Hot Dog Time
In honor of the Travel Channel's airing of Hot Dog Heavens last night--which Greg and I stayed up to watch; I can't explain why--it's just that it was a whole show about hot dogs. Come on. HOT DOGS! A whole SHOW!-- here is a little dialogue I imagine some suburban father having after he has prepared an entire grill full of hot dogs.

He's probably a good father, since he even went so far as to get different brands and varieties of hot dogs for his family, but even a good father is going to snap sometime. Hot dogs will do that to a person. Sure, they might be a 'summer staple' and 'an American tradition,' but they are also a potent timebomb of fatherly fury, I think.

Without further ado, here is the father in my head trying to get his family to eat some hot dogs:
"So who wants a hot dog?"

All right guys, hot dogs are ready! Oh boy!

Let's see, I've got Ball Park franks, and Sabrett hot dogs, and even a few of these crunchy ones from the butcher. They're all here, so just holler if you want one!

Hot dogs!

Come get your hot dog, Billy. And you too, Justin, come on. Time for hot dogs!

Hey...!

Doesn't anyone want a hot dog?

Come on guys, come get a hot dog. While they're still HOT.

Look kids, I'm not gonna stand here and beg you to come over and get a hot dog. But come on now. Enough is enough. Put down that wiffle ball bat, Justin, and tell your brother to get down off that fence. He shouldn't be climbing on that fence like that.

Billy! Off the fence!

Come get a hot dog!

Look... I am not gonna stand here all day waiting for you to come get a hot dog. So get over here NOW and get a hot dog!

I mean it!

Boys! HOT DOGS! NOW!

Good God, I have been standing over this hot grill all freakin' afternoon, making this family hot dogs, and now no one wants a hot dog? Why the hell did you whine about wanting a hot dog, Justin? I make you hot dogs, and suddenly you don't seem to want a hot dog anymore. This is ridiculous.

Get over here and get a freakin' hot dog!

Where's your mother?

BILLY! OFF the FENCE!

God damn it.

Fine. FINE! No one wants a hot dog, then! Fine! Then NO ONE GETS A HOT DOG! That's it! You kids can go hungry tonight for all I care. Get your asses in the house right now and clean up.

Oh, now, ya see? Ya see what happens when you climb on a fence when you're not supposed to? Billy, I told you to get down from the damn fence and now look what happened. Stop crying. You disappoint me. Get in the house and get your mother to clean that up for you. God damn it anyway.

Justin! What about you? Come over here and get a hot dog. It's your last chance. If you don't get over here see if I let you eat any ding dongs tonight while we're all watching Seventh Heaven. That's right! No ding dongs for you if you can't manage to eat a goddamned hot dog!

Get back here!

JUSTIN! So help me God--

Why won't anyone come and get a FUCKING hot dog! Shit!
(Throws barbecue fork; slams down grill lid. Storms into house, slams door.)

Great Balls of Fire, Ripping Apart Your House and Killing You!

Lightning kills. It's true! We all know it. We've been told since we were little to go inside when the lightning starts; don't stand under a tree; get out of the pool; if you are on a golf course, run for cover and drop your nine-irons or whatever they are--I call 'em clubs and that's all they are to me, clubs-- and abandon all hope, because it seems like people on golf courses are the most likely to get hit with lightning anyway. Crackling electricity, slamming down into whatever it wants and blowing it to hell.

I am scared of lightning. It's on my short list of things I am afraid of. Here's the list:
1) Drowning while being eaten by a shark
2) Being hit by lightning
3) Getting shot at random by a serial killer
4) Someone hurting my loved ones, including my dogs
5) Being arrested for a crime I didn't commit
6) Choking to death
7) Getting dropped into a huge, crowded tank of fish
8) Brain surgery (you have to be awake for some of that shit! No way in hell I'm going for that!)
9) Alien invasion!!!
10) Cannibals!!
11) Aliens and cannibals team up with a shark that shoots lightning out of its mouth to choke me while performing surgery without anesthesia on my brain. And, as I am screaming in pain, the cops come in and arrest me for a murder I didn't do, and this cop has my little sweet Malcolm's dead body in his hand as he hits the button to dump me into the fish tank below. Just as I am hitting the water, the serial killer bursts in and shoots me. The end.

My fear of lightning started when I was little and I heard a story on the news about some girl that was sitting on her bed, reading a book during a storm. A bolt of lightning came in through her second-floor window, and hit her in the head and killed her instantly. This story made me scared of being near windows in a high building during a storm.

Another thing that worried me during a storm was the big trees around our house. My bedroom was right in the front of our house, and outside was a giant old tree. Over the course of a few summers, we lost a lot of trees on our property to lightning strikes. In fact, the corner of Compton Street and Ridge Avenue was repeatedly hit with lightning on almost all sides of the intersection-- trees came down, a street sign got hit once, electric wires fell in the road and on our neighbor's property. Two very large trees on our side yard were hit while we were on vacation one year. Luckily, they landed in the grass and in the street, instead of on our garage or in the direction that would have slammed them into our pool and shed.

So I was really worried that one day, my luck would run out during a storm and lightning would hit that big tree and it would crash through my bedroom and kill me while I slept. I'd never have a chance. BOOM. Dead.

I was also forever scared of that story about the girl hit in the head while reading. Christ, if lightning could just find you out and kill you even when you were safe in your house, there was no safety, no where to hide, really! Lightning was GOING TO HUNT ME DOWN. And HIT ME IN THE HEAD. Nooooo! I want to live!

