All Or Nothing

Don't It Bring Ya Back?

I was thinking, what might be fun is if I went back into my archives, picked one post from four years ago today, and posted it.  That would be fun, right?  Turns out there was only one post in the whole month of February '04 from which to pick.  Obviously I have not improved on my posting quantity skills.  Also, when I started out on this idea I forgot it wasn't January anymore, and as I perused old January posts I realized why I never post old stuff, even when I am feeling completely devoid of anything interesting to say.  Archives are just like reading old journals.  Embarrassing, uncomfortable, squirmy, full of grammar and syntax errors, and only occasionally interesting.  Of course NOW I'm not like that at all.  All my entries are awesome, nowadays.  I mean, obviously.

However!  I am going to post the February 2004 entry because, in a lucky twist of fate, I was having a conversation JUST THE OTHER DAY with SOMEONE, and I was telling this SOMEONE that I had actually really hated Alex Rodriguez (horribly overpaid baseball player) for ages, even when he played for the Texas Rangers.  This SOMEONE didn't believe me, and contested that I only recently jumped on the whole A-Rod Hatemobile, after everyone else started realizing his inherent suckiness.  Ha!  Not true.  And, as you shall soon see, history will prove me right, once again.  Or, you know.  This one time.

(Also, feel free to ignore point 1.  Do you remember this interview?  Neither do I)

(Also also!  I miss Snake II.  I haven't had a phone with any sort of fun games in ages.  Sure I've got the Internet and Bluetooth, but what happened to the really good stuff?)

February 17, 2004 in Daily, Sports, Webpage | Permalink

A Random But Important Listing of Items

1. Mel Gibson's interview with Diane Sawyer last night: I thought he did a great job. I am wondering what the rest of you might have thought. If you didn't see it, find someone who taped it or tivo-ed it and take a look.

2. Technology: Whenever I play Snake II on my cell phone, I play it on the highest level (obviously, as this is the only good way to get the most points quickly). However, lately my phone has, instead of saying "New Game" when I die, started an annoying and presumptious habit of asking me (in what I can only imagine as a very condesending tone) "New Level?". If I wanted a new freaking level, I would put it on a new level. I don't need my cell phone or anyone else to ask me if I am capable of performing on a certain level. How audacious.

3. A-Rod Trade: I hated A-Rod even when he played for the Rangers. 25 million is an unbelievably ridiculous salary for anyone, and the fact that the Rangers needed pitchers more than anything else and spent their entire freaking cash allowance on A-Rod, and that he happily allowed it, is annoying. And dumb. I'm glad he's gone. "But", you say, "even to the Yankees, Elise? How can you want anyone to go to the Yankees?" Now I don't hate the Yankees like everyone loves to do, but I don't like them, either. And I don't like the fact that they just stack the heck out of their team and take all the sportsmanship out of the game. However, it is because of this that I feel A-Rod is exactly where he belongs. He is a player who makes $175,000 every game, regardless of what he does, and he is now playing for a team who is more than likely going to win, no matter what they do, because they have the money to buy the best team in baseball. The common theme is fairly obvious. Birds of a feather, you know? He's gonna be right at home in New York.

It's About That Time, Part Deux

Because I am working on something that might be big, because I am currently too nervous to type, and because I am working on something that might be a big fat bust, I am going to post an entry from my archives here for your reading pleasure. 

I have always really liked this post, but it's not funny.  I mean, maybe parts of it are funny like "yes, that was mildly amusing" but there is really nothing in there that is "haha!  So funny I have now fallen out of my chair!" funny.  And I know what you people want, you want funny!  All the time, with the funny.  Well, I'm sorry, today you will just have to look for humor in my post a little harder.  Or, you could laugh at my writing abilities.  That normally works for me.

I will update on this situation, the thing I am working on, the thing that has me currently in a state of wanting to curl up in a ball and pray and knock on wood and toss salt over my shoulder and not change socks and any perform any other superstitious act I can think up.  But if it turns into a big fat bust, people, I will be sad.  And I might not go into too much detail.  So say a little prayer for me, will ya?  Or, at the very least, toss some salt or something.

------------------------------------------------------------

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.

