…improving my rank in Wii Bowling. See that sparkly ball in my hands? It’s sparkly because I have reached PRO status. It’s good to have goals. (You can sort of see Matte in the background. He’s the one with the horns sprouting from his head.)
Uhm, nothing.
But that reminds me of when I was little, and my sister and I were supposed to be sleeping. Almost every night we’d play this game:
I’d say, “Guess what!”
She’d say, “What?”
And I’d say, “That’s what.”
And we’d laugh hysterically.
Sometimes instead of “that’s what,” I’d answer “Mrs. Freeman.” She was my kindergarten teacher. The first time I answered with that, it was hilarious. And the 50th time I did it, it was still hilarious.
Yeah, we were sort of easily entertained.
Need more evidence?
One of our favorite things to do was to push feet. We’d sit facing each other, with our legs in a V and push each other’s feet. Fun times.
Sometimes when we were bored, one of us would suggest, “Wanna push backs?” And we would sit back-to-back and try to move one another with our strength. It was much easier when you had the wall to use for leverage, because then you could lift yourself up and lean back as far as possible, folding your opponent under your weight.
We were such docile children, my sister and I. Except when we fought. Since I am the older one, I usually was the one who got in trouble by our parents. And even though she was smaller than I was, my sister could kick my ass. She had short but thick fingernails and she would dig them into my skin SO DEEP. The tiny crevasses she created didn’t really bleed so much as ooze a pink substance. And man, they hurt!
But I do have one scar from our childhood, that my sister actually didn’t give me. We were pillow fighting one night in my bedroom. I don’t remember if I was trying to avoid a thwack of polyester fiberfill, or winding up to smack her, but my eyebrow made contact with the corner of my white dresser. Like my sister’s fingernail digs, the ouchie didn’t gush blood, just icky oozy goo. And I had a dent right at the collision site.
And ever since, I can’t grow eyebrows in that one spot.
Today I got an email from someone named Keep Erect!on. Seriously, that poor child, going through school with a name like that. I mean, can you imagine having the first name “Keep”? The kids must have teased him so much, calling him Creep and Cheap. I feel sorry for him.
Matte and I got a Nintendo Wii last week, and ever since, he is kicking my ass all over the living room playing tennis. I always considered myself a coordinated person until we got this little white box with the wireless controllers. I canNOT for the life of me beat these computerized people on the other side of the court. And if I decide to clone myself and play both players on my doubles team, I flail about and miss nearly every ball. Because, hello! I am ONE person. I can’t be two places at once. But Matte can, and now he has reached PRO status while I remain in the ranks of spastic, haphazard players who appear to be swatting at a swarm of bees.
Oh goodie! Another thing he is better than me at. (Wow. Check out that grammar!)
I am better at refraining from the Wii playing than Matte is. Which might also be to blame for my poor performance. Or is it the other way around? Do I not partake of the Wii as often as Matte does because of the extreme suckage I display? Or mayhaps it is my tennis elbow keeping me away? I think I should at least win “Most likely to look like a person really playing tennis” or something because I hit that ball SO hard (although it lobs every time). And I use my backhand when necessary, which I guess is not really necessary with the smart remote, but makes me feel so much cooler when I do it. Especially when I use two hands. Sometimes an involuntary Monica Seles-esque grunt will emit from my throat. And I even yell at the judge’s calls like John McEnroe used to. Matte just nonchalantly flicks his wrist this way and that and wins match after match, as I lay on the couch, post-match, huffing and puffing, wiping my brow with a towel and drinking Gatorade.
Oh, and my Mii (the animated character I created as me in Wii land) is so much cuter than Matte’s. She has freckles and braids, and a vacant look in her eyes like she doesn’t know what her name is. But his has devil horns. They’re actually eyebrows that he nudged up his forehead until they reached the top of his head. And he has a goatee. He looks like a satanic Backstreet Boy.
But if Nintendo comes out with a game where you clean the house? I could obliterate Matte at that one. Not that he doesn’t clean. He does. But he’s the first to admit that I clean better, faster, and more thoroughly than he does. (I have been known to dust the swords belonging to the action figures.) I just hope he never opens that one closet where I’ve hidden everything.
And I realized I didn’t post yet today. Dagnabit, NaBloPoMoFo.
I can only muster the brain power for a bulleted list:
Wha? The POP-CORN (767-2676) lady is gone? Those of you not from California (or Nevada) may not be familiar with the Popcorn Lady. I first read about her departure at Jeff’s Place, but last week, my favorite radio personality on KFOG was discussing it. This is huge news around here, you see.
Anyway, the Popcorn Lady was everyone’s affectionate name for the recorded voice we would call to find out what time it is. Every ten seconds, for 24 hours a day, every day, the message would change. Calling 767-2676, you would hear “At the tone, Pacific Daylight (or Standard) time will be “hour” “minutes” and “seconds” seconds. BEEP! And if you stayed on the line, you would hear the time change by 10 seconds, and so on. POP-CORN had other uses as well. Say a friend wanted you to stay for dinner, but you hated Brussels sprouts and salmon. You could say, “just let me call my mom and make sure it’s OK.” Then, dial the Popcorn Lady, ask the recording for her permission, which she would be unable to give, of course, and you were off the hook.
The tone of the Popcorn Lady’s voice is permanently etched in my brain. I imagined her to be very friendly, pretty and well-dressed. If only I could tell her how many times she got me out of things I didn’t want to do. And such a workaholic she was! Can you imagine working NONSTOP like that? Giving the time to people all day long? Well…she didn’t really do that. She had to record each number, using different inflections so she wouldn’t sound like a recording. And she amazingly didn’t sound like a recording.
Oh, and the cool thing about the Popcorn Lady was, if you were too busy to take the time and figure out how to spell POP-CORN on your phone dial, you could just dial POP (767) and then any 4 numbers. You could dial POP-CRAP or POP-POOP or POP-F#$% (that was fun when we were kids) and still reach the Popcorn Lady. I’m not sure why the phone company did that, I guess for the illiterate maybe? Or maybe for those who didn’t want to wait for the rotary dial to return to its starting place when dialing the O, R, and N. Remember how long that took? Much easier to dial POP-1111. Because when you need to know what time it is, you need to know RIGHT NOW.
If you want to hear the Popcorn Lady one last time, you can call 767-2676 one last time to hear her say the time service has been discontinued (outside of the Bay Area, use area code 916 first).
Enjoy your retirement, Popcorn Lady. Thanks for giving me the time of day.
The cupcakes were delicious, the girltalk was fabulous, the wine was flowing, and fun was had by all (look, I just used passive voice, which I HATE). I highly recommend cupcake parties.
