Tag Archives: humor

Happy

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…

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The Very Sexy Holmes Brothers

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.

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It’s Hard Out There For a Pimp

Valentine’s came and went this year with all the usual fanfare.  The kids showed great enthusiasm for ye old day o’ love, which was sweet.  Sam treated me royally, which was also sweet.  And I didn’t get another ticket from Officer Friendly, which was super sweet.  Oh…did I not tell you about that?

Earlier last week, my 1.5 year-old caught his sister’s cold.  When Master Princeling catches a cold, sailors beware.  I drove to school on Monday morning amidst high decibel whining and shouting.  And by shouting, I mean the repeated screaming of a single word until I lose my mind.  Examples include, “Down!”  (he wants the window down), “Aqua!” (he’s dropped his water and wants me to climb back and get it for him while I’m driving), and “Mine” (usually refers to an object that he was holding, but has now lost to his sister).  It’s exhausting.

Quickly I pulled up to school in the yellow zone and handed off my daughter to some hapless parent who was walking in at the same time.  My darling older child gave me a hug and a kiss and marched in for all the world a woman of her own.  Yes, I nodded to myself, that one’s going to be just fine.  And then like a whirling dervish, I was off again.  The backseat was noisy.  Master Princeling wanted home.  I drove like the wind.  My one coherent thought in the insane chaos was simple: get baby to bed, get baby to bed.  And then Officer Friendly joined the circus.

Of course, the flashing lights and strobe party quieted the Princeling right down.  Please, Officer Friendly, I begged – a warning will suffice.  The Princeling has me losing my mind and I need to get home to take my tonic.  Two shots of wart hog makes the medicine go down, Guinness is brown, put that gun on the ground…

Officer Friendly was not swayed by the crazy in my eyes nor my melodious singing voice.  I am now the proud owner of my very own traffic citation.  Whoo Hoo!

It’s hard out there for a pimp.

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Death and Death and Death

There’s a lot of dying going around.  Famous celebrities shooting up too much heroin.  Fathers of our friends passing away on trips to Peru.  Our actual friends having cardiac arrests in the gym.  It’s senseless.  

If I was a betting woman I’d say this dying this is contagious.

I’m afraid of death.  The idea of this measly little life I have being OVER – it can’t be true.  I haven’t gone to Africa.  I never got published.  I am not blissfully happy, goddamnit.  And yet, around ever corner, I tiptoe carefully – sure that Mr. Reaper is waiting to snatch me from the shadows.  

What will I regret when I’m dead?  What will I be grateful for?

Last night I had a party to go to and I didn’t go.  Instead, I watched Austenland in bed with a bowl of M&M’s.  The light was off by 9.  Will I regret that?  Will I regret not being more social, more effervescent, more sparkly and superb?  Probably.  And what about the M&M’s?  Or watching a movie alone while Sam went out without me?  Or going to sleep at 9 instead of staying up and working on my opus?  Maybe, probably, I don’t know.

The point is, I spend much of my waking days thinking about death.  Thinking about what I should be doing so I don’t regret it when I’m dead.  And thinking some more about life and how short “it” is.  This transient state of consciousness trapped in a fragile little human shell.  And then I keep thinking about all of us here, scrambling about for fame and fortune and power – all these quicksilver lives.  These flashes in the pan.  All of us one dark corner away from crashing into death.

And then another day goes by and it looks pretty much the same for me as the day before.  It’s insane.  I’m insane.

But one thing I do know – when it comes to death, we all look the same.  

Good deeds, bad deeds, jewels, titles, money in the bank…

pictures in the paper, kids, dogs, smokers, drinkers, avaricious pursuits…

druggies, terrorists, rapists, environmentalists…

nurses, doctors, janitors, and black market organ salesmen…we all look the same to death.

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There’s a New Dog In Town

Meet Freddie:

Love. Love. Love.

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My So-Called Obama

One day this week (and the specificity of that should tell you where I’m going here) Obama broadcast the State of the Union.  I missed it.  In truth, I not only missed it, I didn’t even know it was happening.  And so I watched it right away on the internet…

Except I didn’t.

When I went away to college, I lived in a little bubble in the middle of spit and nowhere.  The bubble was strong and well, bubbly, and I didn’t pay much attention to life outside my classes and the latest on-dit.  Sure, if we talked about politics in a class, I read and did my homework, but other than that – life outside the bubble stayed way outside the bubble.

And then I came back to the real world and life resumed itself.  But now I find myself back in a bubble.  The baby bubble.  Where my biggest concerns involve napping and eating and who’s pooping what.  I have no interest in Obama’s wish list even though I know I should.  And I feel bad about that.  Guilty that my tunnel vision is making me not only a bad American, but a stupid one.  I don’t know a lick of what’s going on and instead of buckling down and finding out, I spend my free time trying to lie in bed.  My mind is probably atrophying as we speak.

Obama, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.  Please don’t be mad at me.  obama's mad at meI promise to pay attention soon…maybe.  Probably.  The bubble can’t last forever, right?

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Finding a Quiet Los Angeles

My family has begun to explore the city in a new way –  house hunting.  There are so many neighborhoods in Los Angeles, and while it’s tempting to stay somewhere I know and love…what about all the places I could get to know and love?  

Upon beginning our exploration, we drew on the advice of friends.  Where is the best place to love?  The answer was Malibu.  No, the Venice Canals.  No, Mt. Washington, Bronson Canyon, Beverly Glen, Mullholland, Cheviot Hills, Topanga, Santa Monica, Los Feliz, Silverlake…

It seems that everyone we know has a different opinion on LA’s best.  But that’s good.  Instead of choosing between 10 terrible places to live, we get to choose amongst a slew of great ones.

And so now the tough part comes – Sam and I agreeing.  I’m open, but think it sure would be nice to have a chicken coop to call my own.  Sam thinks my chicken coop phase is about as likely to happen as snow on Wilshire.  Either way, bright new changes await us.

 

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