ohsweetjeebus

an irreverent look at faith, pop culture and whatever else strikes my fancy.

permalink You guys. You. Guys. Y’all know I love me some Gossip Girl. In my inbox, there are 312 emails that somehow reference the show. Missives that are brilliant and hilarious and private because they are supremely inappropriate in nature. However, it is worth mentioning (because it’s funny) that we’ve renamed some of the characters. Boobs McGee as an easy example. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I realize homegirl paid good money, but Blake Lively needs to tuck those things away. This isn’t groundbreaking news. In fact, I’m sure most people would agree with me. Were we in a gospel church right now, I would yell “Can I get a witness?”, and the entire congregation would yell “AYYYY-MEN”. That’s how obvious it is. I tell you all this so you understand that I am (admittedly) not coming from an unbiased place. Still, based on the photo above, I have concerns. Ed Westwick Chuck Bass appears to have been hitting the sauce a little bit aggressively. So much so that he’s dancing around like a monkey. A monkey who finds it perfectly acceptable to wear rolled jeans. And I KNOW, he’s Chuck Bass. Chuck Bass does what Chuck Bass wants even if it involves referring to himself in the third person, a habit THAT IS SO VERY LAME, CHUCK BASS. Ahem. I also cannot be the only person who saw this photo and wondered if indeed, Chuck Bass hails from New Jersey. Or in other words, the land where hairy chests, wee little man boobs, and chains about one’s neck are perfectly acceptable accoutrements… speaking of which, I think I just came up with the new state motto. You’re welcome, NJ.

You guys. You. Guys. Y’all know I love me some Gossip Girl. In my inbox, there are 312 emails that somehow reference the show. Missives that are brilliant and hilarious and private because they are supremely inappropriate in nature. However, it is worth mentioning (because it’s funny) that we’ve renamed some of the characters. Boobs McGee as an easy example. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I realize homegirl paid good money, but Blake Lively needs to tuck those things away. This isn’t groundbreaking news. In fact, I’m sure most people would agree with me. Were we in a gospel church right now, I would yell “Can I get a witness?”, and the entire congregation would yell “AYYYY-MEN”. That’s how obvious it is.

I tell you all this so you understand that I am (admittedly) not coming from an unbiased place. Still, based on the photo above, I have concerns. Ed Westwick Chuck Bass appears to have been hitting the sauce a little bit aggressively. So much so that he’s dancing around like a monkey. A monkey who finds it perfectly acceptable to wear rolled jeans. And I KNOW, he’s Chuck Bass. Chuck Bass does what Chuck Bass wants even if it involves referring to himself in the third person, a habit THAT IS SO VERY LAME, CHUCK BASS.

Ahem.

I also cannot be the only person who saw this photo and wondered if indeed, Chuck Bass hails from New Jersey. Or in other words, the land where hairy chests, wee little man boobs, and chains about one’s neck are perfectly acceptable accoutrements… speaking of which, I think I just came up with the new state motto. You’re welcome, NJ.

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wherein I suspect that I am dying

  • ME: Today at work I was super dizzy. I thought that maybe my blood sugar was low? But I wasn't hungry, so I drank a hot chocolate instead.
  • MED SCHOOL FRIEND: And?
  • ME: It didn't help! So then I Web MD'd it.
  • MED SCHOOL FRIEND: Never google your symptoms! You'll think your dying!!!
  • ME: I totally did. And I decided that I had an inner ear thing that was going to plague me for the rest of my life. Or, a brain tumor. But then I started trying to figure out the last time I drank some water....
  • MED SCHOOL FRIEND: You are not telling me this. On some of the hottest days of the year, you haven't been drinking water?
  • ME: Sunday.... no wait...Monday. I had some on Monday.
  • MED SCHOOL FRIEND: IT'S WEDNESDAY!!! So you've been drinking what? Juice, coffee and beer??
  • ME: Ummm yes. Pretty much exactly that. So anyway, I drank some water and 20 minutes later ALL BETTER! Not dying!!
  • MED SCHOOL FRIEND: *eye roll*
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permalink soradioactive: Lello Bookshop Porto, Portugal [insert jaw drop here]

soradioactive:

Lello Bookshop
Porto, Portugal

[insert jaw drop here]

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permalink Art project. I’m hoping to post a new illustration each week. ————— Gentleman, suffice it to say that if this doesn’t teach you a thing or twelve, then I give up.

Art project. I’m hoping to post a new illustration each week.

—————

Gentleman, suffice it to say that if this doesn’t teach you a thing or twelve, then I give up.

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permalink twloha: Meet our youngest supporter, baby Loretta. She is the daughter of our musician friend Zach Williams, who played at Cornerstone Friday night on the Gallery Stage before Jamie spoke. First off, TWLOHA is a fantastic organization and fully deserves whatever support you can throw behind them. But this? This, I was not expecting. Internet, meet Loretta. A baby who has the unique ability to make you question why you haven’t yet jumped aboard the baby train.

twloha:

Meet our youngest supporter, baby Loretta. She is the daughter of our musician friend Zach Williams, who played at Cornerstone Friday night on the Gallery Stage before Jamie spoke.

First off, TWLOHA is a fantastic organization and fully deserves whatever support you can throw behind them. But this? This, I was not expecting. Internet, meet Loretta. A baby who has the unique ability to make you question why you haven’t yet jumped aboard the baby train.

