Okay, I admit: I’m a Halloween grinch this year. I will be partaking the time honored tradition of holing up in my house with the lights off, pretending I’m not home and, God willing, nom-nomming on some Reese cups myself.
Maybe it’s because since I grew past the age where it was appropriate to dress up as a Disney Princess during daylight hours, Halloween has become something drastically different. For me, it’s a symptom of Christmas inching ever closer, and a hurdle: once you get past Halloween, it becomes just the tinest bit socially acceptable to start listening to Christmas music (!!! more on this to come, I ASSURE YOU).
But Halloween is a big deal! So this is me asking: what are you guys dressing up as? Brag away in the comments.
And if you’re still looking for ideas, you can always dress up as someone infected with mono.
I have it on good authority that this is the official uniform of their tribe.
Filed under: invitation | Tags: celebs, kind of a big deal, sickest human alive
I have awoken, albeit briefly, from my mono-and-strep-and-GRE-induced stupor to bring to you good tidings of a great joy.
Alyson Hannigan is pregnant, y’all!
Oh, Aly. I don’t even care that your hair still looks like that (though, it’s been better lately—turn away from the dark side, Aly, RED IS WHERE YOUR HEART IS). You’re preggers! You and Alexis are procreating!! AT LONG LAST! The Chosen One is ON THE WAY!
To celebrate, here’s a really, really pretty picture of the happy mom-to-be:
(For realsies, though, I wish she’d go red again. And major props to Megan for letting me know of this Most Triumphant Happening.)
Filed under: me stew | Tags: apocalypse, kind of a big deal, sickest human alive
So. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather for a couple weeks now. I woke up this morning feeling a bit more…well, to put it delicately, a bit more vomity than usual. Seeing as though reverse peristalsis is only to be taken lightly when tequila is involved, I went to the doctor and found out that I’ve hit THE JACKPOT.
STREP THROAT AND MONO, BITCHES.
Yes, both. Try to fathom the ridiculousness. And what with everything, I don’t know why I’m surprised. OF COURSE I’d be diagnosed with two WILDLY INFECTIOUS ILLNESSES two days before an important exam!
I’m taking the test Saturday. And I will spank it, swollen lymph nodes be damned!
(Oh my God, you guys, I am so sick. Whine.)
GRE on Saturday, guys.
Nothing fun happening here until after that. Who knows? Maybe I’ll liveblog the drinking that will inevitably follow?
To quote Glynnis, who was talking about something completely different: “Dang, GRE! You make me feel like a gorilla with lobster claws!”
Wish me luck!
So as someone (coughcoughDAVEcough) pointed out recently, I’ve been talking a lot of politics here lately. Which, I’ll be the first to admit, is NOT a strength a strength of this blog. However, I like to think that for what I lack in political savvy, I make up for in knowing some pretty good poems, so as a sort of cautionary, political hush, as I cross my fingers and say a prayer for an Obama Nation come November 4th, here’s a poem I’ve been thinking about a lot lately as the whole world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket.
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
—W. B. Yeats
Yeats wrote that poem in 1919, in the aftermath of World War I. Doesn’t the line about the worst being “full of passionate intensity” remind you of something?
Let’s hop off the crazy-train at the next stop, folks, and let someone sensible conduct for a while. As for me? Expect more levity, more gushing about zombie movies, and, God willing, more Greg Kinnear.
