Category Archives: magic

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.

I told my dad I was going to write this post and he was all, “I wouldn’t do that.”

OF COURSE YOU WOULDN’T, Dad. You wouldn’t do ANYTHING online. YOU HATE THE INTERWEBS.

(Dad thinks “I wouldn’t do that” is funny and says it a lot about many things. Pretty much the only things he would do that I do are work, sleep, eat, and watch television, but not the particular shows I watch.)

This is a very prestigious day in Amy-land, and in Lucy’s Football-land. Therefore, it gets a whole post ALL UNTO ITSELF.

I was thinking the other day, I’m pretty sure November’s an important month, but I can’t figure out what DAY, exactly, is the important DAY in November. But THEN I was talking to sj (it was sj’s bloggiversary the other day, HAPPY BLOGGIVERSARY MY SJ!!!) and realized that, by searching through old blog comments, you could figure out when exactly you started talking to someone, and therefore you could figure out WHAT DAY YOU FIRST MET THEM.

So therefore using this logic I figured out my sjversary is February 25. I told her I was expecting roses.

So, I did some investigative research, and it actually ended up that my timing could not have been better, because I did the search on the 12th, and the day I was looking for was the THIRTEENTH. If I had waited just ONE DAY TO DO THIS, I would have been too late.

I like anniversaries. I like to know when things happened and to celebrate accordingly. I like to look back on the time that has passed between THEN and NOW and think, huh, a whole year has passed, isn’t that something?

So. Here is a story. Ready?

Once upon a year ago today, in a kingdom nowhere near the sea, lived a blogger named Amy. Amy the blogger didn’t (doesn’t) have any idea what she was doing, but she had many lovely readers and wrote posts that seemed to be received well and she was having a hell of a time and people seemed to be laughing at what she wrote so that was nice.

One day, her Twitter friend Lisa, one of the funiest humans she knows virtuallyinspired her to write a post about how to not be an asshat on Twitter.

Now, this is a very funny post. The blogger named Amy just re-read it and laughed all over again. Someday the blogger named Amy hopes she will regain her mental stability enough to be that funny again, or at least the free time to THINK of things that are that funny again. She holds out hope that she will.

Anyway, the post is not the point. (Although if you haven’t read it, the blogger named Amy totally still stands by that advice. It’s still sound advice.)

One year ago today, from what the blogger named Amy can tell based on VERY scientific research, is the day that two people who have become two of her most nearest and dearest friends in the entire world first commented on her blog, which, in that magic way that sometimes happened, led to them talking more and more and the rest, as they say, is HISTORY.

Now, these two people (I think, it’s not like Twitter keeps track of such things) were her friends on Twitter before they started reading her blog and commenting therein. Thereon? There. Commenting THERE. Anyway. From what the blogger named Amy can remember, she became friends with these people around this time on Twitter, so the date might not be EXACT, but since this is an actual date she can pin down, and it just happens it seems to be the EXACT FIRST TIME that BOTH of them commented (what are the odds that the two of them would comment on the same day? Huh) then this is the day we’re celebrating.

One year ago today?

Andreas and Ken day.

IT IS MY ANDREASVERSARY AND MY KENNIVERSARY.

Shut up, I’m totally sentimental, when I realized that it made me all KINDS of weepy.

Now you can tune out if you want to, but this is a VERY important day, so I’m totally going to sap it all up in this joint about the two of them, so if you don’t like to get the sappy all over you (YES that is probably a EUPHEMISM) then you can come back tomorrow, we’re talking about…um, wait, let me see…awards and cats and work, I think.

But right now, we’re sappin’ it up. So let’s sap it.

I’m starting with Andreas. He commented first.

Andreas is wonderful and one of the most intelligent people I know and funny and kind and caring and considerate and he SAYS he hates people but for someone that hates people he really is very good with them. (I don’t know if he so much hates people. He just, like me, has very little time or energy for stupidity. I can appreciate that.)

I liked Andreas from the beginning, which I think would surprise him, because, much like me, he doesn’t immediately assume people will dig him. I liked how he spoke very intelligently and I liked how he would think about things before replying and I liked that he always knew (KNOWS) the answers to things, but is never rude about telling them to you. He’s always very kind about telling you things, even when I’m sure he’s thinking “man, THAT’S a stupid question.”

Andreas is a scientist. How many scientists do you know? Probably not very many. He’s not currently PRACTICING science, but I don’t think you just STOP being a scientist. Also, randomly, I will find out amazing things about him, like he one time discovered a new species and then got to name it, or spent time in…now I’ve forgotten, Andreas, was it the Amazon or something? Bolivia? Something exciting like that. And he just throws it in there. “Oh, yes, that year I spent in Bolivia…”

Andreas has lived eleventy-billion lives and he’s only barely older than I am. I find that utterly fascinating.

Andreas, when I met him, was living on the Isle of Man, but somehow I got in my head that he lived in Finland (he probably said he was Finnish somewhere and so I used my Jumping to Conclusions mat, I do that a lot) and so for the longest time I told everyone I had this new friend in Finland, but then he said he lived on the Isle of Man so when I told Dad that, he decided Andreas he was a spy and he was lying about where he lived and WHAT ELSE MIGHT HE BE LYING ABOUT. (He has since started to grudgingly trust “the spy” which makes me happy.)

Then Andreas moved BACK to Finland so I could OFFICIALLY say I had a friend in Finland.

Andreas has a lovely fianceé and two beautiful children and he lives on an island and he has a fancy job where they give him ice cream on Fridays and sometimes they fly him to Helsinki and he promises to send me photos so I can see Helsinki because I love to vicariously bon vivant with my people. He also said I could come live on his couch if Romney won and I don’t even think he was kidding. And he wants me to move to Scandinavia, which I will never do, but is that the nicest thing you’ve ever heard? Someone who wants you to move across the world so you will live closer to them? Yes. And he sends me email that makes me smile and he used to have Klout in typos and he only minded a LITTLE bit if I picked on him about that and he writes one of the most intelligent blogs you’ve ever read in your life.

Also, he is very handsome and has a wonderful smile. Sorry, Andreas, I’m stealing this from you, people need to see your handsome mug.

And he is my Science Fellow. And he always answers my science questions and he comments on my blog and his comments make me smile every single time.

And before a year ago, I didn’t even know him, and that makes me both sad and happy; sad that I haven’t known him longer, and happy that I know him now and get to know him for the rest of my life. (Oh. Sorry, Andreas, you’re stuck with me now. Hope that’s peachy with you.)

Andreas is one of my most favorite people. Happy Andreasversary to you, Andreas! Thank you for commenting on my blog which led to me reading YOUR blog and then the magic of friendship happened. If you weren’t here, I don’t know what I would do. My life is meant to be lived with you in it.

