confessions of a gmail-crazed girlfriend

I've decided to confess.

For those of you who know me personally, you know my email address includes my married name. What most of you do not know is that I created that email address before I was married.

Even before I was engaged.

Even a whole year before I was engaged.

Possibly even within the first two weeks of our relationship.

yes.

it is true.

and beyond embarrassing.

In short, I have owned my email address for 6.5 years now, but my 5 year wedding anniversary is next month.

David likes to tell people this. I have refrained.

But now I speak. I have been married nearly 5 years. I have born DH's child. I am pregnant with our second child. I've decided to own up. But 6.5 years ago, gmail was still new enough that some really good email addresses were still available. What if I married DH and then the perfect email was no longer available? I had to create it IMMEDIATELY or face dire consequences. Very dire indeed. You may spend your whole life trying to get an email address without a number in it. And then you get your chance. And you take it.

I know I'm not the only one.

Confess.

at long last

Finally, after being a mormon for 27 years (or should I subtract 8?), the missionaries knocked on my door.

Unfortunately they didn't want us since we're 1) not single and 2) already members. (I should mention that they are missionaries that work in the singles' ward boundaries.)

Alas. Next time we should play dumb. Too late now. Our one and only chance might have passed us by.

for the cause

I signed up to STOP breast cancer before it STARTS. Have you? Join today at www.armyofwomen.org

speaking of awesome film clips...

This one is not to be missed. Especially if you have a mustache:) Thanks Rachel for posting this!

a song worth remembering

I meant to post this at Christmas, but forgot. Alas. Better late than never:

Remember this delightful tune?

See last year's post.

This post is brought to you by J+R. :)

avatar.

You may wonder, why do I have an avatar on the sidebar whose clothes/background keep changing? Because I'm silly and it amuses me. Maybe I secretly wish I were 8 years old and could play dress up. But I guess it's not a secret anymore.

the way to fame

I have done it. I am a success. I am famous. How do I know this? Because I have been quoted on librarything's website!!! (Along with hundreds of other bloggers, but that's a minor point). Who knew I would ever be read by strangers in far off regions of the world...

Thus, finding I am now famous, I can no longer entice people to let me hyperlink their web pages under the pretense that "nobody reads my blog anyway." I am a fake, a fraud, a phony...and can no longer spew such lies.

I am famous.

I shall now write a stupid, yet celebratory poem, entitled, Fame:

fame
is not easy
the way to fame
is through me
my site
is lame
but my fame
is totally awesome

the end.

a prime age

I had high hopes that 2007 would be a prime number. Alas, it is not. The next prime year is 2011. I thought you should know.

orchestral torture mechanisms

For many years (11, to be precise) I have harbored a hatred of the song, Canon in D (major), by Pachelbel. I suspect every cellist hates this song. For, every cellist knows that it is the most dismal cello part ever written, comprised of only 8 quarter notes repeated over and over. However, like most things in my life, I forgot about it...until the aforementioned blackbird (who knows me better than I do, AND has a better memory of my life) brought this to my attention: Pachelbel Rant. I should point out that I, too, counted the number of times you repeat the 8 notes, and I think it was around 34 (as opposed to 54 as "Rob" claims). "Rob" also claims that Pachelbel follows you throughout every musical genre, and he is absolutely right. The world is too blind to realize they are actually hearing the same song over and over again. It has even replaced the wedding march to some degree. Grr. Die, Pachelbel, Die. It's unfortunate his death in 1706 had no effect on the worldwide torture of cellists. Oh, and merely for clarification purposes, the song wouldn't be featured in Vh1's best of the 1790's as "Rob" claims because it was written in 1680.

the roundabout of obscurity

Once upon a time there was a roundabout. In fact, there were many. These roundabouts reside in England. I saw them from my seat on a bus...

Once upon the same time there was another roundabout. Only one roundabout. It was new. New enough that it was never mentioned in drivers ed. As a result, there were some who never quite figured out how to go through the roundabout. Subsequently, many were annoyed. Including myself. Schemes were undertaken to instruct those who knew not the secrets of the roundabout--e.g., instructions posted within various buildings through out university of utah campus (to which the roundabout was adjacent).

Once upon a time 3 years later there was another roundabout. This roundabout resides within Stanford campus. It is painted on a sidewalk--at the "Intersection of Death" famous for it's bike accidents (excluding mine). It even has an inner and outer lane. Pity no one uses it.

O Holy Night of pain.

This is the most painful version of O Holy Night I have ever heard. I am pretty sure it's a joke...

download here

Listen to the whole song. Your life will never be the same.

the unthinkable

Yes. The unthinkable. I did not think it possible, but my cell phone has a pre-programmed spelling error. I have the option to "foward" my text messages. How...nice.

it was the sun

Albert Camus's The Stranger has this quotation, which I remember from high school when I read it:

...it was because of the sun.

And there you have it. This is why Meursault killed the Arab. I think of this whenever I hear the song "Here Comes the Sun," which I hate. However, today I did not hear that song. I thought of the quote when I saw this image:



which is a fearsome thing to behold. That's all.

P.S. The bag is gone.

the stanford smugglers

And so. I began running again today, after several weeks hiatus. I came back to my apartment, and witnessed a brown bag drop off. Apparently, sweaty joggers stretching are invisible. Van drives up. Short guy with backward cap and low-rider jeans runs up to a bench, and puts down a bag. Then he runs back to the van and it seems to drive away, but I wasn't sure. I couldn't see. I then realize I have seen a brown bag sitting on that bench several times. I just thought it was the same bag. I thought somebody left their moldy, disgusting, decaying lunch in a sack on a bench. But no. The bag changes. I thought about waiting around to see who picked it up, or sneaking over to look in the bag, but decided not to play detective. The van man may have been lurking...

I wonder if the bag will be there tomorrow. Ooooo.