February 12, 2009
So, last night as I’m surfing the web, I get a comment (comes in my email) on one of my work-related stories – read, “Holy cow, Sassy! The masthead for this site, plus this headline and your byline made the interview with Ann Curry on Dateline tonight.” I’m thinking, huh? I had no clue what this person was talking about – but I soon would.
My husband and I had started watching the Dateline special with Ann Curry and her interview with crazy octuplet mom Nadya Suleman, but he switched the channel after about five minutes. I didn’t care much since I’d written 98 stories about her for work (okay, not 98, but seems like that) so, if I didn’t read, see or hear another word about the woman for 2 minutes, then that was fine. But still, curiosity got the better of me – what exactly did that commenter mean? Within a few minutes, my boss had emailed everyone and said we were on Dateline – what? It was going to come on again at 11 p.m. so I waited patiently for two hours for it to air again.
For 120 minutes, I twiddled my thumbs and ate clementines. Oh and a banana. And I think I drank a bottle of water. I forget. Anyway, that’s boring – on to the exciting shiznat. Finally, eleven o’clock rolls around and we settle down to watch Dateline – and at about 45 minutes past the hour, there it was – Famecrawler’s header and MY POST about Octo-mom being a possible Angelina Jolie wannabe on the TV. On Dateline. On the TV on Dateline. What-the-freak-ever. You get the picture – as in TV picture screen – the pun fun doesn’t end around here. I aim to please. Screen shots:
The video is below, if it’s not embedding properly, click HERE to see it – you know, if you care or have a couple of minutes to waste while at work, or you’re just bored or you’re hungry but you have no snack food, and all that you can do to keep your mind off of your chocolate craving is to watch some chick who blogs about her 15 minutes of fame, which technically is about 2.2 seconds of fame and not exactly fame since no one really knows who the hell she is, but you know what I’m saying. If you’re not sure what I’m saying, let me clarify – I need a bowl of ice cream.
Whatevs. It’s at about the 1:26 mark. For God’s sake, don’t blink. Yes, that’s how long my 15 minutes lasted – a blink. Enjoy.
February 4, 2009
Okay, so smut isn’t a word I normally use and I’m certainly no prude, however, when it comes to what my 8-year-old child should be reading, well there’s a limit.
My daughter is very smart, sometimes wise beyond her years. She’s recently become intrigued by real-life ghost stories, and loves reading books on the subject.
I’m sure many of you are familiar with the author R.L. Stine and his children’s horror books – Goosebumps and Fear Street. My grown sons used to read them (Goosebumps) and watch the shows on TV. Well, for Christmas a family member bought my daughter a “ghost story” book, knowing how much she loves reading them. I saw the book at a glance, saw that it was by R.L. Stine, and my daughter opened the front page which had a nice note to her from the family member, telling her to enjoy the “ghost stories.” She’s been reading it for the past few days – she’s a strong reader and seemed to be enjoying it.
Fast forward to tonight. My son Matt comes over for a visit and he sits down at the dining room table, where I’m seated, as well as my daughter. He picks up the book and asks whose book it is. I tell him and said, “remember, she got it for Christmas?” He doesn’t really, but he’s 21 – he’s not going to remember what his little sister got for presents. Anyway, he asks if she’s enjoying the book – she said, yes. He opens the book and starts to read. Within seconds, he starts coughing, choking almost and asks me if I’ve seen the book?
Well, sort of. Read the note to Maddy. Why?
Uh, ya, but have you read the book?
No, why? It’s a ghost stories book, not really my thing.
Um, I don’t think it’s a ghost stories book.
Why do you say that?
He reads part of page one, the prologue, to me:
“The guy beside her stirs. She hears him muffle a burp.
His after-dinner burp, Charlotte thinks bitterly. I was dinner.
The blinds rattle as a gust of air sweeps over the bed. Fresh and cool. Charlotte sighs. The apartment smells so sour. Fried onions. Stale smoke.
Do you smoke? she asks, staring up at the shadowy bars, the cool air tingling her damp skin.
No. That was steam coming out of my ears. He makes a joke. Then he adds, You were great.
You weren’t, she thinks.
You were heavy. I thought you were going to crush me. And what were the ridiculous walrus cries at the end?”
OH.MY.GAWD. My daughter’s been reading an ADULT novel! It’s not a ghost stories book at all, oh no, not at all. But, it gets worse.
As my eyes are bugging out of my head and Matt and I are looking at each other, he flips ahead a few pages, starts reading page four. I thought his eyes would pop out of their damn sockets. He hands me the book and says, “read from where it says Charlotte.” I do. I thought I was going to have a stroke.
Here’s what it read:
She turns. He’s propped all the pillows behind him. Rests his head back against his hands, elbows out. Smiles.
Nice smile, she thinks. But a saleman’s smile.
Well… he sold me.
Uh… Charlotte? Before you leave? … uh…
She lowers her tights. Yeah?
Before you leave… How about a blow job, maybe?
I don’t think so, John. I’ve got chapped lips.”
This is the part where I did have a stroke.
The next few pages talk about Charlotte and, then, she’s murdered by some serial killer. Super.
I’m sure it’s a great book – seriously, I might even read it, but uh, it’s really not third-grade reading material. Just sayin’. My daughter won’t be reading any more of the book – at least not for another 10 years. And I’m just waiting for the questions that I KNOW are coming my way.