Remember how I told you, my beautiful blog readers, about how I'm going to Billings June 6th to try stand up comedy at an open mic? Um, well, it's June 4th right now... You know what that means??? That I'm typing this instead of practicing like I should be??? Well, yes, but that's not the point.
I have two days left until my big debut...
Two.
Days.
How do I feel??? I am alternately excited and so scared that I almost cry a little.
Oh, I know that sounds a little sad, but my tear ducts are directly connected to my every emotion, so that's really very normal.
I'm planning on having my friend record the whole thing for me, so if it goes well I'll post the video for my blog on Friday. If I crash and burn, I will be burning the evidence of my humiliation in a ritualistic fire situation.
Anyway, I just thought you might like to know that I haven't chickened out. Yet. I'm comforting myself by saying that I still have some time to be a chicken if I really must.
Aaaaaah! So please, say a little prayer for me, your dear friend, who is freaking out just a little. Or a lot. Depends on the moment.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Fight Opera
It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is nothing more irritating than the sound of your children fighting. That sharp keening screech that digs directly into the annoyance center of your brain, that sound that sets your eye to twitching... That sound that can literally make you feel like the hairs on your head are turning gray one by one. Fingernails on a chalkboard would be a welcome relief compared to that wretched sound.
It's normal for siblings to fight... Or at least that's what the front of Parenting Magazine says. Which, incidentally, I do NOT have a subscription to. It just started showing up in my mailbox two months ago and won't go away. I would never willingly have a subscription to that magazine. I feel like since I've been doing this whole "Mom" thing for over nine years now the only possible thing that magazine can do for me is make me feel bad about myself. Ah yes, I remember wanting to be a perfect parent. Ha. Ha. Ha. Now I'm just happy to be clinging to a last few shreds of sanity. I'm not sure exactly why it started showing up, but I feel like it was intended as either a hint or an insult and I am accepting neither.
Anyway, I didn't really need Parenting Magazine to tell me about sibling fighting because I have a fair bit of experience in that particular department. Oh yes, I do. In fact, I have a long and storied history of fighting with my very own baby brother. Well, he's not a baby now, he's only 17 months younger than me. I wasn't fighting with an infant, that would just be wrong. Unless the baby was as annoying as my brother. Then I would have had every reason.
Even though I know we fought all the time, I can't remember for the life of me what it was about. So, because I do so much careful research for this blog, I asked my very own baby brother for help remembering what we used to fight about.
He claims it was my being "bitchy" all the time (obviously untrue) and that one time I stabbed him in the butt with scissors... I have no recollection of this event, so I'm sure it didn't happen. The way I remember it is that he was super annoying and I was the innocent victim in the situation (obviously true). Plus, he hit me in the head with a glass jar one time.
You would think that with my vast experience in sibling rivalry combined with the knowledge I gleaned from the front of Parenting Magazine, I would know exactly what to do with my own kids when they fight... But really, I am totally baffled. Baffled and more annoyed than can be accurately described in actual words (though I do feel that I could accurately describe it using a series of keening wails if given enough time).
It is driving me CRAZY. Or, more accurately, crazier.
The thing about my kids is, they are not normal. Don't get me wrong, I love them dearly, they're my reason for living, and they're just the coolest little people in creation, yadda yadda. But normal? Absolutely not. These kids exchange blows on the regular like decent people, but their preferred method of sparring is much, much worse. In fact, I almost prefer actual blows to what they usually do, which is verbally drag me behind the runaway train that is their arguments. It's a form of mental torture that again, I would have to use an invented language of keening wails to describe.
So, I know it still seems fairly normal, the arguing and whatnot... But again, these children are weird. Or maybe not, I just have to know for sure. So I will pose this question to you, my dear and beloved readers.
Do other people's kids get in sing-fights???
What is a sing-fight, you might ask...? Well, it is a fight in which one child sings something quite rude. Then the other sings something rude back, until you are listening to a sort of discordant opera of childlike insults. I will give you an example of the latest in a long series of these particular types of brawls:
"I-hi-hi-hi am theee be-hes-t!!!"
"Oooooh, no-hooo yo no-hot!!!"
"Daisy is me-hean!!!"
"No-ho she's no-hot!!!"
"Yeah-aaaa!"
"No."
"Yeeeeees!!!"
"No."
"Mooooooom!!!"
"Mooooooooom!!!"
