i think the blogosphere has fused celebrity gazing and reality programing, at least for me. i get a little thrill when i see that wendi aarons has commented on one of my posts, or when i run into morgan from fatgrrl.com walking around the lake. it's like that us magazine section come to life: they really DO whine and chafe and sag and snarl. i feel so glamorous!
goth picnic
goth is tough look to pull off in the summer. works great during a minneapolis winter, but black hair/pasty face/black shirt/pasty arms/black shorts/pasty legs/black socks says "i need a blood transfusion!" more than "i am part of a vaguely unsettling counterculture!"
freaky tuesday
the couple i just saw out for a walk scared me. preface: it is a gorgeous summer day, the kind of perfection that makes minnesotans weep with joy and stop muttering about relocating to albuquerque. so why were betty and bud strolling along in long pants, hooded long-sleeved jackets, and hats? is there some sort of freak june cold front rolling in that i don't know about? it reminds me a billion for boris, the awesome sequel to freaky friday, where ape face finds a television that broadcasts tomorrow's news and thus remains toasty warm during a surprise blizzard while his sister freezes and – even worse – ruins her new leather boots.
recorders
my husband found the recorders he and one of his brothers played as kids. remember recorders? those cheap, tuneless first instruments? those little spindles of shrillness that, in the hands of novices, produce only one sustained note so high you can actually feel your butt clench?
he gave them to our children.
oh dear god
my four-year-old just said the words "hannah montana."
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