tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82019129861259437342024-02-19T04:30:52.258-05:00The Collectivemean and funny is still funnykathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.comBlogger879125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-30289930859758186032012-05-24T11:48:00.000-04:002012-05-24T11:49:21.063-04:00Britta, you put one wash-away blue streak in your hair. I lost an arm.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> I really love the idea of dying my hair but in actuality, I'm far too
lazy to keep up with it. The last time I dyed my hair was before I got
married, and that was at my mom's urging. It was fun, though! It was
kind of red because spending my formative years watching <i>The X-Files</i> made me YEARN for red hair. <br />
<br />
That was like two years ago, though, and my hair hasn't seen a drop
of dye since, as evidenced by the gray hairs that peek through whenever I
pull my hair into a ponytail. I kind of like them, though, all streaky
and silver, so I haven't really felt any need to cover them up. I do
like the idea of a complete makeover, though. I mean, aren't those the
best part of any reality show ever anyway? YES. (Yes is the correct
answer, don't argue with me.) So I found <a href="http://www.clairol.com/en-US/virtual-makeover" target="_blank">this website</a> (completely
addictive, as all the best websites are) where you can try on different
hair colors and styles before you totally ruin your hair AND IT IS SO
MUCH FUN. <br />
<br />
Here is me but like Three Years Ago Me not Now Me. The problem with
this website is that you need a full-frontal (hee), normal picture of
just your face and I have, like, zero of those.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgk4tUZaZ2Y01rcaBWffAvoRJHKLdSN5b_auNQeOUuufuOzBmwDvdmVXMUFvqjitBlop0GAwwccQmXHSQ33VLQo4HTzaq5Js0CsjyB7hFrNDGl5QThE2EQ4hhcKQ8-LPzfv3y6JLSdaps/s1600/pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgk4tUZaZ2Y01rcaBWffAvoRJHKLdSN5b_auNQeOUuufuOzBmwDvdmVXMUFvqjitBlop0GAwwccQmXHSQ33VLQo4HTzaq5Js0CsjyB7hFrNDGl5QThE2EQ4hhcKQ8-LPzfv3y6JLSdaps/s1600/pic.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bleep bloop. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Scully me:</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_7r31LkAfO_JuU_Lh4UC7_NrYVttUk6356PDqV8i_OwGFH9_bxuOfmVHsgbsU5OXlyOQajfuSKxhJL6CSzPxhnLYM-VmVscfApcp-kyA9t0liLlhcPwRwbXTcuGlYBSEdjOH0748Qz4/s1600/red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_7r31LkAfO_JuU_Lh4UC7_NrYVttUk6356PDqV8i_OwGFH9_bxuOfmVHsgbsU5OXlyOQajfuSKxhJL6CSzPxhnLYM-VmVscfApcp-kyA9t0liLlhcPwRwbXTcuGlYBSEdjOH0748Qz4/s320/red.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's completely illogical, Mulder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Blonde Curly me: </b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTnzCocYwEL3dwLP0S6czbVJgoqF3v8goYDKDxPelDjbaUFJlkNUveS94Ridz_N7BpXbhqdmRvvXfJoKz13ncxTpXuZ5Y9nSh1SglIt1Qxwo-mQDRh63nYFAzJZEptuvhizt1J2MfPqw/s1600/blonde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTnzCocYwEL3dwLP0S6czbVJgoqF3v8goYDKDxPelDjbaUFJlkNUveS94Ridz_N7BpXbhqdmRvvXfJoKz13ncxTpXuZ5Y9nSh1SglIt1Qxwo-mQDRh63nYFAzJZEptuvhizt1J2MfPqw/s320/blonde.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Country music star!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>Cher Hair: </b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_B45IoWjHZ61bay0qwNSNUZCc5h8clEcjd8n5ZSMs9nflyK68-oTg_7K1nIwHn3Jq_3qt58Y_ZrJvJVSO0CL1k1XT34GOz2Vdeig4AJgG5L4AUeoSGUAVAGdvhV1Rrv5mE3zr7b24WY/s1600/black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_B45IoWjHZ61bay0qwNSNUZCc5h8clEcjd8n5ZSMs9nflyK68-oTg_7K1nIwHn3Jq_3qt58Y_ZrJvJVSO0CL1k1XT34GOz2Vdeig4AJgG5L4AUeoSGUAVAGdvhV1Rrv5mE3zr7b24WY/s320/black.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or whatever. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>What I will look like once all of my hair turns gray (fingers crossed!):</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD6eQRVPCi4dIAfyGN7H-55yk1F8I33rWlRoZ2AJluSmg038xZi0N7pkgiLRM46Q9PdMvldguboTpBcAvVcidlcc2kOwWOa6T6_ri_967lQHWT34p1LrtbwZLd04FJxPIJuPj35z_3YA/s1600/gray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD6eQRVPCi4dIAfyGN7H-55yk1F8I33rWlRoZ2AJluSmg038xZi0N7pkgiLRM46Q9PdMvldguboTpBcAvVcidlcc2kOwWOa6T6_ri_967lQHWT34p1LrtbwZLd04FJxPIJuPj35z_3YA/s320/gray.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've gone Total Rogue! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Tami Taylor!</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIxpEduNIDkglasRAZ-iBGIsPeOUTCcGYmFfajqFnCAmkdrfSw_cNw1iaXIh5_aWV6p51bXjKPamx-hx7tJCufcgCxUX66MvqT93Uw-SAirasudPWZKooJd6OcWlj5xPnotLgm2d9GrY/s1600/tami+taylor%21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIxpEduNIDkglasRAZ-iBGIsPeOUTCcGYmFfajqFnCAmkdrfSw_cNw1iaXIh5_aWV6p51bXjKPamx-hx7tJCufcgCxUX66MvqT93Uw-SAirasudPWZKooJd6OcWlj5xPnotLgm2d9GrY/s320/tami+taylor%21.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, y'all!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Is this my worst post ever*? <br />
<br />
<a href="http://s1103.photobucket.com/albums/g478/Jennifer_Baxla/?action=view&current=ben.gif" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1103.photobucket.com/albums/g478/Jennifer_Baxla/ben.gif" /></a><br />
<br />
*yesJenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-66830251126944416142012-05-23T06:34:00.000-04:002012-05-23T06:34:00.298-04:00Excuse me, would you mind not farting while I'm saving the world?<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="" /></a>It's not an issue of the curtains matching the carpet; the problem is matching the curtains to the... I don't know, valances? Because left unchecked, my eyebrows would rival Eugene Levy's for Supreme Overlordship over Planet Eyebrownia. My eyebrows, they are like giant face caterpillars perched above my eyeballs. What I'm trying to say is that my eyebrows are <i>conspicuous</i>. And since I'm not pretty enough for this:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7241790140/" title="marilyn-monroe_0 by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7235/7241790140_7328133c90.jpg" width="450" height="304" alt="marilyn-monroe_0"></a><br />
<br />
I end up looking like this:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7241808890/" title="333779_2466568939868_1121616071_32918567_625482382_o by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5275/7241808890_5aebd35109.jpg" width="374" height="500" alt="333779_2466568939868_1121616071_32918567_625482382_o"></a><br />
<br />
So no, I cannot pull off another hair color.kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-44465047196477415902012-05-22T15:01:00.000-04:002012-05-22T15:01:10.713-04:00I could take away the salt from your eyes <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Abigail" title="Abs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Abs" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2245/2157960933_bc3d65100d_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> My hair goes <i>swoosh swoosh swoosh </i>when I run. From shoulder blade to shoulder blade it swings back and forth, forth and back. I cover pavement, dirt, clay, grass. Last night, I accidentally stepped into a six-inch deep dark murky puddle. <i>Swoosh swoosh swoosh.</i><br />
<br />
It's brown hair. I don't know what other color to call it. It's not dark brown, so I guess it's light brown. It doesn't have highlights, so I guess it's plain. It's only been dyed once. That time it was dark brown. Or dark red brown. Or dark red black. It was dark. And it was hard to maintain.<br />
<i> </i><br />
