Hey everyone, it's Potentially Great News Time!!!

"SHOWTIME FOR THE BLUTHS?: Hmm, maybe the fat lady should shut her mouth and take a seat. The New York Post hears brand-new buzz that Showtime has not only picked up Fox's canceled Arrested Development but has ordered a full 26 episodes."

--TVGUIDE.com

Anyone who tells you that planning a wedding is kind of stressful and can overwhelm even the most grounded couple is absolutely right. I think it's a LOT of fun, and we are having a ball thinking about the ceremony and seeing our friends and family that day, and how it will feel to transition to "married"... but last night it got to me. I cried a little because I felt like there was so much to do! I let "the details" get in the way of the fun. Crap!

Luckily, it went away. And I am back to being excited, not overwhelmed. We have some cool things planned already, and we spent the weekend visiting possible wedding sites and discussing ideas.

I am sorely disappointed in the wedding venues here in the metropolitan Phoenix area. First of all, I guess I should say that we are not rich and as such, we have set a budget. This budget leaves but a precious few wedding sites, as the ones that could pass as "nice" or "picturesque" cost about $2,000 an hour and you need to give up a kidney to the overlords before ye shall pass and enter the premises. So, we visited the one site that IS very nice, and is unique and I feel will be the place we book and have a kick-ass wedding and reception, but as a safeguard and to make sure we were SURE about the place, we wanted to check out the others in our price range. Yesterday we drove to three of them.

These three places were "reception halls" or "wedding houses." We found all three in some of those repititious and already-hideous-and-tiresome wedding magazines. All three places were closed yesterday, so we did the old Peek Over the Fence trick on two of them, and Peer In the Window trick on the last one. Which was in a strip mall. Sorry to anyone who did get married in a strip mall, but I can think of few things sadder than the Strip Mall Bargain Wedding.

Here's the common element of these three places: TACKY. Oh my sweet and gentle Jesus... why does everything "wedding" automatically include white lattice arches, and fake flowers and ivy garlands purchased at Michael's in 1994; why the plaster/resin statues of cherubs and Grecian-styled women? And I have to know this one: Why the Astroturf altar by the pool? Why must a wedding look like a Mob-connected family threw up all their old crap from the 80s and 90s all over the Arizona prefab landscape? Oh, man. I kept thinking about the potential wedding parties that must rent these places out, and I GUARANTEE those weddings have the following:

* Satin, poufy-sleeved bridesmaids gowns (colors in either pink, blue or seafoam green). There must also be a minimum of 5 bridesmaids, and at least one must be pregnant.
* A groom who is wearing a gold chain under that rented tux (the cheapest one in the store after Uncle Marty gave him the discount cuz of the groomsmen renting all them other tuxes and shit)
* A screaming, illegitimate baby somewhere in the crowd (or, maybe, in the wedding party itself)
* A five-tiered white wedding cake with real roses on the sides, and a shrill, ethnically-accented mother of the bride yelling over and over something like: "Now, SAVE that top tier, honey! Save it! You put it in your freezer and on your anniversary, you take it out and eat it together! No, be careful! Watch what you're doing, that cake cost a FORTUNE!"
* A fight in the parking lot before the night is over.
* Cheap booze. A Boone's Farm toast!
* Grandpa gets fresh with the hired help.
* Bride finishes the night in tears, no matter what. Her new husband will roll his eyes and act put-upon, and they both drive away and in the rented white limo terrified of the SPECTACLE that was HAVING A WEDDING is now over and they are expected to be "married" now. For reals. Whoa!

So yes, the bottom line is, we are not going to be contacting the managers or event coordinators of these fine wedding ceremony and reception sites. If we lived somewhere else we would probably get married in a park, on the beach, or at a quiet little bed and breakfast somewhere. But we don't, we live in Phoenix, and everything in Phoenix is either expensive as hell or crappy as hell. There's very little middle ground. And the stuff in the middle ground more than likely has you standing on dirt to get married, your veil stuck on a nearby cactus and hearing that tinny Mexican music playing somewhere in the background, since every park here on every weekend is playing host to some loud Mexican parties in every single ramada in the whole park and they always park a car close to the party and open all the doors and windows of said car and play that music at top volume. So yes, if this is your idea of an awesome wedding on a budget, I highly recommend Phoenix!

