I have two confessions to make.
One. This post contains spoilers circa 1993.
Two. I am terrible with horror movies. This isn’t normal level oh God I’m so freaked out and I might jump a little while watching scared. This is I didn’t sleep for two days after I saw The Ring and was positive that bitch was hanging out outside my window waiting for me to let my guard down scared.
Even previews for horror movies freak me out. I’ve forced myself to watch movies after seeing the preview because I needed to know that these fictional characters that I’ve encountered for 1 minute and 12 seconds survived.
The best part about all of this intense fear of a genre is why I have said intense fear of a genre. And to understand that, we must travel back in time – to a simpler time, when Sarah Jessica Parker hadn’t had sex in a city yet, when Bette Middler was the wind beneath my wings, and when I had a crush on one Omri Katz.
Now, to put this into perspective, I was six when I first saw this movie. Actually, I was six when I saw most of this movie. And let’s be honest: Winifred Sanderson is pretty effing scary when you’re six years old. For whatever reason, I was watching Hocus Pocus, for the first time, by myself, at age six. My parents weren’t home. My older sister was not watching with me. And I don’t know if you know the premise of Hocus Pocus, but these crazy fucking witches come back from the dead and suck the life out of little children – which is exactly what I was at age six.
Suck. The Life. Out of Children.
So, I’m watching this terrible movie where these witches are coming after these kids to suck their life out, and completely missing great moments like the bus driver because I was too young to understand…
…and I am bat shit terrified. Like watching the movie with one eye terrified, because apparently that made it less scary, to only allow fifty percent of my vision to see the movie.
Well, I’m struggle-bussing my way through this movie, just about positive that the witches were going to lose, because it was a Disney movie, and everyone knew that Disney movies have to have a happy ending except for Bambi’s Mom because what a terrible movie.
And then this amazing moment happened where the kids forced the witches into a giant oven and fried them to death. Take that, Bette Middler. Everything is fine! The kids are dancing in the yard because they win, and the world is safe from life sucking creatures and –
YEAH. Omri just cooked the witches and they did not die.
Well, being the brave six year old that I was, that was about as much as I could handle. The witches did not die after being cooked, and therefore were not going to die, which meant that the good guys lost, and the bad guys won, and I was sleeping in my sister’s bed that night.
Except my sister wouldn’t let me in her bed. I huddled in my parents bed until they came home, absolutely terrified that the Sanderson sisters were going to come after me since I had watched half of Hocus Pocus. When my dad moved me back to my bed, I was sure that the shadows behind my Little Tykes kitchen were Winifred, waiting for me to fall asleep. I was the next Emily Binx, and was bound to be until 1999.
Six years later, when my family upgraded to cable from bunny ears antennas, I finally saw the end of Hocus Pocus when it aired on the Disney Channel.
Hot damn, I realized. The witches lose after all.
And that, my friends, is why Laura doesn’t do horror.
I made a New Year’s Resolution this year that I was going to try and stop over-analyzing things. Granted, I made this resolution about a week into the New Year, after over-analyzing exactly what my New Year’s resolution should be and how much of an impact it would make on my day-to-day life and if I was even really going to keep my New Year’s Resolution, because duh.
It’s a New Year’s Resolution.
So, I made this resolution and basically a week later, was on the verge of breaking it. It started simply enough – kind of the way that an old school AIM conversation would, if I remember 2004 correctly.
You: What’s up?
Them: N2M. U?
Except instead of acronyms, we used proper spelling, and instead of the ding-a-ling IM sound, it was the generic Apple text sound that everyone checks their phone when they hear because #teamiPhone. So, really, it went something like this:
Me: How’s Mohawk?
Mohawk: Mohawk is fine.
Simple enough. It should be, at least. Simple question, simple answer, and we all move forward in our lives. Except for the fact that I had made a New Year’s Resolution, and Resolutions are apparently meant to be broken.
One of the reasons I decided to try and give up on “over-analyzing” the shit out of everything is because I over-analyze the shit out of everything.
But I’m fine, guys, I swear.
There’s this assumption that comes with being a girl and being fine. Are you really fine, or are you, like, the completely fucked up not fine at all that is now associated with saying that you’re fine?
