July 31, 2009

-image-pie day! pie day!!

mesobig.jpg
Calm down, little Tracey. The pie will still be there when you get there.

I mean, one assumes. But what do I know? Maybe the whole town will be out of pie. Let’s be realistic. I mean, I can’t guarantee there will be pie. I can’t. Sorry, kid.

Probably what you should do here, little Trace, is take your gun with you, that teeny tiny gun you have, so you can start an old-timey shoot-’em-up if the town ain’t got no pie. That’s what they do in them little mountain towns. Remember, MB is from a little mountain town and you are constantly dodging bullets every dadgummed time you go up there. You know, consarnit! and whatnot.

But honestly, all that silliness aside, it’s my birthday and I want to say that all of you who read this blog are a shining gift to me every single day. I’ve never met any of you in person, but the immeasurable ways you’ve touched my life for nearly five years now are as real and vital as anything. You all blaze with compassion and wit and heart and one of my true joys is that I can hang out with you — any time of day or night.

Thank you for being such friends, such champions, such goofs, such true blue hearts. I love you all.

Thank you, dear pippa, from the bottom of my pie-lusting heart.

July 30, 2009

-image-random facts about little tracey

My birthday is tomorrow, so naturally, I will be donning black and scooping out ashes from the fireplace and rolling around in them, coating myself and sobbing.

This seems the best way to celebrate.

Unless MB takes me out for pie. I don’t mean any pie. I mean apple pie. And I mean apple pie you drive an hour for — to a tiny hamlet in the mountains called Julian, where all they do, from what I can tell, is make people happy by making awesome pie. That’s it. That’s the sole reason they exist. They’re like Disneyland for pie. The North Pole of Pie. I’m pretty sure — and I’m very knowledgeable about this place seeing as how I live as close as an hour to it and visit it LOTS, like three times a year — that every business there is a pie company. That’s what it seems like to me. Or if they actually do something else, they offer pie on the side. Locksmith with pie on the side. Plumber with pie on the side. Bank with a piece of pie with your deposit. (If that’s true, and why wouldn’t it be, I am totally switching banks.)

Also, I’m now going to jam things down my toilet just so I can have a plumber show up with some plunge-y things and PIE.

Please don’t be jealous that I just might be having apple pie tomorrow and opening a new bank account. Oh, and here’s the piece de resistance about it all: You order the warm apple pie …… with cinnamon ice cream …. and I’m not sure if it’s a religious experience or a sexual one, but yamahama, Crackie, something in you is changed forever.

I know. Take a moment to let that sink in. Warm apple pie with cinnamon ice cream. It’s astonishing.

You know, if I died tomorrow, it would be okay with me. Just call me home after the pie, okay, Lord? Also, don’t let MB try to kill me by taking me on a glider ride like he did a few years ago. I still have post-traumatic claustrophobia from that experience. Amen.

Uhm, what is the post even about? (Drunk, see? I’m telling you, pippa. Every post like this is a searing cry for help.)

Oh, yeah. Random facts about little Tracey who is now a withered crone.

But I prefer to remember the good ol’ days, when I was two.

Here we go:

~ When I was a toddler, apparently, I liked to pile ribbons of every kind on my head and announce, “Can’t see me! Can’t see me!” Mom and dad would say, “Oops! Can’t see you!” And I’d look at them and whisper, “Shhhhh …. shhhhhh …..” Yeah, you know, mom and dad, you’re ruining the illusion, do shut up. I shush you. There are waay too many pictures of me in this state of “invisibility” with various piles of ribbons — and sometimes, what looks like trash, frankly — teetering atop my blinding white hair. And if my scanner weren’t broken, I’d show you, but alas, you are forced to imagine. So I was, at the age of two, obsessed with my own perceived invisibility.

And now, when I go to church and want to be seen — uh, sorta — Ta DAAA! Can’t see me! I was prophetic.

