Tag Archives: Don’t judge me.

Monday is boring.

Sometimes when I’m at work, my mind will wander.  I’ll start off thinking about some movie I want to see (Black Swan) and who I’d like to see it with (my friend Bethany – we have a date!). And then I’ll think about Natalie Portman, who stars in Black Swan, and who has apparently written a movie that is about to be produced. And I’ll think, that’s really annoying that she’s beautiful and talented, and suddenly she wants to write a movie and poof! there’s a production company there at her door. (I don’t know if that’s actually true. Maybe it was hard for her to get the movie made. No offense, Natalie Portman.) And then I’ll think about how talent doesn’t really matter when it comes to getting your movie made, it’s all a matter of luck really. And I think about the idea that luck, and not hard work or talent or intelligence, is really the deciding factor in who succeeds and who fails. And when I was younger, that was a hard truth, heartbreaking. But now I kind of just blink and wave my hand and accept it. And I’ve had some luck myself recently, so who am I to find fault with the system that allows me to succeed? Not that I’ve succeeded yet, but it seems possible right now. And maybe that’s just because I’m still relatively young and the world seems big and kind. And maybe someday, many failures and near-successes will have broken me down into an embittered asshole, like some of the writers whose blogs I read (not all of them are assholes, though). And then I think, will I be able to stay like this for any length of time? Will I maintain some perspective, some ability to not wallow in every tiny setback that may befall me?

And then I look up and realize that I’ve been playing minesweeper this whole time.

Minesweeper is meditation for the cubicle dwellers. It’s powerful stuff.

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No writing errors were found, bitches! Ha-HA!

Dear Blog,

Hey.

So…how’ve you been?

I’ve been good. Busy. Writing stuff, doing stuff, watching stuff. Playing stuff. You know. The usual.

So listen. I know we’ve sort of…grown apart lately. Maybe we needed some space. I’m totally cool with that, and I hope you are too. But I wanted to let you know that I’ll always be here for you, just like I know you’ll always be here for me.

So, I guess, let’s catch up.

First, I’ve been going to the gym. Well, okay, that’s an exaggeration. I got a gym membership and went for a couple of weeks, but lately…not so much. And I really need to go because if I’m going to someday convince Edgar Wright to become my mistress, I’ll have to be really hot.

Also, Adam and I got a Wii. And new Super Mario Bros. And we finished it. So that’s done.

You know what I was thinking about the other day? I was thinking about my dream house. And all those crazy things you always want for your dream house when you’re a kid? Yeah, I still want those. I want a room where the ceiling and all the walls are padded and the floor is a trampoline. I want a giant tree house as a guest cottage. I want the apartment that Tom Hanks had in Big (not the one with the murders happening outside). And you know what else? I want a room just like Jeannie’s bottle in I Dream of Jeannie. Round, with a couch lining the wall and pillows everywhere. And no door. You have to enter from the ceiling or a trap door in the floor. I would spend all day in there. My trampoline floor room would be tragically unused. (Okay, not really. I’d divide my time equally.)

Hmm, what else?

Oh! We finally got our fridge! It’s amazing. There’s room for everything. And it’s mostly empty right now. So, it’s good that we upgraded.

So that’s what’s going on with me. What have you been up to lately? How’s life? Did you go to the doctor for that thing?

In closing, I’d just like to say that there is nothing better on earth than Mexican hot chocolate (not a euphemism).

Talk to you soon (I hope).

Yours truly,

Empress Lindsay

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The game that changed how we think about wealthy elderly ducks.

If you’re friends with me on facebook – which describes probably 97% of my blog-clicking audience – you already know that August is my birthday month.

Something you should know about me: in the decade-and-a-half that has passed since I turned twelve, I have not become any less obsessed with my own birthday.

Over the years, I’ve cooked up various schemes to make my birthday last as long as possible. I start making birthday-related announcements weeks beforehand. I have at least one, but often two or more, birthday parties. About ten years ago, I instituted a policy that my birthday lasts until the last piece of birthday cake has been eaten.

So, of course, yesterday I announced on facebook that my birthday is this month, and that I expect to be treated like it’s my birthday all month long.

Luckily, I’m married to an enabler.

Yesterday, he told me he’s planning on giving me small gifts all month long just in case we’re not financially solvent by the time my actual birthday arrives. And he gave me my first gift.

Ducktales, the Nintendo game.

This is one of my favorite games of all time. It’s so much fun. You play Scrooge McDuck, and your only weapon is his cane, which you can use like a golf club or like a pogo stick.

Behold!

(It should be noted that the guy playing the game in the video is not very good.)

Anyway, I’m so excited, but I can’t play it yet, because our NES is nonfunctional right now. Hmmm, I wonder what my next present will be.

You may look forward to more birthday obnoxiousness as the month wears on.