Now let’s talk about Ken. It’s Ken’s day, too, you know. Who could forget about Ken? Certainly not me.

I’ve mentioned before, I didn’t WANT to be friends with Ken. Ken was the tea-guy and Ken was the jaunt-off-around-the-world guy and what the hell was I going to talk to THIS guy about, anyway? But, sometimes, people surprise you. That’s the best kind of surprise.

Ken is my secret sibling. I could probably end this post with this sentence and it really would totally sum up the past year of knowing Ken, but since when have I ever quit while I’m ahead? I have all these WORDS in my BRAIN and they have to get OUT.

However, for all the words I have in my brain, I don’t know that I have the words to talk about Ken. Well, not and do him any justice. There aren’t words that can describe Ken. Ken is…Ken. Ken is secret sibling. That’s all. Well, no. That’s not ALL. That’s…a lot. That’s more than a lot.

Luckily, I have permission to steal from Ken. This is EXCITED Ken. I assume he’s excited it’s his Kenniversary.

What can you say about someone like Ken? I don’t even know where to begin.

Ken is one of the greatest writers I know. Without the slightest bit of hyperbole or exaggeration or any of those fancy vocabulary words I like so much. Ken uses words like great artists use paint or musicians use instruments or actors use their voices and their bodies. And the best part is? HE HAS NO IDEA HE’S THIS GOOD. No, I’m very serious. He really doesn’t. Every time I tell him he’s just so pleased. And then he tells me it’s just because I’m biased. (And he’s always saying how he’s not so humble but that’s a total lie.)

Ken can, I’m quite sure, do absolutely anything, if he decides he wants to do it. He is a wonderful musician and photographer; I’m fairly sure, if he decided tomorrow he was going to start carving a life-size statue or something, it would be kind of the most brilliant thing. They have a name for that, right? Renaissance man. I think Ken might be one of the last remaining Renaissance men.

One time Ken went to the zoo and made a lion-face. HE MADE A LION-FACE. Is there much better than this? I don’t think there is.

Ken is the kind of person who, if you email him what you THINK is a completely off-the-wall scheme, will respond with, “ok. Yes. Absolutely. Let’s do that.” AND HE MEANS IT. He thinks about everything he does. This is what makes him the best bon vivant; everything is an adventure with him. He’s got the best sense of childlike wonder I’ve ever encountered in an adult. It makes you just utterly gleeful. It makes you proud to know him. It makes you proud that he chose you to know.

Ken has also lived a million lives before the one he’s living now. He’s like a puzzle box and he’s like an apothecary chest and there’s always something else opening and there’s always something more coming out. He’s like a book you’ve never read and more and more and more story keeps adding to the story you already know making the current story richer and better and what’s best is, I’m quite sure the story doesn’t end. And it’s the best book ever.

Ken and I are quite sure we’re secretly related; we find a million things all the time that are kind of spookily similar and it’s always one of those “oh, well, holy shit” moments, or, at least it WAS, for a while, but now it’s just become kind of one of those things. Like, “oh, well, of COURSE Ken’s always done this one thing and I have too. Because, well, secret siblings.” But it always gives me that happy chest-thrill. I’ve always wanted a secret sibling. And now I have the best one ever, so sometimes you DO get what you want, you know?

Ken makes me laugh until I cry and sometimes just cry until I cry and challenges me to think about things that I’ve never thought about before and listen to music that I didn’t know existed and shows me cities I never thought I’d get to see and he is THOUGHTFUL and he is KIND and he is GOOD and he is INTELLIGENT and he is one of the bravest people I know and he deserves every single happiness in the world and he is of the goats and he knows about euphemisms and he knows when I need things before I even know I need them and he understands that you can’t carry things alone and he got me through tax season last year by being the most supportive human being alive and he was the first person to email me after I got fired telling me everything was going to be alright and I am so, so blessed to have him in my life.

Haven’t we had a year, Ken? We so have.

And the winner of Amy’s favorite Ken-photo ever is: this one. And listen. LISTEN. There are a LOT of them. Like, I’m not even exaggerating when I say there might be thousands. This one makes me happier than happy.

And here’s the thing: I could have missed him. I could have just decided, no. No, I don’t think I’ll spend the time necessary to get to know this person; I have a lot going on in my life, and, as mentioned, what could I possibly have in common with this person? Nothing. Or, even MORE horrifying: he could have not liked me at ALL. There might not have been that click and we’d just have gone our separate ways. That happens, too, you know. It’s not like you’re best of friends with everyone you meet online. That’s not how online works.

And that makes me sad, and also makes me think that maybe, just maybe there is a plan at work in the world that we are not privy to, and why would we be, because we are small, and we are insignificant, because what are the odds, in all the world (no, most sincerely, Ken’s just about on the opposite side of things), that I would somehow find my secret sibling all that way away? Without a little push? Without a little bit of help?

A year ago, I didn’t know these two people; a year ago, if you had said either of these names to me, I would have just shaken my head with a blank look in my eyes, because they’d have been strangers to me.

Now: well, now. I have my Andreas, and I have my Ken. And I am a very lucky woman. And (shh, you thought that was squishy? Look away now, then) I just love these two men so much. They are so, so special to me. They make every single day better, just having them there, just knowing they’re there, and that they get me.

Here’s to many more November 13ths, guys. Here’s to a whole lifetime of them. Someday, how about we do this friendship-thing in person, yeah? I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Let’s do some real-life bon vivantery one of these days before we become too old for it and we have to do it from Hoverounds or in walkers or something.

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I say often I have the best friends in the world. Here’s the proof.

I’m not ever letting either of you go now. Just prepare yourselves, ok? Good. Good, good.

(Title is from Jim Henson; I discovered it about six months ago, and ferreted it away like a shiny thing and saved it for today. True story.)


It smelled like turpentine, it looked like Indian ink

Apparently, eBay grew up and its heart died.

eBay retooled its terms and conditions recently, and magic spells and potions are no longer going to be allowed to be sold. ZOMG, you guys. Where am I going to get my magic spells and potions now, if not on eBay?  This is very disheartening. I can’t be expected to make these on my OWN, can I? I mean, come on. Where the hell will I get my eye of newt? That stuff doesn’t grow on TREES. It grows on NEWTS. And I don’t know where newts are. Where the hell am I going to find NEWTS?

Why you gotta be stealin’ my eyes, yo? I need those to SEE.

Apparently, there’s no way to “verify or resolve” these transactions. Well, I’d think if you purchased a werewolf potion and didn’t turn into a werewolf after taking it, it’s your own damn fault for a., buying werewolf potion on eBay, and b., drinking something that could well be poison? But that’s just my thought. I’m a dirty non-believer, what can I say.

Let’s see what will soon no longer be available to us on eBay. Ready? This is totally very sad.