I want it out of my way, out of my sight. I want it back in a long pony where it catches the sweat and protects my neck from the sun. I don't care what color it is, though I assume all this running will turn it light brown. Or light, light brown. Not the color of pavement or dirt or grass, but maybe the color of clay. <i>Swoosh swoosh swoosh. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-71044421601936775222012-05-21T20:59:00.002-04:002012-05-21T20:59:22.905-04:00And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><br />
<br />
This week's Collective topic is: Could you pull off a different hair color. <br />
<br />
And my answer is: We're about to find out. <br />
<br />
'Cause, y'all, at the tender age of 33, grey hairs are starting to take over my head! I saw the first one on my 28th birthday, and I was like, "LOL, that's cute!" And then when I was 30, I was plucking out a couple of them every month. And now I'm this age and every time I look in the mirror, it's like they're manning an assault on my skull. People keep telling me to stop ripping the hairs out of my head, but they weird me out. I guess I could get my hair colored or something, but then I'd have to get it re-colored and re-colored and re-colored and frankly I'd rather spend that money on comic books. <br />
<br />
Huh. I guess I'll stop this hair nonsense and only start worrying about getting old when I'd rather buy groceries instead of Avengers Legos.Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-16397418114879339692012-05-18T12:33:00.000-04:002012-05-18T12:34:39.690-04:00All this has happened before and all this will happen again.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> I live in (and am from) Dayton, OH. People like to shit all over Dayton
(literally...OK, not really that I know of, except for birds and stuff)
but it's not that bad. Like a lot of manufacturing towns, Dayton
was hit hard by the economic clusterfuck of the last few years, but
things are getting better. In my view, anyway, which ADMITTEDLY is
narrow. But whatever, Dayton is home of: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar" target="_blank">Paul Laurence Dunbar</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkP2a5HDE_WnOsBtpj-kqt9H9QXcfnd8WpQwLgDyz9duQ6J3zPrZl0RFZ62ZLCHKF7KX-Z_CTOFtp6J1qxMkIn2QdGwwMo5kJg-0dKeDXFYrizu_PV84Hqc8Wc289mMUm3K3YAhe10Aoo/s1600/pld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkP2a5HDE_WnOsBtpj-kqt9H9QXcfnd8WpQwLgDyz9duQ6J3zPrZl0RFZ62ZLCHKF7KX-Z_CTOFtp6J1qxMkIn2QdGwwMo5kJg-0dKeDXFYrizu_PV84Hqc8Wc289mMUm3K3YAhe10Aoo/s320/pld.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I write poems and stuff!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_and_Marian_Schuster_Performing_Arts_Center" target="_blank">The Schuster Center</a>, which is pretty and shiny:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlKCziGdb9Fg949Ge97EfhoCtPg2KbYtkc4BDMG8zFXGXZi57CuyR5V20UvGt_CdhDo4kXlSamriTo_FFGVaGVhgIt5MOFxs5HtfcpaSkPOW927oy-X6uBrWendJQqQNb3ouIE8YRb7k/s1600/full_SchusterCenter_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlKCziGdb9Fg949Ge97EfhoCtPg2KbYtkc4BDMG8zFXGXZi57CuyR5V20UvGt_CdhDo4kXlSamriTo_FFGVaGVhgIt5MOFxs5HtfcpaSkPOW927oy-X6uBrWendJQqQNb3ouIE8YRb7k/s320/full_SchusterCenter_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oooh, reflecty. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Theatre_%28Dayton,_Ohio%29" target="_blank">The Victoria Theatre</a>, which has history coming out of its ass:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyv68N0V40UqySQ6g3eNLIycyCamMMtOu_pAIHfHBCW7H2IghkBe2-rY0XIeT65k3msXjMwSnx0S0wfDnrlDRwBVgWta5I8h20NqpEUYrnzcbhySWb-E65O6j3Zj7S6fahS13VQe0OXXA/s1600/vic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyv68N0V40UqySQ6g3eNLIycyCamMMtOu_pAIHfHBCW7H2IghkBe2-rY0XIeT65k3msXjMwSnx0S0wfDnrlDRwBVgWta5I8h20NqpEUYrnzcbhySWb-E65O6j3Zj7S6fahS13VQe0OXXA/s320/vic.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AND IS HAUNTED.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dayton_Dragons" target="_blank">The Dayton Dragons</a>...some people like baseball! <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6-tj715KAOhsM4ZJQ_dxXcGVjwipPitBSAUq38Iiovy_nRO37IAo9qSszW91oQqApJj86TlWg6IKxqnHFvU_oXFBXdPOrmJygSWEZ6nye9CHUCkJ2smD-jAnvIAgtOqlaM1WGO6vyuw/s1600/dayton-dragons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6-tj715KAOhsM4ZJQ_dxXcGVjwipPitBSAUq38Iiovy_nRO37IAo9qSszW91oQqApJj86TlWg6IKxqnHFvU_oXFBXdPOrmJygSWEZ6nye9CHUCkJ2smD-jAnvIAgtOqlaM1WGO6vyuw/s320/dayton-dragons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People will come, Ray. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<strike>Bart Simpson</strike> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nancy_cartwright" target="_blank">Nancy Cartwright</a>...hey, my mom went to HS with her!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTy59WCs0PYFF94Mf2uor-4wd_QZ42499MLXkJrCMJJI2TwXKY1-AVctOq3oi1Oa7eZqGVw_mfrNKwD2AnVx9uA0aLe-G1-rAFXv0TJXWD0LcEAdO0l7XLpSQo9R1QfA99uGKBWLvjhyphenhyphenE/s1600/nancy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTy59WCs0PYFF94Mf2uor-4wd_QZ42499MLXkJrCMJJI2TwXKY1-AVctOq3oi1Oa7eZqGVw_mfrNKwD2AnVx9uA0aLe-G1-rAFXv0TJXWD0LcEAdO0l7XLpSQo9R1QfA99uGKBWLvjhyphenhyphenE/s1600/nancy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whatever and stuff!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_West_Wing" target="_blank">West Wingers</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Sheen" target="_blank">Martin Sheen</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rob_Lowe" target="_blank">Rob Lowe</a> (well, raised in), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allison_Janney" target="_blank">Allison Janney</a> (AND CJ Cregg!)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzEBwDe_OewyrGJKCjEqSBvd_xPcnhUGD8hYmQ-81Gc6DRDl8dxP3XKIsnv8fO28q9aVFjcwCMX4SzyNxlFqvy3AXfT3w6p6ILwAC_s2OPKovVyJn5RVrvSN6gvMD91GIIZwiTp3LKis/s1600/ww.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzEBwDe_OewyrGJKCjEqSBvd_xPcnhUGD8hYmQ-81Gc6DRDl8dxP3XKIsnv8fO28q9aVFjcwCMX4SzyNxlFqvy3AXfT3w6p6ILwAC_s2OPKovVyJn5RVrvSN6gvMD91GIIZwiTp3LKis/s1600/ww.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FUCK YEAH SAM SEABORN</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Dorian" target="_blank">John Dorian</a>, friend of Turk Turkleton, choreographer of the greatest dance of our time:<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wright_brothers" target="_blank">AND FUCKING FLIGHT</a>:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrMZVE1BBNFuGb9XzVApx-B0h03v_sLlRyoYiOaro-lbDSv2PhgiLGZdk8m0o8rqjHuOpQUmoAvycK7eVTXl6o3VGiAAQqE8K-vfGhpVFVMJrV_gpmY2mCd_kh9Gk96VAOU1QAPDnrLo/s1600/wright+bros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrMZVE1BBNFuGb9XzVApx-B0h03v_sLlRyoYiOaro-lbDSv2PhgiLGZdk8m0o8rqjHuOpQUmoAvycK7eVTXl6o3VGiAAQqE8K-vfGhpVFVMJrV_gpmY2mCd_kh9Gk96VAOU1QAPDnrLo/s1600/wright+bros.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So dapper. And aerodynamic. </td></tr>
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<br />
So. You know. We've got that going for us. (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dayton,_Ohio" target="_blank">Other stuff, too, probably!</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
Why yes, I <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/2008/01/and-everybody-yeah-tries-to-put-my.html" target="_blank">have written something very similar</a> to this (but better and with more effort) before.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-86147722896788436892012-05-17T09:56:00.001-04:002012-05-17T09:56:13.863-04:00Also, I because I grew a zucchini.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" /></a>Ah yes, hometowns. Mine is small, barely more populous than the small university to which I ran away an increasingly long time ago. It's a town, yes, but it never much felt like home. Wikipedia tells me it's "a sweet place to kick back and just lax," but that's never been my experience.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/5392963539/" title="my beach by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5175/5392963539_c36d5c2f35.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="my beach"></a><br />
