Gob wishes you a very happy Nuevo Anos. He took a couple of years of Spanish, you know.

Oh, shit. I'm going to be one of those people who posts everything she takes with her digital camera (at least until the novelty wears off). This is what Trish and I just did-- we played 'stack the crap from our Christmas stockings as high as possible', which was a strangely compelling game. You can also see we were high on Russell Stovers (foreground) and bottled water.

I should mention at some point that my realtor is really a cool, happenin' kind of chick. In fact, this is my realtor.

No, really. The only difference is she spells her name "Jacki Brown." You do not want to mess with this motherfuckin' bitch, aight?

Today sucks. It's not totally sucky, but it's enough sucky that proportionally, it's starting to weigh a little heavier on the suck-side as the day goes on. By the end of the day, 100% saturation of suck may have occurred.

I was listening to my dell DJ today on random and a song from "The Beach" soundtrack came on, and that kind of got me started on the sucky feeling. I was reminded all over again of the tsunami and all the bodies that have been recovered on the same beach where they filmed that movie. I donated some money to the Red Cross yesterday via Amazon-- they have a link that comes up right when you go onto their homepage. Of course, just giving a little money (and I only had $15 to spare) doesn't really assauge the feelings of helplessness and wanting-to-do-something, but it helps in a tiny way.

I'm sure my little statements on suckiness are very compelling, but I need to go and have lunch with my sister now. I will just wrap up the sucky things all at once, in brief:

* They are evacuating people from Sedona, because the walls of Oak Creek Canyon are weakening due to flooding. This has me worried, because I really think Oak Creek is one of my top 5 places in the world.

* A guy who once worked as an actor on a show I directed wrote to me and basically called me a two-faced bitch and insinuated that I lack graciousness. It was weird, and I have no idea why he wrote this two months after our last discussion. Anyway, it's so great to get a negative e-mail first thing in the morning, for no apparent reason.

* I have a splitting headache and a bad sore throat.

Kristen and I used to play "20 Complaints" every morning in high school before homeroom. We would wander around waiting for the bell, and as fast as we could we would rattle off our various complaints. ("I didn't finish my homework." "It's cold today." "I have a bad zit." "Economic sanctions are not the answer to our free-trade problems." Stuff like that.) Anyway, this is an excellent practice that I continue today, in my head. I just sort of mentally say my complaints as fast as I can and then forget about it. The concept of "moving on" is fantastic. And yes, this last sentence was addressed to you. You know who you are.

Here's one of those free association blogs. I'm doing this because I don't have anything else to say on an article I am writing for work, and sometimes after I blog I can finish work easier. So here's what I've got, strictly off the top of my head:

For lunch I had... a Chipotle burrito, and they made it perfect today.

Last thing I watched on TV... news coverage of the earthquake/tsunami disaster.

My hair is... in desperate need of a trim.

If I was a type of jelly, I would be... the Last Jam.

My favorite dog breed for the day is... border collies.

One thing Lassie should have never done was... Timmy.

My favorite line in Stand By Me is... "What am I supposed to do, think of everything? I brought the comb!"

Right now it is... raining.

I didn't...mail out Christmas cards this year.

I did... put some money in the Salvation Army bucket, and I tipped well all year long. I get a tiny buzz out of tipping well.

I might... consider rescuing a monkey that was in some sort of trouble. Hence, Monkey Trouble.

I also might... get an eye exam, to see if I 'qualify' for cute little smart-girl glasses.

I probably won't... see "Collateral", "Man on Fire" or "Bridget Jones' Whatevers" on DVD. Not interested.

The last blog-worthy event that happened to me was... I went to the Circle K on my lunch hour to get some chewy Sprees (told you I needed sugar) and to purchase some lottery tickets. I usually do this on days when things go wrong. Today, when I found out I didn't get that house, I figured it was a good time for controlled gambling. As I was purchasing the tickets, the lady at the counter asked me if I was over 21. I pulled my huge bag up onto the counter, sorted through until I found my license and showed her. I really despise when you get carded for buying a fucking lottery ticket. It just gets me annoyed in a very special, little way. After that, she glances at my bag and asks me, "Do you got a pillow in there?"

I just looked at her for a second. I asked her to repeat the question, and she did. "Do. You. Have. A. Pillow. In. There?!" she asked. I thought maybe she was thinking my bag looked really full, and maybe she wanted to see if I was carrying a pillow, or if I was shoplifting some shit. (If I was going to shoplift, it sure as hell wouldn't be at Circle K.) So I opened up my bag and started to say, "No, I just have a lot of..."

She bursts out laughing. "Oh, you are SO CUTE!" she yells. Huh? "I meant, do you got a pillow, 'cuz I need to go to sleep! Whew!" I kind of smiled, shook my head that I had no pillow, and kind of gathered up my stuff to get away as quickly as possible. It was a pretty weird exchange of words. She creeped me out. Especially since she was dentally challenged and had a suspicious-looking stain on her Circle K smock. (It looked like doody.)

Well, that did the trick. I think I can finish my article now. Thanks for reading, and Godspeed. Which is much faster than lightspeed, I think. Zooooomm, wow-ee, zip!

I didn't get that house. Some other idiot beat me to it. I am really bummed out. I knew I screwed myself when I found myself daydreaming about paint colors over the weekend and planning where my furniture would go. As some asshole would say, I put the cart before the tsunami, or some shit like that. Damn this real estate market. It's tough.

Someone send me some sweets. I need Nerds or Pez, and maybe a little ice cream to soothe my spirits.

Malcolm wishes you all a safe and happy New Year. (He also wishes I would stop waking him up to take pictures of him. In this picture, I swear I can see him plotting something against me.)

This was an interesting Christmas. I use the word "interesting" because it's the best way to put it. Christmas wasn't great, and it didn't suck, either; I wasn't totally in the holiday spirit at all until Christmas Eve, when all of the sudden I finished wrapping gifts and getting excited about looking at Christmas lights and stuff like that. Overall, the baby Jesus was left somewhere along the way--I'm sure he didn't freeze, he was swaddled-- as I was consumed with a very huge life event over my 5 day vacation: buying a house.

