easily amused

Muppets forever

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We are 100% convinced the episode 3 of the new Muppets show (The Muppets) included a callback to our favorite moment of the original Muppet Show ever.  Here’s the original:

LOVE that joke. So tonight, we watched the third episode of the new show. Fozzie is out in the woods, and Kermit is looking for him. Some campers come running by screaming, “Bear! There’s a bear!” Kermit shouts after them, “Wait a minute! Is he wearing a tie?”

John and I got so excited. No other explanation will do. I love the Muppets.

Another mystery solved

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Yesterday, I explained where your missing socks are (too bad they can’t carry cameras – their vacation pictures are probably pretty good), and today I got a request to find out where the missing mittens are.  Mittens are pretty much the opposite of socks, right?  Socks go on your feet, mittens go on your hands.  Total opposites.  Socks run away and have adventures, but mittens aren’t like that.  They’re timid, fearful.  They have self-esteem problems.  All they want to do is hide (the LAST thing they want to do is go out in the cold and have snowball fights), and the ones that go missing are the ones that have wished SO hard for a good hiding place that they’ve turned themselves invisible.  Your mittens haven’t gotten lost or run away – they’ve disappeared.  You’ll find them if you feel around for them, but you’ll look pretty weird when you wear them outside.  Well, maybe not weird.  Bare hands don’t look weird.  But if you’re wearing invisible mittens you’ll have flipper hands (like The Penguin!), and that would be odd, so yes.  Weird. But warm!

Have a heart.  Leave your mittens in the closet.  They’re happier there.

Brand new, totally original thoughts about TV!

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You know what phrase I have never uttered?  “Well, I’ll be.”  Also, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” or any  other variation.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say either of those things in real life, actually.  Just TV.    Something else that only happens on TV: big dramatic pauses after someone says “I did something bad,” when any normal person would be like, “Bad how?  What did you do?  Bad like illegal?  What are you talking about?  Stop looking all tortured and talk!”  “Never mind – I’m sorry I said anything!”  I mean, really.  No one talks to each other on TV.  Or when they do, it’s cloying and horrible.  Or maybe that’s just on CW shows.  And yet, I keep watching them.

All the memories came flooding back

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Last night, we went to a high school football game for the first since high school (I think).  (We lived two blocks from a high school with one of the best football teams in the state for ten years – NEVER went to a game.)  Sean is one of the coaches, and last night’s game was against their big rival, and (nicely for us and them), they won.

It was both super-strange and VERY familiar.  John and I didn’t get there until the second half (we were parking the car as the marching band marched off the field (to my disappointment)), but one half of a football game was plenty (for a number of reasons).  The view, the smells, the students, the parents – I only went to football games because I was in the marching band and I HAD to go, but I went to every football game in high school (the home games, anyway – I don’t think the band went to away games), and it was ALL familiar.  It was neat, but although there was a little nostalgia (I really enjoyed marching band), I’ve never liked football, and I’m in no hurry to re-live high school.  This will not become a regular thing.

It was kind of fun to sit with Emily and compare notes about how little we both know about the sport.  Who has the ball?  What are they doing now?  Ooh, that looked painful.  Is that allowed?

I’m not even going to get into how they must be recruiting from elementary school.  Surely those kids aren’t in high school?

I’m old.

It makes perfect sense

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Despite not having heard any Prince songs recently, I have a medley of them in my head.  Allow me to explain how I got to this point.  This morning, Mom made a joke about how the song “Secret Agent Man” will forever be “Secret Asian Man” to her.  I responded with one of mine (“Chicken To Ride” for “Ticket To Ride”), and then John chimed in with his for “Smoke On The Water”.  Instead of “Smoke on the water, fire in the sky”, he hears “Slow talkin’ Walter, fire engine guy.”

Here’s where my brain went:

  1. “Smoke On The Water” is NOT by Muddy Waters.  (I always go there first, even though I know it’s wrong.  Water/Waters – you can understand my association.)
  2. It’s by Deep Purple.
  3. Deep Purple did NOT do “Purple Haze”.  That’s Jimi Hendrix.
  4. “Purple Haze” sounds NOTHING like “Purple Rain”.
  5. “Purple Rain” is by Prince.
  6. Now I have several Prince songs battling for supremacy in my brain (“Raspberry Beret”, “Kiss”, “When Doves Cry”, “Little Red Corvette”, “Diamonds and Pearls”…you get the picture).

