Tuesday, July 26, 2011

I Don't Think Your Sax is Sexy

I’ve never thought of the saxophone as a sexy instrument, although it appears to be a very phallic instrument. I’m sure my Mom thinks it's sexy (ahem, Kenny G.), but the sound of a saxophone to me, even if “played well,” is a screechy brass wailing infant. Seriously, everytime I hear a saxophone interlude, all I’m hearing is “Waaaaaaaaah!!”

I think since the moment I heard this song, I immediately hated the saxamophone:

Although I think this song is epic/wonderful/full of George Michael having sex with a woman awkwardness/gay denial phase, the saxophone just makes me want to hurl.

No offence if you do play this instrument – from what I’ve heard, it does take skill, and playing any musical instrument should be commended (besides the recorder). I, however, immediately associate the sax with: the bad part of the 80s, my mother, cheese, fat old people dancing on cruise ships, and of course, screechy brass wailing infants.

So please tell me why Lady Gaga and Katy Perry are trying to bring the horrible saxophone solos of the 80s back?

In Gaga’s The Edge of Glory, and Perry’s Last Friday Night (TGIF), they have quite prominent sax solos. Katy Perry even goes so far as to have Kenny G. himself playing in her vid. Although I’m not sure if she uses him as a joke or not (the video has other cheesy cameos, such as Hanson), all I know is that I can’t see myself or anyone else rocking out to a sax solo at a club.

I’m sure jazz dudes with cool hats on street corners who play the sax can do it “justice,” but I’m never going to warm to it. That’s like making me like True Blood: I JUST CAN’T DO IT! So please, lend me your thoughts on the resurgence of the sax solo. I’m dying to hear your opinions. 

Thursday, July 14, 2011

My Mom is Writing Bible Verses on my Wall

When I lived with my parents during university and I hated my life, I went through a kind of late teenage rebellious stage where I did this:

The wall is now almost completely covered -- these pics are from a long time ago.
I did blog about my mural back when I first started this blog and had no idea what the hell I was saying. Don't read it.

Anyways, the process of painting this wall was great. I invited friends over -- we would drink, listen to records, and paint -- and it was a fun time. I never got around to finishing the wall, however. It was such a big project and I had other things going on.

Well, I moved out, whilst reassuring my mother that I would finish it eventually. And, surprisingly, she didn't mind. She thinks the wall is "cute." She likes showing it to company when they come over, exclaiming to them, "Isn't my daughter wild?!?"

Now that I've moved out, my parents have a guest bedroom. I'm assuming that it's not a pleasant place to stay. If I wasn't used to a giant tiger face and a super-sized Twiggy staring at me in the middle of the night, I'd freak out.

So, my parents do have a lot of company that stay there now. My mom likes it. In fact, she likes it so much, that she came up with the wonderful idea of painting a square with chalkboard paint. She said that she wanted to write reminders for her guests on it (i.e. "Breakfast at 8:30 AM," "Extra towels in the closet," "Don't be alarmed at our hideous carpet," etc.) I thought that it was a fabulous idea. I mean, I could doodle and erase to my heart's content whenever I'm over, right?


This "square" has turned into a GIANT block, splat in the middle of the wall. It ruins the whole thing. Not that I should care anymore, because I don't live there, but I really do care. That wall was my baby. I spent years working on it. David Bowie is secretly present all over it. And I'm sure he'd cringe at what my mother has done.

She's written Bible verses on it. With chalk.

Not only that, but she's ripped off the painter's tape because she was "impatient," and has left giant chunks on missing paint on my wall. Giant chunks of my heart.

Here are some glimpses at the great times that I had with my wall -- that I'll never get back.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Birthday, Baby, and the Biebs in my Crappy City!

A great many things have happened this past week.


Not to sound like a drag, but my birthdays always suck. Even since I was little, my birthday parties have always been lame. My mom usually did a fantastic job of making me unfortunate birthday cakes though (Pocahantas, Barbie, Spice Girls, etc.) and organizing awesome birthday games. So, Mom def. gets brownie points in this department. 

However, I was born smack dab in the middle of summer, which means that NOBODY ever came to my birthday. In the back of my mind, the possible reasons for this are: a) I am a huge loser and nobody likes me; b) Nobody cares that I was born; and c) I am a huge loser and nobody likes me. I was always told by Mom though, that, “It’s the middle of summer which means everyone’s out of town, sweetie! People go away to camp. We live in the country, so nobody wants to drive out here. You are a huge loser and nobody likes you.” To compensate for the lack of birthday attendees, Mom invited the whole family in order to fill up the table. Grandpa, grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. substituted for people my own age. Sigh.

