Less Than Gandhi.

Here's something you might not know: Matt is smart.  He's like sickeningly, ridiculously smart.  He reads like fifty books to my one, and he's rational and insightful and seems to know, well, everything.  And if he doesn't know it, he goes and reads a whole book about it and then knows it.  He can even do math!  I, on the other hand, fall asleep after reading one article in Entertainment Weekly, am occasionally lacking in the rational thinking department, and was told by my college advisor that my "math scores reflect the English major in [me]."  Shoot.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm thrilled to have a smart husband, and I really like it when I can just ask him about something (Arab Spring?) and he can explain it in a way that I can easily understand it (because he's basically Mama to my Forrest Gump).  But sometimes it's annoying to always be the dumb one, or to only be able to contribute to trivia contests if the category is 90210 or cities that have hosted the Olympics.

So Matt knows everything, which is simultaneously fantastic and annoying.  When he was a kid, though, he took an IQ test (which I may have already mentioned here at some point), but he never received a definitive score because while he was off the charts on everything linguistic and rational and whatnot, when it came to anything spatial he scored slightly lower than Mitch would.

Matt doesn't understand shapes.

Anyway, last night we were creepin' on Chloe's Facebook page--oh wait! Time for some awesome pictures lifted from her page--

Hufflepuff.

--and Matt saw an old status of hers that said, "i <3 gandhi."  Matt was confused.

Matt:  I less than three Gandhi?  Chloe is less than three Gandhis?

Idiot.

Love and Marriage

Matt:  Oh, and we're gonna make lunch tomorrow; we're not going out to lunch.

Mandy: We're gonna make love tomorrow?

Matt: Make lunch.*



*It should be noted that Matt is a mumbler and Mandy is hard of hearing.


ALSO!


[while reading a Facebook status update]

Matt: . . .infamously cool. . .

Mandy: Wow, that's the first time I've ever read something faster than you did.

Matt: I read it twice.

This is the second thing that comes up when you type in "infamously cool" on Google image search.

The Shelf of Marital Compromise

I think I've mentioned before that that wonderful husband of mine is smart and well-informed and knows so much about everything. 

Do you know why that is?  (Well, in addition to the giant brain factor.)

It's because he is, at all times, entertaining himself.  It's a rare moment that Matt's not entertaining himself in some fashion.  He's either watching TV, or reading a book, or talking to an actual human person, or listening to a podcast.

The podcasts are the real troublemakers.  And it's not that I hate that he listens to podcasts.  The best part about them is that Matt gets so much housework done while he's listening to them.  And I love coming home to clean floors and empty dishwashers and freshly-mowed yards.  I also love it when Matt fills the Zune up with lots of awesome podcasts that we can listen to together when we're on car trips (or that he can listen to by himself while I sleep when we're on car trips).

But I hate when I go to say something to him and he doesn't hear me because his ears are full of Ira Glass or Dan Savage. 

And I hated that Matt had decided that he also needed to be listening to podcasts whilst showering--which meant that he would drag the Zune speakers into our tiny little bathroom and set them on the counter.  You know, because what's a shower if you can't listen to a little bit of Kevin Smith?

I hated the speakers on the counter. 

It was becoming an issue.

It was becoming one of those little things that would make me angry--like when I'd be washing my face and splashing water on them, or when the towel that he put the speakers on (for protection) would get wet from the sink, or when I'd knock the speakers onto the ground in the middle of the night when all I wanted was to pee without waking up.

So I'd put the speakers back on the shelf in the living room, and he'd move them back to the bathroom.  And then I'd put the speakers back in the living room, only to find them back in the bathroom hours later. 

Since Matt loved the speakers so, I wanted to love them in there, too.  But I didn't.

Enter the shelf of marital compromise. (I'll sand and paint those spots over Christmas break, or maybe spring break or the summer.)

Now Matt can listen to his podcasts, and I can even jam out to some "Ms. Jackson" while in the shower. (Did you know that the lyrics actually say "Never meant to make your daughter cry" and not "Never meant to make your doggie cry"?) 

Oh, and it's not the shelf that's crooked.  It's the light switch, and I take full responsibility for that.

This is the new spot for the speakers, which is actually better because it's in the middle of the house, and because Matt can hear his podcasts even better because the speakers are higher.  And I can splash the counters all I want when I wash my face.

Now there's no more huffing while I carry them back to the living room, and I can, instead, channel my energy into cleaning that dirty tile!

