Back in Black

For at least a good year, there exist no pictures of me wearing an actual color.  I lived entirely in black.

I wasn’t one of those goth people.  I didn’t wear black lipstick or white face paint.

I was just in black – always.

School, clubs, dances, church, my sister’s wedding shower and rehearsal dinner – all black.

And all with combat boots.

Again, let me repeat that I wasn’t a goth.

I’m not sure what inspired this.

My love of weird music?  A Sweet Valley High book?

Whatever it was, I was all ‘Hey let’s listen to Jane’s Addiction and dress like we’re funeral bound!’ for way too long.

As you can see, it’s a very flattering color for a girl with my skin tone:

And I look nothing like a mime here:

Oh good – here’s a glimpse of the boots:

That was apparently my favorite dress, because I’m not sure I ever took it off for at least a 6-month span.  I’ve been photographed in it all over the country, from my sister’s wedding rehearsal (where she was none too pleased that my boots made an appearance) to church to dances… it was my little black dress that wasn’t so little.

{You might recognize some of these people. They’re famous now.}

Can barely see eyes…

Even more pathetic unusual is that I appear to be wearing the same necklace with the same dress in all of these pictures.  Not too creative, apparently.

You know, when you find what works and all.  Don’t mess with perfection.

Yeah, black is definitely the way for a milky white girl to go.  A walking study in contrasts.

Especially with an overdose of hair.

You cannot even see detail on my face because I am so pale.  I actually reflect light.

What would really finish this off beautifully would be if I had pictures of some of my other go-to looks.  Like cutoff Daisy Dukes, worn with black fishnets and combat boots (natch).  Or when I dyed green streaks in my hair.  Or the purple, red, and blue ones.  Or when I pulled it all up into a ponytail, and shaved off the lower part.

You know, like this

I was a weird girl.

But not as weird as the guy I dated once, who sported a mohawk like this

And I mean literally once, because when my dad met him.  Well.  That was the end of that.

I believe a direct quote would involve something about ‘ripping that earring right out of your ear, son’ and possibly a shotgun.

Come to think of it, that guy could have gone in my Bad Judgment post too.

I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now…but somehow I’m afraid I’m just older.

And PS) I still love black. Some things never change.

Edit – last minute addition – I almost forgot about these.  A chorale concert, I think, and my mom tried so hard to get a decent picture of me.

It wasn’t working though – you can barely see a glimpse of my face at the corner of the music stand.

A little closer, but nope, still covered.

But at least she can snap one of me when I walk down the aisle!

Sadly, no – I looked the other way, and I stuck out my tongue.

‘You with the tongue Heather.  Why is your tongue always hanging out?‘

Sorry Mom.  I blame MJ.

And since I know you are wondering, yes, actually I was wearing the black dress [and combat boots] under the black robe. Why wouldn’t I be?

Formals gone wrong

One big area where I’ve consistently embarrassed myself is formal wear.  Part of it was the times, for sure.

{Quick, name me something you wore in 1989 that wasn’t hideous!}

But also, I always made my own dresses.  At least twice a year I set my creativity loose and designed and made my own formal wear.  And let’s just say how very ironic these pictures are, considering I now design children’s clothing.  Clearly, my artistic vision has changed over the years.

Take this monstrosity, for example

Hello, everything red ever made!

I had no ability to edit.  I loved red and I was ready to show the world.

It’s a darn shame this picture doesn’t capture my red earrings, red shoes, and red purse.  I can’t say for sure now because my brain is very old and tired, but something tells me my underwear wasn’t white.

And my date for said prom (who is probably reading this and laughing at me right now…or possibly feeling relieved that his picture isn’t here, forever attaching him to crazy red blob girl) was told specifically to bring all red flowers.  I feel strongly that he also should have sung ‘Lady in Red’ without prompting, but that didn’t happen.

With or without the prompting.

Seriously dude, could I have dropped any more hints?

And what do you think that look on my face is about?  Is it, ‘Mo-om, stop taking pictures of me!  I’m super cool and you’re making me look like a dork here!’

Or was it ‘I know that my former BFF is behind me and she looks sooooo much better in her ruffled cupcake dress than I do in my big red blob. Plus her hair is bigger than mine! Dangit!’

[I'm struck by irony because as I write this, the last song we ever danced to came on Gen X radio.]

The next year I’d like to say I learned something, but, um, not really.