Every time there was a storm while we lived in that house, I would wake up and get out of bed and settle myself on the floor, my hands or a pillow over my head. Seriously. I think I thought that being flat on the floor with some sort of small protection on my head was going to keep me alive. For awhile, my fear was so bad that I would quietly creep downstairs with my pillow, and lay on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and sleep there. It was, I figured, a well-hidden place. I doubted the lightning would find me there. The lightning was kind of stupid and gullible. It would peek into my room and not see me there on my bed and move on to the next schmucky kid and hit that kid in the head and kill her. But it wouldn't be me! I would be safe, intact and not-hit-by-lightning-in-my-head. It was the only solution that made sense. I had to hide like the lightning was the Nazis and I was Anne Frank. If I could have pulled up the carpet and hid under there, I would have done that too.

The embarrassing thing is, I still do this, sort of. I don't go out to the living room and lay on the floor next to the couch anymore, but that's only because we live in a ranch and everywhere in the house is the same level as the ground. I am also so much cooler about it. I don't get that spooked-dairy-cow face anymore. I just kind of find an excuse to leave the place where I feel lightning will get me. I do it smooth, calm and with an air of indifference. Inside, I am freaking the hell out and thinking about that old yarn: My Time Has Come and Lightning is Finally Going to Hit Me in the Head and Kill Me Today.

If I am home alone, I will get on the floor if the lightning is bad. Yeah, I do. I lay down and if possible, have the dogs lay with me. Why? I don't know why. Maybe on some level I think I can protect them from the lightning too by keeping them close to me. Or, maybe, I kind of hope they will form a buffer if the lightning came in and got me. That's not right, I know. Me, who hates the thought of anything happening to her dogs. Still-- maybe they could bear the brunt of the lightning strike and I get to live to see another day. I don't know. It's complicated.

Now that I live with Greg, I feel braver than ever and I don't really do anything. I won't go outside for longer than a second, and I do avoid anything metal. I get off the computer, and don't take a shower. (I think during the last time, I held off on using the toilet too--there's water in there! And the lightning could find it and hit my cooter and asshole! Yeee-ouch!)

So, in closing, I think I will always be afraid of lightning and its potential to hit me in the head or hit other objects that would then hit me in the head. But as I get older, I am a little more suave about it. I'm what you might call nonchalant. I'm like the embodiment of smooth jazz music...hey baby, that's smooth, oh yeah... That's me. Cool. Not afraid of lightning, babe. Oh, yeah, it's all good.

All that says is that I am a good actor and liar. Inside I want to dig a bomb shelter in the ground somewhere. But that's my business. No one has to know.

Except the blog people. I guess you know my secret freak-out thing now. Don't you dare try to freak me out by making lightning hit me, now! I will kill you if you do that! So don't go bending the laws of time, space and weather just to mess with me! Please, just let me be. I beg you. Keep the lightning gags for another day.

Indy: "Nah, I didn't do it. I don't have thumbs. How the hell do you expect me to lift him up and place him ever so gently inside that net bag? You think I'm Criss Angel Mindfreak or something? Well, I'm not. I am a simpleton with no talents whatsoever. I pee on my own feet when you talk to me. How could I even comprehend the idea that the tiny dog could even fit in there? Remember who you're talking to here."

Malcolm: "I don't know how I got in here, and I don't know why I am in here, but I swear to God I will cut you and I will cut you deep if you don't get me out of this thing right now."

Rain and Tillie

Last night, it rained. It was the most rain we've had in months. Lots of lightning--make that a SHITLOAD of lightning-- and thunder; rain coming down hard enough to hit the windows with an audible tapping noise. It's been very hot lately, very dry and very dead. I was so happy about this rainstorm that I found myself thinking differently. What I mean is, I was suddenly thinking in sensory ways, the way I used to when I was actually a writer. I was noticing details and feeling energized and alive, even though it was close to midnight and I knew I had to get up for work early in the morning. I felt awake, creative, sexy and inspired. Good stuff.

I won't get into a big long diatribe about how much I miss the rain, and NJ, and places with rain that might be like NJ, but the point to this post is to talk a little bit about how I think the rain made me dream about the strange thing that is Tillie.

This is Tillie:

Tillie used to live on the side of an old, decrepit building in Asbury Park, NJ. At one time, the building housed Palace Amusements. I think I heard there was once carousels and bumper cars inside, but I don't think it was ever open in the years I was growing up. I only remember the place being all boarded up with the chipped colorful paint and the HUGE weird face of Tillie peering down with all those teeth whenever we were driving out of Asbury Park for the day and heading home. Tillie was the last vivid image in my mind whenever we left.

Asbury Park used to be so much fun when I was really little. My mom and dad would bring me down there (and later, Trish, too, once she was borne into this world) on nice days in the summer and fall for a walk down the boardwalk, maybe a meal at Howard Johnson's, and a ride on the old carousel with the very ornate horses with the white teeth. I seriously remember looking at the horses as I picked out the one I wanted to ride and noticing they all had mouths and snouts that were very detailed and pretty. Am I weird for remembering "pretty snouts" and stuff like that? Oh well. I loved that carousel very much-- the music, the little pastoral scenes painted on the inside column and outlined in big white light bulbs, the feel of the golden pole in my hands as I hung on with a big grin on my face as the horse went up and down in smooth, gliding leaps. So freakin' cool.

They had little candy stores that sold fudge and salt water taffy, and shops that sold those little frogs made out of shells glued together, or hermit crabs you could bring home and let die in your bedroom because you forgot to feed the poor thing. (I never had a hermit crab, incidentally. The idea of owning a little sea-crab didn't appeal in any way. I'd rather have a doll or a new pack of crayons.) People would be down on the beach sunbathing or whatever people on a relatively-dirty beach do, and there were italian ice vendors and game stands. Yeah, it used to be nice.