(altogether now)
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!"
Oh sure, it sounds pretty amazing. It sounds hilarious, even. But I assure you, no song is funny when it involves crying and name calling. Well, I suppose it would be funny if I weren't the "Moooooooom" involved in the situation. I mean, you tell me how to resolve a fight that is being sung to the tune of "Barber of Seville." Do I just jump in and start singing, "K-i-i-idssssss, if you don't stooooop fighting nooooow, you'll have to gooooo cleaaaaannnnnn!!!" ? Should they even be in trouble for singing mean stuff to each other?
See what they're doing? It's diabolical!!! Singing is so very innocent in and of itself, but they've added the fighting into it, so when I tell them to knock it off they both turn on me together and say, "But we weren't fighting, we were just singing."
The Weaver household: Home of the Fight Opera. Performances at 7:00 & 9:00 nightly, with matinees added throughout the day as needed.
Well, I hope you all have a wonderful week, and may the scissors of this world never make contact with your figurative behinds.
It's normal for siblings to fight... Or at least that's what the front of Parenting Magazine says. Which, incidentally, I do NOT have a subscription to. It just started showing up in my mailbox two months ago and won't go away. I would never willingly have a subscription to that magazine. I feel like since I've been doing this whole "Mom" thing for over nine years now the only possible thing that magazine can do for me is make me feel bad about myself. Ah yes, I remember wanting to be a perfect parent. Ha. Ha. Ha. Now I'm just happy to be clinging to a last few shreds of sanity. I'm not sure exactly why it started showing up, but I feel like it was intended as either a hint or an insult and I am accepting neither.
Anyway, I didn't really need Parenting Magazine to tell me about sibling fighting because I have a fair bit of experience in that particular department. Oh yes, I do. In fact, I have a long and storied history of fighting with my very own baby brother. Well, he's not a baby now, he's only 17 months younger than me. I wasn't fighting with an infant, that would just be wrong. Unless the baby was as annoying as my brother. Then I would have had every reason.
Even though I know we fought all the time, I can't remember for the life of me what it was about. So, because I do so much careful research for this blog, I asked my very own baby brother for help remembering what we used to fight about.
He claims it was my being "bitchy" all the time (obviously untrue) and that one time I stabbed him in the butt with scissors... I have no recollection of this event, so I'm sure it didn't happen. The way I remember it is that he was super annoying and I was the innocent victim in the situation (obviously true). Plus, he hit me in the head with a glass jar one time.
You would think that with my vast experience in sibling rivalry combined with the knowledge I gleaned from the front of Parenting Magazine, I would know exactly what to do with my own kids when they fight... But really, I am totally baffled. Baffled and more annoyed than can be accurately described in actual words (though I do feel that I could accurately describe it using a series of keening wails if given enough time).
It is driving me CRAZY. Or, more accurately, crazier.
The thing about my kids is, they are not normal. Don't get me wrong, I love them dearly, they're my reason for living, and they're just the coolest little people in creation, yadda yadda. But normal? Absolutely not. These kids exchange blows on the regular like decent people, but their preferred method of sparring is much, much worse. In fact, I almost prefer actual blows to what they usually do, which is verbally drag me behind the runaway train that is their arguments. It's a form of mental torture that again, I would have to use an invented language of keening wails to describe.
So, I know it still seems fairly normal, the arguing and whatnot... But again, these children are weird. Or maybe not, I just have to know for sure. So I will pose this question to you, my dear and beloved readers.
Do other people's kids get in sing-fights???
What is a sing-fight, you might ask...? Well, it is a fight in which one child sings something quite rude. Then the other sings something rude back, until you are listening to a sort of discordant opera of childlike insults. I will give you an example of the latest in a long series of these particular types of brawls:
"I-hi-hi-hi am theee be-hes-t!!!"
"Oooooh, no-hooo yo no-hot!!!"
"Daisy is me-hean!!!"
"No-ho she's no-hot!!!"
"Yeah-aaaa!"
"No."
"Yeeeeees!!!"
"No."
"Mooooooom!!!"
"Mooooooooom!!!"
(altogether now)
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!"