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My Brother and I used to play a game. I’d point to a chair. “THIS IS NOT A CHAIR,” I’d say. Bird would point to the table. “THIS IS NOT A TABLE.” “THIS IS NOT A WALL,” I’d say. “THAT IS NOT A CEILING.” We’d go on like that. “IT IS NOT RAINING OUT.” “MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!” Bird would yell. I’d point to my elbow. “THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE.” Bird would lift his knee. “THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!” “THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!” “NOT A CUP!” “NOT A SPOON!” “NOT DIRTY DISHES!” We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: “I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!” “But you’re only seven,” I said.
— The History of Love
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I love Hill Harper from the depths of my soul/loins/in the moment.
— CHANEL GRAHAM
Quite literally made me giggle out loud.
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&*$&*#

I am trying to swear less. All of which was fine and dandy until I lopped off part of my finger last night whilst playing around with my brand new mandoline. See how fierce that thing looks? It will completely own your apendages if you’re not careful. It’s important to be careful. Even when you find yourself to be completely and totally enamored by the cute little cucumber slices that it’s spitting out.

Seriously, they’re adorable.

So I yelled. I’m pretty sure the neighbors heard me yell. And then I went back to swearing under my breath. When Andre came home, he noticed the massive wad of bloody paper towels and looked at me incredulously. I held up my hand by way of explanation. He grinned “What’d you do? Did you feel it or, did you only figure it out when you saw the blood?” I sighed. “No, I felt it. I knew immediately… I yelled ‘fuck’ and ran for the paper towels.” He grinned again. At least he thinks it’s a cute habit. I do not.

Then I remembered that according to my mom, the word fuck only qualifies as being crude. Swearing on the other hand involves taking the Lord’s name in vain. In her mind, cussing is OK, swearing is not. So, while I may be incredibly crude and prone to artful bouts of cussing, I am not actually much of a swearer. Therefore, I have already succeeded at this effort in self-improvement. Go me.

I suppose that now I should try to reign in the cussing. I don’t particularly want to be the person that forces mothers to cover the ears of their children. But based on last night, I suspect that I am fighting a losing battle. Approximate final scores are noted below:

Cussing: 45, Using Your Words: 0

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Qi - Circulating life energy that is thought to be inherent in all things.

This morning I glanced over at my desk, spied my beloved Scrabble board and thought “You know what? I’m going to memorize the two letter words and their meanings. That would be awesome. I would be totally unstoppable.”

I don’t think that I’ve ever divulged my nerd-like love for Scrabble in this forum, but in my family it is an acknowledged fact that I don’t really “do” board games. The single exception is Scrabble. I light up at the idea of playing, think far too long about my next move and experience a perverse kind of joy when I win. Once, on a date*, the guy I was playing somehow managed to come up with the word “fiery” on a triple-word IN THE VERY LAST ROUND. It earned him approximately a bajillion points and do you know how impossible that is?!? Can you tell that I’m still not over the loss even though it was a long, long time ago?? In case you hadn’t gathered, Scrabble is one of the few things I get truly competitive over.

That I would consider memorizing a portion of the dictionary and that I have never once thought “I should go practice my layup”, illustrates why in spite of my height, I was never destined to play in the WNBA. You know, apart from any considerations of actual athleticism and/or talent.**

* Jim, was that a date? I seem to remember falling asleep before things got fresh… which would explain some things. Like, for example, why I am still single. Sorry about that! So glad we’re still friends!

** I have no idea what the point of this post is, other than to say that 1. I really like Scrabble and 2. If you’re trying to date me, we probably shouldn’t ever play. Our relationship might not survive.

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riding the G train

The F train, as it has a tendency to do on the weekends, was running on a different track. It was because of this, that I was sitting on the G train heading towards Metropolitan Avenue where I could transfer to the L. The point isn’t the route I was taking, the point is this: I wasn’t where I would usually be at 6:15 on a Sunday night.

A dad and his two kids climbed on board. They were approximately 4yrs old and 2yrs old. They were being noisy, but they were also just being boys. I made a point to smile at the younger one and then at the dad. The toddler had his faced pressed up against the window, watching the lights fly by. The older kid was jumping from seat to seat, his dad scolding him in their native language.

Again, I smiled at the dad.

I was trying to say that it was OK, that the train was relatively empty and that they weren’t bothering me. He acknowledged me with a glance, but went on scolding.

The older boy fell.

The dad started to beat him.

First, a swat. Harsh maybe, but excusable.

He kept hitting. Again and again on his back and on his side, all the while grabbing at the boy’s face and yelling at him.

I didn’t understand what he was saying. But the boy was crying now and I, who was raised on spankings, was appalled.

The dad had the boy by the arm and was pulling back his hand again when I raised my own voice yelling at him to stop. I yelled and then I held out my hand and said quietly, “Stop. Please. It’s ok. You don’t need to hit him again.” He looked at me. I really have no idea what he did or didn’t understand, but something shifted. He started talking to the boy in softer tones. He went from extraordinarily angry to relatively docile in a matter of seconds. He hugged the toddler and pulled the older son onto his lap. The rapid change in mood confirmed everything I’d ever read about physical abuse. It was incredibly disturbing to watch it happen right there in front of me.

I avoided eye contact and buried my face in my book, but I was nauseous. Someone else on the train finally caught my eye and gave a slight shake of their head.

I still feel sick thinking about it. Even if I stopped an unnecessary amount of pain in that moment, I have no idea what kind of life those kids are going home to. Did I make it worse by intervening? Do they understand that their dad’s behavior isn’t the standard? That it’s not OK?

The majority of the time, I am unapologetically in love with this city. Then there are the moments that break a small part of you. However uncomfortable I find this feeling to be, I don’t ever want to get to the point that I don’t care or don’t respond. I also hope that I misread the situation. That I was, in fact, completely out of line. I hope that the boy gets to be a boy and that their life isn’t colored by a pattern of abuse. I hope for this, but I am unconvinced.

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