My realtor and I visited about a dozen houses on Thursday-- some were really scary. For instance, there was the house with a tiny little room built just off the 1970s-era kitchen (ass-ugly countertops and everything). The room was maybe only about 8 x 8 feet, with a ceiling that was 7 feet high, tops. It was also just about enclosed. It was too small for a dining room, and too big for a closet. It gave me this feeling that it had been some sort of "punishment room" or something. Call me psychic if you want, but I knew some bad mojo was floating around that house. (And if you do call me a psychic, let me know, because I could charge money for that shit if I have referrals.)

The best EVER was one house in Glendale that was bank-owned. I guess the owners knew the foreclosure was coming and decided to make the house unliveable (or get some sort of revenge on the bank for taking their house? I guess their rationale was something along the lines of, "You know what, fuck that bank! Making us pay for our own house! What is that bank thinking? We'll show those fucks!"). There was bright blue paint splashed all over the walls, and red paint thrown into the carpet. It looked like teenagers had done the damage, because they spraypainted the word "DIE!" on the master bedroom door, and the word "PENIS" in big red letters on the wall and onto the window. They poured paint into one of the toilets and left beer bottles all over the living room. Vaseline (dear God, I hope it was Vaseline) was smeared on a wall mirror. But the greatest artist achievement was in the garage, where they had spray-painted a stick figure with an erect, umm, member, that seemed to be about to penetrate a sheep-like animal. A big pot-leaf shape over here; the flames of hell over there... by the time me and my trusty realtor sidekick got out of the house and peeled out of the driveway, we both felt like we needed to wash with hot water and antimicrobial soap. Somehow, I don't think stick figures engaging in bestiality and the word DIE! would really bode well for my first sole home-purchase. I didn't exactly get the, "Oh, THIS is the house!" vibe.

I found the cutest little house that was built in 1948 (ancient, by metropolitan Phoenix standards) with six huge old trees on the property, and I was qualified for the mortgage it would take to make it mine, mineallmine, so tonight my realtor and I wrote up and submitted an offer. Problem is, today someone else put in an offer! So the question is, whose offer will be accepted? It's exactly a 50/50 shot at this point, and even though I love this house I am prepared to keep looking if I can't have it. But really, I hope I do get it. For the trees alone, seriously. Three eucalyptus and three pines. The tallest on the whole street. I must have the shade. So to anyone out there reading this, please do ole' Armsweat a favor and send a good vibe my way. This is really so exciting and surreal and fun. I bought a house once before, but that was with Tom and this time the place will be strictly Lisa. And Malcolm. That punk-ass dog is going to be pissing on those nice trees. He doesn't deserve that house. Yet, I guess I will bring him with me anyway.

Wonderful news! For Christmas I received a digital camera. And this is not some slouch of a camera either, it's 4.1 mp's. I already took pictures of my maybe-house, but didn't want to post them yet because I don't want to jinx anything. I also got two boxes of microwave popcorn, wrapped up and decorated with a pretty bow and everything, from my mother. We shall not discuss this one further.

I also was lucky enough to get "Dodgeball" and "Endless Nights" (Sandman)--thanks, Kane; Trish sewed some cute as hell little patches onto a cardigan so it's the most adorable article of clothing I now own; and a Two Faced Little Black Box makeup compact that I love. Christmas is cool, because I would never have these things otherwise. And things make life as an American 29 year old bearable, do they not? Materialism is da bomb.

Finally, to make the weekend super schweet, Trish and I saw "The Life Aquatic" last night. We loved it, even though we missed the first few minutes because the theater was so crowded and the lines moved so slow. I liked a lot of things about this one-- the black guy singing the David Bowie songs in Portugese; the look of the creatures underwater; Jeff Goldblum being shot while wearing an "I'm a Pepper" t-shirt... for me, it was one of the best Wes Anderson offerings to date. But this may be because this film reminded me of the sweetness and style that's also inherent to Tim Burton movies. I don't know, and frankly who cares about analyzing it. I liked it, and that's the end of that.

So who do you think is going to win the Biggest Loser? Trish and I are pullin' for Mo! And not just because that's Trish's nickname, either. We would like to take Mo out for a day of fun. Maybe a salad lunch at Sweet Tomatoes, a round of mini golf and a movie. So, Mo, if you are reading this, we want you to know we think you seem like a sweet guy and we are pulling for you to lose that weight, you adorable fatty, you!

By the way, I have found that no one is watching the Biggest Loser. So if you don't have a prediction, don't feel bad. Now I better get going. I am missing "Family Guy" right now.

December 23 is the day of Festivus! Air your grievances with your loved ones; wrestle and enjoy your aluminum poles.

Despite common belief, it's the best time of the year to not be dragging a guy around.

So this is my first Christmas being 100% single, since 1998! How 'bout that, huh?

The thing is, it is sort of an awesome thing. I don't want to make anyone feel bad, but it's true. I make no apologies for being a miserly, cheap bastard. Without a significant other, that cuts down on the amount of money I had to spend on presents! Weeeee! Plus, guys are so hard to buy for... you know you are. I didn't have to stand in the DVD aisle at Best Buy for hours, debating this movie over that one, wide or fullscreen, special platinum edition or regular $9.99 special. Nor did I buy the Obligatory Boxer Shorts With Quirky Pattern.

The other part that makes it awesome is the ole' wandering eye. Yes, once more I have freed the self-propelled mechanical eye to whizz along through the streets, searching; always searching... No, really. I have developed, constructed and completed all safety testing on a computerized "vision mechanism." Yeah, it sounds very Clash of the Titans/Blade Runner-ish but it's true. Well, the important thing is I am noticing dudes again, and even though I am a ridiculously awful flirt, I can at least THINK about it now and not have even the teensiest shred of guilt. Of course I was thinking about this for a long time, but now it's really official that I could, if I wanted, do "something about it." What better place to find a new potential mate than in front of the live nativity scene at church? Look at lil' baby Jesus, and all them goats--do ya feel the holiness of it all?... now let's go get a drink and git it on. Hope you don't think less of me because I just said git it on, but I am sort of your last option, aren't I? I mean look at you...you're not exactly the pick of the litter, as they say. If you were, you'd be married by now. Hey, where you going? You bitch!

"You are NOT buying this house!"

Recently I have been doing my homework in the home-purchasing arena. That means a lot of time spent online as well as with the realtor, looking at cute houses and houses with strange body-shop-garage type bathrooms. I have also driven up and down streets in prospective neighborhoods, searching for "For Sale" signs. On Sunday morning I found a cute little house for sale by owner, so I called and left a message inquiring about the house. Anyway, the guy who was selling it called me back and said I could come and see the house, and that it was insanely well-priced for the neighborhood. I went right there, totally excited to see a house that, for the money, seemed to be an incredibly good deal.