Asbury Park went totally downhill as I got older, so that by the time I was in middle school, the place was falling apart and all the little shops and game stands closed up and local kids spraypainted obscenities on the boards. Garbage fluttered on the gray, weathered boards and thin, dirty crack addicts took the place of families and sunbathers. It became the place you did NOT want to go. Kids would even sometimes use it as an insult: "Eww, why don't you go down to Asbury Park, you fucking dirtbag?" (Such charming kids!)

So yeah, they closed everything up and the place was a total drug den. All through college, I only went there to go to concerts at the Stone Pony, and that was always with a boyfriend or a small army of friends. We were kids from Middletown, Belford and Red Bank-- we were completely intimidated by the spectre of the real-life crack addict. Park as close as possible to the Stone Pony--walk quickly to the entrance, get in and see the show; after the show, rush right to your car, get in and lock the door right away so in case some scary dirtbag-person came up to your car you were safe inside and could drive away back to the whitebread, safe world of Middletown. That's how it was.

Anyway, the reason I associate Tillie with the rain is because of the day I drove down to Asbury Park only a week or so before I was moving to Arizona. I don't really know why I ended up down there-- I was just cruising along in a nostalgic mood, driving though Sea Bright and Deal so I could see the ocean. It was a rainy, windy day and those were my favorite days to see the ocean. I realize that in most of my books and stories, if there is an ocean anywhere near the setting of the story, I will invariably include a scene that takes place on a stormy day with 'gray, white-slashed waves' or something like that.

I ended up in Asbury Park. (Doors safely locked, of course.) I drove through in a silent funk, listening to something mellow on my CD player, and just taking in all the details as they were. I wanted to remember as many little stupid things about Jersey before I left. I don't know why-- after all, at that point I was SO READY to leave NJ and go to warm, sunny Arizona and leave "shitty NJ" behind. So I ended up driving past the Palace Amusements building as I was leaving the 'circle' and heading back up to the roadway that would lead me out of decrepit Asbury Park and straight into multi-million dollar Deal.

There was Tillie, all faded and chipped all over his scary face, with rain running down off the top of the building (no gutters), puddles on the cracked pavement in front of building, and lots of garbage blown up against the broken down building's edges. It was kind of surreal to see that face, that old turquoise building just leering out of the gray rain like that. I felt sad, in a way, and wondered again what it must have looked like back in the 1930s or whenever it was they built that place and it was busy with kids. Then, I drove away.

So last night, as I fell asleep and heard rain outside, I guess it influenced my dreams or something, because I had a dream about being in Asbury Park. I was trying to find an office or something, and I was driving around down there again in the rain with Indy in the car with me. I don't remember a lot of details, but there was Tillie. In my dreams. I dreamed of the chipped, scary, toothy Tillie. Weird!

I love how things like that happen. Even though I can't remember very much about that dream, I do love that somehow my subconscious pulled up the memory of Tillie, and made me remember that rainy day about 8 years ago. I wish I could dream more often and wake up feeling that electric feeling of "oh, yeah, I remember that!" on a more regular basis. It feels pretty good to think about things like that. Thanks, Scary Tillie. You were the best.

The day is bound to be a little off when you wake up thinking about what color underwear to wear, and you are having trouble deciding between pink and white. I was just laying there, thinking about this today, before I finally got up and took a shower. While I was in the shower, I had this line from what I think is a Beastie Boys song in my head: "Sucka MC's tryin' to prove a point." And I couldn't place what the hell song that was from, so I could sing the rest of it in my head as I showered.

I was late leaving the house because I was reading a crappy Allure magazine article about sexiness. Can you believe me? I was reading some shit about how a woman doesn't need red lipstick-- it's her inner confidence that's sexy-- but, in the off-chance a woman wants to look sexy, "stained lips look like you just had sex."

Am I the only person giggling at the possibilities of what substances could potentially stain a woman's lips? Sorry, but the word stain should not be used in reference to anything you put on your mouth. A stain is for a shirt, not a lip. Can't they call it "lip color enhancer" or something? If I sit here and say the word stain a hundred times it starts to sound like it's not a word anymore. It's so nasal, and so blunt. STAIN. STAIN. STAIN. STAIN. STAIN.

So on my way to work, I had to get gas in the ol' Rav4. Damn it anyway. Here I am running late, and now this. Now I have to put enough gas in to get me that 18 miles to my lovely job. I pulled into this neighborhood gas station that I HATE, only because it is seriously the only one on my way. They charge 75 cents to use their debit machines out by the pump. Losers. So I pull in, and go do my card swipe thing, and proceed to put gas in my car.

The thing is, the pump is slow. I mean really slow. Like the numbers were creeping by with a full five second pause between them. TOTAL SALE: $00.01.....00.02.....00.03....."

I couldn't take it. The old guy at the pump next to me says, "Hey, is your pump going slow, too?" I told him yeah, it was. And that it was "really odd." I said that; I told an old stranger with a grubby beard and a faded T-shirt that the gas pump action as "really odd." We look around and realize every single person on the other pumps is having the same problem. People had that perplexed, annoyed face. Not to mention it was already 100 degrees out at 8am. This was so not a good time.

I gave up. I said to the guy, "The hell with this! I'm going to work." He laughed and wished me luck. "I can't take this shit, either!" he said, and seemed to be shutting off his pump, too. I bought exactly $1.49 in gas; just enough to get to the office. (With a little left over, it turns out, for traveling to another gas station on my lunch break and getting more gas. What an incredibly glamorous life I live!)

At work, one of the managers tells me they are thinking of doing Spanish and/or French versions of the newsletter I write. And I am thinking this is the worst idea I have heard in a long time. I don't speak Spanish and/or French. I had to plans to learn either, to be honest. I have a feeling this idea will get lost in the shuffle if I don't mention it again.

