In my head, I’ve already written the scripts for the next five films in the Sharknado franchise.
Want to know how my brain works pretty much all the time?
G*ddamn you, Joss Whedon.
It’s Friday. My brain’s fried. But I want an excuse to hang out with you guys, so here are two terrible things and two wonderful things I learned in the last week.
Two weekends ago, I went to my first death metal concert. Before March 8, I would have said I was watching hard rock. But now I have seen the light and can tell you with certainty that both those terms are HIGHLY insufficient to express the breadth and (anguished) depths of this musical genre.
So this commode tried to attack J last night. It looked so harmless but then, as he zipped up and hit what he thought was the new-fangled button to flush the thing, he got a crotch shot of toilet water. He came back to our table with a shocked expression, holding his hands over his jeans and whispering, “Don’t laugh, but it really looks like I wet my pants.”
Blinking slowly, I swallowed as the room swam into focus. Ms. Kemp’s gently lined face came into view, too, very close to mine, and she pressed a can of lukewarm Coke into my hand. “Drink this, dear. You had quite a spell!” Memories trickled back as carbonation bubbled in my throat, and I released a sudden anguished wail: “Oh, NOOOO! I dropped Jesus on the floor!!!” These are the perils of being an underage altar girl.
Choose Your Own Adventure: Parenting Three Children or Surviving Antarctica?
This is a true story. Scout’s honor. It’s isn’t my story, but no one who lived it has a blog, and it needs to be heard. Richard Simmons’ reign of dental terror must end.
It was just a little jaunt to the movies. A Saturday night, with the back seats of my car thrown down, the whole area stuffed with sleeping bags and pillows and blankets. We fed our three dogs half a Benadryl each to turn them into the ultimate cuddle puppies, and set out for the 50-minute drive.