It's only one day until Festivus! Have you ordered your Festivus Pole yet? Tomorrow is the big day, and in honor of this non-commercial and joyous event, we present to you MALCOLM in his brand-new December Sweaters.
The first of the two December Sweaters. Greg purchased this one for our little antihero. It is actually a sweater for a teddy bear. When he was paying for it in Michael's, the cashier made note of how cute the sweater was, and asked what he planned to do with it. Greg told her it was for our dog. And the woman standing in line behind him asked: "Is it a live dog?"
Ummm...
No. We enjoy celebrating Festivus by dressing up our very special deceased-canine-corpse.
Christ.

Malcolm might look festive, but behind those eyes lies cold, vengeful hatred for anything "jolly" or "cute". Poor Greg had no idea he was just moments away from a severe mauling from this tiny, wee little pup. Here's the thing: Malcolm doesn't appreciate being held up in an unflattering way while we laugh and snap picture after picture. He might like the sweater, but he doesn't like the cruel abuse.

Ahhh. All is well. The new sweater fits nicely. In fact, it warms his tired and frail body and enables him to endure the out-of-doors for longer periods of time. Plus, the little guy looks very preppy and well-kept; he is one snappy dresser.
However, there is only so much a dignified dog can take. To wit:

In this telling photo, Malcolm appears ready for "The Airing of Grievances" part of Festivus. Moments after this picture was snapped, he turned on us. Greg and I were left with severe internal bleeding; bones were broken; heartstrings were tugged in the amount of cuteness that was visited down upon us.

Anyone who knows Malcolm also knows that he has a history of intense dislike for anything clothing-related. When I purchased a sweater for him many moons ago, and dressed him in it one chilly winter's morn, he looked agonized by the tortuous outfit. He went "on strike" and refused to get up and walk. It was horrible; I learned not to dress up my little dog because he HATED it.

Years later...he is a lot older (no one knows his true age), and he has lost some weight over the years as muscle tone has decreased, and his hair is definitely a lot thinner than it once was. He also seems to get stiff joints when he walks. So this year, when we forced him into the tiny red and white sweater you see above, he only yelped once and then decided that he didn't mind it. He wore it for several days on end; he seemed to have forgotten he was even wearing it. I am still amazed by this incredible development.

I bought him the gray sweater in PetSmart one day on my lunch break, because I felt that he could use a little more coverage on his back. He's still wearing it right this moment.

So, in closing, it's regrettably true: I have become one of "those" small dog owners who dresses her tiny dog in clothing. I never wanted to be this person, trust me. I loathe those persons. No dog should be treated as an accessory or a living toy that eats dog food and poops. I didn't adopt Malcolm because I wanted a wee little chihuahua... I adopted him because he was-- and is-- so COOL. He's my sweet little sidekick...my Mooka...Baby Blooo...Micky Malcolm. Because he earned it by living to an ancient age and by being all-around easy and lovely dog to own, he now wears sweaters. You wanna make something of it? Give him the proper respect, fools.

And...

MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY FESTIVUS! Support the baby Jesus and Frank Costanza. Amen!

I know I said I would write about Malcolm on the next post I did, but I am lazy and didn't do a key thing that will help me create that post. So it will be the NEXT post. I promise.

Anyway:

My Mom's company is making me laugh these days. She's been keeping me up to date on what's been happening over there via e-mail, and her e-mails are making my day. They are really celebrating the holidays over there! I think that is a GOOD thing. I used to work there a few years ago and our holiday celebrations weren't as full of contests as they are now. Not sure what got into their coffeemaker, but whatever it is, I like it.

The first contest her office had was a Festive Outfit contest: they offered prizes for Funniest Holiday-Inspired Outfit; Best Use of Red and Green; and something else, probably most original outfit.

I give my Mom a lot of credit for participating. I'm not sure I would have. There was a time when I did partake in office shenanigans like Funny Hat Day and Polka Dot day (I even bought polka-dot tights to wear that time)... but I was young and more willing to go with the flow and be accepted by my co-workers. I wanted to project a positive attitude and all that crap. So I went along with the themes and no one got hurt. Today, I am more of a sidelines-girl. I don't help out with the potluck; I don't offer ideas on how to decorate our department's gingerbread house. The young, participating girl of my youth has withered into a crotchety, sarcastic loner.

Getting back to my Mom: she won! She was awarded $25 in cash for having the Funniest Outfit. I'm not sure what she did to be deemed funny, but good for her. Twenty-five dollars in cash is nothing to sneeze at. Well, you could sneeze at it but that is just really unsanitary and gross of you.

Today, they had the judging on something called the Pimp Your Snowman contest. I guess the basic rundown was the employees were each given some sort of snowman that they could decorate however they pleased. I'm just highly amused they brought the "pimp" term into it. It's not that they are uptight over there at that company, but there were a few peeps on staff that were highly conservative and I am shocked that they let this slide.

My company did NOT sponsor a Pimp Anything contest this year. Boo hoo.

Mom was once again in the winner's circle: she was the runner-up and the recipient of a Starbucks gift card for $10. The only problem is, my Mom (like her daughters) does NOT like Starbucks. In fact her reaction to winning this particular prize was "Yuck!" on an e-mail to me.

So what did she do? She did a little of the old switcheroo. They also did a gift grab bag today. They do one of those grab bags where you are allowed to steal the presents you might want from other people. Personally I HATE this. Why, WHY do we have to bring STEALING into the picture? It's Christmas! It's not supposed to be about the stealing; it's supposed to be about the giving. Even if it is a stupid grab bag thing you are forced to participate in. No stealing. Stealing is wrong. There was a time when society harshly punished people who stole things. I long for those times, especially when it comes to grab bag events. So you wanna steal my new Dilbert coffee mug? Do it and I throw your thieving ass into prison, Jean Valjean. Or...? I chop off your hand. You wanna risk it?

One of the chicks that works with my Mom was drooling over my mother's Starbucks card while all this was going on. When the girl ended up having her grab bag gifts stolen a few times, all she was left with was a "Jackass: The Movie" DVD, which my Mom could tell did NOT make her happy. My Mom felt sorry for this girl. She took pity on her in the spirit of the season, and offered to trade her Starbucks card for the Jackass DVD.

Isn't my Mom a sweetheart? She gave up her "yuck"-y card and gained a DVD of Jackass. Only thing is, she doesn't know what Jackass is. She asked me what it was, so I wrote back and told her about it. I'm not really sure that she's going to like it. She isn't the type to see the humor in vomiting or slicing papercuts into one's own tongue. She might like some of the other stuff, though. We'll see.

OK, so does anyone else think that it's a little weird to put a Jackass DVD into an office Christmas grab bag? Because I do. Happy Holidays! Enjoy all the stapling of scrotum!

As many of my fellow bloggers have noticed, there is a lack of blogging going on these days. I suppose it's the holiday, making everyone busy and tired, or maybe we are all just a bunch of losers. Who knows? It could be anything.

Whenever I can't come up with a decent post, but feel like posting anyway, I resort to Posts About My Dogs(TM). Yeah, yeah... they can be boring to anyone who isn't a dog person, but this is MY BLOG and I can do what I want. So there.

I have written about all the pets extensively in the past. Indy's doing well in training at the moment; Malcolm will likely make a blog appearance very soon (stay tuned for Malcolm's holiday blog-humiliation)...it's time I shared a little bit about the alpha dog in this house, and pretty much the coolest dog around:Hailie!

Here's the facts: She is about 6 years old already. She had been turned into the pound by a family who said they had "too many animals"...I wonder why she was the one they thought they could throw away. Her original name was Ashley; when she wasn't adopted at the pound, she was put on the euthanasia list. Luckily, AZ Rescue stepped in and fostered her. Greg adopted her from Rescue just a couple of months after I adopted Katie from the same group. It was so strange, because I remember seeing Hailie's profile on the Rescue site and thinking to myself some horrible, kind of guilty thoughts: "If I didn't already adopt Katie, I totally would have adopted this dog!" So it's rather awesome that Greg was the one who adopted her, and now we are happily married and sharing custody of this sweet little princess. I guess it was just meant to be.

Hailie (short for Hailiequinn, a vague homage to one of the Batman characters) is a sensitive, happy dog. She is definitely more Greg's dog, just like Indy is turning out to be more my dog. But she has one of those remarkable personalities where she can go with the flow and be gentle and friendly to pretty much anyone who comes to our house. Yet she still has a loud, authoritive bark that helps scare away anyone who might be considering breaking into our house. She is always wagging her tail, and when you look at her she smiles a big dog-smile.

She has a thing with licking--when she gets super happy or playful, she will go to town on any exposed skin you've got up to the point where we have to hide from her and yell at her to stop. It sucks to yell at her though, because she gets SO hurt by it. She gets sad eyes. Anyone with a sensitive dog knows what I'm talking about. She slinks away and mopes, and sometimes gains the courage to peek around the corner to see if we are still mad. It's adorable and I have to hide my face to keep from laughing. I'm supposed to be MAD, after all.

When we brought Indy home, it was amazing...they had INSTANT chemistry. They have had only one or two small fights; and I don't even think they were real fights. It was more like Indy was pushing her and pushing her to the point where she finally snapped: "ENOUGH!" Indy doesn't challenge her; he defers to her role as the dominant dog. Even though he is way more crazy and playful and in-your-face, there is no doubt that she calls the shots. Indy looks up to her, in fact.

Since it got colder out, the two of them have been sleeping together on the dog bed in our bedroom. Snuggled together. I don't have words for the cuteness. They constantly lie right next to one another; they wrestle and play, and Indy will run around the yard to try to get Hailie to catch him, and she always lumbers after him like a big, chubby puppy; and they will take turns licking one another's ears and faces while we are watching TV. I have never had the privilege of witnessing such a close dog-relationship. It's one of the biggest joys in my life.

