Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating real content.
Especially when the blasted videos won’t embed and I’m running about six hours low on sleep after a virus. But y’all ought to be used to that by now . . .
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Bring it
Someday in the far future, when my children tell their therapists that I was the Worst Mother Ever, I will speak only four words (and be thinking four more) in my defense:
“Animal Pancakes for Dinner.”
With chocolate chips, baby.
ooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooo
Better Late than Ø
My SIL has wanted to establish a new Sorority/Fraternity/Egality ever since she realized that fifty-one percent of Miami University (of Ohio, thank you) was Greek.
She had the name all picked out.
Σ = Sigma
Φ = Phi
Ø = Empty Set, or Nothing
Sigma Phi Nothing.
Say it quicker.
See?
We’re gonna do it—better late than never. Want to join?
There will be shirts. And I was promised a ball cap.
ooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooo
The Right to Bare Arms . . .
Twelve people have landed here in the past three days by googling “Jeremy Renner’s arms.”
Which, I inadvertently discovered yesterday, have their own Facebook and Tumblr accounts.
Seriously? I mean, I know I mentioned them myself, but . . . seriously?
The man works hard for twenty years, building a career of solid performances, finally gets an Oscar nod for carrying The Hurt Locker—an amazing flick with no overt sex appeal whatsoever*—takes on more roles that showcase him as far more than a run-of-the-mill thug or a cardboard action hero in spandex, and all we can do is wolf whistle?
C’mon people, we can do better than that.
Besides, if we’re going to fall into shallow love with the man, let it be over his voice:
The one I really wanted to share was Mr. Renner singing ‘New York State of Mind‘ on the Jimmy Fallon Show, but it wouldn’t embed form Tumblr and YouTube blocked it, so click the link and thank me later.
But this next one is his own composition—we’ll forgive him for the oops near the beginning:
Because any man who can sing like this? I don’t care what he looks like, ’cause I’ve got my eyes closed anyway.
ooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooo
Aliases are Stranger than Fiction
I figured my SIL has been mentioned enough around here to get her own blog alias.
She suggested Lisa, but we’ve got at least three here already and calling her Bruce (with or without thick, fake Australian accent) to avoid confusion wouldn’t work for reasons metaphorical and literal.**
So I asked her what her middle name was.*** She told me, and I fell off my chair.
It’s Watson.
Forget for a second that I’m the writer around here and she’s the brains—I’ve got my own Watson, y’all!
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*If your mileage varies that much, this blog is going to bore you to death.
**A brownie point to the first person who gets this reference.
***I refuse to believe this is odd, neglectful, or anti-social. Outside of my immediate family, I don’t bother memorizing middle names—I’m not sure it’s possible. It’s all I can do to remember spouses and married names . . . Yeah, okay, it’s all I can do to remember to ask my parents about them. My memory is stuffed full of other things—none of which are Jeremy Renner’s arms or Benedict Cumberbatch’s cheekbones thank you so very much.^ Though I’ll cop to recognizing them when I see ’em. ^
^Note from Watson: Methinks she doth protest too much.^^
^^Note from Sarah: Hey—you were supposed to be proofreading.
Earful of Cider 