This one enlarges your breasts, which is nice. And it’s only $3.50! That’s so much cheaper than breast enhancement surgery. I can’t imagine people haven’t jumped on this.

I must, I must, I must increase my bust.

It also says this, which is a little confusing: “This potion is for Enlarging your Breasts. 1 drop on you will do this. If someone is really bothering you NOT harassing you, See my harassment potion for this, Then you may place it on them.  This Potion will help you do that. Really works well. The name says it all!  The uses are endless. Just use your imagination.” I feel like maybe this was cut-and-pasted from somewhere else and not proofread, because the second half doesn’t fit the first half so much. What does harassment potion have to do with breast enlargement? I mean, you are totally harassed if you have big ol’ knockers, I mean, seriously, I can totally attest to that, but I feel like one of these things is not like the other, eBay lady.

I would show you the oddly-blurry photo of this potion but eBay doesn’t let me do that. It’s a blurry bottle with a little wee cork in it that could have anything from poison to urine in it, honestly.

This one changes your gender. It’s by the same person. He or she really has this circumventing-the-doctors thing down pat. Again, the verbiage is kind of the most awesome and confusing: “This potion is for Changing your Gender from Male to Female and vise versa. 1 drop on you. Must add a hair to the potion from you to activate this potion, Small amount try to get the root to if you can. It will attune to you personally. Must think of the gender you wish to be and become that gender. You cannot have any thoughts or feelings of your old gender or the spell will break. You must Become that gender in full. Will help with the transformation until it is complete. Must be possitive when using.  Any deviation from my instructions will break the spell. Enjoy.”

Important points in this description:

  • “vise” versa. Like it’s a construction project!
  • You have to add a hair to the potion. DUDE THIS IS POLYJUICE POTION. Don’t think you’re fooling me! I know Polyjuice Potion when I see it.

    Polyjuice Potion! You guys! This is a STEAL!

  • “Think of the gender you wish to be and become that gender.” Wow. That seems really quick and fancy. Could you switch back and forth? Huh. What would happen to your genitalia, becoming innies and outies like that? I would think they’d get whiplash.
  • Never, ever, EVER think of your old gender. OR THE SPELL WILL BREAK. Shit, you need to go live on a commune with only ONE gender on it, and never read, watch television, watch movies, or think ever ever ever again. That’ll be easy as pie, right? Right.

Oddly, this photo looks just like the LAST photo. Or it would if I could show you, which I can’t, because eBay won’t let me gank it. This person couldn’t be using the same photos for all of his or her listings, could they? No no no. That couldn’t happen.

This is a magical demon-destroying potion. Shit, this’ll be helpful. And it’s only $51! A STEAL!

Ooh! MYSTICAL! I think I saw those stickers at Michael’s once.

This is what you will experience once you drink this not-at-all-shady potion you bought from a complete stranger on the intertubes:

  • Feelings of euphoria
  • Deep peace and relaxation
  • Sensations of energies moving and being released
  • Releasing negative demonic pattern may cause some nausea but it will pass away
  • Feeling of Freedom, like being awake for the first time in a long time
  • Mind calms down and inner dialog relax more and more
  • Warm sensation all over the body
  • Cold sensations in specific places and some very mild shivers
  • Falling in deep meditation and expanded awareness
  • Feeling fully aware of the present moment
  • Feeling a deeper connection with you inner being
  • Seeing dream like nature scenes and visions
  • Experiencing full spiritual vision of beings of Light
  • Having deep realizations about yourself and thing that you should change
  • Flashes of Intuition and deep knowing

Um. OK, most of these are things a person says when they get really into acid, like this guy I knew once. Or if they have a severe head trauma. Also, “very mild shivers.” Hee! I’ve met some people that give me very mild shivers. I think that’s a sign of badness to come so I usually excuse myself and take right the hell off before they lock me in their basement.

Duuuuude. Did you take the demon potion again? The walls are MELTING.

Earlier I was kidding about a werewolf transformation potion because everyone KNOWS that’s not how you turn into a werewolf. YOU HAVE TO GET BITTEN BY A WEREWOLF. But no! You can TOTALLY buy a potion that turns you into a werewolf! It’s only $37!

When you are a wolf, you can airguitar on top of a van. Michael J. Fox did it, so I know you can, too.

You get a lot of things with this kit, like REAL WOLF’S FUR and all you have to provide are easily-obtained items like A BLUE BOWL. (I totally have A BLUE BOWL. It’s all melty at the bottom because I microwaved chili in it once. I bet that’d be awesome for turning into a werewolf. A chili-loving werewolf.)

The person who is selling this is named “Indigo Raven Wolf” and you get his or her phone number for your $37 if you need help with your transformation. You know if you called that, you’d get like this bored housewife who’d be all, “Oh, who? Who are you looking for? Oh. OH! Yeah. Yeah, this is INDIGO RAVEN WOLF. Heh heh heh. How’s your TRANSFORMATION going?”

This one apparently gives you pulsating energy. WHOA PULSATING ENERGY. If that’s not a euphemism, I don’t know what is. Hey, baby, come check out my pulsating energy. Also? “This stunning piece VIBRATES with the power of Merlin and Excalibur!  The spiritual charge of this offering will change your life forever!  You will experience the unmatched power of Merlin the Great first hand!  Do not miss out!”

I never said anything about pulsation or vibration. My stars and garters.

It BOTH pulsates AND vibrates. Whoa. I think to get something that does both of those things, you usually pay more than $37, plus you have to purchase batteries, you know? What a steal. What a STEAL. A sexy, euphemistic steal.

Dear eBay. I don’t know where you expect me to go get potions now. This is sadface news altogether. I’m pretty sure the potion-makers of eBay are getting together to cast ALL THE SPELLS on you so I’d be cautious what I ate or drank in the next month or so, or you might be turned into a wolf. Just looking out for you guys, you know? You don’t want to find yourself PULSATING or VIBRATING without notice.


All this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings

If you’re not a Twitter (or even a Facebook) person, you don’t get your news all in-a-flashy like we do, so you might not have found out right away. But Tuesday night, I was sitting around writing something up for another blog (you’ll see, it’ll be out next week) and flipping back and forth to my social networks. That’s what I do when I’m writing. Here, I’ll give you a glimpse behind the curtain. You like that sort of thing, right? You want to see the Great and Powerful Oz?

This is totally me, only less manly. And wizardy. And curtainy.

Here you go. I sit down to write, I open up the following tabs: Twitter, Facebook, Gmail, WordPress. Then I write for a while, and when I’m either stuck or bored or need a break or notice I have a notification in one of the tabs, I flip around and see what’s up. I know I could probably get work done a hell of a lot faster if I ignored (or refused to open) the other tabs (and when I’m in a hurry, I don’t open them at all, and wait to check them until I’m done – I’m not a complete moron about what drains my time) but I like that they’re there, and I like that I can see if people are trying to get in touch with me or if important things are going on or what-have-you.  