<br />
I have a new home now, so that's nice. Mostly because these guys live there too:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/6981936413/" title="HALP by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7184/6981936413_dc46b4993a.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="HALP"></a>kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-55390921291666446912012-05-14T23:30:00.000-04:002012-05-15T10:27:30.851-04:00there and back again<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><br />
<br />
When I'm in New York I don't walk fast enough or talk fast enough or avoid enough eye-contact. I say way too much "please" and way too much "thank you" while I hold open doors and give up my seat and pass money to every panhandler. I can't make a long "i" sound. I drop all every "ing." Even my posture is Southern. Back in the South, I am too quick with words, too swift with reason, too far from the straight and narrow. I'm cynical below the Mason-Dixon, hard around the edges, calloused from battling everyone else's Bible. A hillbilly there, an abomination here. A Took clan kind of hobbit. <br />
<br />
My hometown isn't "home" so much as it's "town," but these woods and these streams and these mountains, where I've crashed my bike and scarred so much of my body — that is where my heart is. <br />
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<br />Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-10577634065334640712012-05-11T08:00:00.000-04:002012-05-11T08:00:08.125-04:00this is completely off topic and makes very little sense because apparently the change in season makes me CRAZY<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> I feel like I got completely cheated out of my favorite seasonal change, that is, the moment frigid, stupid winter turns into beautiful, frolic-through-the-field spring. Not that I mind that we didn't get much snow or ice, but I feel like now I'm just taking the nice weather for granted. I mean, I appreciate the nice weather, I do. But am I appreciating it enough? There's something about that first warm day after months of below freezing temperatures. That thrill as you walk outside, feel the warmth on your skin, like you've just arrived on the planet, and blinking, you step out of your spaceship and into the sun. You feel like there's more to see than can ever been seen. More to do than can ever be done...THE CIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIFE.<br />
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<br />
Ahem. I just ripped off both <i>The Lion King</i> and <i>Doctor Who</i>, I think!<br />
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<b>[WARNING: the random nonsense below contains <i>Doctor Who</i> spoilers through series 4ish. I'm sorry. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHVW-S9JkKA" target="_blank">I'm so sorry</a>.] </b><br />
<br />
Can I tell you about the <i>Doctor Who</i> dream I had the other night? Please? I know that writing about your dreams is breaking, like, Blogging Rule Number One and if I keep going, I might get kicked out of the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWKg0Dxt2dc" target="_blank">Bloggers Alliance</a>* or something, but just pretend it wasn't a dream and it really happened (that's what <i><b>I'm</b></i> doing, since it involved making out with <a href="http://theuniblog.evilspacerobot.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/61774_david-tennant-specs.jpg" target="_blank">David Tennant</a>) and that should make it more interesting, OK? OK, so, I was me and yet not me, if that makes sense. Well. Even if it doesn't make sense, it's still true. I was not really me, obviously, because I wasn't married and I was in space with fictional characters. DUH ANYWAY. I was on my way to a party at a really rich girl's house, but she lived on another planet (like rich girls so often do) so I needed my friends the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleventh_Doctor" target="_blank">11th Doctor</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amy_Pond" target="_blank">Amy and Rory Pond</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rose_Tyler" target="_blank">Rose Tyler</a>, and the <a href="http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Meta-Crisis_Tenth_Doctor" target="_blank">10th Doctor Clone</a>. DON'T ask me how Rose and the Clone Doctor got out of their parallel universe because I DON'T KNOW.<br />
<br />
So we got to this party and everyone hated us for some reason. Maybe because we were from the wrong part of The Universe. Or because I was hanging out with two Doctors and they were jealous, which is completely understandable. I somehow got separated from all of my friends (MY SPACE FRIENDS) and ended up wandering around the party, running into people like Beyonce and Martha Stewart, who are so obviously aliens, it all makes sense now THANK YOU, BRAIN. Also, this girl (whoever she was) had such a massive mansion that there was A STORE INSIDE. What? That doesn't even make sense, BRAIN, I revoke my earlier gratitude!<br />
<br />
Eventually I found the Clone Doctor and we fell in love. It all happened very quickly and yet made total sense. Like dreams do. And I felt really bad about it because I was friends with Rose Tyler and I didn't want her to be sad, but I ALSO didn't want to miss out on the chance to make out with my favorite Time Lord (WE WERE IN LOVE), so WHATEVER, fuck you, Rose Ty-lah! So Clone Doctor and I walked around the party looking for a private place to make out but we kept running into the 11th Doctor, who took a picture of us kissing and texted it to Rose. WHAT AN ASSHOLE. I don't remember anymore because I woke up the end.<br />
<br />
The most disappointing part of all of this (aside from not being able to find a private room in this GIANT MANSION) was that the 9th Doctor wasn't there, I guess because even in my dreams, Christopher Eccleston is so totally over <i>Doctor Who</i>. I told Joe about my dream the next morning and how my brain was writing fan fiction (that my body can't cash) and he said that I basically had a dream about <i>Gossip Girl</i> but cast <i>Doctor Who</i> characters in place of <i>Gossip Girl</i> characters. I like to think that I at least cast myself as Blair. A girl can dream, can't she?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s1103.photobucket.com/albums/g478/Jennifer_Baxla/?action=view&current=blair.gif" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1103.photobucket.com/albums/g478/Jennifer_Baxla/blair.gif" /></a>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-71924371233313888802012-05-10T11:58:00.000-04:002012-05-10T11:58:41.585-04:00Driving in the sun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2-jhJnTfGxZI_ZKAh9SD8kVMynEeynfNwucRhTAUIvpR99gl-iLeIVTlmPiIOvtlQDCnJQK8mM3eW6lJqmRN4B0PZ6piiZX2o-9LDMHhuIwttGrPOXtEbdExBqYm68ryzm2GW45Csr4/s1600/malibu" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Abigail" title="Abs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Abs" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2245/2157960933_bc3d65100d_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> I go camping twice a year to the same place: a canyon by a beach right outside Los Angeles. It's fireside and ocean side and city side and it is my favorite place. When I go in September it's 70 degrees with a chill at night. When I go in January it's 70 degrees with a chill at night. The seasons don't change here. I live in paradise, every day. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2-jhJnTfGxZI_ZKAh9SD8kVMynEeynfNwucRhTAUIvpR99gl-iLeIVTlmPiIOvtlQDCnJQK8mM3eW6lJqmRN4B0PZ6piiZX2o-9LDMHhuIwttGrPOXtEbdExBqYm68ryzm2GW45Csr4/s1600/malibu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2-jhJnTfGxZI_ZKAh9SD8kVMynEeynfNwucRhTAUIvpR99gl-iLeIVTlmPiIOvtlQDCnJQK8mM3eW6lJqmRN4B0PZ6piiZX2o-9LDMHhuIwttGrPOXtEbdExBqYm68ryzm2GW45Csr4/s400/malibu" width="400" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-28295849639166929792012-05-10T10:25:00.000-04:002012-05-10T10:25:38.037-04:00So I walked across that Grain Belt Bridge into a bright new Minneapolis.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" /></a>This year is not like the others. There are no cold beers to drink or pools by which to lounge, no trips to the beach to await eagerly. The season is changing or so I'm told, but really all I feel is... nothing much, actually. A certain numbness has pervaded my waking hours and in between bouts of panic over this pain or that, all I've been able to muster is a vague sort of regret for the winter we didn't have. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty limited in what I can do these days both on order and in ability. Best I can do is putter around my "garden" and live vicariously through Hold Steady albums, go to bed early and often. It's not a life I'd recommend. BUT! At least it's possibly only temporary, right?<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7164432880/" title="future zucchini by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="future zucchini" height="375" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7222/7164432880_45ff8d670f.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Future zucchini.</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7164923388/" title="future tomatoes by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="future tomatoes" height="375" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5333/7164923388_a82bf743f2.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Future tomatoes.</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7165134396/" title="basils by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="basils" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8159/7165134396_a0c6c19905.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>TWO KINDS of basil.</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7165149752/" title="lettuces by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="lettuces" height="375" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7219/7165149752_2f8db722a6.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Lettuces that I'm not allowed to eat.</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/7165200940/" title="herbs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="herbs" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8163/7165200940_78269f3c6b.jpg" width="375" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, etc.</i></span><br />
<br />
And lest you think life is all misery and woe...<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/6991704742/" title="warmups by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="warmups" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8164/6991704742_7c36c0ffdc.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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I still have my playoffs tickets. (So sometimes life is EXTRA miserable and woeful.)kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-26959953722683747182012-05-08T23:20:00.000-04:002012-05-08T23:20:52.460-04:00Oh, look, Indiana Jones and the apartment of perpetual viginity.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><br />
This week's Collective topic is: What does it feel like when the seasons start to change? Which is a pretty ironic question since the changing of the seasons is the reason I'm posting almost two full days late. See, because when spring starts rolling into summer, two very wonderful things happen in my life: 1) Amy gets out of school. 2) It's mountain biking weather. Basically that means I spend every non-working hour playing outside with my best friend and riding my bike around. So, like, the changing of the seasons essentially feels like Peter Pan Syndrome. Even worse than usual, if you can believe it.<br />
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Here's a pretty photo I took on a ride on Saturday.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6nmV36RMDS9jM3lKxnBgd4stzXTjC_M-heJ9wbDMkMPZm1XEF1agJE0UR-e6eVcfKcN-GVcfSK0ADfId5VEqacb2O65DNue5gqJQyq5Tb1__vvDdkqS-yoJI-jy2CtivOgZt5YDexAI/s1600/807c25c696ed11e18cf91231380fd29b_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6nmV36RMDS9jM3lKxnBgd4stzXTjC_M-heJ9wbDMkMPZm1XEF1agJE0UR-e6eVcfKcN-GVcfSK0ADfId5VEqacb2O65DNue5gqJQyq5Tb1__vvDdkqS-yoJI-jy2CtivOgZt5YDexAI/s1600/807c25c696ed11e18cf91231380fd29b_7.jpg" /></a></div>
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I took it right before I crashed so hard I almost broke my face.<br />
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That's also what summer feels like to me: OUCH!Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-90569911049201529222012-05-03T08:30:00.000-04:002012-05-03T08:52:56.910-04:00She calls it a MAYONEGG.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a>I tried and tried (for real this time) to think of something that creeped me out and came up with pretty much nothing. Nothing that hasn't already been mentioned, anyway, because that Flickr thing is creepy as hell.<br />
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This, however? Makes me gag. <strike>Egg</strike> <strike>Bland</strike> Ann Veal is totally creepy. In the best way.<br />
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Also, I'm a little creeped out by how long I played this game:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nothingsgonnastopmenow.com/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDlraeLsxhj_mwiqX7QEAz_TExkcrWzoUHC2WcNi-UFghitt7LTJgky75zF1tYD5z0mrNNswoExcTswRigjIXiwz_garu6l_fWeHIL95jso0U4IkA-GPSY-ccWtIbIF11QjkPu7oxXeo/s640/perfect+strangers.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I CAN'T HELP IT, I AM RIDICK-U-LUS. </td></tr>
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That is all.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-40278487711447322992012-05-02T10:35:00.000-04:002012-05-02T10:35:05.629-04:00What creeps me out?<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="" /></a>My 29-year-old sister has the Tumblr of an emotionally unstable 12-year-old girl. <i>Homework is haaaaaaaard! I'll be alone and miserable foreeeeeever! Manga! Instagram! Boys! Boys! Boys! Emo self portraits! Gotye lyrics! Boys!</i> <br />
<br />
Someone really needs to get a grip. <br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d9NF2edxy-M" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-3567993945999309662012-05-01T19:04:00.001-04:002012-05-01T19:04:16.077-04:00 <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Abigail" title="Abs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Abs" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2245/2157960933_bc3d65100d_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> A lot of things gross me out. Lotion, beans, sponges, cockroaches, getting wet, babies, etc., etc. Not a lot of things creep me out. I have little-to-no stranger danger and I find shifty individuals entertaining. <br />