Hailie is also very good with Malcolm. She always has been. She respects his boundaries and doesn't bother him. If he does venture out to hang out with the big dogs, she sniffs him and keeps her eye on him-- she actually seems like she makes efforts to NOT run him over or scare him. (Indy is good with him too, for the record...but she is the original Malcolm Protector) Hailie also seems to like little kids quite a bit. When our friends brought their daughter over, Hailie followed her around with her tail wagging, and let the little girl pet her however she happened to do it. You can tell she has a kind of motherly/hostess instinct; she wants to please everyone and make everyone feel at home.

I am crazy about her. She is close to being the perfect dog. Sure, she can get a little rowdy sometimes when she and Indy get carried away with playing, and sure, she is the bottomless pit who will eat anything and everything that comes within reach of her mouth (two books...a wallet...a watchband...a full head of raw garlic...string...moths...potatoes...), but she is beyond adorable. I want to hug her so hard sometimes; I want to bite her head. She brings out a big "awwwww!" reaction for me. I am always happy to see "our girl" when we come home. She's happy and she is going down in the Lisa recordbooks as being one of the top dogs I've ever had. She might even take over the top position, given a little more time. (My old dog Sam holds first place, in case you were wondering.)

I hope you liked reading about Hailie. If you met her, you'd like her. Just make sure you are cool with getting licked by an almost-manic licker.

Get ready, because some Malcolm shit is coming up next. :)

I don't know about you and what you take away when you hear Night Ranger's greatest hit--which is, of course, "Sister Christian"-- but this pretty much sums up what I happen to think the song is about:
That's right. A nun on a motorcycle. And some whore along for the ride. (I don't know why the whore is there, really.)

I've thought of this nun/motorcycle thing since I was really young. I have a strong memory of singing it on the playground with some other kids when I was in third or fourth grade. We sang it and this one girl Bridget did a bunch of round-offs to show off her gymnastic skills. No one could do round-offs like Bridget. She could also do backflips. She was unreal.

Me, I never learned how to do a cartwheel. During cheerleader tryouts in high school, when it came time to do the required cartwheel, I faked that I had twisted my wrist when I touched the floor, and let myself fall in a heap. I was trying to disguise the fact that I was a total spazz. I didn't get on the squad, big surprise there! There's an upside, though. I've been told that my attempts at cartwheels are pretty funny. This is the best way I can describe what I do: bend over to one side, put both hands on the floor, and lift my feet just enough off the ground that it qualifies, technically, as a 'jump', and then bring myself back up with a wobbly flourish. There is an absolute void where any grace or coordination would be when I am doing my special cartwheels.

I got off the subject! I had been thinking about Sister Christian. And how it makes me think of nuns and their hogs.

Here are the lyrics. If anyone has a better idea of what this song is about, I'd like to hear it, because this image of nuns, bikes and whores is killing me. And maybe...when you read the lyrics...the whore thing isn't so far off. Maybe the nun is singing to the whore, trying to convince her to not be such a whore all the time, i.e., give it up before her time is due. It's true.

Also, she is trying to make the whore comfortable with being called "Sister" in a not-so-subtle attempt to bring her to the Nun Side. By singing "Sister Christian," she is making the whore hear how good her name of Christian is when the word "sister" is in front of it. This is very clever of that motorcyclin' nun. She is going to make her recruitment number this month, AND have extra cash for that bitchin' muffler pipe she's wanted since Lent last year.

Picture the nun, singing this to the whore with the man's name:

Sister Christian
Oh, the time has come
And you know that you're the only one
To say, okay (NOTE: To say "okay" is to relent; confess?)
Where you going
What you looking for
You know those boys
Don't want to play no more with you (NOTE: Could allude to the celibacy thing.)
It's true (NOTE: "No, really...if I tell you the boys don't want you, will you consider following a pious life of a nun?")
You're motoring
What's your price for flight (NOTE: Could it mean to run from Jesus is a sin?)
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight

Babe, you know
You're growing up so fast
And mama's worrying (NOTE: Mama could be the Virgin Mary...?)
That you won't last
To say, let's play (NOTE: Play as in: partake in the holy sacrament?)
Sister Christian
There's so much in life
Don't you give it up
Before your time is due
It's true
It's true, yeah

Motoring
What's your price for flight
You've got him in your sight (NOTE: Maybe "him" is...Jesus?)
And driving thru the night
Motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight (NOTE: "That's right, Jesus saves.")

[Instrumental Interlude]

Motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight
Motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight

Sister Christian
Oh, the time has come
And you know that you're the only one
To say, okay
But you're motoring
Yeaaaaah, motoring (NOTE: Could translate to: "Will you, Whore, accept Jesus as your lord and savior? It's up to you to 'motor' down the righteous path.")

Oh, nuns! Is there anything nuns can't teach us? Except for sex-things?

It's a fact: today is a crap-ass day.

First, I hear from my manager that even though I am a "really good writer," I could benefit from taking classes to "fit in" with our new sales direction. I don't know why, but this criticism hit me hard. Maybe it IS time to think about another career. Business writing does suck. But it's all I've done for years and years...what the hell else can I do? Dance with monkeys, perhaps? I'm pretty decent with the simians. Still, does it pay well? Ehhhhhhh.

Second, the Yangtze River dolphin is extinct. How sad! The species has been around for 20 million years and now they are just... gone. I'm sure it won't make the major news outlets, because who cares about one species of dolpin living in Chinese waters? Come on, it doesn't really affect us. Now where's my XBox 360 and my copy of Us Weekly?

Fuck. That who-cares attitude KILLS me. I feel like every single one of us should be highly alarmed that species are dying off every single day and that the planet is quickly being stripped of its abilities to sustain life. Stephen Hawking said just a few weeks ago that the only hope for the human race was to colonize other planets because this planet is doomed. He's a smart guy, so I listen when he makes statements like that. I know we can't worry ourselves silly over things, but we can at least ATTEMPT to care, and to make any changes we can do as individuals.

And, finally... the tap dancing Frankenstein monster is no more. Peter Boyle died. He was a pretty funny fellow.

Life sucks. I want that T-shirt the kid on the little train in "The Jerk" wears. It says, simply and elegantly, "BULLSHIT." But I can't even find an image of that. See what I mean? Today is stupid.

At least I found a photo of Navin and his loyal dog:


"Come on, Shithead."

I have found the perfect Christmas gift for my Dad:
No, no, I am not going to give him Nicolas Cage, the Actor. No. What I am going to give my Dad is this news: He's taking a break from making movies!!

One of the funniest things to me is my father's loathing for Mr. Cage. I never thought much about ol' bastard Nic before the time my Dad went off on a rant about how much he disliked this guy. Before that day, Nicolas Cage was just a rather dull-looking actor with a voice I hated who was in some movies I could tolerate. OK. One movie I could tolerate. Raising Arizona. But that's it. Never gave the guy much thought at all.

But then Dad was talking about, I think, the commercials for National Treasure. He said something about how stupid the premise looks, and how only an "asshole like Nicolas Cage" would sign on to do it. And he proceeded to tell me and my sister how terrible an actor NC was, and how he didn't know how such an "uncharismatic bastard" could get so much work and be in so many movies. "He's not talented. He just stands there with that same dull look on his face like he's brain damaged, talking in that lazy, 'uhhhh, I don't know, uhhhh' voice," my Dad said. "I can't STAND Nicolas Cage. I just can't STAND him."

So ever since that hilarious conversation, I too dislike Nicolas Cage. I do agree with my Dad, although I am not as passionate with my distain. I mostly laugh every time I see the guy. Those new commercials for the movie where he plays a guy who rides a motorcyle around with his skull-head on fire? They make me chuckle. I think of my Dad seeing that commercial and saying to himself, "Finally, a look that bastard can pull off-- a head and face that are on fire. I like that. Wish his face WOULD catch fire, that son of a bitching, uncharismatic bastard."

Merry Christmas, Father. I give you the glorious tidings of a future without Nicolas Cage movies! Rejoice! (insert choirs of angels singing here)

It was good to post what I wrote yesterday. There was a moment when I thought it would be best to keep it in my private journal, but I am glad I decided to share it. Thank you to all of you who wrote such wonderful things in response. I loved hearing about how you feel when it comes to that "small" feeling, and yeah, I admit it helped in some ego-strokin' way to read your compliments. Thanks again.

That photo above is just something I took on Thanksgiving night when I was fooling around in our backyard with the different light settings on my camera. It was a colorful sunset, and it put me in the mood for picture-taking, you see. That's how it worked. Yup.

Well, since I am already posting pictures, here's a couple more from our trip with Kristen and Ezzy. They get mentioned on this blog frequently, so here's what they look like:


I think they're adorable. One of those couples that finishes each other's sentences CONSTANTLY and it's not weird, it's endearing. When she first brought him out here to meet me about six years ago, I knew she was going to marry him almost immediately. Seriously. We were standing in the baggage claim, waiting for their bags, and he started talking about something and I could just clearly see how perfect he was for her. I told her as soon as I could get a chance to talk to her in private that "he's the one; you are going to marry this guy, I know it." I am so glad my instincts were correct. I'm also glad I didn't bring the "I am Going to Hold You Up to Ridiculously High Standards Because She is My Best Friend, So I am Going to Presume You Are a Dick" banner to welcome them off the plane. Whew. That would have just been an awkward thing.