So I was writing and writing and flipping around and catching up on back episodes of Haven while I wrote (I have such a weird crush on Eric Balfour with his big old noggin it’s kind of insane) and flipped over to Facebook and saw a post that just said “Oh” and the link said Nora Ephron had passed away. 

And because I am a gigantic sap I totally started to cry. 

Listen, Nora Ephron was a pretty stellar woman. You all probably know her from When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail (the first of which she wrote, the latter two she both wrote and directed) and you might think “meh, romantic comedies, whatever, cheesity cheese cheese” but she was really kind of someone we can all look up to, and it’s a huge loss that she’s gone. 

She interned for John F. Kennedy. She was a low-level mail girl (imagine calling someone an ANYTHING girl now? the mind just boggles) at Newsweek back in the 60s. Why? Because they didn’t hire female writers and she wanted to work in publishing. Her just-for-fun satirical writing with some friends led to her first writing job, with the New York Post. It’s the writer’s version of being discovered at a soda fountain and going on to become a famous actress, I think. (Side note: the person who noticed her writing? The publisher of the Post? A woman. Nice job with the early integration, Post.) From there, Ephron became a well-known reporter, essayist, and humorist, writing for not only the Post, but Esquire, The New York Times Magazine, and New York magazine, as well as collecting her essays into a number of books. 

That’s her with the notebook. And RFK. Neat, right?

So she conquered journalism. She was a hipster feminist, WAY before it was cool.

Also, she looked pretty kickass while doing it.

What next? Well, in her personal life, she married, she divorced, she married again (Carl Bernstein, maybe you heard of a little thing called Watergate? The journalists who broke Watergate? Woodward & Bernstein? This is that Bernstein, and Ephron knew who Deep Throat was THE WHOLE TIME, yo), Bernstein cheated on her with one of her friends, she wrote a scathing screenplay about it (Heartburn, in which she says the cheating husband is “capable of having sex with a Venetian blind,” hee!) and she married again, to a screenwriter, by all reports quite happily. 

70s feathered hair makes me smile. Here’s Ephron and Bernstein before the Venetian-blind-screwing.

So. Screenplays, huh? After she helped Woodward & Bernstein clean up their screenplay for All the President’s Men (her version wasn’t used), her writing caught Hollywood’s eye. Not long after, When Harry Met Sally happened. (Oh, she also wrote Silkwood. So whenever I say I want to Silkwood-shower my brain after I see something especially icky? Thank you, Nora Ephron.) 

Without Nora Ephron (for better or for worse, because YES, I KNOW, it’s NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN) we’d never get the line all women are kind of secretly hoping some guy will say a variant of to us at some point or other in our lives: 

I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. 

Yes, yes, like I said. It’s irrational to expect this. But think about it. Don’t we all kind of want someone to love us not only despite, but for, our quirks? The things that we think, “huh, this is probably driving someone nuts” – someone noticing that? And loving it? That’s something, right? That’s your person. The person that loves you FOR those quirks. The person who notices all of our junk and thinks, eh, we all have junk. The person who wants the rest of their life to start right now, because they found you. Don’t you even say this isn’t a little bit awesome. Is it irrational? Yeah. But it’s also a little bit awesome and kind of true and I love it.

Or how about, “Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?” or “Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash. But I would be proud to partake of your pecan pie.” Or that they don’t make Sunday days-of-the-week panties, “because of God.” Or “Oh, but ‘baby fish mouth’ is sweeping the nation?” Or (sob) “I am not your consolation prize, Harry.” 

I know that it makes me a huge old girly-girl and I know that it’s creating these unobtainable expectations for romance, but I will always, always, ALWAYS want a When-Harry-Met-Sally romance on some level. Always and forever. I know it’s not coming, of course I do. The practical side of me is well-aware of that. But the side of me that still picks up wishing-pennies and refuses to step on cracks still holds out some hope. She’s optimistic, that one. 

Then Ephron decided, huh. I liked writing that. That went really well. Let’s try some directing, what do you say? 

The first one (This is My Life – heard of it? Nope, me either) wasn’t a home run. I love her a little more for that. If she hit it out of the park the first time, she wouldn’t be as relatable. Then: Sleepless in Seattle. 

Pair up Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the height of their squishy adorableness. Keep them separated for most of the movie. Throw in a ton of longing and heartbreak and the statistic (how much did THIS kill the women watching? I was in my early TWENTIES and was a little panic-stricken!) “It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!” The Empire State Building. “That’s your problem! You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie.” (I do. That is my problem. I ABSOLUTELY want to be in love in a movie.) Their faces when they see each other for the first time. “Magic.”  

Yep. Nice job, Nora Ephron. Add “meeting on the Empire State Building” to the “things all women secretly kinda want” list.  

Then You’ve Got Mail. Did everyone love this as much as I did? Or is it just me who was completely swept away in the whole New York City/bookstores and the love of literature/rivals/secret identities/falling in love without seeing each other’s faces thing? I’m ok with it if it’s just me.  

I’m going to quote the hell out of You’ve Got Mail. Listen, I tried to narrow it down. I just couldn’t. I love it so much. 

Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life – well, valuable, but small – and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void. 

I would have asked for your number, and I wouldn’t have been able to wait twenty-four hours before calling you and saying, “Hey, how about… oh, how about some coffee or, you know, drinks or dinner or a movie… for as long as we both shall live?” 

I love daisies…They’re so friendly. Don’t you think daisies are the friendliest flower? 

What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You’ve got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you. 

Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms. 

When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does. 

The odd thing about this form of communication is that you’re more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings. 

I wanted to be your friend…I knew it wasn’t…possible. What can I say, sometimes a guy just wants the impossible. 

And, the line that can make me cry just thinking of it, the line that I didn’t have to look up online for the exact wording because sometimes it comes to mind with Meg Ryan’s face attached, her hopeful, relieved, teary face, and I just get all weepy all over again because it’s just perfect: 

I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly. 

If it makes me sappy and girly and silly, so be it. But I like the magic in this movie. I like that there are two people out there so, so perfect for each other, and they meet in the least likely of ways, and they, despite all odds, manage to make it work. I like that. So much. I like that it speaks to those of us who spend a lot of our time online – not the “ZOMG WE’RE GOING TO FALL IN LURVE” thing, but the making-a-connection thing through the computer, with someone you’ve never met, through their words and their thoughts and getting to know them through the minutae of their day, you know? I love that. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. The two of them really were the cutest together in these movies back in the day, weren’t they? 