Logical, right?

Does the word “purple” look super-weird to anyone else right now?

Gmail takes care of me

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I got the best email from the Gmail Team the other day.  They were warning me about an email that had a virus or suspicious attachment that came to my account here (which forwards to my Gmail account).  The email came from America Airlines (orders@aa.com).  The best part was the last sentence in the email Gmail sent to me:

If you wish to write to America, just hit reply and send America a message.

Hell yeah, I wish to write to America!  I had no idea it was so easy!  Hey, America!

America?

Hm.  Turns out I don’t actually have anything to say to America.  Have a nice day!  Write again soon!

For everyone’s entertainment, but mostly Dad’s

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Presented without comment (sometimes):

From The Bloggess, An accidental competition for the worst mother ever.

Dad, you have to watch this gif.  The category it belongs to is Kids Falling Down.  It has cracked me up several times in a row.  Because I am a terrible person.  But so are you.  🙂  Click this link.

From reddit, the caption was “Hover mode engaged.”

hover mode engaged

 

From Dinosaur Comics:

(I’m sorry the text is blurry.  Not sure how to fix that.  But if you can’t read it, click the link to go to the page directly.  True for both of the dinosaur ones.)

dinosaurfruit

And this one, which actually made me laugh out loud (this should surprise no one): dinosaurupdog

And The System:

2014-11-06-definately

Am I too impatient?

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Scenario: You have an apartment for rent.

You showed it to prospective tenants (very nice people, the PERFECT tenants) at 9:30 Saturday morning.  You needed to meet them early because you were hosting a party that afternoon and evening, and you needed time to prepare.  Your perfect prospective tenants were happy to meet you that early (they’re very understanding).  They were enthusiastic about the apartment, promised to get back to you within a couple of days, and wished you well with your party.  They only took up 15 minutes of your time.

After a productive day of apartment-hunting, your perfect prospective tenants sent an email at 9:30 Sunday morning (a civilized hour) requesting an application because they would like to rent your lovely apartment that suits their needs perfectly.

Question: How long do you wait to email them back?

It is now Monday morning, and your perfect prospective tenants have not heard a peep from you.  They really want your apartment, but they also found a very nice one on the other side of the bay that would do the trick (although without the total lifestyle change they’re looking for).  They can’t leave THOSE possible landlords hanging too long, but they don’t want to shut that opportunity down because what if this apartment falls through?  They won’t know if you don’t respond.

Do your perfect prospective tenants become less perfect if they call you or send you a follow-up email?  They’re aware you had a party Saturday night and houseguests that might not have left until late Sunday.  They don’t want to be inconsiderate or pushy.  How soon is too soon?

Update: I called her, and she was very nice.  She lost track of yesterday, never checked her email, and she was just reading my message to her now.  She said she’d send over the application within the half-hour.  So once I have that, I can let our other possible place go.  Yay!

Too quiet

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I’m probably going to regret even thinking this, but this week has been quiet at work.  A little too quiet.  Like trouble is brewing somewhere, and it’s going to hit us hard soon.  Now that I’ve thought it, it’s probably going to come true.

That’s both pessimistic (in this particular case) and incredibly arrogant of me to believe that things will happen because I think them into being.  But you know, as far as I can tell, nothing is real if I don’t think of it.  You’re all constructs of my imagination, believed into being to keep me company.  The sandwich I had for lunch today (which was really good, by the way – hummus, cucumbers, artichoke hearts, and roasted red peppers) was imaginary, made for me by imaginary Potbelly employees.  I just had a conversation about my imaginary job with my imaginary coworker in my imaginary office.  Where am I, really?  What am I?  Who am I?

I just watched a YouTube video of a rabbit defending her babies from a very large snake (and winning).  That is not something I would have thought to imagine.  Existential crisis averted!  You may all consider yourselves real.

Age isn’t important

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Have you tried how-old.net yet?  If you pull it up on your phone, you can take a picture right then and use it.  I’ve done it twice now – it’s pretty accurate for me.  The first time was one night during the week.  I was tired and you could see it, but the thing told me I was 37.  Pretty close!  I tried it again a couple of days later when I felt fresher and didn’t look as tired.  34!  I’ll take it.  I might try it again, but only if I think I can beat 34.  I won’t get obsessed.  I won’t.

My evil twin returns!