Today's random observation is actually one I made yesterday, but it didn't fit with the tone of that post so I left it out. Anyway, I don't have an easy time when I go into a bathroom stall and the toilet is too low to the floor. It's always startling. There is one stall at work that I hardly ever use. I don't know why I don't use it other than it's the one in the middle-- there are three stalls and I would rather have that buffer-stall between me and anyone else who comes in there. It's not like we're at urinals, for God's sake, so I don't know why this matters. But trust me, it does.

Anyway, I go into the unfamiliar middle stall, get into position and begin to lower my butt down towards the seat. And then I am startled by the fact that the seat is not at the height I EXPECT it to be. I am used to the other toilets, which meet with my ass at a comfortable, routine level. Yesterday I had to bend down lower than I wanted to in order for my ass to find that seat. I didn't like the feeling, and yes, for a split second I thought I'd lose my balance.

Sure, there was no accident. It ended up OK, but still. Can't bathroom designers manage to find regulation-height toilets anymore? What happened to toilet standards? At one point did our society throw them out in favor of staggered-height toilets? It's shameful. If I were a bathroom designer, I would weep for the future. Things are heading in a very non-professional direction. Toilets are being installed all willy-nilly, and these up and coming toilet installers just don't care anymore.

Now that I have gotten that out of my system, I feel much better. It's been tough carrying that little thought around with me for over 24 hours and not talking about it. Would it be funny if I made a sign up to hang on the wall behind the toilet that says: "Warning: Toilet Is Lower Than Normal. Proceed With Caution." I'd make it look like a real warning sign and everything--with actual printed letters and bold colors like black and yellow. (No, this wouldn't be one I'd make on a piece of paper pulled out of my printer's tray and some half-melted crayons I found in my car a few months ago, OK? I don't make those signs anymore.)

What follows is a very long post. I know it, and I am just letting you know at the start what you are getting into if you start reading this now:

I'm having one of those days where I feel like I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Lately, life has been very nice in my little corner of the world. I've been honest-to-God happy. I love being married, I love our dogs, I love our home, I love my friends, I love being physically active again, and I love that I am happier in general. So what’s my problem?

I feel small. It’s nothing new, of course. But it’s just one of those times when it feels like anything I attempt to do is just a blip, a crumb, a dust mite-sized effort compared to the rest of the world and how it’s chugging along. Know what I mean?

It’s like this: I can get passionate and want to change the way things are done, but can I really make a difference, like all those positive affirmations and crap speak of? I am still one very ordinary, average person.

For instance, my cause of choice is trying to get people to adopt animals from shelters and above all else, spay and neuter, so we can end this ridiculous pet overpopulation problem.

Yesterday I was brainstorming ways I could start a possible initiative to get more funding for the county’s Animal Control on the ballot for the next election. I was thinking about this because some friends of ours found a stray puppy on Sunday, and didn’t know what to do about it because Animal Control was closed on the weekends and there was no one to come pick it up. They ended up calling the Humane Society, which luckily is open on the weekends and can pick up animals that have the unfortunate luck to get lost on a weekend.

When Greg and I have found strays, we always try to call AC and have them pick up the animals. We keep them in our backyard until the truck can get there. And the thing is, there is only ONE guy who drives all over the east valley to pick up all the strays. So it takes a very long time to have them come to the house. The valley is huge, by the way. Tons of people, animals and busy roads. And lots of people who don’t spay or neuter, so these wandering strays go mate while they are out there. The problem just seems to compound all the time. Even though our AC had a month where no adoptable, healthy animal was destroyed, it was still only a month. The current facts are something like only 1 in every 8 animals turned into AC will be adopted out. Another 1 out of 8 will be claimed by their owners. That means 6 of 8 animals are destroyed. Hundreds of animals a day. I wonder why more people aren’t disturbed by this waste of life.

So yeah, getting back to my feeling of insignificance. I want to get more funding from the county and/or state to help AC out. Three ways: create a widespread spay/neuter educational campaign coupled with a low-cost clinic; add more—at least one more—AC truck to pick up strays; and expand the hours of the shelter for adoptions and education. (They currently close at 5pm—so if you work until 5, good luck trying to adopt an animal that could be sitting on death row because if he isn’t claimed in 72 hours, he’ll be put to sleep…but if a new owner could get there on time, he could have a home.)

I got excited, picturing myself researching how you go about doing this; making calls to get to know people in the AC facilities and political circles; putting together a ballot to gather signatures. YEAH! I could totally do this. I’m a relatively smart, capable person. I'll blow this shit away with my awesomeness!

Then, somehow... I felt discouraged. I don’t know why. I know how bad this sounds, but I actually thought: “It sounds like too much work. And besides, like I am not the first animal lover to think of this? Someone with more pull than me has definitely tried to do this already, I’m sure of it, so why should I bother?”

Nice.

Here’s another one: I’m driving into work today, on the loaded freeway, thinking about my recent writing efforts. I am only a few feet from the bumper of the car in front of me; another car is right behind me, and so on and so on for miles back in the rearview mirror and miles ahead. I am inching along in this mess, and that’s when I look up and notice a news helicopter flying above.

The news crew was undoubtedly covering the morning traffic and offering an aerial shot of the clogged road. Immediately I start to think about how I am down there, in the middle of it, among what must be thousands of cars with thousands of people on their way to their thousands of jobs. I don’t matter in that moment; I am just one tiny thing on the road. Pull the camera angle out further, and the freeway is but one freeway in a web of freeways stretching all over the valley, the state, the entire country. Wow. If I were not on that road today, no one would have missed me because other cars would be there to fill the space. I am anonymous, without a personality and without skills, to anyone looking at all of the human race from a wide-angle lens. It’s weird, really.

You spend your whole life thinking of your tiny little sphere of direct influence; thinking of how all your little daily issues and problems matter SO MUCH to you…but the thing is, some days you just realize you’re down here on the ground, moving along about your business like everyone else and you just don’t make that much of a difference. Sure, you could think of things like the tiniest pebble falling off a mountain leading to events that trigger an avalanche, and I know it’s true that sometimes people get put into positions where they can make a difference that leads to a wide-scale change…but damned if some days it feels like it’s an impossible thing to do. There’s so much noise, so many people to compete with. The more the population grows, the smaller and less important I feel.

This post may be kind of depressing, and I apologize if I bring you down in any way. I really don’t mean to—I am just thinking through type. There has to be a way to overcome this feeling and move ahead with my ambitions and passions. I know that on most days, I feel like I could do anything I want to and I can be successful at it, too. I just want those things to be good things; helpful things; meaningful things. I don’t want fame, or attention for myself in all of this—I sincerely want the things I do or create to get all of the attention. It is the most cornball of the sayings, but I really do want to leave the world a better place than it was when I got here.

I’ve just got a long way to go. I feel as if I am programmed to feel this way; this thought of “even though I think I do some days, the truth is I don’t matter.” I believe it’s this thought that is one of the major factors that contribute to my writer’s block. I want to write, I carry my characters and plots around with me every single day and think about them every single day, yet I can’t seem to sit down and DO anything to finish their stories and get them out on paper. When I do sit down at the computer, I get this feeling like anything I am about to write will suck. And even if I DO finish a book, and I print it up and send it to publishers… yeah, like there is a true chance my book would make it through the slush pile to be published. I only need spend a few hours on the internet reading message boards and writing websites to know that there are MILLIONS of writers out there doing the same thing I’m doing. Sure, I am probably better than a lot of them, but a lot of them are probably better than me. See what I do? It’s not good. It means I do nothing.

So, in closing, I wonder if it is OK to live just in my little bubble and do my thing without worrying so much about the rest of the world. Can I accomplish things I care about and not stop at this roadblock when the time comes for action? Yes. I can, I know I can. But how the hell do I do it?

Maybe it’s time I turn to smoking the crack.

Greetings, earthlings. To quote Jim Anchower from the Onion, I realize it has been a long time since I rapped at you, but a lot of shit's been going down.

Well...not really. I was simply having trouble logging into Blogger, and then I wasn't interested in blogging so I didn't do it. Today, I am feeling "It" again ("It" being the urge to blog, of course, not nausea) so here we are. Yup. Yeah...Wow. Yup.

A few weeks ago, one of the managers here sent an e-mail out saying that every Friday until the end of the year would be casual Friday, so we could wear jeans to work. So, this morning I got dressed in my favorite jeans and sweater with my kind-of sloppy Rocketdog sneakers (but they are so comfortable and cute) and went into work.

Guess who didn't get the memo that the casual Fridays had been cancelled?

I feel like the biggest slob today, walking around in jeans and sneakers while everyone else is dressed 'appropriately.' No one has given me a hard time, but I do feel a little messy and strange today. I have been hiding in my cube and only venturing out when I sense no one looking. It's a shadowy existence.

I don't belong here; I belong in a trailer park! It's true. Me and my dirtbag-lookin' self would be better off hanging out in front of some trailer down in Bisbee, suckin' on a Blue Moon (because I love those) and wiping my hands off on my pants.

I say this because I DID this. When Kristen and Ezzy were here for our wedding, the four of us took a trip to Bisbee to stay in the Shady Dell. This is, quite possibly, the COOLEST place to stay in the entire state. Maybe the world...? I don't know for sure, since I haven't been to many places. But I can say with all certainty that it was really cute and kitschy and tacky and...well, take a look at it, damn it:
This is the Shady Dell. You can't see it, but just beyond that adorable little Airstream is a graveyard. Seriously. But if graveyards aren't your thing, you can take solace in the knowledge that a cute little retro diner is just to the right of this shot, its neon glow casting away all ghosts, re-animated corpses and walking deads. Ahhhh.

