I’ve never even met a polar bear, you know. Fucking cliquey snobs.
EDIT: Except the Bundaberg Bear. That guy’s a legend.
I make lists.
It’s probably an anxiety thing. Like, if I don’t keep a list of this stuff, I will forget and the world will end as a result and it will be all my fault. Because who else is going to list the chores I need to do or the bills I need to pay? No one. That’s who. No one.
So I make lists. Some of them are more useful than others. This is probably going to be the weirdest one I’ve ever done. On account of the layers. You’ll see what I mean. It’s like Inception, but on a notepad instead of in a billion dollar movie.
Things I Have Written Lists About:
That’s just a few. I got bored before I finished. That pretty much is how all my lists end. I do like the kind of lists where you get to tick things off and feel accomplished, but I also like the kind of lists where you can read back and go “Yeah.” … That’s it. Yeah. Because what else is there to say?
Tips For Making a Good List:
Reasons Why I Am Happy Today:
This is the greatest list I have ever seen
Gen: I wish I got a Happy Meal. It comes with a caterpault. Kids are throwing chips everywhere. I’m jealous.
Kasey: I feel like someone may not have thought that through.
Gen: I know! If they had, they’d give them to everyone!
Brad: I suspect the people who market these things don’t really consider how people might use them to make a mess of the McDonald’s store.
Gen: No, obviously not. Otherwise they’d never put pickles on anything either.
Then Brad went on eating his fries while I watched the kids play their game in envious fascination. Until …
Gen: The aim of the game seems to be to catch the fries in your mouth. This concerns me because they keep picking up the dropped ones off the floor.
Kasey: Well, you can’t just give up!
Boy (to girl): Aim properly!
Yep. That would be my hope too.
Today Teddy and I played a game I like to call Rorschach.
You can probably deduce from the pictures just how much fun it is.
And I discovered that my son is an artistic genius. See the resemblance to Van Gogh’s sunflowers and Munch’s Scream?
It’s uncanny, isn’t it? And not at all disturbing that someone would turn their baby’s footprint into a distressing surrealist image.
Guess what?! Now you can play Rorschach too! Just have a look at the third baby painting below, and tell me what you think Teddy’s getting at. If you provide me with visual stimulus so that I can see it too, I’ll finish off the final canvas with one of your ideas. As an added bonus, I’ll even send it to you (if you want it).
With any luck I can get him to autograph it, but don’t hold your breath. He isn’t too good with his hands yet. Those sunflowers were meant to be handprints, and not an ink blot test at all …
So what do you think? What is baby Teddy’s final picture?
So, I like this stupid game where I play with people’s names. It probably began right after high school when I took to calling Kasey NutKase. Or BookKase. Or SuitKase.
So freaking hilarious.
For some reason he was never impressed.
Later one of my brothers went out with a girl called Bow. She was from Thailand. I thought it might mean something in Thai but when I asked her “What does Bow mean?” she looked at me like I was mental and replied, “It means ribbon, dumbarse” except the dumbarse part was only implied. You’d think I’d call her Ribbon after that but I thought Bow Thai was funnier. And later, Thai Bow. It’s interchangeable. So awesome. Bowtox was another favourite. Also RainBow.
Then one day she looked at me and said simply “Genocide” and suddenly the game wasn’t funny at all anymore. So I quit.
For like, five minutes. And then I had an inspiration and I called her Bow-hemeth and she had to look that one up.
Then I started on Brad, which was actually way more difficult than I imagined. The best I came up with was Bradminton and he said that was pretty bad. Since I couldn’t expand on his name, I thought I might make variations of it instead:
If Brad was in a boyband, he’d be Braddles McFadden.
If he was Jewish he’d be a Breidel. (I know, that one’s terrible but actually you need to blame his high school friends for it.)
If he was Dr Frankenstein he’d be a Brad Scientist.
If he was a motorcycle champion, he’d be Bradentino Rossi.
If he was Russian he’d be Bradimir Hyslov. This one has stuck. Everyone calls him Bradimir. Even American Airlines.
To be honest, I’d forgotten about the game until recently. It was freezing cold and I was shivering as I walked to the train station with my friend. Suddenly he stepped in front of me, acting as a windblock (a pretty poor one, I might add, since it was still bloody cold all around me) …
And he said “I wouldn’t want you to be cryoGen”
I bet I’m going to regret sharing this game – but come on – tell me what you’ve got. If you people can come up with things like The Real Barman’s Sewage Duane, I’ll be impressed. Keep them clean, though. I’m a lady.
