Back when I was captured by the Iranian goverment that one time, they tied me up and tossed me into the back of a van and sped away over uneven pavement. They said if I shared the secrets of our nation's nuclear weapons program, they would give me anything at all I wanted in addition to just letting me go. It seemed like a good deal. After all, it was only 1985 and I didn't have a lot of allegiances to very many things yet, other than perhaps Swatch and their delightful little thin plastic watches.

So I told them what I knew (which was, through a weird series of inplausible events, much more than you'd ever expect from a growth-spurty 10 year old from the Jersey suburbs), and they tossed me back out of the van-- with a gift certifcate for-- you guessed it!-- chocolate chip cookies from McDonald's!

Man, those were the days. When I wasn't betraying my government, or hallucinating after watching "Back to the Future," I was begging for those little white boxes of "chocolatey chip cookies" from the house of Ronald. I don't know what it was, but I used to really love those things. They were smallish and crumbly, and the "chocolatey" part was sufficiently fake-tasting to please my unsophisticated palate.

Several years back, they stopped selling these cookies. Now they sell normal-sized cookies with real chocolate chips. I'm bored. I don't buy those cookies. I lament the passing of the cookies of yore.

I've found a replacement mass-produced cookie. This cookie is sold only in Target. The proper name of the cookie is: "Market Pantry chocolate chip cookies with belgian chocolate chips." I couldn't find a picture of it on Target's website so I couldn't link you up. But I know that, if you are as intrigued by this cookie as I am, you will go to your local Target and look for it. It's in a red and white bag. You'll find it.

These cookies SUCK PERFECTLY. They do taste really good, but in order for me to really like a mass-produced cookie brand, there really must be something wrong with the cookie-- and I will find this something terribly charming. The Market Pantry cookie has tasty chips, a nice buttery cookie component, and it goes very well with cold milk. However, they could possibly be the crumbliest cookie I have ever enjoyed. I have purchased two bags of these cookies in the past month or so, and both bags have contained just pieces of broken cookies. I think I had about 5 unbroken cookies in all. The rest are fragments and dust in the protective plastic holder. Ahh, hell. I ate 'em anyway! It was definitely one of those moments where I hoped no one would ever see me like this-- hunched over a paper towel filled with cookie crumbs and fragments, dipping my finger into the crumbs and sucking down chip-dust as I sat in front of my computer, clicking on Yahoo News out of extreme sluggishness and boredom. I was the picture of Sloth. (Not Goonies-Sloth; the Deadly Sin one)

My point is: I bought more of these deliciously bad cookies today. In fact, I made a Special Trip(TM) to get them on my lunch hour. The funny part of this story is:

In the cookie aisle, an upscale Scottsdale Wife (very blond, thin, with expensive clothes and high trendy espadrilles) was methodically sampling the cookies. Yes, sampling. As in, opening up bags and boxes and trying them. I don't think you are supposed to do that. I ran away. I didn't want her to drop the boxes when the fuzz showed up, and I would get blamed for her crimes against trans fat-filled items. Either way, it was a totally strange scene. I wonder if she has to steal cookies in the store like this because her controlling Scottsdale Husband (he drives either a black custom Mercedes or a Hummer) would give her passive-aggressive guilt for "eating too much" if she just bought them and ate them at home. Sad, really, anyway you look at it.

And best of all, it made me feel superior at a time when I was at a sugar-caused low. At least I was PURCHASING my intact bag of crumbly cookies. Ha!

Today is weird. I am hungry as hell right now, but don't feel like making anything. Why do we get like that? Is it a lazy-human thing, or just a lazy-Lisa thing?

I will also not lie to you-- I am prone to depression, you see, and I was taking Lexapro for a year. I have been weaning off of this for over 2 months now, and this past weekend was the final pill. I am currently going through the worst withdrawal symptoms I have ever felt. Dizziness, headaches, a red, flushed face for some reason, and something that feels like "brain freeze" every hour or so...it's really gross. Please don't take this prescription-- I know there are other prescriptions that can help depression without this shit.

Withdrawal from anything must suck. I never had to deal with this before. The worst I'd felt before this was when I would not have caffeine for a day or so and I would get that caffeine-withdrawal headache. Nothing like this. I don't have an addictive personality so I've been lucky enough to not have to deal with quitting smoking, drinking or anything like that. Seriously, if you have had to deal with going off any of those substances, I have a lot of respect and best-wishes to send out to you, my friends. Wow.

Maybe we can all go off and live in the woods somewhere, away from all these substances. We can drink from a pure mountain stream, and grow our own food in clean soil and frolic in the sunshine with the children. Sound good to you? Right, then! Let's leave at sunrise tomorrow! I will bring the toothpaste.

...

Oh, damn it anyway! We are doomed already--toothpaste is a gateway substance to the evils of society! EVERYONE knows that. Crap!

I guess we shouldn't go. Or, we go and let our teeth rot.

What's the consensus? Vote now.

Not much going on today! So, at random:

• I love the word DRIZZLE. I like to say it in a drunk-voice; in other words, I slur it and drag out the z’s. I say, “Just drizzzzzzle it.” I say this out loud, often. To no one.

• Yes, the rumors you heard are true. I did, in fact, fashion a Black Twizzler swastika on the plate of Oreo’s at Allison’s 29th birthday party this past weekend, following two cups of frozen strawberry slush-liquor drink stuff. We keenly averted trouble when Allison wiped away the design as her parents entered the room. (I didn’t act alone—Greg helped. That’s love.)

• Along our walk yesterday, Greg and I saw a shrine to someone who must have died in Iraq. The shrine was on someone’s driveway, with candles and Virgin Marys and other religious items. It made me stop and think for a minute. But then, we saw the Lawn Ornament House (a house with very randomly-placed plaster and ceramic animals in the grass, all shielded from the perils of the road by an attractive chain-link fence). And next, Malcolm attempted suicide. He wandered aimlessly off the sidewalk and into the path of an oncoming car, his retractable leash allowing the craziness to occur without me noticing until I heard a car slowing down behind us. I look, and Malcolm is walking towards death. Honestly, he was just lucky that we were on a sidestreet with a speed limit of about 15mph, and the car was also slowing down as it approached a speed hump*. Death, lawn ornaments… just another exciting walk with the dogs. (*Speed hump? Didn’t we used to do those after school before our parents came home? I think we all did.)