I get there, and it turns out I WAS NOT ALONE. Apparently, some other person had called the owner too, and was also there to see the house at the same time as I was. This turned out to be creepily awkward and competitive. And a good learning experience about the power of a low-priced home in a hot real estate market.

I went into the house when the owner's cute little daughter let me in, and it looked like a clean, well-kept home. But then, standing in the middle of the new carpeting in the living room, was this older hispanic guy. This wasn't some recent immigrant--polite and non-english speaking; this was a hard-working, blue-collar type guy who obviously knew how to be a giant prick. Anyway, this guy is talking to the owner/seller, who just like his daughter seemed very down-to-earth and intelligent. When I walked in, the owner politely said hello and handed me a business card. The other prospective buyer gave me an arrogant smile and looked me up and down, and said in a fake-jokey voice, "Oh, you've come too late. I'm gonna buy this house."

Right off the bat, I am feeling on the defensive. I have only stood in one room and haven't even seen the place yet. I grin and say, "Well, let me just look in here..." as I head towards the kitchen. The owner starts talking about the appliances as I go, and the new wood flooring, etc. I didn't mind the information. But I DID mind the hispanic guy following me in there, as well.

"See these cabinets? These are the original cabinets," he tells me, like he already owns the place. "They don't make 'em like this anymore, this has character." I nod and try to "lose" the guy in the 10 feet of kitchen space as I head to the laundry room.

The owner tells me the washer and dryer do not convey. The hispanic guy tells me "I'm going to call my realtor now." I ignore him and head through a doorway, towards a garage area.

The garage is still full of tools and boxes, and the owner tells me it was designed as a workshop to keep his elderly father busy. I like all the shelves and the neat little windows that open up like hatches on the side of a barn. The hispanic guy, as he is waiting for his realtor to pick up, puts a hand over the mouthpiece-part of his cell phone, and looks at me with a challenging stare. "Are you going to call your realtor? Because it won't do you any good, I am on the phone with mine right now."

At this point, I stop walking. What the fuck? Is this some hidden camera show? Is this Boiling Point? I am beginning to think it is. I am getting no privacy to look at the house or ask questions to the owner without this asshole standing right behind me and trying to taunt me. I look at the owner, who does one of those awkward sigh-laughs and shrugs towards the guy. I can tell that he is starting to think that the hispanic guy, while he is appearing like a definite buyer, is also scaring off another potential buyer. Not really a good thing.

In the backyard, I ask about the roof and the A/C unit; owner gives me answers; hispanic guy, who apparently hadn't thought of asking those questions before he called his realtor to begin writing up the offer paperwork, actually pulls out one of those tiny little spiral notebooks and starts jotting down notes. So I pull out my MUCH NICER little notebook and write, as well.

We go back into the house to see the bedrooms. Finally, I see some things about the house that I don't like-- a lot of wallpaper and a window that has been sealed off in a sloppy-looking way. And I like windows. Why would you wall in a window? Anyway, my interest began to wane. But, I didn't want that stupid fuckhead to know that-- now I was getting pissed. The reason being, he actually said as we were leaving the first bedroom, "I am buying this house! Today. I have the cash. Do YOU have the cash?" I ignored him, but the challenge was there. How DARE he challenge my cash! That's my CASH you are calling into question, you talking dustrag of a man! Go back to the AZDOT and get back to work.

I asked to see the bathroom, and I finally got agressive and pushed past the guy so I could get in there first. I hit the lightswitches and commented on the cool over-the-tub lighting and the detailed painting around the windowsills. Asshole Guy of course stood in the doorway, nodding slowly to himself and then he did the worst thing he had done so far... he ran his finger along the lid on the back of the toilet. Almost lovingly.

I'd had enough of this crap, so I thanked the owner/seller and started to walk out. The hispanic guy stayed and said once more at me, "I'm definitely buying this house." I nod and smile sarcastically at him.

"Well, good luck with your house then, I guess."

"If you think you want it, you had better call your realtor right now!" he says back. "All I am waiting for is for mine to call me back. It's a done deal!"

I went out and slammed the door. Yeah, sure. Fuck you, dude. I hope the plumbing sucks on your house and the neighbors' kids ride electric scooters all weekend long and the sinkhole in the backyard decides to open up and swallow your burrito-clogged ass into the dark chasms of the earth. Just for the insulting tone you took with me, I wish I could make YOU a done deal, pal.

Recently, a mother whale gave birth to a baby whale at SeaWorld. We first thought this was a picture of the actual birth, but it turns out the mother whale was strangled in this photo, and... 

This is a photo that turned up through an FBI "Cybersearch" that was taken at a Whale Show in 2002. She's done it before, people!! (Thanks trish, for technical assistance on this project.)

Hi everyone. How are you? Having a happy holiday season, are you? Well, let me tell you a little something about me: My life is a living hell on earth! The chains of despair are wrapped tightly around my wee little typing fingers, and yet...somehow...I manage to type these very words you're reading. Right. Now.

How interesting, yes? Yes? Here's some of my thoughts for today:

One thing I do love is foreigners who add extraneous "Yes?"'s to their conversation. For instance, the sweet little Middle Eastern woman at Elie's Deli who says things like this: "You want pita bread, yes? Yes? Sure, sure! Yes!" I think it's an adorable trait to have. Only when I do it with my dull caucasian accent, it's just stupid.

The cool thing about being named "Brian" is that the possibility is always there that your mail will come addressed to someone named, "Brain."

If someone offers you a chocolate, only take one. If you take two pieces at once, you not only look like a fat slovenly pig, but you are taking a chocolate away from a starving child somewhere in Africa. It's a Fact.

A backpack left on the public bus should not only be detonated immediately but Tony Danza should take a shit on it beforehand, just to show the terrorists who's the boss.

Those guys who squirt milk from their eyeballs are not impressing anyone, and they are only pissing off those hardworking dairy cows. And wasting precious milk that could be going to a starving child in Africa.

If you happen to be walking at dusk or sunrise, and you are in the vicinity of those outdoor lights that go on and off depending on the brightness in the area, and they either click on or off, a good thing to do is pretend you did it through magic--just wave your hands around a lot and yell "So mote it be!" as the lights change. You'll impress dozens of passersby.

