Lazy Sunday

I'm enjoying a dreary and depressing Sunday afternoon. Yes -- enjoying, because I'm outfitted in sweat pants and warm socks, and I have no reason to leave the comfort of my apartment today. I wish it would snow, which would not only complete the effect, but also motivate me to make some deliciously overpriced Williams-Sonoma Hot Chocolate. (It's so rich and expensive, that I feel like it should be reserved for snowy days only.)

In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.

All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)

Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.

True Dat -- Double True.