I just want to say thanks to everyone who reacted to my story about the dog, and for offering your own stories and comforting words. That was very cool, and it made me gain a little more faith in humanity as a whole. I love knowing other people are good, decent and caring people and we all feel the same way about things like this. Sometimes I have a problem with hating people, being overly sarcastic and/or pessimistic about how they act (hey, living in Scottsdale for a few years does that to you, ask Trish), so this was also the bright side of what happened. I got to realize people are inherently good on the inside, and most people are not afraid to show it. Thanks for being there for me, and for being the cool people you are.

Anyway, what should I post for my first non-death related blog entry? Hmm. Good question. I would like to write about some hilarious thing I have seen but the past 48 hours just haven't been what I would call hilarious. I have had some very lovely things occurring in my private life, but that just ain't blog territory. Yesterday at the carwash, I noticed that I was literally the only person not talking on a cell phone while waiting. Seriously, every single person there was on a cell phone at one point. Simultaneously. It was remarkable in a way, and very sad, too. What the hell was it like back in say, 1995? Before cell phones were frickin' everywhere, what did people do with themselves? Did they read? Did they talk to strangers? Did they actually function? I wonder. I can't remember what it was like already. It seems like people have always been on cell phones at any obsessive rate. This bugs me a little.

I got tailgated in a parking lot today by a dork in an SUV. So I slowed down to an elderly crawl and bugged the crap out of him. Why does that feel so good sometimes? I just am not going to whip around a parking lot where people could be walking or backing out of spots without looking. Making someone go slow behind me and watching their frustration in the rear view mirror is cheap entertainment, and I like it.

I don't like it when you get a round pizza and they cut it into the little squares. I love the pieces with crust on them, and it is so hard to eat the messy middle squares that are nothing but sauce and cheese. I just don't understand the logic behind the square-cut technique. Perhaps it's designed to make you eat less or something, because of the smaller sizes of the slices--or is it to make you eat more? Maybe it has no purpose other than style. "Hey, I want to go eat at that pizzeria that does that cool thing where they cut the pizza into little squares instead of boring slices. No, I don't remember their name but I do remember those squares, sure as shit! Let's go! Now!"

I'm happy it's almost May. May is a fun month.

I believe in aliens. And they are gonna git us. I don't even have a cellar to hide in when they get here. I am not sure how fast my car will drive, really. Maybe I can hit 120mph but that's it. I bet the aliens will be a hell of a lot faster. They'll catch me, and then just do some weird alien shit and make me freak out. I don't believe they care about abducting us, or sticking probes in our asses, but I do think they would just do a lot of staring, touching and probably shoving if they came here and tried to mingle. An intergalactic shoving match, the likes of which we cannot comprehend, is at hand. Somedays, I really believe that. And other days I just go to work and buy groceries and watch TV. So at least, not everyday is fraught with aliens-are-coming-anxiety. Just some. I thought I would share that. And also to let you aliens know I am getting ready, and just a friendly warning: I am an excellent shover. So watch out! Fyah fyah!*

*That's my 'karate chop' noise. Spelled out, it's kind of bastardish.

This makes me feel better.

A dog died in my car tonight. I am so fucked up right now. I was driving home from a date, I was having a happy day, I bought a cool new shirt and a silver wrist cuff, my writing has been kicking ass lately, I had a beer and a salad and I was well, happy. And then I see a dog in the road ahead. It was a large, yellow dog that looked I swear to GOD like my dog, Sam. The one I had when I was a teenager, and the one I think I will always love and miss, no matter how many other dogs I have in my life--he's the ultimate dog, in my mind. Anyway, I stopped my car and put on the hazards and tried to catch him--put him in my car to try to save him so he wouldn't get hit. Only I was too late. As I tried to get him to follow me into my car, he all the sudden bolted into the other lane of traffic and I saw him get hit. Have you ever seen a dog get hit by a car? He FLEW. It made a thump. The car had tried to stop but it was too late. The dog flew... he skidded, and slid. He was screaming. God help me, right now. He was screaming.

I don't know. I just panicked. I ran across the road and other cars had stopped, including the guy who had hit him. It was so terrible... the dog actually got up and ran into an alley. i thought that was a good sign. If he could move he wasn't hurt too bad, maybe. Me and some other people followed him and someone had a blanket. Me, the guy and this other girl loaded him into the back of my car. He wasn't bleeding or anything. The girl knew where an emergency vet clinic was, but it was about 15-20 minutes away. We headed off, and the poor dog lay in the back of my car, not moving a lot, but still breathing and we figured, probably in shock. Gosh, I kept petting him over the seat and telling him he was a good boy. I prayed and wondered why this had to happen, you know? Like, this dog was just fine one minute, and then fucking flying through the air and screaming a second later. And now we were trying to race him to the vet to save his life. He had no tags on and we couldn't call an owner, obviously.

We got to the vet, and I knew he wasn't alive anymore. He wasn't responding to my touch at all, and when I ran around and opened the car door his eyes were open and blood was everywhere on his face. I guess he had internal bleeding. I shook him and yelled at him, still calling him a good boy... FUCK! It was terrible. We carried him into the vet, blood was everywhere at that point, and the vet said there was no heartbeat. Too fucking late.

Honestly, this is a nightmare of mine. I have actually had this nightmare. I have always prayed I wouldn't see an animal get killed like that. I didnt think I had the balls to take it, you know? I am such a huge animal lover, as anyone who fucking reads this blog knows. I can't believe this, and I feel so helpless. I tried so, so hard to save this poor dog, who was probably a good dog because he was a collie mixed with a golden retriever-- just like Sam. I mean seriously, that's the other part I can't get over in the slightest. He looked fucking exactly like my dog. And the last time I saw my dog was when he died on the vet's table when we put him to sleep. I still have these horrible thoughts of how he sighed, and his eyes stayed looking at me right until he died. This, what happened tonight, is too much of a reminder of the suckiest thing I ever had to do. It is too much. I seriously can't believe this shit.