~ I walked very late. Embarrassingly late. Like uhm, is something wrong with your daughter late. Actually, truth be told, I still can’t. I talked very early, mom said, so I didn’t need to walk. I would just inform people what was up, what I wanted, what I expected of them. Little Tyrant Tracey.

~ I didn’t crawl like a normal child either. Nope. I dragged my entire body around by my right arm. You know, as if my other three limbs were totally paralyzed. What is that?? I dragged my entire body around by my right arm. This, I did not believe for years. No way, I’d say. That is bogus. I did NOT do that. Why are you trying to hurt me? Blahdie blah. Then, years later, when my niece Piper was a baby, the whole family witnessed her drag her entire body across the floor with her right arm. My mom gasped. “Oh, my gosh! Just like Tracey!” I stared, dumbfounded, watching my niece do what little me had done, the thing I’d refused to believe. Seeing it didn’t exactly sweeten the pot, either. It looks retarded, basically, but there you have it.

~ Mom had a hard time potty training me. For some unfathomable reason, she thought putting pretty underwear on me would stop the inevitable, you know, flow of nature. Why, Mom, why would you think that? I’m, like, two. I don’t care about underwear. I care about putting trash on my head and being invisible. She’s told me, “Yeah, I had all these ruffle-y little pairs of underwear and I’d put them on you, thinking you wouldn’t want to ruin those (again, Mom, what??? You are nuts) and moments later, I’d find you in the closet with soiled underwear. You’d just hide in the closet and poop right in them.” Obviously, I did not give a tiny rat’s bottom about this frilly underwear. Mom, I’m sorry, but this is so lame. I was two! I’m kind of howling right now, picturing my mom’s frustration at finding me in the closet — weird child — sporting the latest pair of ruined underwear. Hahahahaha. If it makes you feel any better, Mom, I don’t do that anymore. At least not very often.

~ My older sister tried to suffocate me when I was a baby. Perhaps to spare my mother the coming pain of all that ruined underwear.

~ The Christmas I was three, I was given this …. thing ….. called Timmy the Clock. Timmy the Clock was whack, I tell you, WHACK. It was this walking, talking, ringing, buzzing toy clock. His eyes rolled around like he was on drugs. He had arms that would flail about menacingly. So it’s Christmas and Dad winds Timmy up for me for the first time …. and he starts walking and clanging towards me and it is completely freaky and wrong, just wrong, and I am overcome by the sheer terror of Timmy the Clock and run shrieking from the room in my feety pajamas to hole up in the bathroom. It’s Christmas, mind you, and there are other toys to play with, but I’m so traumatized by that horrible clock that my parents spend about ten minutes coaxing me out of the bathroom to, you know, enjoy Christmas again. Somewhere, there is a picture of me posed next to Timmy (again, why, Mom and Dad, did you make me pose with Timmy after that) with my eyes bugging out and my mouth a perfect O of horror.

I had nightmares about stupid Timmy the Clock for many years.

Hopefully, there will be no Timmy the Clock tomorrow.

The vile thing.

Shiver.

July 29, 2009

-image-“the wonderful cross”

I have two favorite traditional hymns.

This is one of them, called “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” The version below is modernized and known as “The Wonderful Cross.” The verses are the same as they were originally written in 1707 by Isaac Watts, but a chorus — which I love — has been added by Chris Tomlin. I’ve been listening to this non-stop since our “second Sunday” a few days ago.

Because when people are too much, too insensitive, too unaware, too blind ….. any kind of “too” that leaves you weeping and scared …… there’s always the wonderful cross.

I’d rather weep over that.

(Honestly, I do find this video a bit aesthetically annoying — but I don’t watch it; I just listen. Headphones make it so much better. The song could be a tiny bit faster, if you ask me, but you didn’t, so uhm, chill out, Tracey. Just listen.)