Oh sure, it sounds pretty amazing. It sounds hilarious, even. But I assure you, no song is funny when it involves crying and name calling. Well, I suppose it would be funny if I weren't the "Moooooooom" involved in the situation. I mean, you tell me how to resolve a fight that is being sung to the tune of "Barber of Seville." Do I just jump in and start singing, "K-i-i-idssssss, if you don't stooooop fighting nooooow, you'll have to gooooo cleaaaaannnnnn!!!" ? Should they even be in trouble for singing mean stuff to each other?
See what they're doing? It's diabolical!!! Singing is so very innocent in and of itself, but they've added the fighting into it, so when I tell them to knock it off they both turn on me together and say, "But we weren't fighting, we were just singing."
The Weaver household: Home of the Fight Opera. Performances at 7:00 & 9:00 nightly, with matinees added throughout the day as needed.
Well, I hope you all have a wonderful week, and may the scissors of this world never make contact with your figurative behinds.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Extension Request
Hi friends!!! Yes, I said it, I'm claiming it as my own, you are my very own blog friends!!! I know I'm late getting the blog out... And, in fact, the blog really isn't even out yet. I've mostly got it finished, really I do, but I have a problem.
I decided to have a dumb yard sale tomorrow and spent most of my blog time today getting everything ready for it because I'm greedy and I want that money. It is now 12:20 and I've been working on finishing my blog but I'm so tired I can't tell if it just sounds like the ramblings of a crazy person now.
I cannot in good conscience post the thing because I'm so looped with exhaustion. So I'm not posting it until I can look at it with the eyes of a person who has had at least 1/2 a pot of coffee...
I swear, upon all that is holy, that I will have my blog out for you tomorrow. A day late, yes, but more glorious than you could ever imagine.
Wait, scratch that... That's maybe overstating it a bit.
It'll be good though, readable at the very least... Really will.
Love you friends, and goodnight. Also, if I spelled something wrong, please forgive me, I'm not my normal good speller self tonight.
Muah!!!! Muah, muah, muah. MUAH!!!
I decided to have a dumb yard sale tomorrow and spent most of my blog time today getting everything ready for it because I'm greedy and I want that money. It is now 12:20 and I've been working on finishing my blog but I'm so tired I can't tell if it just sounds like the ramblings of a crazy person now.
I cannot in good conscience post the thing because I'm so looped with exhaustion. So I'm not posting it until I can look at it with the eyes of a person who has had at least 1/2 a pot of coffee...
I swear, upon all that is holy, that I will have my blog out for you tomorrow. A day late, yes, but more glorious than you could ever imagine.
Wait, scratch that... That's maybe overstating it a bit.
It'll be good though, readable at the very least... Really will.
Love you friends, and goodnight. Also, if I spelled something wrong, please forgive me, I'm not my normal good speller self tonight.
Muah!!!! Muah, muah, muah. MUAH!!!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Robotic Butts: Beware Humanity
I'm worried about robots. They could take over our planet at any minute, and that is just a fact. What? Yes, I've seen Terminator about 5000 times, hasn't everybody?
This worry is totally valid, because it has been firmly embedded in my brain since I was probably about 10 or 11 when I saw Terminator (source of all wisdom) for the very first time. Frankly, and I'm ashamed to admit this, I haven't really thought too much about my robo-fear (since the last time I saw Terminator: Salvation anyway) lately. However, it was recently sparked anew by a silly little article we read during the "Weird News" segment of our podcast (The Firnecast, subscribe on Itunes or listen at www.firnecast.blogspot.com! This isn't shameless self promotion, I really am somewhat ashamed by it). The article was about a seemingly innocent and hilarious "buttocks humanoid robot" created by Japanese scientists. We all poked fun at it and had ourselves a good chuckle.
Since that fateful podcast, I have had some time to think and have now come to the conclusion that this cybernetic tush is no laughing matter. It is actually the first step in creating an entire fake person. First it's the backside, (because of course if you're building an android you start with the butt, that's just good science) then a thigh, then a kneecap, then a calf, then a foot, which the robot will then use to crush all of humanity underneath.
I mean to tell you that robobutts are a harbinger of the merciless mechanical killing machines that will surely be bred from this technology.
I'm sure it seems like a great idea inventing these pieces and parts of people that are super realistic... Now proctologists can hone their craft before they ever set hands on a human rear! We can use these realistic fannies to learn how to read human emotions without ever looking at a face! But (no pun intended) what of the consequences? By the time you realize the buttocks have become self-aware, it's already too late. According to Terminator (source of all wisdom) they will get smart and see us as a threat, then it's extermination time. As Kyle Reese once said, "It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead." Powerful and important words.
