The Universe Has Spoken, But What The Fuck Did It Say?

Stephanie made me join this thingy called "The Universe" that sends me little emails every day to remind me that it's ok, and good, actually, to Go Up The Down Staircase. Most of the time, it's like a horoscope; could fit anyone, not just the person born under that particular sign. It also tells the weather. Today's forecast for Seattle, according to The Universe, is raining CDs. Hopefully, it will rain Rufus Wainwright and save me a few bucks.

But, on occassion, The Universe says something that I just cannot understand. It could be the lack of sleep - Linda kept me up late last night...again.

The Universe says, "When someone is so 'desperate' to have what they want to have, do what they want to do, or be who they want to be, Vicky, that they'd rather take little, tiny, teensy steps in the direction of their dreams than face one more single day of doing without, we just can't help but to open the floodgates.
It's perhaps our greatest weakness.

We bad -
The Universe"

Ok, as I said at the The Ould Triangle last night, I am dumber than a box of nails. But could someone (Gerry) please rewrite this sentence in plain English? Otherwise I will not be able to realize my full potential today, and that would just be depressing.

Ooooh, sun! Bye-bye!

Then and Now

When I was in high school, The 6-inch Rule referred to the length of a girl's skirt/dress from the hem to the top of her knees. At any time, any teacher or other school official could, and would, make a girl kneel on the asphalt so her skirt could be measured with a wooden ruler. If the skirt was more than 6 inches above the girl's knee, she could, and would, be sent home to change.

But we could wear halter tops. So, you couldn't show leg, but boob was ok. What can I say, I went to an experimental high school :)

When my darling angels were in high school, the 6-inch rule referred to how close a boy could get to a girl. If the boy got closer than 6 inches, any teacher, school official or even the girl, could shout "Six-inch rule! Six-inch rule!" in a high-pitched panicky voice; apparently, if the two sexes got closer than 6 inches, all kinds of terrible things might happen.

First of all, that's just dumb. Everybody knows you get pregnant from drinking the water. Besides, if you can't get closer than 6 inches, then how can you possibly get your freak on?

Well, the answer is you can't. According to a recent article in the Seattle Weekly, "In 2005, Seattle School District's chief academic officer issued a memo prohibiting freak dancing, but left it up to individual schools to both define and police it." That seems dumb to me. What if the person defining it is a 50 year old single woman, twice divorced who just so happens to like clubbing?

The article goes on to say, "In practice, Seattle school administrators define freaking a bit like they do pornography—you know it when you see it—but there are some general prohibitions: dancing against a wall, grabbing ankles, hands below the knees, the use of chairs or other furniture for impromptu lap dances, pantomiming of sex acts, trains, or contact between any areas that a bathing suit would cover. Ingraham High School has even created a mnemonic device to help its students remember: Face to face and leave some space." How cute. I suppose it's better than shouting, "Six inch rule! Six inch rule!"

Here's the deal:
1. I am going dancing Saturday night, and I fully intend to freak dance
2. No wall dancing? What about up against the banister?
3. Grabbing ankles - now there's a visual!
4. Who needs a chair when the guy will get down and let you straddle him?
5. Does flipping some obnoxious guy off count as pantomiming a sex act?
6. Ok, no trains; but what about planes and automobiles?
7. All the more reason to wear a string-bikini.

But, back to the article. It further states that during one patrolling session, a school's activities coordinator actually caught the student-government officers leading the freaking. "They can't help themselves," she said. I like that; I'm going to use that excuse the next time someone comments on my dancing.

Students themselves appear to have trouble defining what was considered obscene and extreme. "We all agreed that a girl bent over, touching the ground, that's inappropriate," they concluded. You think?

So, now they have what is known as the "45-degree rule." Anyone whose torso is more than 45 degrees from perpendicular to the ground is too low and risks attracting the wrong response from the opposite sex. But 90 degrees is A-OK. Coolio!

When Life Gives You Lemons

So I went to see Nickel Creek last night at stuffy McCaw Hall. Who woulda thunk Seattleites would be so freakin' crazy about bluegrass? NC was here at Marymoor just this past summer, packed ampitheatre, and last night was packed as well, although the crowd seemed more reserved - perhaps the venue?

A person would be hard-pressed to find a group of musicians who can move as much as these guys while playing their respective instruments - their entire bodies are in constant motion. And you cannot keep your own body still.

And the speed at which their fingers move is amazing! The set includes the ever-present fiddle, mandolin, guitar and cello, with a banjo, harmonica, piano and a tap dancer thrown in for the hellofit. If you are under the impression that bluegrass is snoozeville, think again - you simply cannot follow their hand movements, they are that fast.

And, to top it off, some nutty fool thought she could start the wave...

But, the point of today's blog is not to talk about the concert (Nickel Creek, by the way, may be going on hiatus; that isn't confirmed, but suspected - their souvenir t-shirts said, "Nickel Creek Farewell For Now Tour," which seems foreboding). Rather, it's to talk about the drink I had before the concert.

I ordered a Lemon Drop. I got half a Lemon Drop. Normal sized martini glass, half full.