Seriously though, the place I am 99% sure we are going to rent out is quiet, secluded, totally different, it's green and near the water, so I am VERY happy indeed, and feel pretty fortunate we found it. I am not going to say where it is out of fear that some other would-be bride will read this and snatch it away before we can hand over our deposit this week. So it's staying secret for now. I do NOT want to end up at the Strip Mall.

The Monster of Lake Champlain!

Check that link out, and watch the first video they post on the left side of the page. The fact that you can actually see something caught on tape, just off the side of a fishing boat, is what really intrigued me. My guess is that it is a type of eel or like they mention in the video, a sturgeon-- maybe a new species. I doubt it's a dinosaur, but it could be something along the lines of a coelacanth; an animal that's pretty much unchanged from prehistoric times and we've just been unable to document its existence until now.

Either way, this is pretty exciting, and I would so love to go to Lake Champlain. I'd go out on a boat and yell, "Heyyyy! Heyyyy, monster of the deep! Come out! Heyyyy!" until someone punched me.

I was forced to call out my realtor yesterday. She wasn’t doing much to get my condo sold and I told her in a long and, I think, articulate letter how I thought she was showing no initiative and was too slow in getting things done. It was hard because I am not a confrontational type person, but it did feel good after I did it. I needed to stand up for myself and as a result, today she e-mailed me a detailed note of all the things she did today to sell my condo. Such as, putting new flyers at the condo, and viewing the other listings in my complex for sale. It’s sad it took a good stern talking-to (or e-mailing-to, in this case) to get her to do anything. I’m just glad she is working a little harder now. She was coasting before. Taking advantage of my laid back and friendly ways. Well, the shit stops here, Realtor. Time to get busy sellin’ or die tryin’. Or something like that. I really am not good at “the ghetto talk.”

As someone who is trying to watch her weight, I am confused by dairy. Some sources tell you to incorporate dairy into your diet everyday in order to lose weight. Some tell you to avoid dairy because of the fat. The “Eat Right for Your Blood Type” diet tells me that people with my blood type, which is O, should not eat dairy or anything with wheat in it. So I have responded by not following a diet in any way. Why should the dairy council dictate that I need to drink so much milk and eat so much cheese and yogurt? Why should people use scare tactics to spook me off the white stuff? No reason. No one is going to manipulate me.

Ode to Dairy Products
Dairy, I think it’s time you knew
I will drink you; I will eat you.
Whether you make me fat or make me slim
We are friends through thick and thin.
Milk, yogurt, a little Swiss
My fat belly remains in bliss.
I like milk on my Cap’n Crunch
Damn it, Dairy! Let’s do lunch!

So, I guess by default, I am following the advice of the US Dairy Council or The Association of People Who Raise Dairy Cows or Milky Overload Incorporated in my continued consumption of dairy products. Whatever. I don’t care. I like milk. The end.

I remember visiting this farm on a school trip one time. It was one of those period farms (time period, not menstruation) where the people who worked there dressed in old-timey pioneer clothes and walked around in those three-point Ben Franklin hats and carried wooden buckets. That’s what I remember. A lot of guys carrying buckets, doing who knows what. And I also remember it was hot and I probably wanted something to drink. I was such a thirsty kid.

Anyway, in the barn in the animal part of the farm, there was a lady wearing a huge dress with an apron and she was demonstrating how to milk a cow. She was talking about why the milk wasn’t pure white, or something, and I remember a kid asking why the cow looked so sore and red “down there.” Everyone started giggling. I can’t remember what happened after that. I was also a lazy rememberer as a kid.

I plan to keep posting pictures from the San Diego trip here, on a random basis. I like the shot above because that tree was captivating in its nakedness, against the blue sky and the serenity of the Japanese gardens (Friendship Gardens in Balboa Park, to be exact). So calm and lovely. Ahhh.

I have this problem with Phantom Sounds. I hate my cell phone ring, but I am too lazy to change it. But when I hear it, the sound of it sticks in my head for awhile after I hang up. Just now, it's been approximately 4 hours since I used my phone, and I thought I heard it ringing that awful ringtone in another room. Yet, I knew my phone is right here, in my right pants' pocket, and no, it didn't ring there. I've heard the Phantom Ring many times-- even in the middle of the night. Other Phantom Sounds I hear include:

* someone opening the front door
* Malcolm scratching the door
* someone starting my car up in the carport.

I wonder if people who hear Phantom Sounds are smarter than average, or just distracted. I came to that particular conclusion because I am distracted, on a regular basis.

What's weird is that after I wrote that little list above about someone opening the front door, I actually heard someone opening the front door. It was G, coming home early. Now that he's been home for about 20 minutes, I expect to beginning hearing the Phantom Door Opening sound sometime soon.

