6 posts tagged “nostalgia”
Yet another reason I need to get a Wii. It has the old NES version of Super Mario Brothers! I twisted my friend's arm into buying it, and was that a trip down memory lane. I don't remember being so fucking horrific at it. And yet I died within 30 seconds of playing my round as Luigi. I was felled by a Goomba and not being able to jump, as the B button would suggest. Honestly, I didn't make it past the fourth level. However, my friend did, which enabled me to reminisce and question the game:
1) We're in disagreement over what the hell the green plateaus in the sky are about. I maintain that they are platforms or plateaus. He's trying to tell me they're trees. That's right: flat-top trees. I know the graphics were crap, but c'mon!
2) Lakitu. Why can't you just jump on it to kill it? Why have to hurl a fireball at it? Do you know how improbable that is?
3) Why are those gorges so big? I hate having to run and jump all the time.
4) So many hidden boxes full of coins everywhere. I miss boxes of coins everywhere. Why aren't there boxes of coins everywhere in real life? (With the exceptions of the ones that I would be arrested for if and when I partake of them...)
5) Okay, I mistook a mushroom for Princess Peach (nee Toadstool). It's an honest mistake. Pixelation, ya'll.
After all this, what I determined was that Super Mario 3 was the game I truly missed. Raccoon tail + map + hitting my head against those wildcards = true love.
Oh, and Sonic the Hedgehog = WTF?! Who played that game? Why was it popular enough to make into a cartoon? I seriously got nauseous watching it.
Crazy Japanese.
But not as crazy as the person that can beat the game in seven minutes.
Seriously. Talk about time commitment.
What's the most klutzy thing you've ever done?
Submitted by Jecka.
I can't possibly pick one, but I will. It's not the most humiliating, but it is rather the most klutzy, because it is the root cause of the random humiliation over the years, including the airport puffy ankle incident of Las Vegas two weeks ago.
The moment that changed my ankle's life forever. It was the first weekend at college. I was persuaded to go out partying, if I recall correctly, and was descending the steps of my dorm. I lived in one of those HoJo dorms that was four stories high, and it was a warm summer night. I had reached all but the bottom step when I turned to say something to the person above me when I stepped down to what I thought was the bottom -- missed -- and crumpled. I think I must have rolled too.
Nonetheless, I was laid out for the next hour or so on the sidewalk in front of my dorm. I was in a red tank top and my favorite jeans. Blue flip flops. Flip flops, my downfall. And my ankle was elevated on the knee of the RA of the two suites next door. She, who I came to know as the crazy naked girl. However, for the time being, she kept me calm as my ankle swelled to the size of a softball and I tried to calm hysterical laughter.
I think it call became rather comical and calm after that. The people inside their dorm rooms had trickled out to stare at the dumb drunk girl who had fallen and injured herself on the first week of school. My suitemates were laughing, were already taking pictures. My roommate, my friend, Wish Bear, came up and took a close up shot. She had the picture for the longest time and brought it out every once in a while. Have it still?
When the ambulance came -- yes, the effing am-bu-lance -- the EMT asked me questions thinking I was drunk, high or both. Sadly, neither. But I did have the same birthday as her son, so we were both excited. I was the happiest injured person who she'd met in a while.
The injury was a fracture. I was in a cast for two months. I had crutches. It was a ridiculously painful injury for such a small event. I was a good joke. Am still a good joke. And we did use my crutches for good after that. So, all told, fab. However, it did set in motion my illustrious career as a semi-gimp.
A close runner up is smashing a car door into my face, but that's alcohol induced, so I don't count it. True klutzy events happen when you're stone sober and for all intents and purposes, lucid and rational.
All theoretical.
What is your favorite scent?
Submitted by Erinen.
I'm expanding to the scents. Because I don't like picking one favorite. I need multiples. A girl has to have options!
Of those not found in bottles:
...Fresh laundry pulled out of the dryer. I've learned to love the scent of starch, heat, Bounce and Tide. Especially during the fall and winter, I love yanking out my sheets right when the buzzer goes off, wrapping myself in them and collapsing on the couch. Scent, touch, all good.
...Jasmine tea. I guzzled a lot as a child...can I blame my short stature on that?...so childhood ties = total adoration.
...Bakeries. Sugar. Spice. Everything nice. I could die.
...My mother. She smells good. She doesn't use perfume, but she smells good. She tries to tell me it's Vaseline Intensive Care + Dove soap, but it's not. I've used both of those, and no. It's just mom.
Of those found in bottles:
...Jo Malone: Nectarine Blossoms & Honey, Grapefruit and Verbena of Provence. To die for. Together. Apart. To die for.
...Bath& Body Works. Pearberry (old version, not the second version.) I think it's discontinued...I don't use it anymore, but I did in high school and college, and it mellowed out so nicely. I bought up some of it when they came out with a limited re-release some years ago, and it was crap. It smelled like anise and pears and wrong. It went in the bin.