• We saw “The Brothers Grimm” yesterday. So… they were in Germany? Really? Where were the fun German accents? And why were the French so brutal? I did appreciate the Walking Trees, though. I used to scare my sister and a friend of the family, a little girl named Lori, by telling them about Walking Trees. They would scream and scream. When they finished screaming, they would cry a little. It was all fun and games until Lori chased me and Trish around with dog poop on a stick. Yes, nothing better typifies my childhood than me telling scary stories, and then being chased with poop on a stick.

• Today, on my lunch hour, I was on a search for: 1) black clogs. 2) a storage shed. Obviously I need the shed for reasons I cannot disclose here. And the clogs? Oh, they are just fun. Clog, clog, clogging along, singing a happy song, all the day long. Clogs on a frog, and the frog’s on a log, and the log’s in a bog, the bog down in the valley, oh!

• Eat spinach, it has carotenids and folate. Which are things you apparently need in order to not die. Don’t ask me what those words mean, though. Because I don’t know.

Hey...! What's this? Why, this is a shot titled "Strays" from the Santa Speedo Run website. Honestly, I don't even recall anymore how I ended up on this website. All's I know is, it was late, it was dark, I had a few speedballs while I was doing a search for "leopard print Speedo" (another blog entry for another day) and whammo, I am thinking about jolly old elves and their bouncing packages. Things happen.

The Santa Speedo Run is a charity race in Boston to raise money for, of all things, charity. Guys wear Santa beards, hats and other accessories with a Speedo, and they run around a lot. Anyway, the thing I love about this shot is how blurry it is. I feel dirty just looking at it. Like the photographer was a filthy guy who just had to hop out from between two cars and snap a picture. Not an official photographer for the race or anything. Just a garden-variety perv. Plus, look at the glowy guy on the left-- he's fuckin' airborne as God shines his rays of sun down on this, His most wonderous creation! And he has the popular splayed-finger action going on. Trust me, I am a broad who likes the splayed-finger action on dudes when they are running.

(I do think however, that Mr. Scarf and Suspenders was taking it too far. And Hairy Stomach bringing up the rear is just elated to be there. Good for you, Hairy Stomach! You go, you charity-running motherfucker!)

I'd like to go to this event sometime. I want to be a person that stands on the sidelines and screams "WOOOO" for hours on end. I'd even bring a huge "jingle bell" to add to the festive environment; I might even wear a bow on my forehead and my HOPPED UP ON THE NOG shirt. So anyway. Who wants to drive me there? Any takers?

I was tagged by TinaHeinie recently to do this list of things. So, without any further foot-dragging, slow-poking, ado or wool-gathering, I present:

7 Things I Would Never Do

1) Manually stimulate a fish (either for breeding purposes, or for smutty purposes)

2) Buy, steal and/or prepare and eat chutney of any kind

3) Set myself on fire. I hate the feeling of burning; and for the record, I hate it more than I hate vagina cancer.

4) Say “Ooh, we have to hurry home! That reality show is coming on that I totally love to watch!” I don’t love—or even remotely like-- any reality shows, and I don’t hurry home for anything other than letting my dogs out so they don’t crap on my carpet.

5) Drink urine, even if it is distilled and it’s for survival purposes. It's still pee, no matter how fancy you dress it up.

6) Go clubbin’.

7) Bury any of my loved ones alive. I promise to check for vital signs and to deliver a “finishing whollop to the head” just to be sure, before I bury any of you. I will also tie a string to your finger, which is attached to a bell just alongside your grave. Wiggle your finger if it turns out I didn’t do the job right.

I tag: Trish, Lengli, Georgia, Toole, Karla and Paul. Go ahead, you frequent-updaters, you. See where your frequent updates get you? That's right, my little bitches. You get tagged.

Here's a story from my childhood:

This one time, I beat up a kid in 6th grade. It was the last day of school and this particular fucker tormented me all year long. Called me a geek and a "flat chested dork" and all this other stuff. On the last day of shop class, we were all sitting around just signing yearbooks and screwing around, and this kid came over and took a photo out of my hand that I was looking at. It was a picture of my Granny. He waved it around and then, as he hurled unncessary insults at me, he tore the photo up. That's just WRONG.

I went into a rage. The thing is, this was my first rage. I'm talking that can't see straight, want to hurt you and hurt you bad and hurt you NOW rage. Since it was my first rage, it was a pure and unrestrained rage. I grabbed the kid, who was just a skinny little prick anyway, and pulled him into the hallway by the stairs. I preceded to beat the shit out of this kid. I spent a lot of time kicking and punching, and made a mushy stew of his genital area. I gave him a bloody nose. I shoved him and called him a dick.

When I was finished beating on him, I shoved him away and cursed him out and told him NEVER to come near me again, and I meant it. He turned, ran into the classroom and grabbed a screwdriver. He then chased me up the stairs and down the hallway, where I bolted into a girl's bathroom and hid for awhile, where I started to cry a little like Ralphie does in Christmas Story after he beats on Scott Farkus. Finally, I came out of the bathroom, and Kristen saw me. She walked with me down to the nurse's office, where we told her I got overheated from running around. Kinda true. Kristen signed my yearbook: "It was great having you in class." And immediately afterwards, she said, "I didn't mean to write that! That's what teachers write!" and we laughed and skipped away... one girl with her head full of teacher-wanna-be-isms, the other feeling a sense of satisfaction that comes with beating the shit out of an asshole kid who totally had it coming.

By the way, no teachers saw anything, in case you were wondering. I got away with it. The kid, a guy Kristen and I refer to as Kenneth Lenneth (he had a very comical name to start with, and this was our special nickname for him), never told anyone for fear of being considered a pussy who was beat up by the nerdy chick. He also never did say another word to me for the rest of middle school. Nor did he pick on my friends. It was so cool.

I get joy out of other's pain sometimes, but the secret is: the other people HAVE TO DESERVE THE PAIN. If you are an asshole, or ever did an asshole thing to someone else, you hereby revoke your rights to my sensitivity. I will rage on your ass, or at least sit back and smile as others call you out.

Ahhhh, sweet pain. Enjoy it, fuckers.

Yay. Justin Timberlake recently blew his brains out.

