Weird Fact...Oops

Yeah, I missed Wednesday, but Liz is probably the only one who is going to yell at me.

I generally don't like movies made before 1990.

Of course, there are exceptions. The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies, and that was made in 1987. (See how close to 1990, though?)

Also, I love Citizen Kane.

That might be about it. Seriously.

I am probably the only person I know who truly liked the Johnny Depp portrayal of Willy Wonka better than Gene Wilder. Except for one scene. This one:

Grandpa Joe: Mr. Wonka?
Willy Wonka: [pointedly ignoring them] I am extraordinarily busy, sir.
Grandpa Joe: [tentatively] I just wanted to ask about the chocolate - Uh, the lifetime supply of chocolate... for Charlie. When does he get it?
Willy Wonka: He doesn't.
Grandpa Joe: Why not?
Willy Wonka: Because he broke the rules.
Grandpa Joe: What rules? We didn't see any rules. Did we, Charlie?
Willy Wonka: [springs up from his chair, angrily] Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy [grabs a magnifying glass and reads]
Willy Wonka: - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera..."Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera..."Memo bis punitor delicatum!" [slams the magnifying glass down, shouts]
Willy Wonka: It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get *NOTHING*! You lose! Good day sir!
Grandpa Joe: [shocked] You're a crook. You're a cheat and a swindler! That's what you are! [angrily]
Grandpa Joe: How could you do a thing like this, build up a little boy's hopes and then smash all his dreams to pieces? You're an inhuman monster!
Willy Wonka: [shouts even louder] I said "Good day!"

As opposed to all the following gems from Johnny Depp:

Violet Beauregarde: [hugs Wonka] Mr. Wonka, I'm Violet Beauregarde.
Willy Wonka: [freaked out] Oh. I don't care.
Violet Beauregarde: Well, you should care. Because I'm the girl who's gonna win the special prize at the end.
Willy Wonka: Well, you do seem confident and confidence is key.


Mike Teavee: Who wants a beard?
Willy Wonka: Well, beatniks for one, folk singers and motorbike riders. Y'know. All those hip, jazzy, super cool, neat, keen, and groovy cats. It's in the fridge, daddy-o! Are you hip to the jive? Can you dig what I'm layin' down? I knew that you could. Slide me some skin, soul brother!


Willy Wonka: You're all quite short, aren't you?
Violet Beauregarde: Well yeah, we're children.
Willy Wonka: Well that's no excuse. I was never as short as you.
Mike Teavee: You were once.
Willy Wonka: Was not. Know why? Because I distinctly remember putting a hat on top of my head. Look at your short little arms. You could never reach.


Willy Wonka: I sure hope no part of him gets left behind.
Mr. Teavee: What do you mean?
Willy Wonka: Uh, well... sometimes only half of the little pieces find their way through. If you had to choose only one half of your son, which one would it be?
Mr. Teavee: What kind of a question is that?
Willy Wonka: No need to snap, just a question.


Willy Wonka: Do you like my meadow? Try some of my grass! Please have a blade, please do, it's so delectable and so darn good looking!
Charlie Bucket: You can eat the grass?
Willy Wonka: Of course you can! Everything in this room is eatable, even *I'm* eatable! But that is called "cannibalism," my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies.


Willy Wonka: [to Mike Teavee] Mumbler! Seriously, I cannot understand a single word you're saying!

Veruca Salt: Will Violet always be a blueberry?
Willy Wonka: No. Maybe. I dunno. But that's what you get from chewing gum all day, it's just disgusting.
Mike Teavee: If you hate gum so much, why do you make it?
Willy Wonka: Once again you really shouldn't mumble, 'cause it's kinda starting to bum me out.

Where I've Been...Where I'm Going

Where I've Been

Last Wednesday evening I took a serious wipeout on the skimboard, so Thursday I decided to be absent from work. I took myself to the walk-in clinic and procured myself some Skelaxin, Percocet, and 800MG Ibuprofen. May I just say, "SWEET."

Friday, September 19:

Bright and early Friday morning (5AM to be exact) I was rousing my other half in attempt to get us on our way to the Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport. Destination: Long Island's MacArthur Airport. Purpose: Tim's sister's wedding.

I prepped the animals for our three days away. Self-feeder on a timer for Hades and Azrael. BIG water dispenser and toilet seats left open. Hydra ate the night before, and her lights are constantly on a timer, so she was all good. I loaded Styx up with dried fruit and worms, and lectured her about not gorging herself the first day. Gave the cats a speech about sharing, being nice to each other, not destroying the house, and calling if they needed us.