<br />
But I have a flickr account (that I used to use) and there are these CREEPERS that CREEP THROUGH old PHOTOS and FAVORITE them. Which do they favorite? Super weird fetish related things. My pictures never seem weird (just me and my girlfriends being funny and/or drunk) until I get a CREEPER favorite it and then I see the picture with whole new eyes. Like, I mean, I guess I <i>shouldn't</i> have posed with that stack of hangers at Ikea.<br />
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And how do I know it's a creeper? When you click on their profile and all their favorites are hanger pictures. What the hell. HEEBIE JEEBIES.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-19155422808455717672012-04-30T14:36:00.000-04:002012-04-30T21:00:54.655-04:00I used to be an adventurer like you, but then I took an arrow to the knee. <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><br />
<br />
The first time I got married in Skyrim, I was an awkward, blundering warrior-mage looking for a place to rest my head and store my gear in Whiterun. I met Uthgerd the Unbroken in The Bannered Mare throwing bank a tankard of Black-Briar Mead and hankering for a brawl. She insulted me, challenged me to a fist fight, and when I bested her, she noticed my Amulet of Mara and offered her hand (and house!) in marriage. I accepted. We were wed at the Temple of Mara in Riften within the week. <br />
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Things were fine at first. We traveled the land raiding bandit camps and defeating dungeons full of Draugr. But pretty soon I had enough gold to buy my own house in Whiterun. Uthgerd moved in with me, of course, but so did my housecarl Lydia. And that's when things got dicey. Lydia was constantly in my bedroom. When I woke up, there she was. When I returned from battle, there she was. When I unloaded my loot into my treasure chest, there she was. "Honored to see you, my thane!" "Long life to you, my thane!"<br />
<br />
Pretty soon I decided to take Lydia questing and let Uthgerd have a break. For one thing, Lydia's sycophantic blabber in my house was making me nuts. Out on the open road, she was a sarcastic, impatient warrior who sighed and huffed when I stopped to buy supplies, and when I'd ask her to hold onto some of our loot, she'd go, "I am <em>sworn</em> to carry your burdens." And for another thing, she'd happily wear the fancy armor I smithed for her, unlike Uthgerd, who seemed determined to get burnt to a crisp by dragon fire in that pedestrian steel outfit. <br />
<br />
But things got sour on the road with Lydia after a couple of days. I was a master of sneak, you see, wielding my bow and arrows in the shadows for double damage, but at the first sign of trouble, Lydia would go barrelling into forts and caves and ancient ruins shouting, "I'LL KILL YOU IF I HAVE TO!" So of course I had to follow after her or risk hitting her in the head with one of my glass arrows from afar. But once I got into actual combat, I had to spend the whole time chasing Lydia around casting healing spells at her because she was constantly almost dying. <br />
<br />
Last week, in real life, I got myself some strep throat AND a peptic ulcer, which meant I was confined to my bed to be miserable and chew on bread occasionally. I decided to while away the time by starting a new game of Skyrim and not get married until I was good and ready. After like 20 hours, I settled on Mjoll the Lioness as my constant companion, because: a) She has her own high-level weapons, b) She'll wear whatever armor you smith/enchant for her, and c) She has the most unique dialogue options in the game, so when you're out on the road, she doesn't just huff and puff; she talks about how her mom trained her in swordsmanship and how she's been wiping out bad guys her whole life and stuff. She's a little insufferable — "I've NEVER been a sellsword!" — but then, so am I (IRL and on PS3), so we're a pretty great match. <br />
<br />
EXCEPT! When we got married, her roommate followed her into my house! All he does is talk about how he rescued Mjoll this one time and she's done nothing but make his life the greatest life in all of Tamriel and how he wants to move away with her and blah blah blah. He's always there! Day and night! Following Mjoll around! I've pickpocketed him, punched him in the head, taken away his house key, but still he keeps coming back! And then! Last night! When I came home from ending Skyrim's Civil War, after weeks and weeks on the road, he was standing in my bedroom watching my wife sleep! It was the creepiest thing I have ever seen in my life! <br />
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Also, this asshole keeps perving on me when I'm in my own damn house changing armor!<br />
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I can't bring myself to kill him with a sword, but I'm seriously thinking of replacing the Nord Mead in his backpack with some paralysis poison. <br />
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Actually, my favorite part of my whole hatred is how I Googled "What the fuck, Aerin? Skyrim." And found these AMAZING forum posts:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I followed Aerin out of the city, took out my bow and an iron arrow -- he's not good enough for anything better -- then I put an arrow through his knee. I dragged his body over a fire and left him.</blockquote>
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*</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Eventually, Aerin will walk out the door. (If he does not, exit/re-enter the house.) When he leaves, follow him out of Whiterun until nobody can see you and kill him. You should get no bounty and Mjoll will not know this way.</blockquote>
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*</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I went out and did the Azura's Shrine quest to get the refillable black soul gem. Then I went out and bought the Soul Trap spell. I waited around in the Whiterun house until his sorry hide showed up. He went about his business watching Mjoll and being creepy, I waited, spell at the ready. When he finally left, I followed him. Once we were safely outside the city, I snuck up and cast soul trap, then SLOW MO DECAPITATED HIS ASS!! Now I'm going to get my smithing/enchanting to 100, and create one heck of a helmet or something with his soul. Because we were safely outside the city and such, there was no bounty and Mjoll isn't ticked off at me in the least. Everything is business as usual.</blockquote>
This week's topic is: What creeps you out? And my original answer was: Aerin from Skyrim. But now that I've written this whole post, the answer is: Me.Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-1742884544073615862012-04-26T08:26:00.000-04:002012-04-26T08:26:01.512-04:00If Laughter is the Best Medicine, Why Does Jennie Have a Cold?<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><i>[Obviously the responsible thing to do when you haven't posted in a billion years is to get someone else to do it for you (in this case: Joe, because he is my go to guest-poster) and have him write something about how awesome you are. I only asked him to post for me, though, (on account of how my brain is muddled with cold medicine) I didn't ask him to say nice things about me. Anyway. Here is his post.]</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Laughing is awesome. I think there are studies and stuff about how laughing is good for you. Seriously, look it up. It’s on the Internet somewhere, and if it’s on the Internet somewhere, it’s true.