Ok, here's the thing - I don't mind a half-full glass, as long as I've drunk it down to being half full. That's not a bad place to be! But, when I'm paying 8 clams for a fru-fru drink, I want as much fru-fru as possible, yaknowwhatImean?

And I like the way I feel halfway down the glass! A little zoned, not completely inebriated, but still able to walk a somewhat straight line to my seat in Row M.

And there I was, already halfway down the glass without ever taking a sip! I turned to my daughter (who was drinking half a B52 - does that make it a B26?) and said, "Hm, strange, I don't feel tipsy yet..."

Shattered

I just lost the bid on VIP tickets to see The Police :(

On the other hand, proceeds go to WaterAid, a worthy cause, so I'm glad the tickets are going for so much!

If you would like to jump into the fray, you have until Friday, May 11, 2007 12:00 PM PDT to bid. Be prepared to start your bidding at over $500 for June 6 tickets and $600 for June 7th tickets. The Police are playing at KeyArena both nights, and these promise to be exciting shows.

If you're rich (a.k.a., a developer) and wish to bid:

Link to WaterAid Auction

And speaking of The Police - thanks, Gerry, for the mashup between Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and The Police’s Every Breath You Take. It makes me feel better about not actually being able to take my littlest bumpkin to see her idol reunited with the band that made him famous.

Mashup

Ok, that's my commercial break for the month. Back to chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter. Oops, wrong band. :)

Trivial Pursuit of Happiness

Yahoo! Tonight is Pub Quiz night! I just love the idea of helping our collective intellectuality (like that word?) along with a little al-ky-hal.

Reminds me of the beer manufacturer who advertises "Drink Responsibly." I mean, really, if drinking improved our sense of responsibility, wedding chapels in Vegas would go right out of business as would the day-after divorce lawyers down the hall and to the left.

Speaking of useless information, Saturday was Cinco de Mayo, and we celebrated by making lists. That's right, lists. We listed out the top five things we look for when on the prowl. We started off sensibly - heartbeat and penis. We drank a little more wine and thought about it, then added good job, sense of humor, nice teeth. After a few drinks, some self-examination, and a little copying, our lists had grown significantly, and included even more valuable stuff like white, not white. No one bothered with gentle, kind or understanding. I mean, does anyone really expect to find "penis" and "understanding" together? In a useful format?

Then we exchanged lists and went clubbing. The goal was to be each other's "wingman" and find the guy on the list for whomever we partnered with for this little exercise. By the end of the evening, two of the five people in our group had split (the two with cars, by the way), and the remaining three were not thinking about lists any longer. And, even though we were without transportation, we were strangely not thinking about that, either. I blame the music; it drummed all sensibility out of our heads. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the rounds of Buttery Nipples.

Seriously, who makes a list that includes things like "Has been employed at the same job for over a year," then goes to a club to meet such a man? I mean, you're on a dancefloor, music pounding, and you're gonna lean forward and shout, "So, what do you do for a living?" Yeah, no. All he's gonna hear is, "So do you swing?"

Needless to say, the lists did not come out. Well, two of the lists did not come out; the third list did. It was used to scribble a phone number on (with lipstick, mind you), then was shoved into the hands of a man who likely has none of the qualifications jotted on the other side. He dialed the number in less than 30 minutes. It was the shade of lipstick that did it, I'm sure - CFM red. Like Linda's nails!

I definitely think it was a worthwhile exercise, however, and I think we should repeat the endeavor. I am willing to bet that, if we did this for 6 weeks straight, each week the list would get shorter until Week Five found us right back where we started from with "heartbeat" and "penis," and Week Six listed only one of those.

"IT'S NOT A TUMOR!"

Main Entry: vac·u·ous
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin vacuus
1 : emptied of or lacking content
2 : marked by lack of ideas or intelligence : STUPID, INANE
3 : devoid of serious occupation : IDLE

Lisa LaFond is the epitomy of #2 above. Lisa LaFond once burned her neck while ironing a shirt she was wearing. Lisa LaFond is blond. Hm...

I, on the other hand, am not blond. And I don't particularly consider myself vacuous. Still, I burned my neck. Now I feel bad for harshing Lisa's mellow.

Every morning for the past 35 years, I have straightened my finger-in-the-light-socket curly hair into something that, at the least, won't frighten small children who've just woken up. I use a round boar's bristle brush with a metal core. The boar's bristles smooth the fractious strands, the roundness gives them a little flip at the ends, and the metal core promotes even drying.

And let me tell you, it gets heckaHOT. I know this because I've burned my fingers in the past. So what the hell was I doing poking my neck with it?! Perhaps I'm vacuous after all.

You know what really pisses me off about this though? I look like I have a hickie now. I don't have a hickie; I just look like I do. What fun is that? No licking, no sucking, no wetness, just the leftover bite-sized circle on my neck. Geez frikkin' Louise.

And what can I do about it? Cover it up with gauze? Yeah, like that wouldn't attract attention. Leave it showing? Huh uh, nope, can't - tomorrow night is pub quiz night. So what's a body to do?

Darn it! I hate to say this, but I hope it rains - then I will have an excuse to wear a turtle neck sweater...