Things I Wish I Didn't Have to Do:

* Pluck my eyebrows. (If I don't those hairs come pokin' out blacker than tar, and no self-respecting girl wants something on her eyelids and around the brows that looks like smudges of tar.)
* Wash my car. (It costs a lot to do it here; they don't have many of those drive-through, exterior-only washes here like they did back east. Everything is over the top and extreme here-- they make you get out of the car as they vacuum it, then they prewash it, then they wash it, then the clean the windows and interior with stuff from spray bottles and spritz some compressed air into the door handles and doorjambs to get rid of residual water... can't I just line my tires up to the conveyor belt, slip it into neutral, and go about my business? And do I have to pay a minimum of $12 to have it done? Cripes. I am not made-o-money, here.)
* Work.
* Eat. (I love eating, I overeat. I daydream about being anorexic, but I just like eating way too much. I'll never be skinny. Or save money. Food costs a lot. Wish I could cut it out so I could save that cash.)
* Exercise at the gym. (I wish it could be as simple as running around like I did when I was a kid, but it's not like that anymore. I need the predictable, safe pacing of a treadmill for my delicate and crabby spine's sake. And now I worry about getting that all-important 30 minute minimum in, all the time. When I was younger? Never crossed my mind. Why can't it still just be a lot of Manhunt and roller skating?)
* Go to the dentist. (I developed a near-phobia about it in recent years. I am terrified of the cleaning they do with the pick and the scraping. JESUS CHRIST, the scraping!!And I am scared of the smell that drills give off when they are grinding their way through your precious enamel... god DAMN. I hate it. And to think I had no worries with getting in the chair at 11 to have 2 huge molars yanked out of my head with nothing more than a couple shots of Novacaine. I liked my dentist back then, wasn't scared or worried. Now I can't even get a cleaning. What happened? Wish I knew.)
* Try on pants. (I hate shopping for pants! HATE it!! Pants never, ever fit me right. I always have to settle for something in a size higher than I wanted. Also, I hate taking my shoes off, and undressing, and the whole trying-it-on and hanging-it-back-up hassle. I always get a little moody after I try on new pants.)
* Color my hair. (Alas, I didn't listen to my mother when she told me that once I started dying my hair, I would never stop having to dye it. She said this when I was in 8th grade and I wanted to experiment with red hair dye. She let me do it, but with an ominous warning about how, from that point on, 'it would never end.' She was right. I am stuck on a loop of hair-dyeing, and I can't ever get out. Unless I go all Natalie Portman and shave it off so it can grow in all in one color again. It's a thought.)

I just heard a Phantom E-mail Alert from my work laptop. You know, that stupid BLING sound that happens when someone sends you shit? I heard it, and checked but there was no e-mail. Son of a bitch. Although, I applaud the absence of work e-mails; that means I can continue doing this (blogging), and much, much more. Like go and tweeze stuff out of my face. Fun, thy name is Lisa.

Yeah, that's some fruit all right! What's in those cups, you ask? Oh, let me see now... there's watermelon! Yum! And mango, and jicama, and then...some other darker orange thing... and cucumber, which isn't a fruit, really, but it slices well into stick-shapes like the other fruit... Fruit! Come get a cup of fruit! Who doesn't like fruit? You gotta be kidding me. YOU don't like fruit? You serious? How can you not like fruit? I mean, after all, all this time, I always thought you WERE a fruit. Oh!

Please help me figure out what kind of pirate I am!

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also view a breakdown of results or put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

I certainly hope I am not the swishy type of pirate; you know, the pirate who's always swabbin' the poop deck. Arg.

My Mom celebrated her 35th birthday yesterday. Yup, she had me at 5, but you gotta understand that things were different back in "them days." Kindergartners had to get married because the pox was spreading back then, and it was scary for the survivors--would there be a next generation? They had to get to work earlier than usual. Also she was a mail-order bride, but that's a whole other thing right there that I won't get into.

There was a small family party at my sister's apartment. Trish made chicken parmesan and we had some cake, and gave her copious amounts of presents, as well as the gift of laughter. Rather than me go into the details, I will redirect you to Trish's account of the evening. Go there-- she did a good job AND there are pictures! I had shit on my face; you'll love it! (and there is a bonus shot of Chewbacca's son Lumpy from the Star Wars Holiday Special-- you can't see that just anywhere, you know.)