It’s to the point where I don’t even try and say that I’m fine — or even better, I disclaim my fineness to accentuate the fact that I’m seriously okay.
I’ve realized that hearing that someone is fine is really like going through the five stages of grief.
Stage One: Denial
Stages Two and Three: Anger and Bargaining
Stage Four: Depression
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Seriously, what was this post about again? [Scrolls to top of post, re-reads…]
I’m fine, guys. Really.
I read Camie over at Wild Spirit all the time (favorite blog alert)…
…and one of my favorite things that she does is her happy list posts. Things that make her happy on a day to day basis, which is something I don’t do enough in my life — acknowledging how good I have it. So, in honor of the amount of turkey and potatoes and pie I’ll be eating tomorrow, I decided to put together
.a thankful list.
Because I am really, really, thankful for a lot of crap.
2. Coffee, and the Keurig machine that my mother donated to my office so I won’t spend as much on coffee.
3. Singing. Singing with my Dad. Snapchatting Car-aoke to GoldDust and Poof. My out of tune guitar. Music of all sorts.
4. the amazing, astounding, irreplaceable group of ladies: Alto, CoSi, FunSized, GoldDust, Poof, and SoccerGirl, for being the best supporting, texting, BFFing, shopping, coffee-ing, snapchatting group of girls I have the privilege to know and love.
5. Writing. Journals and blogs and letters and tweets and everything that gets me out of my head and onto something that listens and responds and accepts.
6. Photos, cameras, snapchat, and the DSLR my sister gave me that I don’t know how to use, and the giant arsenal of memories that I have because of all those things. Mainly the memories, because of all the other things on the list. But it’s nice to have a tangible memory too.
7. That family group of people, that I appreciate more and more the older I get — how lucky I am to have a loving, weird, dysfunctioning functional family.
I know it’s not Thursday, but I’m gonna throwback anyway because PUKKA SHELL NECKLACE. pic.twitter.com/a97VT0gHD2
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) July 16, 2013
8. Soccer. I don’t even care anymore that I’m not really that good, and
probably definitely never will be. I have fun playing, and I have amazing friends that have come out of this team and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
9. this $1 zit stuff that actually really works. It’s make up of some sort. It kind of stings. But it totally works. Yay, working! Yay, clear skin!
10. Snow, and winter, and the whole, yay, magical season. I should be like this year round – more appreciative and thankful for everything around me. I really should, and I mean to be. But ugh, you guys. The snow falls, and it’s all magical and beautiful and shiny and I don’t even mind that I live in Michigan and everyone, and I mean everyone drives like a chatchnugget. DON’T EVEN MIND. Michigan, you’re gorgeous.
On that note. Here’s to an excellent and overstuffed Thanksgiving tomorrow, for whoever and however everyone is celebrating.
-1. Christmas Music. I am not thankful for Christmas music until after Thanksgiving is over.
I need to give a shout to my amazing family of friends. After having an wild weekend with all of them I think they deserve a shout out. You will enjoy my friends as much as I do.
Of course, you know that L.A. and I are friends, actually BFF’s. This blog would be pointless without us being friends. Why is she so amazing to me? Well we are practically the same person in two separate bodies. It’s kind of creepy. Our relationship sometimes walks the line of romantic instead of platonic, but we like it that way. I love her for your huge heart. She never fails to find good in people even when they have wronged her. I truly admire her for that. When you find someone who accepts you for who you are, you don’t let them go.
Aren’t we adorable?
Next up is Poof. We came into each other’s lives when we exactly needed it. She and I have had our ups and downs, but we always seem to find a way to understand where the other one is coming from. Our college days together could write a best seller. She’s a partier, but knows how to really work. Her work ethic amazes me. We had our own television show in college and she always maded the most impossible projects come together. Even now, she is a doer. She is a full-time mommy and still can put together a fashion blog and manage her successful business of reselling designer named clothing, all at the same time. She is my magical bff.