Enter ‘faux sequins’

Oh, and also the first time my hair went brown, though this time it was accidental.  I have to accept responsibility for all future misadventures with a bottle.

Note to self: If you don’t have the patience to hand sew thousands of individual sequins, then pick another style. ‘Sequin-like fabric’ is in fact nothing at all like actual sequins, and very, very tacky.

Lesson learned.

Prom that year went better.  I lightened up on both the color and the bling.  Unfortunately, I lightened up all the way to white, which makes it look like I was a teenage bride.  And judging by my date’s ball cap, I’m thinking this wasn’t the wedding of the century.

White – not a good color for a pale, sickly girl.

Try again – Cinderella Ball, the following year.

Ok, so the color is better.  But the hair?  The hair is not good.  And also, looking back at this and knowing how old I was in this picture, I cannot believe that I wore/my parents let me wear a dress that low cut.  It looks like the see-through fabric stops just shy of my navel.  Klassy.

[And lest you think less of me, the date was just a friend.]

I reverted to my old ways for the next prom, too.  Wedding #2

Two minor changes this time.

1) I wore Ivory instead of white.

2) I knew I’d be shaking my booty all night and had the good sense to wear sneaks.

My only regret here is that they weren’t Chucks.  Or combat boots.  Either would have made for better pictures.

Have I ever told you that I wore tennis shoes under my wedding dress, too?

In college I seemed to learn my lesson.  I looked much better…but had dates that I couldn’t stand to see again, so you won’t be getting pictures there.

{Besides Jen, this is really all for you, and you’ve already seen the worst of that.}

Bad Judgment

In oh-so-many ways.

It started young, when I was sporting a polyester leisure suit at my birthday party

Now this doesn't date me at all...

And it just grew from there.

For example, the date that felt chinos and no socks would be appropriate for a semi-formal.

No socks.

Who does that? Blech.

But hey, remember when boxer shorts as attire was popular?

No eyes when I smile. Seriously.

Yeah – me either.  But it certainly helps to make them look cool, the way I have them hiked up to my armpits.

Dear Heather,

Circa-nineteen-whenever-overalls-were-popular

Overalls – not good.

Moving on…

Where to even begin with this one?

Pretzel legs

Oh, I know – how about we start with the pictures of the creep plastered all over the wall behind you? Bad. Judgment.

Also, you are still wearing boxers, and you still have no eyes when you smile.

Oh, and this?

Driving Miss Daisy

You are at least 20 years too young to wear a dress with a matching shirt.  A dress that stops mid-calf, AKA the least flattering length known to man.

And it’s amazing this one didn’t get me arrested

Sullying the good name of Nemo

since quite obviously, I appear to be pants-less in Disney World.

I’m not, for the record.

A – Not fat, just pregnant. I know I say that a lot, but it’s true.

B – Wearing short shorts

C – Wearing my husband’s pullover which is way too big for me

D – Too stupid to look in a mirror

I had that ‘too stupid’ problem here, too.  This is the day I learned that when taking pictures, your neck should be pushed out, not pulled in.

Hello, double chin!

Dear Heather,

Shield your eyes from the glow

Don’t take pictures in the pool unless you’ve discovered the sun.  Or at least a decent self-tanner.

I’ve had several [failed] attempts at hat-wearing

But at least I don't have poodle hair!

Am I playing dress-up here? Why are the clothes hanging off of me?  Gross! Eat a burger, pronto!

Let’s try again

The furry scarf really sets it off, don't you think?

Ok there, fatso. Back off the burgers now.

Maybe feathers would be better?

Practicing my routine for Vegas

As it turns out, no. And where are my darn eyes?

The mortification fun ends here today.  More kicks to the gut laughs tomorrow!

Makeover Monday: My Hair

My friend Jen has been on my case about the ‘serious’ nature of my writing recently.  At her request, I am lightening up.  And because I once embarrassed her so badly she cried [and then tripped and fell down the stairs in front of a guy she was trying to impress, which of course made me laugh hysterically, and then she cried harder, because her friend is a jerk and also her finger was broken] – I owe her.

Welcome to ‘embarrass myself’ week.  Because Jen?  I love you that much.

I have issues with my hair.

I was born with quite a lot of it, thick and bushy and black.  I’m not sure why, but it’s a family thing I guess – my daughters were just the same.  It never fell out either, just slowly turned to blonde.

The problem is that when I was a child, I was a tomboy.  I had no patience for ribbons and bows, and I couldn’t be bothered to brush it.  My mom’s solution?  snip, snip

First with the too-short, uneven bangs

Age 2

It got a little bit better (read: less crooked)

Age 4

So of course that had to be rectified pronto

Age 5

For a couple of years that shaggy, mullet-like cut stayed

Age 6, and inexplicably petting a dead bird

[Man, I totally rocked the velour tummy shirt. Go me.]

These experiences scarred me.  I was like, 12 when I finally got my hair to grow out.  And there was no stopping me then, baby.  I was all, my hair is never going to look bad again!  Which is why even when playing basketball, I was fully curled and plastered with hair spray at all times.  Sweat couldn’t stand a chance against a half can of Aqua Net.

Big hair

[I'm just gonna go ahead and apologize for that whole 'global warming' thing, if you believe in it.  There's no doubt that my 4300 cans of aerosol hair spray had something to do with that.]

Eventually I gave up the big curls, and traded (up?) to extreme length

I could almost sit on it. For real.

Enough already Heather.  Get a haircut.

19 inches later

Oh hey, that’s not half bad. [Except for the coat. #9, AKA The One Who No Longer Exists]

Thankfully I got rid of that good haircut ASAP – wouldn’t want to look normal for too long.

Not fat, just pregnant

Nice headband.

Hmmmm….maybe shorter would be better?

Shortest hair of my adult life

Yes, that is better.  It must go.

I have no eyes when I smile

Curls – because that’s never worked before.

Ok, try again.

Again, not fat, just pregnant

Yes, that’s better.

Let’s ruin it.

Failed attempt at shag

Note to self – you are not nearly as cute as Meg Ryan and you cannot pull off her haircut.  Also, you look fat in that outfit, and you don’t have pregnancy as an excuse.

Princess Leia hair

Note to self – you aren’t Carrie Fisher, either.

Perhaps the wrong hair color would help?

Reddish-brown - not good

Maybe I should just give up, and sport nothing but ponytails and twists.

Present day

How much worse can it get?

Humiliation – we’ll be here all week.

Forever

My lover is mine, and I am his.

~Song of Solomon 2:16

Writer’s Workshop – My childhood neighborhood

First just let me say that I had every intention of lightening up around here, but Mama Kat sucked me in with this one.  Sorry Jen – but I have a plan for next week!

The neighborhood I grew up in.  A tiny little village of about 200, not even big enough to warrant a dot on a map.  My house was perched on the edge of a cliff, the front looking down on the river below.

Dated clothing distracting you from river view behind us

The backyard was home to the peach tree I grew myself, planted from a peach pit, which eventually bore so much fruit my dad had to brace the limbs with 2x4s so they wouldn’t break off.

Old school slip-n-slide with small glimpse of young peach tree

There was just enough room to run around the side of the house, which is where my sisters and I tried every summer to catch a bunny in a box.  If you didn’t run carefully, you might fall off into the jagger bushes like our neighbor Tony did.  I’ll never forget the sight of his bloody face, and his assurance that it was fine because his mom wouldn’t notice.

We lived at the end of a dead end street which was perfect for bike riding.  I learned on a glorious 70s banana seat bike, which I’m pretty sure was also decked out with bicentennial streamers.

Rockin' 70s bike

Just down the road lived the Walkos, my dearest friends and second family.  They had 5 children and their house was always a blissful, happy mess.  They reminded me of The Family Circus, and more than anything I wanted to grow up and be just like Chris Walko, the most laid-back mom I have ever known.  My dad was convinced that if she were absolutely furious she’d say something like ‘Oh dear!’.  Her policy was that if it didn’t cause death or dismemberment it was fine with her, so you can see why this would be a most appealing place for a child to spend her time.

I lived at the Walko’s, in the summer especially.  We spent hours climbing trees, swinging on ropes, playing baseball on the hill, traipsing through the woods in search of broken glass… They were my friends, my brothers, my loves.  It was great playing with them, but really I wanted to be one of them.  My sisters were much older and I was lonely – at the Walko’s house I was never lonely.  We played Commodore 64 and melted crayons in the oven and ate break-apart twin pops till our hearts content.  I have not a single memory of my hometown that isn’t entwined with their family, who seemed like an extension of my own.