I had no idea there were so many of you who wanted to kick dogs! But after yesterday's post, I consider myself informed. Who knew we all think there is humor in kicking our pets? Hell, even goldfish were mentioned as potential Pets To Kick. Thanks for the comments, and all you East Coasters know that I still plan to eventually get my ass back to Jersey one of these days, and I will just bring Greg (and probably my oft-beaten dogs) with me for the magic and fun. So I will take care of kicking your dogs as soon as I can, my little lambs. Be patient-- my own fine skills in dog-kicking are worth waiting for.

Note to anyone who takes me seriously for some stupid reason: I don't really kick or beat my dogs. Although I do daydream about it when they tear up our stuff, pee on our carpets and furniture, crap all over the place or bark like assholes for about three hours after a bird flies past our house and alights on a tree branch. There is a strange sort of comfort in the dog-kicking daydream.

Anyway. I decided to just write out some random thoughts and free-associate and stuff on my MySpace blog the other day. I was thinking about it and realized there was no point in leaving a perfectly good post out to dry on MyStupidSpace, so I am pasting it over here. This is also because I am very busy with work and writing at the moment, but I am also a blog whore and can't go very long without posting new stuff here. It's a sickness; truly, it is. Who cares? Fart.

(Better post coming soon, by the way. Yup.)

Here's some things I thought of at random:
* You can throw a coconut in the water, but you can't make it think.

* If I bury a tomato in a pot of dirt, will a tomato plant pop up eventually?

* I'm reading "The Dark Knight Returns" (Batman) right now and I wish I liked it more. It's the way it looks and reads on the page. The panels. All the "newscasts" to tell the story. It's starting to bore me. And I just don't like the character of Robin. What's the deal, why is Robin even there, ever?

* I'm also reading an article about V for Vendetta and I have to read that next. Greg just finished it, so the book is "free" for reading now. I want to read it before the movie so we can debate it.

* I love how Pop Will Eat Itself name-dropped a lot of cool shit in the song "Can U Dig It"... I sang along in 1991 and never knew what half the crap was they were talking about, but today, in 2006, I finally do--for the most part. ("Alan Moore knows the score.")

* I just ate too many chips. Yuck. Blerp.

* I cut my own bangs, and the most recent time I did it was last night. Over the sink. DRY. Hard core.

* I think I need to find a new job because it's been DAYS now and I just can't write this one article I need to do. It's as if the words are totally gone. I seriously cannot figure out how to get it going.

* I actually started one version of the article with this gem: "Henry David Thoreau once famously said..." FAMOUSLY SAID. And starting a lead with something as cliche and lame as that? Whoa, boy. I am in trouble. (I'll be in the call center, working the phones and making a third of my current pay by the end of the month if you need me.)

* Candy corn. What's the deal? That shit don't taste like any candy I like, and it's nothing like corn. Although saying the plural, CANDY CORNS, is fun. "Look at all the candy corns."

* If I went outside to the carport and sat in my car all day, would anyone notice and call someone? Would anyone be concerned for my welfare? At least knock on the glass and say, "Miss? Are you alright in there?" And what could I do while I am in there (besides sleep and get dehydrated) to pass the time? Maybe I could do subtraction in my head. I could use the practice.

* A doctor once tested my brain by asking me to start at 100 and then subtract 7, and then subtract 7 again, and subtract 7 again... as long as I could keep it up. It was SO hard and I kept getting anxious and hoping I could stop the math soon. "STOP THE MATH! PLEASE!!" I think that was a Math Doctor. Don't ask.

* You know everyone picks their nose, but no one really talks about it. It's not a nice thing to talk or think about, and I wish I didn't have to pick mine sometimes. But nature is more powerful than wishes.

* I wonder if we'll ever be out in a wind powerful enough to swoop Malcolm up, into the air, and away. I love him, but I also would sort of like to see that.

* I like windchimes.

* Should I return to theater? I wonder sometimes. And then I just go and take a nap.

* I bought some Powerball tickets today. I still think the name of the game, Powerball, sounds like a gay porn movie starring Chris Klein. Get it? Like Rollerball, only with Power. Chris Klein's face looks plastic.

* One time, me and Trish burned a Whitesnake poster out on our shuffle board court in the backyard. We sprayed it with hairspray, fittingly enough. And then lit it. It didn't burn as well as we wanted it to. (One of us won the Whitesnake poster at the boardwalk or at a fair or something)

* Hey! The bad canker sore under my tongue? The one that looks like a hole? It's finally reached its breaking point and is now on the downward slope towards healing!

