Welcome to Geezerhood

You guys. I went to junior high with this gorgeous bride.

And if she is all grown up and posing for heart-achingly beautiful wedding photos, what does that make me?

Old, that's what.  This is not the first of my old classmates to get married.  It's only going to get worse from here, as more friends start getting married and pregnant and being promoted and buying houses...blegh.

But it isn't just that - the feeling that life is slipping past like water through my fingers, while I sit like a staid rock in the stream...growing moss.  Or something.  That metaphor derailed rapidly.

Nobody ever told me that twenty-one would be the age when everything starts to go downhill.  My metabolism seems to have abruptly switched off, so that I now have to exercise if I don't want to swell into a great blob (which is actually a tougher decision than you might think).  I've become more scatterbrained,  staying up till the wee hours actually leaves me functioning at the level of an anesthetized sea slug the next day, and according to one commercial, my skin has already begun deteriorating into a wrinkly, transparent, sun-spotted mess.  The only way I've really kept my youth is that I can hold my liquor better than a sailor on leave.*  Which is something, when you're a tiny woman who drinks whiskey neat.

Nobody told me that I would peak once I reached a second decade, and that the remaining three-quarters of my life would devolve slowly, agonizingly, until I am at last decrepit and senile enough to have fun again.  At a certain point, I think, I will stop caring about my health and respectability, and then I'll be able to party like a young whippersnapper once more.

Get offa my lawn and outta my way.

*Which is not really a saying, and, since I've never met a sailor on leave (much less shared a round with one), I really have no idea if that is a fair generalization to make about sailors.


Image by Jessica Claire, via her website; Book Making Blog.

When Good Teachers Go Bad

NOW DO YOU BELIEVE THAT MY HEAD IS TWELVE INCHES LONG?

Here are some actual sentences that came out of my mouth over the past few days:

"Do you think it would be funny if I gave the kids Dum-Dums and Airheads as prizes?"

"Sometimes I want to stop and ask the kids, 'Have you always been this dumb?' "

"Can I get this mat for my classroom?"

Clearly, teaching kindergarten is a calling.  But it may not be mine.



Image via The Invincible.

Oh, Martha!

So, errbody seems pretty pumped about the new Martha Stewart Weddings issue.  I read it on the plane coming back from Pennsylvania, and to be honest, I wasn't terribly impressed.  In fact, I would go so far as to say I actually didn't like it.

...Please don't stone me.

But I mean, really, Martha.  C'man.  Page after page of insubstantial, blurby interviews with dress designers?  That feature was spread like a model on a catwalk: toooo thin.  And this assault of the neon jewel motif?  Like a college highlighter party had a baby with Pollyanna.

And don't even get me started on that English wedding that's making everyone swoon.  HAVE YOU SEEN THE FLOWER GIRL DRESSES?!

There are no words snarky enough to express my disgust.

I could tell you exactly what I think about that wedding dress, but I'm trying to forget I ever saw it.  Ginger Rogers is rolling over in her grave.

The cover, however, was lovely.

Oh, Martha.  I had such high hopes.

Images via Martha Stewart's kr3w.

Heard on the Playground, Part 17: Let's Make a Deal

"Hey, man.  Got any weed?"

Why, yes.  Those are the hands of a five-year-old.

Just kidding.  The kids are doing coke these days.



Image via Kimora Cochran.

In Which Tracy Takes a Step Back

Oh, I'm so glad not to be poor.

Dear Hurricane Irene,

I cannot help but notice, from what I hear on the telly, that you are making your way posthaste toward the eastern edge of the United States.  You may, I understand, travel as far west as Pennsylvania.  Well, although you know I would never want to interfere in your matters, I must tell you that this state of affairs will result in some rather uncomfortable complications in regard to my travel plans (I set out for Pennsylvania to visit my paramour the night before you arrive, you see, and airplanes rather detest flying in high winds and severe rain, as you well know).  In fact, the entire matter has me extremely distressed.  Observe, if you will, a typical scene as more reports reach my ears about the impending interruptions you intend to cause travelers like myself:

What about my trip to Pennsylvaaania? I sob into my satin pillow case as servants fan me gently with large palm leaves. What if my flight gets cancelled and I have to take a different flight to somewhere elllse?  Ugh, this stupid hurricane is keeping me from seeing my boooyfrieeend!