A girl in a black Mercedes almost t-boned me in the parking lot of the gas station on my lunch hour; she just pulled out of a parking space at the far end of the lot and right into the path of my passenger side door. I saw her in time to slow down, and she slammed on her breaks, and waved and made a face like she was doing that sheepish "I'm sorry" laugh. Ha ha. I didn't smile, just stared at her with my unstained lips in a tight line of intolerance for that type of malarkey.

I spent most of today talking with Kristen on e-mail and outside on my cell. Just babbling, talking about wedding stuff and things with our families and our jobs. It was weird not doing any work. But here's the thing: I HAD no actual work to do. Not one thing. Not even something I could get out of the way that needs to be done later. It has just been that kind of day for me-- sit around, drink Minute Maid lemonade from the can, talk to your best friend, look at a bridal magazine, read about dog breeds and check your recommendations on Amazon. I would rather be working on something, trust me.

I wonder what my day has in store for me next. I feel kind of lame today, and uninspired. I'm not in a bad mood, or down, or anything like that-- just unmotivated and wanting some mellow, pretty fun. Like blowing bubbles kind of fun. Or listening to good music and going in the pool. Pizza. The sound of crickets. Making a beaded necklace with all-pink, sparkly crystal beads. That sort of thing. I just can't handle anything that requires actual thought or effort. I want a dopey, glazed smile and a mouth that's not thirsty anymore.

By the way: pink. It ended up being pink underwear today. Pink is the winner!

Today's the day for a random post, I think.

* On the "Simpsons" last night, Bart went into the joke shop to get some joke supplies, and he passes these boxes on a shelf: "Itching Powder"..."Heart Attack Powder"..."Incontinence Powder." The idea of someone sprinkling the last two powders on some unsuspecting person is just hilarious to me.

* I got to work about an hour early today. This is because I must have hit the hour button on the alarm clock yesterday while I was cleaning-- it's the only explanation as to why I got up and got ready at what I thought was the normal time but was really an hour earlier than usual. The sad part? I looked at at least 2 other clocks before leaving the house this morning; and not once did I make note of the hour. I was only paying attention to the minute display and the second hand. I was almost halfway to work when I finally noticed my error. At least the traffic was lighter. I had to hang out in the front of my building because they don't open the doors until 8am and I had left my security key home in my other purse.

* My co-workers always forget about me. They ordered breakfast this morning and I heard them walking around and asking everyone what they wanted, and no one came over to ask me. I didn't want anything, but still--they could have at least asked me. I blame my seat--my cube is hidden behind a little wall and a large printer.

* I've been using one of those moisturizers that's supposed to 'gradually enhance' your skin coloring so you look a little tanner. I think I've got the L'Oreal brand. Anyway, I think it smells like iced tea. It smells kind of good when I am applying it, but now, several hours later, my arms smell a little weird. I hope no one smells my arms today.

* Indy likes to watch me put lotion on my legs; he also likes to lick it off, especially around my ankles. I know I should probably stop him, but I think it's sort of charming in a weird way so I let him do it. If he winds up more brain damaged than he already is, I promise to be the one to strap on his safety helmet and clean up the drooling.

* Two people have asked me if I am excited about Clerks II. The answer: Yes. Yes, I am. I know one person at least asked only because of the NJ thing, and that's OK. The other brought it up on an e-mail based on the blog link to Kevin Smith's site.

* I am also excited to see Lady in the Water, even though all signs point to suck. Still, I really am crazy about anything M. Night Shyamalan does. Except maybe that credit card commercial.

* I did laundry yesterday, and at the bottom of the washer after removing one of the loads? A little foil ball. I honestly can't recall if I ever had a small ball of foil in my pocket at any time. Chances are, I probably did. And I bet I stood there with my hand in my pants pocket, playing with that foil ball. Just like I stand around sometimes, chewing the inside of my cheeks. I think I look like a weird person a lot of the time. I don't think I've got a lot of grace, poise or charm.

* Today would be a great day for some mini-size boxes of Nerds. Alas, I have none. Damn.

Foot odor!
I hate the fact that, despite my continued efforts to keep my feet clean and smell-free, they wind up stinking to high hell anyway.

I know they do, and here's how I know:

Last night, my sister and I went shopping. We were trying on clothes in Forever 21. Those stores have fitting rooms that are simply partitions made with yellow curtains and fabric. It's very private, visually, but I guess that in the olfactory sense they are not so good at concealing things from the other customers. Yeesh.

So there I am, trying on some tops, without a care in the world. Well, except that I looked really fat in a couple of them since their clothes don't come in XL. Whatever. I can deal. I also had a pair of pants to try on, so I kicked off my sandals to get going with this trying-on-pants thing.

From what I could tell from their voices, the girls in the next couple of fitting rooms were probably still in high school or maybe the early years of college. There were about 3 of them. I had heard them prattling on and on about how the shirt they tried on in Small was "too big" and asking their friend to go out and grab an Extra Small (gag me now); and how this or that shade of blue looked SOOOOO good with someone's eyes. But suddenly, as I was in there chekcing out my fat ass in a pair of tight pants, I heard this:

Girl 1: "Oh my God...do you SMELL that?!"
Girl 2: "It smells like FEET."
Girl 1: "Hey, Girl 3, is that your feet? Do your feet smell?" (giggles)
Girl 3: "Oh my God, I thought it was one of YOU GUYS. I was like, 'what the hell is that awful smell?'" (they all laugh some more)
Girl 1 or 2 (who can tell): "Well, someone in here has disgusting feet!"

Yeah, it was ME they were talking about, no doubt. I know it because I had smelled the foot-smell myself when I took my sandals off. It's the same deal every year by the middle of the summer: my shoes start to smell bad. I hate it. I try to keep my shoes on at all times so as not to release the odors; and when I do take my shoes off, if I notice even a little smell, I have been known to go and wash my feet in the bathroom before hanging around other people. I'm aware and conscious of my foot odor, that's my point. I try to be considerate of others and maintain my hygenic dignity.

