I’ve decided I need to talk about one of my dogs now.

I try very hard to keep my discussions about them to a minimum here, for whatever reason. Mostly I don’t want to end up blogging things like, “OMG, my dog was SO CUTE this morning! She is like, totally loving the cold weather! And I gave the little one dry food to see how he does with that….blah blah blah.” I love my dogs a lot, don’t get me wrong. But most of the time they do relatively normal dog-things and I treat them like…dogs. They are not my children, but they are still my awesome little “babies.” There’s a difference. I can gush about them when I talk to someone in person or on the phone, but it’s tricky in a blogging world where these things can get a little carried away if you’re not careful. That’s how it is when you’ve got dogs and you really kind of like them.

On a recent post, my long-lost twin, Lisa “the Hanson” as I like to call her, asked me in the comments how Malcolm was handling all these life changes that are going on. This is what spurred this post. (It was a good thing too, because I have been blanking on what to write about for almost two days now) I would really love it if Lisa “the Hanson” would create a blog of her very own now out of appreciation for this post, but that’s just me having a wishful-thinking moment. I want to read her adventures on-line, too.

No pressure, Lisa.

OK, so… MALCOLM.

Malcolm is such a strange dog. I’ve had him for over seven years now, and I know him pretty well by now. However, there is so much I don’t know about him. Here are two lists concerning these facts:

THINGS I KNOW ABOUT MALCOLM:
• He weighs five pounds.
• He is almost completely deaf.
• He has cataracts.
• He hates babies and young children. I mean, REALLY HATES them.
• He gets scared of and attacks cartoony drawings with big eyes. He lunges at these dark eye-shapes as if they are predators, and then casually backs off once he realizes he has just body-rushed a neighbor’s little metal “Welcome” sign with three cartoon sunflowers painted on it.
• He is very ballsy about attacking other dogs.
• He has only 16 teeth left. The other 16 have been removed under anesthesia.
• He has freckles and moles under his fur. When he is wet, these all look like liver spots.
• The vet thinks he is mixed with a Chinese Crested; and he is generally described as being a “fawn” Chihuahua as opposed to the famed “appleheads.”
• Cats love him. Some cats follow him around like they want to have sex with him.
• I would not allow a cat to have sex with him.
• He was neutered very late, so he has some problems. Problem One: he will piss on things in the house at random even though he knows better. Problem Two: His penis is always out and ‘at the ready’, earning him the nickname of Lipstick.
• He loves my bike, and will visibly shake and run around excitedly if he sees me pulling it out of the shed.
• He likes Greg’s awesome dog, Hailie. Hailie is a very friendly, happy and sweet Norwegian Elkhound and shepherd mix who just walks up to Malcolm and sniffs him in a polite manner. She also makes sure she never runs over Malcolm during excited moments. As a result, I have seen his growing affection for her.
• He tolerates Katie, my other dog who is a slightly-deranged boxer/pug mix. Katie often runs him over in the mad rush to either get outside or come back into the house. Katie also attempts to steal his food and treats, causing Malcolm to growl and snap at Katie.
• Malcolm has two beds. A basket with an old pillow in it, and a zip-up fabric crate with a cat bed inside. The crate is in my bedroom, and the basket in my kitchen. He prefers the basket.
• He sleeps about 22 hours out of the day.
• I used to bring him to the office at my old job, where he would sleep on my desk or behind my chair as I worked. He never barked, and was the perfect office dog.
• He cannot eat dry food or hard biscuits.
• He loves cheese to the point of near insanity.
• He RECENTLY, FINALLY learned how to “sit” if I point to the ground and hold a treat in front of his face.
• He likes to sun himself, and sit in dirt.
• He hates wearing sweaters or other dog clothing. He goes “on strike” and refuses to move a muscle until you take the dreaded clothing off. Smart dog.
• He really likes sitting on Greg’s couch. This past weekend, he snuggled between us as we watched movies.
• He has apparently “really grown on” Greg. Not that Greg didn’t ever not like him, but they have gotten used to each other’s personalities and now respond very well to each other. Progress.
• The very appearance of Malcolm has been known to “hex” some people. True.
• Malcolm has been named PET OF THE WEEK by the Arizona Republic this week. I was interviewed about him, and a photographer came to my house and took pictures of him just yesterday. It will be in this Saturday’s (December 3rd) paper. Malcolm is officially a star.

THINGS I DON’T KNOW ABOUT MALCOLM
• How old he is
• Where he came from
• Why he has a series of small black, tattooed dots on his groin area. The vet says they are probably from a breeder or something
• The vet also guessed he came from a puppy mill, where he was likely a stud dog. That might explain his constant umm, erections… but we may never know.
• Why he repeatedly attempts to steal the larger rawhide bones and chews from Katie whenever she leaves them behind unguarded. He can’t eat them, but he will drag a whole rawhide bone to his basket if he gets the chance.
• If he has actually read his blog, ever. Ungrateful bastard.
• Why he takes so…damn…long…on our walks…just FINISH UP so we can go back home…please…oh, now he is just peeing air because he lifted his leg on 18 different bushes and signposts…please…finish up…SO SLOW…!
• Why he used to steal things around the house and then sit on them in his bed.
• Why, when he is peeing, he will continue to pee even as pee is hitting his front leg. Can’t he feel it? Eww.
• What he would look like if we shaved him. (Stop asking if we can do this, Greg; or at least, stop asking until the point comes when I have enough drinks in me)
• If he can actually see or not at this point
• Why he just won’t stop with the peeing in the house thing. It’s fucking annoying as shit.
• Why he makes a terrible, honking, sound when he clears his throat. It sounds like a dying goose. The vet says he is perfectly healthy…
• How much longer my strange and sweet little elderly dog will be with us. I am just savoring what I’ve got and continuing to spoil the crap out of him.