On a sidenote, Kristen was freaked out that night thinking about this little story we read in the police blotter in Bisbee's newspaper while we were eating dinner at a pizza place in town: "A deranged Hispanic male was seen walking in traffic carrying a cross and shouting at people." She really thought the deranged Hispanic male was lurking outside their trailer, getting ready to jump in and get her and Ezzy while they slept. Lucky for her, we never saw the deranged Hispanic male. Not so lucky for me, because that's the sort of thing I usually pay to see.

Here, we move on to a shot of the lovely newlyweds, hanging out at our very own Tiki Bar:
We rented a trailer that wasn't actually a trailer; it is a 1947 Flxible bus converted into THE TIKI BUS. It's pretty sweet. They decorated the inside in a Polynesian theme, complete with an actual Tiki God statue in the back of the bus near the bathroom. They stocked the bus with old LP records and movies to play on the vintage record player or black and white TV. It's fun to say you slept in a bus, especially one like this:

Here's Greg inside the Tiki Bus, trying to figure out the teeny, tiny little stove. Also, our sink wouldn't drain. You get a lot of things on a Tiki Bus, but you don't get good drainage. Or a lot of headroom. That grass looks cool, but it takes up some valuable space that craniums could have been enjoying. Also-- it is flammable. No smokin' in the Tiki Bus! There's only room for CHILLIN' here:

So that's my little post about the Shady Dell. It isn't luxurious, but it was just right for a broad like me. I hereby announce Armsweat's full endorsement of the Shady Dell. Go check it out, and say the chick with the sweaty arms sent ya. (They will most likely give you a blank stare, but go ahead and say it anyway. It will give them something to ruminate on, and trailer folk need ruminating from time to time.)

These days, I am all about "Mirrormask." I don't know why, but I have been thinking about this movie a lot recently-- loving the look of it, the story, the originality-- and then there is a song on the "Where's Neil When You Need Him" compilation by the Cruxshadows called "Wake the White Queen," and I played it yesterday while I was painting trim in the bathroom and then again this morning on my way to work.

Something's up with Mirrormask; I have to figure out why all the sudden I am on this kick for a movie I've really, really liked for over a year now, but never gave it this much dedicated thought until now. Hmm. Well, either way, if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend checking it out (provided that you are cool with fantasy, strange images and cats with human faces, among other things. If you're more of a "The Departed" person, notthatthere'sanythingwrongwiththat, you might not love it like I do, just be forewarned).

I really enjoy the Bobs.


So anyway, Thanksgiving was nice. We didn't do much cooking since we picked up a prepared meal from the grocery store the morning of, and just spent some time doctoring up the stuffing and green bean casserole before my Mom came over to join us. We just didn't have it in us to make an entire Thanksgiving dinner this year... poor Greg is cooked-out after all the homecoming chili and wedding rehearsal dinner food. And I am STILL afraid of turkey gizzards, so my hands were tied. But really, the dinner turned out pretty well and we all stuffed ourselves appropriately. I loved how mellow the day was, overall, and how we actually got the dogs to stay away from the dining table as we ate. They looked SO HUNGRY and DESPERATE and PLEASEOHGODPLEASE GIVE US SOME FOOD! But they were well-behaved and stayed in the doorway for the most part; Hailie doing a super-adorable thing where she peeked her face around the corner so we only saw part of a snout and one pleading brown eye.

Greg and I saw Casino Royale on Friday afternoon, and it was pretty good. It was my first Bond film. I have never seen anything with James Bond in it; mostly because the usual Bond-reliance on gadgets, fancy cars and beautiful women seemed to get in the way of any storylines that might have lured me in. But, this year I read a decent article in some magazine talking about the new movie, and how Daniel Craig is more of a 'gritty' Bond and the story actually mentioned the plotline before what models of cars were being touted in this movie, and my interest was raised. Greg wanted to see the movie, and because of this article I'd read, I did, too. I'm glad we did, because it was kind of fun and I really loved Judi Dench. M seems like the type of character I'd want to play if I ever go back to acting again.

I could have done without the graphic nuts-being-pummeled scene, though. Christ. Being a woman, I obviously don't have little fellas of my own, but I swear I could feel phantom balls-pain while watching that scene. The theater was SILENT as every person in there froze and clenched up in phantom balls-pain along with me. I don't even recall the obligatory, "OOOHH!" that some guy always seems to yell out when there is any scene with anyone being hit in the nuts. So you know this scene was bad. I'd go so far as to say it's somehow grosser and more tortuous than the crap they did in "Hostel" or "Saw." You just don't tie a naked dude to a chair with the seat cut out and slam him repeatedly in the scrotes with a knotted rope. No, sir.

Well, other than eating turkey and watching Bond get his balls whacked, we did other stuff this weekend, too. On Saturday we took a grueling (for me) hike up the mountain formerly known as Squaw Peak with Hailie and Indy. I am SO out of shape since I've skipped out on going to the gym for over two months now. But it was so nice outside, and the trail is pretty fun, so there we were.

I thought I was about to develop asthma right there on top of the summit we reached. My lungs were tight and breathing was so hard I was wheezing. I felt nauseous. But once I got moving again, I was fine. Still...hiking kicks the SHIT out of me. I love it. And I must say, I loved hiking with the dogs, too. Indy helped pull my slow ass up the mountain, all while assisting me in keeping my balance. This was the very first hike we've taken him on, and he seemed to love it. Hailie is a great hiker, too-- she is an excellent climber of rocks and seems content to jog alongside Greg rather than pull him down the trail like a maniac. I was just having a blast watching the dogs sniff and explore their surroundings, and having Indy actually make eye contact with me when I called his name when we were alone on the trail. He's getting better.

We did other stuff, like go furniture-browsing for possible dining room tables and watching "Scrubs" (see new blog quote above) on Comedy Central and staying up late to watch "The Venture Brothers," even though it was a repeat last night. It was a decent four day escape.

Now, I am wishing for something totally random: Pop Rocks. Strawberry. I haven't had them in so long, and I feel like having them right now. This too shall pass, as they say.

Time to go. This quote is for the Venture Brothers fans out there:
The Monarch: "What a dick move!"

If you like laughing, you will probably like this:

If you hate laughing, what the hell is the matter with you?

Wow, today is/was the 2nd Annual Thank God I'm Not in High School Anymore Day, and I totally crapped out on it. I just want to apologize to this blog, because I think it's really disappointed in my lack of old-picture-scanning action. So sorry, Armsweat.

My car is in Tha Shop this morning, getting the handle on my driver's side back door fixed. I'm so glad that the Toyota shop can fix it in one day, and it won't cost all that much. The handle just stopped working while Greg, Kristen and Ezzy and I were down in Bisbee last week, meaning no one could get in or out of that side of the car. I am partly to blame for this, too, since I was too freaking lazy to get the car back to the body shop that created the problem over one YEAR ago.

Last year, I wrote this post about the day the repair shop broke my car's driver side door off when they backed it out of the shop with the door open...and hit a huge pile of tires. The repair shop covered the repairs to my car, as well as the cost of a rental car for the two weeks I was without my dear little Rav4, but I have to say I was less than impressed with the job the body shop did. Not only did the new door have a broken lock and window button panel (it isn't held down by anything, I just push it down with my hand...hard to explain, but suffice to say it's sloppy, but doesn't impede the function of my locks or windows, so I don't really care very much. Plus you can't see it unless I lift the loose panel up, so it looks FINE.), but the door that now has the completely-busted handle would no longer open from the inside.

I called it the Kidnap Seat. I could shove someone into the car on that side, and they can't get out. Ah HA, I got you!

Anyway, I attempted to get the car back to the body shop at the time, but I got the runaround from the scheduling department and whoever answered the phone there. First it was something about there was only one guy who could do that repair, and he was out...could I call back later? I would call back and he was NEVER available. I left my name, number and a message. Never got any calls back. Eventually, I gave up and figured "one of these days" I would get it in for repair, when I didn't need my car for a few days since that place can't seem to do ANYTHING in less than 10 working days.

Time passed...and passed... and I would warn my passengers about the door and let them out myself, often with a laugh or a sigh of, "I really have to get this in for repair one of these days." You get the idea.

So here we are, over one year later, and the door now won't open from the inside or the outside. And I am sitting at work, waiting for the Toyota dealership down the street to call and let me know the car is all ready to go. If I had gotten the body shop to do the repair it probably wouldn't have cost me anything since they CAUSED the problem to begin with, but I have chosen to pay for the repair myself to avoid dealing with those chuckleheads. At least now it will be taken care of, and my car will be a little more normal once again.

I love my car, I really do. She's a cute car. But... I am reaching this awkward point of sort-of wanting to get rid of her. She's getting so much older and beat-up looking. There are scratches and dents on her, and one ugly spot where I bumped my car into one of the brick columns on our carport. She's passed the 70,000 mile point, and the windshield has at least 12 chips and cracks from rocks on the freeway. I guess none of this is all that bad, really, and she does run very well. STILL...I am finding my eye beginning to wander to the new 2007 Rav4s, the Chevy HHRs (which I think are adorable), the Hyundai Santa Fe.

I feel SO GUILTY! And MATERIALISTIC! Has anyone else faced this quandry, and how have you dealt with it-- did you just take yoga and relax or something, or did you go and get a new car?