I guess it's just that, I am not always successful. Sometimes, my feet stink very much. And sometimes, the general public gets a whiff of it.

Honestly, it brought me back to the days of yore, when I was an awkward teenager who was super self-conscious about her body. I used to be scared to change in the locker room because, well, I 'developed' before the other girls; I also thought my armpit smell was so bad I would apply deodorant about 6 times throughout the day. I'll always remember Secret's Baby Powder scent and associate it with Bayshore Middle School's bathrooms. I went overboard, a little, but I was already getting made fun of for other stuff anyway; why give them more ammunition by smelling bad or letting the girls see I was no longer in a training bra? Everyday was a crusade to keep myself safe from ridicule. (Somehow, they would make fun of me for knowing an answer in class but NOT my layered push-down socks or the crooked banana clip in my hair. Go figure.)

When those girls said that last night, and were laughing, I felt mortified and so gross. I got dressed and quickly and quietly slipped out of the fitting room, hoping they didn't peek under the curtain to see my shoes or feet. I wondered if they would spot my huge black sandals out in the store and know it was me.

I think I got away. However, that didn't change the fact that I got home and quickly threw my shoes deep into the recesses of my closet out of fear I'd stink out Greg. Sure, I bet that I make the smell worse by throwing the shoes into the dark and not airing them out or sprinkling baking soda on them or something. But shame is a powerful force.

Hello, Shame. My name is Lisa, and my feet fucking STINK.

We've done a ton of home improvement projects over the past several months. Besides getting the pool installed, we've landscaped the backyard and spread gravel, and got a back lawn established with the help of the sprinkler system Greg put together and installed himself. I was thinking that it might be nice to show off some of our hard work, because I was looking around at the house today and feeling kind of proud of it. It might even border on "my house is better than yours" elitism; however, if you saw our neighborhood and compared our house to any of the other ones around here, you might say ours IS better than the other houses.

This is a before shot of what our house looked like prior to the big painting job:


After we painted, it now looks like this!

Last week I blogged about the arduous process of laying a laminate floor from IKEA, and also how the final result was kind of nice. Either way, I finally got around to downloading some of the pictures from my camera. It's a good thing I did because I think I ruined my camera by placing it inside my stupid, stupid purse with the giant magnets inside to hold the opening together (the same purse that had demagnitized my hotel room key before it fell in the toilet, and is also implicated in the freezing of a perfectly good MP3 player. I have to get rid of that thing--too bad it's kind of a cute purse.) and now the camera is acting funny. For instance, the other day Greg and I were with some of my future in-laws in Jerome, AZ. I take the camera out to snap a picture and when I turn it on, the display screen is displaying everything upside down. It was very weird. I thought it could have been caused by the ghosts and spirits said to inhabit the town (a lot of dead miners and prostitutes, apparently), but we soon figured out it was the purse magnets. We waved it in front of the magnets again and the display went back to normal. However, the pictures I took after that were a little fuzzy, so I am a little concerned at the moment about my camera's future.

Either way, here's some pictures of the floor process. Here's a shot of the floor midway through the slow, difficult floor-layin' process:
And one more from the other angle, with Hailie in there for good measure:

This is the finished floor:

Yes, I know the lens was dirty as hell for those last two pictures. You have to understand I am a fast picture taker and barely even got everything in the frame before I snapped it; I didn't look closely and notice all the dirt and spots all over the place until way later. I guess you could call my style of photography scattershot. Or, you could call it something else. Whatever makes you happy is fine by me.

At this point in the post, Blogger has begun to get fresh with me and won't allow me to publish a few more pictures on this post. I don't get it, but I grudgingly admit defeat and publish the few I did get to post. Perhaps later I will succeed in more photo posting. I sure hope so! I don't like being Blogger's bitch. Fyuck that sheeet.

I've got to stop my current addiction soon, otherwise I will have to get my wedding dress taken out instead of in. My latest addiction is to Einstein Bros. Bagels.

It started a couple of months back, when I had a particularly yummy plain bagel with butter for breakfast. Also, I was going there for lunch a couple of times a month or so to get their Bistro Salad with the good raspberry vinaigrette dressing and gorgonzola cheese, yum. (Shit! I just looked up the nutritional facts on this salad... it's 810 calories with 69 GRAMS OF FAT! I have to stop eating this crap!)

THEN, probably two or three weeks ago, the girl behind the counter said the fateful thing that set me on this carb-laden path to depravity I am currently on:

"We're out of flatbread for your salad. Would you like a bagel in its place?"

Such simple words! But I said yes, I would like a plain bagel with butter, please. Untoasted. And light on the butter.

I went back to my table and ate my salad and said to myself that I would only eat half of the bagel because I knew how bad those things are for you in terms of wasted calories and glycemic index shit and stuff. Well... it didn't work, I ate the whole thing. I felt like a cow going back to work stuffed with salad and bagel.

But here's the thing that sucks-- I keep wanting to go back and do it all the time now. I want that salad and the bagel with butter. Sometimes I want the bagel more than the salad, which is not a good sign. I've tried the wheat bagel and didn't like it and so I am back to plain white.

It's such a bad addiction. I am thinking about going there right now. I confessed this addiction to Greg this weekend in the hopes that through the act of confession, I would be absolved and freed from the addiction. I think I was going well with it, but the worst thing happened when I got to work this morning...

Free bagels and coffee as a thank you to all who helped out at the conference!

They were from Einsteins!