I’m tagging this as Hardwick bait. Because, why not? (Click that link for a mash up of the best movie of last year and the best movie so far this year.)

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I dedicate this Random Day to my friend Sophie.

Things you can do in a parking lot while you’re waiting for someone else to get to the office because you forgot your keys:

  • Play games on your phone.
  • Text people who have nothing better to do than post a blog that 12 people read (but one of them might be Chris Hardwick, so shut your filthy mouth).
  • Stalk your enemies on facebook.
  • Kick rocks.
  • Check that your tires have the proper amount of air in them.
  • Short nap.
  • Pick a flower and play “he loves me, he loves me not” (just make sure the flower has an odd number of petals).
  • Run to the store to buy some sidewalk chalk and start decorating.
  • Test how secure your office really is by breaking a window or two.
  • Look for penis-shaped clouds in the sky.
  • Prank call some people.
  • Make yourself an impromptu breakfast using only what you find in your car – several sonic mints and half a pack of cigarettes.
  • Contemplate your existence.
  • Write “Don’t wash me, I like to be dirty” in the dirt on someone’s window.
  • Call in sick and go back to bed.

There you go, Soph. Plenty of options.

(If anyone has some better options, please leave them in the comments.)

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Panties, panties, panties. Well, just the one pair actually.

So. Where were we?

Ah, yes. Mitch Hedberg.

I think I was in junior high when I fell in love with Mitch Hedberg. I saw him on Comedy Central (I think this was back when it was just called The Comedy Channel. Also, I was watching via the super old-school satellite dishes. The kind that take up a whole side of your yard, and you’d have to press the number of the satellite, and the dish would move and pass over other satellites, so you’d see glimpses of, like, Japanese cooking shows and the NASA channel, and in a few seconds, you’d be on the right satellite, and then you’d have to pick what channel you wanted on that satellite. I think The Comedy Channel was on satellite F4. That satellite had all the best channels.)

Anyway, the first few times I saw him, I came in late and missed his name. And this was before the days of the almighty guide button. So I just called him the beatnik comic. And I decided that someday he would be my mistress.

So, years went by. At some point I learned his name. And my love for him remained strong. Then, in college, I (finally) met a few people who knew and loved him almost as much as I did.

One day, word came through the internet that Mitch Hedberg was coming to DFW. Yay!

But also – I was quite poor. I couldn’t afford a ticket, so I couldn’t go to the show. Boo.

But I decided I still needed to seize this opportunity. One of my friends was going, and so I sent a pair of my underwear along with him for Mitch Hedberg to sign. (A friend of mine also sent her underwear. Her name is [REDACTED].)

Now, my friend who was going to the show was named Charles (pronounced CHAR’ less*). Charles and I had been like siblings from the start. We even called each other brother and sister (whichever was gender-appropriate, depending on who was speaking). My friend, [REDACTED], also referred to Charles as her brother. This is important to the story.

So Charles goes to the comedy show, and afterward, knowing that an unspeakable penalty awaits him if he comes back with unsigned panties**, hurries around the back of the club to catch Mitch Hedberg before he leaves. And he’s just in time – Mitch and his entourage, including a woman whose name I can only assume is Lynn with two Ns, are almost at the getaway car.

Charles shouts, “Mister Hedberg!”

They turn to look.

“Could I get your autograph?”

They give some kind of affirmative response. Charles goes up to Mitch Hedberg, and hands him…two pairs of panties.

They all look at him. They look at the panties. At him again.

Charles is a strapping young man, but these panties just don’t look like they would fit him.

Charles says, “It’s okay, they’re not mine. They’re my sisters’.”

Now they look even more confused.

Lynn-with-two-Ns protests. “Ew. Don’t sign those. You don’t know where they’ve been.”

Mitch Hedberg bravely takes the panties and says, “I never signed panties before.”

And then he signed them. Mine and [REDACTED]’s. With his actual hand.

And here’s the proof, modeled by my couch pillow:

Hell, yay-yeah! Mitch Mothafuckin Hedberg!

When choosing which panties you want signed by a celebrity, it is imperative that you pick something cute.

See? Spiders are adorable.

Also, apparently Mitch Hedberg kept the cap to Charles’s sharpie. I’ve never heard the end of that. A perfectly good sharpie gone to waste, all so I could have my panties signed.

Yeah, I hear you Charles. What a goddamn tragedy.

*I can’t figure out how to make a schwa. Just pretend that E is a schwa.
**I don’t know what. But I’m creative, I could’ve figured something out. I think I gave him some sort of vague threat involving his balls.

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Two confessions, two apologies.

I had so many plans for posts this week, blog-clickers. Seriously, you would’ve had something new and fabulous to read every day. But somehow, I never got around to any of it. And I think I know why.

