Watch this space… 

My friend Jon and I are going to entertain you with stories and confuse you with our segues in our podcast that will be published sometime in the future! Isn’t that so exciting and hilariously unspecific as to the arrival of this thing I’m touting with such a bombastic flourish? I’m going to force the issue by publishing a post that says it’s going to happen. Dear Jon, get your podcast pipes primed. Alliteration, baby! Obviously, I’ll have to talk Jon BACK into participating. And of course, I’ll have to get all of the specifics figured out as far as actually producing the podcast. Which is a touch alarming as I can’t seem to get the damn comments to work on this pathetic blog anymore. They used to work. Now? Yeah, not so much. So yes, a podcast seems totally doable. And Jon and I will have you in tears. Tears of laughter, people. There’s even talk of a third person on the ‘cast. That’s right. Emily has said she might join us. You’re pretty sure this is a thing that is never going to happen, right? And you don’t much care one way or the other, right? Eh, I hear you. Hell, I hadn’t even produced a blog post in two lousy months before day before yesterday. You may have a point. 

It’s been a long time. Get back on the horse, Stephanie.

So, let’s say you and your brain have a bit of an adversarial relationship. And let’s say your brain has decreed your blog a dead zone. And you do a drive by and notice that it’s been two months since you’ve posted. TWO MONTHS! What do you do? Well, what you do is post a little video of some people having fun floating on the river. That’s what you do, people.
Enjoy.

Is anybody alive in here? Is anybody at all in here? Nobody but us in here. Nobody but me. 

I don’t receive butt dials (or unintentionally-placed calls) often, but when I do, I ultimately react in a very strange manner. I answer the phone normally. And by normally, I mean that I start talking to whoever it is without the customary and polite greeting, as is my way. When the person doesn’t respond, I begin a verbal assault of “Hellos” which start at a normal volume but proceed to a volume that can be heard from miles away, so I can alert the caller that I’m available and ready to get the party started. I’m always amazed that my faint voice can’t be heard by the person, and perhaps it can be, and they are thinking to themselves, “Why on earth do I think I hear Stephanie’s voice right now? Am I having a stroke? Also, why do I have to hear her annoying voice when the stroke hits? That seems terribly unfair.”

I think my terror-filled reaction to these butt dials stems from the thought that I could unknowingly be placing my own calls. Because I’m doing some strange shit when I think I’m alone. I’m singing about 50% of the time. 25% of the time I’m talking to my dog; people in neighboring vehicles (YIKES!); or worse; an inanimate object. And I’d say another 25% of the time, I’m holding conversations with myself. Yeah, it’s probably almost that often. I enjoy hearing what I have to say about things. It’s not always what I expect. I like to give myself room for spontaneity. I mean, mostly, I know what I’m going to say, but every now and then I surprise myself. Pleasantly. Good point, Stephanie. So, the thought that I’ve got some unknown and unseen witness to my crazy is quite unsettling. 

I’d like to know why the butt dials I receive are so yawn-inducing. The most entertaining part of them is my shouting “Hello” in the expectation that the call was placed purposefully. It takes me far too long to ascertain that the person placed the call unwittingly. I did receive one decently funny one. The person on the other end was snacking so aggressively that I assumed it was a great attempt at being humorously annoying. So, I did my “Hello” bit to no avail per uzh and finally settled in for just a bit to see how much snacking we were going to be doing. I ascertained that we were diving into a bowl of chips. I’m not sure if we were viewing a tv program or just staring into space enjoying our salty snack and contemplating the banality of life. There appeared to be no beverage consumption to help wash down our chips. Maybe we were out of our favorite beer? I finally realized I was pathetic and silently dropped the call. I’m still waiting for the one. That glorious butt dial that is wildly entertaining and makes life worth living again.

I claim to take ping pong seriously, but this video proves I’m a liar.

I don’t come off well in this. First, because I haven’t played in months, and so my game is quite sucky. Second, it’s clear that I’m a complete fool, and I’m prone to celebrating at even the most pathetic of winning shots in a most obnoxious manner. Real adult-like. But Sebastian has a cameo in here, and that makes it worth a little something.

[Ed. Note: I should mention that I didn’t wear the togs in preparation for ping pong. I had just returned from a bike ride. Yesterday, I played in a t-shirt and sweats. Hmmmm, yesterday I played even worse than I did today. Maybe I should keep that in mind. Although yesterday I played without shoes. Bare feet don’t have the same type of traction. Something to keep in mind for next time. Wait, maybe I do take ping pong seriously….]

Prince. Of course. But it’s not the post I had originally written.