My life isn't really a living hell on earth. Actually, I am doing pretty awesome. I admit I said that in an immature attempt to get a) some attention and b) some sympathetic backrubs the next time you see me. I am such a mooch like that.

When I get bored I peruse Craig's List for some entertainment. Since I can't think of anything terribly witty and incredibly hilarious to say here today, I decided I would simply paste one of the best ads for today right here instead. I am not editing anything except the phone number. And I decided the name is vague enough that anyone bored enough to chase this (self-admittedly inept) dude down would have some trouble. Anyway, I am stalling now. So...here ya go:

HELLO, I AM A MALE , THAT IS NEED OF SOMEONE TO HEM MY PANTS I AM MORE THAN WILLING TO PAY YOU FOR YOUR TROUBLE, I HAVE SEVEN PAIR BUT I DO NOT WANT TO PAY 15.00 A PAIR SINCE THE PANTS COST ME 10.00 I WILL PAY 5.00 AND BRING THEM TO YOU !
EAMIL ME OR CALL ME 602 xxx-xxxx HOME OR 602-xxx-xxx WORK THANK YOU VICTOR P. VASQUEZ INEPT MALE

Today I did yoga, and it was good. I surprised myself with my flexibility, actually. It was cool. I like surprises.

Now I am getting ready to make some tomato soup because Trish and both feel a little blehh tonight, and I am quietly frustrated because I need to go to Wal-mart later tonight. I just don't want to go there. Not now, not at the peak of Christmas shopping, no, no, no. But alas, I need to get a gift bag to put a present in that I have no other way to wrap. I used to be an expert wrapper, back in the day. When I was about 16 or so, I was the fucking Wrap Master. I worked at a pharmacy where I had to giftwrap things for customers, and I got it down to a system. My folding-and-taping skills were legendary. Old people would travel from far and wide to watch my work. They would sputter up to the front register from the pharmacy counter all the way in the back of the store just to squint their macular-degenerated eyes at my magic hands as I cut the paper to the perfect size and within mere moments, had neatly wrapped even the largest of the Precious Moments (TM) figurine boxes. Yes, it was a time to behold. If you are into beholding things, that is.

Today, it's a little different. Apparently the skill to wrap gifts can be lost. So my solution is gift bags and copious amounts of tissue paper. I am not even that great at the tissue paper-fluffing that some people can do almost instinctually. I wrap the gift itself in one sheet, throw that in the bag, and then sort of lightly-smush another sheet of tissue paper across the top of the bag. No one has verbally complained about my shoddy craftmanship yet, but I have seen slight disappointment in some eyes. Oh well. At least they got a fucking gift, so... whatever!

I really thought I could go somewhere good with this. But turns out I just wanted to whine about having to drag my lazy ass out of the house again to go to goddamn Wal-mart. Hey, there is good news, though, at least this lazy ass is a FLEXIBLE lazy ass. Yoga is cool.

Danny and his best pal, G.Smith, pictured here in 1943, enjoy taking in a movie. Which was called "flick" back then. (The apple later died.)

On the Subject of Maybe Apples:

Granny Smith is everywhere I look these days! I was confronted with the very real evidence that I have a Granny Smith problem today. Trish was straightening up the apartment, and she said, "Oh, do you think you could take some of these apples out of these bags?"

I have such a bad problem with the apples that I hadn't even realized until that moment what I was doing with my life. I have been purchasing one Granny Smith apple at a time at various grocery stores, and I bring them places like home or work, where I never seem to take them out of the plastic bags. They remain in their flimsy "skins" for days, sometimes a week. There were two apples in such a state in the kitchen today when Trish intervened and made me step up and face my problem.

You could say I am a chronic produce buyer. I buy produce because I do like produce. I enjoy fruits and their cousins, the humble vegetables. But I only eat the produce on a sliding-ratio basis. I think the term is 'sliding ratio." I mean, I took Prob and Stat in high school, right, so I should know some shit still, and I know, I KNOW, man, that ratios were in there somewhere. And if they are there, why couldn't they slide? I mean, other things are "there" and they "slide". Take me, for instance. I sometimes "slide" and occassionally "slip". Ratios and I are not that different, are we.

OK, so I only eat the produce half of the time or so. The rest of the time it gets soft or dull and I need to throw it away.

Thinking of the Granny Smiths again: there were 2 in bags in the kitchen, which I promptly removed. I took one of them into my room and placed it on my desk. It is sitting right here at this moment, its green skin illuminated with a soft Blogger-screen glow. Yet, I will most likely not eat this apple. I don't know why. Nothing wrong with him. But apples are juicy and loud to eat, and this could be why I don't eat them more. I don't like being a juicy mess or being caught crunching my weird cow-like teeth down on some apple flesh. I prefer to be like the mighty ninja, and eat in absolute and lethal silence.

At the moment, at my desk at work, there are probably about 3 Granny Smiths. In various stages of "fresh." I never ever let them rot... they just get old. My cube mates are probably used to hearing the "thunk" of me tossing yet another older apple into the plastic trash bin under my desk.

I can also recall a time when, a few months back, a Granny Smith remained precariously balanced in my car's cupholder, next to my cell phone, for at least two days. I didn't eat that one, either.

I'd like to have someone psychoanalyze me and tell me why I gather apples around me and then do not eat them. Surely, once I started eating, I would enjoy them because I know that in the times when I do manage to hide myself away from spectators and eat an apple, I damned well love the fucker. But to START, that is the hard part. There are steps one must take-- peeling little sticker off the apple; washing the apple; drying and polishing the apple; securing a sturdy paper towel or napkin to catch the juices; finding a secluded place because of your embarassment with eating loud foods in front of people and animals; and then the clean up of hands afterwards and the disposal of the core. It's a lot to do.

Conversely, bananas are fine. I don't keep bananas around for a long time. I EAT THOSE FUCKS! They smell, too. I eat a banana a day, everyday, and all it takes it a peeldown, a bite or two, and a toss of the ole' peel. No big deal. And the banana can be consumed quietly and, if you are skilled at it, without getting any of that pastey-stuff on your fingers. My biggest problem is having to walk the peel down the hall to the breakroom garbage can, because if I let it go in with all the apples in the can under my desk, it stinks like a fucking city dump.