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I’d completely forgotten about my evil twin, but she made an appearance at work the other day.  I was typing my name and didn’t realize my right hand was shifted one key to the left when, like a cobra, she struck!  There, in black and white on the screen, I saw her name:

Zabbag

What is she doing here?  What nasty tricks will she play on me this time?  Will she insert a paragraph of gibberish into our product’s installation instructions?  Will she hit Reply All on a company-wide email  when I only meant to reply to the sender?  Will she sign that email “Love, Zannah” and click Send before I can catch it?

I won’t let her!  Instead, I’ll spend the rest of the day second-guessing everything I type, slowing down to make sure I feel the ridge on the J key under my right pointer finger (Forefinger?  Why can’t I remember what that finger is called?).  Sure, I won’t be as productive, and yes, I’ll be constantly distracted, looking over my shoulder when I feel her hovering nearby.  But that won’t affect my work, right?  Right?

Drat.  She wins.  I can hear her laughing.

Not quite rainbows and puppies, but I’ll take it

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Today was a good day with good things in it.

Thing the first: I wasn’t able to leave work early enough to go for a run before dinner, but I did get out of the office to enjoy the weather a little bit.  I had an appointment in the late morning (quick trim), so I headed out (running late) and rushed over.  Got there just in time.  It was fast, so I felt like I could take some time to myself before going back to the office.  I walked over to Starbucks, picked up an iced chai latte, and sat on a bench with my book for about 15 minutes.  It was SUCH a nice day.  All the trees are still in bloom, I FINALLY saw lots of daffodils, the sky was blue and clear, and the air was warm-ish.  I would have stayed a little longer, but a landscaping company showed up and started making a TON of noise.  It got a lot less peaceful, so I headed back to work.  Just as well, I guess.

Thing the second: My officemate has decided she’s getting too worked up over every little thing, so she’s going to let all those annoyances roll off.   I’m supposed to help her remember that.  It’ll help me remember it, too.  Now we’re listening to soothing sounds on YouTube.  All we need is a palm tree.  (“I just wanna see some paaaalm trees.“)

Thing the third: my friend (and coworker) Stephanie asked me to check on something that hasn’t been working lately, and when we found that it IS working now, she sent this back to me in her emailed reply:

internet high-five

I’m sure it’s not new, but it was exactly what I needed to see, and now I laugh every time I look at it.  (Did I high-five my screen?  Yes.  Yes, I did.  And I might do it again right now.)

Update (8:08pm): I just found out today was National High Five Day.  So many things are clearer now.  Except why, exactly, we have a National High Five Day.  Happy Random Holiday Day!

I guess I’m not in control of my own destiny

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Remember how yesterday I was going to leave work early and enjoy some sunshine?  Yeah…I shouldn’t have said it out loud.  The universe didn’t take it well.

“Oh, you want to leave early?  You’re a little frustrated with work?  Looking forward to some nice spring weather?  Need a break?  Oh, ha ha ha.  That’s so cute.  Tee hee.  That you should have such aspirations – oh, it’s too much.  Really.  Pardon me while I wipe away tears of hilarity.  Oh, ha.  Hum.  Hee.  YOU WILL BE PUNISHED.”

A three hour conference call began at 3pm.  I left work at 6:30.  I might need to placate the universe somehow.  I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to offend!

Update: It JUST occurred to me that yesterday was April Fool’s Day.  Was this a cosmic joke?

What? Never mind.

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Guys, Advil actually works.  (They are not paying me to say this.)  By the end of today, I ached all over.  No idea why.  My legs ached, my lower back ached, my shoulders ached, my head ached – really, all over.  I took Advil before I left work, and by the time I got home, I didn’t hurt anymore!  It’s amazing!  A product that actually worked as advertised!  Modern medicine – it’s a wonderful thing.  Maybe I’m just super-tired and somewhat delirious (NOT from the Advil, I’m certain, and probably not from the one glass of wine I had with dinner) and a little punchy, and you know what?  Maybe I’ll go to bed instead of finishing that thought because I’m pretty sure it didn’t have anywhere to go.  Really – who writes a blog post about the miracle of Advil unless they’re being paid for it?  (I’m not being paid for it.)  That’s just weird.  Hush now, and go to bed.  Okay.

