No posts for several days and there are many reasons. As a forewarning, let me tell you that this post will probably involve a lot of minutiae and various boring crap along with a lot of complaining. You will feel, most likely, like you have been hanging out with me in person. But not in the good way.
Okay, so my marketing professor is always talking about how great it is to read The Wall Street Journal and how we should all take advantage of the student discount and try it out for a few weeks. I was feeling really scholarly and inspired that night in class and so I signed up for it, thinking I’d get an email and never respond, but everyone else in class would think I was a baller for signing up (as though they’re paying attention to what I’m doing). But it just sort of started arriving and then they asked me to pay for it and I felt like I’d better, since it was already there and so now I get it on the regular. Oops.
And my professor was right. It’s pretty great. I grew up in Omaha, so the newspaper I was first familiar with was The Omaha World Herald, which, to this day, features hard-hitting front-page news items such as “Summer’s Greatest Baked Bean Recipes” and “Bellevue Girl Wins 4H Competition Raising Two-Headed Sheep.” So, while I’ve since read other papers (I’m not a complete moron), it was neat to see things printed that have to do with what everyone else seems to already know about: things like war and anarchy and laws and votes and crimes. You know, interesting things.
Here’s the problem: that paper comes every goddamn day. I have maybe read 4 of the 25 newspapers I’ve received. I feel like I’m drowning in Wall Street Journals. I put some in the bathroom, hoping I’d take better advantage of them in there, but it doesn’t help. So then I had a few days where they were on the couch and by the bed and on the table. But that made me panic. So then I just shoved them all into a kitchen cabinet. And now I feel awful. I set out to be responsible and read the news and all I’ve done is cut down an entire forest and put it next to my toilet (and couch and TV and nightstand and refrigerator). Sad. But also edifying, when I actually read them (which I fully intend to start doing again). And it’s something I like to tell everyone about, so clearly I’m proud on some level. And I’m pretty sure it makes me seem smart. It’s all so confusing. I don’t know what to think.
|Potential idea for my newspapers.|
In other news, I took the kids to see Oz: The Great and Powerful today and I have to say it probably ranks in the top five worst movies of all time. In the history of time—even time before movies—this was probably one of the worst. I can’t explain it to you with my words, because I can’t determine exactly what was supposed to be happening up there, but I made four trips to the bathroom just to escape from it (and I’ve sat all the way through several Mandy Moore movies). I can’t say any more about this. I feel like it stole my brain and two hours and eight minutes of my life.
And now (with no segue of any kind) about St. Patrick’s Day. I made corned beef and cabbage this weekend and it was amazing. I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything—I think the people that put the corned beef into the package for me did most of the hard work. As, of course, did the delicious cow or bull who provided her or his behind for consumption. But good lord, there wasn’t anything wrong with it. I ate it way beyond the point of fullness. I ate it until it hurt and then I waited until it stopped hurting and ate some more. And today I learned why I loved it so much. See, I thought it was because I’m so authentically Irish and one just naturally loves all the things that are passed on by her people. But actually it’s this: corned beef is a salt-cured meat. I LOVE ALL THE SALTED, CURED MEATS. I love salt. Salt, salt, salt. But here’s the kicker: Irish people (as in, people who LIVE IN IRELAND) only make it for tourists, since it didn’t really become associated with Irish people until those Irish immigrant people started snarfing it up in America. At that time, they considered it a luxury that wasn’t accessible back home the way bacon was. So my life continues its basic trajectory: I like meat with salt in it. Whoop-de-doo. I also like beer. I must be super duper Irish. (Or German. Or Mexican. Or in a fraternity.) Life can be so disappointing.
Alright, I hope you’re good and bored now. Just kidding, I really don’t want you to be bored. But I have to write this stuff down in case someone decides to write a biography of my life one day. I want them to have the full picture of all the exciting experiences that made up my existence. You know the interesting biographies always include information about what newspapers the subject read or what movies she saw or how much salt she consumed. Ugh. I have to stop. I’m sorry! I can’t stop. No. I’m stopping now.
But I’ll send you off with an Irish saying:
“Here’s to me and here’s to you. And here’s to love and laughter.
I’ll be true as long as you. And not one moment after.”
*Another Irish saying.