emmy blotnick
“A butt load.”
The first time I heard this phrase used to signify “a lot” was in reference to neither smuggled narcotics nor colonoscopies; it was in that made-for-MTV movie about a fictional boy band called 2Gether. That was in 2000. I was eleven years old (!)
I ain’t mad at anyone for continuing to use it ten years later, but I think we can do better. Every so often someone will say the same thing about the word “douchebag” but I’m not convinced that one’s replaceable, whereas “a butt load” most definitely is.
I haven’t come up with the perfect replacement, only a baby step that came to me in the form of a typo. While wearing a Ring Pop, my finger slipped off the “D” key onto the “F” and produced….a butt loaf.
A butt loaf. Or several: Butt loaves. Eh?
This has been around a bit, but c’mon, I’ve featured “Lisztomania” so many times by now, how am I going to ignore this? This version by the PS22 Chorus is lovely, and completely shifts the tone of the piece, nudging it toward gospel and soul. This is further proof supporting my claim that this is one of the truly great and timeless pop songs of the past several years. (via ohheymary)
This is also further proof that my music teacher blew utter fucking hatechunks when I was that age. Instead of a remotely sexy Italian-looking dude with a ponytail and hipster leanings, I had a woman whose name was Deborah, a fact I bet you all subconsciously knew already. Deborah straddled the line between woman and aggravated parrot from “When Animals Strike Back.” Most classes were spent watching her strum the autoharp and experience her midlife crisis, as though going to therapy and rounding up a bunch of recorder-tooting nine-year-olds are perfectly interchangeable things.
The grudge I continue to harbor mostly derives from the fact that she insisted on addressing me as “Emily B” instead of Emmy, even though that’s a nickname my parents gave me. “Emily B” — shudder. Once I realized she thought she was too good for nicknames, I started signing my worksheets “Mud” out of pure nine-year-old spite, and she punished me with some of my most embarrassing time-outs TO DATE.
So be grateful for what you’ve got, little Phoenicians.
New personal slogan: “If it’s not Diddy with the Mona Lisa, I don’t want it.”
Things I still can’t believe:
- I participated in competitive improv
- Nobody told me how wrinkled my dress was
My life partner Molly showed me this website called Tastespotting last night and I figure I should share it before I flood my apartment with aspirational drool. I may or may not be eating bag cereal out of a plastic measuring cup as I write this, but someday I will make someone else cook these things!
Assorted cryptic notes saved in my phone
In an ideal world, the contents of my phone’s notepad feature would read like a menu of my most inspirational ideas. In reality, it’s a big silly crapdump of hastily-typed inanities whose contexts I now completely forget. I’d really like to know what I was hoping to achieve when I wrote:
“Seushdord. it means turtleneck in norweigan.” [Note: It does not.]
“ask dr. if boobs will grow.” [Note: They will not.]
“Last name flannagan =a bad bad sign.” [Note: Okay, it is.]
And as a bonus, what I believe is my shopping list:
“cum, puke, gnocchi.”