Awhile ago we saw mushrooms that you put in your garden. You can sit on them. One might even call them toadstools (but I don’t think I will, because that is a terrible joke). I really quite liked the mushrooms, because they’re cute and funny and did I mention you can actually sit on them? These are functional mushrooms, and who doesn’t want functional mushrooms?
I mean – how often do you look at a mushroom, or maybe some other lawn ornament, and ask yourself “But what would I do with it?” and you think about buying it but who can justify spending money on a pair of wooden ducks that just sit in the garden and don’t DO anything?
The mushrooms, on the other hand, have a use.
Plus, we had a space under the avocado tree just waiting to be filled with mushroom.
So we bought three.
Afterwards a disinterested friend was duly admiring said mushrooms (because I was watching carefully and may have sounded a little threatening when I asked “Do you like my mushrooms? The correct answer is yes“), and the nicest thing he could think of to say about them was that they suit my Alice in Wonderland outlook on life.
While some people may not necessarily accept this as a genuine show of admiration, I have chosen to believe it was meant as highest praise.
Now all we need is a row of roses. And possibly a paintbrush.
Warning: this post may be offensively ignorant and irreverent. In my defence, I’m in the USA and just trying to fit in. (Sorry, there was some of that aforementioned offensiveness. I only mean it a little bit) (This disclaimer could go on and on, fluctuating between “I’m sorry” and “Well, I’m sort of not”. Maybe you should just skip to the story before I accidentally cancel myself out in a moral quandary.)
Brad: (driving through Mt. Vernon) Do you want to go and look at that church?
Gen: (peering disinterestedly at the building in question) Not really
Brad: The roof is very pointy
Gen: It doesn’t seem to have a cross. There might be a stick on top though … I think that’s Mormon. I’m pretty certain I heard somewhere that Mormons believed that Jesus died on a stake instead of a cross.
Brad is silent. Probably because he is trying to take in the implications of such a belief. Also possibly because he is wondering where the hell I got that idea.
Gen: (ignoring the scepticism and explaining the implications of said belief) I’m pretty certain they think Jesus was a vampire. Because that’s what you do with vampires – you stake them.
Gen again: (feeling like Brad might want her to wrap this up) And that’s why you can have seven wives.
Brad: Jesus was a vampire … so Mormons can have seven wives?
Gen: It’s only a very brief history of Mormonism.
I’m pretty certain the sense lies in all the details I missed.
We’re in Las Vegas. And … wow
I can see how one could get lost on The Strip – lose track of time, lose track of where you are, lose track of where you’re supposed to be – and emerge three days later completely unaware of how long it has been.
My favourite part so far was the fountains in front of the Bellagio Hotel.
After it finished, a smattering of people applauded. “Go water, do your thing”.
And we discussed whether there is any scientific reason why coloured lights and moving water make people happy. Mostly we decided that they just do, and any scientific theory about chemical reactions between the light, air and water promoting the release of endorphins is probably just bogus. Just enjoy the fountain show and stop trying to analyse it!
I hate driving. I think everyone knows that. I hate being the driver and I hate being the passenger and I hate being on the road in general because I’m always afraid that everyone is trying to hit me. And then one time I was in a car accident, and that made me certain that everyone was trying to hit me, so I couldn’t even comfort myself with the knowledge that anxiety lies to you – because sometimes my fears are real.
As a result, people are often surprised that I like to stop and look at motorcycles, and that I declare my love for my car on practically a daily basis. “How can you love cars when you hate driving?” The answer is simple. If I have to drive, if I absolutely HAVE to be on the road, then I need to do everything I can to alleviate the pain and improve the experience. Thus, I drive a super cute sportscar with Hello Kitty seat covers.
And for our California-Nevada-Arizona road trip I wanted a monster truck.
But everyone laughed at me. Including the travel agent. It turns out that not only did no one else want a monster truck (especially the people who were going to drive, which is NOT ME because I can barely manage driving at home on the correct side of the road, let alone here on the wrong side) – but the car hire place didn’t even have a monster truck to lend us.
So we ended up with this instead:
A Dodge Caravan. It’s a big seven-seater, family friendly, gas guzzling minivan. Actually it isn’t a gas guzzler, I only said that for the alliteration. It’s really economical. Which is yet another way of saying that it’s boring.
But – there’s a bright side! We have a GPS, and Alicea discovered that we had several options for an avatar (is it called an avatar for a car?) on the GPS screen so just for me, she made it look like we have a monster truck:
So now I can happily sit right up the back of the car (because I’m an Aussie, and we all just naturally gravitate to the back of the bus) and ignore the fact that it’s a van in favour of the more exciting belief that it’s actually a super awesome monster truck that could mow down everything in its path. Which is lucky because according to the pictures on GPS land, our monster truck is bigger than some of the towns we passed today.