~There are times in our lives when we can either die of embarrassment, or laugh with the rest of them. I, once prone to embarrassment, now opt for hearty laughter. Laughter has had a lot of strange meaning to me lately, but I won't get into that. ~Last night I went bowling with some peeps. None of us could be considered talented bowlers, but how many people list "bowling skills" on their resume? I was pretty geekishly proud of how my game had been going so far as I stepped up to show the kiddies how it was done. Shoes: firmly tied, pants: sufficiently rolled, alley: slick, ball: just right, game face: on. I started my perfectly planned walk to a successful frame. The back-swing is when it all went down the toilet. Perhaps the finger holes were too large. Perhaps my hands were too sweaty. Either way, the ball went in the wrong direction. It didn't seem to understand that the pins were straight ahead. At least I succeeded in providing some entertainment for the evening. ~Then, later, a girl decided that we needed some extra amusement. She was obviously not paying enough attention to the lane as she thrust the ball toward the pins. As the ball journeyed down the alley, we realized that the mechanism placing the pins was still down. She seemed to have not waited for it to replace the pins after the previous player's 10th frame. The ball bounced off the bar and came slowly rolling back. I think we should go pro.
ATTENTION STUDENTS EVERYWHERE: Please, for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT begin to pack up your belongings before class has come to an end. The rustling of books, bags, coats, and the like can be very distracting to those around you. This annoying little habit, suffered by many, is not considered polite. Quite frankly, it's rude. The professor is still talking. This appears to indicate that they have not finished. Consideration is the key here, people. Think of your classmates and the professor, kind enough ingore your misconduct in most cases, during this time. When a class is scheduled for a specific amount of time, this is how long the class is expected to run, no less. If you'd rather be somewhere else so badly, do not bother to show up at all. I assure you, you will not be missed.
The word on the street is that my heart throb Josh Groban is in town this evening. If only I was not so pathetically poor, I could afford a ticket to his earth-trembling, soul-moving performance. I have often said that I would someday marry this gorgeous, gorgeous man. Now is my chance to make all of my fantasies come true. It is written in the stars, for it is no coincidence that on this day I chose to wear quite the flattering sweater or that my unruly, unmanageable hair decided to fall just right. Since one cannot ignore fate, this evening I will be out in search of the perfect specimen of man, Joshie Boy himself. No human being with any sort of mental capacity can deny the fact that Mr. Groban is the finest, hunkiest, sexiest man alive. His dashing good looks are not by far his only attractive quality. In my very near future, after the seduction that follows our encounter this evening, he will soon fall in love with me as I already am with him. I will spend the majority of my remaining life losing myself in his dark, mysterious eyes or trembling as he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. We will wed, and I will have his gorgeous children. He will sing me to sleep nightly after we eat bunches of grapes in the comfort of our luxurious home. But what will I say to him to woo him off his feet? "Hello there, my name is That Girl. Will you, by any chance, be willing to marry me?" "I know we just met and all, but... did you want to commit the rest of your life to me?" "Hey, so you must be this Josh Groban I keep hearing about. We should hang out sometime. You could come over to my place and we could... um... do stuff." "Do you mind if I stare at you for the next hour or two? You could sing during this time if you wanted to." "People always tell me that I look like that chic married to Josh Groban and I always have to inform them that you aren't even married. We could just do everyone a favor and stop the confusion..."
Why is it sometimes harder to talk to the people you really care about and miss? Why is it sometimes easier to talk to the people that could fade away without notice?