Well, that's all. It's almost 1 in the morning, I have spent the evening in a curious manner, and now I am writing about the produce. It's interesting how these things happen. As I glance over at the Desk Apple, right now it looks gorgeously green and nutritious, and were I not pumped full of Ambien and a bitter, broken spirit, I would consider taking a bite. Maybe tomorrow. And maybe this is how all the apples end up hanging around... they are Maybe Apples. Maybe I will eat em and maybe I will not. Who knows?

I'd bet the last person I'd expect to know would, in fact, know. For instance, it could be Danny Glover. Maybe Danny Glover knows! I should call that dude.

The beauty of this image requires no words. I think this should be considered if we ever redesign the American flag. Which, of course, I think we should. Even though, yes, even though his leg is clearly coming out of his chin, for God's sake. (The pose here is similar to a cow running while carrying a baby cow though, is it not? "Look, I am running while carrying a small consumable ME!")

This is one of the most intriguing Yule Tyme songs:

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat!
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny, a half a penny'll do,
If you haven't got a half a penny,
GOD BLESS YOU.

I find that this song suggests the following:

* Overweight geese mean something, although the words of the song do not suggest what. We assume it is "good eatin'", but this is not stated. Nor is it truly implied.
* The apparent importance of overweight geese to holiday glee
* Giving charity in the form of pennies to elderly men is a civil duty. (does not seem to identify any other members of the population who should be receiving money from us; nor does it say why old men need pennies.)
* Pennies must be placed in the hats of old men. (As opposed to hands, coffee cups, or thrown in a haphazard manner at old man from a moving vehicle)
* Carrying pennies with you at all times is important, for you may find yourself in the proximity of an old man.
* Apparently, it is wise to spend your evenings meticulously slicing pennies in half (which, should be noted, is a bold defacement of U.S. Government property)
* The whimsical notion that half a penny actually is worth "something" in the current economy.
* If you are so entrenched in poverty that you cannot afford something as worthless as a penny chopped in half, you had better hope that God can save your ass because it's clear from this song that the omnipotent singer/voice can't do shit for you.

Coming Soon: Highlights of my study into another holiday song with interesting implications. The title of this dissertation is: Now Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding-- Or Else: The Societal Implications of Community Food Rationing At Hostile Holiday Events Attended by Large Groups of Type-A Personalities.

This was my first attempt at Photoshop, and this was the first thing I thought of doing. It's the coolest breed of dog, in case you were wondering. (Why was this the first thing I thought of?) 

Thing #157 That I Am Afraid Of:

Driving, biking or walking somewhere and a truck with a bunch of cars piled on it en route to or from a car dealership goes past. A cable snaps, or something. A new shiny car falls on me. This brings sheer and utter death.

Thing #158 That I Am Afraid Of:

For some reason unbeknownst to me at this point in time, I swallow a fork.

Dave at my job stopped me in the hall this morning to ask me some questions:

Dave: "Are you a part of Is What It Is? I saw postcards in the breakroom and wondered if you were doing that."
Me: "No, I don't do that anymore."
Dave: "Oh. So, anyway, how was the house this weekend?"
Me: "Well, I wasn't part of this show, so I didn't go, but I think they sold a lot of tickets--"
Dave: "I meant the house you were going to buy."
Me: "Oh. No, we didn't buy that house. The pool looked bad and shingles were popping up on the roof."
Dave: "Are you going to look at doing others?"
Me: "...Houses?"
Dave: "Oh. No. I meant, shows. Any more shows."
Me: "I don't know."

We parted.
It was a confusing, jump-around conversation. Yet, the thing is, I like Dave. He is a very cool gray-haired dude. At least he is friendly. Which always gets points from me. I am relatively easy to impress. Not many people are friendly these days. Just old fashioned, nice folks. That's what I like. Maybe I should head to the Dakotas. I bet there are some nice folks there.

I am as busy as an ant today (sorry, bees-- I find the ant's initiative and industrious nature a bit more impressive than your work schedule). Lots of writing to catch up on.

Pilates is hard, but it is awesome. My ribs are sore today, and so are my hips and my shoulders and everything else. I am so happy to be in this pain. In fact, I can't wait to go back and do it again. I really think it's one of the best workouts I have ever done. Of course, with my crooked spine, I can't do the "roll up" thing where you are laying on your back with your legs out and you roll up, one vertebrae at a time, to a straight-back sitting position. I roll OUT to the left. They don't tell you about this particular side effect of scoliosis when they are testing you for it in 5th grade. "One day, you will be forced to roll over to one side and THEN up if you are doing Pilates rolls. You won't look like the normal women who can smoothly go straight up. Be ready to feel a little spazzy. Oh, and there is no cure for this. Sorry."

Scoliosis exams... what a joke. The horrible spectre of a crook'ed spinal column! But these exams also happened at a time when we were all scared of partial nudity. I remember me and my friends trying to get excused from the exam. Which was dumb, looking back. It only involved taking your shirt off and bending over at the waist as some school nurse ran her finger on your spine. However, this shows that we all had a naturally-occuring fear of "bending over" in front of authority figures, and this fear was developed at an early age. Would later serve many of us, especially the males, well in prison. But lucky me, I was one of the kids who actually HAD the dreaded disease. I had a c-curve in my lower back. They would make me bend over multiple times so the other nurses could "ahhh...yes" over it, too. I guess they didn't find that many. My scoliosis gave me hamstring problems because it pulled one out of whack, which caused pain and forced me to drop out of ballet. I was mad to find out I had scoliosis. It meant I had to go to the orthopedic doctor after school sometimes, and it even meant a bone scan at one point. Annoying! And I remember telling my friends I had it, and they were like, "So what? So your spine is crooked, is that really going to matter?" (Well, it was more than a crooked spine for me, with the hammy pain and all, but that went away... and I was left with a crooked spine alone. Which no one could do anything about, so I was just stuck with it. Which I didn't think would harm anything. It's only bones.) The point is, scoliosis gets you NO sympathy points from your friends, and no one understands why the school nurse is so interested in knowing if your bones are crooked. What is her deal, you know? Why do you want the kids to bend over so much? Maybe you need therapy, Nurse Lady Whoever You Are.

"Hello? Is anyone there? Umm, can someone bring me a roll of toilet paper?" 