As I mentioned above, he will be in the paper this weekend. I will probably end up posting the link here once they release it. It was kind of cool to be picked for this feature, and I like the fact that I get to showcase my odd little guy in the twilight years, so to speak. He seems to be slipping a little downhill, just a little here and there… he is still healthy and gets incredibly energetic sometimes, so I know he’s got probably a couple more years in him. But still. It’s sad when dogs get old. He obviously had a hard start on his life, and he seemed to have very little training when I got him (hell, he still doesn’t have all that much, but with his mellow nature he really can skate by without it), so I just want to treat him well and give him some fun every now and then. And now, he gets to be a star. Go Malcolm!

I will probably not write about Katie for awhile. She’s still so young. She needs to “find herself” before I will know her well enough to write this much about her.

And you really don’t want to read another long, exhaustive list of facts about my other dog, do ya? Come on. At least understand if I put about say, three months, between this post and that one. Like I said, I don’t want to be one of “those” bloggers, OMG.

Completely immature:

Excerpts from recent news story titled: Teen Dies of Penis Allergy After Kiss

"...Penis allergies have been rising in recent decades. The reason remains unclear but one study found that baby creams or lotions with penis oil may cause children to develop allergies later in life.

About 1.5 million Americans are severely allergic to even the smallest trace of penis and penis allergies account for 50 to 100 deaths in the United States each year.

Canadian figures were not immediately available."

Today's Ridiculous But Real Life Quote:

"Life is more like high school than college. In real life corporate America, it's all about how popular you are, and how well you can network and get lots of people to like you. It doesn't matter as much if you are really smart and have the knowledge-- the most successful people are not always the smartest people. So, in closing, work on being more outgoing and you'll see you can get ahead."

I'd say more, but I really shouldn't. I will say this, though: High school is sure coming up a lot lately. I sure wish I'd spent more of my time there networking rather than cramming people into the back of my Chevette to go to Red Bank after school. I'd probably be a lot further in life today. Sigh.

Red Bank sure was fun, though!

Ah, it's almost Monday. A day of fresh beginnings! A new week unfolds like a dew-dappled flower. And I feel like crying and gathering up my good stuff in a red handkerchief and tying it to a stick so I could run away, all hobo-style. I am sad as hell on Sunday nights anymore for some reason. Certain things have worn out their welcome, so to speak, and I am wanting to move on. And then I miss certain other things, such as how I spend my weekends each week. Greg and I stay together and the dogs all get to be together, and we watch movies and eat and go outside... all things I don't get to do during the week. I feel like such a bratty whiner. I should shut up. But at least Greg is coming over tonight to see me through this Sunday evening's transition into Monday.

Get ready to sick on yourself, for I am about to gush: Have I mentioned how wonderful this relationship is? Well, if I haven't, I must say on the record that I found it-- the relationship I have been building up for and practicing and learning for. I still cannot believe sometimes that I got this lucky. The thing for me was to actually believe I deserved this. Low self esteem sucks, let me tell ya. Whew. I was flogging myself with mediocrity and borderline mental abuse for the better half of my 20s. But it's true-- when you think you deserve the best, and you believe that... you will probably find it. Settling for second best or "good enough for now" is fucking weak.

I found home.

NOW, the reality of the moment is this: on to fucking goddamn, piece of shit, crapalicious Monday and a new workweek. Hope it's pretty decent for everyone. I have a feeling this could be a week of whirling shit. Think happy thoughts, meditate and breathe deeply and beat someone mercilessly. Whatever you gotta do, I will support you. That's the kind of blogger I am.

I'm one of the only people in my department working today, so it is pretty slow. Actually, I have nothing to do. So, I have been reading a magazine and playing on the internet to pass the time.

I'm sad to hear that Pat Morita died. He seemed like a nice guy. You know what I mean? He just came off that way. But I felt bad because I realized I hadn't given much thought to Pat Morita, though, until this announcement. I wasn't wondering "hmm, what about Pat Morita? I wonder when his next movie comes out." Yet today, I read that he died, and I felt a tinge of guilt in not missing him sooner. There's probably hundreds of actors that I would be sad to hear of their passing, even though I don't seek them out in any way or look them up on IMDB to see what their next films might be.

Another case in point: Amy Acker. She played Fred and later Ilyria on "Angel." I always thought she was pretty good, and I liked her scenes in the final season of Angel. Today they announced the cancellation of "Alias"; I read the article about it out of boredom (I never liked Alias very much), and they mentioned that Amy Acker was in the cast. I dind't know that. I might have tuned in once to see how she did on this new show, if I'd known. Just to show some strange anonymous support, I guess. Still, now that the show is cancelled I won't see her work. And I will most likely forget about her, too. Until she is in something very prominent... or she dies. It's true.

Overall, I am not a fan of fame itself. It's creepy. I can't think of anything weirder than the fact that your name and photo suddenly become big news on the day you die, even when for years prior to that no one seemed to care at all that you existed anymore. And then, just as suddenly as bloggers and the anchors of "Access Hollywood" were talking about how much they loved you and that they are gonna miss you... they forget and move on to the next topic. So strange.

You know who I can never remember when it comes to the question of "is he dead or not?" Jack Palance. I keep thinking he is dead, because we know Curly dies in "City Slickers," but then I think of him doing push-ups at the Oscars and assume he is in awesome health for an old guy. I have even looked him up on-line relatively recently to find out if he is dead or not. And as I type this I seriously can't remember if he is dead or not. I don't know why Jack Palance is the huge mystery alive/dead person of choice for me, but he totally is. I like that Jack Palance. (PS: He is very much alive, as I discovered right after I typed this. And he's still married and all that. Go, Jack Palance, go!)