If you still don’t sympathize with me, you will when you hear this: One year, my Mom organized a bobbing for apples game. After I plunged my head in the bucket of water, I silently disappeared and started bawling because only one girl had come to my birthday. Nobody knew – when I re-emerged, people just assumed that my face was still wet from the bobbing for apples game.

I’m still traumatized to this day from my past birthday party experiences. And although I am too old to have a birthday party, I still convince myself that I want to go out for dinner and/or drinks and/or karaoke and/or dancing with my friends. This is probably to make up for birthday parties past, and deep down, to convince myself that I am not a huge loser and that somebody likes me.

Every year, I’m disappointed again.

Last year, it was a combination of “I can’t handle going to dinner AND karaoke,” “It’s past my bedtime,” “I have to work tomorrow,” “I have a headache,” “It’s too crowded in here,” “I’m broke,” and “I have to go home for a quickie.” This year, it was a combination of “I worked all day and I’m tired,” “I have other plans,” “I forgot to check my phone,” “I drank camp water and have the shits,” and “I have no money.”

On top of these lame excuses from friends, I’m always SO preoccupied by making sure that everyone else is having fun, that I’m not having fun myself.

However, this year was a bit better. Some friends came over and volunteered to make us dinner and drinks, which was great. I got mostly alcohol for gifts (yes!) My core group of friends, who never go out drinking or dancing, actually came out! Yet, there were drawbacks. We had to wait in line forever. Loud, slutty, screamey, 19-year old girls, who were grabbing my ass nonstop, kept trying to push in front of me in line. Half of the bar was closed down, and it was not very busy. We then proceeded to go to a different place for karaoke, and even though it was my birthday, I didn’t have the opportunity to sing. The DJ played a bunch of lame dance tracks while I could have been serenading everyone with Justin Bieber’s “One Time.” Tragic, I tell you.

I guess I can’t have everything. But part of me is now convinced that yes, I’m a loser, but a couple of people like me at least.

2) I Have a Fake Nephew!!

      By fake, I mean my fake Mom -- whose Baby Shower I blogged about not too long ago --  finally popped! Although I hate children in all forms (which truly does indicate that I should not have gone to teacher’s college), I’m pretty excited to have a baby as a part of my life. I’m going to be the coolest fake aunt/sister/whatever, ever!
And get this: She is totally turning her baby into a mini Harry Potter. That’s right. My fake Mom’s husband (whom I will never call my 'fake Dad,' because that's weird) is legit British. He has an accent. This baby is named Daniel, after Daniel Radcliffe, although my fake Mom claims that she’s “always liked the name ‘Daniel.’” Bullshit. This baby also has 3 EPIC MIDDLE NAMES, just like Albus Dumbledore has 3 epic middle names (Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, if you didn’t know).

Although we live in North America and the child will be completely immersed in an almost British accent-less society, I am praying that this baby will speak only in a British accent. It could happen, right?

3) JUSTIN BIEBER Was in my Small, Crappy City!

It still doesn’t really make any sense.

When I came home one day last week, my roommate exclaimed, “Guess what?!? A guy that I know, who works at the airport, said that Justin Bieber was there today!?!” Just to let you know, our airport is the size of my apartment.

Why the hell would the Biebs come here?!? I wondered. I still wasn’t completely convinced that he was actually here, so I creeped him on Twitter. That’s right. And guess what, he WAS here! One of his tweets said something along the lines of, “I’m in a place that’s literally in the middle of nowhere.” He then posted some pictures of the area (and by pictures I mean, “trees, rocks, & highway,” because that’s pretty much our landscape), and then tweeted, “Come find me.”

Um, come find you?!? Yes please!

"You did what?!?"
Unfortunately, it appeared as though he was camping in the middle of a forest. And we have a lot of forest. I knew my efforts could be better put to use if I correctly communicated to the Biebs that I knew where is was. So, folks, I created a Twitter account just do I could message Justin Bieber. Don’t make fun; the Biebs’ presence in my small, crappy city is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

My tweet to him didn’t work out so well. I sounded creepily stalker-ish by letting him know that I knew where he was. I sounded even more creepily stalker-ish by also exclaiming in my tweet that, “I created an account just to reply to this [his tweet]!” Ugh.

The funny thing about all this (besides the fact that the Biebs didn’t tweet me back…Bastard!) is that hundreds of 14-year-old girls were commenting on the pics that the Biebs posted of my crappy city. These girls were saying things like, “Ohhh, are you in Australia?” “It’s so pretty there – it looks like heaven!” and “I want to live there!!!! LuV u JuStIn BiEbEr 4ever follow me xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo.” Sorry ladies – I can guarantee that you don’t want to live here, and that it is definitely not heaven. But, our ground was blessed with the presence of the Biebs’ sneakers. So y'all do have a valid point.

No, I’m not a 14-year-old girl.