Then I stumbled upon “She is Love” by Oasis.
The tune, written and sung by Noel Gallagher during a break from bashing brother Liam about the head, popped up on my iTunes radio the other day and refused to leave my brain. In a good way.
So I did some Googling.
The annual Twitterfest of devising sayings no one would put on those chalky Necco candy hearts is always one of my favorites. (This year it is at #rejectedcandyhearts.)
To me, it’s a challenge to be funny in as few words as possible because, face it, no matter how hilarious a candy heart saying “Your real mother was a Vegas stripper named Juggs Aplentee” would be, that wouldn’t really fit on a heart. Even if you wrote on the edges.
So here are some that I came up with:
Ralph Kiner never met the dog I named after him. It probably wasn’t a loss for either of them but it saddens me.
Twice in my life, I crossed paths with the baseball Hall of Famer, who died yesterday at the age of 91.
Philip Seymour Hoffman didn’t write this scene in the movie Almost Famous but this blog may never have been without him saying the words he spoke just to me:
If only Philip Seymour Hoffman, as brilliant of an actor and man as he was, had heeded the advice of Frances McDormand’s character in the same movie:
Good night forever, sad man who played Lester Bangs. Don’t let those swill merchants rewrite you.
(GIF source: http://fockingchick.tumblr.com/.../im-always-home-im-uncool)
It will seem silly to any of you in the northern half of the United States today that my biggest concern when I decided to write about sledding in Connecticut for my hometown magazine was that we’d be having a mild, flake-free winter in these parts.
But it’s true. Those are the things you worry about when you have to file copy eight weeks before the piece actual gets published.
I’m pretty certain I when I e-mailed my draft of “Snow Patrol” to my editor in early October that I was sitting on my back deck in shorts, fighting off the last of the summer mosquitos and mulling whether we had enough sweetened lime juice to mix up a celebratory gimlet.
I’d cry but the last thing I need is ice cubes.
Go. Read “Snow Patrol.” I hope it warms your funny bone.
I mocked the warning of the Woolly Bear caterpillars with narrow brown midsections. I laughed at the extra thick skins on the onions at the farmer's market. I never noticed the thinning crotch in my thermal undies.
Ignoring all the foreboding signs, I plowed ahead with my plan that this winter would be the one when we would remove all the snow off our driveway by hand.
Call me macho, call me masochistic or, like my mother did when leaving me the number of her plow guy, just call me stupid.