* I don't like the word "canker". I also hate cancer!

That's all I had. It's better served here than on Myspace's douchey excuse for a blog, anyway. Is it just me or does MySpace suck ass? Yet, there I am, on there. Oh well.

Last night we were eating dinner on the patio at Pei Wei, and at the table across 'the way' from us was a Dad out with his son and another kid who appeared to be the son's friend. The two boys looked to be about 8 or 9 years old. As we ate, I listened to what those kids were talking about and I realized they appeared to be more worldly and sophisticated than I am.

...Not that that's a tough thing to do. In a lot of ways I am still about 12 years old, and there are a lot of things I don't know. Case in point: I only JUST found out, like, last night, what a Dirty Sanchez actually is. I thought it was something else and it turns out, no, I was imagining something waaaayy dirtier than what it really is. Good to know I can go to very filthy places like that, but also a little sobering to realize how far outside the realm of normal, cultural references I really am. I don't hang in the cool-kids' circle. Especially not the dirty-talking cool kids' circle. I hear the references, and I repeat them without knowing what they really mean but thinking that the phrase sounds funny enough as-is. I don't know what I am doing, really. I think I have made that clear to anyone reading this thing on a regular basis.

Back to the children. The smart-talking children.

These little boys were having an intense discussion about frequent flier miles. The one kid was talking about how the miles accrue with Southwest's program. The other boy goes, "What about Northwest?" The conversation continued for a couple more minutes, since the other kid apparently also knew the intricacies of Northwest's program.

Next, they moved on to the topic of air turbulence. Kid Number 1 began sharing his stories of the many times he encountered turbulence while flying somewhere; Kid Number 2 finally displayed a little kiddishness when he did a little quick impression of how the plane rocked him back and forth and made him bounce in his seat. Kid Number 1 proceeded to explain what usually causes turbulence. I'm serious-- he started talking about air flow and what happens when you hit an air pattern that is left in the "wake" of another plane... I was lost.

At this point, two things were on my mind. One was: how the hell do these kids know about this stuff, and WHY are they discussing it so seriously? And second: they are under 10 years old. They SO need to be playing outside, in the dirt, making messes and being kids. There's no reason they should be talking about frequent flier miles. I looked at these two kids, who were obviously well-groomed and probably spawned by financially-secure families, and felt a little sad. I was impressed, sure, because I happen to know NOTHING about frequent flier miles, except that I don't think I have any, and as for turbulence I could stand to learn a thing or two about it (at some point when I am bored and have nothing better to do). But overall, it was uncomfortable listening to those little guys.

After they all left, Greg and I were talking about it and his theory was that the kids were in the special classes at school and had some sort of airline-related autism. That explanation makes me feel a little better, because then it means they are kids who can't help it.

I have to go. There is some mysterious BANGING going on outside. There's a vacant lot next door, and all day trucks pull into that lot, head to the back of the lot, and we hear things banging. Like metal, or big stomps of a giant wearing orthopedic giant shoes. The dogs are restless and wanting to go out there and bark in the general direction of the banging. Bless their hearts. I love that about dogs, always thinking their barking can change the way stuff happens. Dogs are also SO STUPID.

That reminds me: last night I saw sneakers in the mall that had all these nubs and stumps all over the sole. They looked almost like golf cleats, but they were trendy and the shoes were pink. When I picked them up, I had only one thought in my head, so of course I said it out loud in the store: "These look like a great pair of dog-kicking shoes." I think a teenage girl heard me. She looked at me with that "What?" face. Yeah, bitch: I am going home and I am kicking the crap out of some dogs, live with it!

Everytime I see the acronym, "DIY" (do it yourself), I say "DIE-EEE" in my head.
Same goes for BYOB (BEE-yobb) and FYI (Fah-why).

My oldest one, the one I have been doing since elementary school, is something I pronouce "Lebbulls." Kind of like saying "level" but with a "b" sound. It comes from going to the grocery store as a kid, and seeing the pound abbreviation of "lbs." I still say "lebbulls" ALL the time whenever I see it, sometimes even out loud to no one because I like how the word feels in my mouth.

Does anyone else do this?

If I don't say so myself, I am pretty damned sophisticated and smart.

Why do I think I have the right to say that? Well... I not only went to college but I loved the "thesis" way of thinking that went along with it. I like to read novels, literature and scientific non-fiction. I am an accomplished* thespian and director, and I have written two novels with two more in the works. My IQ is also in the higher range, and I always scored in the top 2% on my Iowa Tests back in school.

