So due to an accidental spillage of Coke Zero on my (err I mean Drew's) keyboard, we had to revert back to the old keyboard that we used to have. The one with the broken tab key. I did not realize how much I used the tab key until I tried logging into everything, started posting on random spots, etc etc. Booo... it sucks. Anybody have a apple keyboard that they do not use anymore?
on A BRIGHTER NOTE!!!!!! Jen Lancaster's "Pretty in Plaid" came out today!!!! I just *hope* that my prereleased copy will come in the mail tomorrow, because I am almost done with the book that I am reading now so I can indulge into some sarcasm, wit, and footnotes. Here is one of my favorite blurps from her website, jennsylvania.com as a "closing statement"
""""Dear Paul Rudd, I Am Only Funny Inside My Own Head
Setting: The family room, approximately one second after Fletch has come in the door from work this evening.
"Hey! Hey! Hey! Guess what?" I exclaim.
Fletch is automatically wary. "Can I guess after I take my coat off?"
"Um, okay." I pause for a millisecond before pouncing on him again. "Guess what? Guess what?"
His sigh is barely perceptible, yet still surprisingly heavy. "Do you want me to guess or are you just going to tell me?"
"I'll just tell you. My friend got a freelance job doing an interview with Paul Rudd!" (Whom I love SO MUCH.)
"Nice!"
"Yeah, and instead of doing my own work, I've spent the last hour creating pretend emails that she should send to him, like 'Dear Paul Rudd, As part of my research, my editor requires us to make out.' And "Dear Paul Rudd, we're going to need an additional photo for your feature. Might you have any where you're not wearing pants? (Profile is fine.)'" And, "Dear Paul Rudd, what exactly are your thoughts about swinging? You know, hypothetically.'"
Fletch appraises me with a gimlet eye. "Since when do you write anything even vaguely suggestive?"
"Since never. But it's so damn funny."
He shakes his head. "Yeah, not so much."
Well, then, you know what Fletch really isn't going to find funny?
When I prepare an entire dinner while speaking out loud in imaginary letters to Paul Rudd in lieu of actual conversation.
"Dear Paul Rudd, Stacey and I are getting massages and having high tea tomorrow. Can I have $200?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, How do I roast a chicken?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, Remember the last time I roasted a chicken and I accidentally did it upside down and then I almost felt too sad to eat him once he was cooked because he looked too much like a hostage in that position?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, Do you know what happened to the extra bottle of olive oil?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, How come I set the alarm off every morning after Fletch goes to the gym? Am I punching the numbers in too slowly? Or too fast?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, Can you introduce me to Seth Rogan? But just as friends, okay? I find his hair unattractive."
"Dear Paul Rudd, Can you please option one of my books so you can play Fletch, so if we have to make out it won't be cheating because you'll just be getting into character?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, If I were to buy a demi-baguette and accidentally eat it all before you had any, would you also call me The Cookie Monster, only for French bread?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, I found the olive oil."
"Dear Paul Rudd, Do you also think I'm passive-aggressive for licking Fletch's wine glass on Thanksgiving because he wasn't being properly sympathetic to how much I was suffering with my cold?"
"Dear Paul Rudd, I was not aware I was 'braying like a jackass' every time I say 'Dear Paul Rudd.'"
"Dear Paul Rudd, I promise to stop speaking in imaginary letters if Fletch stops hiding downstairs."
(Although, honestly, I think it was the lure of a freshly roasted chicken that brought him back from the depths of the basement rather than any false promises on my part.)
Anyway, if you'd like to comment on this entry, it must be in the form of a letter to Paul Rudd.
(P.S. Dear Paul Rudd, I know. I know. And I'm sorry, but I don't actually have a day job that I shouldn't quit.)"""""""
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