It's just me against the mus--I mean orchid. It's me against the orchid.
Okay Internet friends. I need your help.
Earlier this week, I took home an orchid from the After the Final Rose set. (Perk of the gig).
But now I just don’t know what to do with it. I put it near the window, gave it a little water, and just kind of pretend it’s not going to die. Sometimes I start singing, “To hell with stares…It’s just me (and me) (and me)…..” But I realize exotic flowers probably need more from me than an off-key rendition of Britney and Madonna. So demanding.
So what do I do? Sunlight? (Keep in mind, I don’t get direct sun). Water? How often? I briefly looked online, but orchid-affectionado sites are a wee out of my league. Those people take their flora and fauna serrrious.
Also, be sure to keep an eye out for my flower come finale night, to the right of Ashley’s head, I believe.
Full disclosure? Yesterday I was hungover. And tired. And hungover. Screw you Jennifer Nettles.
But this isn’t about her or the Sugarland concert on Tuesday. This is about me and my awkwardness.
So there I was at lunch, sitting at a table outside on the studio lot, by myself. And a group of people from the table next to me were in the process of clearing their plates. They had to walk passed me to get to the trash, and I was basically just trying to keep it together, so I didn’t really pay much attention to any of them. Until the lone straggler was left, and I thought to myself, “That’s one, tiny, very blond woman.” And then it hit me. And I had about .25 seconds to decide if I was going to say anything. And I blame that last several tequila shots, because I had what can only be described as an almost tourettic reaction. I blurted out, “I’m a REALLY big fan!”
And Miss Kristin Chenoweth herself stopped, smiled, and touched my shoulder. She very sweetly replied, “Oh thank you so much. You’re so sweet.” And then I got awkward. I don’t think I anticipated that she would actually stop and chat. And I don’t really get starstruck, but I really, genuinely couldn’t think of anything to say.
All that came was, I kid you not, “You know, Wicked and the whole thing.”
THE WHOLE THING?! What is the WHOLE THING?! What does that even mean? I could have gone with, “I’ve followed your career for a long time, I think you are immensely talented.” OR “I read your autobiography, I laughed every minute.” OR “I’ve seen the pilot for Good Christian Bitches, I think it will be a hit.” OR “I was lucky enough to watch some of the dailies as they came in last spring, and I love how different you do it in every take.” But no. No. Why say anything remotely comprehensible? I truly went with, “Wicked, and the whole thing.”
In all fairness, she was very polite and said, “I got so lucky with that show! Thanks again.” And then she walked away.
And I sat there and wondered if she smelled the booze. At least then maybe she got it. Yes, that’s it. I hope KChen knew I was hungover, and therefore I really shouldn’t be held responsible for mumbling inane sentences at 1pm on a Wednesday afternoon. I may say this a lot. But I’m really never drinking again. On weeknights. Or Tuesdays. Okay fine maybe just Tues-DAYS. Tues-nights are fair game, in my opinion.
So, I was having a lovely conversation with my hubby the other day….OK, I wouldn’t call it lovely— we were talking about men pooping at work. Stick with me people.
The other day he was at work. As he was draining the snake relieving himself (either sound gross), a fellow co-worker rushes past…
Author of this post is my friend, in real life. We’ve had this discussion around the water cooler many times. I happen to know “Secretariat” which is really, just an amazing visual. Anyway, BFrank really sums things up nicely here. I would only like to add the subject of a “poop off.” You know, when two people walk into the bathroom at the exact same moment, with the same look, and both sit down, and it gets real quiet? That my friend, is called a poop off. And only one person can win.
Oh, and, I’ve had to walk around with a super cool ice coffee cup today. The ice melted together before i had a chance to put the straw in. Damn top would screw on. Classy, and not at all messy.
Yep, that’s right. It gets better, kids. It really does. (Okay, in all seriousness, I’m going to the Sugarland concert, and Sara Bareilles is opening. I don’t quite think it will be as epic as last year’s concert, but I’m still pretty psyched).
If Posh gave them a super exclusive, I might go baby Harper. But I just don’t think they are going to go full cover. Def a small photo. Maybe a little Casey-Anthony-Where-Is-She-Now piece. Maybe some Nick Lachey and the Jessica rebound wedding? Depends on the deal worked out with TLC, though. I don’t think enough People readers care about Rupert Murdoch, but ya just never know. JLO and that scary skinny guy FTW. What’s your guess?
So here’s kind of a funny story. When I was 16, I did The Oxford Tradition in, you guessed it—Oxford, England. Think of it as a summer study abroad for high school students. It was magical. Utterly amazing. And totally sober. Which is strange, I realize, but I met the bestest friend I’ll ever have (now my roommate; we made good on a ten year pact), and we ran amuck in the English countryside. Quite honestly, one of, if not the best summer of my life. I digress.
There was a group of 8 or 9 of us who became instant friends, and here’s hoping one of those girls is NOT reading this now. If she is, I’m sorry, B, but it’s been about 8 or 9 years since we’ve talked, so I feel like this story is fair game. Still Facebook friends though? Kisses. So anyway, though we were stone cold sober, we all wanted to explore our newly found freedom in this foreign country, and what better way than a totally regrettable tattoo or piercing? So our blond friend, B, worked up the courage and spent a lot no time at all really thinking about what she wanted to brand herself with, you know, for life. So off she went one afternoon to the tattoo parlor. She returned so proud and couldn’t wait to show us. What did she get right above her hoo-hah?
A Chinese symbol. international sign of class of right there.
"OMG! So cool! I love it! What does it mean, B? What does it mean!"
She declared, “It means “DREAM.”
And in one of my finer moments in life, all I could say was, “Oh, like the band?”
Everyone looked at me like I was the biggest bitch on the planet. B nearly burst into tears. So not my fault “He Loves you Not” was a really big hit at the time, and so NOT my fault she chose to ignore that fact, and again so NOT my fault we were 16, in a foreign country, and no one should ever, ever tattoo the Chinese symbol for “DREAM” on a blond American girl’s cooch. That’s just doesn’t doesn’t bode well for diplomatic relations.
I guess B really lucked out that Dream never really had another hit. But I have to wonder if she still likes her permanent reminder of that really stupid moment?
I don’t doubt that the one New Testament author who wrote on the subject of male-male intercourse thought it a sin. In Romans 1, the only passage in the Bible where a reason is explicitly given for opposing same-sex relations, the Apostle Paul calls them “unnatural.” Problem is, Paul’s only other moral argument from nature is the following: “Does not nature itself teach you that if a man wears long hair, it is degrading to him, but if a woman has long hair, it is her glory?” (1 Corinthians 11:14-15). Few Christians would answer that question with a “yes.” In short, Paul objects to two things as unnatural: one is male-male sex and the other is long hair on men and short hair on women. The community opposed to gay marriage takes one condemnation as timeless and universal and the other as culturally relative.