Two items. I'll make it brief. Caveat: brief for me.
Item, the first: I was assaulted by another woodland creature today. My track record, it is not so hot. Exhibit one:
But it wasn't a squirrel again. This time, a chipmunk. Or I think a chupmunk. The only real chipmunk I've seen was a flash of brown outside an office window...and I don't suppose the Chipmunks (Alvin, Simon, Theodore) count. How I miss the cartoons of the 80s. Or, maybe the 70s? I only started to find out in the last five years that all the cartoons I loved as a child were not necessarily contemporary to my actual age/generation. How disillusioning is that?
Anyhow. I was picking some green tomatoes for dinner when a chipmunk (or other woodland demon) darted out of the adjacent bush and tried to attack me. Okay, maybe I was in its way, but it scared me first. I was just hungry for dinner! I ran yelping back into the house and dared not come back outside until it was long gone. Or I'd hoped. Bunnies have a similar affect on me, but I'm less disturbed by them because I used to own one.
So, score stands: me 0, scary woodland beasts, 2.
Item, the second. In yet another effort to avoid work, I went over to register for my own square of art, because I was jealous of Dancing Bear and his nice square. The results are not my final, as I just wanted to play with the tools...I've already thrown out a peony, a pair of eyes, a Van Gogh-esque sun....So this is the first step:
I'm so glad I have more time to keep trying. I can pretend I'm in high school again and considering ditching pre-med for an art major. Which of course wouldn't have sucked, because then I mightn't have been so pissed off at science. And I'm still not a doctor. Instead my choices are capitalist scum or over idealistic NGO crusader. Hmm.
Onward and back to Tesco. It's enough to make a girl want to move west.
I am awake at an obscene hour (for a Saturday – oh god, for any day), but I tend to be obscene. However, this is in the name of academia. Help me, I’m about to endure four and a half hours of guilt and misery via discussion over institutions, developing nations and what I can’t do for them because corrupt governments are a fact of life and there is nothing I can do in my lifetime to make a change without compromising my morals or cutting a bitch.
But that’s not the point of this post.
Day Two is.
8.00. Good Morning quasi-gingham canopy! If I had to wake up to this every morning, I’d have to gouge my eyes out with a melon-baller. At least that way they’d come out whole and I could give them to someone else. I almost scared myself witless. I’m also hanging half off the bed. I obligingly slide the rest of the way off and prepare to begin my, nay, our, day.
We head down to the continental breakfast, and I mutter that I hope there’s bacon and eggs and toast and more greasy things I know are terrible for me. My friend remarks that ‘continental breakfast’ usually means doughnuts and cereal and juice and coffee. I glare at her and repeat my words. Hello! I was spoiled, okay?!
I had my free breakfast at Le effing Meridien, and it had everything. It had my bacon, my sausage, my beans, my eggs, my tomatoes, my potatoes, my fatty as hell but also delicious foreign yogurt, fruit galore…I had a waiter who brought me a freaking caddy of toast! And the FT! My beloved FT! There were linens, and solemn bankers who didn’t know why a random Asian chick in a pale pink sweater was sitting in their otherwise grey dining room. It was delicious! So my brain is warped! I’ve been trained to think otherwise! (read: Wish Bear, ya shoulda woken up that day, hooker.)
So she was right. We wander into the garden room and I see the spread. I dutifully grab my box of Special K, my plastic cup of milk, my cup of OJ, my danish (which I don’t actually eat with any success), and toast up some hearty English muffin. I kvell over Shedd Spread Country Crock’s honey spread, and pocket some apple butter – PS, for a town that has an Apple Butter Festival, I expected fresh apple butter! Is that too much to ask? – before settling down at our chess table. We didn’t play chess, we played checkers (which neither of us had done in over ten years), and we sucked.
And then came Raisin Bran.
We both wanted it. The tiny,
lone, perfect box of Raisin Bran. I
haven’t fought over a healthy cereal in a long time. Not since the Wheetabix battle of 2004. I glared down some blonde witch to take the last box. She thought she could beat me there with a
cart and children? Methinks no. Suck it, Wegmann’s mama! We eventually compromised on half and half,
and it was for the best since I was stuffed after two bites. I was feeling
greedy (as I often do with food, and it’s just not necessary.)
10.00 Our first appointment of the day! Another bath! Still at the State Park, but this time, a walk in bath, and no attendant to be grabby. (Word up, Dancing Bear, on the trauma.) It was warm. It was echo-y. It was better than the previous day. And the attendant was nice and gave us an extra 15 minutes! She got a good tip.
