There's a Light... In the Darkness

I love you, Steven Johnson.

I love you, too, Judge Phan.

Not That I'm Biased Or Anything

I think those of us who actually derive our livelihoods from video games would sum up our reaction to the Rockstar brouhaha thusly:

So, a game where you can cap a prostitute or beat her to death with a pipe is okay... but having sex with her is grounds for an immediate recall? Oooookaaaaaaay...

I'm not surprised. This is the country where my uterus and any resident cell clumps are of more value than my life, after all.

A Window Into My Home, Part 2

I recently purchased a "ring knitter," a Colonial-era toy used by very small children to knit endless chains of sturdy cord. The instructions have a list of things you can make. The verbatim quote:

"1. A belt.
2. A jumprope."

There is no three.

Yeah, so, I MADE a three. I knitted six lengths of cord, and tied them together in a traditional pattern to make a Colonial Plant Hanger.

I have never made a Regular Plant Hanger.

This poor abortion of a plant hanger is badly proportioned, and constructed from thirty year old blue wool. No, really, my mother in law gave me the wool. The skein had a price tag that said "Woolworth's: 29 cents." It actually had the little cent sign, but they don't even put that symbol on keyboards anymore. Being genuine 1973 wool, it's got a lot of stretch to it. Macrame is really the best choice in plant hanger design, not knitted cord.

Anyway, I presented my opus to my mate, as a hunter presents a kill to the head of the tribe. Because he is an Advanced Husband, as previously discussed, he did not mock me. He did not praise the cobalt creation, however, and I slunk away.

You can't keep a girl like me down for long, though, so after we retired for the evening, I looked over to the love of my life and said, "I'm... MACRA-MAZING."

Silence.

"How long have you been waiting to use that?"

"Oh, just a few minutes."

"Really."

"Yeah. I love my plant hanger."

Silence.

"It was MACRA-MADE in America."

Things We Said At the Hospital After He Was Rushed to the ER

Upon seeing a needle coming towards him: "Is that a new needle? Because I don't share needles." (Note: This was apparently like making a bomb joke in an airport, because he suddenly had a lot more attention than he needed.)

After hearing my mate's cholesterol count, said with a straight face: "Does this mean our diet consisting entirely of Indian frozen entrees and Hot Pockets has to change?"

Largest faux pas made in the ER, in response to being asked how old my mate was: "Well, in dog years, he's dead."

While riding the gurney from triage to the treatment room: "This thing should be lowered." (No mention of what kind of rims he'd like to see.)

Biggest lie of the night, in response to being asked how many caffeinated beverages he consumed in a typical day: "Six." (Technically, not a lie. The nurse interrupted him before he could explain he drank that many CANS of diet soda a day, but that it was difficult to measure three restaurant refills in "standard" glasses at lunch and two refills in "supersize" glasses at dinner.)

Morning after description of the shaved bits of chest, where the monitors were: "I look like a cheetah in reverse."

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 14

Me: My frat house had a box of porn magazines next to the toilet. I really thought they were just there to read. You know, like [Guy 1] keeps car magazines in the bathroom.

Guy 1, 2, and 3: Yeah, to masturbate over.

Guy 3: The next time I travel for business, I'm just going to buy a magazine at the airport. It seems like every time there's an event, I come back to the hotel room drunk and order a movie. Five ninety five versus twelve ninety five, it just makes more sense.

Me: Can't you just use your imagination or something?

Guy 2: I just masturbate to CNN.

Guy 1: "This is Wolf Blitzer." Oh, yeah. Ooooh, WOLF.

Guy 1, 2 and 3: UNNNGH.

The Voice of the Firefly

During the fireworks on Monday night, one lonely firefly kept drifting up, up, up to the heavens, trying to get to the beautiful lights. It was almost tragic, until my husband started doing the firefly's voice.

First of all, fireflies apparently have the voices of phlegmy Jewish men from Brooklyn. Second of all, as they flash their yellow messages of love, flying towards the blue and silver sparkles, they are apparently saying, "Oh, yeah, show me that magnesium, baby. Oh, yeah, I got jungle fever. I can get that yellow anywhere, but gimme some of that blue, blue loving. How's about you and me get together and make some green."

*inarticulate scream of despair*

WHY, SANDY, WHY?