Me with two of my 'adopted' brothers

Pumpkin Run Park was down the side of the cliff, a long walk in the woods away.  This was where we snuck off to fish or swim or play in the old jail, and scare each other with stories about Stovepipe, all the while pretending to laugh it off.  We were young and brave and fearless and stupid, and it was beautiful.

Entrance to Pumpkin Run

We went to the lockwall and jumped foolishly off of the highest swing set I’ve ever seen, and it was glorious.

It was an idyllic, picture-perfect childhood.

Fabulous metal swing set perched on cliff's edge

And then I got older.

Suddenly the small town that had kept me safe and sheltered seemed smothering.  You couldn’t do anything without everyone knowing your business, and this is not something that a teenager particularly enjoys.

At the same time I felt very isolated.  We had nothing to do.  No fast food, no real [respectable] hangouts.  The mall or the movies were 45 minutes away.  There was no culture.  No diversity.  Differences weren’t valued in a town full of old white people.

I started counting the days until I could escape.

I began writing, and even worked for a newspaper in that big town 45 minutes away.  I rocked out to loud, angst-y music that no one else I knew listened to, and I cried at night, wondering why I was stuck in a place where no one understood me.  The neighborhood that was once so perfect and full of possibility in my eyes became a place I scorned.

And finally, finally, we left.  We moved 3 states away and I found what I had been missing.  I found diversity.  Acceptance.  People like me.

I could wear black and combat boots and dye my hair crazy colors…and still be a part of the FCA and morning prayer around the flag pole.  I could listen to the Violent Femmes and Stephen Curtis Chapman, and I could find myself – whoever that was – without being pigeonholed into a clique.  I was part of it all – the good kids, the bad kids, the outcasts, the in crowd.  I was just me, for the first time in my life.

Me and my future college roomie

And then I cried at night, overwhelmed with gratitude that I had made it out.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

All these years later, my view of the neighborhood I grew up in is conflicted.  I still feel my heart swell when I think of the Walkos.  I remember people like Mr. Hartley, who did everything in sweet, slow motion.  I think of things like my high school bedroom ode to the Chicago Bulls, and I miss long winter days spent sled-riding on the steep hill of the firehall.

Steelers fan from birth

This is the place that brought me my first love and my first broken heart.

The house that built me.

And I can’t help but feel a twinge of sad nostalgia for it all.

A simpler time, a simpler place.  The kind of childhood I took for granted.  The kind of childhood my children will never know.

When I think about it in those terms, I’m ready to move back.

[And with a quick Google search showing me that I can buy a 3 bedroom house on 2 lots with a guest house for under $100k, that sounds even more tempting]

My childhood neighborhood now feels to me like so many other things in an adult life.

Complicated.

Depressing.

Bittersweet.

And beautiful – I can’t forget beautiful.

Monongehala River as seen from Rices Landing, PA river walk

I wouldn’t change a thing – except maybe the move.

The neighborhood gang

Maybe it was a good place to grow up, after all.

More Writer’s Workshop works can be found here.

Blankety-blank-blank

A good friend of mine sent me a meme this week, which was excellent timing since I don’t have a lot of time to write at the moment.  Well I do, actually, I’ve just allocated it to writing elsewhere.  I am back at work on the book.

I’m calling it the book now, because the other one?  Is crap.  I’m not happy with the direction it took, and I don’t have the required amount of editing in me right now.

I’m officially throwing in the towel and starting over.

Not completely over, just starting to work on something that I’ve had in my head for years now, but never put on paper.  I’d planned on waiting until November for NaNoWriMo, but seeing as how procrastination has gotten me only to where – well, nowhere – I’ve decided not to delay.

Cross your fingers this one isn’t crap too!

I’ve carried it with me for quite a long time, too afraid to do anything with it.  This was the week I took the plunge.

So back to the meme.  It’s a fill-in-the-blanks, which is exactly what I can find the time for.  Play along? Please feel free to snag, and let me know if you post so I can read your answers, as well.

[Darcie - surely you can do this, right? I can't bear to be without you...]

Life is _____. not at all what I expected

_____ is what I like first thing in the morning.  No one talking to me

Upon reflection _____.  sometimes the answers still are not obvious

_____ too much!  Everyone else sleeps

_____ no matter how difficult.  Love

__________ is something I no longer feel the need to do.  Impressing people

When I think about my childhood, I often remember _________.  the Walko family {love you guys!}

My heart is __________.  conflicted

Potato salad must have _____________ in it!  horseradish

_____________ is what I look forward to most when grocery shopping.  {Is this some sort of joke? I have no response}

_____________ was in my thoughts today.  Matt

One of my father’s favorite sayings was ______________.  ‘Don’t let stupid people take up space in your head’

When I was a teen, I thought _____________.  my life would be very different from what it is now

I’d like _____________.  a pile of money. Thanks.

_____________ is where I’d like to be.  Ireland

_____________ is a big part of my life.  Jesus

Pickles _____________.  are apparently good when fried, according to Rachel.

The truth is ______________.  sometimes painful

________ my mind from wandering.  I fear a lobotomy is the only thing that could stop

_____________…so where do we go from here?  There it is

Good times: _____________.  sled-riding on the 7th hole

The last band I saw live was _____________.  the Jonas Brothers. {yup}

I wish I could wear ______________. the size-4 jeans I gave away in high school because they were ‘way too baggy’

Bagpipes ________.  rock my world

One of the most valuable things in my life is _______ .  my daughters, natch

Dear November, _______ .  kiss it.  My book is gonna be done before you even roll around!

- But! – not if I don’t get back to it.

Positive thoughts appreciated!

Serendipity

Serendipity is a propensity for making fortunate discoveries while looking for something unrelated. The word has been voted one of the ten English words that are hardest to translate.

In college I took a creative writing class where I was required to write a paper about my favorite word, and I chose serendipity.  It’s always been one of my favorite words, and it’s quite true about it being hard to describe – it’s more a feeling than anything else.

Unfortunately for me, I was in college long before the Serendipity movie came out, so I couldn’t even draw from that for inspiration.  I was forced to write about my own personal experiences with it, and in some instances could only guess about the eventual outcome of those experiences.  {In retrospect, it’s a quite laughable piece of drivel that I was most fortunate to receive a passing grade for producing.}

The enchantment of serendipity, though, doesn’t really lie with the word itself, but with the concept.  It’s entwined with other romantic notions like fate and destiny, and generally presented to us in a very sparkly, alluring little package.  For a dreamer like me, the draw of serendipity is almost impossible to resist.

Yet over the years, I suppose that dreamy quality of mine has been tainted with a bit of cynicism.  I’ve been burned.  I’m no longer convinced that serendipity exists, and I wonder how often we find only exactly what we were looking for all along.  Isn’t it easier to chalk the course of our lives up to destiny, instead of believing that we determine our own lot in life? I wonder how many times we make a mark in the ‘fate’ column, when really it’s a cop-out that allows us to avoid making an actual decision.

Does putting stock in a concept like serendipity rob you of your own decision-making power?  Does it take away from our sovereign God, who knew the beginning and end of your story even before He created you?

Quote from the movie:  “Holding on to concepts like fate and destiny stops us from doing the real work.”

Serendipity.

Where do you stand?

Makeover Monday: Veggie Tales Nursery

I apologize to everyone I’ve neglected in the past 8 days.  I’m sorry for not meeting up with you (Jen), returning your phone calls (Darcie and Chrissy), and ignoring your emails and IMs (too many to mention).

You see, this past week, I spent an estimated 48 hours painting our church’s toddler room.  And as crazy as that number might sound, it gets even crazier when you hear that I didn’t do it alone.  My friend Rachel spent that much time -or more-, and Jennifer spent 20+ hours there as well.

What in the world took you so long?

I’m glad you asked.  This super cuteness is what took so long:

Once again, I’m totally lame and I forgot to take ‘before’ pictures.  But the walls were a very pale, very boring, aqua-gray color that had been the same for possibly a decade.  I think the new room is much more inviting!

After we got the main wall colors on, the long-suffering Jennifer used to the projector to trace out all of the characters.  On Friday (our last day) she traced the letters, then spent her entire day putting six (six!) coats of yellow paint on them.  Bless her incredibly patient heart!

Six coats!

Rachel and I hopped back and forth working on the assorted Veggies:

And finally, around 2 am on Saturday morning, we cleaned up our mess and called it done.

The one thing I forgot to take pictures of is the rocking chairs – I made new slipcovers for them out of Veggie Tales fabric and they look super cute (if I do say so myself).

