Yeah, someone at ABC actually let this tweet air during The Bachelorette last night.
Guys, one of my friends on Facebook was so excited that Taco Bell was bringing back the Beefy Crunch Burrito that she posted a message on their Facebook wall and asked them if they had a poster that she could get and hang up in her room. And Taco Bell legit sent her a giant-ass poster. I am laughing so hard right now.
I AM SO JEALOUS WTF
social media done right
+1
David Schwimmer (Communication ‘88) returned to campus this week to talk to students in a Q&A moderated by faculty member Anna Shapiro. Full Story
It’s been a while since I’ve posted a quote but, well, Victoria Beckham + spot-on message = a must-do. I have to say, 99 percent of the people I work or have worked with are hardworking, completely focused, intense, demanding of perfection, yes, but ultimately grounded. When I do encounter 1 percenters with ego, entitlement, general rudeness manifesting in a “Do you know who I am?” attitude, it’s always bewildering to me. The industry is so, so small and when people act a fool, it’s remembered. So! Never, ever get ahead of yourself. That’s my thought of the day.
Amen.
Death Reflections
I’m no stranger to death. It has involved itself in my life from early on; taking many forms, coming at different times, heralding different thoughts. In my life, I’ve witnessed the last breaths of three of my grandparents. One was violent. One was peaceful. One was labored.
The first happened when I was four. It was Christmas Eve. My father, my mother, my sister and I drove the 17 hours to visit my dad’s family in Texas. I remember frantically telling my mom that we couldn’t go; that Santa wouldn’t be able to find me. “He won’t know we left!” My mother assured me, “Santa knows.”
Later, as we sat around the tree at my Aunt Emily’s home, I remember staring at my grandpa and dad, sitting side-by-side on the couch. My father’s eyes were brown and clear. My grandpa’s were blue and milky. Blind. I later found out it was from exposure to farming chemicals and cataracts, but back then, I just knew he couldn’t see me. So I stared.
I stared as my dad got up to get my grandpa a ham sandwich my aunt was making. I stared as my grandfather groped for my father’s hands. I stared as he grabbed the sandwich and as he chewed. And I stared as he tried to draw in breath, reaching out for something that he couldn’t grasp, his lungs making a terrible wheezing sound.
So little. I was so little, yet I remember that night in total clarity: My mother screaming for my sister and I to go in the bedroom. My sister and I peeking from the door as we looked on in terror, watching my mother, a nurse, perform the Heimlich maneuver. My aunt Emily crying and screaming, wanting to put her hands down his throat, hoping to grab whatever was blocking his airway. “No!” My mom screams.
Benancio Jr.’s face, my dad’s face, is hidden; He hits Benancio’s back. I want my daddy. Lost. Ambulance. Door closes.
One month till sweet sixteen. My mamaw doesn’t know me; not anymore. Her lips tremble as she calls out for her brother and others I never knew. Sometimes, they just make sound. Her hospital-like bed, in the living room, is surrounded by family; surrounded by us. Papaw holds her hand and fixes her hair. “I’m here,” he cries. I’ve never seen him cry. Am I crying? My uncle is. My aunt is hysterically. My mother is loudly. My other uncle touches the foot of her bed. He looks on.
I want her to come back and hold my hand, like she did when I would squirm in family photos. I want her to go to the kitchen and get down a bag of some Milky Ways (her favorite). I want her to eat cereal out of a coffee mug as a snack, as I tell her what happened in school that day. I want her to tell me stories about my mom, and what she was like at my age as we drink Dr. Pepper in her kitchen. But none of this will happen. None of this has happened in many years. Alzheimer’s has robbed her from us, and now, death has too. Her face is still. A minister prays.
A call five years later. My mother: “Come now.” It’s summer, and I’m home from my second-year of college. I call to my sister and dad. We drive. In the room, his eyes are closed. His chest heaves up and down. An air mask rests on his face. My mother calls for more painkillers.
“Now we just have to make him comfortable.” He is in there. I know it. I grab his hand by instinct. It’s colder than I remember. He never was the same after she passed, but he still made sure to bring banana pudding to every get-together. Mamaw was always the one to make it; but it turned out he could do it too, meringue and all. It was only later in life that we realized what a great cook he was. He always had presents for us; usually something he found at a yard sale. He never drove by one without stopping. He never smiled in pictures, even though he did every day. He was the most stubborn man. He was my mother’s father. He was my dad’s best friend. He was full of surprises.
His death wasn’t one of them.
At twenty-five, I have so much left to do and see. I’m young. I’m stupid. I’m wise. I’m everything and nothing at the same time. If past experiences shape our present, death has always continued to shape my life. Many people don’t have to deal with the reality of final moments so early in life. If they do, many certainly don’t witness it. But for those of us who do see it; for those who see the last breaths of someone, as they move from one world to the next, it sets in motion thoughts of mortality and legacy. How do you want to live your life?
the parks & rec cast talking about jane austen
“This year it’s going to be about long legs and pretty faces.” - Amy Poehler on beauty trends
In which we ask the Backstreet Boys to relive six of their worst fashion moments… and they knock it out of the park. A sample:
Richardson: We have enough makeup on there to start our own line of cosmetics.
Littrell: I think that’s when Howie started pointing.
McLean: Howie’s patented pointing.
Richardson: When they brought out those shirts and those disco balls, I was like, ‘Are you for real?’
Littrell: You can see on Kevin’s face. He’s kind of unhappy. He’s like, ‘Really?’
Richardson: Look at that look in my eye.
Littrell: He’s mad.
Richardson: For real, look at it. I’m like, ‘I can not believe I’m doing this.’
“How it is that animals understand things I do not know, but it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul.”
— A Little Princess, Frances Hodgson Burnett
