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


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

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

Nice and vague.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I write the most useless blogs sometimes.

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

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

Pleasant Valley Roooooad:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday is the perfect day for CAPTIONS:
"Of course I'm upset! Some moron glued Velcro to my back and stuck me on this wall! There goes my healthy emotional development."

"Yeah, go ahead and laugh it up, jerk. I pooped in it, and guess who has to clean it up?"

Focus on the flowers...the pretty, pretty flowers...yes, yes, that's right...don't focus on the assholes! No! NO on the assholes, YES on the flowers!
So listen to this BULLSHIT:

Last night, the photographer--our wedding photographer--stood us up. That's right. The asshole never showed up to take our engagement photo. Oh, we were in the right place, and we were on time. We even called him as we drove over to make sure we met at the correct spot outside the art museum. We only got his voicemail, and that was the first indication that he was going to flake out. Then Greg got a hunch, if you will...he had a feeling he just wasn't going to come through for us. And after we waited 25 minutes as the sun went down (we wanted a nice little sunset engagement photo, and we didn't get it) with nary a phone call, we left with our heads swimming with thoughts of WHAT DO WE DO NOW? and SHIT...we get married in three weeks. Who the hell else are we going to find in this timeframe?

I guess the signs were there that he'd be an idiot. When we were going to sign the contract with him, he asked us to meet us at his apartment at an exact time, and we did...but he wasn't there. He was off doing something else, apparently; not fulfilling his appointments with clients. We left a message that time, and he called back an hour later and apologized like a maniac and said it was "not like him" to miss a meeting, and I grudgingly accepted the apology and we rescheduled for a week later or something, when he was where he said he'd be this time and we signed the contract. Skip ahead to last night...

This is the second time he's gone asshole on us. The big question is, of course, is he going to forget to show up at our wedding? All signs point to yes, he will likely screw it up. So we should probably cancel the contract and get our deposit back. We certainly have cause for a return of money.

On the other hand... we only have three weeks, and this is our second photographer mistake (remember, we lost a $100 deposit to the first one, who turned out to be a scam artist investigated by the local TV stations)...we're running out of time and deposit dollars. He DID call back and we were too angry to answer it last night (and we were eating dinner) and in his message he, of course, apologized profusely and offered to not charge us any more than our deposit; he's obviously aware he is about to lose this job and he's ready to slash prices and make this deal happen. Whatever. I don't care. He's a moron and if I see him, and I am not joking this time, I will punch him in the genitals. BAM, sucker!

I am not sure what we'll do. I asked Greg to call him back, since he's more gifted at laying into people who have wronged us in a persuasive and backbone-y manner than I am. I am thinking that this guy wasn't taking me seriously (I was the main contact with him until now), and he will damned well take Greg seriously if he knows what's good for him. (Former football player/farmboy and a broad from NJ, after all.) We totally know where he sleeps, and we also know no one in that shit-ass ghetto apartment complex is going to look twice to the sound of a window breaking, duct-tape muffled screams and a chainsaw taking off feet. I'm just sayin'.

We might take him up on his offer and keep him for the low price and just remind the crap out of him beginning two days or so before and continuing up until an hour before he's supposed to show. Or, we might just spruce up my old Canon camera and get an additional memory card for the digital and have our friends take pictures of us. Like I said, I don't know yet what will be the best thing to do.

The other asshole on my list is the guy who lives two doors down and lets his dog run loose ALL OVER the place, including our front yard, where the dog in question unceremoniously squats and leaves a brown gift in our perfectly-manicured grass on a frequent basis. The people are white trash all the way; the dog is even white trash. No kidding-- it's some sort of shepherd mix, white with dusty brown spots and a bad attitude. I have tried to catch him several times myself, but he is a barker, growler and teeth-gnasher. I've sat on my driveway with a freakin' treat and tried to coax him over by lying through my teeth--"GOOD BOY! COME HERE, GOOD BOY!" and being as non-threatening as possible, and the fucker still barks and runs away from me, mocking me over his dog shoulder as he runs away down the sidewalk to shit on the other neighbor's nice lawn.

