I know this blog has just become a YouTube clip extravaganza, but I can't help myself. (Intervention, please!) Hello. My name is Jennifer, and I am an addict. Seriously, y'all: I'm able to find a pure sort of joy in just two minutes on YouTube, and if I can share that with the two of you who frequent this, then I am a success. Anyway, Animaniacs! (Anyone else remember watching this clip in a junior high social studies class?)
(Clearly, it's dated--no Uzbekistan!)
And here's another, just for Pete, while we're at it:
Dude, it's WALKING. With STYLE.
Bwahahahahahahaha!
"It's amazing. You look like a normal person but actually you are the angel of death." -Sally
1 comments Posted by Jennifer at 10:35 AMThey remind me of the old couch couples in When Harry Met Sally. *le sigh*
Sally Albright: Pepper.
Harry Burns: Pepper.
Sally Albright: Pepper.
Harry Burns: Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.
Sally Albright: Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.
Harry Burns: But I would be proud to partake of your pecan pieeeeee.
My not-so-baby sisters Sherrill and Julie just signed a 12-month lease on their first apartment in Blythe. It'll cost them a wallet-busting $550 a month, and though they don't allow pets, Sherrill managed to finagle a doctor's note from her gynecologist stating unequivocally that her dog, Sugar, is vital to Sherrill's mental and physical health. Isn't that freaking awesome? I chuckle crazily to myself every time I imagine the harried conversations that took place between Sherrill and her doctor, and between Sherrill and the leasing agent. This, my friends, is one of those things that makes the good life oh-so-delectably good.
John McCain, Sarah Palin, and the Republican party think that women are stupid. When Palin says, "Hillary left 18 million cracks in the highest, hardest glass ceiling in America. But it turns out the women of America aren't finished yet, and we can shatter that glass ceiling once and for all," she makes me want to vomit all over everything she and her fellow ideologues stand for: legislation that is overwhelmingly anti-gay, anti-choice, and anti-environment. Palin, you are no Hillary Clinton, and you are no friend of the feminist community.
Feministing sums it up far better than I'm able. Check it out here. It all makes me physically sick and profoundly sad.
Yay to Mande's wedding. Here are some pictures for all the two of you that read this.
This video was taken just a week or so after Syd's ear surgery last March. He has this strange--and ultimately beautiful--way of playing in which he doesn't really do anything, other than run around in circles and bark. And bark. And bark. And breathe heavily.
At 42sec, he stops barking, stops spinning, stares at us for a short pause, pulls back a little, and spins. This is what Syd does. This is who Syd is, and who we missed so greatly when he was sick for so long.
My favorite part of the video--the part that I watch over and over and over again to the very edge of insanity, which in turn leaves echoes of Syd's barking in my head for hours--is at the 1:05 mark. Just prior to that, Pete catches hold of the blur that is Syd (because, you know, he moves SO FAST), and I move in for a close-up with the camera. You can hear Syd huffing and puffing, acting tough, and then that immediate pregnant pause in which you can see so clearly what Syd is thinking: At that moment, he sees me as paparazzi--a nuisance, basically--and, much like celebrities who attack the photogs, Syd loses it. He's smiling, grunting loudly up at Pete, showing that he's pleased that Pete's scratching his butt, and I step in with the camera, which is SIMPLY INEXCUSABLE.
Jared Leto. Sigh. Jared Leto's hair (both head and facial). Sigh.
Of course, my first exposure to him was in the sub-par (but much loved by moi) Prefontaine, in which he played the titular character. There aren't too many high school runners out there who won't admit to wanting to bear his children, young women and men alike. I mean, really--who wouldn't want to kiss a mouth surrounded by this mustache? Who wouldn't want to LOSE THEMSELVES IN THIS MUSTACHE?
And then, it was Fight Club. Violent, loud, dumb at times, but genius, too. So so so so genius. And who steals the movie? Who steals the movie from Brad Pitt and Edward Norton with JUST THE VERY FREAKING PRESENCE OF HIS HAIR?
