Due to circumstances unknown (mainly: school, work, extra-curriculars, being a space cadet) I appear to have not updated my blog in nearly a year. While I do spend some time on my tumblr, it does not quite have the forum of Notes of Cheerful Calamity, wouldn’t you agree? So I have relaunched this tiny ship into the oblivion of the world wide web. Anyone have a champagne bottle?
For those of you who know I used to be an English major, keep your mouth shut and don’t comment on my bastardization of the English language. Just don’t. (Please?)
To verb a noun. What does that mean? Why would you destroy grammar in such a terrible fashion? Here’s why – because it’s hilarious. Not only is it hilarious, it can bring a new level of descriptiveness to a feeling or an event.
The first noun I ever verb-ed is perennially my favorite. The noun I used was Charlie Brown. To describe the moment that I verb-ed this noun requires some embellishment, so enjoy the story. One day, a gray and drizzly day, the kind that frizzles the hair and dampens the soul, I sat staring with great melancholy out my window. I felt strange, sad, friendless, lonely and blue. I felt just like Charlie Brown.
And so, I was Charlie Brown-ing. It’s like bumming out, but with a much brighter t-shirt and a much rounder head. And it seems silly, but it really was the most accurate description for how I felt. The fact that Charlie Brown is despairingly pathetic is what endears us to him. (Although I doubt the mood I was in endeared me to anyone in the slightest.)
The more I thought about Charlie Brown, his persona and character, the more I realized that Charlie Brown is not just a feeling, Charlie Brown is an action. Charlie Brown disheartens those around him, he spreads his gloom. He sighs and bemoans his unrequited love of a redhead. Who can be happy around that? So, when I’m feeling particularly gloomy and have a perverse need to make others feel the same way, I Charlie Brown it. A happy, light hearted conversation? I Charlie Brown-ed that conversation.
As ludicrous an idea and concept as it may be, it makes sense, and it makes me smile.
What other nouns would you verb?
I have been called many things in life: weird, strange, freaky, unusual. Most of these stemmed from high school and middle school. The descriptions are quite true, but I like to describe it as delightfully quirky. Like the people in Vermont.
Prefacing with admitted quirkiness, I will now delve into this post.
Have you ever had an unusual fascination with something? An excellent example of this is the Chuck Norris phenomenon. Of course I was swept up in the wave of it my freshmen/sophomore years in college, but it faded fast. Let’s face it, kicking kittens and spandex, karate-capable jeans just aren’t my thing. My life requires a touch more class than that.
And so, last week, I discovered the classy replacement to Chuck Norris. Angela Lansbury. Yes, Angela Lanbsury. This classy broad not only solved murders with an Agatha Christie-like prowess, but she plotted the murder of public figures and wore princess hats in the ’40s with great finesse.
Angela Lansbury would never kick kittens, oh no. I like to think she would nurture kittens and raise them to full adulthood, with a lilting, perfect accent. And she would never wear spandex jeans. It’s all about neat, well-cut dresses for Ms. Lansbury.
I’d like to use this post to start a revolution. Ladies, let’s look up to Angela. She’s all class. She’s all class and will continue to be all class.
I’m making my new mantra: What would Angela Lansbury do? You should, too.
It’s Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. This will provide all of America with 24/7 absolutely watchable television. The Discovery Channel staff is collectively saying “You’re welcome, America.”
I’ve burned through four highlighters in three weeks of my political psychology course. This makes me question my borderline OCD intensive note taking. But in my defense, I don’t color code the highlights in the books. Just my notes.
I’m anxiously looking forward to my pending acquisition of a turntable. With any luck, this might lower my intensive note-taking. A constant desire to rock out can have this affect on me.
It’s Shark Week!
On Monday I was out in SoNo with my friend Greg when he said something that I’ve heard before. Quite often, actually.
“Sarah, you are such a dude.”
It’s true. I like snowboarding, rock & roll, wearing jeans and sneakers instead of mini skirts and fancy dresses, good beer, and perfecting the art of not giving a crap. Girl drama and playing games bores me. I’m blunt, straight-forward and honest 98% of the time. (Much to the dismay of many.)
However, Sarah Holmes, my sleuthing alter ego for the purpose of this blog, has discovered (and by discovered, I mean already knew) something that may blow this “being a dude” thing out of the water. With all the dark colors, comfy jeans, three pairs of Chuck Taylors, and white men’s Hanes undershirts that currently reside in my closet I do in fact have a flare of pink in my possessions. Not warm or dark pink, but bright girly pink.
Resting comfortably in my bathroom, hidden unless one is paying attention/sleuthing in my personal space, is not one, but two pink toothbrushes. I chose the color myself. My toothbrushes are about as manly as Tiffany’s pearl necklaces and Manolo Blahnick crystal studded stilettos heels. Combined.
So, dear Greg and other friends, perhaps I am not as much of a dude as previously assumed. We all have our little secrets.
About 8 seconds ago I found a quarter size bruise on the side of my forearm. (Why I felt obligated to blog about it is completely beyond me.) Nothing of any consequence, just a bruise. But bruises for me are 86.4% of the time a source of great confusion. A general “Where did you come from, little bruise? I don’t remember you happening.” I believe, for most people, bruising is a memorable experience – walking into something, dropping something, being punched in the face – that sort of thing. And while I do frequently walk into tables and chairs and small animals, which I usually remember, it is those little mystery bruises that warrant answers. When did I bruise the side of my forearm? How did I bruise the side of my forearm? Why is it a near perfect circle?
As I type this, cross-legged with my laptop on my lap, I just spotted a bruise on my leg. It’s sort of rectangular. I’d like some answers for that one. It’s not an obvious place for a bruise, and it’s a bit difficult to walk into something that is below table level but above small animal level. Where did you come from?
Sure, I enjoy life’s little mysteries just like the rest of us — why is the sky blue? Mommy, where do babies come from? How exactly did Michael Jackson moonwalk? How precisely does the internet work? — but mystery bruises are far more frequent and I’d really like to know where they come from. Seriously.
So I ask this of you, friends. If you see me walk into something, kindly inform me of it, so I may have an answer to a future potential mystery bruise. However, if I yell “OW! F**K!” you can be pretty sure I’ll be aware of the source of that future bruise, so no need to point it out.
I could write a pun-filled clever title, but hey, sometimes honesty is the best policy.
I think it’s excellent, in a cynical way, when the weather matches my mood. It’s raining and a bit dreary, the kind of weather that inspires more clever writers than I to write poetry about the pain and suffering of mankind and how it correlates to the weather. Instead, I’m just moaning and groaning on my blog.
I had an aisle seat on the flight to Bradley International from Nashville International last night. There was a man in the window seat, but he fell asleep too quickly to be of any consequence in this little story. We were flying across through sunset, and the clouds were so dark I could not distinguish one from another, but there was a brilliant red color right above them before it faded into dark blue. Just a strip of red, that seemed completely out of place from the rest of the sky. Red at night, sailor’s delight. Red in the morning, sailor’s warning. I hope that the sailors of the world have smooth seas today.
As much as I am feeling miserable and lonely and curmudgeonly, I have to appreciate that strip of red I saw last night. It was so completely out of place but so completely lovely that I have to give the world credit for still having beauty in it.