Last night I attended a taping of MPR’s show Wits with featured guest Chuck Klosterman. My friend and I got tickets based on our appreciation of Klosteman’s books, and my friend’s love of Craig Finn. Little did I know when we arrived that we were being encouraged to live-tweet the event.
Apparently I’m just a sucker for social media (although I already knew that) because my enjoyment of the event was enhanced about 150% by being allowed to tweet in the theater during the show. At one point I saw someone tweet about it being like reading people’s minds and I fully agree. It also felt to me like a way to exercise creativity while being surrounded by creative people.
My friend tweeted that non-tweeting events had been ruined for her by this experience and I have to agree. I like spilling my thoughts 140 characters at a time, even if it means I’m part of a crowd.
I made this recipe tonight. Halfway into it I discovered the can of brown lentils I thought I had in the cupboard had mysteriously disappeared. I’m sure I used it at some point or it’s really hidden under all the dried fruit I have next to my canned goods for some reason.
Alas, all I had was dry red lentils, so I cooked some up and substituted them. Error! So mushy! Everything still smelled delicious, but the texture of the meatballs is just not good enough to live up to the rest of the recipe.
Lesson learned. Not all lentils are created equal. Who knew?
I’ve come to think there’s no greater gift than spa gift certificates. I woke up one morning and, to my surprise, my email inbox contained $100 myLT Buck$. While the name might look like something designed by whoever named Ke$ha (and for what? Why? And why are her songs so damn catchy?) I quickly found out these myLT Buck$ are worth REAL MONEY at the spa. It was like someone giving me a Benjamin and saying, “there you go, kid. But only if you spend it on a manicure.” Yes, please!
Long story (kinda) short, this Thursday will find me manicured and facialed up. And for free. Life is good.
The Real Housewives of the OC is back. And better than ever, I would say. The reality show that began the Bravo chain kicked off various imitations for a reason. While I’m a big fan of New York, New Jersey, and the most recent Beverly Hills there’s something about the OC that makes me…sentimental?
Perhaps that’s a sad statement, but as someone whose early college years were defined by viewings of The O.C. and Ryan and Marissa’s latest hijinks, seeing these real-life incarnations of exceedingly wealthy families is the kind of show I can get behind.
So what I’m saying is that it’s worth getting a little less sleep on Sunday night. Or make enough money to have DVR. Either one, really. And watch RHOC.
I’ve been a (quiet) fan of the Biggest Loser for a long time. Maybe I like to live vicariously through these people losing weight, or maybe it’s just my love for trainer Jillian screaming at people that keeps me coming back. I once had a Tuesday night class and I seriously considered not taking a class I needed for my Master’s degree because of the show (but I made the right choice, Mom! I took the class.)
However, this season is just not calling to me for some reason. I think part of it has to do with the people on the show now. They’re SO BIG that even if they lose 100 pounds (which is insane! 100 pounds is a fifth grader! Or a very small adult woman!) they’re still larger than life in every way possible. It seems like this takes some element of realism out of the show.
I don’t feel like pulling for anyone the way I did when Tara (far and away my favorite contestant ever) was hauling that truck behind her and beating all the boys in the challenges. I don’t really care what twist they’ve thrown in the show this week. Instead I’d rather go in my room and type away on my computer like a madwoman. Huh.
Your loss, NBC.
My sister has always had a knack for knowing just the right thing to say to get me going. I’ll never forget the time I was about to embark on a trans-Atlantic flight to Germany with a group of strangers who were also highly judgmental high schoolers when she commented “oh, so you decided not to do your hair today?” For a 15-year-old girl, this kind of comment is devastating. I spent the remaining time before departure panicking in the airport bathroom, trying to sculpt my hair into something other people wouldn’t judge me for.
Ditto the time I came to the breakfast and my sister commented “is that a pimple?” It was, I was trying desperately to hide it, and I didn’t think I could go on to school that day.
Now, as I reach and age where I have to be more worried about lines around my eyes than face blemishes, I have to smile every time I look at myself in the mirror and reach for the concealer. If there’s such a thing as post-traumatic zit disorder, I think my sister gave it to me.
For my whipping Friday night I am catching up on Jersey Shore. This show needs to see the end of the Sammi/Ronnie disaster relationship in order for the show to survive.
That said, the cast going to Italy is the kiss of death for the show. And MTV and I are in a fight right now. Too highbrow for L.C.? Makes no damn sense.