Off to the airport!

The flight was rather uneventful, as was our arrival in Islip. We were greeted by Mom (a.k.a. Evelyn) and Mike (Tim's stepfather) and proceeded to have lunch.

REAL F-ING NEW YORK PIZZA. Granted, it was no Manhattan Ray's, but it was still New York, and it was still better than anything you will get outside of a 50-mile radius of "the city." (Because Manhattan will always be "the city" and Long Island will always be "the island." There are no other cities, and no other islands, as far as New Yorkers are concerned.)

Quick nap (which left my husband so disoriented he shot up out of bed like someone had jabbed him with a hot poker when Mike knocked on our door. His blaring alarm he doesn't hear; the soft knock on a foreign door is like an air raid siren.)

Dinner with the in-laws, sans the bride and groom to be. MUCH family gossip. Good stuff, too, but since they are not my family (well, they are, but it hasn't even been six months yet) I don't feel comfortable publicizing it on my blog. I wish I could, though. It's GOOOOOD.

Saturday, September 20 (Wedding Day!)

I woke up almost as excited as I did on my own wedding day.

OK, that is a gross exaggeration, but I was excited. I chanted to Tim, "Your sister's getting married today!" What can I say? Weddings are fun.

Mike shuttled Tim to the groom's aunt's house to get dressed (he got to be a distinguished groomsman while I remained simply Tim's wife) and I got to join the women at soon-to-be mom-in-law's. I got to be involved once, when no one could secure Cristi's veil to her liking; I was in possession of the almighty bobby pin. Go me.

Off to the church!

Beautiful ceremony - thank God it turned out not to be a full mass. No offense intended (as I make the sign of the cross) but I get cranky if I have to be in church too long. They inevitably smell funny and give me a migraine. No one tripped, no one objected, no one chickened out. The worst thing that happened was my darling husband rolling his eyes repeatedly during the priest's sermon (which, to Tim's credit was about gas prices and deserved eye rolling) but I was probably the only one watching him.

Off the to Cocktail Hour!...scheduled for three hours later. (Some sort of faux pas having to do with booking the reception hall before the church. The priest was all snippy about it, so I hear. I wouldn't know anything about this, having gotten married by a notary at a Yacht Club.)

So, still without my husband, I spent three pleasant hours (at a bar) with Evelyn and Mike. Mike and I are both nerds, so we tend to find a lot to talk about. As the cocktail hour finally approached, I popped a Percocet. Then a Skelaxin for good measure. Was I drinking? Umm...grapefruit juice with the tiniest bit of Grey Goose. Made the reception much more bearable.

The Reception!

Typical reception. Picture any wedding you have ever been to, picture the bridesmaids wearing navy blue and the groomsmen wearing ivory vests. Ta da! You have successfully attended Cristi and Kenny Rich's wedding reception!

Seriously, it was a blast. 170 people (28 from my husband's family) tore up the dance floor and got wasted. The bride and groom, thankfully, remained tactfully sober, and I managed not to embarrass myself in my 4-inch heels and drug induced euphoria. Happily ever after and long live the king! Or whatever.

Sunday, September 21

Wake up and curse myself for allowing myself to mix so many addictive depressants. Get crankier when Tim gets cranky at me because he is hung over. Grumble at each other all the way through showering, packing, checking out, and accompanying Mom and Mike to after-wedding brunch hosted by parents of the groom.

We arrive at the bruch at 12. Entire family of the groom has been drinking since 10AM. Strong possibility that they never stopped the night before. These people know how to party. Tim and I hid on the couch and pretended to watch the Giants game until it was time to go to the airport.

More grumbling on the way to the airport.

More grumbling at the airport.

Positive whining on the plane.

Sigh of relief when we touched Florida soil.

Calm and quiet on the ride home.

Utter joy when we were frantically greeted by the starving animals upon walking in the front door.

Asleep within half hour of arrival, curled up with the (fed) furballs, happy to be home.

Monday, September 22

Back to work, back to reality, back to the blog.

Where I'm Going

I have some plans for The Pickle Tree. I'll keep you posted.

Thanks for reading!

Weird Fact Wednesday

I brush my teeth in the shower.

That's it.

(It's been a long Wednesday, and I think my latest skimboarding injury might be pretty serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble walking in the morning. But get this: I stood up on the board today. More than once. Go me.)

