Donde pongo el ojo pongo la bala.
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Category — entertainment

Pregnancy brain and other disasters

Today, George sent me a seemingly innocuous video.

Innocuous, that is, unless you are a 20-something female in her first trimester of pregnancy. Two-legged chihuahua HAS NO HANDS, OK? NO HANDS. I am totally ugly crying over here.

You’d think he’d’ve learned by now. Last night we watched “Country Strong” (which I think I didn’t like at all, but my taste, including in movies, seems to be out of whack right now, so I’ll get back to you on whether I really liked it or not in, oh… 18-22 years). There’s this little boy towards the end with leukemia. You know the scene is coming, but when he appears in the frame, with his lack of eyebrows and his giant cowboy hat? Well, I don’t think I’ve ever lost my crap quite as quickly as I did then and there. Emotional, couch-rocking, chest-rattling sobs, snot everywhere, the works. Not pretty.

So, word to the wise: please avoid showing me anything cute, anything sad, or anything having to do with little animals or children. Especially sick children. Or sick little animals. Or sick little children dressed like animals. Thanks.

November 2, 2011   10 Comments

Baby Seals

I feel quite blessed to have married someone who has the same quirky, twisted, messed up and dorky brand of humor I thought was matchless. I simply assumed I was doomed to go through life sad every time I giggled because a baby reminded me of a troll doll or someone said “penal code” (yep, I’m that mature).

About a year ago, George and I came up with this animated GIF in our heads. IN OUR HEADS. We never made it a reality, we never saw a similar one, it was never actually real, we would just laugh about it really hard because it was real in our imaginations.

So now, in this most serious and busy time in our lives, at 1am on a Sunday night/Monday morning, what did I decide to do? I decided to make George find me images while I played in Photoshop. And this? This is our brainchild. Our masterpiece. Our magnum opus, I dare say. (Click to enlarge. You know you wanna.)

You’re welcome, Internet. You’re most welcome.

July 4, 2011   7 Comments

Me-owwww! (And I don’t mean the kitties.)

A couple of nights ago, some neighborhood hoodlum cats* attacked a couple of baby birds; baby birds so tiny that they hadn’t even learned to fly yet. I’m sorry, did I say “birds”? I meant “grackles”. Please, excuse me for living (more on that in a second). I felt so sick to my stomach when I found the first panicked bird with all of its feathers missing on its head and little kitty bites on its wing, that I had George help me make a little bed for it in a shoe box with some bird seed I had and a tiny jar lid for a water dish. We found the second one, made it a similar home, and decided to see how they fared (with rather low expectations, to be honest) overnight.

The next morning, little gracklies were chirping up a storm and trying to get the heeeeeeck out of those boxes. I made some phone calls, (correctly) assuming that our vet wouldn’t take them in and help them. I was finally told about the Florida Wildlife Refuge in Melbourne, looked up their address (since they don’t answer their phone) and decided to drive out there. May I just mention that it’s like a 40 minute drive one way? And that my car is in terrible shape? And that gas is kind of expensive right now? However, I love animals, figured this was their best shot at survival, and may or may not have felt a little responsible**.

After making it all the way out to the refuge, waiting for 20 minutes for someone to stop ignoring me once I filled out their drop off form, a lady finally saunters out. I had never really understood the word “saunter” until I saw her do it. It was like she was a self-assured sheriff in an old western town. I was kind of waiting for her to chew and aim for an imaginary spittoon.

“Ya filled out the form?”

I nod.

“Did your cats attack ’em?”

I shrug. “There’s lots of neighborhood cats.” Don’t interrogate me, lady, I brought ’em, didn’t I?!

“Yanno it’s ilegal for cats to roam, right? EE-LEEEEGAL!”

I nod again. I’m not going to argue with you, lady!

“Why’d you write ‘birds’?” She sighs, like I’m the most ignorant person she’s ever met. “Ugh. They’re grackles!” Well, OK, then. Grackles. Got it.

“You FED THEM?! WHAT DID YOU FEED THEM?” Panic in her voice.

“Um… bird seed?”

“Bird seed? What kind of bird seed? I thought you said it happened at night. Where’d you get bird seed?”

“I had it…”

“What on earth’d you have bird seed for?!” Demanding, suspicious.

Obviously, I had bird seed to lure poor unsuspecting birds to my yard so I could sic my cats on them and watch in entertainment and delight as they pounced on them and left them for dead, after which I would rescue them and bring them here, because that is the ONLY logical explanation! “Um… I like to grab pine cones, cover them in peanut butter and dip them in bird seeds for the birds?”

“Hm. Well. Cats roaming is ILLEGAL. You tell your neighbors. We’ll send someone out there to patrol. These here birds’ll be just fine.”

“OK… have a nice day.” You CRAZY person.

Why do the weirdest people live in Florida?!

* Identities concealed to protect the Princess innocent.
** For nothing, of course, since it was clearly not my kitty who attacked them… /shifty eyes

May 4, 2011   4 Comments

Do you remember when 21 years was old?

This summer, before hanging out with my bigger-little sisters (Marianna 19 and Andrea 21, as opposed to Regina 12 and Samantha 14), George and I were trying to pick out a gift for Andrea. “Get her this CD,” George suggested. “She’ll be into it.”

Turns out, not only was he right, but we both loved it. Phoenix was new to me, though he’d already heard of them.

So, when the opportunity came to see them live October 1st at Tipitina’s in New Orleans, we jumped on it. The tickets were a bargain, we got a nice hotel for ridiculously cheap (Priceline, how I love thee, and not just for your William Shatner commercials), and the venue was tiny (ensuring a wonderful spot for enjoying the concert, no matter where we ended up), historic and picaresque: besides having been a juice bar and currently being a live music venue, it was once a brothel!