She continued to direct (her last movie was Julie and Julia, which wasn’t that long ago) and write books. She had two children. She had a large group of friends and supported up-and-coming young writers and comedians and directors; many of whom were women. She believed that (unlike a lot of men, both then and now) women in comedy WERE funny, ARE funny, and if they had to work twice as hard to show that? Well, nothing wrong with a little hard work. She openly talked about (shh!) “female issues” – sex, aging, romance, motherhood, divorce – and she made them FUNNY. And RELEVANT. She made them so MEN wanted to read about them or watch them. MEN! Interested in WOMEN’S issues, can you imagine the HORROR? She reportedly had a huge cackle; if you made Nora cackle, you knew you’d done something really special.  

I would have liked to make Nora cackle. I have a cackle. I’ve been told the same thing, actually; that if someone hears my laugh in an audience, from all the way backstage, they know the show’s going well. I’m proud we have that in common. We’re not the type to be silenced. We don’t whisper; we roar. 

I love this. This is 80 flavors of adorable.

She believed very strongly in the power of the written word. From Hilary Rosen’s piece about her in the Huffington Post: “What do you do when your friend Nora Ephron dies? You cry and then you write about it. Because that is what she said to do whenever you told her a story that moved her or amused her. ‘Write about it’ she’d say. It was like Beethoven telling you to play a symphony or Billie Jean King telling you to serve the ball or Springsteen telling you to rock. She was the best of the best and when she said, ‘write’ she was telling you to engage in the noblest pastime she knew.” 

How can you not love a woman who believed in the written word this much? “The noblest pastime she knew.” Chills. Just, chills. 

From Lisa Belkin’s piece, also from the Huffington Post: “’Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim,’ she said in a 1996 speech to the graduating class of Wellesley College.” My college graduation speaker told us to make sure to save for retirement, I think. I’d have liked a speech about being the heroine of my own life. I try to be. I think I’m succeeding. 

And finally, from Arianna Huffington’s piece from the Huffington Post. (See, Nora Ephron didn’t really need to write anymore, and didn’t have time to, really. But when Arianna Huffington approached her about a new blog she was starting, Ephron did some research and realized that blogs were the wave of the future in writing and making that immediate connection. She made the time, because she loved it so much. She was a regular contributor to the Huffington Post and good friends with Arianna Huffington.)

Ephron and Arianna Huffington.

“Nora excelled not only as a blogger but as a blogging evangelist, spreading word of the medium’s particular value and making many converts. She quickly grasped that ‘one of the reasons for blogging was to start the conversation and to create the community that comes together briefly to talk about things they might not be talking about if you hadn’t written your blog.’” 

Savvy woman, that Nora Ephron. 

She intimated she was ill in her last book, but very few people knew she was suffering from leukemia. She played that close to the vest. I can appreciate that. I’d do the same thing. Who needs the sympathy? Life’s too short for that. She passed away on Tuesday from complications related to the disease. 

We lost one of the good ones Tuesday. She paved the way for a lot of women in writing and in comedy. She showed what we can do, us women, if we work together; if we refuse to take no for an answer; if we work our asses off. She wrote beautifully and told it like it was and she loved deeply and she laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed. 

Thank you, Nora. You’ll be missed. In your honor: I think I’ll write.


One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.

It’s almost New York City time – less than a week! I’d say I was getting excited, but that’s really an understatement. I’ve BEEN excited. I suppose you could say I’m getting MORE excited. As each day passes, more butterflies move into my tummy and start doing the Riverdance. The Riverdance? Or just Riverdance? What do you think? Eh, who cares, they’re Riverdancing up a storm, all fluttering and clogging and shit with their little butterfly-feet.

Damn you, Riverdancing butterflies. DAMN YOU.

I was doing a little research recently for the trip so Susie and her husband and I can just pop on the subway and zip zam zoom around to wherever we need to be (I’m not ANTI-walking, but I also might die, and don’t especially want to die, you know? Since I don’t walk a lot? Also, that’s what the subway is for. Transporting lazy people from here to there. And also? Peoplewatching!) and I was taking notes like “take the F train” and “take the 4 train” and “exit at 14th Street/Union Square Station” and I got reminiscey. 

Listen, I love New York City. I love it. If I had the money to do it justice? I’d leave where I live in a minute and I’d live there without a second thought. And you all know how much I love where I live. I’m a huge Capital District supporter. I’ve never loved anywhere I’ve lived more, and don’t plan on living anywhere else ever. But New York City makes me so happy. 

When I was a kid living in the middle of nowhere (Middle of Nowhere! Population as of last census: 1,676! No, I’m not kidding. The population of the ENTIRE TOWN WHERE I GREW UP is the size of SOME OF YOUR HIGH SCHOOLS) I read. A lot. And some of the books I read were about big cities. And I dreamed of someday going to a big city, and what that might be like. Scary, I thought. Probably really, really scary. Killers would lurk in every dark alley! Men would try to SELL ME MARIJUANA CIGARETTES! There would be PROSTITUTES! PROSTITUTING!

Man, I couldn’t wait to go. 

I’d been to a couple of cities before I went to New York for the first time – Syracuse, Toronto, Montreal, Binghamton. (Don’t you even tell me some of those aren’t real cities. When you grew up in a town where you went to kindergarten with the same people you graduated with, anything with a building taller than three stories was A VERY BIG PLACE.) Toronto was pretty. Montreal was nice. Syracuse was ok. Binghamton was gray and kind of dirty (but oh, how I loved it there, the five years it was my home.) But, freshman year of college, a few months into the semester, one of the girls in my dorm asked if I wanted to go home with her for one of the Jewish holidays, to see a concert. She lived in the Bronx. 

“We’d go to New York City?” I asked. 

She laughed. “The Bronx IS New York City,” she said. “But yes, of course. We’ll go into Manhattan. I’ll show you around the Bronx. We’ll take the subway. We’ll see Times Square. All the touristy stuff, if you want.” 

Oh, I wanted. I so wanted. 

I honestly don’t remember how we got there. It’s been twenty years. The bus, I’m thinking? I thought for sure she’d live in an apartment like I’d seen on all the sitcoms. Probably with a lot of garbage cans outside. And rats? Probably there’d be rats. I was prepared for rats. I WAS A BADASS COLLEGE KID NOW DAMMIT. 

Her family lived in a very nice house. A house! In the Bronx! Not even an apartment! She even had a teeny tiny lawn! A lawn-let! 

We went into Manhattan. We rode the subway. They were still using tokens back then. Remember tokens? I wish I’d saved some. I’d love to have a subway token of my very own right now.

She bought me my first egg cream. We saw a concert at Radio City Music Hall. We walked until our legs hurt. 

My mouth is watering for one of these right now. SUSIE! You have GOT to have an egg cream. HAVE TO!

I feel madly, passionately, crazily, forever in love with New York City. 