There is no denying that I have what can kindly be called a boisterous laugh. A few weeks ago there was a comic convention in town, and from across the crowded room a guy I know knew that I was there because he heard me laugh. I’ve been told that my laugh is great, and that it’s annoying. If I could change my laugh to be more appealing to those people, I wouldn’t, because screw them, but also I don’t think it’s even possible to change your laugh. That’s probably something else you could look up on the Internet, but I don’t feel like doing that right now.
The most recent person to comment on the volume of my laughter is Jennie, and she should know because I laugh constantly when I’m with her. This will not come as a shock to any of you, but my wife is <i>hilarious</i>. Her non-sequiturs are legendary, usually involving replacing words in songs with ‘poop’ or making fart noises (which have always had a direct line to my funny bone), and the resultant laughter is usually a mixture of amusement and WTFness. I cannot even begin to imagine what goes on in her brain sometimes, but if I had the chance to experience it myself, I most definitely would want to go to there. I go to Jennie when I need a laugh, and even if I haven’t specifically gone looking for one, she always delivers.
And if Jennie’s not available, I watch this video.<br />
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<br />
Or this one.<br />
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<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooow.</i>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-59534418065346755682012-04-25T09:18:00.000-04:002012-04-25T09:18:11.098-04:00What's brown and sticky?<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="" /></a>Mine was not a laughing family. If humor is genetic both branches of the old tree were bereft, not a single shimmering leaf to be found glinting in the jolly sun. And yet despite this lack of natural propensity I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of humor. There are few people in the world, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of humor than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. Indeed, I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in humor is to be acquired, without constant practice.<br />
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Sadly, no one taught me, no one attended me. Without a governess I was neglected. My mother should have taken me to town every spring for the benefit of the masters, but I suppose she had no opportunity. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. So, though I am not yet four and thirty, I seek out humor where I may find it. And without fail, I find it in <a href="http://ihatekitkats.tumblr.com/post/201306334/william-tell-overture-by-the-muppets">Camilla and the Chickens</a>.<br />
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<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7CQF_nhPUGU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jd8nfEdo59I" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-64508611387409553942012-04-24T11:38:00.001-04:002012-04-24T11:39:15.214-04:00Two Things That Always Make Me Laugh<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Abigail" title="Abs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Abs" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2245/2157960933_bc3d65100d_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> <br />
1. <a href="http://www.suburbanbliss.net/suburbanbliss/2006/09/sometimes_its_j.html">This blog post</a>. It gives a little perspective into life suckingness and working at Chuck E. Cheese. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1WmVz2g4pzRj2uahXqX1GwC9iyRcdu9VKbEwqR-Rel6DNV6fYZZdFaUsM7Aa9Nil7gmj2AUObzFu1JI9fq9JIqEK6ycoTfsYqfpa6ErE2y6j2nDqNN2sFPGHD8Sdx9ONL_AMVxinhSY/s1600-h/Photo+257.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314013007662569058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1WmVz2g4pzRj2uahXqX1GwC9iyRcdu9VKbEwqR-Rel6DNV6fYZZdFaUsM7Aa9Nil7gmj2AUObzFu1JI9fq9JIqEK6ycoTfsYqfpa6ErE2y6j2nDqNN2sFPGHD8Sdx9ONL_AMVxinhSY/s320/Photo+257.jpg" style="height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<br />
2. <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/2009/03/hello-vegas-wed-like-some-more-alcohol.html">This blog post that I wrote drunk. </a>There used to be a lot of amazing comments, too, before we lost all our old comments. Someone had edited the pic above by adding "i wanted some little diebbie oatleaml cream pies but riete aid didnt hae tehm." LOLcat style. It was epic. And accurate of almost all my sentiments all the time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-27763686656901382432012-04-23T12:53:00.000-04:002012-04-23T12:54:24.164-04:00Condoms, Rose! Condoms! Condoms! Condoms! <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a><br />
I think the number one rule of blogging is that you're not supposed to apologize when you take a hiatus from blogging because it comes off as even more narcissistic than the actual act of blogging. Like, "I'm so sorry I've been away; it must have felt like the winter of deepest despair without your daily dose of my own personal opinions!" But I really do want to apologize for our hiatus. Not because of your despair, but because everyone else at Collective HQ is awesome at Managing Their Shit, except for me. My inability to properly organize my time/say no/write a recap for my job in less than ten thousand hours is a real nuisance. I've missed you guys an awful lot, is what I am saying. <br />
<br />
ANYWAY. <br />
<br />
This week's topic is: When you need a laugh, who/what do you turn to? <br />
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Mostly I turn to the longest, most stable relationship in my life. The one with my TV. Most sitcoms are funny in a single-viewing kind of way, but these four make me laugh and laugh no matter how many times I've seen the episodes and heard the jokes. <br />
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1) Community<br />
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<img height="177" src="http://i40.tinypic.com/21j59hl.gif" width="400" /><br />
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2) Arrested Development<br />
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<img height="227" src="http://i40.tinypic.com/11jnodv.gif" width="400" /><br />
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3) Golden Girls<br />
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<img height="289" src="http://i40.tinypic.com/35d6s8x.gif" width="400" /><br />
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4) Friends<br />
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<img height="208" src="http://i43.tinypic.com/4t850n.gif" width="400" /><br />
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Honorable mention for Parks and Rec after season one and The Office through season three.Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-14646444535096200312012-03-22T08:04:00.033-04:002012-03-22T08:04:00.659-04:00no one can stop us now<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> I, like many other bored-at-work-type people, recently watched the Neil DeGrasse Tyson video where he reveals the most astounding fact about the universe. Here it is, if you haven't seen it, and if you feel like being good-touched-not-bad-touched by beauty today:<br />
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<br />
If you don't feel like watching it (what's wrong with you?) or you can't because THE MAN will see you, the basic premise is this: We are not really so small, you and I. We contain the universe. Every single of one of us is made of the dust of dying stars.<br />