Well, whatever the case may be, I am thankful to have my car, and a reliable one at that. I shouldn't be whining about this when Thanksgiving is but hours away! There are bigger things in life to think about, and pray for, etc... and here I am wanting a shiny newer car than the one I already have. Sheesh. I have lots of things to be thankful for this year:

* My new marriage
* My health (especially the medication cocktail I'm on that's brought me out of depression)
* The health of my family and good friends
* My brand-new short story (being written RIGHT NOW! YAY!)
* Malcolm :)
* Hailie :)
* NOT Indy (just kidding)
* The passage of Prop 204 here in AZ, which bans gestation crates and veal pens... and the non-passage of Prop 107, which would have backed legislation that would make it impossible for same sex couples to ever get married (and taken away rights of some straight but unmarried couples, too)-- these two things gave me hope that Arizona isn't such a backwards, uncompassionate place to live! ('Course, they passed some REALLY STUPID props, too, and voted in some jackasses, but I'm thinking baby steps here)
* The fact that I care about things. Really. For a long time I didn't act or care about this stuff due to problems in my life, and now I have the courage and conviction to speak up and do things!

OK, enough of this mushy stuff. I am wondering what you're thankful for this year. So leave a comment and let me know, if you want to.

And I wish you all a fantastic Thanksgiving. Try not to take a dump in public; I don't care how full of turkey you get, you can always hold it until you reach a toilet. Unless you're drunk. So try not to be drunk and poop-ready. It's best for all of us if you practice restraint.

Some car crashes are violent. And some are just STUPID.

So here's what happened: today I was driving to work like I always do, and I see the stupidest car crash happen right in front of me.

I don't know what possessed the car full of blonde chicks in front of me at the stoplight to decide to make a left turn from THREE lanes to the right, and to do it right in front of a big, black pickup truck, but by God, they DID IT.

I don't think anyone got hurt. Is it evil of me to be disappointed that at least one of those girls wasn't thrown from the little silver sedan they were spacing out in? Because I did feel a little sad that I didn't get to see that.

It's funny/uncomfortable to see a really dumb accident happen. You see it coming, and there's not much you can do to stop it, because events are now set in motion and these events are ruled by destiny. Some stupid people are just destined to smash their cars into the front of other cars in other lanes when the light turns green.

I had been sitting there, pondering the moronic females' license plate, which was from Arkansas. I was particularly struck by the catchphrase of "The Natural State." Wow, Arkansas...that's pretty impressive. You really came up with a winner there. I'm supposing that all the other states are artificial, then? Or, is this some sort of metaphysical thing you're going for-- to be in Arkansas is equal to being in a natural state of being, right? We, as humans, are in our natural state when we are in Arkansas. The rest of the time, when we are in other states in the US, we are just out of sorts and acting like stressed-out howler monkeys or something.

Maybe that can explain why the ladies from Arkansas decided to make that beautiful left turn. They were out of sorts! They cannot be blamed for actions that occur outside of Arkansas-- they were just not used to dealing with the environs of Arizona. Sure, they thought the fact that the first two letters of the state are the same would mean that this would make life in the Grand Canyon State a little easier to handle than, say, a state like Wyoming. (I mean, WOW, that state has two scary, exotic end-of-the-ABC-song letters at the front of its name!)

Here's the setting, just for clarity's sake:

It's a 4 lane road, with the left two lanes designated for turning left. The third lane goes straight up a ramp leading to the freeway, as does the fourth lane...the third and fourth merge on the ramp. It's really not that hard to navigate, especially with the huge freakin' signs on the lightposts that illustrate the lanes and their recommmended directional use.

The Arkansas geniuses (genui-i?) and I were in that fourth lane from the left. There is a shiny new black pickup in the third lane, next to me. Beyond him, two lines of traffic are lined up to make that left turn to go under the overpass and off to whatever adventures lie over there, in LeftWorld. Things seem normal, uneventful.

The light turns green, and the cars roll forward. Well...except for the girls in the Arkansas car. THEY moved forward, and then with no real provocation, cut the wheel and hit the gas to try to cut off the big black truck and make a left in front of him.

The guy in the black truck hits his brakes and his horn, but the chicks keep on rolling...right into the front bumper on his passenger side. The girls' car goes sideways for a split second before they yank the wheel back and cut off the OTHER cars to get over to the left. The whole thing happened in slo-mo for me, and I had to keep driving since I couldn't turn around on the on-ramp or anything, so all I could see in my mirrors as I drove past was the dumb girls finally pulling over and the black truck trying to ease its way out of the intersection, so the driver could presumably pull over and give those chicks the beat-down they so deserved.

It's one of those times where I wish I could have turned around and stayed until the cops showed up so I could be a witness. I just wanted to describe this incident to law enforcement officers SO BADLY as I drove to work! I wanted to use rich language and highly-descriptive phrasing to give them a clear picture of the stupidity I witnessed. I wanted to see those chicks CRYING. I wanted to hear the inevitable, "OHmyGODIamSOSORRY!" whining. I did; I wanted to smirk and feel superior to the morons. What would possess someone in a little cheap-looking sedan to just cut in front of a moving line of traffic to make a last-minute left turn? I hope whatever it was happened to be a particularly colorful little demon or hell-beast that will also visit intense bowel troubles, acne and IRS audits upon the girls, in addition to making them crash up the car.

Sorry, Arkansas. Today you lost. I'm sorry, but I call 'em as I see 'em.

Easin' Back

I think I can safely say that today has been a good transitional day back at the office for me. It's my first day back, and as far as first-days-back go, this one wasn't too shoddy.

First of all, I only had 56 e-mails waiting for me. However, only about 12 of them were actually e-mails I needed to read and/or respond to. The rest were safely deleted.

There were no new projects created while I was out. In fact, it really appears no one did much of anything last week. And this being Thanksgiving week and all, I don't anticipate a big rush of work coming down the pipeline in the next couple of days. I appreciate this lack of work SO MUCH.

And finally, only a few people bothered me for all the details about our wedding. I was happy to talk with the people who did ask; I just didn't want to go over it with the set of co-workers I can't stand. Luckily, most of them are out this week for a long holiday. I was so glad to just sink back into my office chair, yet again enjoying the molded comfort of the two indents my ass cheeks have made over the past two years. And I loved being left alone. Ahhh... sweet quiet and sweet blog catch-up time. That's a good day at work.

This past week has been QUITE the week. Wow. I think Greg and I burnt ourselves out a little; trying to do too much and see too many people, too frequently. But it was all good, ultimately. I mean, I got to spend time with my Dad and Kristen and her husband, as well as all of Greg's good friends and his family. There was one day where we scheduled breakfast with one couple, lunch with the entire family, and dinner with two other couples from out of town. Hectic and a little chaotic. It's tough to be "on" for so long when you are normally a laid-back, homebody type with little to no friends, let me tell you! :)

But we did it. And I don't regret it. I do wish we were rich and were able to go right on our honeymoon after the wedding so we could enjoy each other's company and the newlywed status-thing a little more, but what can you do? We did the best we could do, and we got to see a lot of really amazing people. So there isn't much to complain about, really.

Like every time I see Kristen and Ezzy, I felt the same way: why the hell can't we all live in the same city? Or state? I have such a nice time with them, and they're constantly positive, upbeat and friendly-- they're so easy to do things with. How rare is it to have friends that are flexible, never complain, never give you guilt trips, and always make you laugh? I really wish we lived closer so we could hang out like we did this week on a regular basis. Although...

I might have had a few too many alcoholic beverages this past week. I'm not saying I was drunk everyday, but I did definitely enjoy myself and get stupid for several days in a row. Drinking 4 bottles of wine over dinner with your best friend since elementary school is bound to bring about some tipsiness, as well as poor behavior. But who cares?! We had a great time, that's all that matters. Sure, hotel management received complaints (yeah, multiple complaints-- yay for us!) and sure, our husbands were forced to 'separate' us when we got out of control, but it was all in good fun. At least for us, anyway.

And I love being Greg's wife. We haven't been able to savor the marriage yet, but we are finally getting back into our more-ordinary routine (which is hard to recall, since we've been preparing for this wedding for so many months now) and that means the real fun begins. I'm so glad we did this, and I am so glad it's HIM. Sometimes we argue, and sometimes we are stressed and can't spend proper time together, but every single day I look at him and think the same thing: "I am so in love with this guy." I don't know what it is, but it's real and it's exactly perfect. I only hope I can make him as happy as he makes me. I'm ready to do this-- I'm ready to give this marriage my absolute best. I sound like a cheesy Hallmark card, but I don't give a flying fig.

What the hell does that mean, anyway-- what is the inherent value of an airborne fig? I guess it's not too valuable, otherwise there would be a problem in giving it away. I just like the sound of it, and so I say it. Another one I have actually uttered in the past? "I don't give a mouse vagina what you say." See, I was trying to do a little play on that "I don't give a rat's ass" thing when I said that. I think I impressed myself with my own wittiness on that one.

Then again, I am a person who is super-impressed when people can burp words, so take it in what sense thou wilt.

November 11, 2006: Greg and Lisa make it official, instead of living in sin forever. :)

Well, it's a done deal... Greg and I are married now! The wedding was really perfect. I had so much fun! I felt so calm and happy once we were in the car driving over to the wedding site. Of course, up until that moment I was more stressed out than I think I've ever been, running around trying to finish up the last minute things and get ready.

I actually got ready for my wedding faster than it takes me on most mornings to get ready for work. But adrenaline was running high, of course...and with Trish's help, we got my hair up, makeup slapped on and the dress zippered up in less than a half an hour.

Trish and I made the bouquets and they were gorgeous. I'm so glad we decided to make them ourselves, because they were exactly what we wanted and totally personal. It was fun sitting there with my sister, putting the flowers together in the insane hours before the ceremony. :)

It was a little dark out by the time the ceremony took place, but it was wonderful. It felt amazing to say the vows and feel that deeply about the conviction behind the words we were saying. I cried when it was "Ring Time." Greg looked so cute in his pinstripe suit, wingtips and tie with the stars on it. I really got the sexiest, most adorable man ever!