I wrote a Prince post 7 months ago. It wasn’t ready for publishing. Some things happened that interrupted the posting of it. Private revelations. So, I put it on hold then, and it’s been waiting in my drafts for a certain album anniversary so I could post it. To post it now though would seem even more self-indulgent, and “Hey, look at me. I’m suffering.” than this one does. His family and friends are suffering. The rest of us are feeling the loss of an inspirational musician. We’re not feeling what those who were close to him are feeling. It’s really grotesque to assume that we are. Anyway, I’m not writing great literature on this blog, so I’m obviously not mourning the loss of a ridiculous blog post. But it was an earnest one: extremely rare for me. Prince was an incredibly large influence in my life when I was young, and when I was not so young. His loss cannot and should not be minimized because he was beautiful and deliciously controversial. He was a genius: full stop. Sure, I lusted after him. I was young enough that I wasn’t even quite sure what to do with all of that. I thought Prince was unbearably hot. Like everyone else. Because he was. And then there was his music. The music that he created with so little input from others that to have the chance to work with him in even the most limited-capacity (which, let’s face it, a limited capacity was the only real option with all that he brought to the table) must have been awe-inspiring. Prince’s music checks off every single box. [Ed. Note: Yes, she knows.] So, yesterday was the day for me that Michael Jackson fans experienced when they heard about Jackson’s death. That’s how I felt upon hearing that Prince had died. And, I mean no disrespect. Michael Jackson was certainly ridiculously influential. But I felt a personal loss when Prince died. Michael Jackson was my crush. Prince was my lover.

So yesterday sucked. It started out badly. I had two interactions with “All Good” guy at work before I had a chance to enter a caffeinated state. Trust me, that’s intolerable. There was a third “All Good” assault, and after I successfully negotiated my departure from that, I learned that Prince had died. After that, my perspective shifted. If I’d seen “All Good” guy after that, I doubt I’d have even registered his presence.

The good news? This is how I ended my day.

IMG_4865

My kid is in the front row on the far left.

And this is how they sounded.

So, “All good” guy? Go ahead and say it. “IT’S ALL GOOD!” Yes, people. He speaks in all caps. Trust. And while I can’t agree that it’s all good, I can agree that honoring and celebrating His Purple Majesty is better than getting lost in gratuitous grieving.

The Randomizer

Time for another one of those posts full of the random. Join me, won’t you?

  • I’ve been desperately searching for a place to ride my bike that’s close enough to my house that I can jump on my ride and risk my life to get to it. And by that I mean that where I live is surrounded by roads that are traveled by people in a hurry. And people on bikes aren’t really viewed with love. But two days ago I found a magical place. Nirvana. I expect to spot a unicorn on one of my forays. It’s a neighborhood that reminds me of my childhood one (only better!) full of untouched spaces (creeks, you guys!), and is accessible by traveling only one short stretch of road where I don the “target with bulls-eye” attire and pedal as fast as my legs will take me while stealing panicked glances behind me to check and see if I’m going to make it to safety. But when I make that turn into the neighborhood, I can’t keep the grin off of my face. I breathe in deep to enjoy the smells: pine tags! leaves! dirt! I’m a kid again and I’m riding my bike enjoying my freedom, snacking on bugs because they have unimpeded entry into my laughing mouth. I’m certain the one or two people that have seen me have seriously considered a call to the police because I just look far happier than the occasion dictates. But it’s all good. Arrest me, officers. Just get me released in time for my next ride.
  • The youngest and I were talking about how much fun it would be to have a conversation with someone and just drop a random word in from time to time. To keep the other person on their toes? Word choice would greatly depend upon how long you’d want the other person to think they’d misheard you before really knowing you were working them over. For example, you could use something like lair and they’d be internally scratching their head for a bit before finally calling you out on the bullshit. Use sandwich and it’s not going to take them long before they’re giving you the “Cut that shit out” look. And use smorgasbord and you’re getting an instantaneous reaction. So, yeah, don’t use smorgasbord. Use something like rinse. Or swill. Actually, come up with your own. You know you can do better. Report back.
  • I was talking to my friend, and she said that her hands are always sweaty and people pull theirs away in disgust. I told her my hands are always cold, and I get the same reaction. I usually try to give them a warning before the hand shake, just so they aren’t as alarmed as they would be without that alert. Even still, their faces make me aware that the warning was not nearly enough to prepare them for the icy embrace of my hand. “Are you awake? You are now. You’re welcome.” I guess people are dying to ask me if I’m a corpse. Which, you know, no. [Ed. Note: Heh. Dying. Nice.] Not yet. And hopefully, not for a while. Because life will be far less fun when I become one of those guys.
  • Anna said it’s a saying that you can’t say bubbles angrily and immediately I was bizarrely angry. And proved her wrong by saying bubbles angrily a billion times. Because I was so oddly put off by it. Then, I argued that it totally wasn’t a saying. And I’m still trying to figure out what fool is trying to make it a thing. Is this like fetch from Mean Girls? Now, chicken baby? You can’t say that angrily. Let’s make that a thing if there needs to be such a saying. Hey, why in the world does there need to be such a saying? People?! Get a hobby. Yes. I should also work on getting a hobby. Touché. 
  • I’m going to dump a band recommendation in here, because, why not? You know how you find a band that fits your taste so well that you love every (ok, nearly every) song they release? The Kills were and still are that band for me. They have always fit right in my sweet spot. Give them a try.

Ok, everyone. Have a great week.