You know, you just drive around and you don't look. Who looks around, really? You don't react fast enough, and things like this happen. It could have been me. I could have hit him and made him fly through the air and scream. How clueless are we, 99% of the time, really? We just go about our day, not really realizing how close we come to being killed or killing. It blows my mind. This is not cool. At least this poor dog died in a quiet car, on a blanket, and not in the road, and he didn't get hit twice or something. But what if someone is looking for that dog right now? What was his name? Are they going to put up lost dog signs; and if I see one I know I will have to call and tell them what happened because I sure as hell would want to know what happened to my dog. Still. This was an ordinary night. Totally fun and happy day. And just like that I am all fucked up now. Isn't that just the fucking bitch of it all? Don't you hate that? Don't you want to punch a hole through a wall over the insane randomness of it all? Ah, fuck.

Normally I wouldn't post this stuff here, but this blog has sort of taken on its own form and I feel like sharing this with you all who read this. I write funny and I love this blog for its outlet-giving powers, you know? And I need it tonight. I need to grieve for a dog I didn't know, but died quietly in my backseat only three or four minutes before we pulled up to the vet hospital. He was a good dog, and he is gone and I couldn't save him. I would have done anything in those minutes from the moment I tried to coax him into my car until we pulled up to get him to safety and patch him up and save his life. I save things. I do that. I have taken in strays, and gotten dogs back into their yards safely. And this is the first one I couldn't. It sucks so fucking much. Any advice you have to try to get bad images out of your head so you can sleep and drive down the road where you saw something that sucked like this, send it, I fucking need it.

Your Birthdate: June 3

Being born on the 3rd day of the month is likely to add a good bit of vitality to your life. The energy of 3 allows you bounce back rapidly from setbacks, physical or mental. There is a restlessness in your nature, but you seem to be able to portray an easygoing, "couldn't care less" attitude. You have a natural ability to express yourself in public, and you always make a very good impression. Good with words, you excel in writing, speaking, and possibly singing. You are energetic and always a good conversationalist. You have a keen imagination, but you tend to scatter your energies and become involved with too may superficial matters. You are affectionate and loving, but sometimes too sensitive. You are subject to rapid ups and downs.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

The best part of this is it describes my imagination as KEEN, and then says I am too superficial. The rapid ups and downs can go away, though; if I run out of pills.

I need to read more comic books (again). There's a lot I need to catch up on, like the whole backstory of Bruce Wayne. Luckily there are movies to do the hard work for me. I don't have to brave the geekier-than-thou comic store clerks; nor do I need to track down hard to find issues. Just sit back, eat popcorn, and watch. So simple. So easy. Yet, comic books are just the shit. I was talking to a friend last night at length about the artform that is telling a story in comic form. It's really admirable to be able to create a story that is both literal and visual, simultaneously. Anyway, I love this Batman poster-- and I am very excited to see this. Maybe a Batman-type figure can go to town on the landscapers here. Seriously; they started using leaf blowers and weedwhackers at some crazy time this morning-- around 6:30. And they never rake up. They just blow crap around and into corners of the parking lot. They are the suckiest landscapers, and they are risking my fury. If they know what's good for them, those dirty fools will get the rake out and bag it up, and fast. I look sweet and demure, but let's just say: Friends in low places, ready and able to kill a man. Look lightly, Landscapy Larry.

I just happened to see the word “canoe” at random today, and now I can't stop thinking about canoeing. It had been so long since I have been in a canoe, and that blows. I like canoeing. In fact, I am pretty damn good at it, too. I have never once tipped over in a canoe.

I used to go canoeing in south Jersey back in the high school years. Most of the time, it was with the church youth group. We would drive down to some river in the Pine Barrens and spend the day canoeing, eating picnic lunches and, in my case anyway, trying to make feeble attempts to flirt with the guy I liked while simultaneously deflecting the flirtations from the guy I could only think of as a friend.

The river we canoed on was narrow for the most part, but it was creepy. The water was stained a dark brownish-red shade because the roots of the cedar and pine trees had colored the water. It was fragrant, and if you were splashed with that water it would leave little tan spots on your clothes. Tree branches would sometimes hang way down into the water so we had to maneuver around them, and that’s how I found out I was good at canoeing—I could steer a canoe like a fuckin’ champ. Like I said, I never toppled over. We wobbled, sure, but there was no falling into that dark, scary water.

I know I’ve mentioned my sick imagination before, and how I sometimes make up pretty gross things. Well, on one trip I was riding in a canoe with one of my good friends and I started talking out loud as we quietly moved over the dark water and ducked our heads under tree branches. I started to make up a story, about a woman who was drowned in the river by a crazy guy. But she didn’t stay dead, because it turned out she was crazy, too. So she lived under the water, swimming along and looking up at people on the river with her whitish-brown, water-soaked empty eyesockets. It got a lot more gross, but I won’t get into it here, since this is supposed to be the “funny” blog, and not the Fangoria blog.

Either way, I really scared this girl. She seriously got mad at me for saying that stuff, and I remember being a little hurt she didn’t join in and make up scary stuff, too. I misjudged this girl, and thought she’d be into scaring ourselves a little. Nope. We had to paddle a lot faster, so we could reach the more open parts of the river and the sunlight, and of course, to stay close to the rest of the group. She said that I was mean to make that shit up. After lunch, I got a new canoeing partner for the rest of the trip, and it ended up being very fun after all, with no more bony hands, empty eyes or ropy intestines.

Um. Other things about canoeing that rocked? The time me and my boyfriend at the time, Steve, went canoeing on a lake up near Lake Placid. My parents and sister were also canoeing and hanging out at the lakeside, and Steve and I started taking the canoeing very seriously. We went as fast as we possibly could go, and we tried to do fast turns and basically just push the limits of XTreme Canoeing. However, overall I remember it being very peaceful out on that little lake in the mountains. It was fun canoeing with someone who I just had a nice rapport with; we could just shut the hell up and canoe. At one point, he did something so weird: he asked me to sing. We were far enough away from my family that I decided it would be OK (I have this thing where I don’t want to sing in front of people I know). I sang some opera-type stuff, if I recall, and probably not that well. Later, he wrote a little essay about that day and how my voice sounded out on the water, with the sound of the oars pushing against the water. It was very cool.

Either way, I need to go canoeing again. I don’t care if I am alone, because really what I want to do is just glide along quietly and think; and also feel that awesome burn in your arms and upper back from the rowing. If you want to come with me, you have to be ready to let me be the boss, though. If I want to go this way on the river, you’ve got to back me up; if I want to tell horror stories, just let me finish it out. And finally, if you want me to sing, don’t ask for opera, please. Let me sing Creedence Clearwater Revival, because Fogerty is more in line with where my vocal range is nowadays. Scary.