"Purple People Eater" Dilemma

Matt:  Was it purple monster who ate people, or was it a monster who only ate purple people?  Because if it was the latter, I have nothing to fear.  But if it was the former, then I won't even see it coming.*

*Matt is red/green colorblind and believes the color purple to be a conspiracy.

Jesus Christ Lizard!

Okay, so that year that I was homeschooled I missed a life science course.  I also watched every episode of I Dream of Jeannie.  It's possible, that in missing that course, I also missed out on learning about something that Matt claims everyone's seen and knows about. 

Does everyone know about the basilisk lizard?  I sure didn't, and when Matt showed me this video I laughed for seven full minutes.  Then I said that I was going to put it on the blog and he said that would be dumb because everyone knows what a basilisk is. 

In case you are an ignorant fool like I am, or in case you spent a year of your life being "homeschooled" and missing out on life science, or in case you just need a good laugh, here's the basilisk lizard in action. 



Ha!

Love and Marriage

A conversation that took place after Matt took a very long time to wrap up leftover pizza, realizing finally that foil is much better than parchment paper for such a task.

Me: I'm not having a child with you. I'd be all "Okay, you change his diaper" and you'd be all, "Blargh! Ack! How do I do this? Can I wrap him in parchment paper?"


Matt: Whatever. You would lose it. Different strengths, Mandy. You're absent-minded and I'm bad at shapes.

Me: I wouldn't lose it. Not at first anyway. They don't go anywhere at first. . .Oh, but I guess I could set it down somewhere and then forget where.

Matt: Yeah, like on top of the car.

 

Discovering Our Love Languages

Not long ago, Cassie referenced this quiz about love languages.  When Matt and I looked at the descriptions of the love languages, it was pretty easy to identify which love language each of us subscribed to.  I said immediately that my love language was acts of service: I love it when people do things for me (get me a glass of water, get me a glass of wine, take my plate to the kitchen, clean the house, do all of the driving on long road trips, etc.).  Not that I don't like a thoughtful gift or a nice hug, too, of course. 

Matt's is quality time.  Matt doesn't really need much besides someone to be in the room to hear him call out all of the correct answers (questions?) on Jeopardy!.  Not surprisingly, Matt's favorite times (and some of mine, too), are when we stay up late, sitting at the kitchen table, talking and laughing and feeding Mitch too many treats.

Even though we thought that we knew our love languages from the descriptions (which Matt insisted, by the way, were stupid), this weekend we took the quiz, per Cassie's request.  Matt went first.

It did not go so well, because for the better part of ten minutes, he mocked the quiz--yelling his insults from the other room-- for its stupidity and transparency.  I have to admit, he had a point.

The five love languages are: touch, service, quality time, words of affirmation, and gifts.  The questions on the quiz were really subtle.  For instance, check one:

• I love it when you celebrate my birthday with a gift.
• I love it when you celebrate my birthday with meaningful words.

What love languages could these answers possibly support?  Matt had believed that the love language theory was stupid in the first place, and didn't keep it a secret that he found the quiz to be a complete waste of time. 

Was he wrong?  Nope.

Because it took all that to discover that quality time is his love language.  Mine is acts of service.  Basically, if he does things for me then I'll hang out with him.  Sounds good to me.

Hey, Matt, the house needs to be vacuumed and the clothes need to be put away.  I'll be lying here on the couch when you're done, and I'll be happy to hang out, and to listen to you shout out the answers during Jeopardy!  Hell, I'll even provide you with affirming words like, "You're so smart during the kid's tournament."

What's your love language? 

(Oh, and if you're looking for a super-fun old school quiz, here's The Spark's Purity Quiz.  How pure are you?)

Love and Marriage

[source]

[while listening to the Toy Story soundtrack] 

Me:  Do you want to dance?

Matt:  No, I'm good.

Me: This is why we won't be married for much longer.

Matt:  Matt Sarasen and Julie danced, and they broke up the next day.  I'm just pointing to the evidence.  You know who never dances?  My mom and dad.

Father of the Year

So, as part of our Sunday Funday, Matt and Collin and I went to the movies (read: I joined them on their weekly movie date) to see Get Him to the Greek, starring the British guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall as the same character he played in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  Now, I wanted to see the movie as soon as I heard that he'd be Aldous Snow again, but I wanted to even more when Matt pointed out that the reason that the preview probably didn't make the movie seem that great was because of how offensive and crass the movie was going to be.  Sold I was.