Recently, this dog has been wearing a T-shirt. Not a dog T-shirt; basically this is a ragged section of a human's T-shirt, around his neck like it's supposed to be a bandana, but it only looks like a dirty, ripped T-shirt hanging off of a rude, filthy dog. I don't know what his "owners" are thinking over there. It doesn't look good on him at ALL.

I say "owners" because they have actually DENIED being the dog's owners. Greg has caught the dog before and dragged it over to their door, and the guy has said it isn't his dog, and he doesn't even know the dog. Greg has called Animal Control and when they showed up, the dog was suddenly in their house. Animal Control gave them a warning about leash laws and that's it. A lot of good that did. The dog has been running around like this ever since. I've seen the dog lounging in their front yard when the white trashies are standing around drinking beers in their driveway. And some drunk asshole put a T-shirt on this dog...my guess it's his Not-Owners over there who did it.

Now the dog has been coming right up on our porch and barking at Indy through the window. This makes Indy go berserk. (Hailie honestly doesn't care--she's awesome.) And the dog just saunters off right when Indy is worked up to a foam, and takes a big shit on the grass before barking his head off the whole way back to his house. I've chased him off; he comes right back. He also shows up at the fence when the dogs are in our backyard, and seems particularly interested at continuing to drive Indy crazy at all times, night and day. And Indy's stupid, so he takes the bait even though I am yelling for him to come back to the house and throwing pebbles over the fence in a futile attempt to distract the asshole dog and make him go away.

I just want to go over and visit that guy and strangle the life out of him with my bare hands. I am sick of it, and his bad-pet-owner shenanigans. And they are not the only ones in this neighborhood-- there are just TOO MANY people that let their animals roam free, like we all live in the shitholes of Little Mexico or something. (Sorry if that's racist, but if you lived here you'd totally see my point-- like it or not, that's how they present themselves and their homes.) Greg and I were wishing we could get a tranquilizer gun so we could shoot these stray dogs, and either take them back to their houses or just drive them over to the pound. I know these ignorant dirtbag people would probably never come pick up "their" dogs if we did that, and the dogs might be put down, but you know what... so what. It would just be few more unneutered dogs off the streets and fewer unwanted puppies born. That's the way I have to see it or else I go nuts.

And so, I bid you GOOD DAY, Assholes! Take off, hosers!

Oh...and that picture up there at the top is of the Catgoyle Garden, AKA Motherboy. I finally downloaded the picture off my camera today. I am SO LAZY. But yeah, the garden doesn't look half bad here. You should see it today...half DEAD. The only things thriving are the snapdragons and the daisies. The rest needs to be put out of its misery and thrown in the trash. But...again...I am SO LAZY. Yawn.

If I were the Queen, I would proclaim that no one else can ever have the name of Lisa. No one. EVER.

I am sick and tired of reacting whenever some stranger around me says my name, and it turns out they are talking to someone else, and I go, "Yeah?" and then they look at me like "Fuck you, you interfering and unfamiliar asshole" and I have to go away and hide my reddened face.

I am also fed up--pray tell, I have had it "up to here"-- with co-workers who talk loudly on their phones to our affiliates and feel the need to say the person's first name they are talking to, and that person's name is Lisa. And the connection drops or something, so the co-worker feels the need to holler into the phone: "Lisa? LISA? Can you hear me? HELLO? HELLLL-OOOO LISA!" And my stomach gets all jumpy hearing my name yelled like that. Oh...I can hear you, prick. Shut up. Stop saying Lisa!!!

These are things I can no longer tolerate. I will call for the death of all violators of my proclamation!

NO MORE LISAS. EVER!!

Collard Greens, Posing for Pictures and Dog Discipline
I never had collard greens before. I realized this last night as we were watching Alton Brown on the Food Network. He was making some dish with collard greens and minced garlic, butter and red pepper flakes and it really looked appealing to me. I tried to look up the recipe from the show we saw last night, but alas, it is not on the internet anywhere. So my question is-- does anyone have any good collard greens recipes and/or insight to these vegetables? Are they good, or do they suck? I’d rather eat something good instead of something that sucks, to be perfectly honest with you.