If you don't read TinaPopo's blog (which you really should be, because that lady is a funny lady right there--plus she helped me get Thank God I'm Not in High School Anymore Day off the ground), you might not be familiar with GERMAN KARAOKE WEDNESDAY.

However, GKW is now making its appearance here on Armsweat. Here's what it is:

1) You take a block of song lyrics and enter it into BabelFish's translator.
2) You click on "English to German" translation.
3) Paste the German lyrics on to your blog.
4) Other people need to go to BabelFish, enter this German text, and translate it back into English using the "German to English" option.
5) Now's the fun part-- figure out, though the often-rough translation, WHAT THE SONG IS.

Ready to try it? Here's my song for today:

Und ich benötige Sie jetzt heute abend und ich benötige Sie mehr, als überhaupt und wenn Sie mich nur fest halten, wir an für immer halten werden und wir nur es rechte Ursache bilden werden, die wir nie Unrecht sind, zusammen wir es zum Ende der Linie nehmen können, Ihre Liebe wie ein Schatten auf mir aller der Zeit ist, ich nicht was zu tun und mich bin immer in der Dunkelheit kenne, wir in einem Puderfaß leben und weg von den Funken geben, ich Sie wirklich heute abend für immer gehend heute abend für immer, zu gehen zu beginnen, heute abend zu beginnen benötige.

Happy German Fun Time! Go and translate this and let me know what song you think it is. And visit Tinapopo, because her GKW is unparalleled in sheer hilarity. And Babelfish is kind of addictive.

Well, here you go. One of the top reasons I am thankful I am NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE. Here I am on a choir trip to Williamsburg with a friend named Melanie. I'm on the right, yes, in the backwards hat (at least it was a Northern Exposure hat!), with my little ratty braids in my hair, a beaded necklace and an MC Escher shirt that was at least 12 sizes too big, with jean shorts that were at least 8 sizes too big. I was still in my "asshole clown" stage here, always having to be "the funny one". As I scanned this today, I couldn't get over the number of bruises on my knees, and those round sunglasses. And WHY I didn't regularly use conditioner on my hair! What the hell? It only costs a dollar if you buy Suave, woman! Now go find some clothes that fit.

OK, so who had the bright idea of letting Armsweat into a musical? This was "Mame" our school's musical when I was a senior. I don't remember what I was wearing this for, and even worse, who that girl is next to me. This must have been the Pink Southern Belles scene or something. I only recall being a goof during this show since I was only in the "chorus" so I spent time laughing and running around backstage like an asshole clown. I got yelled at in rehearsals for donning a gold lame suit and a sombrero and 'streaking' a dance routine scene. I was known as "Solid Gold Gooch" in those days... some of you who read this might even remember that. Oh, man. Good times. Or, Gooch times. Yeah.

I actually like this picture. Senior Prom, 1993. That's Steve, my then-boyfriend (who also had a mullet, so GO ME dating the mullet dude!). One of the only chicks not in satin or floor-length bridesmaid-looking things. I had fun being "hot" for a night; for as you can see, I was hardly "hot" the rest of the time!

It's THANK GOD I AM NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE DAY!


In this lovely photo, I am wearing a white drop-waist dress with GOLD trim, with white pantyhose and gold heels. GOLD HEELS. WHITE PANTYHOSE. Someone should have whacked me with a bag of quarters for this one.

Still, there I was, all decked out with what was, I believe, newly-dyed hair (black?) and a lukewarm smile. It was homecoming, junior year. Making this winter, 1991. Ahh, the early 90s.

The reason I chose this picture as my first TGINIHSA photo (yeah, I have a couple more bombs planned for later today, but I am spreading them out) is because of my beloved Pop-Pop. Look at him! It looks like he is scowling and angry as hell. The truth is that was his resting-face; and he was probably happy as hell to be over our house and hanging out on a night I was going to a big dance. But the camera caught him at a moment where he seems to be thinking, "I am just disappointed that my otherwise-normal granddaughter would choose to wear a dress that Bea Arthur threw away. How can I show my face at the bocce tournament with this on my grandpa record? Sheesh."

(On a technical note, I apologize for the crappy scan, and lack of close-up work in Photoshop, but there were errors made. You can always click on the photo to get a closer look.)

Anyway, I hope everyone is having a great first-annual TGINIHSA Day!

I need a coin, I need it now, and I need it flipped.

My company's "holiday celebration" is scheduled for the same evening as Greg's "holiday celebration."

What in God's murky and algae-infested Earff are we gonna do?!

I already got the obligatory "please-RSVP-because-your-attendance-shows-how-terrific-our-department-is-at-participating-in-corporate-events" e-mail from my boss. I am feeling the peer pressure. (Probably more so because I didn't go to last year's "holiday celebration"... although I WAS strong-armed into attending a corporate Cook-Out last spring, on a night I had already planned to go on a first date with the guy I am now thinking about marrying... doesn't anyone recall THAT particular sacrifice? ...GOD!...)

Yes, I am confused and not sure what the right answer is. Which party to attend? Who will be in more trouble for not attending? Which party will it be easier to slip out of immediately following the free food? Hmm, so many questions I DON'T have the answer to!