 We got there early, bought our tickets, got our bucket-sized drinks, and headed to the theater.  And there we sat for a while, bitching about how stupid people are, and mocking the ridiculous previews.  There were previews for Prince of Persia, and for a bunch of other awful looking science fiction stuff.  So we sat there, confused, until Matt had the inspired idea to check his ticket to make sure we were in the right theater.  We were not.  Instead, we were in the theater for Just Wright, Queen Latifah's new flick. This one.



Fortunately, we caught our mistake in time, and made it over to the correct theater across the hall before Get Him to the Greek started.  And it was funny.  Really funny.  Really inappropriately and offensively funny.  And I was loving it. . .until I realized that there were three kids--about nine years old--sitting two rows in front of us.  Collin and I noticed it at the same time, when there was some [very inappropriate for a nine-year old child] banter about mind fucking, and we heard a child's laughter break out.  From that point on, all I could think about was the three kids in front of us, and their piece of shit dad who was sitting with them, looking at his Blackberry and ignoring the fact that this was--next to porn itself--the most inappropriate film he could have taken his three young children to see today.

At some point, I left the theater to use the bathroom, and when I returned I saw that the signs for the two movies had been switched, which accounted for our original confusion.  Matt was happy to hear this, since Collin and I had been laughing for over an hour about how Matt had lead us astray and tried to make us watch some crappy basketball movie.

After the movie was over--and after the asshole dad left his drink in its cupholder; I guess he was just too busy with the Blackberry to think to be courteous and throw it away--we saw the kids out in the hallway pointing out that the signs had been put back where they belonged.  It seemed that they'd made the same mistake that we had, except that their dad wasn't paying enough attention, or didn't care enough, to fix it.  Stellar.  Mom's going to have a fun time explaining to the kids all about fellatio, and the clap, and why people but heroin up their butt.  Father of the year, I tell you. 

Anyway, you (if you're over 18 and are not named Chloe) should go see Get Him to the Greek.  It's hilarious, and it's awful, and I want to go to an Aldous Snow show.  Just don't take the kids, unless you want them to one day be putting heroin up their own butt.**



**Today's episode reminded me a little bit of the time my mom was out of town for the weekend, and my dad went to Blockbuster to rent movies.  I was about 11 and Jordan was 7, and my dad got Boyz in the Hood and Silence of the Lambs.  He, at least, had to good sense to make us leave the room for Silence of the Lambs.  To date, neither Jordan nor I have put heroin up our butt, which is even more remarkable because we went to a high school that was nicknamed "Heroin High."  More on that later.

Mission: Eneloop

I am not the smartest person.  Not even close.

Sure, I can diagram a sentence like nobody else.  Yeah, there are times when I am insightful or witty or demonstrate good judgment.  Some days, even, I act like an intelligent and reasonable person. 

But yesterday was not one of those days.

Let's start at the beginning.  I have this camera.  It's complicated and somewhat fancy, but it's like seven years old and not as high-tech as others on the market.  My camera takes AA batteries, four of them at a time.  And the camera, partly because it's older and not as technologically advanced, drains batteries pretty quickly.

A few weeks ago I bought some new rechargeable batteries for the camera, the Sanyo Eneloop batteries, ones that had received rave reviews on the ol' Amazon. 

And the batteries are pretty great.  They arrived pre-charged, and they hold their charge much longer than the others that I had.  Good and good. 

Until bad.

Because on Sunday, when I went to grab the batteries from the charger, one of them fell down behind our kitchen counter.  See the charger to the left?  See how the little lip (is that what that's called?) is about 3/4" away from the wall?  Yep.  There went my battery.

And  that shit was driving me crazy!  I couldn't get my hand all the way down, and even when we got a flashlight, neither Matt nor I could see where the battery had gone.  I could have sworn that I heard it fall on the ground back behind the countertop of doom, but I couldn't see down that far.

I was pissed.  Sure, the battery itself only cost like $2, but it was part of a set, and I had just bought the set, and I had to order it online, and I wanted my battery back.  It ate away at me.

When I told Cassie about the lost battery, she suggested that I use the new vacuum's crevice attachment to retrieve the battery.  I thought this was an excellent idea.

So while Matt napped after work (he told me that he'd set his alarm for 6:00), I set out on my mission to find that stupid battery.

First I pulled out the stove, smashing my finger in the process.  I screamed and jumped around and flailed my hands about for three minutes. 