I bought some really good candy from Sunflower Market several weeks ago-- they're called "Sassy Sours" and basically they are like jacked-up Smarties. This is not to say that they are dusted with a fine, sweet layer of cocaine, but this is also not to say that they're not. However, I have been so good in my moderation. I used to eat candy like I was a human, sugar-craving vacuum. But it's taken me an unusually long time to eat these, even though I really like them. I still have several of these candies left, and brought some to work today and have yet to eat them. I think the reason I wrote about them here is because they are called "Sassy Sours." Like they are going to stand up on little cellophane legs and start talking to me in high-pitched, tiny candy voices. They'd say sassy stuff to me, like, "I don't have to just sit here, waiting for you to eat me! I can go find someone else to eat me!" and "You look like you didn't take a shower today. How gross are you? Puh-lease!" and "Don't you tell me what to do!" These candies have the potential to train me in the way it might be someday if I ever have a kid and the kid gets to be a sassy teenager. And also, to train me to hear the high-pitched voices of the candy that talks to me. Oh, I could always hear them... it's just that I wasn't listening.

One of the varieties of Christmas trees is the Noble Fir. This name bothers me. What is so "noble" about being chopped down in your prime, thrown into a truck, unloaded in some podunk-backwater town like Scottsdale, where rich stay-at-home bitches drive up in their Hummers and pull at your branches and say you are not "full" enough and pass you by for a spruce or some other loser tree? And if you DO get picked, you are taken to a house where they jam a spike into your bottom and make you stand in the hot living room as annoying, bitchy people who obviously can't stand each other but tolerate each other in the spirit of the season hang mass-produced 'ornaments' all over you and string you with a bunch of tacky little lights (which further illuminates your degradation by making sure everyone can see you at all times, even in the dark). When the holidays are over you are tossed out by the curb like a cheatin' husband. Either you end up in the landfill or ground up in a chipper, if you're lucky. Yes... quite the noble existence, indeed. Just re-name it already. Don't humiliate it with a name like that. Might I suggest, the Low Expectations Fir? Or the Masochistic Fir? The "Well... I Guess So" Fir?

In other news, I am excellent at making an ass of myself. And opening my mouth and feeling like a dope afterwards. I should just remain quiet, shuttered in my room and not talking to anyone! Oh, and no one should let me have access to my e-mail either, did I mention that part? Yeah, that's sort of the idea.

My sister and I might buy a house together. We were approved for a mortgage on a house we really like. But what does this mean... well, I think it means that we will move to NJ a little later than planned. We think this-- investing in Phoenix real estate-- is the only way we will make some money to go east with. Let's just say I have what the French would call, "a debt problem." And Lonnie is due to track me down any day and slice my ear off. And I am only half kidding at the moment.

I have an awesome friend named Robin. She just mailed me a cool T-shirt for Christmas. I love it. It says, "I'm blogging this" on the chest. There are two reasons why I didn't take a picture of myself wearing this shirt and posted it up here:

1) Technical: I can't find my camera, even though I have tons of film and could take lots and lots of pictures of me in various angles, if I had the camera available. And I don't have access to a digital camera yet.
2) Breast-related: In order to properly capture the essence of this T-shirt, I would have to take a picture of my torso. And I decided I didn't want my chest on the internet for everyone to scrutinize. Mostly, for me to click on later at work and go, "Man, that is one fucked-up bosom." Because I would do that. I am critical of my person.

Robin, I hope you are having a cool day, hanging out somewhere on the Monmouth campus, preferably under the chin of that giant Sphynx-lady statue on the Great Lawn, and that you know I think you are a fun friend to have. Certain memories stick more than others, and one in particular I am going to fess up to right now: I am sorry I left you hanging that night in Josie's coffeehouse.

What happened was, Robin and I once decided to brave the terrors of Open Mic night at this little coffeehouse (which is now gone). Robin is way better at performing in public than I am. I don't mind hammin' it up in a play, or improv or something like that, but when it comes to singing I get super nervous. But Robin and I practiced. She was patient with me, to say the least. We became good (in my case, 'proficient') at singing some songs a capella, in harmony. So finally, the night came where we were going to impress the pants off of everyone at Josie's. We get up there on stage, we sing one song fairly well, but my nerves started shorting out at the sight of all those people staring back at us. We started into the second song... and at one point my mind simply stopped working. I couldn't for the life of me remember the next verse. I even started to open my mouth to sing, and nothing happened. I remember Robin just kept singing, after a quick questioning look at me (What the fuck you DOIN' bitch?), and after a moment, and at an appropriate part of the song, I joined back in. It was weird and I felt like a little bit of an idiot. But, I hoped that maybe the audience thought my dropping out was to give Robin a solo. We planned it, see. And wasn't it magnificent? But I know better. I still have a feeling the audience was like, "Hmm, the blonde was good because she knew what she was doing, but I think the brunette was high. We shoulda thrown Sugar in the Raw packets at her. Stoner."

Anyway, that's it. Other than that, I don't think I ruined any other performances for Robin. (Robin, please let me know if I did, especially while I was under the effects of that strange hypnotist dude who kidnapped me from Romeo's Pizza that one time, and to escape I had to basically stab the guy in the stomach with the only thing handy--an old Lincoln Log I found under the sink-- and the cops came and there was that standoff, and that baby carriage got knocked over and well, it was just a MESS...)

Thanks, Robin!

The Canadians are on to something extraordinary when it comes to psychopathology, as evidenced in this scientific abstract. This isn't the newest article around, but I happened to find it today for the first time so it's new to me and I wanted to post it. It is timed perfectly with recent discussions that Trish, Kane and I have been having about Winnie the Pooh and how depressing he and his friends in the Hundred Acre Wood can be. This is one of the greatest lines in the article:
Sadly, the forest is not, in fact, a place of enchantment, but rather one of disenchantment, where neurodevelopmental and psychosocial problems go unrecognized and untreated.

I've got writer's block, and that is a bad thing because my job pays me to be, of all things, a writer. So I have to get something finished, but everything I try to write sounds muddled or cliched. This is the crappiest feeling... I feel paranoid that someone will come down from management and fire me for not writing fast enough. So I try even harder to spit something out... which, in turn, ends up backfiring because it this always turns out to be my worst writing. I think I need to get hypnotized into being a focused, calm and prolific writer.