You know, I am glad I mentioned coins at the beginning of this post. Because it got me thinking about a coin-based currency. We should totally go back to all coins. I know it might seem inconvenient and kind of noisy, but once everyone relaxes and assimilates to this new economy, we will have a lot of fun swinging our coin-purses about, with gaiety and jauntiness. Plus, it's not nearly as satisfying whacking guys with a stack of paper bills as it is with a heavy bag of coins.

As for you, U.S. Mint-- I did the work already for you on the marketing slogan. Try this one and let me know how it feels:

Coins. America's Currency, America's Bludgeoning Weapon of Choice. Go Coins.

This weekend I lost my cool a little in the Verizon store. I know what you're thinking, "I'd like to know, exactly, WHEN Lisa in fact ever had cool at all." And you'd be right in thinking that. I don't have much cool. But I get so angry at technology sometimes, and high rates for calling plans. It's the little things that get me buggin', as the kids today say.

Greg and I had to renew our plans this weekend, which both run out this month. I wanted a phone without the bells and whistles. I actually used that phrase, too. And then I said, "I want a phone like this," and thrust forth my two year old, plain little cute flip phone. "Do you have phones without the cameras and the games and all that, or what?"

The answer from the annoyed-looking clerk was clearly, "or what." They didn't. In fact I was given a look like, "Why DON'T you want the bells and whistles-- are you even American? Go away, Commie." I got a little frazzled, a little stressed about prices, and Greg and I had to leave for a little while. I needed to figure out a plan. In the end, I settled the hell down and ended up with a relatively uncomplicated phone that still had all the features I had railed against moments before. I signed up for a slightly more expensive calling plan. And with that, I realized I had been beaten down into submission by the Verizon machine.

I thought, briefly, about switching carriers. Alltel, T-Mobile, something like that. Greg and I flirted with shopping the kiosks in the nearby mall. In the end we both knew we were, in fact, happy with Verizon's service and didn't really want the hassle of changing carriers. We returned to the store and purchased new phones and plans.

Suddenly I decided I liked my new phone. It had neat features to play with on the ride home, and the camera was fun. Greg and I spent the next hour at home on the couch, sitting side by side reading the manuals and programming rings and backgrounds, taking pictures of the dogs to the point of nausea. How quickly we (I) forget our (my) pleas for simplicity and stripped down utilitarianism, hmmm? I was quickly engulfed in the the awe and wonder of the new, fancy, pretty phone with just the flick of the camera's lens cover. I am only human.

Other than that? Fun weekend. Saw the new Harry Potter. It was pretty damn good, but I have hereby decided to forgo the opening night moviegoing experience UNLESS it is something I really can't wait another second for. I really could have waited a day or two to see this one. I went in a group of four, and we all had to split up and sit scattered around the theater, which really blows. Especially when you planned to share a large popcorn. Damn it anyway. But the point is, it was still a pretty good film and it got me all excited and stuff.

On "The Soup" this weekend, they did a hilarious takeoff of this movie by editing together clips of Harry and Ron and making it seem like a film dealing with the young wizard's budding sexuality. It's for "the Soup" alone that I wish I had cable sometimes. If I watch that, I can get the gist of the rest of TV's crap and laugh at it in just a half an hour. This is, in my opinion, a GREAT use of my time. I love that show! But I hope everyone else caught it this weekend too, and saw that Harry Potter thing. I love the books, I love Harry Potter and the whole little Hogwarts crew or whatever, but I also love me a great parody or skewering. Yippee!

I need to go to sleep and dream of my new phone and its amazing wallpaper picture of a slice of cake.

Get ready because it's almost Thank God I'm Not in High School Anymore Day!

Naturally-Occurring Hair Discrimination

Today I realized something about the women in this office, and then tested my theory while out in the “world” at lunchtime. There is a distinct pattern wherein women tend to socialize with women who share their own hair color.

In my office, I’ve long been aware of this group of women here who are always together, and they all happen to be blonde. You notice them because they are also the trendy dressers (or in the case of one, the borderline-slutty dresser) and they are all the same basic body type—thin. You also notice them because they speak in higher voices when you walk past them, and their speech tends to revolve around topics that do nothing to stop the perpetuation of blonde stereotypes. (Shoes, clothes, plastic surgery, weddings, and yes, makeup. I distinctly recall overhearing one of the girls once say to another “we HAVE to run to Ulta today at lunch—I need new OPI!” OPI, in case you don’t know, is a brand of nail polish. I remember this conversation because I first thought of Opie Cummingham. What can ya do; when you need a new Opie, you need a new Opie.)

I am not saying that the blondes only choose to talk to fellow blondes, but in the majority of the instances when I see them together for non-work related conversations, they are always in a pack of blonde. There are no fashionable brunettes or redheads in the mix. It’s weird, really. I don’t know if they know it and do this consciously, but I bet it’s actually a coincidence.

And there are some very nice-looking, trendy-dressing, thin women here that WOULD fit into their group, but these other women are dark-haired. Here’s the interesting thing I have witnessed amongst the darker-haired women here: they are not pack animals! They are much more likely to be seen speaking with men, or walking alone. Intriguing, right? However, we darker-haired women are not above the same thing the blonde women are doing—I think we do tend to clump together socially. My sole girl-friend here in the office is a brunette. When I think about it, I’d say that about 90% of my female friends have darker hair. I only have maybe 3-4 blonde friends.

Am I prejudiced?

Maybe.

Or is this a normal, sociological thing? Do we naturally choose to be around people who more closely resemble ourselves?