Then I pulled out the washer.  That was less exciting.  There was enough dog hair under the stove and washer to build six more Mitches, so I then set to the task of cleaning up the disgusting mess.  That took some time.

Finally, after managing to cover myself in nastiness and kitchen grease/dirt/dog hair film from beneath our appliances, I tried to find the battery.

The crevice tool was just a tiny bit too big to fit down in opening, so I had a brilliant idea.  I channeled my inner Hulk, and began to pull the counter away from the wall.  I pulled, and I pulled, and there were some cracking noises (which I interpreted as "progress"), and then I pulled some more.  I got the counter to be about two inches from the wall.  Super!

But still no battery.  (But not for lack of trying!)  I decided to give up.

I put the stove back, and the washer, and I started to wash my hands.  It was then that I heard it: dripping (like a waterfall) beneath the sink.  It appeared that in my infinite "break the house to find a $2 battery" wisdom, I had pulled some pipes apart.  Oh no.

This was at 5:15. 

After clearing out the cabinets beneath the sink and sopping up the horrendous mess with towels, I set to work on my next assignment, fixing the house before Matt woke up.

I fumbled and cussed and hurt my hand some more and fumbled and cussed some more.  I wanted to cry but I couldn't cry because I didn't have time.  I kept acting out the scene in my head, what I'd have to tell Matt, how our summer vacation funds would instead go to a plumber because of my stupid, stupid, stupid choices.

After more fumbling and more cussing and forty minutes, I had basically earned my plumber's license, and there was no more leak.  (Cue applause!)

Then I found the battery.  Under the sink.  Wish I'd looked there.

I'll Pineapple Matt.

Okay, so Matt and I are about a month shy of our third wedding anniversary.  Last year I shared stories about our wedding, and this year I've planned to share stories about our honeymoon.  We went to Tulum, Mexico (after receiving rave reviews from friends), and it was the best trip that either of us had ever taken.  But more on that later.  Wait.  I'll give you a preview.  At one point, Matt found himself in the strong embrace of a barfly named Sergio, a man who was, according to our 17-year old margarita magician of a bartender, Gilarberto--a clown.  "Sergio is a clown," Gilarberto told us, after Sergio asked Matt over for a hug (hug, picture. . .what's the difference?)

Why was I talking about this?  I get so distracted by this picture.

Oh yeah!

So, one of our very favorite meals while we were in Mexico was this pork taco and pineapple thing.  It was one of those meals where we were the perfect amount of drunk, the amount of drunk where your ability to enjoy food increases by 2,000,000%.  And we ate the tacos, and they were amazing.  I do not have the recipe for those tacos, sadly enough.

But when I saw Pioneer Woman's post today about chicken pineapple quesadillas, I thought of that meal.

When I suggested it to Matt tonight, he did that shrug thing that makes me want to choke him.  He's not wild about pineapple.

"But what about that meal we had in Mexico?  Our favorite meal of our honeymoon?  Those were pork tacos with PINEAPPLE!" 

It was about then that Matt explained to me that he didn't like pineapple then either, and that I had taken all of his pineapple and eaten it.  This should surprise nobody.

I didn't remember this part of our heavenly pork taco experience, because Gilarberto was a margarita magician, and I was drunk.

Fortunately, Matt is understanding, and when I insisted on making this meal, he grilled me up some pineapple.  He grilled me up some chicken.  He even grilled me up some onions.  And we had quesadillas. 

And you should have them, too.  Because they're f'ing amazing.

PS--learned the trick to BBQ chicken.  You have to put cajun seasoning on it first.  Then it's just. . .perfect.

PPS--just in case you thought I'd bought a new fancy camera and become a great photographer overnight, you can put those ideas aside.  I stole all the food pictures from Pioneer Woman herself.  The picture of Matt with Sergio the Clown, however, was all mine.  Little pink camera didn't let me down!

My Favorite Cookie

Now, this is kind of a Sophie's Choice kind of thing.  I mean, cookies?  How can I decide which one is my all-time favorite?  Can't I go with current favorite?  Favorite strawberry cookie?  Favorite chocolate chip cookie?  There need to be subdivisions.  But there aren't.  And this, my friends, is my favorite cookie.  (PS--my wedding dress almost didn't fit because of cookies.  That tidbit should surprise nobody.)