She accepts me and my angry forehead vein
Having Hot Chocolate in my life has truly made me more honest to myself. I can’t thank or repay him enough for that. He is the best gift I could’ve ever received from my ex. I can be completely open with Hot Chocolate. It could be considered creepy or awkward, but our friendship works because of it. He is also there for me when I need to vent or just have someone there to not say a word. The unspoken understanding is what I love most about our friendship. We can be in a car for two hours and not say word to each other, but we know it was the best time together. The reflection he gives me of myself is something that can’t be found in too many friendships.
He let’s me wear his deodorant when I forget to put mine on too.
Last, but certainly not least is my Savvy. We recently rekindled our friendship. Smartest thing we could’ve done. She knows my wild and crazy side. We became friends because we worked in a chaotic restaurant together. Our pasts are very similar so we understand each other when the one is freaking out about something. Seeing each other at our lowest points makes it easy to know someone without asking questions. Randomness is what brings us together. Even when she is being wild and freaking out there is still a softness and kindness about her. Her dry humor makes any moment funnier.
She does what she wants when she wants it.
My heart is full from my family of friends.
The other day, I was ranting and roaring about how much trouble I’ve been having being funny.
Inner Monologue: It’s because you aren’t funny.
Me: I’m so funny. I’m just having trouble writing it down.
Inner Monologue: That’s not true. I remember everything. It’s not funny.
Actual Other Human Being: …Are you talking to yourself?
This of course brought on the conversation where I explained why I was talking to myself and of course, the important fact that I’m not bat shit crazy, I’m just a blogger with some major issues. Those being writer’s block. Nothing more.
So, the actual human being checked out this blog, told me I was kind of funny when I’m not trying, and told me that obviously, if I just wrote everything down, something funny would happen, and then it would be captured in writing and the world would right itself.
Like I didn’t think of that.
Then, he proceeded to bet me the price of my dignity, and an additional $20 that I couldn’t continuously post for a whole week — which means something readable and more than fifty words and not totally judged and not posted would have to go up everyday. For a week.
No judgement for a week.
So, you people can be the judges. Once a day for seven days. Starting today, since by the time we made this bet, yesterday’s post had already gone up and APPARENTLY, in this establishment, small people are not allowed to ride dogs like horses. Or count previously posted blogs.
So, I’m brainstorming. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
- I’ve decided to do one of those daily diatribes like my friend Triple Name does over on his new blog — for example — yesterday, he did “Why I’m weird Wednesday.” That means there is a solid chance you’ll be seeing a “Sh!t My Mother Says Saturday/Sunday/Day of the week because I got lazy on Saturday/Sunday.”
- I’ve also decided to dump the contents of my purse out and show ya’ll what I carry around/why I have back problems, courtesy of the gorgeous Camie over at Wild-Spirit.net. This might scare you. You wouldn’t believe the random stuff I have hidden away in my beast of a bag.
- FITTED SHEETS. ‘Nuff said.
That gets me, counting today, through four days of the week. I need some ideas kids. I’ll split the $20 with you. Between all my readers, that’s like fifty cents for everybody. And as Smash Mouth once said, we could all use a little change.
I’m saying “yo” an excessive amount today. It feels appropriate — like when I tell you all about how the bet is going, yo.
Day 1: You’re looking at it.
Lately, I’ve been talking with folks a lot about my parents. There are a lot of blogs with some great conversations with them, or by them, or involving them. My sister and I agree: they are the greatest odd couple there ever was, according to us.
Strangely enough, from this, a lot of you have been asking exactly how my parents met, and married, and created these wonderfully adorable half Asian babies. This really just leads me to thinking that all you people are working for Hallmark, and looking for the next Hallmark original movie. Which definitely could be my parents. You’re definitely not looking to steal my story. I mean, I have, what? Crying in bathtubs?
Yeah. I did that once.
Anyway. That leads me to this week’s post. Everyone has some sort of great love story that they know and love. We’ve all seen The Notebook. If you are female and don’t say that you want to be Rachel McAdams circa Ryan Gosling slamming her against the wall all rain-soaked and horny then you are a lying chatch-canoe who doesn’t deserve a love story. Therefore I bring you, my top five most loved love stories ever. Because I’m single. And I can.