So this is odd: I was driving back to the office from lunch, and I had my windows down because it's a nice day out. All of the sudden, I smelled chocolate. Specifically, dark chocolate. I thought it was my imagination, or perhaps even a "phantom smell" that happens right before your brain explodes or something. But then I realized I was driving past a horse property, and the smell was actually manure.

What makes manure smell like chocolate? I hope I don't have a secret desire to binge on manure or something. Because that would just suck, big time. Hopefully, there is some basic component to the smell, if one were to break the smell down into its various smellements (ha), there'd be some chemical that is the same in both chocolate and manure.

I don't know what else to write at the moment, but I did want to give a shout-out to the person that my sister and I have discussed at length, and have deemed our new Favorite Blogger. This person is Lengli. If you have never clicked on her blog, I recommend it. No one can quote the Cyberkinetic Ghost of Christmas Past like Lengli.

If anyone can send me links for strange and unusual chimeras, that would be cool too. This has nothing to do with chocolate, manure or Lengli. It's just that I love chimeras. Like the wholphin. Or the liger. Shit like that. I can actually use this information for a real purpose though, as I am writing about a certain chimera right now. Thank you for helping, and also, for giving me the best day of my life. I mean, my tea's gone cold and I'm wonderin' why I got outta bed at all.

Trish just wrote about the time she had her Halloween dress stuck in the attic fan in our old house. It inspired me to reminisce about that attic.

The house was built around 1880 or so, and it had some cool things for us to find when we moved in. For instance, when my Dad was working on a remodel upstairs, in the walls of the closet in Trish’s room, we found old newspaper clippings and photographs of people we didn’t know. It was kind of creepy, but pretty fun to think about why this stuff was in the wall itself and who these people were.

The attic itself was all dark, musty wood and sharp angles. Like a lot of old houses, the ceiling of the attic was gabled in the shape of the roof above. So you could only stand up in the middle of the attic, as the ceiling sloped down to into tight angled corners. And those corners were dark. Horror movie-dark. We had one light bulb in the center of the attic, which you turned on with a long string that hung down this very narrow wooden staircase. The light didn’t travel well around all that dark wood up there, and if you had an overactive imagination like we did, there were all sorts of creatures and ghosts hiding in those dark corners in the back we couldn’t see.

To make the attic even creepier were the nails. Exposed nail tips protruded from the ceiling from the last roofing job. So you had to be extra careful up there not to bang your head into a nail. I think everyone in our family must have scratched their head on a nail at least once up there.

However! The best part of the attic was the big old antique chest that was up there when we moved in. The people who we bought the house from just left it there. Of course, within a couple of days’ time, I had figured out how to open the chest and discover what was inside.

Old porn. That’s what was in there. Men’s magazines from the 1940s and 1950s. Very tame, but still way more interesting than the 10-year-old me could have hoped for. I was like a little pervert lesbian up there, sifting through all the ancient porn and giggling about it. I showed it to Tracy, and we had a ball just laughing at headlines and big old vaginas. However, I don’t recall when or how, at some point my parents found out about the old porn stash, and one day it was all gone from the chest.

Another thing about the attic was my Oma apparently considered it to be a perfect hiding place for a killer. Now, my bedroom was right outside the attic door. And Oma made sure to remind me of it. Only she did it in a way that scarred me for years. Upon visiting our new house for the first time, and standing in the doorway to my bedroom, she told my father: “Now make sure you put a lock on that attic door. If someone gets into your house, they could hide up there all day until you all go to bed, and then come out and kill you.”

And this is why I am this way, today. I had a lot of help getting here.

At one point, a few years later, something did get into the attic and camp out there. It was a raccoon or a squirrel. It would scratch at the ceiling of my bedroom. Always at night, when I was trying to sleep and NOT think about the murderer that was surely in the attic, biding his time to come and get us all. My parents set a trap up there and some wildlife-rescue person came and took the ceiling-scratcher away. It definitely was spooky.

Our attic wasn’t the only scary place in the house. In fact, the basement terrified me so much that in the 10 years we lived in that house, I only had the courage to go down there about 5 times. And I am generally a person who loves scary stuff, thrives on the weird, and makes up gory and terrible things on a regular basis—and I couldn’t handle it. The basement had a low ceiling, with rickety wooden steps leading down to a dirt floor. The walls were old, red brick and an old wood-burning stove sat in the corner. I remember thinking about Nazis when I was down there; torture and burning of bodies. Not the sort of fun, concrete basement like Tracy had, where we roller skated, played Barbies, and for some reason, two games we called “Trailer Park” and “Russia.” The only two things I recall about our basement was the time our cat Benji just woke up, walked over to the closet door (the entrance to the basement was inside our living room closet), and hissed and yowled as his tail got fat and his back arched at nothing at all. You know what they say about cats, sensing ghosts and other things like that…

The second thing is an image of my Dad cursing as he tried to carry the big, stupid, faded plastic Santa Claus that we always put on our lawn at Christmas back down there. We stored it there in all the non-Christmas months. The electric cord dangled out of the bottom of Santa, and it got wrapped on one of the stairs. My Dad didn’t get angry a lot, and I remember giggling at the top of the stairs as he fumbled with the plastic Santa. I wouldn’t dare go down there and help him, though. I wasn’t gonna have the ghosts take both my Dad and me. I was still young and had a lot of living to do—but Dad? He was old enough. We could risk Dad.

Somehow, we all made it out of the house alive and unscathed, but for a few nail-marks on our scalps. Trish’s dress was the only casualty I am aware of. And the thing is, if I ever made a thousand-million dollars, I would try to buy that house back. Definitely the coolest house we ever lived in. I’d even let Trish live there, too, with Kane. In the basement.

I've got that sad feeling today that one gets when one finishes a particularly enjoyable book. I really loved reading Black House for so many reasons-- not the least of which was its restorative power over my own writing-- and I guess I didn't really want to finish it. But last night, I just couldn't help it. I told myself I would be allowed to finish reading it once I got all the painting done in the green room (ALL of it, too). So I did that, actually envisioning the book as I worked and cleaned all the brushes for the final time. It made things go faster, and the next thing I knew I was walking the dogs and getting ready for bed early so I could sit comfortably and finish the book uninterrupted.