Lyrics below. I love the lyrics.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride

See from his head, his hands, his feet
Sorrow and love flow mingled down
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown

O the wonderful cross, O the wonderful cross
Bids me come and die and find that I may truly live
O the wonderful cross, O the wonderful cross
All who gather here by grace draw near and bless Your name

Were the whole realm of nature mine
That were an offering far too small
Love so amazing, so divine
Demands my soul, my life, my all

July 28, 2009

-image-Protected: second sunday

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

July 26, 2009

-image-Protected: snippets

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

July 25, 2009

-image-i can hear the frenzied screams from here

Did I mention Comic-Con is in town? Oh, yes. I’m now afraid to walk the streets lest I be assaulted by a “Klingon” violently demanding my purse from me in, uhm, “Klingon.”

Oh, and Sarahk? When I emailed you the other night during the local 11:00 news to give you the status on Kristen Stewart’s hair — you know, because oh, how I love you — I wasn’t entirely accurate. It looked a lot shorter in the news report than it actually is. Still, the girl is totally Goth-ing out. And, as a withered crone, I don’t even know what that means. I just report. Or, alternatively, make things up. Potato/potahto.

Here she is for you, Sarahk. Oh, and there are some random dudes in this photo too. Must be fans or something. I guess. Who knows? I sure don’t.

twilightnewmoon.jpg
(I do like her tennis shoes.)

July 24, 2009

-image-Protected: warning: free-form spiritual angst ahead

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

July 23, 2009

-image-hello, sarahk

Sarahk, you know I love you. Oh, how I love you. So I feel I must share something with you.

Something I won’t be doing for you even though I love you, oh, how I love you, blahdie blahdie blah.

I won’t, repeat WON’T, be going down to International Comic-Con 2009 — a mere, oh, five miles from me at the San Diego Convention Center — to see all the stars of Twilight: New Moon who are in town for a “panel discussion” and a screening of said movie.

Nope.

Can’t do it. The crowds, the fan boys, the costumes, they skeer me. They give me the bends and gout and cause me palpitations and kidney failure. It’s true. I’m all about truth here, as we all know. I’m a withered crone and cannot be expected to be out in that environment. I mean, if some fan boy brushed up against my brittle bones, I could turn to dust in an instant. It could be poof! no more Tracey and you wouldn’t want that, would you?

Would you?

Oh, plus — bummer — it’s all sold out and probably has been since 1573. So boo hoo hoo on that.

But, really, I still love you, Sarahk, despite all this damning evidence to the contrary.

Here’s what I will do: I will call my friend M who is a concierge at a shi-shi poo-poo hotel in la-di-dah La Jolla and see if she’s seen any Twilight celebrities, okay? She always tells me who she sees: Drunken NFL players. Marlon Brando demanding Mexican food. You know, your basic ho-hum stuff.

That I will do for you.

Honestly, Sarahk, I don’t know how much more sacrificial my love for you could be.

July 22, 2009

-image-“wuthering heights” book cover

harpercollins-919.jpg
Really?

Really?

Well, yes, of course, because whenever I think of the raging feral love between Cathy and Heathcliff, I always think of a soft white tulip climbing a stately staircase on red ribbon legs.

I mean, don’t you?

July 21, 2009

-image-is this wrong?

I need to know. Seriously.

I need to know if it’s wrong to think some of the clothes on this site for Islamic clothing are really pretty.

Like this tunic:

tunic.jpg

Or this one:

tunic3.jpg

I mean, wouldn’t they look cute with jeans?

I’m scaring myself.

But look — all their pants are like sailor pants:

pants.jpg

And everyone knows sailor pants look good on all of us dhimmis.

I’m scaring myself.

Okay. So I drank some wine and I have a low tolerance for alcohol.

Fine.

I also worked out on my trampoline for 45 minutes with 5-pound weights on each arm so I was lightheaded anyway and it seemed like a good idea to me, apparently, to add alcohol to the mix.

Whatevs. I’m not Solomon. This is not news.

Plus, it’s nighttime and it’s still 953 degrees here.

I’m just saying there are extenuating circumstances here that are to blame for this post.

Proceed apace, dhimmis.

Next Page »

Powered by WordPress