And they set the bagels and coffee up on a little table directly behind my cubicle. Seriously, if I turn around now I see the yellow and black cardboard boxes sitting there. Son of a bitch.

So yeah, I ate a plain bagel today. Without butter, though, since no one here gets anything but cream cheese on their bagels so they never get butter or margarine. Still, this set me back a good way, I think.

Fraulein N wrote recently about her Dr. Pepper addiction, so I ask you now: what are you addicted to? Surely I can't be the only one with the serious carb problem! And if I am, please refrain from being mean or pinching my chubby ass when you see me.

Here I am at the conference. I just wrapped up the last session and now have a couple of hours before I need to change into my fancy clothes for a dinner I must attend. But since I have some time, I figured it would be best if I came on here and shared my latest tiny adventure.

I say it's tiny, because it is. It's not a BIG time adventure, with lots of people or exotic locations, and I haven't scaled any mountains or braved the Amazon river in a tiny wooden boat or anything. Sheesh. Not at a conference. If you were thinking that I was having these sort of adventures here, you were mistaken. And you are probably also brain damaged in some way. Not that there's anything wrong with brain damage.

Well, there I was in the bathroom.

Oh I love stories about being in the bathroom. They're always entertaining. Anyway, I had to take a pee before going back into the afternoon session. So I did, no big whoop there. But when I stood up, my room key fell out of my pants pocket.

And landed in the toilet. The automatic flush toilet.

I reacted so fast I even surprised myself. I dove my hand into the bowl like I was a contestant on a game show trying to be the first to hit the buzzer or something. I wanted to catch my room key-card before it was flushed away forever.

But...ew! My hand was in the toilet. And it wasn't a toilet with nothing in it. Nope, I swished my hand around in a bowl of germy water mixed with my own urine and some toilet paper. Oh, yay me! I am so cool.

I wiped up my hands with toilet paper as best I could so I could manage to pull my pants up (yes, it occurs to me that this whole tiny adventure happened with my pants down around my ankles-- I am so thankful for that door) and wipe the card off enough to get out of the stall with as much dignity as I could fake.

I walked out there into the sink area that was swarming with ladies, and nonchalantly walked to the closest sink and began washing my hands about 12 times. I actually washed them a couple times, and then so I wouldn't seem weird or OCD, wandered over to the vanity area and pretended to "smooth my hair" (ew, with some remnants of the toilet water somewhere in my pores, no doubt, because I wasn't done yet) until some ladies left and then ran back to the sink to wash some more. I rinsed the card off as much as I dared to for fear of demagnitizing it (which I already did my first night here by throwing it my purse with the huge magnets that hold the flaps shut) and went about my day.

I guess I have a point to this story, and it's this: At that moment, with my pants down and my hand dripping with toilet water and my breath coming stupidly fast (you'd think this was a MAJOR CRISIS! or something with my OHMYGOD reaction), I thought of this blog, and you guys who read this thing, and I knew this story has to be shared. It's just the kind of story a majority of us love to share here! You know who you are, ladies. I don't know why it is so fun to share the "I'm an idiot" or "I was so embarassed" or "this is so gross" stories here, but damn it, it really is!

Now I am off to visit all my bitches and their blogs in case there are any more amazing stories. Thanks for reading this thing, and being the person I thought of in that lonely bathroom stall. And be glad that was the limit on my thoughts about you, there, in the stall, with my pants down.

And...scene.

Beginning tomorrow, I will be working a conference (oh yeah, workin' it real good if you know what I mean) so I probably won't be able to blog for a few days. I'm not happy about it, but Mamma's got to pay the bills, and this job pays 'em, so... off to conference I go.

A couple of thoughts regarding entertainment I have recently digested:
* Pirates of the Carribean was not very good. In fact, I would go so far as to say I disliked it. Way too long, way too slapsticky and way too many meaningless cannibal scenes. Now anyone who knows me well knows that I love a good cannibal scene (this relates to a childhood trauma I'd rather not talk about) in a movie, but this one was so stupid I almost heaved in my popcorn. Well, not really. But I wish I could have mustered up some vomit to make my point known to those around me.

And one more thing: I am so tired of people being all "oooh, I love Johnny Depp" and stuff, and people raving about how hot Jack Sparrow is. Shut up, people. Unless you've been on board since 1987-ish, you are not really a fan of the man's work. And stop with the merchandising already. No more Pirate-themed crap. Seriously. Knock it off. And Jack Sparrow sort of sucks in this new movie, too. He just comes off as a drunk gay man who is desperately trying to be relevant to his surroundings.

Oh, and a personal message to Johnny: please go back to doing smaller movies that you don't have to sell out to do. No amount of comments to the press about how you did this movie for your kids and all that will make me believe you DIDN'T give up your artistic integrity for this franchise. A franchise. Sheesh. I never thought you'd swing that way, Johnny.

* We just finished watching Season 1 of "Lost" and I loved it so very much. I wish that Season 2 was out on DVD but it doesn't come out until September. I can't say enough good things about it. "If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. It is so choice."

And now, I leave you for the time being with a dear little Swedish girl with candles on her head. And cake. The bitch has cake! So there you go.

I find the following to be absolutely hilarious:

If you haven't been there yet, visit www.marriedtothesea.com for more comedy involving old-timey pictures and random captioning.

When I was 17, I got my driver's license and I think that all I ever did at first was drive around town with my sister, listening to the Encino Man soundtrack.

I really think that she and I need to sit down some night and watch this movie again. We loved it so much back in the day. I always thought it would be cool to have that song "Feed the Monkey" playing at my senior prom, and I learned that Estonia was a real place. Trish and I loved to yell, "Wheelin' over the ferns!" at random, and rewind the scene where they go to the amusement park and hit the hell out of the guy in the panda suit.