And the reception was awesome! Our backyard didn't look like our yard anymore, with the tables and chairs all set up and decorated, and white lights everywhere. The caterer did a great job; the presentation was way better than I'd expected, and everyone loved the food. Greg's mom made our wedding cake and it, too, came out perfect. Our little dia de los muertos skeletons on the top really set it off. It tasted great (and we still have a lot of left over, so say hello to my new Size 30 hips, everyone).

We got drunk and danced and laughed; it was so much fun. I didn't want it to end. I couldn't believe everything went so well, especially after all the stress of doing it all ourselves, for the most part. I'm so grateful for Greg's family, who flew into action once they arrived in town, to my Mom and Trish, and our friends who pitched in to make sure it all happened as it should. We are so fortunate and blessed to have such a great group of people around us! It's more than I ever thought I could have. :)

There were only a couple of snags, although one of them was pretty frickin' huge: our videographer NEVER SHOWED. So we don't have a wedding video! That really, really sucks. He just didn't show up. He didn't call, or anything. Fucking prick. Well, I am going to do a little something called negative publicity and make it known the guy is a shitbag. See if he works in this town again, or with anyone related to the Phoenix Film Commission, again. Ha, fuckface.

Also, the electric at the wedding site wasn't turned on like it was supposed to be, which would have meant no music. When I found out, I surprised myself by shrugging and saying, "Well, everyone can just hum the Wedding March or something." The back-up camera for our photographer had dead batteries. I didn't have time to do my nails.I can't believe the ONE day where I would want to have pretty-looking nails and I end up with ragged, different-sized plain nails as I am going down the aisle. But up until a half hour before the wedding I was still in my jeans, trying to get the PA system to work. So there ya go. Can't have everything!

I just didn't freak out! I can't explain how great that was-- I am normally a stress-ball. I was nice and mellow and happy. Nothing was going to ruin this day for me. I felt at peace, you know? Just this awesome feeling of "this is the greatest day of my life, because Greg and I pledge ourselves to one another today." Who cared if there was music, or videos, or pretty nails... none of it made a difference. It was fun and absolutely beautiful.

I will try to write more very soon, but my body is crashing. But now, I must go off to take a nap until we meet family for lunch. It's a busy week of seeing people, now!

Have a great day, everyone who happens to read this blog. You are good people.

When will the pre-wedding insanity end??
Let me just say one word: Argh. Yes, argh. And for proper effect, it needs to be uttered in a gutteral wail of anxiety.

I feel so overwhelmed with things! There's all these THINGS to get done before Saturday. All sorts of things, big and small. But a lot of the things that need to get done can only be done the day or the day-of the wedding, so it's just this icky anticipation and worry that we just won't get it all finished, or...

...we WILL get it all finished, but collapse of stress-induced heart attacks before we can enjoy the various fruits of our labors. There they are, the lovely bride and groom. Dead. So sad.

Actually, no, it's not so bad. But yes, we are quite busy this week. People are arriving, dogs need to be shuttled away to the dog sitter's house, food needs to be prepared and houses--OK, just one house, and it is ours--need to be cleaned. And then there's the little wedding details like decorating and getting everything ready to go. It's a lot to do, and it's sort of surreal that It, The Wedding, happens in just a couple of days. Wow!

It really is going to be a LOT of fun. I'm excited as hell.

However, it must be noted that the fun of our wedding will pale in comparison to Office-Sanctioned Wedding Celebratory Luncheon(TM).

Today, my co-workers did a nice thing and threw me a luncheon in the training room here at work. They put a lot of effort into ordering good food (Italian, just the way I like it), decorating with my color and having a delicious rum cake on-hand to cap off the festivities. But you know what, though...it was STILL an office thing. It's just weird to do this at work. I don't like it, I feel uncomfortable and today, when it was my turn to be the center of the workplace attention, I wanted to puke a little in my mouth.

Not because I hate the attention, but because of the phony, trite small-talk I heard coming out of my own mouth as I tried to be cordial and smiley. I understood the importance of being smiley today--if I was scowling and my usual bad-attituded self, that would give a strange impression to everyone that I was not happy to be getting married. I had no choice, I HAD to be smiley, you see.

It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have involved music and mandatory participation in a Corporate-Approved version of the Electric Slide. Or they could have ignored me altogether and just glossed over doing anything nice at all for the "quiet girl in the corner." This was the best the officemates could do, under the corporate circumstances.

Feast your eyes on the special bride's chair they set up for me:

Now I liked this; I thought it was sweet that the ladies went to the trouble to decorate and go all out with the tulle and gasp--a feather boa! They made it feel like an actual wedding-related event. That was very nice and I don't criticize what they did. However...

You can't mask the fact that it is still an office chair, sitting in a bland office room, at a conference table that has brought me nothing but boredom and misery in my previous moments spent sitting at it. This picture amuses me quite a bit. Festivity! Gaiety! Conference Room!

Yup, so, the world knows now that Armsweat's getting her ass married. No mistake about that. I am just really ready to leave the office today and not come back for a week and a half, already. I don't want to be doing this when there are wedding-things I could be doing, where I free to go. This is probably the hardest thing; sitting in the office trying to work when I am only thinking about a pile of other more interesting and exciting things. And crap that needs to be done. There is crap, after all. But the good stuff outweighs the bad.

All this business with my schedule being packed and stress making an idiot out of me has meant there have been sacrifices. I haven't worked out, I have been eating weird (eating only twice all day some days, and bingeing on others), and most of all I have yet to see Borat. This pains me, for I know how hilarious this movie is reported to be. And I love the character so much. I could totally use a few hours of hard laughter in a dark theater. I can't wait until we can go see it!

I'm all over the place with this blog. I should be working. Either way, it's crazy times and despite my extreme happiness at getting married to Greg, I repeat my affirmation over and over to get through the week: I will NOT cry due to stress, I will NOT cry due to stress, I will NOT cry, damn it! I'm a tough old broad, and we tough old broads don't cry. We might get a little loud and shouty, but that's it. NO TEARS! Be tough, slap myself in the face a little, get a beer and DEAL. I mean...fuck. I can do this!

I once organized a gigantic charity march to raise dollars for children afflicted with cancer of the ass; 500 million people across the nation came out to walk for the Ass Cancer Kids, and it was all because I was the seed that sprouted into the glorious plant of a Great, Selfless Idea. I was the change I wanted to see in the world, Mr. Ghandi. I DID it. So yes, if I could pull that little trick off, I can certainly handle a small wedding! Shyeah!

I won't even get into the time I developed a vaccine that will undoubtedly eradicate the horrors of the common cold, or when I worked with an international team of experts to build the perfect human being, capable of great feats of strength, skill and endurance; the perfect soldier, if you will. My point is, to paraphrase the feminist icon, Barbie, we girls can do anything. And that includes me, for I am a girl and I am not made of molded plastic, giving me an automatic edge right there.

Hey. Look at this ol' picture of me. Look at it, look look look:
This picture means very little in regard to this post; it's just a picture we took on our summer trip up to the Grand Canyon. This metal thing in the street in Flagstaff just bellowed out to me: "Take a picture with me! I'm some weird thing that deserves to live on in your memory in photographic form! And you want to stand next to me because it's something you can throw on the blog at random sometime!"

It's late and I should be asleep, beginning my week of Plenty of Sleep in Anticipation of the Wedding. God knows I need it. You should see my skin-- I am breaking out like a motherfucker. It's awful. Also, I think I am picking at it more than I normally would...could it be due to stress or something? Why would I want to make myself more ugly on the one day I'd like to look kind of nice? I don't get me.

ANYCRAP. Tonight I picked up my wedding dress from Brianna, who is an amazing friend and super-talented seamstress who did my alterations in just a couple of days and did a great job, I must say. But the journey to pick up the dress would be fraught with peril and inconvenience. Allow me to tell you my tale of Full Moon Road Horrors.

I left the house to drive out to Brianna's--who lives one hour away-- and was about a quarter of the way there when I stopped for awhile and realized I couldn't restart my car. Luckily I was in a parking lot and not the side of the freeway, and I called my insurance agent to take advantage of the "emergency roadside assistance" and found that I needed to call one of 2 towing companies they had on file. So I did. Only problem was, both companies were actually two towns away, and wanted to know what repair shop I wanted my car delivered to. I had no idea. It's not like I drive around with a ledger filled with the street addresses of all the repair shops in the Valley and a tiny Japanese robot that can calculate the distance to the closest one, as well as perform robot massage on my parts that get tense. I'm just not that lucky!

I called Greg, and he came up to where I was stranded and jumpstarted my car. I impressed myself by reading the owner's manual while waiting for him, and even attempting to replace a fuse I was almost-convinced was blown; I had to find the fuses, pull 'em out, and see which ones controlled what, all while getting my hands dirty. Yup, I think it's safe to say that tonight, I made my mechanic-father proud. I bet he got a twinge in his hand at the same moment I, 3,000 miles away, was saying "ouch" from breaking my fingernail on the cover of the fusebox. "My little girl is under the hood and attempting repairs," he probably said as he looked wistfully off in the distance, smiling a little before he shrugged and went back to watching Animal Cops: Houston and cursing out the goddamn sick bastards who hurt dogs.

I was wrong about the fuses, and Greg was right about the battery needing a jump, and we got my car going and drove all the way back home. Once there, Greg saved my ass once more by removing the old battery from my car, driving me over to Wal-Mart, where we bought a shiny new battery--figurately speaking of course, since auto battery cases tend to be more on the "matte" side-- and going back home and putting the new battery in my car. I was ready to attempt my second try at getting out to Brianna's house.