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HOW FUCKING COOL IS THAT. I'm sorry, I know this is an old(ish) thought. I already had this information in my brain (somewhere), having stumbled across it in one fall-down-the-rabbit-hole websurfing session or another, but if you think about it, really think about it, it's just so mindbogglingly awesome. I have trouble forming coherent thoughts about it because IT'S JUST SO FUCKING COOL. I wish I could be more poetic but COME ON. An idea that big, that beautiful, is just screaming for some caps lock profanity. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. <br />
<br />
I was in Chicago with some friends recently, just for the weekend, visiting for another friend's pre-wedding festivities. We went out to breakfast one morning and, as it was a Saturday morning in a busy Chicago restaurant, there was a long wait. As I stood within the throng of patiently waiting customers, trying to ignore the caffeine headache on the horizon and the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, I was overwhelmed as more and more people came into the restaurant.<br />
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"There are just SO MANY PEOPLE in the world," I thought, as I huddled closer to my own group. There are so many strangers, so many people I'll never know, never meet, and, at that very moment, it felt like each and every one of them was there in that waiting room. I began to feel smaller and smaller, more and more insignificant, as I gazed at the shoulders and backs (what, I'm short) of the strangers around me. None of those people will ever know who I am. I'm just like so many of them, a carbon copy. And instead of feeling like that meant I was connected to them, to these complete strangers, I felt like I hardly mattered. "There are so many of me," I thought. "WHAT IS THE POINT OF ANYTHING?"<br />
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Now. I can easily chalk most of that feeling up to hunger and caffeine-deprivation, but still, I do have to admit that I've been feeling a bit on the worthless side lately, if I'm being completely honest. I spend a lot of time questioning many of my decisions, wondering how I stumbled into this particular career, for instance, and how (or if) I can stumble back out of it. Some days I'm full of optimism, sure I can do it, all I have to do is take a little step every day and sooner or later I'll wake up and be in a different place, without even realizing I was going anywhere. But other days...other days, I can't see anything in front of me but a gray haze. All I can focus on is the success of those around me, <i>their</i> good fortune instead of my own, and I spend so much time wondering what they've done that I haven't, and even though I know the answer is most definitely something like, "WORK HARD, DUH," I can't help but think maybe it's never going to happen. Maybe I'll always be in this place. Bored most of the day. Unfulfilled yet full of regret. A waste of space and potential.<br />
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It's days like this that I really need the reminder this video gives me. That I'm OK. More than OK, really. I'm full of stars.<br />
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I was sorely tempted to make a joke out of this week's topic, because that's what I do. The oldest thing I own is probably...a book, maybe? My house? But no. If I allowed myself to be completely serious, I'd tell you that the oldest thing I own is me, those parts of me that hold the tiniest bits of the universe, the parts I'm still trying to figure out.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-35113594593602259852012-03-21T14:11:00.000-04:002012-03-21T14:11:31.833-04:00If I'm a Muppet then I'm a very manly Muppet.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="" /></a>I dissected my first frog in the seventh grade. But I wasn't just handed a scalpel and a dead frog, oh no. First I had to reconstruct a paper frog, putting all of its various organs in their proper places. To prove my worth. So reconstruct I did, in three dimensions.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kht20/779250737/" title="7th grade science homework by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.staticflickr.com/1145/779250737_f9f6d99c9c_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="7th grade science homework"></a><br />
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This is not, in fact, the oldest thing I own. Though I do have some of my mother's and grandmother's jewelry, a James Dickey first edition that I never had a chance to give away, an ancient photo or two, I generally fall in the the Things-You-Own-Own-You Camp. But nothing else remains of my childhood except for this frog. This piece of cardstock marks the very beginning of my origin story; they day I jerry-rigged pop-up frog guts was the day I veered off the well worn path of my peers. It was the day I realized that I am a really, really weird human being.kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-11928301475834248022012-03-20T21:16:00.000-04:002012-03-20T21:17:24.079-04:00Age is just a number<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Abigail" title="Abs by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2245/2157960933_bc3d65100d_s.jpg" alt="Abs" height="75" width="75" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">I am a hoarder. My mother is a hoarder. My grandmother was a hoarder.</span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">I have an apartment and a garage full of treasures. It’s fairly well organized. And I try to go through it at least once a year to make sure I <i>really</i> need the collection of sentimental t-shirts I’ve never worn. (Spoiler alert: I don’t. So every time I reduce the collection by half.) But it’s still a whole lot of stuff. Old stuff. New stuff. Cute stuff. Ugly stuff I think I can make cute. </span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">My mother has moved four times in four years and yet she’s still managed to collect treasures wherever she goes. Old stuff. New stuff. Stuff on sale that’s just too good to pass up. There is a storage unit in Chicago full of treasures (including most of my childhood stuff and probably several never-worn sentimental t-shirts). There is a house in Oakland with boxes. And there is her current residence which generates it’s own finds. </span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">But my grandmother? We are normal, contributing members of society compared to her. She filled up a mansion in California and then when it was full she bought a farm in Oregon. A farm with over a dozen garages and outbuildings and shacks and sheds. And then she filled them all up. </span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">She went to garage sales and antique malls and flea markets and church rummage sales. She had stuff of value (Mayan furniture) and stuff of nothing (boxes of cheap, empty picture frames). She had journals of her life, her studies, her work in medicine and politics and education, and then printouts of websites. </span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">I’ve inherited some stuff from her and it’s old stuff. I’ve inherited some stuff from my mom and it’s old stuff. I’ve bought some of my own old treasures at garage sales and antique malls and at flea markets. I try to be prudent and non-sentimental as much as possible. And at least mostly organized. But I inherited more than just the stuff. I inherited the love of stuff, of possession, of a few of my favorite things. </span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#000000;background-color:transparent;font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;">I can’t tell you the oldest thing I own cause I own so many things. But age doesn’t matter. I love them all. My stuff is my home. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-59499985386381402222012-03-19T13:30:00.001-04:002012-03-19T13:30:27.424-04:00Too few characters out there, flying around like that, saving old girls like me. <a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Heather" title="heather by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="heather" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2112/2157960983_c30a324980_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> <br />