Right now, as we sit safely and comfortably in our little homes, these bionic behinds are just a big joke.
It's reeeeeeal funny. Until you're walking down the street one day, 10 years from now, and a disembodied set of peach colored fannies attacks your legs like a rabid poodle!!! We can laugh about it now, but when you're laying on the sidewalk screaming, "No, no, no!!!" while staring down the business end of a rubber sphincter, It won't be nearly so funny.
Truthfully, I'm not certain how a pair of buttocks would kill you. Not that I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, mind you, but I feel like the buttocks would have to smother you. That seems like the simplest way. Unless they were going to maybe squeeze your throat between their cheeks or jump up and down on your face? Either way, not a pleasant way to go. Nobody wants to have "death by arse" written in their obituary. Well, I guess your family would have to be pretty insensitive to write that in your obit, but you know what I mean.
Listen, everybody thought Kyle Reese was crazy when he came from the future to save Sarah Connor. He tried to warn them, they thought he was weird (but how could you be weird when you're that damn handsome???), and look what happened. First it's rubber butts, then straight on to the graveyard for all of humanity.
According to James Cameron, we only have about 17 years left before the robots take over, one cheek at a time. I don't know about you, but I'm not sitting here on my real, human butt waiting for it to happen. No, I'm going to use my butt to stand next to the ones I love at a bbq and enjoy this life before it's too late!!!
I hope you all have a wonderful week and may the rubber butts of your life be ever docile.
This worry is totally valid, because it has been firmly embedded in my brain since I was probably about 10 or 11 when I saw Terminator (source of all wisdom) for the very first time. Frankly, and I'm ashamed to admit this, I haven't really thought too much about my robo-fear (since the last time I saw Terminator: Salvation anyway) lately. However, it was recently sparked anew by a silly little article we read during the "Weird News" segment of our podcast (The Firnecast, subscribe on Itunes or listen at www.firnecast.blogspot.com! This isn't shameless self promotion, I really am somewhat ashamed by it). The article was about a seemingly innocent and hilarious "buttocks humanoid robot" created by Japanese scientists. We all poked fun at it and had ourselves a good chuckle.
Since that fateful podcast, I have had some time to think and have now come to the conclusion that this cybernetic tush is no laughing matter. It is actually the first step in creating an entire fake person. First it's the backside, (because of course if you're building an android you start with the butt, that's just good science) then a thigh, then a kneecap, then a calf, then a foot, which the robot will then use to crush all of humanity underneath.
I mean to tell you that robobutts are a harbinger of the merciless mechanical killing machines that will surely be bred from this technology.
You can't tell me that this thing doesn't look deadly.
I'm sure it seems like a great idea inventing these pieces and parts of people that are super realistic... Now proctologists can hone their craft before they ever set hands on a human rear! We can use these realistic fannies to learn how to read human emotions without ever looking at a face! But (no pun intended) what of the consequences? By the time you realize the buttocks have become self-aware, it's already too late. According to Terminator (source of all wisdom) they will get smart and see us as a threat, then it's extermination time. As Kyle Reese once said, "It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead." Powerful and important words.
Right now, as we sit safely and comfortably in our little homes, these bionic behinds are just a big joke.
It's reeeeeeal funny. Until you're walking down the street one day, 10 years from now, and a disembodied set of peach colored fannies attacks your legs like a rabid poodle!!! We can laugh about it now, but when you're laying on the sidewalk screaming, "No, no, no!!!" while staring down the business end of a rubber sphincter, It won't be nearly so funny.
Truthfully, I'm not certain how a pair of buttocks would kill you. Not that I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, mind you, but I feel like the buttocks would have to smother you. That seems like the simplest way. Unless they were going to maybe squeeze your throat between their cheeks or jump up and down on your face? Either way, not a pleasant way to go. Nobody wants to have "death by arse" written in their obituary. Well, I guess your family would have to be pretty insensitive to write that in your obit, but you know what I mean.
Listen, everybody thought Kyle Reese was crazy when he came from the future to save Sarah Connor. He tried to warn them, they thought he was weird (but how could you be weird when you're that damn handsome???), and look what happened. First it's rubber butts, then straight on to the graveyard for all of humanity.