I tried Greg’s homemade chili last night—well, I tasted it. It has pork in it, so I won’t eat it by the plateful, but I did get to taste the saucy-part. It was delicious. He made about five gallons of it; it has taken at least three days to complete, as it’s a multi-step process with grilling the meat, adding the spices, slow cooking it, and then I guess packing it in containers that will allow us to store five gallons of chili in our freezer and refrigerator. He is bringing a large amount of it with him to Iowa tomorrow, where he will go to ISU’s homecoming festivities for the last time as a bachelor. I’m going to miss him a lot. It’s the first time he’ll be away since I moved in with him almost a year ago. But I won’t get into all that wussy stuff; I wanted to say he makes what I would imagine passes for Very Good Chili. (I’ve never had chili except for some watery stuff they served at camp one time…yup, the good camp, 4H Camp… and I didn’t like it so I threw it away that time.)

I’ve got this urge to try new foods lately. What’s up with that? I am the pickiest, fussiest eater I know. Yet here I am, suddenly wanting to challenge my palate a little. Shake things up in Tongue Town. Send ripples through Gullet Gulch. Things like that. I even tried hot salsa a few weeks ago. Mind you, I have a stomach like paper and taste buds like premature infants, so I keep everything relatively mild…so the fact that I dipped my chips in the hottest salsa was muy impresionante. Well, to me, anyway.

Moving off of the food topic now. Tonight, we are having our engagement photo taken. I realize that we are getting married in less than one month, and it might appear strange that we are doing it ONLY now, but we have been busy and this hasn’t been a priority for us. Plus we lost a lot of prime photo-taking time when we had to cancel our contract with the scam artist photographer and find a new one. Now that we have a guy, we are testing him out in a way by having him take pictures of us tonight at sunset. I feel weirdly nervous about having my picture taken. And it’s not just because I have Reverse Anorexia. (I mean that I look in the mirror everyday and see a normal-sized, nice looking lady. But then someone takes my picture and OH MY GOD I am puffy! I am in Chubby Denial. I might need to go into rehab for this crap. Time will tell if I beat this thing on my own.)

I just don’t know much about the traditional wedding process, in general. It’s been a wake-up call, if you will, going through this whole wedding-planning process -- I don’t know how a LOT of things are done, etiquette-wise or just plain party-wise. For instance, I am really not sure I can visualize what an “Engagement Photo” should look like. I do know I don’t want a posed Sears-portrait-lookin’ mess; Greg cannot stand behind me with a hand on my shoulder as I grin the triumphant grin of She Who Has Landed Herself a Man. I’m not sure we can do some soft-focusy kiss-pose, either. I will laugh. So, I guess we’ll just leave it up to fate tonight and see how it goes. I hope my “Big German Head” doesn’t look bad, and that my gaggle of chins will ease on back into my neck seamlessly and without raising a fuss.

I’m kind of working on some other stuff lately. I have been sending ideas to Kane for short films he wants to make. I had a good one yesterday while I was driving home regarding a baby who craps precious jewels and metals. See, this is the kind of thing I come up with when I let my mind wander—I picture a diaper full of rubies and emeralds. Is that odd? I dare say it is NOT! It’s just how I roll.

I’ve also got some other short story ideas in the works all of the sudden. So hopefully, I haven’t jinxed myself by writing about it here.

I need to beat my dog. He is a misbehaving son of a bitch. He’s driving us MAD, mad I tell you! He ran out of the house yesterday morning and would not come to us when we called and chased him down. He barks at the window and doesn’t listen when we tell him to come to us and stop barking. He basically has NO RESPECT for us, and I think, especially me. He cowers for Greg, but not me. He’ll actually take the fucking play stance when I am yelling at him and then bark at ME with his tail wagging.