It's Real Simple's recipe for Peanut Butter Cup Cookies.  And it's. . .so good that you'll eat 15 of them and then not fit into your wedding dress.  (Not entirely true; the culprit in the wedding dress saga was the Pepperidge Farm White Chocolate Macademia Nut cookie--a close second.)

Back in the fall, Carly put these up on her Facebook (which is, apparently, my complete inspiration for this blog), and I was in love.  I was all, "Hey, I subscribe to Real Simple!  Why didn't I see that recipe?"  Oh yeah, that was because I had a bout of narcolepsy whilst reading that particular issue, and then the magazine rested on the floor by my side of the bed for three weeks.  Shoooooooooooooooot.

Thank the good lord for Carly!

And here's why this recipe is so perfect (beside the fact that it's, well, perfect): we always have miniature Reese's cups.  Matt has the self control of Jesus (at least when it comes to Reese's cups), and for some reason I can refrain from shoving them into my mouth.  So we can keep them on hand at all times.  Matt will say, "I'm going to have a dessert," and he'll stroll into the kitchen and come back with ONE mini Reese's.  (Yeah, I kind of hate him, too.) 

AND, in a class that I've been taking all year, one that I haven't blogged about because I, at times, subscribe to the "If you don't have anything nice to say. . ." addage.  (Also because it's about my job, and I try not to shit talk it too much.  If you want to hear those juicy stories you'll need to phone me.)  Anyway, in my COMPLETELY AWESOME and NOT AT ALL STUPID class on how to teach gifted students, we were learning about how to use rubrics to assess student work.  Our REALLY SMART teacher had us learn rubrics by making a rubric for the perfect cookie.  Although this may seem like an activity that I would enjoy, I found it annoying, and a complete waste of time. Fortunately, I was in the "making the rubric" group and not in the "making the cookies" group.  But I did recommend this recipe to someone who had to make the cookies, and these cookies won the Golden Spatula award.  (Perhaps you're beginning to understand why I am so EXCITED TO GO TO THIS CLASS FOR THREE HOURS EVERY MONDAY NIGHT.)  Point is, these cookies won. 

And they won because they're f'ing delicious.

Are you ready for this tasty madness?

Also, you should know that this is some of the most delicious cookie batter on the planet.

Peanut Butter Cup Cookies (from Real Simple)
.Makes 48 cookies (or 16 if you're Mandy.  I like 'em bigger.)
Hands-On Time: 15m
Total Time: 40m


Ingredients
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 12-ounce package small peanut butter cups, coarsely chopped


Directions
1.Heat oven to 375° F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.
2.Using an electric mixer, beat the butter and sugars until creamy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat to combine. Gradually add the flour mixture, mixing until just incorporated. Fold in the peanut butter cups.
3.Drop tablespoon-size mounds of dough 2 inches apart onto the prepared baking sheets. Bake until light brown around the edges, 12 to 15 minutes. Transfer to a baking rack to cool.

It's Wednesday!  Woop-woop!  (And somebody I know only has 22 more days of school. . .)

American Ambassador

Last night Matt and I were watching a story on 60 Minutes about, basically, why some Muslims hate Americans.  (That was way too brief.  You can read about the whole thing here.)

So, the 60 Minutes lady asks a bunch of young Muslim kids, "I sense a lot of anti-Americanism.  Is that correct?"  And one of the Muslim kids responds, "Give us one reason why we should love America."  And Matt shouts out, "GEORGE CLOONEY!"

And, you know, his answer gets better and better the more you think about it.

So, on this glorious Monday morning, I give you pictures of our greatest American Ambassador, a Mr. George Clooney.

(Mr. Pitt is easy on the eyes as well.)

Ahhhh, now there's a way to start a week.

Cock Sighting

Today Matt and I were driving downtown to fetch a late Sunday lunch.  We hadn't even made it off of our street (the super ghetto part, no less) when we spotted a big, giant, fat rooster.  A rooster!  (Forgive the quality of the picture; I took it with my phone while driving.  Matt hates when I do that.)

Keep in mind, we live in the city.  It's not like when I was in high school and would look out the living room window to see a cow or a horse giving birth.  We don't live in some kind of farmer rainforest, so the sight of a random rooster is, well, unexpected.

Me:  I think our neighbors are having cock fights!
Matt:  Or, maybe their alarm clocks are broken.

Brownie Husband

Matt says this would count as adultery.  What do you think?

Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!