I really love this video: My Doorbell

OH MY GOD, THAT BABY IS ALL BLACKENED UP AND SHIT! I can hardly belive this shit that I am seeing right here. That baby. Has been. Colored On. Holy crap! Wowee wow wow wow! I wonder if they will ever wash that kid's face off? I wouldn't, because that is a look that makes a baby stand out from the crowd of babies. Blackened eyes, cryptic pagan symbols on the forehead and scalp, a sooty ring around the mouth... yes, this is a sure way to ID your baby in a baby line-up. The thing I hate is the look on ol' Stupid's face there on the left. This is probably the best thing she's ever going to do in her life. She'll be a stockgirl at Wal-mart one day. Before I close this, let me say it again: I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SHIT WITH THE BABY AND THE BLACK INK ALL OVER ITS FUCKING HEAD! OH MY GOD THAT'S HILARIOUS.

I should be painting right now. Instead, I am tying scarves onto my dog and pretending she is a Russian Mail Order Bride. It's kind of miracle she doesn't just run away.

My friend Kristen really wants a Chinese Crested. This morning she sent me an excerpt from an article about them. It was hilarious because it said the dogs are prone to acne, sunburn and difficulty giving birth, of all unpleasant things. Anyway, part of the article mentioned that "winter's chilly wind" could cause frostbite, so based on that, I wrote the following to Kristen after she wrote and said she really, really wants one:

Ahhh, well, perhaps winter's chilly wind will carry one to you! Wouldn't that be the best? You hear some whistling noises with little grunt-growls. "Where's that coming from?" you say, and look up into the sky. There, floating down in a little hot air balloon, is a lovely Chinese Crested, wearing aviator goggles and a scarf and wearing zinc oxide on his snout (for sunburn protection). He is carried down to you by the chilly wind!

OHH GLORIOUS DAY
THAT BRINGS YOU TO MEEEEE!!

That's what you'll sing as he licks you and you smell his breath.

It smells like corn.

I can't concentrate on my work at the moment, because I am thinking about the fact that an editor at HarperCollins is reading my book right now. Today. I got in, I am at least getting it read. That is so huge. I could have been in the crap-pile and not even getting a read. Nope! She's reading it. I imagine it will be turned down, but that's not a problem at all. I know someone will publish my fiction writing, and this is just the first stop for this book. I am just flattered it has gotten this far already. I am incredibly fortunate.

It's like the time I auditioned for "Rent." I wasn't really an experienced singer, so I felt like an idiot at the audition, because my voice broke and I lost a note of the song I was singing, but it was still quite fun to be asked to come in and audition. I liked the feeling. I knew, as I rode home on the train, that the experience of auditioning for a Broadway show was enough, right there. I was honored. I really didn't need the part. Hell, a huge part of me didn't even want it, at all.

Just being in the game, just being called off the bench once in awhile, is well worth it. And I don't need to be the star player, I just want to know I got on the field. That really means a lot to me.

I'm happy.

Instead of finishing the job of painting my bedroom, I took it easy tonight instead (migraine). I was glad I did, because I ended up getting things done around the house and then, watching the last few episodes of "Firefly" on DVD.

I truly loved it. I can't understand what the problem was, and why this show was cancelled. It was unique and fun and touching and... smart. I only hope that the movie will generate interest to maybe do another take on TV. It needs to be a series. I know Sci-Fi is rerunning it at the moment-- they've produced some shows, I can't see why they wouldn't be a good fit to resurrect this one. I thought good shows never got a second chance, but then Family Guy came back, so this could work.

Anyway, I am quite excited for Serenity. There are 3 movies I care about this fall, and this is probably close to number one. (Mirrormask, though, still takes the lead, and Corpse Bride, of course, is the other one to round out the three) I hope I can create characters someday that are half as good as Joss Whedon's. Love that guy. Grrrr!

By the way, my bedroom is looking awesome. It's slowly transforming into a pale blue color, and the drab brown and mulberry is creeping away, sheepishly. Funny that I will probably just get this place looking absolutely gorgeous, and then I will sell it. And move on to the next place to paint. I'm a mover. I move about once every six months or so, it seems. And I am almost due again. Luckily, the house I am moving to next, a few months but not long from now, comes mostly furnished and includes a high-quality guy. I think a lot about the whole thing, more than I could ever hope to share here (nor would I), and the bottom line is I'm excited for the upgrade.

I just looked up the movie "The Invisible Maniac" on IMDB. This was a movie that an Asian kid used to rent constantly when I worked at the video store. He was the only person to ever rent it. And he would rent it so often, too. He'd come in with different groups of friends, and every time, he would include this movie in with whatever else they would happen to rent. Of course, he would rent it by himself pretty frequently. Sad, lonely, cinematically-challenged Asian.

Courtesy of IMDB, here are some Memorable Quotes from The Invisible Maniac:
Memorable Quotes from
The Invisible Maniac (1990)
Kevin Dornwinkle: I'm injecting the serum into the bunny rabbit now.

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Kevin Dornwinkle: I was inexplicably drawn to the girls locker room.

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Vicky: I need an A to graduate, and I'd be willing to do *anything*.

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Mrs. Cello: If you want to go to college, all you have to do is make me feel like a woman.

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Mrs. Dorwinkle: You filthy stinking pervert!

Well. After Paul's great comment about whale penis-bones on yesterday's post, I decided to look into the matter a little more and yes, it's true: whales do have bones in their penises. And apparently, so do skunks. I suspect a lot of other animals have these particular bones. Consider them the rebar in the reproductive concrete.

Here's an article about a penis museum in Iceland. And yes, that sentence was a lot of fun to type!

http://www.time.com/time/europe/
magazine/2000/0918/penismuseum.html

Quick quiz: What is the chief scientist at my company referring to when he says the following quote: “They can really crank out the bone when they are properly stimulated.”

(Answer: not stoners. They never get stimulated enough. The answer is also not “anyone who plays the bones”. This doesn’t refer to music in any way. Another not-answer? Guys soliciting prostitutes. Sure, they can crank out their bone, but why would a scientist at my company be concerned with that? Pshaw.)

The true answer is, of course, osteoblasts, which are cells that help build bone. You see, I learned something today... Random work-quotes, taken out of context, can be oddly humorous in the right situation.

I can't take it when some women talk in a baby-voice. Those really high-pitched, sing-songy voices. I can handle someone scraping their nails on a chalkboard, but not that.

