Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
All because a job that looks superduper-fragalistic wanted me to have a twitter. And then the doorbell rang. And Ma in her kerchief And I in my sweats, Had just settled down To a long winter’s nap – When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (this will make sense once you read my first tweet)
But seriously, what have I gotten myself into now?
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Grumpy and exasperated. Short-tempered and growly. I think my family would best describe me as not fun to be around in any way, sense or form.
And then dear Pharrell Williams made an appearance at the dining room table. The kids and I watched, danced, and sung along twice.
In case you’re in a bad mood too today and need to remember how to smile…
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is my hero. Not only did he come up with the deliciously intense character of Sherlock Holmes, but also his odd and ever-so-intriguing brother, Mycroft. It has been alluded to that Mycroft is in fact smarter than Sherlock, a fact I find quite sexy. Mycroft is also described as lazy with his intelligence and uninterested (where Sherlock is not) in putting cart behind horse to follow through with a theory. Mycroft would rather be wrong and unbothered than right and disturbed.
Who has the bigger er, brain then? Sherlock or Mycroft? Sherlock deduces step by step until he solves the riddle. He’s both a sleuth and an adventurer – like a way better Indiana Jones. Mycroft on the other hand, is like a human computer; storing everything, seeing everything, manipulating everything. But he’s somewhat nonfunctional. Eh, it’s a toss up. Fact is though, who needs boy bands when you’ve got the Holmes brothers? Plus, they have those yummy, British accents.
Call me a nerd if you will, but I cannot get enough of these brainy detectives. <sigh> Be still my fluttering heart.
PostScript: My favorite modern adaptation of the books is the one with Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock) and Mark Gatiss (Mycroft) on the BBC – though I have never seen, Billy Wilder and Izzy Diamond’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, which is on my To Do list.
Love. Love. Love.
Oh my dear goodness holy heaven of sweet little mercy.
My husband went downtown for drinks tonight and came home with a Mint Chocolate Cupcake from Big Man Bakes.
Here are a few things you need to know about me to really understand the magnitude of this blog…
1. I hate cake. Ergo I hate cupcakes. The last time I remember eating cake was…my first birthday? I didn’t even have cake at my own wedding.
2. I’m watching what I eat and just made my husband take every bit of chocolate in our house to work. EVERY bit. His briefcase smells like Ghiradelli’s in Fisherman’s Wharf.
3. The bag said -BIG MAN BAKES- I don’t know about you, but to me that says some kind of bachelorette party pastry, not pure deliciousness bliss.
It was me and Big Man Bakes. Big Man Bakes and me. What was a girl to do?
I took a little nibble. And then I put it down because I hate cup…Huh? What? Hate cupcakes? This thing was the most. The best. The greatest thing. Oh no. It was all gone. What happened? Where did it go?
Big Man Bakes – and oh, does he.
Martin Luther King day tomorrow and school in cancelled – dear god! Another day home with the kids?! So in an attempt to make my life easier <insert heavy guffawing here> I invited half a dozen preschoolers to come over and play. And eat. And play. Twenty dollars says a fight breaks out. What was I thinking?
Which just goes to prove, I’m mentally unstable and going downhill fast.