I need to confess something: I sort of miss my tiny apartment. Only sort of. And only in specific situations. But this happens to be one of them.

See, in my old apartment, the computer was in the living room, just a few feet away from the couch. So my husband and I would spend a lot of afternoons with one of us watching tv or playing a video game, and the other would be on the internet…or playing a video game. What?

But now, the computer is in a whole separate room. Which means that computer time = alone time. Not only that, but I’m extremely jumpy, and if I’m by myself for any length of time, I get really absorbed in my own thoughts. So when I’m having computer/alone time, and my husband walks in, I react like it’s Michael Myers. (Not Mike Myers. Well, not 90s Mike Myers.) Which is to say, I jump about nine feet in the air and accuse my husband of sneaking up on me while spewing profanities. (To be clear, I’m the one spewing profanities. I’m not accusing him of sneaking up on me while spewing profanities. That would make it much harder to sneak up on someone.)

All of this means that computer time = alone time = having the proverbial shit scared out of me. (It’s only proverbial shit, people. Don’t get any ideas.)

So anyway. Sorry.

***

One of the posts I’m planning is the story of Mitch Hedberg signing my underwear. I even took pictures of the underwear. (Not on me. Worry not, Dad.)

So that will be my first post with pictures. I’m a little nervous, I’m not gonna lie. Will I conquer this technical challenge? Stay tuned.

*cue organ music*

***

Nerds vs. Bigots.

Why does Fred Phelps even care about Comic Con? Have colleges stopped putting on productions of The Laramie Project?

(I have another confession: I don’t like The Laramie Project. It’s right up my alley, I should really love it, I know. But it’s kind of boring to me. I just don’t generally like plays where all the cast members play several different characters without ever changing costume. It makes me think, “Did I accidentally go to an acting workshop instead of a play?”)

(Is that mean? Sorry again.)

Anyway, I particularly love the guy in the Bender costume with the “KILL ALL HUMANS” sign. Yay Bender!

***

So, I was reviewing my tag cloud, and I realized I have only one post in which I mention books. Yeesh. Ten-year-old me would be so ashamed of 26*-year-old me. I need to do some readin’.

Right now, I’m wanting to read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which I haven’t yet read for some reason. Anyone have a copy I could borrow?

***

An update from the car situation: the Acura is dead. Boo.

So now we have to buy a new car.

I’ve never actually bought a car. It sucks so far. Salesmen are annoying. Now I understand the stereotype.

***

Let’s see, I feel like I should have another confession, to make it three.

Hmmmm.

Okay. I love Tears For Fears. They’re splendid. Every time I hear any of their songs, I think of the end of Real Genius, with the popcorn exploding out the windows of Dr. Hathaway’s house. And that movie is transcendent, so why wouldn’t I feel good about a band that reminds me of it?

You know what? I take it back. This isn’t a confession, because there’s no reason for me to be ashamed of my love of Tears For Fears.

*Last year, my birthday sucked so bad that I decided it didn’t merit getting older. So I skipped that year, and now I’m still 26.

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If I were Chris Hardwick, I’d click this link.

So, if you haven’t visited the site in a while, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.

Anyway, you missed a lot.

Most notably, Chris Hardwick visited my site (please note my measured, articulate response). Yeah, I’m pretty fucking impossible to live with right now.

Whereas most sane people would see the culmination of their internet campaigns as a victory and just move on, I’m going to keep plugging away.

What does that mean exactly? I’m not really sure.

For now, all it means is that I’m going to continue to (try to) lure Chris Hardwick over here until he’s a semi-regular commenter.

So, for you, Chris Hardwick, I’ve added a tag called Hardwick Bait. I promise not to tag every single post as Hardwick bait. Just stuff I think you might be interested in. And by the way, if you’re searching for a term to describe me to the authorities, I prefer “nerdist enthusiast” over “blog stalker.”

In other news, I went to my very first filming of a scene I wrote today. I was the sound guy. Or, more accurately, the pole holder. But it did open up the opportunity for a nice vaudevillian joke –  “I’ve been holding a boom for two hours and boy are my arms tired.”

Anyway, once the scene is cut together, I’ll be posting it here, of course. I couldn’t keep my real writing from my twelve loyal blog readers (Thirteen if you count Chris Hardwick. (At least. (Yes, this is a parenthetical inside a parenthetical inside a parenthetical. (I’m probably doing this because I went to see Inception last night. (It involves dreams-within-dreams. (It was really good. (What was I talking about?))))))).

As my friend Bethany said, it looks like the universe felt it owed me for the crappy week it gave me. Yes, I will be telling you that story at some point.

Also, you should all click on those Chris Hardwick links. They’re mostly to the Nerdist Podcasts, and there’s nary a person I wouldn’t ask to sign my underwear.

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