Anyway, the reason I thought about Encino Man today was because I was in a store on my lunch hour that was playing U2's "Mysterious Ways". This reminded me of the song Trish and I made up called "Mousterian Bowls."

All we really got was this:

"He eats, out of Mousterian bowls!"

Because Link, the caveman, was possibly frozen during the Mousterian Era.

We were such dorks!

I've said it before, but I think IKEA should go to hell and die!

Sure, I like their stuff. Who doesn't? All that lovely, cheap stuff with the funky names. But the quality...and the assembly of this shit... HOLY GOD! Kill me now!!

This weekend, Greg and I attacked our living room and hallway. He took down the popcorn ceiling in the living room and patched and repainted the whole thing. Next, he tore up the old, stained beige carpet (yes, the stains originate from the lovely Malcolm). Then we painted the walls a nice tan-ish color and did all the trim in a glossy white. It really looks incredibly nice, if I don't say so myself. And I do say so. And--get this--I say it MYSELF. I refuse to hire someone else to say this for me. I can get the job done just fine.

The final project in the living room was to put down this very pretty light birch laminated flooring. We were both led to believe that putting down laminate flooring was relatively easy-- all you need is a measuring tape, and a saw, and maybe some hammer to tap the boards into place where needed. They are designed to SNAP together! Just lay 'em down, and snap those fuckers in place. What could be easier? A toddler with a head injury could do it, right? Anyone!

Well...

No.

It's hard. Maybe if you spend a lot of money on the expensive and well-made laminate flooring, like Pergo or something, it actually works the way it's supposed to. Maybe you don't have to pop tendons out of your neck as you try to SNAP the pieces together, you can eliminate excessive swearing and the painful kneecaps burned red from kneeling on the floor for hours on end, and you don't have to sit back and cry as you stare at the remaining pile of planks and the Tetris-look your floor has from the various planks you did manage to squeeze into place.

I blame IKEA, I really do. They have the worst instructions imaginable. Anyone who gets this crap is familiar with the sparse English instructions (to make room for the 20 other languages including Afrikans and Aborigine, probably) and those stupid, no-help-whatsoever picture illustrations with arrows and the weird little sexless person with the stumpy legs. These pictures tell you NOTHING. The only purpose they serve is to frustrate you and make you wish for a seppuku sword to end it all. Someday, I swear, the authorities will find me lying amid a pool of my own blood on top of a scattered pile of pressed fiberboard and shredded cardboard boxes, a half-eaten Swedish meatball in one hand and the suicide sword in the other.

The great news is, we finished it. We actually did it. Greg and I put the whole floor down. It looks great, too. We even put back most of the furniture that was squirreled away to the kitchen and bedroom (we survived three days with our couch in our kitchen) so we could sit down and relax as we admired our hard work. Still, today, even as the laminate sawdust clears, my muscles and bruised knees remind me of the very real pain that IKEA caused me less than 24 hours ago. I had to wear the long black skirt today, even though it's hundreds of degrees outside, just to hide my poor abused knees. This is shameful.

Why do I keep buying their stuff? What the frig chemical does IKEA pour into the water supply? What are those nefarious Swedes up to, anyway? I don't trust them. They are a weird people.

I will probably post some pictures I took yesterday when I manage to download them from my camera. You need to see this crap for yourself. At least, I happen to think you do. I know what people need. Apparently.

He's the meaning in my life, he's the inspiration:

I opened Yahoo News this morning and this picture was the first thing I saw, and I have to admit I thought about Peter Cetera and company right away.

And now, I am stuck with a Chicago song in my head, thankya very much, Senor Bush:

The Glory of Love

Just think of this playing as you look at Bush:

I am the man who will fight for your honor
I'll be the hero that you're dreamin' of
We'll live forever, knowing together that we
Did it all for the Glory of Love!

I think I hate Chicago, the band. And Yahoo News. And Bush. They shouldn't do this to me this early in the day. Why did they gang up to do this? It's so mean of them.

The table in the break room here at work often has flyers, magazines and coupons for stuff and every now and then, I wander over to the table and half-heartedly look through the piles of papers. Today there were some coupons for admission to Sea World San Diego, a brochure of Pampered Chef products, and a flyer announcing a “Together in Christ: Couples Seminar.”

Well. I read through it and felt a little nauseous. I wish I could scan it in because it is very offensive to me. Some of the wording in the intro paragraph included “when entering the blessed union of marriage between a man and a woman…” Yeah, OK, we know that the majority of Christians think it’s evil to let two people of the same gender marry, but to put it in print? And then whoever the person is who put it there in the break room obviously has the same beliefs—and they are wandering around here anonymously carrying their hatred of others around with them? I don’t know about that. It makes me feel uncomfortable to read that at work.

I am a Christian, was raised as one and had to go through my phase of challenging the religion and studying the basic beliefs of the other religions out there before ultimately going back to the one I believed in most. Yes, I have that label of Christian, and I do believe that love is love, and it’s as simple as that. The world is supposed to change and society is supposed to change, but the bottom line is sharing compassion and love for others is the basic tenant of Jesus’ teachings. Some might say I am distorted the teachings to fit my own opinions. Some HAVE said that, particularly when I debated with a pastor a few years back regarding empathy and compassion for animals. There is a chance I have ‘edited’ things over the years to fit my beliefs, sure. But when you are editing it to include love, to include acceptance and compassion for those who are not like the norm (or are not even human), is that so wrong, really? I just want to shake the crap out of those churchy people who seem to think they have a Free to Judge Others card and who hide behind the veneer of Christianity, and who really have cold and vengeful hearts and see the world with eyes they think are better than the eyes of everyone else.