According to James Cameron, we only have about 17 years left before the robots take over, one cheek at a time. I don't know about you, but I'm not sitting here on my real, human butt waiting for it to happen. No, I'm going to use my butt to stand next to the ones I love at a bbq and enjoy this life before it's too late!!!
I hope you all have a wonderful week and may the rubber butts of your life be ever docile.
Friday, May 18, 2012
THE FIRNECAST!!!
Hello my sweet, sweet friends!!! It's Firnecast day!!! Whooooo!!! You
might be asking what that means, and with good reason. Well my
darlings, it is a podcast my brother and I will be releasing and putting
up this evening. It is on our podcast site, www.firnecast.blogspot.com,
and we will be submitting it to Itunes. Hopefully you can download it
on your ipods in about a week, but until then you can enjoy it through
the site.
Will people like it??? I really really hope so. Will everyone like it? Definitely not. The content on the podcast is much more, um, well, dirty I guess, than my blog is or ever will be.
That being said, there are a million reasons to listen to The Firnecast. It's really funny, it's got a kick ass opening song courtesy of Hillbilly Herald (check them out, they ROCK!!!), it's got Todd Misomelius, Dan Firnekas, and me, me, ME!!! Talking into a microphone, which as you know from last week's blog is a dream come true. Since there are a million reasons to listen, I'm not even going to attempt to entice you by listing them. That's a lot of work and I have kids to raise. Instead, I am going to do my due diligence and list the top 5 reasons you should definitely not listen to The Firnecast. If you fall into one or more of those categories, um, just think about maybe listening to This American Life on your ipod instead and continuing to read my blog, of course!
Top 5 Reasons NOT to Listen to The Firnecast:
1. You are a hobo. The Firnecast may include content that is offensive to hobos and those that love them.
2. You are offended by things. If you are offended by things, The Firnecast may not be the podcast for you. Topics such as perverted Japanese vending machines and the contents therein, Todd's seductive buffalo dance, and necromancy are offensive to some, and with good reason. Also, a few little cuss words here and there. If I weren't such a terrible person I might even be offended by such talk myself.
3. You are my Gramma. If you are my Gramma, you might not get a kick out of listening to your granddaughter talk about your hatred for the band Twisted Sister and all it stands for. I love you, Gramma, so very much, but it was hilarious how upset you got at Dan for possessing a demonic mix tape of bad 80's hair metal.
4. You are Jim Davis' biggest fan. If you love the articles in our local paper written by Jim Davis, aka The Sage Up 15 Mile, you may not enjoy The Firnecast. His May 15th article may or may not have been lampooned during the podcast, and he may or may not have been referred to as "senile" and a "racist," which his fans probably wouldn't appreciate.
5. You don't enjoy laughter. It is possible that The Firnecast will make you laugh if you let it. It made me laugh, a lot, audibly, and that may annoy you. If you have a broken rib and can't laugh for medical reasons or if you don't enjoy the sound of my laughter, best to skip The Firnecast.
I hope you all have a wonderful week full of stardust and podcast dreams. Thanks for reading!!!
Will people like it??? I really really hope so. Will everyone like it? Definitely not. The content on the podcast is much more, um, well, dirty I guess, than my blog is or ever will be.
That being said, there are a million reasons to listen to The Firnecast. It's really funny, it's got a kick ass opening song courtesy of Hillbilly Herald (check them out, they ROCK!!!), it's got Todd Misomelius, Dan Firnekas, and me, me, ME!!! Talking into a microphone, which as you know from last week's blog is a dream come true. Since there are a million reasons to listen, I'm not even going to attempt to entice you by listing them. That's a lot of work and I have kids to raise. Instead, I am going to do my due diligence and list the top 5 reasons you should definitely not listen to The Firnecast. If you fall into one or more of those categories, um, just think about maybe listening to This American Life on your ipod instead and continuing to read my blog, of course!
Top 5 Reasons NOT to Listen to The Firnecast:
1. You are a hobo. The Firnecast may include content that is offensive to hobos and those that love them.
2. You are offended by things. If you are offended by things, The Firnecast may not be the podcast for you. Topics such as perverted Japanese vending machines and the contents therein, Todd's seductive buffalo dance, and necromancy are offensive to some, and with good reason. Also, a few little cuss words here and there. If I weren't such a terrible person I might even be offended by such talk myself.
