But not now. I'm in a gang. And we run. And then walk. BUT THEN WE RUN AGAIN. If you are thinking of messing with us, you better be able to run/walk better than us. And that is a debatable skill.

The goal of the running gang/wolfpack is to be in the San Jose Rock 'N Roll Half Marathon next year. Next year, you ask? Yes. Next year. Its not a secret that I'm chubby. I don't want to get hurt, and I do want to run. So I'm doing a 13 week training plan to do a 10k and then I'm moving on to a 26 week half-marathon training plan. And then, in October, I'm going to do a half marathon. Which seems so ludicrous. Thirteen miles? Me? Not in car? I know, right? But it's going to happen.

So, watch out for the roving gang of moderately paced women. One of us wears a weight vest, and she's not afraid to use it.

I've been thinking about that movie Knocked Up.

I first saw Knocked Up when I was barely pregnant. I was still wondering who was going to be my doctor, as my current doctor was also pregnant and would not be around when I was to be delivering the current blob of cells residing in my uterus. So I went to see Knocked Up with my friend Anita, as something fun to do, as I realized my propensity of being able to do fun things planned just an hour before was slipping, like the days of our lives, through the hourglass of time. Depressing, no? But that is how it was in my mind.

So, I went to see Knocked Up with Anita and it was funny, and it didn't make think about things like plot, or denouement, or if some demon was going to be coming though the door to eat someone's soul. It was just a good time. And then we saw our professor sitting two rows ahead with some other guy. We talked about throwing popcorn at his head to get his attention, but for some reason decided against it. At the end of the movie, we went over and said hi and met the friend, who happened to be a doctor. A doctor I was thinking about having as my doctor. For the blob of cells. I realized immidiately I could not have this person who I met socially at a movie about people getting knocked up be my doctor for the time I was knocked up. It simply couldn't happen.

So anyway.

The main reason I was thinking about Kocked Up recently was because of the scene where Paul Rudd is talking to Seth Rogan, while Paul's kids are playing. Paul is talking about how he wishes he was excited for anything as much as his kids were excited about bubbles. And, how their enjoyment just pointed our your inability to enjoy anything. And wow, isn't that true?

What do I (or you) like as much as my daughter likes bubbles? Or the swing? Or slides? Or counting to four (technically, she says 1, 2, 3, 8) and running to me to get a hug?

I mean, I like a lot of things. I like sitting at the table when everyone is either asleep or gone and reading a book. I like baking. I like seeing friends. I like it when it's windy enough for the leaves to move in trees. I like airplanes. I like coffee. But none of those things will get me running around and laughing like a hyena like anything Birdy likes.

Where did she learn to enjoy things like that? And when did we forget?