I'm going to be stuck in Long Island for the weekend, so I can assure you plenty of long-drawn out posts pretty soon, since the wi-fi will become my sanctuary.

Random Rant on a Tuesday

It occurred to me that I haven't blogged in a while. How sad for the three people who read my blog. (Yes, I believe that was sarcasm, tinged with a little bit of bitterness.)

Seriously, though. It is HARD to think of things to blog about. And then, if I factor in what people may actually want to read about, it gets even harder.

So, I decided that I am going to take advantage of my blog (which I can do because it's mine, damn it) and use it for random stream of consciousness.

Warning 1: my consciousness is not a place you want to delve into unprepared. If you don't know me, the likelihood of becoming offended is pretty high.

Warning 2: Just ingested AlkaSeltzer cold medication. Little loopy.

So, here goes...

Stride gum.
Seriously? I bought it. I was sucked in by their amusing advertising campaign. Ridiculously long lasting flavor, my ass. I suppose if you are comparing it to the 3-second flavor of Dubble Bubble, the 4-second flavor of Wrigley's or the 6-second flavor of Trident, then yes, it is ridiculously long lasting at roughly 8 seconds. I still think the advertising is a little over the top.

The Seven Mile Bridge into Key West, Florida.
In case you've ever wondered (which, really, what sane person would?) it really is seven miles long. Down to the 1/10 of a mile, as best as my car could calculate. Thanks, Mom, for that little neurosis.

Grey's Anatomy
Has anyone else had quite enough of the Derek/Meredith "Poor me, my daddy didn't love me enough so I can't love the PERFECT, HOT BRAIN SURGEON WHO IS WAY TOO GOOD FOR ME?" As Chandler once said on Friends: "Oh no, two women love me. They're both gorgeous and sexy. My wallet's too small for my fifties AND MY DIAMOND SHOES ARE TOO TIGHT!"

There is a rumor that Denny will be back in a series of visions/flashbacks not previously seen. Wanna know why? Because the writers/producers/whoever is in charge of that crap knows what a grave (pun intended) mistake they made when they killed him off. Unfortunately the show does not air before 5:00PM, or they could easily bring him back from the dead without explanation.

Talking to Strangers
My parents spent an awful lot of time when I was younger teaching me not to talk to strangers. So why, in the name of God, am I expected to make small talk with strangers simply because we happen to be riding the same elevator, or seated next to each other on the same flight, or on the same line in the grocery store. I want it stopped!

Weird Fact Wednesday

Last week someone told me that they liked my Long Island accent.

It would have been a nice compliment, I suppose, but I’m not from Long Island, so I shouldn’t have a Long Island accent.

My husband is from Long Island, and has a very prominent, and adorable, Long Island accent.

That’s when I had my epiphany.

I’m a language chameleon. I have a Long Island accent (really only on certain words) because Tim has a Long Island accent, and I have adopted his speech patterns and ways of saying certain things.

I gave it some thought, and I was able to come up with an entire list of words in my vocabulary that I have picked up by association.

Compliments of my husband:
Der
Take care of my light work

Compliments of Liz:
Quick, are you kidding?
Like a pig in mud
Who has time for that?

Compliments of Tracy Miller:
Dude

Compliments of Aubree:
Word.

Compliments of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Bugger. Bollocks. Bloody Hell.

Compliments of The Princess Bride
Inconceivable
As You Wish

Compliments of Grey's Anatomy:
Seriously?

Compliments of Lost:
Live Together, Die Alone

Compliments of Boston
Wicked

Compliments of Ice Age:
Doom on You

Compliments of Paris Hilton:
That's Hot

Compliments of Christopher Walken:
I need more cowbell!

Compliments of the 1990's:
Whatever

Compliments of the Bourne Identity:
Shizer!

September Sundays in South Florida

I love Sundays, and Mondays are a great way to remind me how much I love Sundays.

On Friday afternoon, I called an emergency meeting for 9:00AM this morning. That was genius.

(Background for those of you who need it: I am a project manager for a specialized marketing company. Our latest and greatest product (the one I am in charge of) is scheduled to launch on September 25th. At 4:45PM on Friday, I found out THAT WAS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. Hence the panic button, hence the emergency meeting. Yeah, hence!)

I usually get to work between 8:00AM and 8:30AM (Starbucks line length has a great deal to do with this window) but of course, on the day I SCHEDULED A MEETING I have trouble getting there by 9:00AM. The day only got more hectic from there. The company who skimps on salary is willing to "SPARE NO EXPENSE" to meet the deadline of the 25th. I was tempted to tell them that an extra $100k in my pocket could cause the deadline to be met early, but really? (Gee, I hope no one I work with has stumbled across my blog. That would suck.)