Afterwards we wandered over to a coffeeshop because my friend decided she needed a fix. She won’t drink diet sodas anymore (because of the unhealthy chemicals), but she drinks coffee like it’s going out of style. (read: leggings. Please god, let them finally go out of style. Why 80s revival? WHY?!) I got a soggy bread pudding (mine totally kicks its ass. Savory or sweet. I. Got. This.) and a cup of peppermint tea. Didn’t I say I loved peppermint tea? Oooh, but beforehand we skipped into the adjoining store (actually open!) and perused. It was very high school circa the heyday of Lollapalooza. Hemp and natural weaves. The cashier, according to my friend, screamed high school drama geek, and I felt a moment of nostalgia for friends gone by. They had cute as hell apparel for kids and dogs (you know, because they both need to be dressed in insane clothing for human amusement because they can’t fight back), but it made me wary. Nonetheless, I bought a gorgeous orange sorbet and dove grey silk scarf. Long, drape-y, and broken out as soon as I unearthed my nail clippers long enough to cut the tag off.
Back to the coffeeshop. My friend got a bean soup that tasted like healthy – you know what that tastes like! – and a ‘latte’ that was a dry cappuccino in a not so good disguise. Lies!
High noon. The appointment with the nicest spa in town (the one that belonged to our hotel.) I got a back facial. Okay, so my back isn’t exactly like the surface of the moon, but I do have these random spots near one of my shoulder blades that I find impossible to reach, and I’m sure I’ve never exfoliated my back properly. Hey, I’ve taken yoga. I still do sun salutations and some strength poses when I have time in the morning. I can be stretchy and flexible. I can reach behind my back, but I can’t scrub like these women can.
One thing you must understand: if I fall asleep during my treatment, then I consider it a job well done on their part. That means that they’ve mellowed me out correctly. So she was nice. I got the only non-blonde, non-dried up, proper-colored skin tone, under the age of 40, aesthetician in the entire town. Right there, success! She asked me about my comfort, wasn’t chatty, and gave me generic soothing sounds music. Now, I wasn’t given my lightwood locker, my voluminous robe, slippers or glass of lemon water and biscuits, but I know where the price difference has gone. I know why it’s cheaper to spa here than, say, the Golden Doors. But more on that later.
So she must have slathered on a dozen different things on my back. Thankfully, I couldn’t see it coming, unlike my normal facial. Woman massaged my back, massaged my feet and legs (didn’t see it coming), and I barely thought about the fact that I was going to stink of cheap spa the second I walked out. Yon Ka products be damned.
Sum total: I slept. My skin felt good. I couldn’t smell the stink on me yet. Color me happy. My friend was less amused with her facialist (she got a European), because she was overly methodical. Also worth noting? My friend had never gotten a spa treatment in her life prior to this.
As we jaunted down the elevator (five floors) through the new annex – much less character than the old building where we were – we discussed how she wasn’t meant for spa treatments. She was probably made for a medi-spa. Eh? She explained it as spa treatments in a medical office. Ahhh. Click. Speaking of which, I know someone who just quit working in such a situation to go back to a run of the mill spa because the clinical quality of the office freaked her out. Imagine. This, in an office that offers micro-derm abrasion and Botox.
Back in the room, she generously expanded her possibilities for spa treatments to super high-end spas, because then, her high expectations wouldn’t be crushed, I think. She would just be ultra pampered. I proclaimed that I had been poor, and I am easily mellowed by anything, but that one day, we could totally rock the Golden Door together. And, much to my dismay – I had to pause – she asked me what the Golden Door was.
Was this my friend? Is this the girl I’ve known since 1995? I expect this from Wish Bear, but not from this girl, this girl who knows her Harper’s and her Cosmo. I tried to compare it to the El Bulli of spas (whether in terms of long-standing rep or goodness, I’m still unsure, after reading the Conte Nast Traveller’s Hot List this year). Another pause. No recognition?! It took her a moment, but she recalled that she’d heard of it. Lord have mercy. (Okay, maybe I kid, maybe I was poisoned with the facial products.)
Our conversation ended with that, and we began to contemplate eating before our three o’clock. We decided to try, what we thought was going to be an ice-cream shop, but turned out to be a market & café as well! Huzzah! We saw a lunch special: chicken bowtie soup and a turkey/provolone sandwich. Mmm! It was drizzling outside. It’s a soup day. But only enough for one. *sigh* Hadn’t we enough trouble over the Raisin Bran this morning? Quick decision: share the soup (because that was the important part), split another lunch as well. Crisis averted.
Errr..time crunch! More in the pm. Still have half a day to discuss and yesterday morning! For now, shower, read, and catch up on some Project Runway. I heard some mischief was afoot this week!
Have you ever owned one of those songs that made you vaguely ashamed to do so? In 1998 in was Hit Me Baby One More Time, hell, same year, it was I'll Be. In 2004 it was Milkshake. And now, I give you: Sexy Back. This, is for Wish Bear. It is her fault I own it outright instead of just living my shame through the radio, waking up to it every morning and not changing the station. I feel unclean, unwashed, unfit for human interraction.
And on that note, I have to go find my tape recorder so I can tape my interview. Ah, the memories this digs up. Second year organic chem lab. Nothing with horror the multitude of tape recorders sitting on the podium in front of the professor because he refused to use a microphone in an auditorium made for 500 people. Bastard.