It’s a city you can get lost in. No one cares. For a girl from a small town where everyone was always watching everything she did? This was a revelation. NO ONE CARED. You could strip down naked and run down 42nd Street and no one would bat an eye. They were too busy doing their own thing. There was always something happening. You couldn’t see enough. I felt like I was walking around with huge eyes and craning my neck and constantly at risk of tripping over my own feet because I wanted to see EVERYTHING. (Psst, I totally still feel like that, only I restrain myself so I don’t look touristy.) A whole STORE just for PAINTBRUSHES. An entire WAREHOUSE just for LIGHTBULBS. People selling things on streetcorners! People walking super-fast! Businessmen! Kids in little school uniforms! So much theater! Another hundred people getting off of the train! 

I couldn’t live there, though. I knew that. Oh, not that I didn’t WANT to. But in order to live there, I’d have to have the money to make living there worthwhile. I’d want to go out and do things. I’d want to see shows and go to concerts and go to the fanciest of fancy restaurants and on whatever salary someone in clerical would get (which is, let’s face it, pretty much what I’ll be doing until I go toes-up) I’d be lucky if I could afford an apartment and something to eat that wasn’t peanut butter or popcorn. I’d want to do New York City justice, were I to live there. So I don’t. But I would. If that ship that I’m pretty sure sank years ago ever comes in? See you, Capital District. I love you, I truly do. But I’ll be living in New York City and visiting you every now and again. 

After that, I went back whenever I could. I went with some friends to see some shows a couple of years later and a man thought I was a prostitute and asked me “how much?” which alternately amused and horrified me. (In his defense, my sundress was pretty risqué.) I had a job where I was required to go to our satellite office in the City once a month or so for a while, and I felt SO FANCY, taking the train with the business people, walking all official-like to the office, getting buzzed up to their floor in the office building like a real PERSON doing a real THING like a real JOB or something. I kept thinking that there were probably videocameras following me, because something this cool couldn’t happen to me. Country mouse! I was country mouse! This was NOT ALLOWED! 

I went and stayed with a friend who lives there for a long weekend once. He’s a bigwig. Like, a total bigwig. We did the town right. Broadway show. Fancy dinner. Again, I felt like I didn’t belong. But that’s ok, because I often feel like I don’t belong in my own life, so at least I was feeling like I didn’t belong in a FABULOUS life. 

I went for a long weekend with BFF. We played tourist for five days. That was the best trip I’d ever had. I highly recommend, if you’ve never done it, going to a city you don’t live in, but you love, with your closest friend someday. You will have adventures and you will laugh until you cry and you will talk until you fall asleep and you will make the best memories. We ate amazing food and we walked until we were too sore to move and we touristed everything there was to tourist and we took every subway known to man and it was the best. Just the best. 

I’ve gone for the day to shop. I’ve gone for the day to watch a show. I love living where I do, because even though I can’t afford to go very often, if I want to go, it’s not far. Just a trip of a few hours. It’s right there.

Not long after I moved here, I went with a group of friends for the fourth of July. I didn’t know them well. They went every year. They did their thing, and I had friends to see, so I went and did my thing for a while, and we met back up in the evening for fireworks and drinks. They collapsed and slept away most of the day on the fifth. Since I hadn’t been drinking much – I came in late to the drinking portion of the evening – I woke up early. The fifth was a Sunday. I crept quietly out of the hotel room, tiptoeing around so as not to wake anyone, and out onto the streets, looking for coffee and some breakfast, maybe the paper. I knew my friends would be out for a while. There had been some…um…upchucking the night before. The bathroom wasn’t looking great. Or smelling like a rose. Let’s just say that. 

I walked out onto the street and it was just me and some street cleaners, cleaning up the red plastic cups and the beer bottles from the night before. The sun was coming up. The streets were bare in the part of town where we were staying. (It was right down by the South Street Seaport, if that means anything to people savvy to the ways of New York. Our hotel was right near the water.) You could see the Brooklyn Bridge from where we were. It was sparkly in the sun. There was mist coming up from the water. 

And it was so QUIET. Even if you’ve never been to New York City, you’ve been to SOME city, at some point, I’m sure. They’re not quiet. They’re never quiet. They seethe, no matter what time of day it is. That morning, the City was so, so quiet. Everyone was sleeping off the festivities from the night before. The businesses hadn’t quite opened for the day yet. There was the sound of the hoses from far away street cleaners, the occasional groan of their trucks as they moved from one area to another. The sound of the river. The sound of traffic from streets away, muffled by buildings. And only me, walking around the street. I felt like an explorer. I felt like the City was mine. 

I found a little shop that was open and got a coffee and a bagel, and a copy of the Post (it was too pretty of a day for the Times, which is SRS BSNS, yo), and sat on a bench, in a street that was all mine, and ate my bagel and drank my coffee and just kept looking up, and it was warm but not hot, and breezy but not too windy, and perfect. Just utter and complete perfection. I had my MP3 player but I didn’t turn it on. I listened to the sounds of the city waking up. It was better music than I’d brought with me. 

I wasn’t out there for more than an hour. People started to show up, stroll the street; shops started to open. Garbage trucks started garbaging. Cars started honking. People sat on the benches around mine, then someone asked to sit at my bench, and the day belonged to everyone else again. 

But I’d had that hour. I’ve lived a lot of hours in my life, and some were wonderful, and some were interminable, and some I’d like to never think about again, but that one is one of my favorites, and I go back and I dwell in it, every now and then, when I need a little peace. It was like peeking backstage of a flashy Broadway show, or seeing a rockstar chatting with an old friend at a bar; it was the City without its makeup on, without its sequins and sparkle and glitter. And it was beautiful and it was stately and it was fine, and it was all mine. Just for an hour. It was magic. Just true, absolute, everyday magic. That happens now and then, you know? I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I know I probably won’t again. Well, until the rapture comes, I suppose, and there’s no one left but me and the rest of the sinners, and won’t we have fun in our quiet, quiet world? 

I can’t wait to see New York City with Susie. We’d have a great time anywhere, up to and including meeting in an abandoned truck stop in North Dakota haunted by thunderwolves, most likely, but it makes me happy the first time I’m meeting her is in my favorite place in all the world. I can’t wait to make more memories there, and I can’t wait to make them with her. Five days, Secret Sibling! FIVE DAYS!

(Title is a Thomas Wolfe quote. I can’t write something that lovely. Nope, not me.)


I’m pretty sure I’m one of the X-Men or something right now, so that’s awesome.

Here we are, the weekend! How are things, good? Good, good. Want to ramble a little today? Great, because I have a headache like you wouldn’t believe and I can NOT stay on task. Like, I’ve tried, I’ll be honest, but it’s not happening. I was all, I should do something themey today! But I couldn’t even concentrate hard enough on FINDING a topic, let alone WRITING about it. Waking up with a headache is the worst. You open your eyes and you’re all, EFF, you KNOW this day’s going to be just a total joy with the ouchiness, you know? Eesh. 

Let’s see. This is a theater weekend for me. Tonight I’m seeing Hair (well, it’ll be “last night” by the time you read this, so here’s hoping there was ALL THE NUDITY WHOO!), and Sunday I’m seeing Hairspray. So it’s a tonsorial-themed theater weekend, won’t that be fun? Sure it will.  

(Update: saw Hair. It was fine. I’ve seen better. I’ve seen worse. There was a man with a beard, which you know is my kryptonite, but then I think maybe he was like 20 so that felt creepy so I had to stop looking at him. Also, the actors all looked really young, so when the nude scene happened it was about 86 flavors of awkward. And there were old people near me who kept saying, “Oh, my. OH MY” whenever anything racy would happen. It was…odd.)

When I told my dad what shows I was seeing this weekend, he said in this total sarcastic teeny-bopper voice, “Oh, how I WISH I lived there so I could go WITH you!” He hates musicals. It made me laugh. Dad’s theory on theater goes thusly: musicals are annoying because IN REAL LIFE PEOPLE DON’T BREAK OUT INTO SONG DAMMIT (I know they should, but he doesn’t share that feeling, what is WRONG with him?), and straight shows are scary because someone in the show might come into the audience, choose him, and force him to get up on stage and act. I’ve mentioned this before, but seriously, after snakes, which, like Indiana Jones, are my Dad’s major fear in life (although it’s not like he runs away like a child when he sees one, he just gets a shovel and chops it up or something, and he gets SO MAD when I’m all, “UGH DAD, you couldn’t shoo that into the FIELD or whatever? That poor snake”), his second-most fear seems to be this baseless fear of going to a play and being dragged onstage to perform all improv-like.

WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE SNAKES? Or actors. WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE ACTORS?

I’ve asked him if this ever happened to him or anyone he knows, or if he saw it on television or something, and he WILL NOT TALK ABOUT IT. So I don’t know if there’s some deep-seated phobia there or he’s making it all up. I’ve tried to explain that in regular plays, they’re rehearsed, and they don’t ask for volunteers from the audience much. Dinner theater, sometimes. Those Complete History of the World-type plays. But not regular dramas. The odds are slim to none. But he is NOT HAVING IT. We went to a play once at a theater near my parents’ home, and (as happens sometimes) one of the characters entered through the audience. My dad was FURIOUS. He GLARED at that actor throughout the play. When intermission happened, I asked him what was wrong. “I WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT,” he said. “What?” I asked. “HE TRICKED ME,” he said. “He just showed up! And walked through the aisle! LIKE A REGULAR PERSON! What if I’d talked to him? I’d have been in the play!” I said, “Dad, why would you have started a conversation in the middle of Act I? That would have been rude of you. You know better than that. Also, he wouldn’t have started a conversation with you, probably. I know this play. All he does is walk in and then start acting. I would have warned you if there was audience participation. We wouldn’t have come. I promise.” But NO NO NO, Act II, he KEPT GLARING at the guy. Like the guy PERSONALLY AFFRONTED HIM. Then we went out for ice cream after the show and he wouldn’t even get out of the car. He was SO UPSET. We don’t go to plays any more now. Just in case someone enters through the house and OH NO OH NO HEAVENS FORFEND. 

Ha! No, this isn’t my dad, but close enough. HE WAS SO MAD YO.

Today is Jim’s charity-walk day! Good luck, Jim! I can’t wait to hear all about it and how you totally crushed the competition using the POWER OF THE INTERWEBS. We’re trying to plan a charity walk here in the office, and it is NO EASY TASK. See, we used to do the Komen Walk, but because I didn’t like the way they handled that whole Planned Parenthood thing, I was very firm on “let’s look into other options” this year. See, I’m in charge of the team that does these things. NO, not because I’m a good person. Because I don’t have a CHOICE. (Also? Is it worrisome I’m apparently the only liberal AND the only person who’d even HEARD about the Komen kerfuffle in the office? Yes. Yes, it is.) We have all these teams that are supposed to bring us together as an OFFICE and make us all LOVEY LOVEY and such and whatever, mostly they’re just totally the most annoying. (Also, stop trying to make us lovey-lovey. We just want to work, get paid, and go home. We don’t want to put flowers in our hair and smoke weed together, you damn dirty hippies.) But the first year we started, I got put in charge of the community service team, and fine, whatever, I rocked it, I’m very good at organizing and planning and scheming and being a bossy bitch. But I hated it, because everyone made me do all the work because that’s what happens here? So the following year, I put another person on the team in charge. Only he didn’t do anything and the team fell all into disarray. So the year after THAT the lady in charge of all the teams sat me down at my annual evaluation and was all, “You’re the team leader IN PERPETUITY NOW” and that was that. Now I run this team until I DIE or maybe the office closes because of a gas leak or something, I don’t know. Anyway, so after I was all, “KOMEN SUCKS” they made me find other charity walk opportunities and I found one that benefited a local SPCA, which is awesome, right? Not ONLY does your money go to sad-face orphan animals, but you can bring your DOGS to the walk! You can walk WITH YOUR DOGS! But one of the other team members was all, “I don’t know if I’m down with that, I know ALL THE THINGS ABOUT ALL THE ANIMAL ORGANIZATIONS IN THE WHOLE AREA I WANT TO RESEARCH THIS FURTHER” and so we’re not allowed to move forward with it until she makes a report on her findings because bureaucratic nonsense is bureaucratic and it’s been like a week and she hasn’t even moved on it. And this is why teams are stupid and I am bad at them because I have both control and anger-management issues, love, Amy. 

I want to leave notes on my coworker’s desk, all, “Why do you hate puppies slated for death and destruction?” but they already hate me there already, so that’s probably not a good idea, right?

This is really random. It’s random-crap Saturday, only even without HEADINGS. My head is really aching, no joke. This is what comes out of me when I have a headache. 

I saw this on the news yesterday and it was both exciting AND terrifying: 

Humongous Volkswagen-sized turtle fossils discovered 

VOLKSWAGEN SIZED TURTLES YOU GUYS!!! 

It’s as big as a Volkswagen, so probably it’s got that reliable German engineering thing going for it, too. Also, crushy jaws.

At first, I was all, “THIS IS AWESOME! I COULD TOTALLY RIDE THOSE TURTLES!” but then I read the article and this sentence struck my eye: “the turtle would have been equipped with massive, powerful jaws, meaning it could’ve eaten just about anything in its range, from mollusks (a group that includes snails) to smaller turtles and even crocodiles, the researchers noted.  Its all-encompassing appetite as well as its need for a large range to satiate its food requirements may explain why no other turtle of this size has been found at the site.” 