But herein lies the rub: I have very little to show for any of this. I wish I could demonstrate some superior intellect here. I wish I could begin powerful and well-thought-out discussions on this bloggy medium; I could use this as a forum for intelligent discourse. The thing is, I just can't, and I won't!

What I will share for you is my current Vomit Clip of Choice.

I just have this sick thing where I laugh when people throw up. In the past, I have loved the Lard Ass scene in "Stand By Me." I have laughed until I cried at my best friend Kristen's husband's thoroughly realistic fake vomit performance. Now I have a lovely man in my life who also does a wicked fake vomit performance. God damn, I am so lucky! I may have graduated Magna Cum Laude, but I will laugh till I cry at gross, disgusting humor any old time you give me some. I'm 30, and whoopee cushions still make me chuckle, and real farts are JUST HILARIOUS.

I now share with you the Family Guy Clip Where They All Take Ipecac and Violently Puke!

Happy weekend, and God bless us, everyone.

* well, I did do some Shakespeare in community theater a few times; that's gotta be a sign of my smartness, right?

OK, so I was going to write more about the engagement and everything, but it turns out I didn't. I feel kind of like a liar, or at least one of those people who says they are going to do something and then they never do it. What are those people called again? Oh yeah, assholes.

There were two reasons I didn't come on and blog the intimate details of the engagement (which was mind-blowingly awesome): one was that I haven't been able to blog from work very easily since my workload is stupid these days, and the other reason is I decided that there are some things I just sort of want to keep for me. I really love to share this kind of stuff, believe me... but this one thing kind of needs to stay sacred, even just a little. I like the idea of that.

However, I will share a view of the Coronado Hotel the night he proposed. We ate on the terrace just in the lower left corner of this photo. This is roughly the view we saw from the beach at the moment he asked. We really wished we could make the camera hold still to get a clear shot, but this is not so bad, considering what the other shots came out like. Besides, the blurry effect reminds me of the crisp wind that was blowing that night. It was gorgeous out!

Since the weekend, my life has felt pretty nice. I mean, I have a lot of work to get through and things are annoying in their usual way, and I still have a sore back... but I'm just happy. Pure happy. Happy is so good! I could totally have happy for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Sometimes maybe dunch (that snacky-meal between lunch and dinner). I would also shower with happy using a loofah sponge, and paint happy all over my toenails and frolic in the spring grass. Let's face it, I am pretty fucking impressed with happy.

Today is a wonderful overcast day here in Tempe, AZ. I watered some plants, because we are celebrating a record-breaking 115 days without any rain at all here in the valley. It's overcast, but we are not supposed to get any rain. That's such a cock and clit tease right there. I know a lot of people that would be ragin' for some action if it would just rain. Please... don't ask me how I know these people. I just do, and it's really not pleasant to have to deal with them.

That would be weird, if my job was to work the window at the Undeployed Genitals Department. I would have to ask the people who currently cannot have sexual intercourse for whatever their reasons the following in order to give them their Undeployment Check:

"Have you tried to find an opprtunity to deploy your genitals this week?"
"How many interviews have you gone on in your attempts to deploy your genitals?"
"On a scale of one to ten, how confident do you feel that at least one of your attempts at genital deployment will pan out for you?"
"Hope you like food stamps, because here are yours for the week."

If I did work at a job like this, I would purposely gain 50 pounds so I would look really nice in my work uniform of a burgandy polyester-blend vest and a gold-toned nametag, which would read "Sheila". I would also bleach my hair, perm it and stop brushing my teeth. That's just the way I think someone who works in a job like that would look.

So I have to write a LOT of copy for work to make up for lost time last week and yesterday (which I spent in a elated daze, looking at my ring, writing e-mails and running out my phone's charge on long breaks). The only thing that helps is music. Lots of it, loud.

I was working and listening to a Musicmatch playlist and rocking out to my current favorite, VNV Nation ("Empires" album); "El Tango de Roxanne" from Moulin Rouge; Tsunami Bomb; and more VNV... when suddenly "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" by Frank Sinatra pops up. It was quite incongruous and made me laugh. I wonder how I managed to pull that song into the playlist for "High Energy Stuff".

It was such a serene moment I stopped writing and thought about peace on the earth and good will toward men-- but that stopped, don't you worry. "Black Grease" by the Black Angels came on and I commenced rawkin'. Maybe not writing, though. Maybe I will DANCE now. We'll see!

