Peter Brady

I work with a man that looks suspiciously like Christopher Knight (former child star of "The Brady Bunch", where he played Peter). Everyone I've pointed this out to agrees with me. What do you think?

I believe in mermaids

Am I the only one who thought that Ariel from Disney's "The Little Mermaid" was spoiled? That trove of hers, the one where treasures unfold.. seriously, how many wonders can one cavern hold? I mean, let's get real. She's got everything. She's got gadgets and gizmos a-plenty. She's got who's-its and what's-its galore. Thing-a-mabobs? She's got twenty. And still, she wants more.
Must be tough to be a mermaid princess. What with the rising prices of seashell bras and all.

Maybe now that she's swimming around Broadway now she's a little less demanding. (I wanna see it... *whine*)

Moving Out

Bethamphetamine, my roommate and I haven't spoken in three days. It's a little strange. When we first moved in to the apartment we currently share, we were just two single girls looking for a place to hang our hats and keep our stuff. We were best friends who told each other everything. Today I gave her my written notice that as of April 1st, I'll no longer be living with her. I packed up everything that's mine from the living room, and put it in my bedroom. (A bedroom that is now sporting a door, you need a key to enter. Only because half of her dvd collection was taken from a previous roommate she had, and I don't want the same thing to happen with me.) It's a bad situation, and I am eager to out of it.

Sad Girl

Every night I have reason to leave my apartment (and despite my very strong desire to become a hermit, is pretty often), I drive past a office building with one window lit. In the window I see a girl, sitting at her computer. I've named her "Sad Girl", and I like to imagine her life. Why is she working so late alone? And why does she look so sad? Recently, Mr. J got a job at the hospital connected to the office building. (Leading me to believe that the office building is the administrative branch of the hospital, but that's not set in stone.) So far, even on the days that he's worked late into the evening, he's never run into the mystery "Sad Girl". I'm beginning to believe that she's a ghost. A very sad ghost. I hope to learn more about her, and the tragic life she leads, or lost... And I hope that someday a "Sad Significant-Other" will pop in the picture and make her life a little less sad.

Remember when?

Remember when you were a little kid, living at home, and your mom (or any parental figure really) told you to clean your room? You kicked and screamed and fought, but eventually she won. And while you were finally cleaning up the pig pen that was your bedroom, you thought to yourself, "Someday, when I'm living on my own, I'm never going to clean my house. I like the mess."

Remember when you were a little kid, living at home, and your dad (again, any parental figure will do) told you to eat all your vegetables? You pouted and cried, but he told you, you couldn't leave the table until you'd at least tried them. And while you were on your hunger strike at the dinner table, you thought to yourself, "When I'm living on my own, I'm going to eat pizza and ice cream for every meal."

Remember when you were a little kid, living at home, and your parents (or parental figure[s]) told you to stop playing outside with your best friend, that it was getting dark, and time to come home. You protested, but didn't throw a fit because you didn't want your friend to think you were a baby. And on the way home you thought to yourself, "When I'm living on my own, my best friend and I are going to live together, in a big house. That way we can play all night."

What ever happened to that?

Hot Cheeks

Mr. J and I went out to eat earlier today for lunch. (First of all, when you read the name, I would like you to imagine Harley Quinn from the Batman cartoon saying it. Complete with her accent. I hope you hear it like that, as I like to pretend I am Harley Quinn when I'm out with Mr. J. and he's the Joker.) We went out a family friendly restaurant, where we were seated next to a family. You know the group. Mom, Dad, Timmy, Jillian, and Grandma. Timmy and Jillian are playing on the edge of seat separating our "dining area" from theirs. Rolling a ball back and forth. The ball falls onto Mr. J's seat, hitting his back. Jillian, all of age 7, reaches for the ball. And what does her tiny hand find? Mr. J's ass.

And that's how I'm introducing Mr. J in my blog. Sweet.

Learning to swim

My grandmother was an extraordinary woman. I'm unfortunate in not knowing her entire life story. But just thinking about what little I know about her makes me feel down right lazy with what I've done with my life. She use to be a stewardess, back when it was glamorous and you had to a pretty female to take the job. After traveling the world, she went back to school. I don't know what she studied, aside from how to drive her student advisor crazy, but she studied enough to eventually become a professor at a college in West Virginia, where she met my grandfather (who, as it happens, also was a professor at the same college). After becoming close hunting buddies, the two fell in love and got married. A second marriage for them both. She's the foremost expert on everything Japanese as far as I have ever been concerned. After my grandfather died, she spends her time gardening her prize winning bonsai trees, skiing and recently snowboarding.

But what I will always remember her as being my swim teacher. I didn't learn how to swim until I was 10. Back when I was about four years old, my mother enrolled my brother and me in swim lessons. My brother took to it naturally. I however refused to get my face wet and was sent to the remedial class, where I remained the entire summer. My theory went: "I breathe through my nose and mouth. I do not breathe water. Why would I want to surround my nose and mouth with a substance I can not breathe?" After that fateful summer, no one ever tried to teach me how to swim until my grandmother took me under her wing, six years later. And have I mentioned that she was an Olympian class swimmer? One summer with her turned me from remedial swimmer to Captain of my swim team. Thanks Grandma!

Class of 2000

In two years, it will be time for my 10 year highschool reunion. Is it odd that I can't wait? Already I periodically check my year book. See who wrote what, what we looked like back then. I can't wait to go into a rented auditorium, see the lame banners, hear the music that was big then, see how the rest of the class looks, and what they've been up to. I bet I'm more successful than all of those losers.

By the way, I was homeschooled in highschool. So the graduating class of my school for 2000 was me, and the dog.

We're the Class of 2000 and we're going to take over the world bitches!

The Beginning

I'm tired of being a lurker (of other people's blogs). I'm tired of keeping my (hopefully) clever and witty comments to myself. Plus, I hate that moment of panic when a family member or friend asks me "What have you been up to lately?" Now I can quickly blurt out a web address before running away lest I admit I can't remember my estranged "friend"'s name.

However, I've never really written an account of my life successfully. That's why this shall be called an "experiment". With that title, there's no pressure.