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<i>Everybody loves a hero. People line up for them, </i><br />
<i>cheer them, scream their names. And years later, </i><br />
<i>they'll tell how they stood in the rain for hours</i><br />
<i>just to get a glimpse of the one</i><br />
<i>who taught them how to hold on a second longer.</i><br />
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Yesterday I saw a man assaulting a woman in the parking lot of a restaurant. She was my server, as friendly as can be. When I walked out the door, she walked out the door, and a man grabbed her, someone she knew, started choking her, threatening her, shaking her so hard I'm surprised he didn't snap her in two. Every instinct inside me told me to hurl myself at that man, to tackle him to the ground, to get him away from her no matter what. But he was jacked up and twice my size and who knows what he had in his pocket. So I called 911, gave a detailed description of what was happening, went home and cried myself sick. <br />
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I cried because I couldn't stop him. I cried because I didn't know if the police got there in time to see his hands around her neck, to take him away to jail. I cried because that woman was probably going home to him later, and if he'd choke her in daylight in a crowded parking lot, what would he do behind closed doors? I cried because the system is broken, because where could she go even if she wanted to get away? I cried because a month ago, I had to separate a little girl from her dog to take them to different shelters, because two months ago I walked out of a Manhattan bakery with a five-dollar donut right past a woman who was begging for change, because three years ago I bypassed a homeless woman in Munich who was using her one blanket to cover up her dog, because there's so much misery in this world and I can't do anything to stop the bleeding. <br />
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This week's Collective topic is: What's the oldest thing you own? <br />
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The oldest thing I own -- or, well, the oldest thing I ever saved up for and bought for myself -- is an autographed photo of Yvonne Craig as Batgirl. It hangs on the wall in my office next to framed prints of Batwoman, Supergirl, Wonder Woman, Mary Marvel. I've got prints of my favorite non-hero comic book characters dressed like heroes. Prints of my favorite non-hero TV characters dressed like The Doctor and his companion. I've got action figures, mugs, lunch boxes, Hermione's wand, TARDIS replicas, Gandalf's staff, books and books and books and books about ordinary people doing extraordinary things.<br />
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Last night, Amy petted my hair while I sobbed, petted my hair like she's been doing since we were kids. I said the thing I've been saying since I was a child: "If only I were Batgirl ..." And she said the same thing she's been saying for 18 years: "Even if you were, there would always be one more person to save." <br />
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Somehow it makes me feel better when she says that. Better because even imaginary heroes are inadequate sometimes. But I surround myself with those guys anyway, like I've always done for forever.<br />
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My favorite print I own is of <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/deantrippe" target="_blank">Dean Trippe's</a> <a href="http://www.tencentticker.com/butterflycomics/" target="_blank">"Butterfly."</a> He's the sidekick of a sidekick, less powerful than Birdie who is less powerful than Knight-Bat -- but he's just sweet enough to think ice cream and love can change the world. I don't have a suit of body armor or a tricked-out motorcycle, but I do have sugary snacks. And so much love it breaks my heart into ten billion pieces some days. <br />
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If only caramel apples made me fly.<br />
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<img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7192/6851149626_fa59bc0d65.jpg" />Heather Anne Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14199619712140888045noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-11067320263067071782012-03-08T07:19:00.002-05:002012-03-08T07:19:00.134-05:00being this lazy is an artform<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Jennie" title="Jennie by KHT20, on Flickr"><img alt="Jennie" height="75" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2405/2157961031_c747a4d625_s.jpg" width="75" /></a> We went to Mexico last week for my dear friend Mary's wedding and, although it was very relaxing, there were not enough lazy days for my tastes. For you see, if I had my way, every day would be a lazy day. <br />
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However, I apparently had enough lazy days for me to forget how to be productive, which is why you are getting the laziest post ever. <br />
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<b>Anatomy of a Lazy Day</b>: <br />
<ul><li>Wake up, whenever you'd like, no alarms. (I prefer to wake up earlyish to get the most lazy out of my day, but your mileage may vary.)</li>
<li>Put on bra (optional)</li>
<li>Leave on pajamas (not optional)</li>
<li>Make breakfast</li>
<li>Sit on sofa with said breakfast</li>
<li>Try and ignore the dog staring at you with hungry, pleading eyes</li>
<li>Eat breakfast while watching TiVo, Netflix, or your <i>Party Down</i> DVDs for the 18th time</li>
<li>Decide to watch only one episode while you eat, then you're definitely going to do something productive</li>
<li>Watch one more episode</li>
<li>Enter a fugue state in which you finish half a season, realize you're hungry</li>
<li>Make lunch</li>
<li>Sit on sofa with said lunch</li>
<li>Try and ignore the dog staring at you with hungry, pleading eyes</li>
<li>Decide to watch one more episode while you eat, then you're really, really going to do something productive</li>
<li>Accidentally finish the rest of the season</li>
<li>Shower (optional) </li>
<li>Put pajamas back on (not optional)</li>
<li>Is it 5 yet? Then it's acceptable to start drinking.</li>
<li>Open a beer</li>
<li>Go back to the sofa, The Holy Mothership of Lazy Do-nothings</li>
<li>Mooooore teeeeeeveeeeeeee</li>
<li>Order pizza once your stomach starts growling</li>
<li>Have you finished an entire season of TV yet? If not, FOR SHAME. If so, maybe switch to movies. Or not. IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER. </li>
<li>Sit in a stupor until the <i>Arrested Development </i>DVD menu screen lulls you to sleep</li>
</ul>And, bonus, <b>Anatomy of a Lazy Day, Mexico Edition</b>: <br />
<ul><li>Wake up</li>
<li>Put on swimsuit, sunscreen</li>
<li>Go to breakfast</li>
<li>Head to pool</li>
<li>Order margarita</li>
<li>Fall asleep</li>
<li>Repeat until sun goes down</li>
</ul>I almost prefer the Mexico Edition, except there's no TV in that version.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10603984411324049557noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201912986125943734.post-7925342142248600052012-03-07T10:29:00.002-05:002012-03-07T10:29:49.164-05:00You have no idea the wormhole I fell through.<a href="http://bonsoircanard.blogspot.com/search/label/Kat" title="Untitled by KHT20, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2164/2158012303_a8ab9e7744_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="" /></a><br />
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<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BSZJLg0KkFY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>kathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01399682228073757903noreply@blogger.com3