3. You are my Gramma. If you are my Gramma, you might not get a kick out of listening to your granddaughter talk about your hatred for the band Twisted Sister and all it stands for. I love you, Gramma, so very much, but it was hilarious how upset you got at Dan for possessing a demonic mix tape of bad 80's hair metal.
4. You are Jim Davis' biggest fan. If you love the articles in our local paper written by Jim Davis, aka The Sage Up 15 Mile, you may not enjoy The Firnecast. His May 15th article may or may not have been lampooned during the podcast, and he may or may not have been referred to as "senile" and a "racist," which his fans probably wouldn't appreciate.
5. You don't enjoy laughter. It is possible that The Firnecast will make you laugh if you let it. It made me laugh, a lot, audibly, and that may annoy you. If you have a broken rib and can't laugh for medical reasons or if you don't enjoy the sound of my laughter, best to skip The Firnecast.
I hope you all have a wonderful week full of stardust and podcast dreams. Thanks for reading!!!
Friday, May 11, 2012
MicroDiva
I love microphones. I love them so, so much. It is a love buried so deep within that I can't remember a time in which they didn't hold an overwhelming fascination for me. That and the buttons on pay phones, but that's another story.
What is it that makes me love them so? That super satisfying "puh" sound they make when you say a word with a "p" in it? The shiny, tidy little silver squares marching across the top? The smooth heavy weight of them in your hand? The sizzle when you turn them on?
Nah, I'm pretty sure it's the attention. When you have a microphone in your hand, you're super loud and everybody pays attention to you. Oh yes, I'm quite the little attention hussy. Me, me, me!!!
As a result of this dismal lack of sound transmission capability, I was forced to turn to the beater thing.
I know the beater thing sounds like some kind of torture device, but in actual fact, it was a wire whisk. A wire whisk that in my hands became a magical silver tribute to the microphone that should have been there. Though not nearly as satisfying as a real microphone, it made a fair substitute and definitely added something to the melodious "Yeah-yeaaaaah-oh-yeaaaaaaaaaahyeaaaaaahyeaaaaah"s that I regularly belted out to embellish the songs on the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album. I really can't explain why I listened to the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album all the time, but I did. On my Mom's flat silver tape deck on the floor of the kitchen. Maybe it was the only tape we had? I really hope so, because the idea that I was truly enjoying the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album really bothers me.
Anyway, now that I've explained my deep love and affection for all things attention and microphone, I'm sure you will understand my irrational behavior when I was actually given the opportunity to be around a real one as a child.
It was around Christmas time when I was three years old, or so the story goes...
I was in the church Christmas pageant, along with the rest of my Sunday school class. The beautiful, beautiful microphone was eye level, and practically sang "Hallelujah" every time I looked at it. Having appointed myself the star of the show, it was only natural for me to assume that I, and only I, belonged in front of that microphone. So naturally, as was my right as the star of the show, I grabbed it out of its stand at a tasteful and appropriate time during the first song.
Unfortunately, there are some people in this world that like to tear you down. "Haters," I believe, is what the kids are calling them these days. This night was no exception. A certain "hater," and I won't name names, dared to remove the microphone from my happy little hands. Not only that, but she then raised it up and out of the reach of my flailing chubby arms. Honestly, what an outrage!!! The star of the show, albeit self-appointed, not having unfettered access to the microphone? Unheard of!!!
Well, no self respecting diva would stand for that. And I, my friends, even at such a tender age, was a self respecting diva. I began jumping, trying to reach the microphone. It was too far away. No! Nooooooo!!! I needed help. I couldn't do this on my own. "Mom! Mom!!!! I can't reach the beater thing!!! I can't reach the beater thing!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed in desperation, knowing that help would soon arrive to save it from the little black half-circle prison commonly known as a mic stand. But no help came. My own Mother, rather than rushing to my aid, just sat there in her chair and looked embarrassed... My own Mother. Unbelievable. Realizing that I was on my own, I continued jumping, desperate to reach it. It was no use. My sparkling silver friend was impossibly far away.
Would I admit defeat and fall back in line with the other children? No, a star never admits defeat. A star holds her head up high, and when she notices her father arriving late to her show, takes the opportunity to welcome him in a fashion becoming the father of said star.