It took me until 12:30, but I did it. I even got a little teared up. And then had problems falling asleep, because I just kept running over my favorite parts. In my opinion, fiction is the best ever. The fact that it can do that to you, about totally imaginary people and places, is so frickin' cool. Even better-- the fact that it somehow jumpstarted my brain and made me pull out my book and get back into working on it after about a year of no activity... shit! I don't have an adjective for that.

I can't help it, but I am so jazzed about having my fiction-writing pants back on again that I could do a happy jig (if I knew how to dance a proper jig without hurting myself by falling, that is). See, the backstory is, the first book is the Talisman: that was the book that I believe made me start writing in an almost obsessive manner when I was a teenager. I fell off the wagon after college and especially once I sold out and did cheap writing for a living, and the books suffered. But there is something so fun and wildly imaginative about the books that those two guys (Stephen King and Peter Straub) write when they get together-- must be the combination of two very good authors working on one story, simultaneously that super charges the books or something-- that just gets to me on some level that screams at me to write. So in the last few days, I've been noticing my hyper-aware circuitry(tm) has been turned back on, too. It means I get very observant and find myself keeping the little notebook handy at all times in case a good thought bumps out of my head. The other day in traffic it hit me big time, and I was writing like crazy at the red lights, trying to get my thoughts out before the lights changed and I was forced to put the pen down. I would have pulled over if I didn't have somewhere to be at a specific time.

But the fact that this is happening is huge for me. This is, actually, way bigger than getting a promotion or raise at work, or dating a cool new person, or probably even getting married or having a kid. I wouldn't know since I have never done those two things, but still-- getting your personality spit-shined and boosted full of steroids is very awesome, and I can't imagine that standing next to a doofy guy with bad hair and saying vows or shooting a gooey kid across the room from my vagina would be better than this. Sure, I could do those things, and probably will sometime... but having me back in writing form again? That's super. Yay, happy!

Benevolent. Patient. Watchful. They are our leaders, the gargoyles; the keepers of the flame and the eaters of the gefilte fish.

I figured it out. I know what this town needs more of. Gargoyles. That's what!

I've said it before, and tons of other people say it all the time, too: Phoenix is a new city without a lot of character. Where are the crumbly old brick buildings? The wooden porches left over from the Days of Yore, when people had time to wait for the ice truck to deliver a fucking gigantic block of ice so they could have Country-Tyme Lemonade? Did Teddy Roosevelt do anything here-- did he ever even bother to stop by "Ole' Phoenix Way" back in his time? Where are the Civil War battlesites here? No where. I looked. Turns out there was no Civil War here. Stonewall Jackson didn't even care to try to head out this far with his little brigade or whatever. And there are absolutely zero places where the pirates could have stored the booty as they headed up the coast. If there was pirate booty, some corporate building company would have found it by now and sold it on eBay. I check that, too, to be sure no Arizona Pirate Booty is making its way up there. That would be an insult and a slap in the infected eye-socket to my piratic ancestors.

So what I think we need to do is install gargoyles. Like, everywhere. No building should be without one. It's bad luck, all around here in this city of dirt and scrubby bushes. Bad mojo, even. I think gargoyles could help us out. Come to our aid when we are not looking. Sure, they look frightening and sometimes even "ghastly" but they are our faithful guardians. The watchful eyes of the gargoyle can save us all. They know shit. They are tapped into the universe on a level we mortals cannot understand. The gargoyles are our friends.

I'm not writing this from inside a gargoyle's cave or anything. I'm not bound at the feet with the entrails of a dead guy or something like that. Hell, no! Ha! Why would you even think that? I am not being held prisoner. In fact, I tend to enjoy the company of gargoyles very much. I was even invited to the bris for a gargoyle's baby once. (Yes, little known fact-- all gargoyles are practicing jews.) It's not like some wayward gargoyle kidnapped me because I have this blog, and it makes a decent forum for getting gargoyles into the city. No, that's crazy talk right there. What you need to do is go outside and get a breath of fresh spring air and walk in the soft, caressing sunshine for a bit to get that out of your head. ohhh... the sunshine... But seriously now, GARGOYLES are OUR FRIENDS. RESPECT THEM.

Ouch. They do have teeth, so make a habit of wearing work gloves when near windows or overhangs, and make sure you leave out sweet cream for them when they arrive so they will pass over your house for the Rising Moon Feedings. Kosher sweet cream, for the love of all things holy. That's all for now. How do I know this? Oh yeah, right, I forgot to tell you! It's from a book I read, yeah, a book I read. In the library, duh.

One more thing: this is the shirt I am wearing today. The guy who worked the register at Nothing But Noodles today asked me, "What book is that from?" And seriously, he wasn't being ironic, sarcastic or any other "ic." My answer was true without being condescending: "It's one of Maurice Sendak's greatest hits." Where do they get these people nowadays?

Unsightly black cables notwithstanding, I am so happy with my new desk. I had to build this thing in a hurry because I snapped the leg of my old desk off while moving it across the carpet in the midst of painting. It was an ugly old desk, anyway. And I wanted some white furniture against the green walls. This is my set-up when I work from home-- one computer is tuned into work; the other is tuned in to Blog. Blogging feels hard today. Days like this where there seems to be nothing 'funny' 'witty' or 'of interest' in my head are always the days where I somehow feel like logging on and putting something up here, anyway. If I have wasted your time, I apologize. But the capuchins made me do it. They live above the refrigerator, and regularly smack me with their tiny monkey-hands. I get confused.

I've been saying two phrases a lot lately. One is, "Honestly...!" when something is kind of ridiculous, stupid or I can't believe that Katie needs to jump up on me and scratch the hell out of my arm when she gets excited when I come home. It's part of my effort to clean up my mouth. I used to say, "Fuck!" or "Oh, come on, what's THIS shit?"

The second phrase is "8 years." I use it when things are taking an inordinate amount of time to complete. Such as, "It's taking me 8 years to hear back on approval for that article" or "Malcolm, this is taking 8 years" (whenever Malcolm does anything--he is the slowest dog I have ever seen). I just started using the number 8 for some reason one day, and I recently noticed I am consistent with it. Not sure why 8 years became the benchmark for anything, but it seems to have happened, so I am accepting this development in my subconscious and moving on.

So I have to take down my windchime. I got a letter from the HOA that they have changed their rules, and now windchimes are not allowed on anyone's porches or property. I want to know why. It's not like you hear a din of windchimes when you walk through this place; what's wrong with a small, tinkling little chime in the breeze? I don't get it. I have until May 12 to fall into compliance with the new rule, and I'm waiting until the morning of the 12th to take my shit down. I happen to enjoy my windchime alot. And we have had a lot of windy and breezy weather lately, and it has been a nice sound to hear outside my window. My windchime is small, unobtrusive and very pleasant, overall. Who are these nasty, mean, horrible people without souls who have a problem with little chimes? Did they all suffer unspeakable tragedies and/or acts of depravity conducted by a windchime at some point in their life? Was a current windchime somewhere in this complex doing something terrible in its off-hours... was a chime peeking in at some lady as she got dressed, or was it dripping acidic poison down onto some passing-by children or something? Are they evil incarnate? Do their bells herald in creatures from the deepest levels of Hell? Are they disasters lying in wait? What the fuck is the problem with chimes? It's just something I want to know. I mean, honestly.

"CANYOU PLEASE JUST GET ME A CIGARETTEANDSOME COFFEE, I'M A LITTLE STRESSEDOUTATTHE MOMENT!" This is an aye-aye. Very rare, found in Madagascar. I think this is a relative of Malcolm's. But truthfully when I saw this picture, the eyes kind of scared me. This seems like a Henson creation.

Q: What do you call it when two transvestite prisoners have sex?
A: Gender Con-Fusion.

(This joke brought to you by me.)

"Oh, shit on a pancake!" That is a phrase a member of my family said one time in lieu of "shit on a shingle." Why we needed to replace "shingle" in that particular phrase is a mystery that haunts me to this day.

I just realized that my last two posts have revolved around things that happened to me in the bathroom. Someone just tuning in to this blog would think I have some sort of problem that keeps me in safe distance of a toilet at all times. Just for the record, these were coincidences. Although most of my best thinking happens in the bathroom. It's just a fact. Creative release, they call it.

I'm really torn about wanting to write about two things that I think are better left off the blog. One is a very funny "The Office"-type thing that is going on with my job tonight (OK! I can't help it! It involves a hayride! But that's all I can say in safety!); and the other is a developing something-or-other that I am having fun with at the moment. The first one I censor myself from writing about since I don't want someone to read it and fire me; and the second is something I just don't want to jinx, and that I would rather keep kind of quiet. But that thing will involve FAKE BATS, tonight. Not like baseball bats, like the flying rodent things. Faux bats.

I just realized I left my paycheck stub on my desk while I was out to lunch. Now anyone who happened to come by and snoop knows what I make. This thought only alarmed me for about 12 seconds, and then it passed. Since I used the word "snoop" as a verb, now I am thinking of someone coming by my desk with little braids in their hair, smoking a fatty wit da bitches and saying "fo-shizzle" a lot.

This was a line in Black House that made me laugh really hard for some reason. It was a very cute turn of phrase. It was used in the following context: A cop is displeased to see a mob of people coming towards the station, where a suspect who is NOT the killer is being held. The cop sighs, and says, "Well, fuck me till I cry." There have some great "fuck me blank blank blank" phrases over the years, including that gem about a chainsaw in "Heathers," but this one was so simple, so eloquent and carried such a perfect resonance of desperation, anger and sadness.

I feel pretty great today. It's in the 80s outside, and it's breezy and sunny. I am working from home, so I got to take a longer time outside with the dogs this morning. I took them to the park behind my house and let them both off leash and they ran around like two little nuts. Then I went to my doctor and to my relief, I am very healthy at the moment with no sign of relapse. Great stuff.

While I was at the doctor, I had to smile like a goof because when I used the restroom while I was waiting, I noticed the "Urine Collection Cups." They are implements by which you can give a urine sample. Not very exciting on the surface, and kind of repulsive, really. But something about the way it was labeled as such cracked me up. I pictured if you went to someone's house for dinner, and you are helping them set the table, and you saw cups labeled "Urine Collection Cups" in the cabinet-- that would be strange. Hell, even if they were in the bathroom. What would be this person's deal where they have a urine collection? Would it be all one individual's personal urine, or would it be the kind of collection where you tried to get the urine of famous people? Would you keep a urine collection refrigerated, or in a handsome oak curio cabinet? I guess that would be a matter of preference.

I have to admit I thought about taking a urine collection cup with me. Just think of the hilarity of going to Trish's house, and pouring myself a drink and drinking out of the urine collection cup in a conspicuous manner. I have a huge messenger-bag purse... it would have fit in there. They were brand-new and sterile, as they had plastic over them that had a "sterile" label on them-- which while psychologically troubling, would be safe to drink from otherwise. But then it would have been kind of strange if as I was checking out, and I reached in to get my checkbook and the urine collection cup rolled out onto the floor or something. I would have to say, "Oh, how did that get in there?" and then give it up to the lady behind the counter. And then switch doctors because I don't want to be "the urine hoarder lady."

I just think there are so many, many ways to have fun with a plastic cup labeled with big clear block letters: "Urine Collection Cup." It's sort of a got-to-have item if you are weird and slightly needy. But I think with a little craftsmanship, I could make my own. But what kind of person stays at home, carefully painting those words on a plastic cup? What does that say about my chances for normalcy and/or ever having children with someone? I don't know. Hell. That's what I have to deal with. This is my hell.

I was in the bathroom stall and I made up a jingle today! It goes like this:
"If you're looking for something 'sweet'
Try some poultry!
It's better than meat!"

I have this little desire stashed away inside me to be an advertising hotshot. I would drive a really fancy car (it would be black and never have smushed bugs on the windshield or dog hair on the seats, for they would be engineered by NASA to resist such things), wear "power suits" and carry a "briefcase" (for my brief things) and a "more involvedcase" (for my more involved documents); I would order high-priced male prostitutes on my cell phone while on a "power lunch." I would tell Marky Mark he can't call anymore. Everytime I looked up at the sky in The City, where I would have to work, I would see one of those spiralling shots of the Big Buildings Towering Above Me (I'd have a famous film director put an implant in my brain so I would see these sort of shots all the time). And finally, I would make a gajillion dollars and fire his ass, fire her ass, and him, and him, and then promote the mailboy with the great ideas.

