Tag Archive | Weirdness

My life would make a sh*tty movie

(c)TitineetMilou

(c)TitineetMilou

I’m standing in the subway, going over the Seine River, staring at a sparkling Eiffel Tower, my nose pressed against the door. It’s most unhygienic and people are looking at me weirdly. In my own fantasy world I’m riding towards a sparkly future, complete with unicorns and giant cookies. The train pitches forward and I collapse onto an elderly gentleman who looks at me as if to say “youth these days…” Back to the present. Ow, my ankle hurts.

See, this is what I do: I imagine that my life is a movie and that everything is going to turn out for the best. Of course this is a big problem because I very much doubt that Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds ( why are they all called Ryan?) is going to show up at my door under the pouring rain, profess his undying love for me and present me with a giant bouquet of roses. Yes, I’m old fashioned, deal with it. Sure, there may be bumps in the road, sort of like in the Empire Strikes Back (anyone who doesn’t instantly know what I’m talking about should be… um… forced to go a week without eating a cookie (I’m being nice 😉 )): sure, the Empire owns the Rebel Alliance just like the Jets owned the Falcons last week and like any and every team who’s played the Giants, but in the end everything ends happily. Well, not happily exactly, I mean Darth Vader could have survived and spent another couple years teaching Luke how to turn on his friends and family, but I suppose it finished the best way that it could. Meanwhile, I’ve gotten off topic. Again. *sigh*

I’m afraid that my life would be rather more like Titanic though. Picture this: CT is, as always late. She runs down the hill to the metro station, hair unbrushed, makeup already smudged. She can hear the train approaching and she knows that there’s a very good chance that she won’t make it (knowing that she’ll be late for school if she takes the later one) so she puts on a final burst of speed and tears through the constraining ticket machines. The beeper on the doors sounds, letting her know that the train is about to leave. She won’t get there on time. BUT WAIT! There’s a hot dude holding the door for her! All is saved! She enters the train just as the doors shut, crashing straight into her [really hot] saviour. Oh oh, the boy has abs. Must. Not. Swoon. After pushing her off him, hot dude goes to sit down, but he keeps glancing at CT with a half curious, half perplexed look on his face. CT is just starting to think that he might ‘like’ her when she catches a glimpse of herself in the window. Yowser. She looks like a past date red pepper (and that is not a comparison that I make lightly believe me): hair sticking up in gravity defying ways, face a vermillion shade of red, weird grin plastered on her face, kind of like the Joker. And then she hears herself. Oopsy daisy, she sounds disturbingly like a parched dog. Well, that explains the staring! End of story.

That’s another thing; I sometimes talk about myself using the 3rd person, as if I were narrating my movie. Normally I don’t think anything of it, but a couple of weeks ago, someone asked me if I was schizophrenic. My answer had to be “nooooo… just crazy”. Quite honestly, if my life were a movie, it would probably be one like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes: under budget, with bad special effects, bad actors and just generally ridiculous. To make it short, my life would make a sh*tty movie.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

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Parents Dialogue #2: Disco

[Discussing the fine art of Disco Music] Dad: Really, if you want to make a disco beat just say ‘chunk ‘o chicken’ over and over again in a cool whispery voice. Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken… See?

CT: *stares blankly at him before trying it* Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken.

Dad: No no no! You’re doing it all wrong! Frankly, it’s like pearls before swine here.

Mom: Oink.

 

Later I went to listen to a disco song and to my astonishment  recognized the Chunk ‘o chicken right away. Who’d have guessed? Not this girl, that’s for sure…

 

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Parents Dialogue #1

Mom: So I had this weird dream last night…

Dad, keeping eyes focused on book: Hmm…

Mom: I was walking down the street and where there’s normally that big pothole there was a giant sparkling emerald lake with icy silver polar bears diving into it.

Dad, perks up and glances at her: Were there by any chance purple flamingos present as well?

Mom, surprised: Yes, yes there were!

Dad: I love you..

Mom: I love you too.

CT: ?!

 

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

An Ode to Mom

Dear Mom,

How do you put up with me? Now I know I can imagine your answer, it would be something like “love is blind”, which I would find both sweet and insulting at the same time.  You have a way with words that I envy terribly, and I hope someday I can be half as good a writer as you are. You can use your power to make someone happy or make them roll around on the floor sobbing. Not that, like, I would ever roll around on the floor crying my sorry eyes out. I’m more the type of person who drowns their sorrows in cookies. You know that.

You supply unconditional love and support to our family, and even when you’re mad because I’m constantly checking the score of the game instead of doing my homework I know that you’re only yelling because you want what’s best for me, and the Mets are definitely not that. Then again, you married Daddy; so you should have foreseen what you were getting yourself into. And although I yell back that the Mets are more important to me than homework, until they make the playoffs, they’re not. You’re right, you’re always right.

Every night when I’m in bed you come in and say the magic words, the words that one day I will repeat to my children, the words that are engraved in my mind and that I will never ever forget: “goodnight my sweet girl, may the gilgas dance and chomp in your dreams. I love you. See ya later alligator [I answer “in a while crocodile”],  in a while crocodile [I reiterate by saying “see ya later alligator”]. I love you”. Since we’ve been saying those words every night since I was a little girl you might think that the words are trivial and superficial to me now, but no. To me, those few sentences are the most important in the world. What’ll I do when I go off to college? Tape a note to the wall with those words? Nah, that doesn’t work. I guess I’ll just be the girl who calls her parents every day before she goes to lunch. Whaaaat, lunch? Yeah, the time difference sucks.

Yesterday was your birthday. Well, by the time this gets posted it will have been two days ago. You asked for a floor cleaning machine. A floor cleaning machine? Really? Who asks for that for their birthday? It was pointed out to me that it really is perpetrating the stereotype that all women want to do is clean (THAT’S NOT TRUE BY THE WAY). Well, amongst much laughter, we gave it to you. My dad said that it was the saddest birthday present he’d ever given. But then again, I guess that just another of your weird quirks. We’ve agreed to name the machine Mega Maid, like in Spaceballs. Yes, you have contaminated us with your weirdness.

I love that even though you work as a freelance editor for semiconductor companies you know nothing about technology. Your iPhone is a mystery to you, and you will never understand why Siri doesn’t function in a crowded, noisy place. And yes Mom, you do look like a crazy person, talking to your phone all by yourself. Since you’ve discovered emojis every text message you send is accompagnied by a thousand hearts of different colors, which is both terribly embarrassing and adorably lovable at the same time. I love that your ears have never been subjected to Justin Bieber and that you don’t know who Ryan Gosling is. I hate that you’re a Red Sox fan. Sorry.

I don’t know what I’d do without you. What if, all that time ago, you hadn’t made it past the operation table? What if we’d cried tears of sadness and despair instead of tears of joy? I can’t even bear to think about it. Today I worry about your worsening attention deficit, your memory loss, your eyesight. I worry because you’re my mom. I don’t ever want anything bad to happen to you.

I love you.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.