There's a commercial on the air here right now for a place called Cash Time Loans, and the woman in the commercial is this extremely vapid-looking blonde-- not bimbo, necessarily; more like Naive Pastor's Wife or something like that-- and she squeals out "Cash TIME Loans!" in one of these voices. They play it all the time during the morning news, so I hear it almost every day. She makes me sick, for real. Didn't they listen to her before they sent the final tape of the commercial to the stations? I assume they heard her voice first. What was the marketing strategy on this one?

"I've got it. Let's market this to all the women who were molested as children. Yeah! What other segment of the market needs payday loans more, huh? These women are fragile! They have a fractured sense of self-worth and femininity! So they can't be expected to manage their money... they need our loans...that's it. That's the sell. OK, soooo... git 'r done!"

(I decided to throw in a git 'r done, simply because when I think of things that make my brain and soul hurt, that is right up there with the high-pitched baby voice women.)

(Also, I didn't know for a long time that it was a Jeff Foxworthy thing. I really thought it was a W. saying about the war in Iraq. Some people have found this humorous when I share it. But cut me some slack-- I don't watch a lot of TV. And I will refrain from saying something negative about The 'Fox in case some of his crazy hill-people followers decide to track my yuppy ass down and knock me down a peg 'r two. I'm a pussy like that.)

"Remember, I did this without anger."

I have a new neighbor. I think she's a college student or something. I am assuming it is only one chick, as there's just one car parked next to mine all the sudden (the unit next to my condo has been vacant since before I moved in, so this is sort of a let-down that someone is finally in there) and when I spied in the window I saw only one lonely chick sitting amongst some cardboard boxes and maps. The plates on her car say she is from Massachusetts.

By the way, I don't mean to make it sound like I was really spying on this chick. I wasn't hiding outside her window, all surreptitious-like or anything. True. But our front doors face one another with just a small three-foot wall between our patios, and there are long windows next to the door. In her case, there are no blinds on her door-window. So she was clearly visible when I went outside last night to walk the dogs.

This new neighbor woke me up at 2am though. Not cool. She was out front on her side of the three-foot wall, talking very loudly with some dude. Then they were hitting the buttons to make her car alarm go on and off. Not a full, loud alarm, thank God; but just that BEEP and BLIPBLIP as the lights flash. Then they would laugh. What's so hilarious about that? I don't get these college-age-looking chicks from Massachusetts. Especially when they decide to rent the unit next to mine.

I was considering going to the store and purchasing some baked goods- brownies?-- and knocking on her door and welcoming her to the neighborhood. I really was thinking of doing that. I mentioned it to Greg and he said that was mighty Donna Reed-ish of me. That may be true, but I think maybe we need more friendly brownie-gifting and excuses to get to know our neighbors. Also, I am aware that store-bought brownies would probably be more welcomed than homemade. After all, I totally could have poisoned the homemade brownies. (Where it would be near impossible to somehow poison store brownies) I wouldn't want to freak anyone out with homemade, possibly-contaminated brownies.

However, the brownie-intro thought was in my head at about 9pm last night; since then, she woke me up with car alarm hysterics. So I don't know if this Massachusetts bitch is gettin' any brownies from me. Maybe that's what I can do: open my door and yell at her closed front door: "You are NOT getting any brownies from ME, young lady!" and slam my door again. She shouldn't be too surprised. I've got a garden gnome riding a frog out front, so she probably already knows I have my quirks.

Pulp Fiction in 30 Seconds, by bunnies. (Thanks for the link, GC, I finally watched it so I know you have to be happy now)

Also, today on my lunchhour I realized I couldn't live another workday without Alphaville on CD. Not for "Forever Young"--balls! No, it's "Big in Japan" that I needed. (Ooo, the Eastern sea's so blue-oooo!) So, I bought it. I'm on an 80s kick for some reason, but it has to be things like Alphaville and When in Rome. Next, I'm going early 90s and replacing my Lightning Seeds Cloudcuckooland tape with a fresh and shiny CD. I love having a mess of CDs. Even though I only need them for about 2 minutes while I download them to my player. (I know I could go and download stuff off for free or whatever, but I don't play that way... besides, what if my player crashes or gets stolen? This way I have the old-fashioned hard copy-- that's right, bitches!)
By the way: You're not really bitches. You're sweet.

So my sister got a new job, and it's in a bead shop. It's the perfect job for her, since she is back in retail, which she loves; and it is talking about and working with beads all day long.

I went to visit her there on Saturday, which was a busy day in the little shop. I keep remembering this one moment from my visit:

She showed me the room with the glass beads, which are cheaper than the Swarovski crystals that adorn the whole front room of the store and mesmerize you with their sparkliness. Anway, she was getting down some beads from an area up near the ceiling, using a hook on a long pole. When she got some black sparkly beads down for me (yeah, I bought a bunch of beads, I couldn't help it), some of them fell off the string-loop and scattered and bounced all over the floor of the room. And Trish kept saying, "Oh, that's not good, that's not good..." as she went about tying up the string that someone had mistakenly not-tied-up on the last sale.

I liked the image of my sister getting a little ticked off at beads falling on the floor. This is way better than the image of her slumped at her computer, wishing her gross co-worker would not eat tuna subs all day and let his awful foot-odor stink up the whole office. I am very happy for my little sister, and her management of all beads; neatly strung-up and unruly-on-the-floor alike.

My bangs have returned to my hairstyle. I had been attempting to grow them out for a few months, because I was thinking that my hair would be easier to style without them, and that I might look better when I let my hair air-dry on the mornings I can't make it out the door to work on time (which is just about every morning). But, the truth was I think I was looking a little skanky. And I hated the idea that I would no longer look different than everyone else... because, of course, I live in Scottsdale and all the girls here have longish-hair with either no bangs or bangs that are all long and pushed off to one side (with highlights and low-lights, of course). So, on Saturday I got them cut again back to their favored across-my-forehead style. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I had them back.

I got my hair cut at Great Clips. Because I don't have a lot of money at the moment, and I can't stand the annoying hair stylists around here with their ultra-hip attitudes and eye makeup. I was the only female getting her hair cut at the shop. The whole time I was there, the only other women to come in were either mothers bringing little boys in for trims, and one very sullen-looking girlfriend, who slumped in a plastic chair next to the door and read a 944 magazine (keeping up on the Scottsdale trendiness, of course) with Taryn Manning on the cover, as her boyfriend in the trucker hat waited for a neck shave, or something like that.