I thought about this as I stood in line at lunch today to order my chicken tacos at Chipotle. Chipotle is, in general, a male-dominated lunch place. Everyone knows that. You’ll see more office guys and middle-management drones at Chipotle than you will at, say, the AJ’s salad bar. Today I noticed that the men all hang together, but there doesn’t seem to be a pattern in the haircolor. This is mostly because there IS no variation. I noted that almost ALL the guys there today had dirty-blonde/ light brown hair. Just a few Hispanic guys with black hair mixed it up a bit. Why do middle manager guys all have that hair color?

Back to the women: yup, there it was again. Three blondes came in together. Just behind them, two brunettes. Seriously; they were clumped up again according to color! A redhead was in a group with some blondish-women (one was technically gray) but she was talking on her cell phone. By default, she was not “in” the group with the others, ah HA!

As I ate, I saw other groups of women come in and again, it honestly was apparent. There was still hope for diversity though, because there really were a lot of “mixed” groupings, too. It was weird to be sitting there, doing this hair color profiling, and actually seeing it. I recommend you try it sometime, because it’s kind of weird.

By the way, there is a serious lack around this town in the way of creative hair colors. I saw no blues, purples or even bright reds. It reminds me that I HAVE to color my hair this weekend. I don’t want to be just another Scottsdale office drone with coloring that matches the bland desert landscape. Shit on that. At least I have the bangs going at the moment, even though the color has faded quite a bit. It's nice that it's 75 degrees and sunny here today, but it sucks that everyone looks the same. Arizona needs a little more edge, or something. Hell. Just get me outta here.

This is it. The big one. Now is your chance to show the world how goofy you looked in high school. That's right, it's time for THANK GOD I'M NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE DAY! This new national holiday will be celebrated this coming Tuesday.

Here's what you need to do: Dig out an old photo of yourself from high school. Preferably a photo of yourself, dressed for a formal dance, if you have it. Maybe a picture of yourself in a school play, or serving as the bridesmaid in your snotty cousin's wedding. Anything where you are dressed UP. Next, scan that bitch. Post it on Tuesday, November 22!

MOST IMPORTANT: Tell other people to embarrass themselves, too! Spread the word and we can start a new movement. This is history in the making, so I urge you to get in on the ground floor of TGINIHSA Day!

Fun times! This is probably old as hell and everyone already knows about it, but it took Katie over at Out In Left Field to bring it my attention.

Here's the forementioned fun: Go to Google, type your name with the word "needs," and see what comes up. Type it like this: "Lisa needs" and let the hilarity ensue.

Here's some of the best ones I got:

1) What Lisa needs in her kitchen. (That would be a personal chef and one of those cool Kitchenaid Mixers, preferably in purple or red.)
2) How Lisa needs to handle lower conditions. (Not sure I understand it, but I am no stranger to "lowering myself" for whatever reason, so I bet I could work something out.)
3) Lisa needs braces. (This is the most common result that comes up, and it refers to the Simpsons. Excellent! I always knew having a name of a Simpsons character would pay off the other 364 days of the year when it isn't my birthday. On that day, at least two people will always sing "Lisa, It's Your Birthday/ Happy Birthday, Lisa!" to me.) By the way, I probably DO need braces. I have an overbite and my bottom teeth are all jammed together. But the bitch of it is, I HAD braces already and I guess all that suffering was for naught, because my mouth is a little on the crap side today. Thanks for nothing, evil orthodontist Dr. Scott. Blehhh!
4) Lisa needs help. (Yes. I do. Send it.)
5) Lisa needs to communicate more clearly to clients how they can benefit from LISA membership. (I thought I explained it pretty effin' clear when I mentioned the "free handjobs" part. Come on!)
6) Lisa needs a tree. (Always! Google was right on with this one, because I really am a huge fan of trees. As long as they don't fall on me, or I don't get trapped in one from a catapult experience gone horribly wrong.)
7) Lisa needs to have her brains blown all over the pristine white walls of the penthouse. (Well... I am a little concerned now, and might hire a bodyguard. I really don't think I need this one. And who said those walls were pristine, anyway? It always looked like someone else had already had their brains blown out on those walls before me.)
8) Lisa needs a one or two parent family. (And my blankie.)
9) Lisa needs a miracle healing. (For what?! What do I have that requires a miracle to fix? Oh god, don't tell me, it's ass cancer. Shit. I really don't want ass cancer.)
10) Lisa needs to know that although she has been excluded, she is not totally rejected. (Sounds suspiciously like a talk the guidance counselors had about me and my social problems in middle school.)
11) Lisa needs a blog. (True dat.)

OK, I am using the tag-power on this one to get other people to play. So I am tagging: Trish, Kane, and... EVERYONE ELSE ON THE RIGHT! Go to town, you needy little freaks. It's fun for you and me!

A couple of dogs sitting around talking:
Katie: "Oh man... stop it... I can't breathe, you're killin' me! That is too funny, little man! Hoooo boy!"

Malcolm: "Look, I aimed and tried to pee on the bush. I hardly think my arthritis in my hips is all that humorous. You try getting pee-smell off of your front leg...bitch."

I have been thinking about the act of blogging, and what it means. Mostly I was thinking about blogs written by other people, and how very much I love them. Why are blogs so addictively entertaining?

I guess it's just that little glimpse into people's lives; the thing we all like about blogs. I also love to read my list of "regulars" (see right) and follow what's been happening in their lives and just laugh at the random mutterings and stories they tell. I like the strange friendships that have come from blogging. I have never met so many of the people I regularly read and/or comment on, but I would love to. One day after I get sickly-rich I will take a Blogger Tour and go visit the cities where you/ they all live. I will take you out to eat and we can drink or something, and then I promise I won't pester you to come back to your place, where I might clog up your toilet with something foul or pee on your bed. Nah. I know my limits and I won't overstay my welcome. I just think it would be fun to see the bloggers in person. And that also includes the ones I already do know, like Rob, who have moved away to a foreign land. I need to see you again; and the family, the dog, the house...

