Like, just this week I found out that my recordings of "Bones" were cancelled so that somebody in my house could record "Sixteen and Pregnant." I mean, yeah, full points for the cultural choice, on accounta nothing says '21st century America' like a television program devoted entirely to teenage girls who, astonishingly, are even more hormonally insane than their not-pregnant classmates.
But still, any show where the hot yet sensitive FBI agent falls for the brilliant anthropologist and best selling author who wishes more than anything that she was a middle-aged piano teacher deserves a little respect on the DVR.
What? That piano teacher thing? Hel-LO, it's called "inferring."
So, in the spirit of keeping at least my corner of the social parachute off the gym floor of historical oblivion, I present you with a few virtual exchanges shared recently with pals and assorted relatives:
A text from David:
"There's a newspaper delivery box at the entrance to the cemetery up here. Wonder who that subscription is for."
A text from my sister, which accompanied the photo seen below:
If you look closely, you'll see the cookie carnage.
If you look even closer, you'll see that Amber is out of oven cleaner.
(I'm so going to pay for that.)
- Amber: "Sh*td*mnh*ll! [all one word, with vowels] I dropped the entire pan of cookies as I took 'em outta the oven :( I knew you'd give me some sympathy."
- Me: "Didja eat enough dough first?"
- Amber: "Of course. So it wasn't a total loss."
Text messaging with Ken Craig about a 'certain' college choir performing at a 'certain' conference:
Ken and Katie Craig. I put their picture on my blog on a semi-regular basis,
mostly cuz they're way cuter than Brett and me.
They're way cuter than, like, everything. Seriously.
My neighbor brought over a soft, white, nose-wiggling bunny today.
Compared to the Craigs? Total troll.
Ken: "Is Ness in this choir?"
Me: "No, and we [are disappointed in] the choir director. Vanessa pleaded with her but she wouldn't even let her audition because she wasn't "on track." She was in [anonymous Idaho town whose name rhymes with Shmexshmurg], enrolled in [anonymous private university] night classes, and was willing and able to attend all rehearsals. When she couldn't participate, she was heartbroken. So stick pins in your conference choir director doll, please."
Ken: "I'm going to make a conference choir director doll STRICTLY out of pins!"
Me: "David already observed that the Salem witch trials were over so the director could lose the Puritan dress. So welcome aboard the 'snark' train."
Ken: "I'm not on the snark train. Please consider me the man in the black cape and long mustache who has tied the choir director to the train track so that said 'snark' train may run her right-the-crap-over."
Me: "Hooray for Bishop Villain! This time the Villain's the Hero!"
Ken: "An anti-hero! Like the Newman/Redford movies. I like that!"
Me: "Exactly. Newman/Redford movies. Precisely the image I had in mind."
(Conversations with Ken that don't devolve into obscure movie references are conversations with someone who only looks like Ken. Like that guy who plays "Chuck." Zach Whatshisname.)
Finally, a text exchange with my good friend, Christine Macdonald, who - and I'm not making this up - is a former stripper and is now a public speaker and writer and truly beautiful soul. She was in Hawaii, and texting me from a club where she used to work. It was 2:00 a.m. Vegas time, and I started the convo. I'd played enough 'TexTwist2' on my iPhone and wasn't ready to sleep. So I checked in on Christine, who had travelled home to attend a memorial service for a friend:
Borrowed from Christine without her permission cuz, ironically, she hasn't texted me back yet.
- Christine: LOL!
- Me: Any time...
Too bad. If I remember correctly, Christine sent pictures. *
*Of the outside of the club. Sheesh, what did you think she was taking pictures of??