That's right, oh yes, Jared Leto. Jaaaaaarrrreeehd Leeeeeeetoooooooooooh. Look at that crazy-ass stance he has there. He's like a rabid and feral ferret or something. (A hot rabid and feral ferret, if you can believe it.)
And even though I hate Girl, Interrupted with a burning passion that I simply cannot contain in a semi-short blog post, Jared Leto once again owns the movie, scraggliness and all:
And even though I really wasn't a fan of Jodie Foster's lame Panic Room, who doesn't love Leto's cornrows? Forest Whitaker is thinking, If only I had cornrows. IF ONLY. Dude, now I want cornrows.
And playing Colin Farrell's male companion in Alexander? Still hot. Hello, lover.
I would, however, be remiss if I didn't include a picture of his most current role as Mark David Chapman, murderer of John Lennon (and the tender love of pretty much every freaking person on the planet). Even as a hefty lil' turd, my heart still melts just a little for him.
And I scream just a little, too, but worry not; it is as the smoldering, distant, and unattainable Jordan Catalano in the so-painfully-good-it-hurts My So-Called Life that I place him on my Top 5 list, along with Paul Giamatti, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Eric Bana. 
Just look at that embodiment-of-the-'90s plaid button-down. LOOK. AT. IT. Remember when Angela Chase becomes fixated on a little frayed part at the edge of the collar of this shirt and you feel nothing but sadness and love for him? And oh! The choker! And THE HAIR.
I have the urge to softly brush that little swatch of hair out of his eyes.
I've always wanted to try a real coconut. Not Almond Joy coconut, but Survivor coconut. Delicious, delightful, delectable coconut. So tonight, while at Vons, Pete and I bought one and brought it home. I even studiously read the sticker on "Melissa's Quick Crack Coconut" to avoid any mishandling of my perfect coconut. It read:
Fresh coconut is delicious to eat out of hand, as well as in sweet and savory dishes. Shredded coconut is great over fruit salad, desserts, and cereal. To crack open, puncture the closest eye (WHAT?!) with a dull knife, drain the liquid. (I totally didn't.) With a kitchen mallet or hammer, whack the coconut into the eye. Enjoy the delicious coconut.
It said that with unashamed, simple joy. Enjoy the delicious coconut. As though I should expect nothing less than perfection from my coconut.
I used a knife to twist a hole into "the eye" (there were three or four), and as I did so, a crazy unexpected burst of air released, which was a little frightening, actually. I should have questioned that burst of air; what kind of evil fruit RELEASES A PUTRID EXPLOSION OF AIR when you peel/cut/cleaver it? Despite the foreboding nature of that event, I nevertheless took an excited sip OF THE MOST VILE-TASTING DISGUSTINGNESS IMAGINABLE.
And yet, my spirits were still not dampened. Onward, brave coconut soldiers! Pete and I, disappointingly, do not have the pleasure of owning a kitchen mallet or a hammer, so Pete used a meat cleaver (now named Instrument of Destruction) to bash it open. And I do mean BASH BASH BASH BASH. Please note: I do not recommend this method, as coconut shrapnel flew at me, and it was not pleasant having the vile putridness of coconut juice ON MY ARM.
And even then, dripping with coconut juice, I still had hopes for the coconut. High hopes of sweet, sweet, heavenly, scrumdiddlyumptious coconut.
But no. It was not to be. The teeny tiny bit that I had tasted EXACTLY LIKE THE OFFENSIVE MILK. Exactly. Even now, removed from the horror, I lapse into involuntary convulsions.
In the future, I swear to never, ever, ever, ever question why the contestants on Survivor complain about not having food and that they're starving when they have plenty of coconuts. Hoards of coconuts. Stockpiles of coconuts. I get it now. I've been enlightened.
Later, Pete built a fort:
These are the things we do for fun on Wednesday nights.
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