What a difference a mortgage makes

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It’s amazing how much more relaxed I feel now that we’ve closed on the house.  It’s noticeable, apparently.  Several people at work have commented on it.  I was stressed about not having a contract on the house.  Then we got a contract, and I was stressed about our buyers not having a contract.  Then they got a contract, and I was stressed about packing and moving and timing and holding both deals together until closing.  That’s all over, we’re 100% moved, and I have fewer things to be stressed about.  It’s a wonderful thing.  AND I don’t have to worry about looking for a new job for a while.  Even better.  AND AND spring is coming.  It’s warmer, the days are longer, the sun is out, the birds are chirping* – I should stop before I jinx everything.

*Someone said that yesterday (the birds are chirping), and another coworker told us that her dad always said “the chirds are burping”.  Ruined forever (you’re welcome).  He also calls a parking spot a “sparking pot”, and it has rubbed off on her.  Dads are annoying that way, Dad.  Anyone: “What’s today?”  Me: “Friday.  Unless it rains.”  I do it EVERY TIME.

Caught

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I got caught singing my head off on my drive home tonight.  I was sitting at a stoplight, singing along with Queen, like you do, and I glanced to my right to find the woman in the car next to me staring.  I smiled at her and kept singing.  She looked away.  I win!

I would have lost if she’d been there at the next stoplight, when I was singing along with the Backstreet Boys.  That’s slightly more embarrassing.  A little.

Singing along definitely improved my mood, though.  Totally worth it.

It’s her parade. She can hide if she wants to.

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The Bloggess is a wonderful thing (as is love – thank you, Michael Bolton, we’re aware, please wait your turn), and whoever invented her should be given a parade.  So, you know, that would include everyone she’s ever come into any sort of contact with.  No, that makes it sound like she’s only who she is because of other people, and I don’t think that’s right.  She should get some credit for molding herself into who she is (as should everyone, of course, good and bad).  So maybe I just want to give The Bloggess a parade.  Of course, she probably wouldn’t go, or maybe she’d hide in the crowd (either of which would be totally okay).  She can send a stand-in – maybe someone in a red dress.  Oh, EVERYone in the parade could wear a red dress!  If they wanted to.  No pressure.

In a recent post, she used Twitter and the Benedict Cumberpatch Name Generator (which I wish I’d known existed when I posted the thing about him a while back) to name her new fish, and between the suggestions and the picture of the lemur who looks like he’s about to jump out of skin in panic, I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.  I am SO naming my first horse Rinkydink Clompyclomp.  (Someday I’ll own a horse, just you wait and see.)

And now it’s Michael Bolton’s turn (warning: language not safe for children):

One must sally forth, mustn’t one?

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What should one do when one can’t think of anything to write?  One could stay far away from the blog, to avoid publishing the vapid contents of one’s brain, but I’m afraid that cat is out of the bag.  One could surf the internet looking for inspiration, but that assumes one isn’t working and should not be on the internet at all.  One could rifle through one’s memories of the past week, full of holiday cheer and conviviality and whatnot, searching for stories to tell one’s adoring readership, but then one might remember the last week was rather low-key and was already mined for interesting tidbits.  One might consider regaling one’s public with details of the sinus issues one is currently experiencing, but one might reconsider, as that would be unseemly, impolite, and gross.  One could try changing one’s writing style, but one might be worried about sounding stilted or snobbish.  One wouldn’t want that.  Best not to try it.

I can’t be funny on purpose

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I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge to you people that I can’t tell a joke.  I’m terrible at it.  I laugh through them, get the details wrong, and I almost always screw up the punch line.  Every once in a while, I start with the punch line.  I have to practice before I can do it, and by the time I’m ready, the moment’s gone.  So I generally don’t tell jokes.  I need to expand that personal rule to include relating funny incidents.  I was SURE the lines that had me laughing ’til I cried over lunch yesterday were objectively funny, and that John would appreciate that when I told him the story.  And you know?  If ANYone else had told him the story, he probably would have laughed, too.  But I SUCK at it.  It was something to do with a guy from eastern Europe or Russia or somewhere who bench-pressed cows instead of lifting weights and how he refused to go to a regular gym here, and then a coworker of mine took that idea to its logical conclusion of imagining what that guy would say when offered a gym membership that didn’t include livestock and I SWEAR it was hilarious, but honestly, what I just wrote is pretty much the best I can do.  You’re not laughing, are you?

Update: John objected.  He says he promised me he would laugh when I told him the story.  He did.  But it was a fake laugh.  A pity laugh.  Doesn’t count.