Well, between the jingle creation today and some actual work, I decided I have a deep loathing for someone I know. Kind of like "hate", really, but it's not that intense, it is simply an intense desire never to really hang out with this person and his dumb girlfriend. I don't loathe a lot of people, so this is a little strange. But oh well! The best part of loathing someone is it can sound like "loafing someone" and that means baking, and baking means kneading some dough. Dough is soft and squishy, and squishy reminds me of Play-Doh and Play-Doh reminds me of kindygarten, and that was a pretty decent year! I was on the top of my game AND I drank more milk than soda back then.

I forget what my point was in coming here to blog today. Anyone have a good loathing story? Or jingle about loathing? I'd probably appreciate it and laugh like a moron.

I figured out a sly new way to post a picture of Katie. I wanted to show how green the walls are in the office-room, and I needed a subject to be in the foreground so you have a point of reference. Well, anyway... oh man, I don't know. There's nothing. Nothing at all left to write. I don't have a thought in my head, not even a little one featuring David Hasselhoff in a speedo or anything. Wow. This is it. I can't believe it happened, but this is the end of the blog. Bye, and godspeed, all ya little sailors. Hic.

That is one ugly baby. I always hate when people say, "Oh, isn't he/she a cute baby?" What are you supposed to say if you don't think it is a cute baby? That's a situation where it's tough to be truthful. One time Trish and I saw a baby who looked like a baby Mexican gorilla in Target. The kid was super hairy, was wearing gold chains and had on a baby-sized wife beater. The face was repungent. Honestly, it was the ugliest human baby ever seen. This baby gorilla picture also reminds me of the scene in "Dirty Work" where Don Rickles is calling Artie Lang a "baby gorilla" and talking to the ice cream in his belly. "Hello, Ice Cream! Having a good time?!"

I am wondering if I am the only one who thought the phrase "camel jockey" was nothing more than a racial slur. Apparently, there are real camel jockeys. They race camels. And they are often children; children who are starved so they are lighter for racing. Nothing is a funnier punchline to a joke than adding, "And get this! The children are STARVING!" That kills people, every time. I think that punchline is so lethal it's illegal in at least two states.

And now, according to this story, robots are about to replace the camel jockey children. So in other words, there are going to be camels running around with robots on their backs? Isn't anyone else even mildly alarmed by this development? It's the beginning of a long, technologically-harrowing end. Camels are scary enough on their own (a camel raped my grandpa once), but with a robot rocking back and forth on its back as it runs at you in a furiously-aroused state significantly ups the terror factor.

I hope I like green. I mean, really like the color green, a lot. Because I spent my entire weekend working on the office-room in my house, and now it is almost complete. But it is GREEN. Maybe too green. Have I mentioned it is green?

I am kind of bad at picking paint colors. I see all those little cards with the sample colors on them at the hardware store and I freak out and grab about 30 of them. I had a bunch of "greenish" cards and was trying to do what the books and magazines tell you to do-- look at the colors in the room you want to paint, in different lights and at different times of the day to find the color you want. Only problem is after awhile about 5 of the cards start to look the same. So I literally just sighed and circled one of them and yesterday morning, I went off to the store and purchased a gallon of the paint and went home and started painting. (I spent an exciting Saturday evening spackling, sanding and priming the room. Who says I don't know how to live it up, like in the movies? Probably more than a few people could say that, sure.)

This took all day. And yes, I am not quite done yet. I am still doing the little edges near the ceiling and the floor, and after that I need to paint the trim. But I have begun to notice the room is GLOWING now. Literally. The shade I chose is a jade-green with a blueish undertone to it, basically a medium green. Or, picture that color the plain green Crayola is.

I was looking at some newspaper strewn about the floor in the room this morning when I went in to turn the fan on (I won't even get into the paint fumes and the weird dreams I am convinced they made me have last night), and noticed the pages were tinted green. So was the metal part of the brush lying on the floor. And the ceiling. And everything else. It was like the fucking Wizard was hiding in there somewhere in this grand room of Emerald City-colored magic. It might be tough on the eyes after you are in there for a few hours, or minutes, depending on your electric-green limits.

So I am beginning to think, "Did I paint it the right color?" I am not sure. To find out, I need to have Trish come over. That's what I do. I count on my sister to make decisions on anything even vaguely "arty." Color is art, so she ought to know if it's a weird shade or just really ultra-hip or something. Well, to be honest, I also make her make my decisions for me regarding my haircuts as well. This probably means I am just lazy and/or I don't care enough about my own looks to do it myself. I guess I also can't even pick colors for my own walls without her. Next thing you know the poor girl is going to get a call from me: "Should I pee first or poop first? I can't tell!"

This weekend was definitely a busy one. I borrowed "The Incredibles" from a co-worker on Friday, and all weekend I tried to make time to watch it. Last night, I finally put it on while I was eating dinner, but had to turn it off because "Arrested Development" came on. It was another good episode, and I was happy to see Zach Braff make an appearance as a NeverNude video director. But I didn't get back to the Incredibles because I went back to painting until I finally had to go to bed. Those Incredibles sure seem-- Incredible. I need to watch the rest to be sure, though.

I don't think this is one of my better posts, but maybe the next one will be different. One last thing about painting: I made a conscious decision NOT to paint buzzed on alcohol, which is a good thing. As I briefly insinuated, the fumes might have been getting to me anyway. At one point I was yelling to Malcolm through the closed door to the room, "Go for help, Tiny Malone! Help, I can't get out, hellllppp!" Tiny Malone is a name I gave him a couple weeks ago, and for some reason I was laughing my ass off calling him that through the door and pretending I was 'trapped' in with the paint. Maybe I was. And then Katie started barking and getting in on the action, scratching the bottom of the door, and I yelled to her, "That's right, Blackie Smackbitch, you got to help a sistah out!" I stuck some paper under the door and she clawed it up in her attempt to "free me" from the painted room. And I was laughing the whole time and yelling.

See, I DO know how to have a good time.

Squeeze it a little, make the juices go POP!

This morning when I looked in the mirror all bleary-eyed, I happened to catch my reflection giving me the finger and saying, "Hey, good morning, WHORE!"

The reason it said that? It's true, I have of late become a whore. And what I mean is, an internet whore. I did something I always thought was verboten for a Lisa of my ilk-- I ended up posting a personal ad. Why? I really can't tell you.