I saw Moulin Rouge three times in the theater, bought the soundtrack, memorized it, bought the second soundtrack, memorized it, listened to and watched both over and over and over again.  And I've been in love with Ewan MacGregor ever since he flashed that grin and belted out "Your Song."  Seriously.  Love.  True love.

And, inspired by the look of the film, painted my bedroom in college purple with lime green trim, and sprayed glitter on the trim, too.  Seriously.  Glitter.  Lime green trim.  It was pretty awesome.

I've never even made Matt watch Moulin Rouge because I am afraid that he will mock it and then I will have to divorce him.  I mean, I can understand how he would mock Center Stage--Center Stage is dumb.  But Moulin Rouge is art, and Matt has neither the eye for the visually stunning nor does he have attention deficit disorder, so he just wouldn't appreciate it.  Plus, as far as I can tell, he's not so much into dance like I am.

But I am into dance and critically acclaimed films and handsome men who sing songs.  So, whenever Moulin Rouge is on TV, or whenever I'm feeling like a pisspot, I watch it.  And I smile, and I sing the songs for days.

And then, when either Matt or Mitch are annoying me in any way, I, in the most dramatic voice with the most horrible British accent, scream at them: "Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!" 

And they don't know what I'm talking about, and then they ask me to get them a treat. 

An exchange:

Me:  This movie made me want to paint everything with glitter.  It was all so sparkly!  And then I wanted to be a whore and live in an elephant and die of consumption!

Matt:  You know that consumption doesn't mean that you eat a bunch and then die, right?

He's no Ewan, that's for damn sure.

My Blank Monday Thoughts

• Thomas Jefferson removed from a school's curriculum?  Are you f'ing kidding me?  F'ing Texas.
• Matt and I spent $195 at Publix today.  But we won't go grocery shopping again for three weeks, so that's good.  And we're ready for Y2K.
• Re-caulked the bathroom over the weekend.  It's amazing the things you'll do to avoid grading poetry portfolios.  It's also amazing that a person can have such a flat learning curve as to assign poetry portfolios two years in a row.
• Cassie came over for dinner tonight.  I think she should move into the house next door.  It's for rent, people.  And it's cheap at $825/month.  Don't you want to move in and be our neighbors?
• This week is going to be good.  It's just got to be.
• Mitch is the greatest dog on the planet.  But you already knew that.
• I love Sharpie markers.  I love the smell, love the colors, love the permanence.  Had to look up the correct spelling of permanence, and I'm a pretty good speller.  I did win the eighth grade spelling bee by correctly spelling the word nougat.  Oh yeah, I'm also fat.
• It's = "it is."  Its = belonging to it. It's sunny outside.  The dog wagged its tail.  Is it so hard?
• Professional maternity pictures are a creepfest.
• Next three weeks are going to be awesomeness wrapped in awesome.  Dogs and friends and birthdays and days off and food and wine and more friends and food and dogs and wine.  You can be jealous.  It's okay.
• Matt and I both have newly-cut hair.  I love the convenience.  Less time spent blow drying and hair that's not so heavy.
• Mitch just farted in my face.  That's the last time I give him a delicious hamburger.  I swear that dog positions his body so that the farts float up into my face.
• An exchange:

Matt:  He's the one who was interviewed on 60 Minutes last night, the guy who wrote The Blind Side.
Me: Oh.
[five minutes later]
Me: Hey!  Wasn't he on 60 Minutes last night?
Matt: You really don't listen to me at all, do you?

Guess I should get off here now so that I can pay more attention to the insightful things that Matt says.  Happy Tuesday to you.  Happy Ides of March, hope nobody killed you.  Also, happy St. Patrick's Day Eve [tomorrow].

Science Rocks!

Awesome scientists explaining why science is awesome. And it's autotuned. What's not to love?

Marital Bliss

Me: I mean, I was just having an entire conversation with you and you didn't hear me. You and your damned podcasts!

Matt: Sorry. Maybe if you need to tell me something you could just record it as an audio file and put it on the Zune. Then I'll hear everything you say.

R.I.P., Mr. Salinger

Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Goodbye, Mr. Salinger. We are sad that you're gone.

(Well, I am. Matt's happy. He's been saying for years that he can't wait until Salinger dies because he knows Salinger's been holed up, hiding from the world, writing and writing. And Matt can't wait to get his hands on all of those books and stories.)

Here's to hoping.

And here's to you, Mr. Salinger, you curmudgeon, you brilliant weirdo.