5. Carl and Ellie: if you don’t know who I’m talking about, you’re obviously not a Disney fan. They are all sorts of internet meme-things going around saying that Pixar made a better love story in five minutes than Stephanie Meyers did in four books. And they are all correct. If you didn’t cry during this opening part of Disney-Pixar’s UP, then you have no soul.
4. The Notebook: see above comment. Rain-soaked Ryan Gosling. Oh, and it’s an adorable movie with such a good love story [except for James Marsden]. #Myfavoritemoviequote was trending all over twitter last night, and despite all the assholes declaring that 21 Jump Street apparently has better quotes than Almost Famous or Dead Poet’s Society, there was a hell of a lot of:
Nicholas Sparks better be happily married for the number of sappy love stories he writes for us, or I’m seriously going to egg his house.
3. Bobo and Cosi: No, you don’t know this love story. Because it’s not a love story in books, it’s one of those crazy things that actually happened in real life. My junior year in high school, I set up my best friend CoSi (back then, she was CoMc) with my friend Bobo for our fall homecoming dance. When I say “set up,” I definitely mean “forced into going so I wouldn’t feel awkward at said dance.” But that’s not the point. The point is that they ended up dating. The point is that they ended up continuing to date all through high school, and into college, and I was privileged enough to be in their wedding two summers ago. Bobo signed my yearbook after junior year saying thank you for setting them up. But really. I’m thankful for them for falling in love and staying in love. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
2. Rachel and Ross: I grew up with my favorite six friends and their coffee shop ploys. All ten seasons, I wanted Ross and Rachel to get together and stay together because I was convinced they were one of those TV couples that was just like real life. I wanted someone to dress up in a tux for me if my prom date didn’t show up. I wanted someone to sneak me into a museum for a romantic night under the planetarium. I wanted someone to be my lobster.
1. the hallmark story of how my parentals met and i was brought into existence (abridged version slash how i’ve heard it through the years): As I’ve heard it, my father had a friend who knew my mother. Mutual friend, normal introduction, right? Yes, except for the fact that my father was living in St. Louis and my mother was in Hong Kong at the time. Therefore…
…they became pen pals. Letter upon letter upon letter, enough to fill a few file cabinet drawers in my house, which my sister and I would later discover. And somehow through these letters, they fell in love. My father then saved up money to visit my mom where she was an au pair in Hong Kong — where they officially met for the first time. While he was in Hong Kong, he traveled with her to the Philippines, so he could meet her family, since it cost less to fly from there than it would to go from the states. And while they were there, they got married.
Fast forward, to another wedding in the US, to my sister being born, to me being born, to something like 28 years of marriage and counting.
Nicholas Sparks, back off. My parents’ real story kicks the ass of some of yours.
So, now you know. My top five most romantical stories. What are yours? AND are you super sad like I am that you’re single right now?
A few weeks ago, I was driving home from the D. It was a normal drive home; I was being illegal and the like, and tweeting as I drove, because it’s a long freaking drive when you do it as much as I do. And I saw this:
I’m sure you remember seeing this when I told you about how VS has seven thousand dates and I have none. Well, that night when I arrived home, after the Boo fell asleep, I headed over to NeighborGirl’s house, and we entered.
Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.
We sent in our little less than 100 words blurb, and a picture of the two of us being all hockey in my Red Wings shirts (I brought over a few thousand of mine so NeighborGirl and I could both sport the winged wheel), and we crossed our fingers for the hockey gods to love us, since we figured men do not.
But something is wrong with the universe. Seriously. Normally, I have the worst luck in the world. I won $200 from GreekTown Casino once, bought a new digital camera, and the camera broke. I have terrible luck.
And with the whole fulfilling life goal’s thing coming true, I figured that there was no way we’d win. Plus, twitter told me they’d announce winners on January 31st. Which came. And went. And nothing. My streak of awesome was clearly over. Until…
NeighborGirl has just moved to Chicago. It’s four hours away from the D. On a weeknight. I have to work that day until 6. I have a two and a half hour drive to the D.
The game is at 7:30.
Put your thinking caps on, kids.to the [Game]!”]