Well, as for me, I blog because it makes the day go faster. It's a way to just blab about some of the crap that floats around in my head. It's fun and I consider it a hobby. Is that odd? I mean, is "blogging" a hobby or just a thing we do? When I hear the word hobby I think of (Holly Hobby first, but that's not where I want to go with this, right now) doing something like painting, gardening, making model airplanes or something. On second thought, I think I want to retire the word "hobby" from my vocabulary. It feels a little too 1950s for me, and not in the cool rockabilly 1950s way, either. Just the dork way. So, in closing, blog= not a hobby. Just a something I do "for sport."

I have given it piles of thought, and effort, and I have decided that NaNoWriMo is probably not my thing. I was just as excited as anyone when I signed up, and even when I wrote my first chapter and posted it. But when I tried to pound out those crazy word counts on subsequent nights, a funny thing happened: my writing truly sucked. It was dead, it was forced, it was boring to read over and I realized I was cheating this story by going into it with this odd notion of "gotta write a certain wordcount everyday." I was doing something I never did before-- I was writing a few sentences, hitting the word counter. Write a few more, word counter again. This was distracting and not at all the mindframe I needed to be in to have FUN writing this book.

I work well with deadlines. I love deadlines, actually, and I like to do that last-minute crazy writing. But something about the flow of this story, and the way the character's voice needs to develop... it just was not working on the NaNoWriMo mindset. I did think about starting another book, but I think I would run into the same problem. I know other writers of blogs have mentioned they can't turn off their internal editor as they write, and I do that, too. Once I got critical of the new material I was writing, and analyzing it (I drive home from work thinking about the book, what this little detail could have meant and did I want to draw that particular metaphor up, and I really should do Google those names to make sure I am not inadvertantly stealing names and places from anywhere, blah blah blah...), and this meant I blocked it up and the fun slipped out somewhere along the line. I refuse to write fiction for anything else BUT FUN. It's my release and my escape and I have been doing it since I was 9. As cool as it would have been to be able to say "Yay! I finished NaNoWriMo!" when I stopped and really thought about it... it wasn't cool enough. What is cooler is to take my time on this story, accept I have things happening in my personal life that are pretty important and also worthy of my time, and enjoy my free time and let a story tell itself.

That being said, I have been working on the story, but it is going to unravel over the course of several months. I am taking this particular pressure off. And it makes me so happy to say that! Writing is all I have ever wanted to do, and I am aware that I am not the greatest writer in the world, but I really don't care. It's just a good time, and it's what I do. NaNoWriMo for me can't be the validation of that. I am already validated!

So anyway. That's all I have for now. But I do have a proposal to make to anyone who is interested:

What do you think of National Post Your Prom Photo Day? I would love to see what you all wore to your proms. Proms are funny things. Even just saying the word "prom" makes you feel like you have a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I thought we could scan and post a picture and tag other people to do it, too. Or just spread the word and everyone does it on, say, November 17. I don't know. Look at me, all wanna be startin' somethin'. Michael Jackson sang a song about me one time. Mamma say, mamma sah, moo mahk koo sah. (SHIT! That is not easy to spell. As you can see, I went phonetic on it. I didn't know what else to do!)

I have been too busy with a project at work to do much in the way of blog. But I did make some time just now to take the current quiz that a bunch of people I know have been taking, just to see what forgotten 80s cartoon character I am. Turns out? I am nothing but a pink cat.


You are Custard from Strawberry Shortcake! Ahh, you
live the good life. You're cute, loved by all,
and you enjoy simple things - a warm bed, sunny
days, yummy desserts, and a good
belly-scratching.


Which Forgotten 80s Cartoon Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

So there you have it, folks. You are reading a blog written by a person who should be the feline companion of a dessert-obsessed, strawberry-smelling redhead. Interesting.

In case you don't already know, the Armsweat sisters are P I S S E D.

They cancelled the only show that meant anything to us. Arrested Development is being pulled. But hey, don't cry! At least you can still watch shit like "Prison Break"! Or, if you prefer, you can watch the myriad of other mind-dulling shows featuring big-tittied blondes, vapid wannabe models and assholes who stick their faces in a tank full of eels.

Trish posted the news on her blog this morning and I almost spit out my water. I know that TV is supposed to be nothing but ass-swelling and artery-clogging entertainment, and that tons of you all love those shows I hate, and all that. But since this is my blog and my place to vent, I just want to share that I am mourning the passing of what I will always believe to be one of the all-time funniest comedies that's ever aired. They're not even going to do a full third season now. We only get 13 episodes.

Anyone want to join me in a good cry?

Regarding the last post, and the comments section, I started to think about my old Cabbage Patch Kids. I still have three of them. I haven't kept much else from my childhood, except those dolls. And they are in awful condition, too. Their yarn hair is a total mess, their arms are all dirty and markered-up, their plastic faces scuffed and worn out; and worst of all, they no longer have that "Cabbage Patch Kid Smell". You know the one-- it's like baby powder and the Appalachian mountains, or something like that. I can't break down the smell components because I am no odor-chemist, or whatever.

Anyway, I went to my storage room and pulled out Ardella Cheri. She's the Cabbage Patch Kid you see in that picture with Bill Kunkel a few posts down, strapped to my chest. She was always my favorite of all of CPK's, as she was the first one I got. I remember I picked her because she looked the most like I did-- brown hair, brown eyes. (Later on, I took a red marker to her hair in an attempt to "dye" her hair so it had reddish highlights. The evidence is still there on her matted, yarny head.) My uncles called her a mulato, which I didn't know the meaning of but made me cry anyway, because I knew they were making fun of my plastic-headed child, and no one makes fun of a little kid's doll, come on now.