As for me, the Lone Female Customer, I even splurged, and paid the extra $3 to get the shampoo and conditioner treatment! My stylist, however, didn't even offer me the option of a blowdry and style, though, so I was forced to go grocery shopping with wet hair and little hair-snips all over my face. Still, it was $14 total and it really doesn't look bad at all on my head. It's not my all-time favorite haircut, which was a Toni and Guy deal back in 2002 (and also cost me about $110 b/c it included hair color too), but it will suffice. Greg even thought I had colored my hair anew, because the cut shows off the color much better. Sweet. $14 and improved color-show. I wonder if other cool ladies like me are hip to this Great Clips jive.

I also found out this weekend that I can't drink strawberry margaritas and Coronas and then eat nachos and salsa followed by a sugar cookie chaser. I got a headache first and then full-out nausea. I had to take a nap. I just can't drink and eat well.

At least I have cute bangs again, so who cares if I am sickish, right? Yeah.

I don't know for sure if the person in the jacket, satin panties and bike helmet is Trish or myself, but I figured maybe if I posted this someone out there might be able to shed some light on the situation.

I'm just not sure who that is! And that's odd. I remember the night-- we were preparing for a yard sale to support the theater last summer, and this was the "pricing party." Some party. It was about four of us and a gigantic mess.

I love how Allison is in the back just having a good old belly-laugh at the antics of the mystery sister. Panties, helmet and men's jacket over clothes obviously equals instant comic gold. Really now, who the hell is this?! (I bet it's you, Trish.)

This may be true, but I am still a little shaken by that part where the monkey is poisoned:

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

You know what? I'm glad there exists a product that can remove impacted or infected earwax: Ear wax candles. They sell them at the Sunflower Market, and I have yet to see any hippies picking them up. "Sweetheart, my ears are really filthy? Can you pick up some earwax candles when you go buy this week's supply of granola and hummus?" And here's my theory about why the hippies don't buy them: they can't really come up with a convincing argument against cotton swabs.

(Sure, they probably hate Johnson & Johnson, or any of the horrible big corporation cotton-swab-makers, so they might not buy out of a desire to never support the big corporations and their evil practices; but guaranteed it would be relatively easy to find cotton swabs that are manufactured by a smaller, less-evil company somewhere out of Nebraska or something. Hence, hippies can safely purchase swabs and forgo the candles.)

Part of me really wants to try out these candles. It's kind of a sick fascination I would have about my own earwax. These candles make me curious. I want to know: would I have enough earwax to support a flame? Would it smell like ears as it burned? What would happen if I fell asleep with the earwax candle still going... would my hair catch fire and would I need to be rescued from my burning house?

I wonder if earwax-smell in the air is a nice, palpable aroma. And, if so, if Glade is already working on an earwax candle. Maybe one of those triple-layered candles you see these days. (I just bought one with a name like "Tranquil Night at Home" and it smells like chamomile tea on the top level, something equally warm n' cozy on the second, and "warm hearth" on the third layer. Not exactly what MY house smells like on a tranquil night-- which would be the scent on diet-coke breath, well-chewed rawhide bones and the wrappers of discarded fun-sized Nestle Crunch bars.) The Glade triple-layer candle for "Human Scents" could be "Earwax Surprise" on the top, followed by "Fresh Bandaid Over Fresh Blood" smell, with a nice base of "Honey Smacks Pee". Yeah, that would be a best seller.

Earwax candles also create a lovely ambiance for those candlelit moments we all strive to create out of a sense of desperation, loneliness and fear. Now, with an earwax candle, you can carry the candlelight with you from room to room. Probably, you need to keep your head tilted to keep the candle in and help assure a steady supply of wax to the candle, but still-- it's right there, with you! Lay your head down on the table (candle side up) and let the glow warm everyone's hearts.

Of course, sooner or later, if you use these candles you are going to run out of earwax. This would logically lead to an upswing in the manufacture of earwax enablers. Special goops and unguents we can put into our ear canals to stimulate wax-creation. People would suddenly want (crave) more wax, and the creators of the earwax candle would at first be perplexed-- is their life-work suddenly meaningless?-- and then happy because their bank accounts would be getting bigger. They would have little meetings over coffee in the mornings, and talk about "how funny life is" and some joker would make an amusing little statement like, "when life hands you earwax, you make more earwax candles." Point is: we don't have to worry about those guys, they'll make out just fine.

I don't really have a witty way to wrap this up. I just realized this. I can say this much: my ears are clean. Candles or swabs? ...Wouldn't you like to know.

This is picture on Hot Topic's site. It's supposedly selling blue "Special Effects" hair dye. 1) Who OK'd this photoshop job? 2) I don't want to buy anything that gives me that creepy "I just had a helium enema" face. Don't worry kids, this lady won't hurt you. But just to be safe, lock your windows tonight.

Are you like me? Do you sometimes sit and ponder: I wonder where the hot dead dudes are at? Well, my likeminded friends, here's a place to take a look at some of the finest dead man-meat available! Click this link: http://www.jonno.com/cdg/index.html and decide which lucky deceased fella is gonna adorn your locker this new school season! (It might be hard to choose, as they are all quite the handsome devils.)

Katie: "Yeah, I hit him! So what? C'mon, get that camera out of my face."

Trish wanted to me to tell anyone who is wondering why she hasn't been updating her blog is because her internet has been disconnected. It's just temporary, and it will probably be back up by tonight. She says hello to everyone.

There. Now that I did that, I can move on to something else. I was cleaning my bathroom today and for some reason, when I clean the bathroom my mind wanders. On my mind today while I was cleaning: my teeth.

I have pretty decent teeth-- not very many cavities. However, for years and years I apparently was grinding my teeth in my sleep. And really grinding them hard, too. I'm still angry at my old NJ dentist for not calling it to my attention sooner. My dentist in AZ took one look at my teeth and said I had a real grinding problem and was going to need a biteguard. I had to go and get the molds made of my teeth and a week or so later, I had a clear plastic biteguard all my own.

Immediately, I felt like a huge tard. Like I can't sleep without 'protection' from my own teeth. But my back bottom molars were shot. I ground my teeth so much that I had worn off all the enamel from my tooth's top surface, as well as any of the normal grooves that are in molars. The dentist told me that eventually, my teeth would probably still wear down so far that the nerve would be exposed and I'd be forced to get crowns.