I’m not saying that every Christian is like this. I know quite a few who seem to understand the place religion has in our lives, and don’t use it as a gateway to judge others. Some of the nicest people I know are Christians. Also, some of the nicest people I know are not Christians. I guess it’s true that anyone can be a good person. You don’t need one specific religion to do it.

What I call Vanilla Christianity is prevalent here at my job in particular because we label ourselves openly as a Christian company. We advertise our products on stations that run evangelical programs. I’m not very proud of it, to be honest. I think of this as a Job, and that’s IT. It’s not an extension of my beliefs, and I don’t work here because they are Christian. Sure, at one time before I worked here I thought it would be nice to work somewhere that was more concerned with the well-being of people than most of corporate America, but that was naïve of me. Of COURSE my company is corporate. You can’t escape it. And I think because it has this umbrella of “we love God” over it, it’s also a little harsher and hypocritical in its corporate-ness. I won’t get into it. You can guess.

I know certain people judge me because I live with my fiancé. Some people are firm believers in the “don’t live together before marriage” thing. Hell, it was even a listed topic of discussion at the couple’s seminar, according to the flyer. I just wonder why it’s so bad to do this. I live with my fiancé and I happen to think it’s the best thing for us. It was what felt natural and I was prepared for the intensive submersion into Life Together. I was ready to see “what he was really like” and deal with the little annoyances that were inevitable regarding toilet seats being left up or caps left off of toothpaste tubes. (Note: lucky for me, I don’t actually have those annoyances with Greg. And I’m not just saying that because he reads this, either. :) ) It was what was best for us—the unique and individual couple that we are.

Maybe it doesn’t work for everyone, and maybe some people just don’t feel ready to do that before they are married. However, no one has a right to tell anyone else that they shouldn’t do it, or that it will only end in disaster if you do it. Likewise, no one needs to preach that you should do it. It’s 2006. And there are very few people who never leave home and only do so when the holy sacrament of marriage enters the picture these days. It’s the way society has changed. We are getting married at older ages than our parents. We’re working and living on our own (or with roommates) for years before we ‘settle down’ into domestic life with someone else. By the time the prospect of marriage comes into someone’s life these days, it’s likely they are experienced and have developed a sense of what is right and what is wrong for themselves. You can tell when something is right. I believe that. You can also tell when things are terribly wrong. We have good instincts, in general. And we can all be good people. No matter what our choices tend to be.

I don’t mean to ramble about this. I know it’s a little long and it’s getting into Soapbox territory. I really just felt bothered by that flyer today, and since I have no recourse here other than throwing the flyer into the trash (which I DID, of course! I did leave some for whoever might be interested in it, but I hid them at the bottom of the pile under an old Newsweek magazine), I had to turn to the blog.

I am so happy to be who I am. Even though I have my days when I am not so happy to be who I am, ultimately I have a good life and I have a lot of things to be thankful for. And I am thankful for those things, everyday, regardless of bouts of depression, even. I would love to see more people happy with just being themselves, and fewer people hell-bent on impressing their own beliefs on others and condemning those who don’t agree. I just feel we shouldn’t elevate ignorance and negativity. I would love to see people care more. And laugh a little more.

I can still recall old Mister Barnslow getting out every morning and nailing a fresh load of tadpoles to the old board of his. Then he'd spin it round and round, like a wheel of fortune, and no matter where it stopped he'd yell out, "Tadpoles! Tadpoles is a winner!" We all thought he was crazy. But then we had some growing up to do. --Jack Handey

I've been watching some good stuff lately! Three characters of interest:

John F. Kennedy ("They dyed me this color!") in Bubba Ho-Tep


Sawyer ("Listen, Freckles...") from Lost


John Locke ("Want to know a secret?") from Lost

I just wanted to share that.

Also: Superman Returns was very, very good. And Fourth of July on a Tuesday is stupid because I have to work on this Monday. So do a LOT of people. I doubt the founding fathers would approve of this malarkey!

Two things, real quick*:

1) I hate painful hiccups! The kind that hurt like hell when you have to do one; I want to choke, cry and pass out until they are over. Wait. I just typed that I want to "choke." Scratch that and replace it with "breathe." Yeah.

2) What do you do when your dog climbs up on your glasstop coffee table while you and your fiance are out at Wal-Mart for fifteen minutes, buying black nail polish and a raft for the pool, and urinates on it? I'm talking about a dog that hops up on the table, stands there and PISSES on your glasstop coffee table. What the shit is that shit?

Seriously. We are still in shock. We cleaned it up and disciplined the dog in question and I went online to look it up. I can't find anything to give me any insight or advice about what to do with a dog who pisses ON the coffeetable. Not the legs. The top. Of the coffeetable.

So this means the freak jumped up there and stood there and peed. I'm sure the other, normal dog was looking at him thinking, "????" and wondering briefly if she should haul her hefty ass up there too and release a little yellow stream of FUCKYOUGUYS all over the table as well. I can only visualize it and scream inside my head. Christ.

Why would he do this to us? What evil hath we wrought that we should deserve such torment from so cute a dog? Just when we think he's being good and getting the idea that we are the bosses of the house (yup, dog whisperer type stuff is going down in casa de Armsweat these days) and seemed to become submissive to us, he goes and does a thing like this.

The only thing we can think of to do is climb on top of his wire crate and pee on it. It's called retribution, dickdog. Get used to it.

The thing is, I still love this dog. Weird, right? How the hell do dogs manage to do that? I should be holding his head in the toilet and flushing it repeatedly right now and instead I am sharing this story of his creative urination with the blog world. Like I am somehow proud of this strange feat he accomplished. In some way, I think I am.

Still, DAMN IT anyway! I don't want my dog to pee on the coffeetable anymore! Someone help us!

* Um, it wasn't real quick. I've been typing for about nine minutes. Sorry to mislead anyone.