Hey there, stranger! I guess I should say strangers since I know for a fact that more than one person takes time out of their busy day to read my spiels. Want to know how I know that? Because I just found out (through this amazing thing called “My Stats”) that from the time of starrcrossed.wordpress.com’s creation, it has received 55 views from 5 different countries! Am I allowed to say that I’ve gone global yet? You decide:
Well, I have been viewed by people from every continent except South America (where are you, South Americans?!) and, of course, Antarctica. Though if I do ever get a view from a penguin I will probably be so overjoyed that if the world were to end right then and there, I wouldn’t mind. Because I would have had a penguin view my blog and that is awesome. Simply, awesome. So basically, if you think I’ve gone global, I’ve gone global and for that reason alone I shall throw a grand hoorah. You will all be invited. It’s BYOB (Bring Your Own Brazilian since I haven’t got any views from South America yet and I think they should be forcibly included.)
It’s been almost a month since my last post and for that I must apologise. But I think my constant apologising will eventually lose its value and because I don’t want that to happen, I am going to apologise in advance for all the inevitable times I will abandon you in the future.
I am very, very, very sorry. I have a good reason. I’m sure I have a good reason. I must have a good reason because you wouldn’t forgive me if I gave you a bad one. Sorry.
Now that that’s out-of-the-way, I should probably give you my most recent good reason: It’s exam time– Yay! My school kind of comes to a halt when exams come around and so my life has been pretty un-blog-worthy. The most fun I’ve had all weekend, actually, was when my family went out for lunch to a restaurant. Ah, the excitement! It was the Saturday Lunch Rush (yes, it deserves capital letters). It was loud and crowded and our waitress’ name was Memory.
Because it was the Saturday Lunch Rush and loud and crowded, the food took a little longer than usual to arrive. This was expected so none of us was fazed. The fun started when my dad cheekily announced: “I think we’ve lost our Memory.”
And so began the punniness:
ME: Our Memory has failed us.
DAD: I think Memory may have forgotten us.
ME: No, I think she remembers. She’s just a little slow today…
DAD: There was once a joke about man who drank a lot. When asked why he drank, he said, “To forget.” When asked what it was he wanted to forget, he said, “I can’t remember.”
ME: He could have used some Memory.
DAD: I think we could use Memory more. Is she short-term or long-term?
ME: Well, if Memory serves…
By that time my mom had done enough cringing and threw her crumpled up paper straw cover at me to make me stop. It got caught in my hair and she leaned over the table to remove it. “The only reason I’m doing this,” she said. “Is so that I can do it again.” And then she threw the paper at me a second time. I threw it back at her; it bounced off her hair and landed in her mango juice. Serves her right! I thought it was a triumph on my part. I reveled in my glory for about three seconds before Memory arrived with our food.
“How ironic,” I said, looking down at my bowl of smoked chicken salad.
“What?” My family all said in unison.
“Memory forgot I asked for no cheese.”
“Memory is what tells a man that his wife’s birthday was yesterday.” – Mario Rocco
I saw this quote while I was looking for another one. It made me so mad that I just had to show it to you so you could get mad too on my behalf:
“Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.” – Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses.