Onward and upward.

http://dlrandall.tumblr.com/

Come on, guys!

This blog could be all about how much I love my Michu.

"Danielle, are you alright?

Do you want a little yogurt?

Some seltzer?

Shot of Patron?"

I wish I could take direct credit for this.

Midday Instant Messenger Stream of Consciousness

My mother, whom I like to refer to as Mich or Michu or Moosh or Mumsy makes me laugh very hard a lot of the time. I like to think of her as a combination of Rush Limbaugh and the nun with the glasses from The Sound of Music all rolled up into a classic, chic, textbook example of a French Women Don't Get Fat prototype.

She sends me wonderful little boxes from home filled with tiny tubes of toothpaste and t-shirts from my high school theater productions and Boston Sunday Globe magazines so I can keep up with Tales from the City and see how my dad successfully completed the crossword puzzle. She also sends me place mats and little statues of saints and nips of Patron. She is very technologically savvy, although she does get a little paranoid about things like my siblings and I having alternate Facebook accounts (separate from the ones she's friends with) on which we are scandalous. She is also famous for her stream-of-consciousness instant messages and e-mails, one of which I received just now:

MOM: hi
ME: hi michu
MOM: i know you don't have a prius, but if you ever feel your car is racing out of control, PUT IT IN NEUTRAL
how's your day, i had to say an "Our Father" to calm me down today. [OMITTED] pissed me off but i felt better after my prayer.



I just love her.

What's important.

"The eye doctor I'm at right now has autographed head shots on the wall in lieu of diplomas. I feel like I'm getting an eye exam at Jerry's Deli." - Liz on Hollywood Medicine

My Mother in a Facebook Fandom Nutshell

Super.

You'd think that since I was born just three days after the 1986 Superbowl (Wikipedia informs me that this was Superbowl XX, wherein the mighty New England Patriots were defeated by the Chicago Bears) any Sleeping Beauty-esque fairies that were in the vicinity at the time would have given me the Gift Of Fully Understanding And Only Loving Football. Particularly since, due to my sizable birth weight (just under 10 lbs), curiously dark skin (which my mom and grandmother always recount, every January 29th: "...a full head of hair, and so dark skinned, you were darker than the black family's baby."), and my parents' indecision over what to name me, I was known throughout the hospital as The Refrigerator. That would be after this particular Patriot, whose name, Wikipedia is once again good enough to inform me, is actually William "The Refrigerator" Perry.



Deeply, deeply flattering. As the story goes, I believe we can credit Grandmaman for lighting the flame under my parents to get going and "give dat baby a name" other than one that is shared with that handsome fellow.

Anyway. Despite meeting all the prerequisites necessary for a lifetime of superfandom, I have missed the boat. I don't know how to play football. Or really watch it. However, I DO know that I love bandwagons and chicken wings. So as a result of those loves, hooray for Superbowl Sunday. But since the Tom Bradys are out for the season, I have the next few hours to decide whether to root for the Peyton Mannings or the New Orleanses.