February 4, 2006... Coronado Island Beach, California... On the beach, in the dark... Greg asked me to be his wife. I said YES. I am SO HAPPY! There's more to this story; and I will write it soon. It's late now, and I need to go to bed, but suffice to say it was the greatest weekend of my life. We're kinda giddy!

The beautiful, sparkling ring; and our hands together.

Headline: Fake Hair and Grabby Toddler Hands Do Not Mix!

I saw the funniest thing in Subway today: a lady in probably size 0 tight blue jeans and a trendy shrug and tank top was holding her little boy in her arms as she was at the counter ordering. She looked snooty and also like she wanted to be Jessica Simpson just a little. Her little boy was this little stupid blonde kid with a bowl cut, and he was making little screechy whining noises and kicking in his mom's arms.

Suddenly (and wonderfully), he reached up and yanked off her fake blonde ponytail! It was one of those moments where I had to look away and stifle a loud laugh. You could tell the lady was horrified. She just had a nub of hair pulled back in a holder where the fake hair once was. I LOVE seeing uptight, rich Scottsdale women have stuff like that happen. (It doesn't happen enough, in my experience.) The guys behind the counter did laugh and shake their heads in mock sympathy, but no-hair lady did not look amused.

Don't say he's cute: he's an asshole. (We spoil him, he has a total of 3 beds in this house, he has special dog food, he gets to go out in a yard whenever he wants, he gets to lick cake frosting off of plates at birthdays and STILL this diabolical fuckface shits in the house. If you want to read more, see the following post...)

Few things are as unnerving as sitting back in your chair, taking a deep, cleansing breath and having this thought pop into your mind: "I smell shit."

Today I am working from the home office, typing away and getting random things done. As usual, all three dogs are hanging around nearby. The big ones stay right near my desk and sleep. Malcolm tends to remain in the living room in his basket. He's aloof like that.

Now I have smelled shit before. It's not pleasant. I can even say with a certain degree of certainty that I hate it. Sometimes, the shit smell comes from a fart. The dogs will do that. And dog farts travel around a room, invisible but unmistakable. I know sometimes I go, "Oh, gross, one of the dogs farted!" and the other person in the room will sniff for it and say, "Really? I don't smell it." To that, I usually retort: "Wait... the cloud is moving. It will hit you, you'll see." Sure enough, approximately 10 seconds later, the other person's face will contort and I know the Dog Fart Cloud has drifted into their general area. It's a horrible and unescapable fact; it's part of the everyday life of living with dogs. Especially multiple dogs. This significantly increases the chances that a Dog Fart Cloud will move through your general region. You might want to cover up sensitive foods, like breads and fruits, so they don't take in any odors. And seek shelter in circumstances that can lead to a Dog Fart Hurricane, which can occur after a meal of human food or copious amounts of cheeses or pepperonis. You don't want to get that smell on you, your clothes or your hair. And even worse, sometimes the DF Hurricanes bring with them the dreaded MOISTURE.

I know, this is probably kind of gross to read about, especially to anyone out there who doesn't have pets. But I must continue because my story must be told. This could be the information you need to know so that you or a loved one can take the necessary precautions around dogs, or this could be the thing that makes you laugh and thereby distracts you when you know you should really be working. If either of these things occurs, my job is done.

Moving on to the NOW: I smelled shit.

I looked down from my desk at the two sleeping dogs in the room. Neither of them seemed to have farted. I got up and did the Overhead Sniff near them, just to see if I smelled residual fart hanging over them. No. That was weird. There was no residual fart, and nary a whisp of full-out Dog Fart Cloud. They were content and there appeared to have been no farting. I walked around the room cautiously, sniffing the air occassionally just to do a final check for any Clouds. And I did a visual sweep of the carpets under the desks and around the room, just to be sure. After all, Malcolm had been known to, ahem, splatter, in the past. He's old, and sometimes he gets a little of the ol' intestinal trouble, and things happen. It's regrettable, but a fact.

Nope. There were, thankfully, no splatters.

I forgot about it, since the smell subsided a bit. I figured it was simply an unusual type of Dog Fart Cloud that appeared and then dissipated suddenly. Those rascally dogs, always fartin'. Sheesh.

I little while later, I went out to the kitchen for a glass of water. Again, the I SMELL SHIT command central in my brain went into high activity. I checked the floors and still, saw no shit. Thank god. The dogs had followed me when I went to the kitchen, and I blamed one of them for a little more wisping of fart in my general area. I let them out in the yard. Still, I SMELLED SHIT.

