i like big twits and i cannot lie
A couple of months ago, I wrote about the things I'd tweet if I twitted. Shortly after that post, in my quest to be as close to Backpacking Dad as legally possible, I became a huge twit, and if you ever wish to see me pushing my twits together far more than I probably should, you can join me at the love shack.
While I can appreciate the 140-character stable Twitter keeps you reigned in at, the confines of such brevity for a girl as wordy as myself (See what I mean? I could have just said '...for a wordy girl as myself,' or, better yet, just '...wordy girl') can feel a little like I'm trying to shove a pair of kick ass double Ds into a B-cup bra. Thus, to cap off the week, I'm letting my tweets spill over by sharing some random delights (or "double D-lites!") with you.
- I called my 6-year-old niece Monday afternoon because I needed someone to feel bad for me after my tumble down the stairs. "Auntie's covered in owies, and the boys just laugh at me when I hurt, sweetie. Can you give me a hug through the phone?" After she'd happily obliged, I asked how her day had been. "I fell off the jungle gym at recess today and broke my wrist in two places and the doctor twisted it and I cried and now I have a cool cast on! I'm going to decorate it with polka dots!" she said. "Huh. So. I guess you're wanting that hug back." Gah! Totally pwnd by a kindergartner! Sympathy fail!
- During the same phone call, my 11-year-old son, who'd earlier "Heh'd" me when I told him about my fall, virtually held the fragile bones of his cousin and told her what a trooper she was. Talk, as it is wont to do among the young, turned to cartoons. "So, do you like Scooby Doo?" my son asked. His query reminded me of his deep, consumer-driven love of all things Scooby Doo he'd had for years, the one Tool Man and I fed with videos, toys, clothing, and related paraphernalia. I smiled when I heard him ask his cousin if she, too, loved that damn dog, and I thought of how cute he was as a toddler at his Scooby Doo-themed birthday parties, and dragging two stuffed Great Danes to bed in his Scooby Doo pajamas. So sweet. And then: "Yeah, I really hate Scooby Doo, too." What? Under the mask of this so-called Scooby Doo fan was actually a boy who hated the crime-solving canine?! Poof! went my memories! Memories I would have held onto longer if it weren't for that darn kid!
- I had my annual review at work the other day. This process took a record 90 seconds to administer because I'm just that fantastic. Management wishes science had the means to create a super colony of book sellers just like me, except we all know how that kind of thing turns out. There's always one Terminator/robot/alien/bionic goddess who uncovers her feelings deep within her steely facade, and then chaos breaks out. Alas, they'll have to make due with just me this holiday season.
- At the completion of my review, I was rewarded for another year of awesomeness with a 50 cent raise. She's got big thoughts, big dreams, and a big brown Mercedes sedan! Four years of bionic-like employment, and this token puts me in the shadow of a double digit hourly wage! This is, alas, more than I ever made as a newspaper editor. Cristal for the house, courtesy of yours truly! Did I say Cristal? I meant Chrystal Light.
- Hearing the theme song to 90210 - Duh nuh nuh nuh. Nuh nuh nuh nuh. Clap, clap. Duh nuh nuh nuh. Nuh Nuh Nuh Nun. Do do do do - still totally makes me happy. BH-Niner, I am forever your Andrea Zuckerman. I'll totally go all the way with you after prom. Just tell me you love me, too.
- Speaking of love, the Kings of Leon's song Sex On Fire kind of makes me want to get laid. Strike that. It definitely makes me want to get laid. Seriously. I've probably listened to this song more times than I've actually been laid (which is to say, I've listened to it at least twice). In between verses, I think I can hear it pleading for mercy, saying something about how it's "...just one song, woman, not a machine!", and feigning sleep so I'll not hit rewind on my iPod to continue the sexy time.
- Speaking of sexy time, I began the process of storing calories for the hard winter today when I discovered Reece's peanut butter pumpkins have made their triumphant return to stores shelves. They've probably been available for awhile now, but I've been too busy buying vibrators at Target to stroll the store's candy aisles. I bought one to bask in its glorious greatness (aka shove it in my mouth so quickly you'd ask to see my hands afterward because you would be afraid that, in my haste, I also ate my fingers clean off). Some observations - (1) Reece's peanut butter pumpkins seem a lot smaller than I remember and (2) Reece's peanut butter pumpkins are still totally awesome. However, having gorged on one, I must now declare a cease fire and prevent them from declaring war upon my ass. One and done. Cold turkey. Unless! Unless Reece's decides to put out a peanut butter turkey for Thanksgiving! Then all bets are off, and so will be my clothes, because I will eat so many of those damn things nothing will fit me.
That's about it. After reading those, you're perhaps thinking, "Eh. Follow you on twitter? Based on this post? I think I'm good. Yeah. I'm good. Are you good? Yeah. We're good. How 'bout we just get the check now?" That's OK. No worries. However, if you're so inclined, I've just shown you my tweets, so if you want, show me yours. Here, there, or anywhere.