I've quite lost my appetite over it all: even as I write, my tea and petit-fours sit cold and forgotten on the grand piano, and I fear that I will soon lack the strength to rise from my velvet settee.  So you see, I would be most obliged if you would just by-pass the East Coast so that I might fly to my love's side.  Of course, you may certainly divert to another location if you wish - as long as my travel path remains clear, you understand.

Best wishes,
Tracy Thunderbolt.



When people in the Bahamas heard about my letter, they sent me one of their own:



Dear Ms. Thunderbolt,


Yo. Tracy. My house is gone. Chill out.


You're a jerk,
The Entire Bahamian Population.

...Shit.

Images via Hollywood Past, The Wall Street Journal.

Dear Blog,

Happy - ehrm - birthday!

...Or, belated...

                   ..birthday.

I guess.

{Ahem.}  Anyway, I'm sure it was really great, and I'm sorry that I was a little late telling you.  But a whole year, huh?  That's a big accomplishment, there!  Congratulations!

Yeah.  

...So.  I guess I will see a-yew, a-next, a-yea--well, that is, not exactly a year from now.  I'll see you on your actual birthday.  July 8th, is it?  Oh, twenty-eighth.  Well, I wasn't as late as I thought.  But in any case, I will be there next year, and you are gonna get a really. big. present, mister.  Mmkay?  Alright, buddy, happy birthday.  Don't get too crazy.  See ya next year.

Best wishes,

Tracy Thunderbolt

Image by freyLee.

In Which Tracy Waxes Domestic

You know that embarrassing moment when you dust off your old blog, expecting to find carbon copies of typewritten posts pasted on the computer screen with resin, because that's how long it's been since you last posted?  And then there's that even more embarrassing moment, when you realize that it doesn't even matter that it's been a while since you last posted, because you have no readers, anyway?*  WHATEVER, SIMPLETONS, I DON'T NEED YOU.

Yes, I do.

Forget my pretenses about only starting this as a writing exercise: I want followers, and comments, and brilliant, funny readers who make me think, and awards for things like Wittiest, Most Utterly Scintillating Reading Material in All of the Blogosphere!  So, in a desperate attempt to please you at any cost, I made you a pie.  Two pies, actually, if you must know.

(Please excuse my poor lighting and nonexistent camera skillz.)

Now, I hear that all this crafty shmafty type of stuff is vital to a successful blog, as is a personal story that connects the reader to my own experiences.  So, here goes:

I used the recipe from the old Betty Crocker cookbook we've had since before I was born, the one with pages sticking out at odd angles and vanilla stains all over it and certain pages missing (Though I always wonder, where did they go? Who would steal instructions for Baked Alaska and Divinity, but leave the page with the Brownie Pudding recipe? Madness, I say), and since we didn't have any shortening, I had to make the crust using oil for fat.

...And then I found fifty dollars.

Whip't it.  Whip't it good. 

Aaahh, egg whites.  Oooh, sugar.  Cream of tartar? Be still my heart.**  

Fin.

By the next morning, all the meringue had followed suit and shrunk up like a cashmere sweater in a hot dryer.  I'm convinced that these were the Pies That Dreamed Too Small and wanted nothing more than to be simple, unassuming tarts.  Regardless, they were just what I needed to temper my ambition to be a Famous Blogger.  Why, I could be a moderately successful pie maker! I told myself.  And I could spend my life baking teeny pies, or very large tarts.  Yes, medium-sized pastry-making is the life for me.

