You should probably just go read something else
...because I have nothing to say. Hi! Nothing! Thhhppbbt!
Still. I'm kind of bored, so I figured I'd write something anyway. Y'all know how I get.
We had an awesome weekend, and I may even get around to posting a story or two about it. Maybe I'll talk about going swimming at midnight with Mad, who chose that exact moment, when we were alone, to ask about whether the Easter Bunny would be coming that night or whether it's all just a total load of bullshit perpetuated by The Man. Or, oooo! How about the time Mad looked at a vaguely pornographic black and white nude I had forgotten to take down from the den, and innocently asked me, "What's that?"
I turned around to answer her, but then I realized what she was looking at, and my eyes grew to the size of dinner plates and all I could manage was a little "eeeeeee" noise from the back of my throat. AB fell off of the couch trying to laugh silently at my INTENSE DISCOMFORT, while I looked at her, all, I'M SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY SHOWED YOUR CHILD SOME PORN, ANNA BETH.
Those are some examples of things that happened. Also: rocking, starring Dukay and Vince, and very loud singing, featuring AB, myself, and Mad. But mostly me and AB. Especially when it is time to really ask yourself, really what is going on? Where is the love?
It was mostly in my den. As I previously mentioned.
And...nothing else! I've been busy, though. Sort of. And this is where I make another confession, but one that is startlingly less interesting than the poop confession of the last confessional entry, but...well, really, I can't top the poop confession. Which is a good thing, I suppose.
But anyway. So one of my friends (hi Dig!) sent me an email last week wondering where in the hell I was, because we hadn't done big social things in days, and I finally had to admit that I have gotten myself this very embarrassing new hobby, that I picked up by accident, in the style of a nasty viral infection.
And, see, (now is where I explain myself to try to make this sound normal. Pay attention) it all started because I hate the radio, HATE YOU, RADIO. All Atlanta stations are desperate to appeal to either the 16-28 year old immature male group, so it's all "Fear Factor" and trying to swallow animal testicles at eight in the morning, which...no, OR it's going for whatever Lifetime-movie lovers (which...okay, sometimes me, but shut up) want to hear, which includes stories of Love and Togetherness and Weddings on the Beach (aw!), interrupted occasionally by Tales Of Children On The Brink Of Death But Who Were Then Saved By The Dog. And even that I could handle, if they didn't feel the need to punctuate an already interesting (shut UP, I said) radio story with snippets of EASY LISTENING MUSIC. I mean...have you heard this? Do you know what I'm talking about? Someone is talking, and then the station will cut away from that to play a few seconds of some heart-wrenching song, and then, WHUMP, back to the interview? It's disconcerting. I HATE. Here's an example:
Lady on radio: So, the dog was whining for me to follow him, and I finally decided I'd better turn off the Springer and go on upstairs...
Sudden CutAway Fairy: Did you ever knooooow that you're my heeeeeeeeeeeeroooooooo?
Lady: ...and there was the baby, sitting in the middle of the floor, just chewing away on something...
CutAway Fairy: Did I ever TELL you YOU'RE MY HEEEEEEEEEEERO? You're EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, I WISH I COULD BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Lady: ...and THAT'S when I saw that the baby was eating from the big box of broken glass I like to keep next to his crib!
CutAway Fairy: Walkin' on, walkin' on, broken glaaaaaaaaaaaass!
And so forth. I'm guessing this isn't just an Atlanta thing, but it has finally, permanently driven me away from the radio. And don't get me started on the AM stations. Just...don't. And I love me some NPR, but it doesn't hold my attention the way that babies who eat boxes of glass shards might. I need stories! I need entertainment! So what's a girl to do?
Well. A girl goes on Amazon and buys a shit ton of books on tape, is what she does. (We are, of course, now talking about me.) I went on Amazon and bought about ten of the things, which ranged in price from fifty cents to seven dollars (because the tapes are cheap, people! Forego the CDs of Expensiveness!), and now my car is FULL of wondrous, terrible, cheesy Dean Koontz or Jeffrey Deaver crime novels, and I don't even MIND the traffic, and I am like a woman reborn.
But here comes the confession part, and that is that I keep on getting sucked into these damn tapes. When I get home, I don't want to get out of the car. I want to hear the rest of the chapter, dammit! But driving all the way to Snellville isn't so much an option, so ultimately, I have settled for bringing the tapes inSIDE, popping them on in the den, and sitting there and listening to them. For. HOURS.
And, really, I don't know why this seems so much more shameful to me than just watching television. If I were to sit there and watch TV for three hours, nobody would make fun of me. Conversely, if I were to just read for three hours, nobody would say a word. But...there's just something about sitting in your den, twiddling your thumbs and looking out the window, or picking lint off the sofa, or annoying the SHIT out of the dogs by attempting to brush their teeth with your fingers, while LISTENING to a story. It's just...weird. It's weird.
And I was kind of embarrassed about this new hobby, because let's just go ahead and admit that it puts me squarely in nerd category, but also, LAZY nerd category, because I'm too lazy to use my own EYES to read a book, and instead am all whiny and, "No, YOOOOOOU read it to me," and then this is combined with the sitting and the idle hands, and IT'S JUST KIND OF STRANGE. So when Dukay shows up, I realquick turn off the tape player. So now...uh, now Dukay thinks I just sit in my den, with the television and stereo off, just...sitting. Which is really no improvement, now that I think about it. I think he is kind of scared, actually. Hee! Oops! Sorry, Dukay. I'm not plotting your death.
But anyway! That is what I've been doing. Rocking with Chaos, exposing nine year-olds to pornography, and listening to bad books on tape. It's kind of awesome, and kind of pathetic, and COMPLETELY satisfying. Like eating an entire pie.
So! If you have any suggestions for great books on tape? And by "great", I mean, "really fucking awful"? Don't hold back, people! I will love you forever, and if you have children, I might even expose them to a little bit of accidental porn. You don't even have to thank me.