"A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education." *

   Not to be an uber-superstitious, sign-, tea leaf-, palm-, and horoscope-reading type, but I keep finding double yolks in my egg cartons and I feel (felt, sigh) that it must hold some sort of special significance for me.

   At first, I was really excited (eggcited?). I thought it was some sort of lucky sign.

My eggs. My beautiful eggs.

   I’m Irish and we’re the people that brought you lucky charms, knocking on wood, banshees and leprechauns (not to mention being huge proponents of every Catholic superstition you’ve ever heard of…which is pretty much EVERY PART of Catholicism). I also have an extensive background in theatre and we’re the people that brought you “break a leg” and not saying Macbeth in a playhouse and several other nonsensical things like not saying “good luck” and the plays of Samuel Beckett, G.B. Shaw and Oscar Wilde and don’t change your underwear during the run of the show. It can’t be all coincidence, can it? (Though it could easily all be linked to drinking, which both the theatre and the Irish bring to the table and insist on you serving IMMEDIATELY.)

   So, okay, three times in one week I had double yolks! I was sure it was a really great thing. I read that approximately 1 in 1000 yolks is a double. So my three in one week seemed like a really big to-do. I drew this prematurely, because I felt sure we’d all be celebrating something grand before the end of Cinco de Mayo:

Eggtastic.

   But when I look it up online it says that either someone in my immediate family is expecting twins or someone is going to die. Um…gross to both of those.

   In the interest of making things seem more exciting than twins and death, I’m determined to try to appreciate the bounty that is my egg carton(s) from Trader Joe’s. I guess I can force myself to be excited about double the protein and good cholesterol in my morning breakfast.

   But it is kind of a letdown.

   Wikipedia says that a lot of times a double yolk is the result of younger hens who ovulate more rapidly than their older sister-wives. And sometimes those hens just aren’t all on the same cycle, and that leads to faster ovulation. And that reminds me of high school and how my period, which started out full-force when I was ELEVEN, was finally in synch with everyone else’s. When you go to all-girls school, everyone sort of synches up eventually (creepy and cool all at once) and it was sort of nice to always have someone around with a tampon, a kind word, and a couple of Midol on any given day of the week.

   But none of the news is as exciting (eggciting) as I’d anticipated.

   Maybe if my whole carton had been double yolks, I’d be famous like this chick (no pun intended. Seriously. I wanted to say "bitch" but that seemed mean):

This chick with egg yolks.

   This is another reason I should move to England. They get way more excited about stuff that no one in America gives a flying fuck about. (Trust me: I sent pictures of double yolks to a bunch of people and NO ONE GAVE A CRAP.)

*This quote is from George Bernard Shaw. He was and is one of my favorite writers, but he would never have wanted to be friends with me.

"A silent mouth is sweet to hear."*

   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. 

"The only thing that ever made sense to me was you, and how I felt about you. That's all I've ever known and [...] that's enough for me, for the rest of my life. Topanga (Lacey), we gonna get married?"*

            There used to be a framed photo of Ben Savage from his Boy Meets World days sitting on my nightstand. I don’t know how it got there, but there it was. (I cut it out of Tiger Beat and put it in a frame I bought at Target, that’s how.) It looked a lot like this, though I couldn’t find an the exact photo.

            I was truly, madly, deeply in love with Ben Savage (or maybe Cory Matthews, the character he played, it was unclear even to me), and I would spend hours analyzing each episode of the show with my friend Lissy. We (I) would tape the episode then she’d come over for a sleepover and we’d watch it together over and over. Sometimes 4 or 5 times in one evening. Then we’d make a big old bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough, get some spoons and discuss everything that had happened that week.
    
      We were both convinced that Topanga (Cory’s girlfriend) was a bitch, that much was clear, but we were undecided on whether or not Ben was actually as great as Cory in real life. But who could act that well? He had to be the cutest, cleverest, most humorous boy in the world, and if I could just get myself out to Hollywood, I’d soon be a member of the cast of Boy Meets World and the writers could begin phasing Topanga’s character out and adding me in her place. Maybe my name could be Veronica or Cassandra or something else that ended in an “a,” so people wouldn’t miss Topanga too much. But I didn’t think that would be necessary since she was so lame anyway. All wrong for Cory. I mean, Ben.

            There were times over those Ben-crazed years when I’d devote hours of my day to figuring out plotlines that could somehow legitimately involve me as the newest cast member. I pictured how my romantic relationship with Ben would evolve naturally out of our mutual professional respect for one another. And then we’d walk off into high school together and live happily ever after.

            Obviously, I don’t have feelings for Ben Savage anymore. I mean, I’ve checked his imdb.com page a few times, just to see what he’s been up to (got a degree in Political Science from Stanford, unmarried) and if he’s still working as an actor (yeah, a few guest stars here and there).

            But I’m much too mature to start having a crush on some celebrity I don’t even know, let alone frame a magazine photo of said celebrity and put it on my nightstand.

            But the other night I was watching Doc Martin at my parents’ house and noticed that Chris O’Dowd (the cute, Irish cop from Bridesmaids, which I had just watched the day before) was in an episode. I didn’t have anything else to do so I started looking him up on Google. I read about his life, I looked at pictures, I did some research into whether or not he was married or seeing anybody. And then I looked at pictures and articles of the woman he is seeing (some English journalist named Dawn Porter), I compared myself physically and fiscally with Dawn Porter, and I finally looked up and realized I had missed 90% of the episode of Doc Martin. (And that was kind of a shame because Chris was turning in a tour de force performance as a schizophrenic trying to smuggle explosives from Spanish pirates.)

Chris O'Dowd.

            What’s the message in all this? Am I reverting to adolescence? I am destined to become a psychopathic stalker somewhere down the line? Am I a psychopathic stalker already?

            I was further embarrassed when I found myself talking about Chris O’Dowd to my friend Gabe on the phone. I was making it sound like I actually knew the guy and that he and I were friends and we might maybe start dating someday. I think Gabe and I both felt a little sad for me at that point.

            So I think the solution might be that I need to get out of the house more and abuse the Interweb less (“she said as she typed a blog entry”). And maybe start pursuing my human relationships a little more consistently. And maybe stop advertising my psychoses online for all the world to see (Ben and Chris: if you’re reading this, I’m not really a psycho! Facebook me! Let's hang out!).

            And maybe making that photo of Chris my new screensaver wasn’t such a hot idea either…

*Quote from Boy Meets World. I altered it a little bit.