For the past almost-seven years, I have been faithfully wearing my biteguard. My teeth, even with their nightly protection, are still getting flatter and flatter. I always say I have cow teeth because they look like big, flat teeth of a cow that's been doing nothing but chewing the cud. I know that is so attractive, but these teeth are just not pretty.

My biteguard is starting to give out. There are two little holes that have recently appeared in the biteguard's surface. One is over my bottom tooth-- the one on the left of the front four teeth. It has a point on it, so I think that's why the hole is there. My teeth are damn near punching through anything that goes in my mouth. The other hole is, frighteningly, over one my compromised molars. I just know that soon I am going to need to get crowns now. I am really scared of this. I need to find a new dentist (the old one doesn't accept my new insurance) and one that can do that lovely sedation dentistry. Yeah. I don't care, just don't let me be fully aware when you go into my mouth and start scraping at the exposed dentin on my molars with that metal hook-thing. Just typing it makes me cringe.

So many people are wigged out by needles. Not me! Shoot me up. Gas would be fine, too. I will say to the dentist, "Whatever, just do it man. Mamma said. Knock. Me. Out!" And he'll say, well no, we can't knock you out, but we can numb you. And then they will novacaine my face into oblivion and that will begin my descent into darkness. I will seek out the numbness after that. I'll sell my car, house and CD collection to buy more novacaine. I will be the wandering novacaine addict forevermore. Living in doorways, sleeping under tarps, smelling like shit... and nothing on my face will have any feeling.

The Unfeeling Face. (That will be my superhero name.) You can shoot things at my face, and it won't stop me-- I will just keep on coming at you. For, my face is numb and pain will not slow me down. I could take on a lot of people before I would collapse from blood loss.

Well, that's my story about my teeth!

It's an overcast afternoon, and thunder is thumping softly in the distance. I am hoping for a downpour as I sit here typing in my green room, happy to be working from home today.

Greg and I met up for lunch today, and we went to a good Chinese restaurant (not like the one on SF that was gross enough to make me temporarily insane; I won't go into details because it's better if you don't know) called Little Szchewan or something like that. I probably frigged up the spelling. But it was very good, and we had fun just seeing each other in the middle of a workday. Tonight, we are going to see my man, Bill, in "Broken Flowers." I'm excited. It should be a good one. At least, the reviews I have read have been favorable so far. And just seeing him makes me smile.

I've made my share of Christopher Reeve jokes in the past, and admit to being a huge fan of the South Park episode where he is eating fetuses, but I was sad to read the news today that his widow, Dana, has lung cancer. That lady can't get a break. Sure, her husband could get a break, literally. But not her. She just gets cancer. Something is up with that Reeve clan-- they could be a little cursed. I blame HACKMAN!

People keep getting to this site by searching for lyrics to South Park songs: namely, the "I've Got Something in my Front Pocket" tap-dance song for Butters. I also get this one, or variations on it: "She urinated in her pants." I just thought I would share this fact. I wonder if I have helped these people in any way.

Yesterday I decided to not pursue a pretty decent job I was in the running for at a huge corporation. I figured that I didn't want to drive all the way to the other side of town everyday, navigating not one but 3 freeways; and I didn't want to work for a huge corporation with huge corporation rules and politics. I've already got corporate politics to deal with, but at least I am used to these particular politics and they are on a much smaller scale, and for the time I am to remain in Arizona, I might as well stay with the devil I know. So I called and cancelled my second interview. I wonder if I am going to regret it, because like all of us, my job drives me crazy most of the time. Overall though, I think I will be just fine. I have this blog, my two books, the dogs, Greg, and the promise of cooler weather in the future. Still, sometimes when things come up, it can be hard to turn down opportunities, that's my point. But today I really am so relieved and happy that I did. After all, I got to meet my boyfriend for a very yummy lunch, and I washed my dog in the middle of the morning and ate Cinnamon Life cereal today in my pajamas. I know for a fact the huge corporation job wouldn't let me do THAT. Ha.

Still-- no rain. Come on, don't tease me with your thunder foreplay, mother nature. I want a happy ending.

In the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge, we stopped our bikes and took some pictures. I was speechless.

By this point, we had already been in the city for about a day and a half, and were already exhausted. We walked from 5th and Mission where our hotel was (the Pickwick, which we chose due to the high rating it was given on the internet, as well as the descriptions of the rooms but for me, it was the name: Pick-Wick! It's fun to say.) up to Fisherman's Wharf on the first day. Up the hills. Wow. I think I was wheezing. I am so out of shape. But we finally made it-- we looked at the sea lions (yes!!) at Pier 39 for a long time; got some ice cream and sat on a bench and looked at the view of the Bay. I loved every single, tiny little second of this trip.

Getting back to the bridge: We rented the bikes, and they sort of sucked because they kept "popping" out of gear. In fact, at one point I was riding up a small hill mere feet from the entranceway to the bridge, and the gears SLAMMED out of whack. It happened so violently that I yelled out. Ever have one of those yells just escape you, and then when other people turn around to see what all the fuss is about, you feel like a massive asshole? That was me!

Bad bikes aside, NOTHING could ruin this trip. Not the gigantic hills, or more wheezing breathing from me...nothing. See, I finally have a boyfriend who is perfectly fucking cool. I can do anything with him. He is never scared, he doesn't bitch or complain or have a lot of hang-ups or phobias, things like that. He's just up for anything and he smiles about 99% of the time, no matter what. He has a lot of practical knowledge, cooks very well and makes me feel safe when we are walking around a strange city at 11:30 at night, surrounded by homeless people and obviously a little more than lost. Even better is the fact that he appreciates things-- everyday things, gorgeous things, dogs running on a beach, the taste of pepper. Or, like the view of the bridge, disappearing into the fog and clouds above us. And-- he appreciates me. The whole me, the me that is a dork and the me that can just lose myself daydreaming and staring at clouds and trees. I lost count of how many times I would catch him watching me as I just took it all in, and how many times he reached out to rub my cheek or push hair out of my face from the wind. And I equally loved just watching his reactions to things we saw and overheard. (My personal favorite was when we were hanging off the trolley, going back towards the wharf the morning we rented the bikes. Two teenage boys were standing on the rail next to Greg, heckling girls on the street as we went past, shit like that. The trolley driver was this black dude--very no-nonsense, ordering people where to sit or stand on the trolley as we picked more people up; working the huge metal gears with a blue-collar fury that I thought was really awesome. I was thinking he would make a great character in a book. Anyway, Greg told me that one of the kids said to the other one, "I think our driver hates life." Greg shared this with me and I was laughing for the rest of the day at random times when I thought of this quote. There was no way that guy hated life, but the humor in that comment was in no way lost on me.)