A Post From The Past

December, 2003 Archives

Once upon a time lived a happy family of five. In this family, which was, as beforementioned, very happy, lived three children, two boys and one girl. These children got along fabulously, and enjoyed spending time with each other whenever they could. It was, after all, a very ideal family.
One pleasant evening, the three amiable siblings were hanging around the kitchen, chatting and laughing, passing the time very agreeably all the way into the early hours of the morning. About half past one, one of the two brothers (we'll call him "Nathan") was, in good humor of course, poking fun at the other brother(we'll call him "Christopher")'s penchant for muscle-building protien drinks.(The specific drink mix Nathan was referring to on this particularly blithe evening was called Myoplex. TM. Or whatever. Don't steal the name, or think I made it up and sue me. Some company has probably spent a lot of time and money coming up with Myoplex, so let's not ruin things by making some big copyright issue out of the fact that I'm including it in my story, and don't know how to cite it.)
As this exceptional evening progressed, Nathan began to stride authoritatively around the kitchen, blessing his audience with insightful, witty, and realistic renditions of Christopher:"I'm Christopher" (flex, flex)"I'm a big man" (stop, pose) "I drink Myoplex" (grunt, growl) Christopher and his sister (we'll call her "Elise") laughed good-naturedly at Nathan's dramatic monologue, and watched in rapt attention as he continued on with his performance.
"Oooh, I'm hungry. I have to eat all day long because I'm such a big, strong man. I eat everything I see."After uttering these profound words and allowing them to sink in, Nathan promptly devoured a Christmas cookie with green icing. He then proceeded on with his presentation, heading over to the pantry, and grabbing a packet of Myoplex chocolate powder.(grunt) "I'm Christopher, I don't even have to drink Myoplex; I just eat it right from the packet."
As Christopher and Elise watched in amazement, Nathan, in a moment of dramatic frenzy, ripped open the packet of Myoplex and, without delay, dumped the entire package into his open mouth.
Chaos ensued. As the highly concentrated Myoplex powder quickly solidified into a concrete-like substance, sucking up all the moisture in Nathan's mouth, tongue and throat area, a rather peculiar look came over his face. Christopher and Elise noticed this curious expression, but were mostly laughing too hard to do anything much about it. Besides, Nathan wasn't actually doing anything except standing there and looking strange. It really didn't seem too dire. However, unbeknownst to the elated siblings, the jauntily-progressing evening was about to take a turn for the worse.
"Phhhhaaawwwww!!" interjected Nathan suddenly, expelling from his mouth a large cloud of light brown dust into the pots and pans hanging from the kitchen ceiling.
"Uuuugggghhhhaaawwww!!" he stated, even more loudly, and accompanied this noise with even more expulsion of the light brown debris. Christopher and Elise could not stop laughing. As Nathan continued to litter the counters with his pharynx-dust, making strange and somewhat disturbing noises, he began stumbling about the kitchen and grabbing at his throat. Christopher and Elise might have considered doing something to answer Nathan's weak but distinguishable cries for help intermixed with his violent coughing, if only they hadn't been laughing so hard.
Nathan's blind falter around the kitchen led him straight to the sink, where, upon realizing his location, he immediately turned on the faucet and attempted to forcefully throw the water into his mouth. In an unlikely coincidence, his coughing worsened."Blllaaaagggghhhh!" A green blob, covered in light brown dust erupted from the depths of Nathan's....well, from his stomach, let's be honest. The blob landed in the sink, where it sat triumphantly, still regaining most of its former Christmas cookie status, and looking as if it was taunting Nathan for ever thinking he could digest such a invincible little treat. That prideful green cookie never knew that the Myoplex cement powder was what had led to its hasty ejection, but we all know how that saying goes.....
The green blob trickled down the drain, on its way to sewage and other kitchen-sink refuse spots of choice. Christopher and Elise tried to scrape themselves off of the floor where their mad and uncontrollable fits of laughing had relegated them. And Nathan continued his coughing, but at a more moderate rate, and intermittently asked his loving siblings why oh why they were content to watch him go to his grave, choking, like it was some kind of comedy routine.

The End

Merry Christmas, Y'all!

Revisit

This comes from my archives of last winter...I have to say, even in re-reading it, I find myself in complete agreement:

Upon careful consideration and observation, I have come to the conclusion that I don't like it when people combine words to make a new one. For example, let me present the word

Flustrated

I don't like this word. Not one bit. There is no reasonable explanation for why someone might choose to use such a word. If you have experienced something frustrating, then say that you were frustrated. If you are flustered, then just go ahead and say that you feel flustered. Just because you have experienced a weird situation where you have somehow been simultaneously frustrated and flustered, it does not mean that you suddenly have been handed the authority to make up new words. This is, in fact, totally unnecessary. It isn't as if conversations have a word count limit on them. Just go ahead and express yourself using all two of the words.