This was getting weird, and more than a little scary. I definitely smelled something most foul. The dogs were outside, though, and the floors looked pristine. What was the deal? Nervously, I wondered for a split second if I was the mystery shit source. Oh my God, did I subconsciously shit my pants? I am on a muscle relaxant for my bad back. What if--no, God, no-- what if my shitting muscles had clocked out for the shift when the drugs hit my system? What if the dam of my sphincter muscles had been broken through by...NO WAY. Let's stop this silliness right now. Rest assured, it was not me. I was 'clear.' Yes.

Still, the shit smell persisted. I walked the living room, and saw nothing. Looked down the hall in the bathroom; checked the bedroom and the office one more time. No sign of any shit. But out in the kitchen, near the doorway to the living room, the smell was really strong. I wished I had an excrement detection device; or some sort of blacklight system that would light up any befoulment.

I moved to the living room front window to open it and let some of this phantom shit-stink out and fresher air in. I was starting to think I was hallucinating the smell of shit. (If and when I actually get a chance to hallucinate, I really hope it will be of something MUCH cooler and awesome than the smell of crap.) That's when THE MYSTERY WAS SOLVED.

There, under the white Copenhagen chair, and under the metal-and-maple end table, was a spray of dog excrement. The size of the piles and the leaky drops revealed without a doubt that Malcolm had decided to splatter, AGAIN. I can't fully describe my feelings at this moment. I know I ran to the back door and looked out at the smug little asshole, sitting out in the sun happily sunning himself alongside the two GOOD dogs, and I wanted to just drop a cinder block on him. I wanted to kick him; punch him; put him in a cage filled with hungry bobcats. Son of a BITCH.

Now I had a monster of a job to do in order to clean up the mess. Mind you, on Monday I threw my back out in a massive way (say hello to my NEW herniated disc, L4; this one is the new kid on the spinal block, joining Herniated L5 Disc of 1993, thank you very much), so getting down and scrubbing carpet on my hands and knees hurt me just thinking of the prospect. But what was I to do? G was at work, and besides, Malcolm is MY little asshole dog-- I brought him into this clean and bright home, therefore I feel it is still my job to clean up his messes. And the smell was just as bad as you'd think. For a five pound dog, Malcolm can really (to quote George Carlin) "knock a buzzard off a shit wagon." Cripes.

I cleaned up. It's done. I have survived the first Dog Fart Hurricane With Moisture of 2006. I have to say, I have never been more glad of a past purchase than I was today for my Bissell Stainlifter. If your back is out and you need to clean up a trail of tiny dog diarrhea, this thing is a godsend. Maybe not literally-- I sure hope that God would send me something really, really pleasant and enjoyable, like a fancy inground pool, loaded with neat floaty pool toys, with a lifetime supply of Mr. Pibb in a fully-stocked poolside fridge, or something (what do you want-- today I am cravin' the Pibb), as long as it's better than a little handheld carpet cleaning machine. Still, that thing did its job well and saved me a decent amount of hand-scrubbing. So, after a thorough scrubbing down and sprayover with the Lysol, I think the house is on its way to recovery.

Malcolm is now going on the auction block. May I start the bidding at two pence (tuppence)?

I am thinking in a British mood today. I should be heading home at the moment since it's the end of the workday, but I remembered I haven't blogged in awhile so I thought I would share some totally useless junk here:


* A good name for an Inspector is Inspector Spotoncrotch. "Inspector Spotoncrotch, whot's your take on this bloke?" Oh, that zany Inspector Spotoncrotch, always in for a bit of a spill!

* Thinking about Mike Myers doing "Simon" on SNL back in the 90s; the little kid in the bathtub with the "draaaaawrings" and "prune hands." I keep saying "My Mummy went to live with the angels" today as I drive. Note that yes, I did take half a Naprosyn for my new herniated disc; and yes, I am loopy from stress and general physical uncomfortableness. But I can't stop muttering about "angels" and "Mummy" today. In a British twit accent.

* Can I get rickets?

* Can I get crickets? Gosh, I certainly hope not. I really hate crickets. In Arizona, they are beige, yet in Jersey they were blackish. No matter the color, they are always the same-- pains in the ass, jumpy fruitcakes of insects. So lame. Go to hell, crickets. I do not care for you.

That's it, I am going home. This the most pointless blog ever.