It was a GIGANTIC SNAPPING TURTLE. The size of a CAR. “All-encompassing appetite.” ZOMG, that’s kind of horrifying. When we were children, my Dad knew I loved turtles, so one day he was out hunting and found a turtle and brought it home for me. And it was this big old snapping turtle. “Don’t you touch that,” he said. “That’s just for looking at.” So we kept it for a while in a big bucket. That turtle HATED me and my brother. Whenever we came near, it would HISS AND HISS. So of course we named it Mister Hisster. I mean, who wouldn’t? That was his NAME.

Dad totally remembered Mister Hisster when I told him I was blogging about this today. “That sucker was MEAN,” he said. “And hissy!”

Also, if you put a stick near his powerful jaws he would SNAP THAT STICK IN HALF. And then hiss. Cruelly. Mister Hisster was only our friend (oh, sorry, that needs air quotes, because of the hatred he bore toward us: our “friend”) for a couple of days before my mom was all, “Um, that damn turtle is going to snap Amy’s fingers right off because she is bound and determined to make it be her friend and it really just wants revenge or something, can we let it go maybe? When she grows up, she’s going to want those fingers, and it’s going to be awfully embarrassing for her to explain she lost them in a freak snapping-turtle incident WE ARE NOT HILLBILLIES” and then when we woke up one morning Mister Hisster was gone. Dad let it go in the water in the woods. I know this is true because we didn’t eat any mystery meat in the days after the Mister Hisster incident, like the time he told me I was eating chicken but I found pieces of bullet in it and then come to find out it was the pretty quail* that were in our backyard a couple of mornings before that and ever since I’ve been very wary whenever I go to visit and he’s all, “if you’re hungry, there’s chicken in the fridge” but if I’m really hungry I will ask him, “chicken? Or ‘chicken’ with buckshot in it?” and then he’s all GRUMP GRUMP GRUMP THAT WAS ONLY ONE TIME AMY.  (*note from my dad: “They were NOT QUAIL. They were PARTRIDGES. But not really. That’s just what we call them up here. Really they were RUFFED GROUSE. Don’t tell your blog people we shoot quail. They will LAUGH at you. THERE ARE NO QUAIL HERE. Also, IT WAS ONLY ONE TIME AMY.”)

See how cute? I don’t want to eat this chicken. BECAUSE IT’S A GROUSE.

These turtles (we WERE talking about mega-turtles, before the specter of Mister Hisster raised his scary head) had shells that were 5’7 in diameter, and could double as kiddy-pools, apparently. WHOA NELLY. That is one monster turtle. If that turtle hissed at you, you would MOST DEFINITELY KNOW IT. Also, there’s very little doubt it would eat your face right off, I mean, yikes, am I right? 

Oh, ok, one more randomness, and then I’m going to swan off and finish my book that I’m reading, which means I’m going to weep in the lunchroom today. It’s so, so good. I’ll be reviewing it over at Insatiable Booksluts soon so I don’t want to spoil. But I was reading it in the car yesterday at lunch and I realized what some foreshadowing was pointing to and I was all, “OH NO OH NO” and then I started crying IN PREPARATION for something that wasn’t even going to happen for PAGES. This is a good book. A very, very good book. Well, if you like crying. I like crying a lot, so I’m down with it. Also, there is ALL THE GERMAN in it. You all KNOW I love all the German. It is making me very happy, this book. (UPDATE: the review is up! You can go read it if you want. I geek out and actually QUOTE the German poetry because it’s so damn pretty.)

Oh, this is a little randomness, not even a big one. I totally just went online and bought an additional cellphone battery so I’d have a backup for when I go to New York City so my phone doesn’t die when I’m having my epic adventure day with Susie because the phone battery life of that thing is the suck. I’m totally being planning-aheady about this adventure. Are you so excited right now? What? No? Just me? TOO BAD SLAPPY. 

So, around Christmas, Andreas (you all know Andreas! He is my SCIENCE FELLOW! He moved to FINLAND!) was having a problem. His stove stopped working. And therefore, his family was not going to be able to make Christmas dinner. And that was the worst. He was seriously planning on making microwave meals for Christmas dinner. No one wants Lean Cuisines for Christmas. Well, or whatever the Isle of Man-ian version of Lean Cuisines is. So I tweeted him something like, “I am sending all the good vibes. I want you to be able to have real food!” and not ten minutes later, he was all, “The repairman came! He wasn’t supposed to come for DAYS! The stove is FIXED!” and that was magical, right? But kind of a coincidence, whatever. 

Well, now he’s in Finland, and he hasn’t had any internet at home since he got there. Which is upsetting. He is MISSED. By ME. And also others, but I’m the one living in my head so I’m the loudest complainer all up in here. So I told him I was VERY UPSET with ALL OF FINLAND for not getting him internet, and who would I address a very strongly worded letter of complaint to ALL OF FINLAND to? And then I said, “FINLAND! I AM VERY ANGRY WITH YOU.” And then he tweeted me that they’d just hooked up his internet.  

I AM MADE OF MAGIC. (Also, I think Finland is scared of me. I SCARED A WHOLE COUNTRY.)

I was sending good vibes for stove repair? STOVE REPAIR HAPPENED. I was angry at Finland? INTERNET HAPPENED. This is a newfound superpower for me. I’m pretty sure I’m an empath. I’m pretty stoked about this, to tell you the truth. The only drawbacks that I can see is that it only seems to work for Andreas, and only sometimes, and only for things that, in the long run, are kind of inconsequential? But probably with practice it will get totally targeted and better, right? RIGHT. 

When I Google Imaged “empath” this chick from Star Trek came up and I’m a little worried I have to get a man-haircut and wear frosted eyeshadow now. I don’t, right? I’m not down with this. I’ll look terrible.

So what should I do with my new magic powers of vibes-sending? Can I use this to make enough money to go on my tour of Europe? How about to buy my animal-rescue farm in the woods where I will rescue all the three-legged goats and one-eyed pit bulls? Wait, we’re not sure if this can be used for personal gain, are we. Hmm. Well, I’m happy to use it to make the lives of the people I love better. I’m not stingy with my new empathy powers. I’ll empathy it up for you, if I love you enough. You just let me know and I will ZAP YOU SOME EMPATHINESS. Then if YOU happen to make a million because of my empathy skills, well, if you want to throw a little my way for various things like world travel and three-legged-goat-rescue, I’d take that. I’d be all, “Aw, you shouldn’t have I DON’T DESERVE THIS” but yes, I’d take it. Those goats need me.

OK. Happy Saturday, internet people. Hope you’re enjoying. Listen, I know it’s only May, but it’s summer now, right? So hot! Whoo! I think it’s almost air conditioning time! Too soon, air conditioning! Too soon!


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