THEN WILL YOU READ MY BLOG?***




*However, the last person who stumbled across this blog was referred by an image search for "disapproving old lady."  If those are the kinds of people straying into the drudgery bin, that is alright by me.
**Yes, this is the stuff that blogs are made of.  This'll get the readers buzzin'.  Meringue!  Lemon custard!  I ask you, what could be edgier than OIL-BASED PIE CRUST?!
***I apologize for all the shouting today.  I just want to be your blog friend.



Images by me, save the first, via everywhere on the internet.

Dear Wedding, Style, and Design Blogs:

To "compliment" something means to tell it that it looks nice, or that its personality glows like a shining star.

To "complement" something means to complete it, or to combine with it in such a way as to enhance or emphasize its qualities.

So you can compliment someone on their table runners, which are so complementary to the color of the napkins.  If you're going to write about color schemes in any capacity, please learn the difference between these two words, unless you get a kick out of making your readers' heads explode.

Fond regards,
Tracy Thunderbolt.

PS: While you're at it, maybe brush up on the differences between its/it's and lead/led.  You're the best, thanks.



Image by O-Akascha-O, via deviantart.

Night and Day

If I could manage to conduct a normal life on a nocturnal sleep cycle, I would.  However, since I'm pretty sure many people would disagree with me, I have created a pros and cons list of daytime activities, for your viewing pleasure (if you do agree that night is better, use these lists to further our cause to all the haters):

DAY

    

    Pros:

• Picnics
• Thievery is difficult (applies to Owners of Things)
• Adequate vision 
• Business can be conducted during these hours (unless you are a drug dealer)
• Tanning, warmth
• Flowers bloom

   Cons:

• Thievery is difficult (applies to robbers)
• Alarm clocks
• Work (does not apply to night watchmen)
• Chores (could apply to night watchmen)
• That hour in late afternoon, approximately 4:30-5:30, when pulling on socks becomes the worst thing in the world
• Sleeping during this time places people under the category of old person, invalid, bum, and/or infant.
• Sunburn, sweat, risk of skin cancer
• Lack of romantic mood lighting on outdoorsy dates
• Crowded sidewalks
• Being active during the day is so mainstream (applies to hipsters)
• Traffic
• No raccoons 
• No owls
• No nocturnal animals at all, including but not limited to bats
• Glow-in-the-dark chalk is pointless

I could go on, but I believe I've made my point.  Good night to you.

Image via Francesco Bonomi.

Harry Potter and the Literary Hipster

This article, written by Jonathan Myerson and published in The Independent, is "meant to" offend adults who read Harry Potter.  I guess I'm not really a part of his target audience, as I was younger than Harry is in the first book when I first started reading it; Harry was a part of my childhood, and I am just dipping my little toesies into adulthood.  Surely I am beyond reproach.  However, full-fledged, card-carrying grown-ups do not receive the same kindness from Myerson, who suggests that adults read such classic literature as his own, faaar more relevant adult novels - not trash like Rowling's childish ventures (hmm, yes, how droll).  Apparently, Myerson considers appropriate reading material for adults to be novels with covers that look like they're straight out of a crack whore's nightmare.*

I know this article ran in 2001 - only about a month after Prisoner of Azkaban came out - so he couldn't have had a chance to see the series develop a greater moral complexity and depth as it explores serious and universal issues. Still, I sincerely doubt that the man had even read the first three books before flippantly dashing off this smug little article, probably with a self-satisfied smirk playing about his melting skeleton face (I looked up a picture of him).  Just a fad, he must have scoffed, rolling his eyes and turning back to his Kafka, his Dostoevsky, his Hemingway and Dickens.

I think my favorite part is when he asks his hypothetical, just-as-snooty readers, "So how do these grown-ups manage to get through it?"

I only wish I could muster the level of pretension that Mr. Myerson achieves here.  I tip my hat to you, you big jackass.




*I do admit that I have never read his books and that I literally am judging a book by its cover.  I have become a walking cliche.


Image via The Mady Hatter.