I have so much to say about what we did, but there's no way I can capture it all here. We really fit so much into just three short days in the city. We walked, biked, trolley-ed(?), rode the bus (for free once-- somehow we didn't get charged as we boarded and there were too many tiny, loud old chinese ladies clogging up the front seats and aisle for us to make our way all the way forward to do the honest thing and pay up), took the BART train, and rode the ferry back from Sausalito (and got completely douched with water as we sat on the deck-- it got in my mouth and the first thing I worried about was how much fish-urine was in that mouthful of water, so we had to go inside and get some drinks-- a hot chocolate for me and a Bud for Greg. A table full of college-age kids were playing quarters with Coronas at a table next to the area where all the bikes were stacked; I thought it was stupid to be drinking that heavily on a ferry boat, but it was also kind of hilarious and sweet at the same time. I love vacation.) I know we would have taken a rickshaw if the opportunity had presented itself. We went to Haight (your old neighborhood, Hanson! :)) and looked for a watch for Greg, sat in the grass on a windy hill and had a serious talk that meant the world to me... and when it was finally time to head back to the airport for our flight home, we were overly tired so we were babbling and stupid-giggly.

The flight attendant who was announcing the seating order had a strange accent that we couldn't stop imitating, loudly. And, we flew TED. It's a division of United, in case you're not in the know. It's funny because in the announcements and stuff, they say things like, "Ted wants you to relax and enjoy your flight." So of course, Greg and I were laughing and making up our own "Ted wants you to do this and that" jokes, pretending Ted was a diety of some sort who required sacrifices. "Ted wants you to offer up your virgin daughters!" I recommend flying Ted. Cheap fares, Ted-Tunes(TM) on the headphones jacked into the armrest, and an omnipotent Big Brother-type presence. You can't beat it.

That's it for this rambling, parentheses-filled post: now, on to a couple more random pictures from our trip!

It was a windy day. No matter what I did, hair was constantly stuck in my mouth. I should have brought a hat. Moving on... This is us. I held the camera out and hoped for the best. We were halfway through our bikeride to the Golden Gate Bridge when Greg spotted the golden dome in the distance. We wondered aloud what it was, and decided to bike over to it. It turned out to be the rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts. We loved it. We stood there, arching our heads back to gaze up at the columns and carvings, which looked gorgeous against the backdrop of the fast-moving, time-lapse-photography clouds in the sky. We felt small, but our hands held each other and we just took it all in together. This photo is a testament to how I was feeling overall: you will notice I had stars in my eyes. Maybe it was just the eye on the right, really... but either way, look at me-- all rockstar. Just call me Bright Eyes and ask me to turn around, Bonnie Tyler!

This was on the sink in the ladies' room in the crap restaurant we ate dinner in. The concierge at our hotel recommended we try this place in Chinatown called Louie's, so we did. The "Cashew Chicken with Broccoli" came with no broccoli-- and the chicken was gray in color, and slimy. Greg's food wasn't much better. Plus, live fish in a tank right inside the front entryway. And one of the big, whitish-colored fish was down at the bottom of the tank, pressed against the glass and looking quite dead. (True, I did try to NOT look at the fish because no good can come of me looking at fish for longer than 2 seconds-- but it was a little like a car accident. Involving dead fish) Anyway, after we "ate", I visited the restroom and spotted this on the sink. For some reason, the fact that it was called "Nonsense Cleaner and Deodorizer" was killing me. I was giggling away and finally had to cave in and take a picture. (Later in the trip, when I ran out of memory on the camera's card, I was going through the photos and deleting bad shots, and I almost deleted this one, but decided it just might be blog worthy. Sometimes things make more sense on the blog.) Anyway, the folks at Easterday Janitorial Supply Company want you to enjoy their Nonsense!

I was mesmerized by the beaded flowers and scented candles.

Well, send me to the netherworlds and consider me a screamin’ banshee, because I am very excited to go to San Francisco tomorrow with my dude-person. I have never been there, and that is why I am so hyped up. We have no set plans—just fly in, find the hotel, and once we do that we have no clue what could happen next.

Everyone is giving me suggestions of things to do there: the most popular one? “Go to Chinatown.” All the San Francisco veterans are telling me this is something not to be missed. I know we’ll go there, mostly because I think our hotel is nearby, and I know I will see some Chinamen. I think I read a story in middle school about a family of Chinese immigrants who lived in ‘Cisco in the 50s, and had a laundry or dry-cleaning place, something like that. One day they were harassed for being Chinese. I can’t remember the rest of the story, but the moral was: Don’t Make Fun of Chinese People, and Respect Their Laundry.

Also, we will probably rent some bikes and go over “the Bridge.” You know… the Bridge. The big red one. Once over the bridge…? No idea. Maybe we will meet a family of wayward clowns; clowns that broke free from the circus and were now ramblin’ around the land, living off hose water and discarded McDonald’s. I hope the clowns don’t have The Clap.

Maybe we will see some sea lions! Ooooh, I hope so. I really enjoy marine mammals. I like cetaceans best, but I will settle for some cute sea lions. Unless they stink, in which case I will hold my nose in an obnoxious manner.

That reminds me: at the conference, I kept seeing this one woman who looked perpetually annoyed and uncomfortable. She sat hunched in a chair against the wall, her fingers dug into her ears, and making faces that clearly communicated to everyone else that “the sound in this room is too loud” while an announcer spoke on stage. Never mind that this stupid bitch chose to sit underneath the goddamn speaker itself… Later on, she was in the bathroom and she was complaining to another surly-looking housewife-type that “I just can’t seem to get this soap to foam up!” I guess the hotel hand-soap was not up to her high-foaming standards. I saw her walking around a hallway on the last day of the event, rubbing her bare arms and loudly bitching about how cold she was. Seriously, I just kept seeing this same lady and every time—totally bitching about something.

Imagine being her spouse, or her kid? Man… if there was ever a justified case of someone smothering another person with a Safeway bag as they slept, her family would be pictured in the law-books for that one.