I was so happy to have a car that worked again, and a husband-to-be that can do anything and helps me out when I need him most, and I drove along back up the freeway again with my music blasting and a feeling of happy excitement to see my altered dress. And that's when I saw the little orange road sign on the shoulder that said, bluntly: "ACCIDENT AHEAD."

And that's how it came to be that I sat for almost a FULL HOUR in the longest line of traffic I think I've ever been in since I moved here. NO kidding. An HOUR. I moved only about 2 miles in that time. And to make it worse, my phone battery was basically dead so I couldn't sit and bullshit on the phone with anyone to pass the time. I was stuck. At least the full moon was gorgeous tonight, and the "Random Play" button on my MP3 player was picking some of the finest tunes available, meaning I had to perform only minimal skippage. BUT STILL...

Sitting there for an hour definitely bummed me out, and made me a little superstitious all the sudden about that dress. Maybe God didn't want me to have that dress! Maybe this was a sign from the universe that I needed to go shopping. Maybe I just want to go shopping, period. And I want a "sign" that will back it up. Yeah, because shopping is fun.

Happily, I finally made it to Brianna's door just a little after 9pm. I think I left the house initially around 4pm, thinking I'd have a whole night to do fun things once I got home with my pretty frou-frou and sparkly dress. It's just amazing what can happen in the weeks before a wedding; that's what I'm thinking.

Because, in other news, we fired our photographer.

Yes, I know. It's less than one week until our wedding.

But the pictures this clown took are not to be believed. We finally got him to do our 'engagement photo' this past Tuesday and when we picked up the photos, it was laughably bad. We've got shots of us completely washed out, and then several that are completely out of focus. We're not centered on another one. And as the guy took the pictures, he never once gave us any direction; you know, like 'tilt your head to the right more,' that sort of thing. As a result, we look uncomfortable, and stuck perpetually at unflattering angles. And you can see the growing malice burning in our eyes, because the whole 'shoot' was rushed and uncomfortable as he bitched about the light, and because he took full-body pictures when we specifically asked for waist-up/torso shots and close-ups-- seriously, we both look annoyed right behind our insincere smiles. (This is NOT a look you want immortalized as a pre-wedding photo! God damn it, no.)

Luckily, we will be refunded for our deposit. And my friend and co-worker is stepping in to take some pictures. Sure, they won't be done by a professional, and he is a little nervous that he could screw something up or miss an important shot, but we're out of options, really. And besides, I think he will do hundreds of times better than what this so-called photographer did. It's just important to have pictures of the day, and who cares if they are glossy or perfect? I don't. I just want something to capture it. At this point, I'd give someone in the crowd a Polaroid and ask them to just start taking pictures and don't stop till the cartridge runs out. And when that happens, that's when the court sketch artist steps in.

But all of this aside, I am feeling pretty giddy about everything. It's coming up so soon. And there is so much to do and yes, things that I admit I am stressing out about, but the overall emotion is intense, bright excitement; kind of like how it felt to know your 6th birthday was only days away. A big party! With friends, and cake! And maybe there will be a magician or clown there, woo hoo! (No seriously, I think we do have at least one of these in the crowd.)

I KNOW everything will come together OK, and that we'll have a great night and our guests will be able to get properly hammered in the comfort of our home, and our marriage will KICK the ASS because we are cool like that... yeah. It's all good.

Well, I'm going to sleep, but let me just remind everyone of something very, very important that's coming up soon and you all need to participate in if you want to stay in the cool circle and get invited to my next party with cake...

It's time again for our annual THANK GOD I'M NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE Day!

November 22 is the date...I'll post more on this and some links in the next day or so. I'm too sleepy to do it now...but start looking for those old embarassing photos and scanning them in so you can embarass yourself to an audience of internet peers you've never met. It's good clean fun, I tell ya! You'll love it!

Thoughts on basements, cellars and other subterranean storage spaces

I don’t have a basement, and I wish I did.

Today, Janine posted pictures of her fiancé working on a project in their basement. Since she lives in a part of the country where basements are the norm, she happens to have a basement. I live in the Phoenix area, and in this part of the country, houses are almost always built without a basement.

Why? I think I heard somewhere it had something to do with the soil conditions. I know first-hand that the soil out here is ridiculously dry and hard; I’ve witnessed Greg using a pick-axe to cut down far enough in the yard to place sprinkler lines or make little trenches for landscaping pavers. When you have to dig with a pick-axe, I think it’s safe to say your dirt is unfriendly, unyielding and generally better off left alone.

In New Jersey, everyone had a basement. And in my part of the state, approximately 95% of all those basements had some sort of water problem. I heard the words “sump pump” uttered frequently in our house, and there were talks about mold, drains and sometimes even mushrooms. By the way, I think I said “supp pupp” in my head until I was in middle school or so. But that’s just because I am an idiot.

Anyway, if you were lucky enough to have a basement that didn’t leak water or become full-out flooded during a rainstorm, you could potentially have the crown jewel of basements…the FINISHED basement. Oh my god. I loved going to friends’ houses that had finished basement. One girl had a whole game room down there with a pool table and a pinball machine, a wet bar (of course we only sipped the liquor as to not arouse suspicion with her parents), a full-sized couch and TV, carpeting and cool track lighting. Most of my friends had basements that were just concrete and fluorescent lighting, but they were still cool, too.

Tracy’s basement was one of my favorite places to be when I was a kid. If she’s reading this, she is probably thinking, “What the hell? You only liked me for my crappy basement?” Yes, Tracy. That’s true. I did only like you for your basement. You knew it. And we know you only liked me for my awesome lip-syncing skills and great dialogue when playing Cabbage Patch Kids Who Get Married.

Seriously though, her basement was fantastic for roller skating. We would crank up the Olivia Newton-John and coast around down there for hours. It was also a great place to build forts out of boxes and yard tools and make a haunted house tunnel behind the hot water heater. In one kind of strange game, we played “Russia,” where one of us would be a soldier of some sort set out to capture the other, who was a “Defector”—usually a ballerina on the run. I’m almost positive that when her family finally moved out of that house, it still had chalk scrawled on the walls down there in that basement that said “Welcome to Russia” and “No Freedom.”

Yes…I am guilty of playing a game where a catchphrase was “No Freedom.” What a dork.

As for my own basements, well, they weren’t so much “basements” as they were “cellars.” And they were SCARY.

In the first house I lived in, the cellar could only be accessed from the outside of the house. The washer and dryer were down there, and so was my Mom’s ceramic kiln and some of my Dad’s auto repair machinery. When my Mom wanted to do laundry, she had to go out the back door and walk around to the side of the house, and go down these crumbly old concrete stairs and into the dark cellar. I didn’t like going down there at all because there were too many shadowy places and after a rainstorm, the ground was always a little damp and there was a distinct Cellar Smell in the air.
Plus, the stairwell leading down to the cellar had walls on both sides, and most of the time there were daddy long-leg spiders and/or snails on the walls. So you had to walk between spiders and snails. Nope! I didn’t want to do that. It was safer to stay up in the living room, watching the Electric Company and eating celery sticks and Stella d’Oro cookies.

When I was 10, we moved to a bigger house in Belford, and that house had a basement that was even worse. This one had brick walls and a dirt floor. Dirt floor. Oh, man. I had visions of bodies buried in that dirt more times than I can count. I was really good at freaking myself out. In addition, the ceiling was pretty low down there, and there was a really old and decrepit looking wood-burning furnace down there. We didn’t use it, of course, but the previous occupants never removed it so it was just lurking in a dusty corner, looking sinister and to me, like a good place to burn the chopped-up bodies of the ones who weren’t buried under the floor.
Wood plank steps led up from the cellar and into the closet that was in our living room. It was definitely scary to me and Trish to think that just behind that benign closet door was another door that led down to the awful, death-filled cellar. Of COURSE, the cellar was loaded with ghosts. Probably hundreds of them. They’d sneak up to the main house at night by slipping under the doors as smoke and then take form and walk up and down the hallway, scaring the crap out of two girls with overactive imaginations.

Later on, my bedroom was the basement level of a condo in Middletown, and it was awesome. It was a big room, it was private, and I had an entrance to the back yard right there in my room. It was so helpful for letting the dog out. I still kind of miss that room, even though it had ugly paneling.

And now, after over 8 years in Arizona, I have never lived in a place with a basement. In fact, I’ve never lived anywhere with an attic, either. There are crawlspaces, but they’re not really built for people to go up there and store stuff. Plus, it gets ridiculously hot up in those spaces, so good luck putting anything that could melt or warp up there.

Now I’m thinking about all the crap I have, and how even though I have steadily reduced the amount of crap over the years so I really only have the stuff I REALLY like, I never seem to be able to reduce the clutter or number of boxes stored in closets and under the bed. I think if we lived in a place with a basement and/or attic, the house would not be so junk-filled. We built a shed this summer, and even with all the holiday decoration stuff out there, we still have more stuff that could use a place where it could be stored. I lust after those homes that are just clean, neat and minimal. I want to do that in our home. And that’s why I wish so hard for a basement.

I want to stash my crap.

And…

I want to be a little spooked by a place in my house.

There’s just this very primitive part of me that wants to be scared, and wants to imagine crazy things going on under the floorboards. I’ve always been that kid who wanted to read the ghost stories and write messed-up stories filled with blood, gore, psychological terror and demons. I’m still that kid, really; I’m just a little bigger now.

And when I become a mom someday, I want to make sure my kid has a scary place in the house, too. I won’t intentionally scare my kid, per se; I will, however, make no attempts to hide the shadowy spots or light them up and make them ‘safe.’ Kids need to be freaked out a little, I think.

And on that note, I bid you adieu. And remember, there is no basement in the Alamo.

