About the Blogger
Liz Farrell is the editor of Lowcountry Current. She is a native Bostonian and a graduate of Gettysburg College. She is excellent at wasting time, loves to drink coffee and read, and has made Google-Image-stalking Tom Selleck a real pastime.
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I like to believe the world is made up mostly of intelligent people.
Wait ... wait ... before you scoff at me or tell me I’m naive or start holding up pictures of Britney Spears’ children, think about it. Look around you. That comfortable chair you’re sitting in? Designed by a very smart person, indeed. That computer you’re on? It took serious brains to come up with that one. Airplanes, freedom, electricity, X-ray machines, Bravo TV ... Every day we joyfully reap the benefits of living in a nation of innovative thinkers who don’t just settle for thumb-sucking and semi-regular diaper changes.
You know those people who make a big production about the heat and constantly whine about how hot it is and fan themselves dramatically with their hands while looking at you wild-
eyed as if you were the one who decided what South Carolina’s heat index would be today?
I’m afraid that’s me. I am slowly turning into that person who states the obvious about the daily, normal weather and who lets out a string of expletives every time she leaves the confines of climate-control just to make sure that everyone around her knows how disproportionately affected she is by the sun.
I know what’s weighing on everyone’s minds right now: When Lindsay Lohan goes to jail and rehab for six months, what’s going to happen to us? How will we make it through each day of her lockup? What long-term effects will a lack of Lohan freedom have on our mental well-being? Is there a pill Lindsay would recommend to take away this pain?
Don’t worry. I have some answers.
The heart wants what it wants.
I know this because I spent a considerable part of my childhood pining for Radar O’Reilly from “M*A*S*H.” His classically handsome looks — short, pale, doughy and nervous — and the way he firmly grasped that teddy bear in his sleep made me want to skip my phonics homework and ride my Li’l Miss bike all the way to the hospital tent in Korea. I would’ve ducked bombs for that man, at least until I discovered Menudo, and eyesight.
The world is full of annoying things that put me in a bad mood, like imitation crab meat, or people who don’t pull over for ambulances on U.S. 278 or the fact that no matter how many times I tell myself it’s time to be a smarter, deeper and more well-rounded person, I continue to compromise my soul by compulsively clicking on stories about Lindsay Lohan’s alcohol-monitoring anklet and Gary Coleman’s will.
Anyone watching the current go-round of “Dancing with the Stars” can tell you two things about Kate Gosselin: One, judging by her dancing style she apparently hasn’t “taken the stick out” yet — which was once recommended by her ex-husband Jon during an argument over the mandatory use of matching barrettes — and two, hated or not, she can still bring in the big ratings.
So, so annoying.
Imagine Googling “enormous woman the size of a planet” and finding that your name is the one that comes up first.
I know. “Insert blood-curdling scream here,” right? I’ve had nightmares about this very thing happening — which is why I don’t recommend exercising in front of a mirror right before bedtime or eating one and a half Mars bars while doing so.
Two weeks ago, I made my most impulsive decision to date.
With short but tortured deliberation and an abundance of encouragement from my husband and co-workers, I bought a last-minute ticket to Rome and joined my sisters and my sister’s boyfriend on their vacation. They had only told me about the trip three days before their departure because it didn’t occur to them that I — with my
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways … the ways in which I can have my body sliced open, have my stuff reshaped and then have it all painfully sewn back together in a manner that makes me look more like your favorite movie star.
Happy Valentine’s Day, honey! (Please let those be morphine bonbons in that heart-shaped box.)
Don’t get me started on the topic of dying. Come to think of it, don’t get me started on the topic of being born, either.
I’m turning 35 in a week. So not only am I convinced the end is nigh, I’m also officially one of those “advanced maternal age” women now, which means I’m supposed to be thinking about children and biological clocks rather than Heidi Montag’s plastic surgery or whether Ronnie and Sammi will be able to keep their Italian love affair burning after the popularity of “Jersey Shore” recedes.
Not only that, according to the book, “30 Things Everyone Should Know How to Do Before Turning 30,” I’m apparently five years past the generally accepted deadline for mastering basic life skills, such as being able to wrap a present, drink without getting drunk and — oh look, there it is again — change a diaper.
I’m sorry, but this is just depressing.