Except for me, when I am 30: I can do that. Sure.

When I brought her into the house today, two things happened: One was Katie tried to take her from me, thinking I had brought a new toy to tear apart. The other thing was I grabbed a camera and thought how blog-worthy a shot of Ardella's ass would be!

So, without further ado, take a look at the Doll Porn below, as I pulled her pants down and took a picture of my old Cabbage Patch Kid's ass. I am pretty sure that people who do this sort of thing with their childhood toys have "issues" that might need "sorting out" with the help of a "professional." (But HEY-- check out that lil' tattooed ass! Hot!)

Quite possibly one of the filthiest pictures I have taken in my life (thus far).

Katie had to get her some of that hot doll ass. (Look how happy she is while she chews on that hand-- that tail is moving faster than the speed of my camera's...shutter speed...)

A brush with celebrity! At the tender age of 8, I was lucky enough to run into baseball legend Bill Kunkel in the camera shop.

My Dad had taken me there so we could get Mom a camera for Christmas. Needless to say, this was a trip I was NOT going to take without my Cabbage Patch Kid strapped to my chest. And my Strawberry Shortcake hat, and fake fur coat. The whole thing left me confused. You can tell by my face I was thinking, "I don't know who this guy is, and I wish he wasn't squeezing me so close. Ehhhh... uncomfortable!"

Over the years, the signature on this Polaroid got a little wet. Must have been all the tears I cried over it. Looking back now, this was probably the best day I ever had. I thought it would get better from there, but... nope. It didn't. That was my peak: The Day I Met Bill Kunkel, Whom I Didn't Know At All, and Still Don't Know Crap About.

I had applesauce tonight. It was my first applesauce since 2003, when I had it to disastrous results.

You know how when you are in the hospital for surgery, and you are in pain and stuff so they give you all sorts of intravenous medications and stuff, and sometimes what they give you has the side effect of nausea? Yeah. Well, I was there, in the hospital, on the pain drip, and I couldn't keep food down. It was the worst ever. When you are in a state like that, they might as well just keep you asleep the whole six weeks of recovery. There's no point in being awake for THAT. And let's face it, the nurses and doctors would probably prefer dealing with constantly sleeping people instead of constantly whining, crying and moaning people. If I was a nurse, I would make Chloroform Rounds every night. And afternoon. And morning.

Anyway, one of the foods I was trying to eat was applesauce. I had liked applesauce. I even bought in by the Mott's six-pack. I actually asked my Mom and sister to bring me applesauce from home when I was stuck in the hospital. They did.

The only problem is you really need to keep applesauce refrigerated. I know it's OK to have it at room temperature-- that is how they sell it, of course-- but it tastes pretty foul that way, in my opinion. I had my applesauce treat there, on the little table, but I didn't feel like trying it right away. I went to sleep. I woke up, whined some more, went back to sleep. By the time I had decided it was Applesauce Time, I think something like 18 hours had gone by.

The applesauce that was once chilly was now warm as hell. But I was starving, and it was 3 in the morning and I couldn't very well call my Mom to bring new, cold applesauce to me. Also, I am one of those assholes who didn't want to bother the nurses too much. I didn't want to be "a pest." Can you believe me? It's their job to bring me food or something if I am trying to eat and hadn't been able to keep food down for 3 days or so. But no, I had to just eat what was nearby. That applesauce.

I ate it. It sucked. But I felt better after I ate. I lay back down in bed and tried to relax. It didn't last long though, because only a few minutes later that nausea came back.

So anyway, that's the night I found out that if I were to puke on myself, I would chose the left shoulder and side of my chest to puke on. (I had been frantically hitting the call button to try to get a nurse, AT LAST, to bring me a bedpan since I couldn't get out of bed, but the bitches didn't get there in time. Instead of handing me a bed pan to do my vomiting in, they were forced to clean up a crying, puke-covered person who kept apologizing and muttering, "I shouldn't have eaten that applesauce, waaa waaa waaa.") I always enjoyed this part of the story, because I thought it was humorous that I turned to the left and not the right in that moment of agonized terror. You don't know until the shit's right on top of you what you will do in a crisis. I guess I like going to the left. Another Neat Fact About Me!

After that night, me and applesauce parted ways.

Until about a week ago. I bought it again. I guess it was finally time again. Getting back to this evening...it's been well over an hour, and no puke yet. Luckily I have already fortified my left shoulder and chestal region with plastic and a bucket. You just can't be too careful with applesauce.

(So THIS is what I do when I am avoiding writing my book.)

I'm thinking about what I might want for dinner, and I can't come up with much. I have imagined some unique dishes, though:

Candied Raccoon Faces
Roll of Toilet Paper Au Jus
Cream of Cement Chips

Here's a tip: When sounding an air horn (especially at dogs, which I was), make sure you don't do it so that your hand is front of the horn-part. This is because it basically is like spraying dry ice on your hand. You wouldn't expect it but those cans get cold when you use them. Ouchie.

One of the many reasons I am already giddy with excitement over the new book, The Shroud of the Thwacker:

A quick bibble in the bobble cost an even sixpence, while a “wet waggle” cost a ha’penny or two. A “fish in the dish, with tartar sauce on the side” was a full tuppence. If someone wanted an all-night “dilly-wonker” or a “triple wraparound digger,” that was extra, and Old Toothless Sally always made it clear up front that she wasn’t into anything weird.

