 Weekend & Grammys |
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Oh, glorious weekends, why can't you last forever? On Friday night, I picked up sushi and went to Eva's to watch Spellbound, which was delicious, as were her baby's fat cheeks, which I kissed 800 times, as were the crunchy rolls and edamame and stir-fried vegetables and the chocolate chip cookies. I got home and watched Joan of Arcadia and cried as usual. (This time when Joan sleepily asked her dad if he was going to come upstairs and give her a kiss.) On Saturday morning, I woke up early and went to a freakishly hard yoga class. I was grimacing to my dad who was across the room. I thought my knees were going to shatter during these hellish lunges, and it was relentless. Just when I thought we were in for a break, she would start on an even harder pose. It was horrible, and I was in tears, and when she stopped me at one point to ask, "Are you bringing your elbows to your knees?" I looked at her with such venomous hatred that she just slouched away. I text messaged my dad when it was all over and said, "Val is the devil," to which he typed back simply, "Yoga nazi." After class, I went to the Y, where I read The Italian Affair on the elliptical (really good so far) and then got a haircut. Since my friend told me over Christmas that the Hiawatha look isn't working for me anymore (I'm assuming she meant Pocahontas), I had him put in some long layers instead of keeping it plain and all one length. He's my mom's hairdresser who has been telling her for a year that I can come in for a free haircut after cancelling the one I'd made for the wedding, and he was totally sweet. My hair is still really long but it's lighter around my face and that makes me happy. I then headed to a bridal tea for two of my sister's friends and ate about one thousand pounds of chocolate mint brownies, miniature pecan pies, and hot crawfish dip. I demonstrated the trauma of yoga for my sister on the bathroom floor, which was really classy. I then took my dogs, who'd been cooped up for days during the torrential rains, on a walk, and we met H. at the coffee shop while various children came up to pet them and I prayed that the beasts would behave and the kids would not walk away sans any fingers or noses. Eventually I went home and bathed and went out drinking with my co-worker and her friends, having a merry time in a very smoky bar until 2 a.m. but waking up in the middle of the night feeling as though I had swallowed a hot poker or twenty. On Sunday, I woke up far too early and did laundry and went to World Market and Pier One and mowed the lawn and went to the Y, where I only stayed on the elliptical for ten minutes because the breathing rapidly was akin to being knifed in the larynx by poisoned darts, but I did manage to make it through my weights. I collapsed at home after showering in front of the Grammys, which I watched only parts of through a lozenge, throat spray, Aleve, and Benadryl-induced haze. I was embarrassed for each of the four men involved in that debacle of a Beatles tribute (except for the drummer). Could they have picked a more ridiculous song for them to sing? They're all good singers, but that high note ruined it. I can't listen to Sting sing "Roxanne" anymore without thinking of Ewan McGregor. There is no such thing as too much Justin. The funk thing was awesome. Amy Lee is beautiful and handled the 50 Cent thing with aplomb. Richard Marx? Okay, Richard Marx. Once he had an album called Repeat Offender. And in approximately 1989, the summer between 8th and 9th grades, Shelley and I were wanting to buy this album, but we couldn't remember the name of it. We kept throwing out possibilities until one of us cried out, "It's something like ... Justified Reliance!" And ever since then, when we can't think of the name of something, that cry is repeated. So anyway, I wished last night that she were in the country so I should have called her to tell her that old Justified Reliance was on TV. Oh, Richard Marx, sweet balladeer of young female teenaged angst in the 1980s. Who knew you were still around and that you're still married to Penny from Dirty Dancing, to boot? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE BEYONCE LOVE. I think she is of at best mediocre talent. She is the worst dancer aside from myself that I have ever seen. She does have a beautiful face, but she is always so "affected," as Paula Abdul would say. (Her one moment of judging sanity recently on American Idol.) That is what fundamentally bothers me about her -- she is always posing and acting affected even when she is singing. I really kind of hate her! I cannot believe that Prince even got on the stage with her much less allowed her to gyrate around nonrhythmically while he rocked his bad self out. And do not even get me started on the dove. I felt like I was watching Mad TV. Say what you will about Christina, and I will refrain upon commenting on her hair and breasts because words fail me (okay, her hair looked like a child's Halloween wig dipped in rancid tar and her breast surgeon deserves to be in jail), but at least she can motherfucking sing. I thought the Black Eyed Peas + Justin were amazing, and I'm really quite disappointed that they didn't win record of the year. I TOTALLY MISSED HEYA. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I tried so hard to stay awake, but I couldn't, and I am rather distraught about it. And now, a retrospective.
© Copyright 2004 elb |
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