Commercials...to be continued
Wooing the consumer…it’s an ever-growing enterprise. Even entertaining in small portions. But there aren’t too many Daryn-Mr.Tate masterpieces satisfying the seven o’clock Sunday spots. So here’s my take on your-favorite-sitcom-interrupters. Today’s
Commy (no association with those crazy Russians)
Award...
Most Fowl: The Lysol Disinfectant. A mother sends her 2 little darlings on their way clad with brown paper bags and backpacks. She scans the debris looking for the best way to clean up her muddle. How crazy can you get with PBandJ but apparently she couldn’t keep it on the bread. So she grabs a Scotchbrite and starts scrubbing away…it magically turns into a raw chicken leg. How she doesn’t notice this I DO NOT KNOW. And she doesn’t stop with the post-lunch making mess, no no. She gives the refrigerator, counter tops, and cabinets the official mom scrub down…all with salmonella’s haven of a tool. Any way…they got the point across. But I didn’t eat chicken for a week…poultry, it’s always the scapegoat I’m surprised the likes of Tyson foods aren’t laying the smack down.
We now take this moment to hear a word from our sponsors…
Just an Ordinary Date
Today I sat in the library and fiddled with a book while talking to a dear friend. I glanced down at the cover just as a date flew up from the due notice pocket. April 7, 2004…ah that’s right I was hopeful on that day. An old registration lying on the floorboard; June 3, 2003…I was in love on that day. The cardboard box read deliver by 1-23-2005…I was homesick on that day. The egg carton exclaimed expiration on 8-2-05…I will feel tired that day? July 25, 2005…I was writing a blog and realized I constantly notice dates in everyday surroundings and attempt to place my feelings in relation to that time whether it is in the past or the future…is this the beginning of OCD??
Tricksy
1. While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.
2. Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.
Your foot will change direction.
.....And there's nothing you can do about it!
Things I Hate
When people use the default away message.
Sporks, if they had a sexual orientation you know they’d be bi. Not that I hate bisexuals…they are just awkward. Moving ON.
Water fountains. Water quality is always sub par and eww just visualize the drain.
Green Day.
When my BYU life and my Indiana life collide. It’s like mash potatoes melting into corn on the dinner plate.
Small talk.
Cursive G's.
Wayne
A girl and boy so in love got married young. They were both dreamers and longed to leave their sleepy town in search of great adventure. Neither could wait to witness the world hand in hand. However, they also longed for children to sanctify their marriage, their love. A plan was soon set to play; they’d have children early into the nuptial, raise them strong, send them on their merry way, and then tour the world. Five children made them proud and ever blessed. When the last left the nest the two made their preparations for travel The anticipation, the wait would make their journey all the better. But the wife received grave news, cancer. She died six months later, venturing no more than one town over ever. The husband’s grief never let up. He vowed never to see an inch of land that his wife could not view with him and in result never left his town, never saw the world, and never stopped missing her.
Our Endless Numbered Days
Like most Sundays, I spent mid afternoon watching river barges plow down a water aisle way. In these moments I bask in light pleasures; music, reading, and most of all, writing. My hand always finds the pen, the pen always finds the paper, and there on the paper I find myself. (Mostly things that I can't afford to say.) But today a single longing caused such skip-a-beat-profoundness I felt it my obligation to share. I watched those around hustle and bustle, a jolt in their step caused by the enthusiastic preacher who not moments ago filled their cup with holy water and words. These religious athletes were jumping into their speedboats preparing to become grossly intoxicated. I can never relate to this vast majority so I gratefully turned my attention to those on the reverent park benches atop the bank. I found an elderly couple occupying the space below the swing set. They were hand in hand cozy, barely listening to the river crash against the dikes. When I saw them, in this perfect state of being, I couldn’t help but think they were existing solely for one another. Having spent half their lives together, at the end of the day still wanted to hold each other’s hand. This is what I want more than anything: to be old, decrepit, and still so in love.
Liberation
I'm at work and blogging!!! This is soooo cool!
Tragic TV
I've just witnessed an informercial for an
Alpaca...and I really want one.
Friday Night Blues
Limited entertainment is a constant problem in Southern Indiana…CONSTANT. But tonight we had Beauty and the Beast. Diane and I decided to head to the civic center, our friend was to make his debut as a butter knife. The place was packed with an excess of overly excited grandparents, tired moms and dads, and whining siblings. And OF COURSE we’re they only ones wearing jeans. We landed on some good seats…no idea how but we took advantage of the situation. The first 8 scenes were fabulous. I even sang along to a few of Guston’s ballads and of course the silverware serenading “Be Our Guest.” It was the dancing ham that brought strife. I began feeling an intense queasiness. Think aftermath of a tilt-a-wheel ride. Luckily intermission saved the day. I grabbed Diane and told her I felt sick. We fought our way through the concession-bound-popcorn-craving fans. I tried telling Di, I was about to faint but I’m too dramatic all the rest of my life so she took my lightheadedness lightly. It was when I threw myself on a bench, my head between my legs she began realizing I wasn’t trying to outdo any of the onstage actors…actresses what ev. By now my vision was pretty much gone, my hearing spent…time to pass out. Yes, in the middle of the Centre in front of thousands of overly dressed supporters…I’ll never wear jeans to a social event again. My forty-something bench mate patted my back…mom certified I’m sure. I looked up at her through my black smudgy inlets (so much for waterproof mascara) and told her I was going to puke. She led me into the bathroom passing the ever-winding queue of angry need-to-pee-ers. A stall opened up just in time. Super Mom held my hair back as I sat bawling over the bowl. Diane had found us but was pushed aside as a mere onlooker. After THAT scene someone set up a chair, I was seated there and given a cold towel. Southern hospitality…wow. Di and I began calling family to pick me up. Too bad they were enjoying the cinemas as I was bowing to porcelain thrones. Diane decided to drive me home, my truck left abandoned in the parking lot. As she was edging out of town her contact freaked out and she became vision-impaired. I, with clear sight now that my fainting spell had ceased drove us the rest of the way home. WHAT A NIGHT…beautiful yet beastly.
