Obligatory Bone Thugs-N-Harmony Reference

It's November first, which means that it's Rabbit, Rabbit Day.

Rabbit, Rabbit Day, according to something I saw on Nickelodeon when I was about 10, occurs on the first day of every month. The idea is that if the first thing you say when you wake up on the first day of the month is "Rabbit, Rabbit" you'll have good luck all month.

Rabbit, Rabbit Day has been the bane of my existence for sixteen years. It's not even that I believe in it, it's just that I want to say it just once, just for the sake knowing I did it. But on Rabbit, Rabbit Day, I always fail. Always. 70% of the time it's because I completely forget it even exists, but the other 30% it's...more of a personal failing.

Apparently, it's impossible for me to go more than five minutes in the morning without announcing "I'm going to watch Scooby Doo until breakfast is ready," or "wouldn't it be cool if Alan Tudyk was on Supernatural?" or "man, I wish I still had a Popple." This happens without fail. Even if no one's listening.

For sixteen years, I've been unable to achieve the (relatively) simple goal of saying "Rabbit, Rabbit" on Rabbit, Rabbit day just once because I am physically incapable of keeping my mouth shut.

Which, I guess, is why I have a blog.

Dance the dance of the Jess-man

You know that thing where I get kind of lazy on Friday's, but I try to make up for it by sharing something cool? It's happening again.

So you remember John "Uncle Jesse" Stamos' stirring ballad, "Forever," right? Of course you do. It set the romantic course of a generation, and has been scientifically proven to guarantee twins to any woman who listens to it within the first six weeks of pregnancy. Surely you're here only as a palate cleanser to fill the time between one journey through this musical masterpiece and the next.

The real question is, do you remember when it was a rap song with a cartoonishly Arabian-themed video?

Have a good weekend.

Bee Learns a Lesson

There is a mail mountain on the dining room table of my parents' house. It is where unwanted junk mail goes to die. But today, in that mountain of forgotten Valu-Pak envelopes, I found magic.

I found an American Girl catalog.

I'm fifteen years past being young enough to justifiably order an American Girl catalog (and eight years past the last time I ordered one anyway), and I'm the youngest girl in my family, so I have no clue how it ended up at my mom's house. But it doesn't matter how it got there. All that matters is that it was there.

And that I took it.

I spent a solid eight years of my life staring at the pages of that catalog thinking about how mystical and magical my life would be if only my parents realized that I needed, that I deserved Samantha's paint set and flower press. I'm mentally conditioned to grab that catalog as soon as I see it. In fact, I'm pretty proud that I managed to stop myself short of circling the things I want for Christmas. Besides, if I hadn't taken the catalog, I wouldn't have learned an important piece of information.

Take a good look everyone:

Because Felicity Merriman is headed for the big American Girl Place in the sky. Like Samantha before her, the Felicity doll will be no more by the end of the year.Which means that 8-year-old me has to come to terms with the fact her super-awesome table, tea set and blue holiday dress will never be a part of my life.





Note: This is not a sponsored post. American Girl is not paying me to help them clear out the Felicity warehouse by preying on your sense of nostalgia. Promise.