When I spotted him, I stopped my jumping, waved, and happily called out, "Allen! Allen!!!" (a star is also far too cool to refer to her father as "Dad") before I ran down to greet him as everyone waited for me to return to the stage. Oh, don't worry, the show did go on. Eventually. And I'm sure it was amazing... Or at least, I can reasonably assume that it was.
Yes, the microphone. Forbidden, but irresistible. I would feel badly about "ruining" the Christmas pageant, but really... When one spends hours of her childhood pretending that a wire whisk is a microphone then a real one is placed in front of her, what would you expect? For her to just sit by and "share" the thing with the other kids? I think not. My poor Mom... You can still hear the embarrassment in her voice when she tells the story. I'm sorry Mom, but fame has a price, and in this case it was the complete an utter humiliation of the person that gave birth to me.
I wish I could say that I've grown out of my little obsession, really I do... But I'm starting a podcast and attempting stand up comedy, so...
I can't help it! There is just something about the sound of my own voice that makes me happy (as anyone who has met me knows), and the light that winks at me off the beautiful curves of a microphone, well, it will never cease to be magical.
I hope you all have an unbelievably wonderful week, and may the mic stands of your life always be within reach.
What is it that makes me love them so? That super satisfying "puh" sound they make when you say a word with a "p" in it? The shiny, tidy little silver squares marching across the top? The smooth heavy weight of them in your hand? The sizzle when you turn them on?
Nah, I'm pretty sure it's the attention. When you have a microphone in your hand, you're super loud and everybody pays attention to you. Oh yes, I'm quite the little attention hussy. Me, me, me!!!
Sadly, there was an appalling lack of microphone availability in my childhood. I know, it's hard to hear. I don't enjoy calling my Mom and Dad out because I know they did the best they could, but it is a fact. My entire childhood I had a little microphone shaped hole in my heart. 
Actual photo of my heart.
As a result of this dismal lack of sound transmission capability, I was forced to turn to the beater thing.
I know the beater thing sounds like some kind of torture device, but in actual fact, it was a wire whisk. A wire whisk that in my hands became a magical silver tribute to the microphone that should have been there. Though not nearly as satisfying as a real microphone, it made a fair substitute and definitely added something to the melodious "Yeah-yeaaaaah-oh-yeaaaaaaaaaahyeaaaaaahyeaaaaah"s that I regularly belted out to embellish the songs on the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album. I really can't explain why I listened to the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album all the time, but I did. On my Mom's flat silver tape deck on the floor of the kitchen. Maybe it was the only tape we had? I really hope so, because the idea that I was truly enjoying the Kenny Rogers Christmas Album really bothers me.
Anyway, now that I've explained my deep love and affection for all things attention and microphone, I'm sure you will understand my irrational behavior when I was actually given the opportunity to be around a real one as a child.
It was around Christmas time when I was three years old, or so the story goes...
I was in the church Christmas pageant, along with the rest of my Sunday school class. The beautiful, beautiful microphone was eye level, and practically sang "Hallelujah" every time I looked at it. Having appointed myself the star of the show, it was only natural for me to assume that I, and only I, belonged in front of that microphone. So naturally, as was my right as the star of the show, I grabbed it out of its stand at a tasteful and appropriate time during the first song.
Unfortunately, there are some people in this world that like to tear you down. "Haters," I believe, is what the kids are calling them these days. This night was no exception. A certain "hater," and I won't name names, dared to remove the microphone from my happy little hands. Not only that, but she then raised it up and out of the reach of my flailing chubby arms. Honestly, what an outrage!!! The star of the show, albeit self-appointed, not having unfettered access to the microphone? Unheard of!!!
Well, no self respecting diva would stand for that. And I, my friends, even at such a tender age, was a self respecting diva. I began jumping, trying to reach the microphone. It was too far away. No! Nooooooo!!! I needed help. I couldn't do this on my own. "Mom! Mom!!!! I can't reach the beater thing!!! I can't reach the beater thing!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed in desperation, knowing that help would soon arrive to save it from the little black half-circle prison commonly known as a mic stand. But no help came. My own Mother, rather than rushing to my aid, just sat there in her chair and looked embarrassed... My own Mother. Unbelievable. Realizing that I was on my own, I continued jumping, desperate to reach it. It was no use. My sparkling silver friend was impossibly far away.
Would I admit defeat and fall back in line with the other children? No, a star never admits defeat. A star holds her head up high, and when she notices her father arriving late to her show, takes the opportunity to welcome him in a fashion becoming the father of said star.