Here's the bitch of it: I don't necessarily feel like dating at the moment. I think I am always in a state called, "In Search Of." I have my sister to thank for this insight. She pointed out that for months, I was first searching online for an apartment. Then, I decided to buy my own house so I was obsessively searching for that. After I found one of those, I began the dog search. After I found one of those, what's left? Unfortunately, it appears to be DUDES.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Dudes is cooles. But I am so selfish at the moment...! All I want to do is read, take long walks with Katie, listen to music, and spackle and paint my place. I am not sure it's fair for me to start the arduous task of dating. For the Dudes, I mean. I can hardly leave the house, as it is. Too self-absorbed and mellow.

I do, however, really like the people I have been meeting as a result, in a humorous and intellectual manner. A couple of the guys who have contacted me have been pretty cool guys. Two in particular stand out, but neither has asked me out yet, thank God. I don't want to jump into things like that-- and plus I am a terrible flirt. I am enjoying the talk at the moment. While I don't play any games, I also don't want to barrel along right into something, either. Slow goes. That's the way I operate lately-- very slowly. Very meticulous, like a cunning little genius lobster with a plan and a real way out of the tank. But also, a lazy lobster who likes to be alone in the corner a lot and sleep.

Trish suggested that, rather than meeting the online dudes and all that, I shift my search to another object. Like shoes, or purses. She suggested I start online shopping, or at least online browsing. But I can't help it, (and I realize this statement may cost me my membership in the Girl Club) shoes and purses just aren't as fun. Mostly because they don't talk back to you and share your love for Arrested Development or Wet Hot American Summer. And I tried it already, man. I was writing notes and slipping them into my purse for a long time there, and I never heard anything back. That purse was a dirty no-replier! Don't even ask me about the nasty argument me and my Steve Madden boots had last winter. Let's just say those booty-bitches can't take a joke.

Overall, I should just admit that I am never satisfied; always looking, always searching... Maybe one day I will find whatever it is I am looking for, much like Billy Madison. I hope it won't just a nice pile of shit, though. I hope it's just contentment and fun and a whole lot of "hey, whatever, it's all good". But I also hope that in the meantime I stay honest, nice and don't hurt nobody or nuthin. I am not really thinking I am a whore, I am just surprised I did this. I have always met my past dudes "the natural way". But nature has sucked in recent years, too. For me, Natural Dating, meaning going out with people you meet through "mutual interests" like hobbies, has been similar to those huge deer that stand up on their hind legs and kick you all over with their giant hooves when you wander into their territory. In other words, not the "fun" kind of nature. More the "ouch, that hurts, and I can't get away" kind of nature. And I don't care who reads this... but having someone bitch-slap your feelings around for several years takes something out of the fun of dating for awhile, long afterwards, it turns out. I've been single for over a year now, and I'm OK enough about it to be friends with the bitch-slapper and everything; at the same time my mind has just been, simply, elsewhere for the last year.

So maybe I am a wimp, and I wouldn't get mad if someone called me that...but I am also supremely happy just doing my thing at the moment, laughing a lot and enjoying the shit out of my life. I am a little scared of nature. Hell, no one is more surprised by that revelation than me. So, for the moment, I think that the online thing is going to be my means of starting to consider the opposite sex again, in "that way," because I can take it a lot slower than I could otherwise. Takin' it slow. Wink wink. Aww hell yeah, you said it, whore! Now, this whore has to get outta here and go home for the weekend, where I have a fun-time happy painting project ready to go. I have a whole lot of spackling and priming to do. (See, I told you I was a whore.)

Imagine one night, you wake up in the middle of the night. Maybe your room was too hot, or you had to turn the fan down because it was getting a little cold in there. Anyway. You hear a slight rustling in the air above your bed. You think it's your imagination. But, when you turn the light on, the two scariest marionette puppets are just sort of dangling there in mid-air above you, their creepy tilted-head stares burning into your soul. Very slowly, the gold boots lower down to your face and kick you in the forehead. You scream. Your life could be over at this moment. Scary, terrible, marionnettes! The bane of our society. Let's pray the gov'ment can do something about these fuckers. I hate them so much I want to scream and run at cars. Hmmm. Maybe I'll do that anyway.

Something interesting to think about: Tonight we realized that Kimmy Gibbler (what a filthy name for a little girl) from Full House looks a lot like...

...Dave the Lighting Guy in Orgazmo.
(And both Kimmy and Dave the Lighting Guy are perfectly comfortable saying: "I don't wanna sound like a queer or nuthin? But unicorns kick ass!")

I want the Flu.

This website (www.giantmicrobes.com) has the cutest little microbes, infectious diseases and other such maladies. I am hoping that, given that my big 30th birthday is coming up in approximately 6-8 weeks, I might be presented with a giant microbe or two. I am none too subtle about hints. But seriously, what a good idea-- make stuffed animals of microscopic viruses and other creatures.

I used to love my microscope that I had as a young lass. My favorite thing was to pluck hairs from my head and look at them under the scope. Don't worry, I didn't end up with that hair-pulling obsession or anything. I moved on to looking at salt, sugar crystals, celery slices, leaves and stems, toenail clippings, and such. I guess the glory wore off around the time I found myself faced with a needle and my poor bare forearm, all because I was wanting to desperately look at my own blood but was terrified of the needle. No 7-year-old should be faced with that sort of quandry. Science is not always a wonderful thing. Too bad my parents weren't creationists who had banned microscopes and other science implements from the home.

A Lunchtime Comedy Routine (File Under: Hilarious)

Sister #1*: Dude! Did you hear the Pope died?
Sister #2*: What? Are you kidding me or something?
Sister #1: No, man, he was real sick and shit.
2: Christ! How come I didn’t know he was sick?
1: Man, listen: he was suffering from the Yellow Fever or something, and he finally just couldn’t hack it anymore, and he died.
2: Wow.

(Five minutes pass)

2: Hey, did you hear the Pope died?
1: Holy crap.
2: Yeah, I heard he was ridin’ in the Popemobile, and it took a wicked fast turn and the thing toppled over and shit. Pope was flyin’ around inside the glass and everything. They thought he just had a scrape, you know? But it turned out it was serious internal bleeding.

(Two minutes pass)

1. Whoa, look over there. Here come the glass guys. (Two trucks, the type that carry glass for windows and other glass applications, pull into the parking lot)
2. Someone ought to tell those guys that no matter how much glass they are hauling around, it ain’t gonna bring the Pope back.
1. What? He DIED?!

