A Post About Absolutely Nothing

Have you ever thought you didn't like something but then tried it again, after like, I don't know, 32 years and say,

'What have I been missing?'

That happened recently with both cocktail sauce (come to Mamma, yummy spicy deliciousness, come to Mamma!) and blueberries, which frankly, I still don't love and adore the same way I do, say, canned 'shrooms, but are in fact, quite nice. 

I remember eating a sundried tomato at the age of about 12 and having to discreetly spit it out in the trash.  It was that horrifyingly awful.  Now I could snarf an entire basket.  Pound?  Bushel?  Peck?  A hug around the neck?

Potato chips and cake and butter.  All I most likely would have loved all along but didn't eat for ten years due to being a neurotic ballerina.  Neurotic ballerinas don't eat those things.  Actually, not true, most do but then there are things going on later in the dressing room involving vomiting and since I was certainly not ever going to go that route, I elected not to eat them period. 

Someone just today asked me,

'Hey, can you still do the ballerina?'

I think he meant 'can I still dance ballet?'  But it sorta sounded like doing the macarena and I had to stifle a giggle.

I cannot really do the ballerina these days but I can still do a mean macarena.

You will never convert me to a love of mayo and sweet pickles though so don't even try.  Also anything with fake sugar.  Or cancer sprinkles as I like to call em.  Which will make people who love their sweet and low think I am bashing them for their flavor lifestyle of choice when I am not and you probably shouldn't listen to me because I also am of the opinion that sunscreen more than likely gives you skin cancer.  That being said, I am not a doctor, I just play one on blogger.

Speaking of doctors, oh my dear, dear Dr Shepherd, I am losing hope that I will ever finish Lost.  It sits, gathering dust on top my entertainment center, where I almost, practically, just about get to attempt to try to start watching it.  I remember when I could watch a 90 minute movie in, get this, 90 minutes!  92 if there was a need for a potty break.  Now a 90 minute movie takes me approximately 4 months.  I'm not the world's best mathematician, but I am pretty certain that a long running television show will be fully finished and enjoyed by yours truly at about the same time I am a withered old crone chasing young children off my lawn and feeding my 14 cats and filing my bunions on my wrinkly age-spotted feet.

I actually had this experience just last month (not the bunion filing one, the one where I attempt to watch a whole movie in  one two three   four days.)  I borrowed Leap Year from my dear pal, Mariah, who is the queen of chick flicks, and I was quite excited about the eye candy boy with the irish accent watching a movie all by my lonesome, one that didn't involve The iHannah Montana of Waverly Place with Deadliest Warrior VS Food.  It took me four painful, angst filled days where I was sneaking off to the laptop for three minutes here and there to hit Play only to be met with a desperate holler from some juvenile delinquent who wanted my undivided attention.  To be honest, I am not even a big fan of the chick flick and I didn't even particularly adore this one, but it was a point of honor suddenly that I get to finish this darn movie if it killed me.  At the end of the four days when I was stewing in frustration and determined to finally reach the credits and I knew, gosh dang it, I was only ten minutes away from my typical Hollywood ending, Mike broke into my bedroom sanctuary. 

'Leave me alone!'  I said with all the maturity I could muster.

'Whatcha watching?'

'Go away. I'm not here. I'm in Ireland with Cutie McWhatshisface.'

'Ok.  Just gonna make a phone call.  Right here.  By your ear.  With my bass, opera trained voice.  Talking to my mom.  Just pretend like I'm not here.'

'AAAAAAAAAAGH!'

The end.