Were the first three words of the Sarah Palin biofilm at the RNC really: “Mother, Moosehunter, Maverick.”?  Seriously?

Sometimes you’re not sure if it’s a Daily Show skit  or real.  Silly republicans.

ShawnJohn on Letterman

Just saw little Shawn Johnson on Letterman.  He totally got her to admit that the US gymnastics team “totally talked about” the Chinese gymnasts’ age “discrepancies.”  Her perfect little image-makers must be getting a little nervous. 

oh, hai?

i’m back.   HELLO INTERNET!  The very stressful thing that had been mentioned is now over, so, um, I can actually spend time on the computer and joining the real (read: online) world.  So, lucky for you, lucky for me.  win-win!

I won’t bother you with my internal dialogue about where to take this blog.  I like cooking, maybe a cooking blog (but so played out).  I like reading the newspaper, maybe something current-eventy (but why would anyone care about my opinion?).  I like talking about people, so maybe something about my real life (but I don’t want to lose my job/boyfriend/etc).

Oh, shoot, I lied, that was my internal dialouge.

So, we’ll see.  I hope you will come along for the ride.

comments are open

Be joyous, masses, I opened up comments on posts because….I might as well stop just talking AT you, and invite you to share your thoughts.  Cheers.

i wish i were writing this on a terrace

The Tiiiiimes has an article today all about New Yorkers apparent love-hate relationship with terraces/balconies. Oh, I have no such relationship – only love, no hate. Fools who complain about a little dust and harsh sun can switch with my cavernous apartment with windows that don’t even open all the way. I look out these windows at the fancy fancy apartment across the street and see all these balconies and, seriously, I want nothing more than to have a balcony/terrace where I could sit with a pack of Parliaments, a bottle of wine, my ipod and a book and just sit out there all day long and relax. Spoiled bastards.

At the very least, how nice and awesome would it be as I prepare for the upcoming Very Stressful Thing to be doing it outside, on aforementioned terrace-I-do-not-own. Laptop, books, notecards and notebooks, all piled high with a cool breeze. Instead, again with the cavernous apartment, or if I’m feeling particularly like I want to leave the apartment (which, even as I complain, is shockingly seldom) the Starbucks which still has the heat on blast, so that I can break out in a muggy sweat every time I go in to get my venti iced redeye.