Here’s a little something a typical asshole lawyer could say to his paralegal:

“Smith! Consult the law-books!” said Mr. Knowsthelaw. “I don’t pay you to sit out there, picking your nose and wiping it under your desk chair, Smith! Get in the room where we keep the law-books, and find what I need in those leather-bound, gold-gilded law-books!”

There’s a pause, and no sound from Smith. Who, by the way, is a woman named Crystal McGibbon. Not Smith at all.

“Smith! What the devil has gotten into you? You KNOW I need my law-books to answer this particular question, and you KNOW I cannot look it up myself! Smith! Smith…?”
Lawyer-Man has walked out into the lobby.

Smith is dead.

Cerebral hemorrhage.

“Smith,” sighs the lawyer, sitting down on the floor in an anguished heap, “I hardly knew ya.”

Why’d I type this?

I don’t know, other than I am excited about going to San Francisco tomorrow. Why Smith’s death came up, I will never know.

In my efforts to cut costs in the past, I have purchased the sliced turkey that's sold in the shrink-wrapped packages. This turkey is never very good. In addition to not having that "Mmm, fresh turkey" taste, it is often wet. They package it in some type of wetness. I always sop it up with a paper towel before I can make a sandwich with it.

Yesterday, it all changed. I thought, "why would I buy that gross turkey that I need to wipe down before I eat it, when I can easily get fresh deli-sliced turkey instead?" It's true. I thought that!

And I followed through. I had them slice me up some of the good stuff. And some fresh provolone too. I bought fresh rolls (not just a loaf of whatever-wheat-bread-is-cheapest) and went home and made an awesome turkey sandwich for dinner. A no-frills turkey concoction, if you so please. I savored the hell out of that sandwich. My enjoyment must have been quite apparent, for a hush fell over even the dogs. I chewed and swallowed the deliciousness and digested with a quiet hum of contentment.

As I ate, I watched the episode of Northern Exposure in which Ed films his movie about Cicely and Rick comes back as a dog. If you know what I am talking about, I am so pleased with you! Brianna and Robert, I am looking in your general directions. And you, Trish. (But you already know I watched this episode last night because we talked about it as I waited for my floor to dry.) Anyway-- the movie that Ed films is so adorable. And so is the dog that Rick was reincarnated as. Malamute! Yes, I will take three or so. What a cute episode. Even the cardboard stand-in of Marilyn (designed to make the ostriches lay more eggs) is lovely in a sweet, unassuming manner.

This blog isn't all that amazing. Right now, I am wondering if I should hit "publish post" or not. All I did was wax philosophic about some sandwich, and try to come up with new ways to say Northern Exposure is cute. What am I really adding to the fabric of our lives today? Other than a shitstorm of slogans and cliched phrases? Not much, I'm thinking! Still, that's why I have a blog. So I can write junk like this.

I didn't know this, but the ghost girl who appears and then throws up in Haley Joel Osmont's tent in the "Sixth Sense" is Mischa Barton. Trish told me and I was stunned. Sixth Sense was on ABC last night and I watched that, too, as I was cleaning my house. I don't like that Mischa Barton. She is bony. Bony chicks are unnerving in that almost-dead way. Especially when said chicks play dead chicks. Christ.

You know who could play a ghost? Mo'Nique. I wouldn't mind that. Ghosts need a little junk in the trunk.

Yesterday in Sweet Tomatoes, Greg and I overheard the following in conversations around us:
“Well, I’m gonna go and check out the soups!”
”They have The. Best. Soups. Here. The salad is starting to grow on me, though.”
Conclusion: Old guys love talking about soup.
Also: the word “soups” is funny.

I don’t really care for soup. Soup is too hot for my mouth. I also don’t drink hot beverages, like tea or coffee. Sure, I have some hot chocolate, but that’s it… and to be honest, any hot chocolate I put into my mouth has to be “cooled down” first with either milk or a shitload of whipped cream. I burn my mouth easier than anyone I know. This, of course, makes the consumption of soup difficult.

My sister and Mom have a thing for homemade vegetable soup. Trish makes a big deal about it—“oh Mom, you have to make your soup, please make your soup, whinewhinewhine…”—and my Mom sometimes gives in and makes it. Not always, though. Mom’s reached the age where she has figured out that her kids can cook for themselves, damn it, so if they want soup they can probably just make their own damn soup. The thing is: I can appreciate this soup my Mom makes. It really is pretty tasty. However, I won’t seek it out, and many times I just won’t even try it if it is there as part of a meal, and I will never just order the soup over the salad, no matter what. I ALWAYS go for the salad. Always.

When I get sick and I am puking all over the goddamn place, the first food I usually want to eat when I can keep solid food down again is salad. That, or a sandwich with a lot of vegetables and a ton of red wine vinegar. I know they tell you to eat crackers and chicken soup or something, but I want the roughage and the vinegar. I’m almost positive Trish has the same quirk with wanting lettuce after vomiting. We are salad junkies. We used to come home from school and put some iceberg lettuce in a cereal bowl, smother it in Wishbone dressing (Italian for her, French for me) and eat that crap as we watched “Splash” or “Ghostbusters” for the millionth time.

I just love salad. I can eat it any time of the day, except for breakfast, maybe. I can eat it on my lap or at a table! Sometimes, in my car or sitting on a floor, in the dark. And I am somewhat flexible on the toppings. Let’s say I am having chicken on my salad. I can enjoy it equally if the chicken is cold, or if it is warm chicken. I don’t stress out about it. I keep an open mind. I can have cucumbers, or carrots, it doesn’t matter which. Sure, croutons. Throw those hardened bread-nuggets on there. I’ll take ‘em. HOWEVER: Dressing is the thing that can make or break a good salad. I don’t like the “creamies.” Creamies include ranch, blue cheese, thousand island or Russian. I love the vinaigrettes, though. The Italians—especially homemade. The French(es): red, honey French, creamy French (my only exception to the creamy rule). I won’t name names, but I know someone who is so enamored with a certain type of dressing that she will lick the plate/bowl clean after a salad, just to get all the remaining remnants of dressing.

My point is: no on the soup. I wish I could understand the mythology surrounding the American Soup Culture, with the biscuits and the oyster crackers or whatever, and the difference between the chowders, but the day they were handing out the Soup-Wanting-Gene, I must have been frigging around somewhere else… probably puking and eating salad on a continuous loop.