So, this afternoon I took sometime to relive my perfect Sunday. Here's what it was like:

Wake up at 9:00AM. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Straighten up mess hubby has left from night before. (OCD, remember?) Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Write 500 more words. Do some jumping jacks to release excess energy. Write 500 more words. Attempt to play with cats who now want nothing to do with me since they have been fed. Mock cats for not having opposable thumbs. Wake up Tim. Wait the hour it takes him to rouse and get ready to go to the beach. (He's worse than a woman.) Scrounge for meter change. Pack the cooler. Argue over who gets to use the "good" towel. Drive to the beach. Apply sunscreen, SPF 1.2 million. Get sunburn. (it's the only color I turn). Attempt skimboarding lesson #2. Injure heel. Fall on ass fifty some-odd times. Get laughed at by 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. (Seriously, were shell necklaces ever cool?) Mock 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. Get yelled at by Tim for mocking a 15 year-old. (He is convinced I am going to get him shot one day. Who hides a gun in swim trunks, I ask.) Pack up beach paraphernalia. Drive home. Take requisite post-beach nap. Cook dinner. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. (Yes, I drink way too much Starbucks.) Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Play with hedgehog. Play with snake. Play with cats. Play with husband. Go to bed. Get up because I forgot to prepare an agenda for the 9:00AM meeting that I SCHEDULED. Genius.

I Like Ike

Just wanted to share the fact that South Florida is currently in the center of the "projected cone" for Hurricane Ike. Sweet.

Sleep Together, Die Alone*

Lately I've become curious about the reasoning behind couples sleeping together. Not in the sexual sense (I totally get that), but in the physical sense; in the same room, the same bed, the same space. I'm sure there is a long and esteemed history. I'm sure there are deep, spiritual meanings for it, including display of love, commitment, unity, family and oneness.

Frankly, I think it sucks.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my husband. I love hanging out with him, cuddling with him, being close to him. We have, I believe, an excellent and rare relationship.

Not so fond of sleeping with him.

I'm 100% positive he would say the same about me.

We both snore. We both create a cocoon out of the coverings available to us, and then guard said cocoon fiercely, even in deep sleep. I talk in my sleep. He laughs in his sleep. (Oh, how I would love to be him for a night, and find out what the hell is so funny while he is comatose.)

It gets better.

At 5:45AM, an hour and fifteen minutes before he has to be up, and two hours before I have to be up, Tim's alarm starts sounding.

He sleeps through it.

I nudge hm. I rub his back. I say his name. When, every morning, I get no response, I either violently kick him or violently poke him to get his attention.

A variation of the following conversation inevitably ensues: (Certain euphemisms are used for the sake of the family members that still envision me as a perfectly polite eight-year old. Don't laugh, many of them do.)

Tim: "Ow! What the eff was that for?"

Me: "Turn it off."

Tim: "What?!"

Me: "Your effing alarm! Turn if off and get the eff up!"

After which there is a great deal of slamming, stumbling, mumbling and grumbling as he gets out of bed and goes to work while I revel in my remaining hour of sleep.

Go ahead, tell yourself (and me, if you so choose) that you love sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other. Tell me that you are cuddlers. That you roll over every morning and praise the heavens that you have such a wonderful being in your life. I will only believe you if both you and your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other sleep like the effing dead.

I mean, let's be serious; If sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other was really all that magnificent, king-sized beds never would have been invented.

You know I'm right.

*Reference to Lost: Live Together, Die Alone

Weird Fact Wednesday

I can't read a book without knowing how many total pages it has. I like to know how many pages I have left while I am reading.

Occasionally, when I check the page number on the last page, I glean telling words in the last few sentences. I don't do this on purpose and it makes me insane. Yet, I can't stop looking at the last page for its number.

Weird.

Introducing Barry

Before I left for my honeymoon (destination: Islamorada, Florida, a.k.a. the Florida Keys) several people advised that Tim and I buy something for the house that would always remind us of our honeymoon.

Well, we did.

On the fourth day of our honeymoon, also my 30th birthday, Tim and I took a half-day fishing charter out of Key Largo.

Below are some pictures of the day's fun, including pictures of what Tim and I decided to purchase as a honeymoon/30th birthday souvenir. Yes, I caught him. He's a 45-inch barracuda. We've named him Barry and welcomed him to the family.