Ode to the First Spring Rainstorm

While I must admit it still looks like dead stick hell outside, the smell of spring is undeniable.



It's rainy, there are birds chirping, and I can actually smell the sun. This has a potent effect on me both physically and mentally. I want to wrap my arms around strangers. I want to wear Jackie O sunglasses--sun, clouds, or night. I want to drive everywhere and nowhere.




Dearest Reader, do you feel spring too?

Please Stop Doing This To Your Boyfriend

twifight [twahy-fahyt]  noun; verb:

The argument that follows a girlfriend’s demands that her boyfriend not only buy tickets for, but attend an actual screening of any of the following films: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and/or Breaking Dawn parts I or II.

If twifight does not ensue after such a request is made—proceed with caution, ladies.

Desserted

Readers, in honor of Valentine's Day I would like to take the time to introduce you to the saddest dessert I have ever encountered. Here he is:

I found this melancholy cone in the space next to me while sitting by myself in an empty parking lot. What the picture does not show is that this abandoned cone's ice cream line is traveling straight for a nearby drain. I doubt that even sprinkles could fix this.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Only Thing I Know About the Super Bowl, Other Than Sexy Brady Lost

Just wanted to make a quick observation--one that I am certain everyone else has made but may not be as bothered by as I am right at this moment.

It has been three solid days since the Super Bowl has aired, and while I gave no fucks about the game itself I did watch the half-time show. Like I said, three solid days and I am still thinking a lot (more than I am happy to admit) about this:



No not that guy. I am not even going to go there.

I am referring to her. Specifically, her face. Madonna has not aged. At all.

Not only has she not aged, but she does not have that painful botched face-lift look. She doesn't have that Frozen (pun intended) Botox look. No visible signs of Joker laugh gas paralysis.



What is it then? What is she doing?

Fillers? Moisturizing and avoiding sunlight? Is she sacrificing virgins (yes, I know) to Satan in exchange for her youth?
We will never know.

Swings

I really love swings.

Today I raced a group of elementary school kids to the swings. I got there first, only to turn around and realize that no one else was running to them. I had my pick of the swings. This is not how we did it back in my day.

A tiny girl eventually joined me at the swings. I pumped my legs as hard as I could, trying not to slam my adult legs into the ground beneath me.

She and I swung in sync for a moment. She turned to me and said "I love going to the sky,"

I said, "Me too."

Genetic Melodrama

I love the women in my family. They are always great for spewing gems that I can’t help but catch and save for later. They are that good.

My mother was helping my little sister with her homework the other night and my sister was having none of it. Mimi was bored with it. She is six and incredibly smart. It actually frightens me. I still remember the day when she spotted a rainbow on the floor of my mother’s bathroom in the sunlight.

She said to me “Sarey, you know why that’s there?”

I feigned ignorance exclaiming, “No! I don’t actually! Why do you think it’s there? Where does it come from?”

“It’s there because the sun is shining through the window, and then shining through Mommy’s shower door. That makes a rainbow when the light shines through glass like that,” she said before turning and leaving.

She was four at the time.

Mimi didn’t know her spelling words yet and my mother asked her to try writing them each three times for practice.

I entered the room shortly after to find my mom looking to Mimi, “Really, Mia? Really?”

Mimi was crying quietly, so I asked what happened.

“She says if she has to do too much homework she will be stressed and if she is stressed her throat will close off. Is this early signs of neuroses or what?”

I think this melodrama runs throughout the genetic code of the women in my family.  I am sure that I am not an exception either.

I met my grandmother yesterday for dinner and shopping. After waiting twenty minutes for a table at Red Lobster, we both talked for another twenty minutes about how we believed our foreheads might slam onto the table if we weren’t brought cheddar biscuits and salad, stat. We were famished. Not literally.

Then my grandmother goes on to tell me that she received an e-mail from a friend from high school.

“The first boy I ever went to Kennywood with died this weekend. Every boy I have ever dated except for your Pup is dead. They’re dropping like flies!” she said with tears in her eyes.

I began to laugh uncontrollably and she followed.

“They’re dropping like flies!”