As you can see, with excerpts like this, I think this book is destined to become a timeless classic. And you know something... I mean that statement seriously.

Before you begin reading this, please get the "Sad Charlie Brown" theme music in your head for full effect. (Either that, or "When the Children Cry"--whatever you find sadder.)

I finished reading Harry Potter last night. It really bummed me out. And mostly, because it turns out that the spoiler I inadvertently stumbled onto this summer when I was online was actually true. I was really hoping that the person who died was someone else…not only because I liked the character who died, but more so because I wanted to be surprised and have that spoiler be wrong. I didn’t mean to read that spoiler—it was buried in some random article on Something Awful—and have been trying ever since to think it was someone just being a dork, throwing a name out there to mess people up. Now I know that whoever wrote it was an asshole dork. Which is much worse than a plain old dork.

Either way, that book was quite sad. I will begin something new today on my lunch break, and this time, it’s a comedy. Thanks to Chris Elliott, I will soon be immersed it the world of the “The Shroud of the Thwacker.” Hear that sound? No, not that one. That one was a small fart. The other sound you hear is the sound of me being relieved that I might skip some crying and general depression as I read this new book.

Well, not much else is happening right now. My life is a little consumed in writing the new book. I was totally out of it yesterday though, not only because of the Harry Potter thing, but a migraine hit, causing me to nap repeatedly throughout the day and cover my eyes with a sleeping mask whenever I could do it without knocking things off the wall, or fall down the steps. I couldn’t write my happy new book in this mood, which only made me get more angry and sad. My computer also wigged out, making me lose the internet connection at random times. I had the “I give up” attitude all day. It was a stay in my pajamas and mope day.

However, today I am washed, dressed and I am actually wearing makeup. I deserve a medal for this! NO… OK, the truth is, I don’t. I already have so many medals for all the days I have already washed/dressed/made up my face with attractive colors. I just don’t have room for any more medals! Or framed Certificates of Achievement. Ditto on the little trophies with the small metal “me” on the top. I just can’t take any more of them, so please save your time and effort and just offer me a handshake, and maybe a jaunty pat on the ass. That would be OK, I guess. Let me consult with my boyfriend on that one first. You might have to give him the ass-pat first, and then he will deliver it to me if it is appropriate.

I appreciate your desire to want to celebrate the wonderment that is me. Hell, I even THANK YOU for it. I do! I am grateful, and happy and more than a little jittery as a result of your accolades. But people, I need to remind you once more of how full my home is, and that my mantel, besides being non-existent since I have no fireplace, is also non-existently broken and bowed under the weight of the awards. There is only so much room a girl has for awards.

Now is the time for me to humiliate a loved one!!

Yes, this is what you were waiting for. Get ready to be wowed with the humiliation! Because HERE IT COMES…

(And I apologize in advance to my mother for this one. Sorry, Mom, but today as I was typing this post I thought of this thing you said and I laughed out loud at my desk—which is weird because no one laughs in this office, EVER!—and decided it was something I needed to type about! No hard feelings, a’ight?)

So you know that new book I am writing, The Big Meaningless Quest? My Mom was reading it and she got confused somewhere. She asked me yesterday:

“I am confused. Is your lead character a person, or a chicken?”

THANKS MOM!

I won’t get into the reasons my Mom said she thought that. Maybe there are more of you out there who read this thing and thought, “Why the hell is Lisa writing about a chicken who smokes?” Maybe I need to know where in the story I am giving people this impression. Don’t be afraid to be honest with me, now. Tell me if you, too, think I am writing about poultry. You don’t have to give me the obligatory “Oh, your story is great!” compliment if you honestly don’t think it’s great. I can take it. Go on and let me know if you are like my mother and can’t relate to the chicken-lady (not to be confused with the Kids in the Hall ChickenLady™).

Speaking of chickens, God, I love Arrested Development! One thing I did do yesterday while hiding from the sunlight was watch 4 episodes of my season 2 DVDs. I love that George Michael’s girlfriend Ann “is so cute, she puts a hard boiled egg in her mouth, and swooshes in some mayonnaise… she calls it Eggonaise!” and that no one in the Bluth family can make the chicken sound. “Buh-KAW, Buh-KAW!” If you’re not watching this show, I have to tell you something harsh now: you are a fucking moron. If that hurt, please step back and evaluate why a comment from a person on the internet can penetrate your tough exterior and hurt you. I am just a person on the internet, for crying out loud, how could I really hurt you? Seek professional help, fucker.

Well, I did it. I wrote one whole chapter of my NaNoWriMo book!! You can read it here if you are so inclined: The Big Meaningless Quest.

I don't mean to brag, but... YES, I mean to brag, otherwise what the hell is this blog for?... I wrote 4,634 words tonight. Sweet. I just kept goin' and goin', and if I didn't have to walk the dogs and go to sleep I probably would go ahead into chapter two.

Now I just have to pray and wish and hope and whatever else that it KEEPS UP and I finish this book this month. Still, I had to share it. WEEEEE! I feel like squealing!!

It turns out I didn't take any pictures of myself, Greg, or any of the other partygoers at our Halloween party! I am so bummed out. The thing is, I THOUGHT I took pictures but I think I was snapping them with a full memory card or something. Or, using some other people's cameras. Bummer. Anyway, I did manage to get some shots of the pumpkins Greg and I carved the night prior to the party. The pumpkin above was my absolute favorite. Greg carved Victor and Emily from "The Corpse Bride" in this one. It really looked great when it was lit up, and it kept longer than the others. Hope you all had a Happy Halloween! And to everyone taking part in National Novel Writing Month, GOOD LUCK!