We’re also going to paint some furring strips and clothespins and make Ana’s Clip Art Rails from Knock-Off Wood. {Love her, y’all!}  Those will go at either end of the room, beside the French Peas on one end

and between Junior Asparagus, Laura Carrot

and Jimmy Gourd on the other side of the room.

Won’t they be perfect for displaying the kids’ artwork?  And we’ll paint them the same shade, so they’ll blend seamlessly into the bright blue skies.

I am really, really happy with the way this project turned out, and I am very thankful for good friends who suckered me into it made it super fun to do.  It was a long week, but a good one!

The next dilemma?  Just through the dutch door

is the nursery where babies stay, and it’s looking pretty sorry next to the newly decorated room.  We’re thinking maybe Noah’s Ark…

What Google loves about Me

It’s been heavy around here lately – time to lighten up.

One of my favorite things to do in the middle of the night when I’m the only one I know awake is to look at my random blog stats.  Google Analytics both intrigues and horrifies me with the amount of dirt they can glean from our casual web usage.  It’s very 1984 if I think about it too much, which I try not to do.  I’m mainly in it for the fluff.

Amusing discoveries this week:

Certain search terms that lead people here don’t really surprise me.  DIY projects lead the pack far and away, most being people looking for plans to make my kids cubby, washer/dryer pedestals, flower boxes, or dormer desk.

These are followed closely by Handy Manny Birthday Cake seekers.

Also, my “What the heck is going on with Handy Manny” post continues to be a hit, with 137 different search terms leading people to that post.  (Most being fellow parents wondering if Mr. Lopart is gay. My money continues to be on flaming.)  Seriously, I get emails about this one weekly. You’re welcome, fellow frustrated parents.  There are also searches about the disproportionate number of wheelchairs on the show, and even one very odd “Mr. Lopart rifle caliber for long distance” search.  Did Mr. Lopart bust out of the closet wielding a gun?  Not sure what that one’s about, but something tells me we’ve missed an episode.

For the most part I can tell what brought someone here, but occasionally I’m completely baffled. Take, for instance, “head taller spanking boy” I’m at a loss. Complete loss.

“Annoying requests for virtual hearts, hugs, love, etc” – Oh I can see why you were led here. Pull up a chair.

But “Wet white tshirt in the rain”, surely you must be in the wrong place. Oh no, wait – I actually was that stupid.

“scented Heather Roberts in Mississippi” – hmmmm. I’ve never lived in Mississippi – must be a different Heather.  Wonder what she smells like?

“Does Sheetrock Hills use money?” – You’ve come to the right place. And the answer appears to be no.

“Complete failure as a housewife” – I’m going to try not to be offended here and just move down the list.

“Eulogy I could give for my Grams” – OH.MY.GOODNESS. Is there actually someone out there who stole the eulogy I gave my Grama?  I have no words.

“Pochron Rices Landing” – Since my hometown has about 200 people, I can definitely narrow down who Googled this one.

“Honda transmissions suck balls” – HA! Well I wouldn’t have said it quite that way, but yes. Yes they do.

“indische kleuren muren” – I had to Google to find out that this means “Indian colored walls”.  Which apparently people in The Netherlands believe that I have – good to know.

“needle broke off in finger” – oooh, good one! I’d almost forgotten about that!

“messy home pictures with children” – Again, no offense taken. Really.

“thank you for being so thoughtful and remembering my birthday” – Agreed.  Thank you Darcie.

“I can’t do the splits like I used to” – um… yeah honey, me either.  Though to the best of my recollection, I’ve never publicly admitted that. {until now, naturally}

What’s really odd to me is that I can’t even replicate these.  If I Google wet white t-shirts, I get a whoooooole lot of other results, but not moi.  Who, just for the record, has never taken nor posted a picture of herself wearing a wet t-shirt of any color, thankyouverymuch.

Although I did discover last week that Googling my name does bring up an, um, interesting image.  Which is completely and totally not me.  But go ahead, you know you want to.  If you know my married name, you’ll find it in the top row.  Not me.  Not me.

Update: Thanks to my mother, who likes to show off how much more internet savvy she is than I am on a regular basis, I now know that I couldn’t replicate these results because the all-knowing Google machine somehow takes into account who you are and what your internet habits are, and they don’t show everyone the same search results. Thanks mom.  Not only did you clear that up for me, but you also made Google seem infinitely more freaky all-knowing.  Awesome.