(Two minutes pass)

2: So I heard the Pope died.
1. Oh yeah, dude. I heard he was wrestlin’ an alligator, and that he was right in the middle of a gnarly deathroll when the alligator snapped his jaws down on the Pontiff’s throat.
2. Hey, is a Pontiff the same as a Pope?
1. I think so.
2. Hmmm. (Pause) Oh man!
1. I know! That means the Pontiff died!

(A minute or so goes by…)

1. So anyway, the Pope died.
2. Crap! How’d he die?
1. He was hit by a truck.
2. Oh. Too bad.

(Thirty seconds later)

1. Hey. The Pope died.
2. Yeah, that blows.
1. I think he was at a pool party with Jesus—
2. I heard it was Peter. You know, the disciple.
1. Oh, maybe. Anyway, they were doing chicken fights, and Peter or whoever was on top and the Pope was underwater, and he was pinching that he needed to come up for air, but it was too late. Pope drowned.
2. Oh, Pope! No!!

(Two minutes pass)

1. The Pope is dead.
2. No shit. How’d he die?
1. He was carving one of those chainsaw sculptures out of wood. I think he was making a bear or an Indian, and the chainsaw slipped and cut his leg. Turned out, the Pope wasn’t up to date on his tetanus shots. He ended up starving because he had lockjaw.
2. You know, he was a cool old Pope. Too bad. Too bad.
1. And you know what—he lived a whole life and never wore pants. That’s rare.
2. He was the holiest wearer of dresses ever. He had a lot of dresses, caps and funny hats.

(Ten minutes later)

1. So you should blog about this conversation.
2. I think I should. People need to know: The Pope died!
(*= actual sister saying the jokes varies; numbers 1 & 2 are interchangeable.)

In this touching moment, Buster whips out his new hook and shows the world he is not a monster. They are all so happy to see Buster's new hand! I had nothing else to blog about at the moment. (Please watch Arrested Development so it doesn't get cancelled. Fox needs this show so much more than the upcoming comedy smash-hit-to-be, "Stacked" starring Pamela Anderson as a librarian.)

Hey, kids. Serious blog alert!

This past week has been quite death-oriented. I was pleased to finally see Terri Schiavo go; someone, on some blog I cannot recall at the moment, wrote about the fact that it would seem that her husband showed a really strong type of love when he battled this long of a struggle all to let her die peacefully. I believe that's pretty much right on-- or, more accurately, that's what I choose to believe. If he didn't really love her anymore, wouldn't he have just conceded to her parents' wishes and given up the battle after a few rounds? He didn't, and ultimately it was a very good thing, no matter what some people are thinking. I don't believe she was murdered, I think it was a hard decision and he had the courage to make it and not hang on to someone for selfish reasons.

I say this because today happens to be the 10th anniversary of the day my grandmother passed away. Me and my sister were extremely close with our grandparents, and it was my Granny who encouraged me to perform and tell stories, and she spotted Trish's artistic talent when she was still a tiny kid, and taught her to sew and draw. I inherited my sense of humor from my grandfather, who was a complete wacko with the humor. They were really cool people. Today, I miss her--and my Pop-Pop, who died only six months later because it really was hell for him to live without his wife-- almost every day. Ten years later. It sucks, really, to love someone so much and miss them this much. But the thing is, my Gran didn't leave a living will. Not a thing in writing. We just knew, based on verbal conversations, what she wanted and didn't want if she ended up on life support. Which she did.

The thing I remember most about the last time I saw Granny? Her skin. I held her really soft, old familiar hand in mine and asked her to please hang on. I'm not ready for you to go yet, Granny, I love you so much and need you. Please. Stay. She couldn't talk anymore because she was on a ventilator, but she nodded and gave me a brief grin. She had already said goodbye. But she loved me enough to tell me she'd always want to make me happy, when she could. I understood as I left her room that it would be the last time I saw her, but I would never forget her soft hand and her eyes smiling peacefully at me. I have recalled that sensation of her eyes on mine and her soft, soft skin more times than I could ever count.

My mom was the one who had to make the decision, along with my Pop-Pop, when she slipped into a coma and began to show signs of her organs shutting down. Brain activity disappeared like water down a drain. I wasn't there for that horrid conversation, but my mom spoke what my Pop-Pop couldn't because of emotion. It was only a few days later when the call came from the hospital. I answered it, as it were. The doctor told me, quite simply, "Your grandmother has passed on." I had only made it to the top of the stairs to head down and share the news, when Pop-Pop met me at the bottom. He looked up; I told him, "She's gone." He sighed a deep, pained sigh and grinned, and his eyes looked like holes shot through a target. "I know, hon."

So I think to myself, what if my Granny had fallen into this illness and her body shut down, and my Mom and Pop-Pop had chosen to keep her here. How long would she have hung on? How painful would it have been to see seasons pass while knowing she never could, even though she was technically there? That constant vigilance of wondering how her breathing was; how stable was her blood pressure; turning her to prevent bedsores... how would that have changed us, as a family and as individuals? I was 19 at the time. Would I have made different choices over the last decade knowing I had to do my part in caring for my slowly dying grandmother, who could no longer hold my hand with hers, or look at me with recognition? Would just knowing "at least she is still alive" have made our lives better somehow? I sincerely and utterly doubt it.

I mourn, and I think I always will, since I was so devoted and close to them, but this past week has made me so thankful and grateful for my mother and my Pop-Pop, and their courage to make a definitive decision like that. My Gran was spared all of that, and even more importantly, particularly to the woman who my Granny was, WE all were, too. So I don't really give a crap what people who scream "murder" at Michael Schiavo say. For me, and my family alone, I am grateful that there is still a place for humanity in our society and no governor, judge, senator or hell, even God, can take that away from us. We have this choice, and we make it with serious, loving intentions, and it is NOT easy. But thank God we can do it. Medicine is to heal, not for us to play God with.

That's it. I will commence with the funny stuff soon. Like a Scholastic kitty cat, "Hang in There."

Tonight, a little group of us went out and ordered pizzas to go. We then drove to Walgreens for some drinks, and it was the only Walgreens without drinks. I did buy a mug with a crazy face on it for a dollah.

We got the drinks, went home, ate pizza.

Talk tonight revolved around something called anal bleach. Allison told us another name for boogers. Niffers or something like that. I can't remember, I was driving at the time and when I drive I am paying attention to the road.

There were drinks, right...

There was "From Justin to Kelly", a 'blooper reel' and a song called "Pull it Out."

Oh, Christ.