"Mazall" with her roost
So, in a freak occurrence, I was wrong and Mazall was right. Absolutely Fabulous is quite good. Once you get past the obnoxious laugh track and Patsy’s teeth, that is. Admitting I was wrong is typically very troubling for me, except that there are just so many other things to make fun of Mazall for. The “books” she reads, the “food” she eats, the “guys” she dates. Also, she wants babies. Lots of them. She’s not Mormon.
So why?
:(
For 20 years, John Smoltz pitched for the Atlanta Braves and no one else. He even debuted on my fifth birthday because he knew how much it would mean to me…later. You just don’t find that kind of loyalty in the MLB anymore. And to prove it, when his shoulder fell off and his contract ended last year, Smoltz left Atlanta to sign with the second worst team ever. So much for happy endings.
I want to hate him. I NEED to hate him. But I just can’t. Those eyes…that smile…that splitter!
Basically, Smoltz is doing everything I love doing: stealing money from the Red Sox, secretly visiting Jeff Francoeur the Braves clubhouse, and golfing with Tiger Woods. So I should be happy for him, right?
The only thing I’m going to say about this weblog before I talk about hamsters is that every week, Evan will be joining us for a Q&A session. So unless you are God, or Evan, or the homeless man who sneezed on me, I don’t see how you could turn that down. Even in the 30 minutes it took me to burn my hand with soup, tell Claire about it, and then start a weblog, plenty of questions arose.
What are leeks anyway? Do burns cause wrinkles? Why was the soup so hot? Why does my bottled water taste like shoe polish? Is Claire having an allergic reaction to pigeon sex? How did hamsters hurt my mom’s back?
Here’s the thing. Claire thinks she is excused from choosing the most common dog name ever (ugh. Molly.) because she once named her hamster Caligula. But the only thing hamsters are going to do is hurt you. Take my mother for example. A harbinger of protection; a vessel of grace and love. All she wanted to do was check on Fluffy. How was she supposed to know the damn lab rat was going to go rogue and leap out of the terrarium to scurry under the couch? I don’t know how they do things in Chicago but in Atlanta, when someone provides a nestle of wood shavings, feeds you nut-bricks or lettuce from the garbage, all the while making sure the silver roller-ball at the end of your water bottle is working, you don’t just catapult yourself into the living room. What? Was she supposed to NOT jump up at the sight of a rocketing gray furball flying at her face?
And that’s how pinched nerves happen, people. I don’t need Evan to explain this one.
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