When I spotted him, I stopped my jumping, waved, and happily called out, "Allen! Allen!!!" (a star is also far too cool to refer to her father as "Dad") before I ran down to greet him as everyone waited for me to return to the stage. Oh, don't worry, the show did go on. Eventually. And I'm sure it was amazing... Or at least, I can reasonably assume that it was.
Yes, the microphone. Forbidden, but irresistible. I would feel badly about "ruining" the Christmas pageant, but really... When one spends hours of her childhood pretending that a wire whisk is a microphone then a real one is placed in front of her, what would you expect? For her to just sit by and "share" the thing with the other kids? I think not. My poor Mom... You can still hear the embarrassment in her voice when she tells the story. I'm sorry Mom, but fame has a price, and in this case it was the complete an utter humiliation of the person that gave birth to me.
I wish I could say that I've grown out of my little obsession, really I do... But I'm starting a podcast and attempting stand up comedy, so...
I can't help it! There is just something about the sound of my own voice that makes me happy (as anyone who has met me knows), and the light that winks at me off the beautiful curves of a microphone, well, it will never cease to be magical.
I hope you all have an unbelievably wonderful week, and may the mic stands of your life always be within reach.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Germ Watch 2012
I'm dying. Well, not really, but I'm super sick and I have a flair for the dramatic, which translates to basically the same thing. I won't disgust you with the details, but let's just say my nasal passages are a mess. It's a freaking abomination in there. Do you know how dangerous it would be for me to attempt a blog in my current condition? My head could literally just fall right off. Well, maybe not literally, but again, I feel it's important to sprinkle in a little drama. Trust me, you wouldn't want to read a blog I wrote in my present state. The only think I can think about is how to get my ears to pop so I can hear again and some of the ideas I've come up with are not pleasant. But ya know what? I may be too busy laying on my death bed and wallowing in misery to blog, but I would never, EVER leave you hanging. Therefore, I submit the following for your reading pleasure... A short conversation between my husband and I that made me laugh and hopefully will do the same for you. Enjoy!
Me: "You know what I hate? Those people who have to constantly correct you. Like if you accidentally spell something wrong or type the wrong word, they'll have to make sure to "jokingly" tell you you were wrong or correct your grammar. That is like my freaking pet peeve. Aaaaargh!!! It's like they might as well say, "I'm smarter than you. You're stupid, I'm smart, so I just wanted to let you know what you did wrong." It's sooooo annoying!!!"
Kyle: "You mean, you don't just say the most cutting and terrible thing you can think of when they do that? So they never do it again?"
Me: "What? What do you mean?"
Kyle: "You know, if someone corrects your grammar you just say the meanest thing you can think of."
Me: "Seriously? Um... Babe, that's not normal."
Kyle: "It isn't?"
Me: "So someone says to you, "It's whom, not who." And you scream, "Well you're fat and I've never really liked you!!!"
Kyle: "That's not normal?"
Me: "No dear, I'm afraid not."
*End Scene*
I'm truly sorry for leaving you blog-less, but I'm going to try and write something this weekend when I'm feeling a little better to make up for it. I hope you all have a wonderful week full of open nasal passages and unfettered hearing!
Me: "You know what I hate? Those people who have to constantly correct you. Like if you accidentally spell something wrong or type the wrong word, they'll have to make sure to "jokingly" tell you you were wrong or correct your grammar. That is like my freaking pet peeve. Aaaaargh!!! It's like they might as well say, "I'm smarter than you. You're stupid, I'm smart, so I just wanted to let you know what you did wrong." It's sooooo annoying!!!"
Kyle: "You mean, you don't just say the most cutting and terrible thing you can think of when they do that? So they never do it again?"
Me: "What? What do you mean?"
Kyle: "You know, if someone corrects your grammar you just say the meanest thing you can think of."
Me: "Seriously? Um... Babe, that's not normal."
Kyle: "It isn't?"
Me: "So someone says to you, "It's whom, not who." And you scream, "Well you're fat and I've never really liked you!!!"
Kyle: "That's not normal?"
Me: "No dear, I'm afraid not."
*End Scene*
I'm truly sorry for leaving you blog-less, but I'm going to try and write something this weekend when I'm feeling a little better to make up for it. I hope you all have a wonderful week full of open nasal passages and unfettered hearing!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)