Prop Comedians of the DAMNED!
What it would look like if Carrot Top and Gallagher were engaged to be married. And Mr. Top finally stopped doing steroids and lifting weights; and Gallagher had no problem being with the scariest person in the known universe.


And, here's a cool picture I took of a fire-eater. He performed at the party we attended. It was one hell of a hot time! You could feel the heat. In the words of Glenn Frye, the Heat is ON. There was a fire in his belly. Someone, stop me. Feel free to make me shut up at any time. Any time at all.

I finally have a Halloween costume! But...I am not telling what it is yet. Sure, a select few people already know and these select few had better not spill the proverbial beans in the comment box or I will rain pain down upon you, brothers. But I think it's truly a scary, funny costume. I'm being something I am terrified of. But, also something that should get a laugh or two, as long as people realize what I am. Greg has his costume, too, and it's in the same category. In fact, we are being a pair of something. It's not a couples costume, per se, but we are two examples of something.

Nice and vague.

I typed "bague" first; and that made me think of bagels and MMMM. Bagels.

Tonight I went out to dinner with my friends Laura and Nikol, and it was so much fun. I love talking to these chicks. Good people! I am still giggling about the little old-timey picture of a sour-faced little girl that was on bathroom wall near the door; it said, "We don't talk about toilets." I really want that picture. If I didn't have a name for my blog, I would maybe make this phrase the title. It would be ironic, because I talk about toilets CONSTANTLY. Right now, I am talking out loud to no one, as a matter of fact. And what am I talking about? You guessed it! TOILETS.

Greg is out having a bachelor party, of sorts. I bet some trashy old broad is stripping in front of him right now. I'll have to make him go into the chemical showers and delouse him before he comes in the front door; I ain't catching whore-cooties. Noooo...Greg's just fine. And I doubt strippers are playing any part of his fun tonight. Like a lot of guys I know, strippers are just sad to him. He's having some beers at his favorite bar and bullshitting with the dudes. I'm lucky.

Last night we finally got to see The Prestige. I sincerely enjoyed this movie. I loved the story, the storytelling itself, the cinematography, the acting, the David Bowie...all of it. I want to read the novel it's based on. I also plan to read up on Nikola Tesla. There's got to be some interesting stuff on his life that I can find once I dig through all the worthless crap about those clowns who recorded Modern Day Cowboy.

Electricity is pretty amazing stuff. I'm not sure if you know that. But it is. But don't take my word for it. Go use some for yourself, and you will totally see what I mean.

I realized today that one of my essentials in life, next to deodorant and my biteguard, is dental floss. I didn't have any on me and there were two places in my teeth where I could feel things stuck. It was awful. I spent the entire drive home furiously trying to work the offending tooth-cloggers out with my tongue. It was just maddening. I was so happy to see my trusty little white box of floss when I got home! What good floss... it saved me from certain doom. From now on, I am adding floss to the huge supply of stuff I haul around in my giant purse. I'd like to get some animal I can keep in there, but I don't want to deal with the pooping on my wallet and keys. (All animals poop)

I write the most useless blogs sometimes.

A tip that will most assuredly make your weekend more pleasant:
Refrain from eating dead leaves. Especially ones that are in the middle of the busy highway.

Some things are just so funny to me, and I can't really explain why, so here's one of those things. Let's see if anyone else thinks this is as funny as I do:

Pleasant Valley Roooooad:

>"Hey Joe, let's ruin people's lives by trappin' them in their houses while we pour this stupid slurry all over the place!" (insert sound of evil laugh here)

SLURRY?! Surely you must be shitting me.
When I opened the front door this morning, the city road crews were out in my street pouring something called slurry down in a strip on our side of the street. If I had left even one MINUTE earlier than I did, I would have gotten out of my driveway and been able to get to work on time. However, it didn’t work out that way. Friggin’ road crews and their friggin’ slurry, starting my Monday off on a negative note.

So yes, I am a little concerned that this week could be off to a bad start because of this. I woke up late and was rushing around like crazy to try to get out of the house on time; I heard the garbage trucks and remembered we hadn’t put the can out yet, so I ran out of the house and dragged the can out to the curb but I think it was in vain because the garbage truck was on the other side of the street and probably did its pass down our side of the street while I was still in the shower. I saw the road crew setting up to do this dumb slurry thing and knew I had just a few minutes before I’d be trapped if I didn’t move my ass. By the way, they were supposed to finish this slurry thing by Friday—they started it on Thursday and left us all notes on our doorknobs about what to expect and how we couldn’t back out of our driveways for at least one hour after they poured it, etc, etc… when I got home from work Friday, only half of the street was complete. Sonsabitches can’t get their work done on time. Milking the city for the paycheck; dragging out the job as long as possible. I wonder how they would have responded to me running out of the house like a madwoman, hair flying, wielding a shovel and baring my teeth in my intent to bash skulls in. Those are OUR taxes, you pricks; now get to work or I spill your brains on the slurry. Yeah. Thoughts like that make me feel more powerful, which in turn makes me smile and feel better.

Well, it all turned out OK for the most part. My boss was late to work anyway, and nothing happened in the hour I missed. I didn’t have to apply makeup in the bathroom at work, and I had time to dry my hair instead of letting it air dry in the clip I always stick it up in when I am too lazy or rushed to do my hair. And now I sit here, without any projects to work on, writing this blog. So yes, life isn’t too sucky, I suppose. Damn. Wish I had more to bitch about. (I'm only sorta-kidding)

Greg came home from Iowa last night and I was so happy to have him back. It’s strange how lonely and empty the house was without him there. Now we can move on to doing final preparations for this Weddin’ Thing we are doing soon. Less than three weeks to go. This calls for a joyous “WOOOOO-HOOOOO!”

Weird Injuries and Blemishes, Part XVII:
The first one this weekend happened when I slipped in my lovely little Rocketdog sneakers—the ones that although adorable, have absolutely no treads and are therefore quite slippery, especially to the accident-prone—and fell into the kitchen doorframe, badly bruising my upper arm. It’s a weird bruise since it’s super sensitive and painful. For me, most bruises don’t hurt much; they simply look awful and that’s it. This one is right on the front of my bicep, and it’s nice and purple and so sensitive that just moving my arm up and down makes it sore all over again.

There was a mysterious scratch on my forehead last week—it was under my bangs and up near my hairline, so no one could see it. I didn’t even know it was there until I was washing my face one day and the soap stung the spot. Sure enough, a small scratch was up there, just hanging out being mysterious. I don’t have a clue how I could have gotten it. My best guess is I scratched myself in my sleep. I don’t understand how I work.

I’ve got two horrible, nasty pimples brewing. One is on the very middle of the bridge of my nose, and it’s basically a red swollen spot I’ve been carefully treating with acne gels and stuff to keep it from getting worse—I have not dared to squeeze it, for fear of having a massive scab-mess on my nose. I’d rather have a red spot I can at least dot makeup over.

The second pimple appeared yesterday as a painful bump on my chin that I also treated with medicine to keep it from getting bad, but this morning it had blossomed into a full-on zit that desperately needed squeeze treatment. I had to do it…and now I’ve got that lovely scab to contend with for the next 3-4 days. I am not happy about this. I don’t like having two prominent zits on my face. It makes me feel sloppy, unkempt, unclean and rather oily. It doesn’t help that my hair is frizzy today, too. And my black skirt has somehow managed to collect more dog hair after I lint-rollered it right before I left the house today—meaning my car must be loaded with it, or I carry a perpetual cloud of floating dog hair with me wherever I go. Kind of like PigPen’s dirt tornado, which surrounds him at all times and serves to showcase his slovenly ways to all the world.

Indy News:
Beginning sometime in November, Indy and I will be taking a basic training course over at the Pet-Smart. I went there for a shock collar this weekend, and ended up signing up for the eight-week class and buying a cheaper collar than the Gentle Leader I was going to buy him, all for way less money than it would have cost for the collar that, most likely, he would become acclimated to due to his resilient and pain-resistant nature. I’m grateful I got to speak with a knowledgeable person at the store—I was afraid I’d only have the option of dealing with some untrained teenage clerk who knew nothing about the collars or dog behavior. The woman I spoke to even took Indy on a walk through the store to observe him before she recommended this certain collar we bought. I was impressed. I didn’t expect to get actual customer service. What a novelty!

I think this was the best thing to do, and I am kind of psyched to do this class. Our friend Brianna completed a Pet-Smart course recently with her pound-puppy Scraps and has said nothing but good things about the program. Indy needs this. I really want to get him socialized more—he is very friendly and playful with other dogs and people, but he needs to learn to chill out more and not lose his mind every time someone pays attention to him. No more jumping up for this guy. I really want to make him a well-behaved animal. He makes us absolutely crazy and we want to throw him through the window approximately eight times a week, on average. Like I’ve said time and time again, we can’t kill him because we somehow “love” him. Stupid love, ruining all the anger all the time!

Five Random Things:
• My favorite movies haven’t changed in about 20 years. They are “The Neverending Story”, “Edward Scissorhands”, and “The Jerk.” I wonder when something will come along that knocks one of these out of the top three.
• Sugary cereal is like crack for me. I can’t stop myself from eating 1,200 bowls in one sitting, so it’s best if I just don’t buy the stuff.
• I dropped a pants size recently and moved up a couple of belt-notches.
• I love chocolate and I love strawberries, but I don’t like chocolate-covered strawberries. The fruit/chocolate combo always gives me a headache.
• Sometimes when I am driving, or doing something like cleaning, I find myself saying “Chanandler Bong” outloud to no one. (In case you don’t know what that is, it was the way the TV Guide label misspelled Chandler Bing’s name on an episode of Friends. It just stuck with me and I love the sound of the words.)