The theme for today appears that it is going to be "we're watching you, because we know you're gonna screw up." It began when I was walking Malcolm this morning. The landscaping guys were already there with their loud leafblowers and hedgetrimmers, and they had spread out throughout the complex in their hooded sweatshirts and white face masks like some sort of dusty army. Malcolm is skittish, to say the least, and won't go near these guys or their loud, smelly blowers and trimmers. So we had no place to walk. We finally found a patch of gravel they weren't assaulting, so Malcolm was doing his bidness. This one landscaping goon stops and STARES at us. Literally just stands still, craning his neck to see if he is going to shit, and if I am going to pick it up. I felt like I was already guilty of something. And Malcolm only lifted his leg, so there was nothing to pick up. Unless the guy wanted me to carry around a turkey baster and siphon the urine out of the gravel. I shuffled away and tried to get Malcolm to hurry up so we can go back inside and escape the stares.

Next, I am driving up Hayden to go to work. A straight shot at 45mph all the way up to work. Meaning you can normally go 50-55 no problem and shave some time off the commute. This morning however, a cop was driving along in the fast lane. Just crawling along at exactly 45mph. everyone else in the other two lanes, as a result, began to crawl, too. I was behind a schoolbus at one point that was only going 40mph. I escaped and ended up behind a truck for a heating repair company. My guess is the driver was deathly afraid of cops, because even when it got to be a point where he could have safely passed the cop at the speed limit, this guy wouldn't do it. He slowed down to 35mph. And I couldn't get away from him because everyone else was going so goddamned slow, too. Cars were passing in the slow lane at a pretty normal pace, but because everyone was cutting over into that lane, I couldn't manage to get my ass over there for a good ten minutes or so. The whole time, I felt like this cop was really having a good time watching all these nervous rush-hour drivers and having some power over them... making them all slow down, making them scared to pass (what if he were to jump over behind you-- ahhh, cop following you! Probably running your plates and seeing you once smoked pot out by the dumpster with those guys from the IT department and also you look a lot like that dude who's wanted for shooting the driver of the Wells Fargo armed truck--).

I just felt like I was already guilty of something, what with the way everyone was slowing down and that cop was just playing with us, trying to catch someone. It reminded me of the Middletown cop days, and how often I got pulled over without good reason. And that one time when I was pulled over at night and didn't have my license on me, and the cop said, "Now look, I am not playing around here. If I get back to the station and find you don't have a license, I am gonna be at your doorstep with a warrant for your arrest!" Way to put a scare into a 17 year old driver. I was tearing up as I stood there, with his lights flashing all over the front of my then-boyfriend's house--where he escorted us to get us off the streets-- watching as lights went on in the houses nearby and the boyfriend's parents got a good look through the living room window at the juvenile delinquent teenager their son was involved with... getting brought home by the police! Horrors. (I didn't get arrested, by the way.)

Then I get to work, only 7 minutes late (due to the slow traffic), only to find my boss' car was already in the lot. Crap. He is very rigid about being exactly on time and not leaving until it is exactly 5pm, or even better, 5 to 10 minutes after 5. The funny thing is, he himself is normally late to work, strolling in at 8:30 most days. But he has already given me shit about being late in the past so I know I am being watched. I felt terrible as I walked past his office to get to my cubicle and turn the lights on. He didn't say anything since he was in a meeting already with someone (probably another late-arriver), so I skated by. But I KNOW he is keeping track of the days I walk in after 8am sharp. Already I am doing bad for the day.

Now I am on strict deadline. I need to finish up an article today and I need to write a magical 500 more words to wrap it up, but can't think of how to do it. My brain is basically rattling around like a pebble in a jar. At least, while I am typing the blog, it sounds like I am writing at a furious pace over here and my co-workers and boss will think I am working hard.

I hope I don't make any more mistakes, get accusatory looks from anyone, or say anything else dumb or anything like that today. I just need to coast by and make it to dinner time. I should be home safe by then, and from there it will just be potential misfires at the gym. I can handle doing something wrong in front of the gymbos. They are way more concerned with themselves to watch me. What a relief that is.

My first beer. And probably the beginning of the leopard-print fascination. I was only six months old, and already drunk with my pants open in the front. 

This was taken in April, 1980. Moments later my sister and I were swept clean off the porch and into the bushes.
 

This doesn't mean anything, really, but I just noticed that I have posted two photos on my blog so far, and both of these photos feature Asians. I suppose I will take that with a grain of salt. Or a grain of rice...? Oh, now I am getting racist, and that is NOT COOL. (In truth, Asians are my favorite!)

Song in my head right now: "Jerry Was a Race Car Driver"

Book I am reading: "Blood Canticle" by Anne Rice (and I am sort of ashamed by this)

Last movie I saw: "Finding Neverland"

Last thing I watched on TV: "The Phantom of the Opera"-- the old silent movie version, that Ted Turner chose to colorize, bahhhh!

Second last thing I watched on TV: Last night's episode of "Arrested Development" (finally caught a new episode! And I loved that once more, Gob used that song "Final Countdown" in his magic act! And yes, this calls for exclamation points!)

For lunch I ate: a sub on garlic herb bread

Hair: Wearing it down today. It is flat and uninspired.

Last interesting thing I overheard in conversation among co-workers: "I don't hit people. I know my limits."

The sky right now is... Dark and cloudy with spots that are bright blue with white clouds. It's bi-polar at the moment. Rain again? Maybe. Sunshine? Possible. A little of both in the same day? Sure.

My cell phone is set to... vibrate. So call me. ;)

I am... sort of lame. But I heart me! I took a self esteem class and I passed.

They look so happy to see their hero. And Godzilla is so obliging with his show-stopping fiery breath. I'll tell ya what-- that theater owner is gonna want to rent a steam cleaner, because there's got to be a lot of exciting Japanese piss going on here! 

Charles Dicken's "A Christmas Carol" is the most overdone, boring thing around this time of year. Except for the occassional local ballet company's production of the "Nutcracker" with the huge dancing mouse with the sword and all that other stupid flitty stuff. I know that we can all look forward to Kelsey Grammar's portrayal of ole' Ebenezer this year, and maybe next year it will be David Hyde Pierce, and then in 2006 it will be the dog Eddie's turn to wear the vest and the pointed buckled shoes and to bark out "bah humbug" and shove Tiny Tim face down into a snowdrift, finishing the little cripple off with a shoeheel to the base of the skull. Every year the productions of Christmas Carol get better and better, don't they? So precious. Ahh, the festive Yule-tyme!

