When You Wake Up Feeling Old
Firstly, to anyone who recommended Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series to me, I must heartily thank you. I feel vaguely dirty while reading it, as to be honest, it sort of smacks of only a slightly more intelligent bodice-ripper, but at the very least, it’s a well-told bodice ripper. I … I don’t know. All I know is that I’m having a hard time tearing myself away from what is the most ridiculous plot I could imagine encountering (involving 18th century Scotland, an absurd love “triangle” and … time travel? Riiight). This enjoyment is in spite of the fact that whenever anyone has sex, I am not titillated, as Gabaldon surely intended, but am instead slightly grossed out because all I keep thinking is, Ew! These people haven’t bathed in days and they’ve been sweating in dirty clothes, riding horses and … and … swordfighting (oh God, seriously, there is SWORDPLAY. It’s like a WORLD OF WARCRAFT scene come to life, sans wizardry) and there aren’t any toothbrushes to speak of, much less SOAP and … well. I’m happy I live in the age of running water and Aquafresh Extreme Clean, otherwise I think I’d have to be taken by force to produce an heir.
All of this reminds me that I’ve been meaning to tell you that there is a bodice-ripper in the checkout line at my local Hannaford’s called “The King and His Mighty Whores”. THE KING AND HIS MIGHTY WHORES. I’ve actually picked it up to see if it’s facetious in some way, but I’m afraid that no, no, it’s quite serious. It’s no secret that I’ve always wanted to be a novelist, but if someone said I could choose between being a world-famous bestselling author of “The King and His Mighty Whores” and the life I currently lead, that of freelance writer toiling in relative obscurity on things like sales proposals, marketing collateral and the ever-exciting Web site copy for all of eternity, I’d take obscure eternity for a thousand, Alex.
Anyway! This weekend was not the weekend in Syracuse attending some sort of Syracuse-caliber gala event (which is to say, uh, not Hollywood-y, like, at all), but rather that is next weekend. I think it speaks volumes to the state of Adam and me that when we found out that the gala portion of the evening would be taking place AFTER the movie at NINE THIRTY IN THE EVENING, we panicked, wondering how we would stay awake, much less remain standing in things like suits and high heels. There will be much yawning.
By the way, I’ll be wearing this dress with these shoes, which is the best I can do, I’m afraid. I’m not really showing, but I’m not really NOT showing, and I discovered that any non-maternity dress makes me look … well, fat, I’m sorry, there’s no other way to say it. I look PUDGY, whereas maternity dresses at least make me look SORT OF pregnant. Maybe. Oh hell, I don’t know. But I’ll be damned if I’m buying MATERNITY FORMAL WEAR, that much I’ll tell you.
Odd segue! While watching the VMAs, several things happened that completely disturbed me:
a) Lil Wayne’s pants? Down past his ass? I actually yelled, “PULL YOUR PANTS UP OH MY GOD!” Hello, I’m your grandmother. My kids are screwed.
b) I only knew who Lil Wayne WAS because they announced him. Ditto Russell Brand and the vast majority of the people present. Also, the Jonas Brothers made me laugh out loud, because really? They’re BREATHLESS over something, really? THEY’RE INFANTS. The only thing they should be breathless over is Ovaltine.
c) I like Lindsay Lohan. I’m … I’m ROOTING FOR HER. And I hope she’s really a lesbian, and that the warm reception to her relationship HEALS HER and that she’s COME TO TERMS WITH WHO SHE IS. *cue triumphal horns*
Finally, I’ll leave you with an image of my wholly earnest ninth-grade self which was, I believe, the last time I knew what the hell was even on MTV. I was way into the marching band at this point, and am totally at a band function here, if not a band TRIP. We were partying quite hard, I believe, with plenty of fruit punch and pretzels and we were downright giddy about it. Behold, the earnestness:
It sort of breaks my heart, because my God, I was so … so … earnest! And happy! About BAND! BAND BAND BAND OMG GOOOOO, BAND! OBOES RULE, SAXOPHONES DROOL!
By the way, I was MOCKED for not curling my bangs into the ever-popular softball shape. MOCKED, I tell you. In fact, at the lunchtable once, Mean Girl Lori blurted out, “Oh my God, Jonna, will you PLEASE CURL YOUR BANGS. PLEASE.” Who’s laughing now, Lori? It might not be the best hair, but at least there wasn’t any AquaNet involved, unlike, say, YOURS.
Happy Monday!
*Wilco
36 comments September 7th, 2008