- When I was a wee little tot I had suffered from crooked teeth as well as a wicked sweet tooth. When I didn't have some sort of sugar-coated product in my mouth, I resembled a chipmunk. Crowded, cavity-ridden teeth and a nasty overbite are not exactly flattering. Over the years, my tarnished baby teeth fell out removing any traces of ever having had a cavity. I also underwent extensive orthodontics to correct all that was wrong. After painful years of repulsive tasting teeth molds, bite plates, drool-causing head gear, teeth pulling, braces, and bothersome retainers... my teeth are finally miraculously straight. The beauty of dentistry. My teeth would not taint my gorgeous face any longer. - Since the acquiring of my perfect teeth, I have brushed them religiously. However, my love for all things sweet and sugary has come back to haunt me. I still cannot pass up the delectable taste of anything clinically proven to rot teeth. It is a sickness, my weakness. I visited my dentist over winter break to have what was suppose to be a simple routine cleaning. I looked forward to having sparkling clean chompers. However, to my dismay, it was at this routine cleaning that I was informed that a return visit would be necessary. I was the unfortunate owner of 3 baby cavities. It pains me to say these words. - If I brushed my teeth religiously before, I don't know what you would classify it as now. I now have the tooth brush in my mouth immediately after any beverage or food product enters. I have become unhealthily anal about it. My soda consumption has been greatly reduced, probably putting pepsi out of business. I am proud of my accomplishment in the beverage intake department, however, the constant need to brush my dazzling beauties may be getting out of hand. I seriously considered taking my tooth brush along with me to watch a movie by a friend the other night just in case I ate/drank anything. I don't believe this is considered normal behavior.
The disappointment of what didn't happen a few weekends back had worn off. The party was a waste of 20 minutes and the backup plan was foiled. However, the night ended enjoyably enough and I knew there would be plenty of future opportunities. Last night was to be such an opportunity. Good ol' Matt was to be the generous driver. What a guy. Then, to my dismay, another motorist was necessary and unfortunately I was the only remaining sober individual. Being the good sport, I agreed to drive. After a painful ride, the bitter cold, wasted time, wasted gas, and numerous houses, phone calls and useless attempts later, we ended up in Matt's apartment... back where we started. Another let down. Some guy was kind enough to leave me a present as most of them left to have some fun at some "platform". It was a warm present that had absolutely no affect on me, but a kind gesture none the less. It's the thought that counts.
I will always remember Goose as a happy fish. He was the best little critter a roommate could ever ask for. In the short period of time we lived together, he was always there for me. He never let me down when I needed a distraction from my schoolwork. He would selflessly swim around, underneath the microwave, to amuse me when I became bored. I will never forget the early morning hours spent with him after returning from a long night out. He had a wonderful soul and will be greatly missed. And now, as he lay upon the ground, dried out as if straight from a dehydrator, a tear falls down my cheek. We can only hope that his passing was a painless one. I know in my heart that if a jump from the tank was his fate, it was not a suicide. Goose had too much to live for. What happened to end the life of such a heroic fish may never be known, but his memory will always be cherished. I ask that you all pray for Goose's entry into fishy heaven, as well as for his friends and family members as they grieve his passing.
After tediously filling out piles of applications in an attempt to find a part-time job, I finally received a call. Tomorrow at 11:30 I will be an Office Max interviewee (yes, that is a word). Doesn't Office Max have those commercials with the hunky guy looking for his rubberband ball? If I get the job, I'd gladly help him search for it... in an empty storage room perhaps? BAD.
I wonder if anyone there will recognize me as one of two crazy gals trying helplessly to pick out paper. Who knew there would be such variety? But now, thanks to some nameless worker, I'm learned on the topic, a bonus for a well-rounded employee. I now will be able to show off my skills at paper selection, as well as wow them with my knowledge of the location of clear tape and poster puddy. What else could anyone possibly ask of an employee?
"What's that sir? You're looking for tape? Sure. Follow me. I've got ya covered. And after that, I'll help you pick out some paper."
The beauty of Paul McCartney do the Super Bowl halftime... If his nipples were to have been accidentally exposed, it wouldn't have been a big deal. In fact, it is really too bad that we didn't get a gander. What a shame. That man is still sexy after all these years. I know I'd marry him. Ahh, to be Mrs. Sir Paul McCartney. Is this not every gal's dream? Don't judge me just because he (at age 62) is ten years older than my father. I'm not discriminating like that.