So anyway, for some reason I wanted to find an endearing image of Ebenezer Scrooge, so i did a search and came up with a link to Face Pots. These are pots made of ceramic that have, well, faces on the lid that stare up at you; their cold potty stares making you question your very existence. The thought of a whole series of Dickens' inspired face pots was too good to keep to myself, so here, go order yourself a whole messa face pots, my dear.

Remember when Patrick Stewart pulled out his one-man Christmas Carol? Good times. I like PS, especially as Xavier in X-Men. The best work he ever did was that skit on SNL where he was the sexy cake baker. All his cakes depicted women going to the bathroom. Something is profoundly funny to me to hear Patrick Stewart's awesome British lilt saying, "What could be sexier than a woman going to the bathroom?" Why can't they re-run that skit every Christmas on NBC?

I am free-associating again. Oh well. It's not like you have anything better to do, sitting there reading this blog and picking your nose with your non-mousing hand. You are really something else, you know that? Sheesh. Go get a tissue and come back when you've cleaned yerself up.

Are you now presentable? Good. Moving on: I am tentatively planning to name my next pet Lucille. Not after BB King. After Lucille Bluth, of course. I love the scene where George Sr. finds Judaism and fashions a yarmulke out of the top of his canvas shoe, and Lucille visits him in prison: L: "Why are you wearing a shoe on your head?" G:"It reminds me that God is above me, and to always remember God in all I do." L: "So you put a shoe on your head?" I love a lot more about Lucille, but I would rather we all sit down and watch Arrested Development together and chat about it as a group.

Here's a good Tobias quote, from the episode where he wanted to buy leather clothes to bond with his daughter: "I'm looking for something that says, 'Daddy likes leather.'"

OK, I am done with my Arrested Development obsession for the afternoon. But tonight I can't promise that Trish and I won't sit down to an episode or 4. This has happened a lot lately. Also, English Muffin pizzas are outta sight, and work best when applied as a dinner solution when you want to watch Arrested Development and don't want to cook all night.

Because we are... Indians. 

Disney Donkey Movie Comes Back to Haunt Me

These are lyrics from a song in the Disney Christmas movie, "Small One":
"Clink clink, clank clank
Get the money to the bank
Telling little stories they can trust
We never, ever fail when we go to make a sale...
We simply cheat a little if we must!"

I have to get that out of my head. Writing it down helps, but I know I am cursing myself when I re-read this again sometime-- the song will come flooding back. That movie, if you never saw it, is about a little boy having to sell his donkey and all these evil people try to buy him so they can either abuse him or in the butcher's case... kill him (the donkey, not the little boy). Lucky for the little boy and the donkey, Mary and Joseph come along and take the donkey, where pregnant Mary hops on and they head to the barn for a little thing called the Birth of Jesus. The moral is: if you can't sell your donkey, don't give up, because holy people could be right around the corner.

I have been singing a lot of songs in my head lately that have to do with money. Reason being-- I need more of it. I want to move back to NJ but realize I have very little cash to do that with, and I don't want to just blow the little savings I do have on moving costs when I have no guaranteed job when I do go there. So I am applying the brakes a bit. I want to get more money before I go, and that means paying down debt and other un-fun adult-type flim-flam and what-not.

So unless someone makes me some sweet offer back in NJ either to sell me a place to live real cheap or to hand me a fantastic job, I must re-think The Plan and create a new scheme. The current thought I am consumed with is, "Should I buy some real estate?" The market is doing damn well here in the Phoenix area, and if I could buy something the equity in a couple of years could really pay off. But I'm not sure, so I am doing a ridiculous amount of thinking and list- and budget-making these days trying to sort it all out. I've even found a couple potential homes to buy. But do I really, REALLY want to commit to something like this and live here for another couple of years? I wish I knew for sure.

The main reason I want to go back to NJ is for the people there. My family and my best friends are there, and I could make new friends a little easier there than here. Something about NJ/NY people-- I just get them more, and they get me a little more than some of the folks I have run into here over the past 6 years. I also think I need to date a dude from back there, because of this same reason. No more flaky types or headcase southwesterners. Give me a nice, solid, sarcastic and slightly-geeky guy from the city and I'll be set. The secondary reason to go back is for the trees and the culture. Yeah, I put trees before culture. Trees make me daydream, and I get relaxed when I sit near a large, leafy tree. I have reviewed my writings since I was a kid, and trees show up a whole lot. I like trees, very much, thank you. As for culture-- the art, the theater, the writing-- it all seems to be there in a much more concentrated way than it is in this town. I want to be around that and I really and truly want to become smarter again. I have gotten so dumb living here. Take this blog, for instance. No, seriously. Take it away from me so I can do something productive.

An Unnecessary Tangent

Today I had a happy money moment when I went through the McDonald's drive through at lunch. I have never tried a grilled chicken sandwich from there, since I was scared of the mayonnaise-- mayo and I are not happy bedfellows, let's leave it at that. And for God's sake, why was it in my bed, you might wonder... but the truth is, no one knows to this day. But today I got BRAVE. I never like to "cause a fuss" or "stir up trouble" when it comes to ordering fast food... I don't want to hold up the line or otherwise slow down the production machine, nor do I want to risk angered employees spitting in my special order. Yes, today was the day where I said farewell to my hesitation and apprehension. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich without the mayo. The day is mine!

Here's where the money comes in. I know you are dying to hear this, because I am practically shitting myself in excitement over the climax of this story, which I know is coming up:

All I had in my wallet was $4. I was concerned I couldn't pay for my entire meal with just those four crumpled bills, so I thought I'd have to use their ATM feature. They charge you a fee to use it though. Ronald is a money grubbing necrophiliac. I hate that dead-ass screwing clown fruitcake... he fucks your dead uncle and then steals your money. What a prick, huh? He doesn't fool me with his chain of popular fast food restaurants... I know, just as millions of us do, that his little McDonald empire is nothing but a cover for a necrophiliac lifestyle of degradation, shame and utter animalistic disgust.

I digress, as usual, onto a tangent I didn't see coming. Anyway, I got ready to use my debit card and pay the fee, but it turns out the amount was under $4!

...I don't know. Was I actually too excited about this? Should I be worried that I am not getting enough excitement in my life otherwise? I would think so, but I am distracted by scary mental images of Ronald McDonald with smeared red and white make-up with a hole cut in the front of his doofy yellow pants.

Isn't the world a frightening place? Yikes. Clink clink, clank clank, get the money to the bank...