We decided to make a road trip out of it, both to be thrifty and because we love road trips. We love picking out CDs, stopping at quaint or backwater locations along the way that most people would never think to go to – a real adventure.

The day before we took off, I started feeling a little sick. Headache, sore body, tired. No big deal. Maybe something I ate? But the true proof of how I felt came the day of the road trip: I kind of slept most of the way there, my eyes burned with a fever, I had a sort of cold and cough, and general malaise. Add to that that George’s car is basically, well, a race car so the suspension is incredibly stiff. Basically, if you run over a pea, you’ll feel it. We made the 693+ mile drive in about eight hours (with stops, uh… with stops, that’s an average speed of 87mph, folks… I’m glad I was asleep), by the end of which I wanted to die, kill someone, or both.

I almost didn’t make the concert. My fever was crazy by that night, my eyes were red (making me fit right in with all the hipsters, I guess), and my body felt like it wouldn’t be able to handle it. But I braved it, all for Phoenix. And oh, was the show ever worth it…


The next morning I felt tired, but oddly invigorated: I wanted to experience New Orleans and enjoy the day and a half we had left in the city. We ventured out to the famous Café du Monde for some beignets


I have to say, after trying them, my life will never be the same. I dream about these things, y’all. Their sugary sweetness elevated my glucose level, and gave me the tiniest bit of energy to walk around a tiny bit and find a cute little place to have lunch. I wanted something “typical”: we had gumbo, jambalaya, and étouffée. But not for loooooooooooong!

Lunch remained in my stomach all of ten minutes. The minute we rushed to the hotel, the nightmare began. Chills, sweating, delirium, fever. Pain, everywhere intense pain. I wanted to die. We spent the rest of our mini-vacay holed up in the room, George taking care of me while I vomited or sang or laughed like the crazy person that the flu had turned me into.

We drove back home, and George had a trip for work that he ended up having to cut short to come back and care for me for a week. By the time I went to the doctor, the flu was gone, but I had developed a nasty case of bronchitis. The cure, the doctor promised, was hydrating, TLC, and antibiotics/cough syrup, which I took religiously… to no avail. I started feeling better, but the cough never went away. I figured it’d be gradual, maybe that was the way it was supposed to be, or maybe as a one time smoker it would take longer for me to heal than a “normal” person.

Heal I did not. About a week ago, I started feeling horrible all over again. Stabbing pain in my chest, sore body, the cough back with a vengeance, blood in my phlegm (I know that’s the kind of tidbit everyone dreams of reading in a blog entry), wheezing, slight fever, nausea, etc. When it continued getting worse and worse, to the point where I was no longer sleeping at night, we went back to the doc.

After listening to me breathe, SEEING MY PHLEGM (being an MD is a glamorous job, people), and checking everything else out, my doctor left the exam room THREE TIMES, came back, sat down, and the first words out of his mouth were, “I don’t mean to scare you, but…”

MEN: Do not ever begin a conversation with these words. These, or, “Promise me you won’t get mad… but…” Seriously. Never. If you knew the kind of crazy that resides in our brains and you could see the millions of directions our thoughts go upon hearing this… you’d think twice. But I digress.

“I don’t mean to scare you, but I recently had a girl in here with your exact symptoms. She was taking the same medication you are (which is known for causing clotting). We did a chest x-ray; nothing showed up. Then she had a pulmonary embolism.”

“I am faxing the Cape hospital right now. I want you to go straight there, be examined by an ER doctor, and have a CT done immediately.”

I couldn’t even really react. I just nodded, we walked to the car, a couple of tears slipped out, and we were on our way.

Blood was drawn, chest x-ray was done. The ER doctor said all the tests with my bloodwork came back normal! “Except one.” What the HECK does THAT mean? So he ordered a CT.

Amusing side note: when they inject saline solution into your IV, you can taste it in your mouth. Did you know that? I did not. It was hilarious and weird. And when they inject contrast dye into your IV, you can taste the disgusting metal, your body is drowned in a wave of HOTNESS (preview of what menopause shall be like, I assume) and then you feel like you just urinated yourself. CHARMING!

Five hours in the ER later, I have acute bronchitis and asthma, folks. Asthma at 27. With George’s ginger genes, our four-eyed-ness, and our allergies/possible asthma, there is just no hope our children will ever be cool. Ever. We might as well teach them to enjoy swirlies when they’re toddlers.

So, yeah. We went to a concert. It was super fun. The end!

November 1, 2009   9 Comments


I am currently addicted to Mad Men. I wish I could pinpoint exactly what it is that captivates me so. I am torn between love and hate for Don Draper, and love and hate for the era and the machismo.

A couple of days ago, I was watching a recent-ish episode (Season 3, Episode 2, Love Among the Ruins) when a scene made me do a double take. It was like I’d seen it before, the players in the same place, the same angle, but different. It took me a few minutes to figure it out. It’s this scene…

Does that look familiar? It may only look familiar to Fere and Caroline, my sisters in cheesy. I found the scene that it is practically a replica of, angles and all, among the movies I have stored on my computer…

It’s the scene from Legally Blonde where the admissions board is reviewing Elle’s admissions essay.

Thus, I have determined that Kevin Cooney made a pact with the devil so he will never age and he is also the type of actor that will only let you film him from “his good angle” because the scenes are way too eerily alike.

Or it could just be a funny little coincidence. Potatoe potatoh.

October 29, 2009   4 Comments