He is gonna die. When Greg’s out of town this weekend, I am coming down hard on that dog’s ass. Forget Dog Whisperin’…I am going all Dog Shrieker this weekend. I have to. Without the alpha male around, I’ve got to assert my leadership or Indy could destroy the entire house and all of us in it this weekend. I don’t trust that dog. Still…he is very cute. And that simple fact has kept him alive.

How bad is it that last night I dreamt that Indy stuck his head through the screen of the front window, and I pulled him back into the house and dragged him to the crate, and then the Dream-Me was trying to decide just how I wanted to break his legs. I am an animal lover, and would never dream of hurting anything…and here I am, dreaming about fracturing my dog’s legs by either slamming them in a door or using super-human strength to snap ‘em. See what this dog has done to me and my subconscious?!

I should probably get some work done today. I’m sure someone around this office needs me for something. Or…not. I am not even sure they know I am IN today. No one cares ‘bout ol’ Lisa! (And now, I shuffle off with my head down, Little Tramp style…)

I loved summer camp when I was a teenager. I went to 4H Camp with my best friend Kristen for three years; first, we were CITs (Counselors In Training) and then the final year we played the roles of counselors, which sucked tremendously. But the golden years of being CITs--those were the halcyon days.

Yes, I was a fan of 4H Camp, indeed. I looked forward to it throughout the school year, and wrote letters to my camp friends. I would make meaningful mix tapes to bring with me (in those years, it was a lot of Depeche Mode and Yaz), and carefully choose my outfits for the week. I used to make actual lists on paper that said things like: "Tuesday: blue jean shorts, Save the Ozone Layer shirt, Keds." (That is an actual outfit I remember wearing for some reason)

I wasn't a 4H Member; I just piggybacked onto their cause so I could attend camp every year. The first two years we spent at a camp that was once a farm; Camp Beemerville in picturesque (no, really) Beemerville, NJ. I LOVED Beemerville. There were horses, cows, pigs and a dirt path through the trees that led to a mossy, green pond that we canoed on. We ate in a mess hall that was the basement of a barn; in the barn, we had our talent shows and the dance. It was just a lot of rolling green hills, trees, animals and velvet paintings in the mess hall. I would go back there and relive those summers in a second if I could.

The final 4H year was at another camp, much more representative of the cliche of what a camp should look like--with cabins, a lake, a lodge and the ever-present threat of black bears wandered across the path if you had to go to the bathrooms in the middle of the night. What I remember was it how much it sucked to suddenly have responsibility. I was much more suited to being a CIT than a counselor. I wanted to be hanging out and laughing with Kristen and Karen, not walking camper after camper to the bathroom or watching them as they swam in the lake. Bah. One good thing was that I taught "Nature Arts and Crafts" with Karen and we had the kids making something called Dough Art. Trish helped me make a sign to advertise my class (on the first night of camp, the kids had to sign up for the classes of their choice and I wanted to have a flood of kids in our class, so I went all out with the humorous advertising. I think we had about 9 kids. Woo. Hoo.) and Karen and I baked about 75 dough shapes from flour and salt to bring with us to camp. We also collected tuna and cat food cans (washed) and had plans of letting the kids wander in the woods to find stuff to make Nature Dioramas. What a noble idea! The kids were quite disillusioned with the dead sticks and leaves they found. When glued into a can, it just wasn't that Nature-y an effect.

I think I recall that summer as the Summer of Mess. I was constantly a mess. I mean, I had pimples on my chin from my nervous habit of rubbing it; in one of the Nature Arts and Crafts classes, a kid dropped a bottle of bright green paint and it bounced across the table and splashed paint all over my beloved dolphin T-shirt and boxer shorts from the Gap. Karen and I spent so much time in the bathroom trying to rinse out the paint--the T-shirt was ruined but the boxers lived on. I even had those boxers up until only about two years ago, too. I also had an unexpected visit from Aunt Flo, if you know what I mean. I just wasn't good at keeping track of my cycle so I'd be prepared. An older counselor had to drive to a store to get me some supplies. It was kind of humiliating. And then there was the thing with my hair, which I had dyed a brownish-red color earlier that year and never bothered to re-dye it, so my hair had gotten blondish and brassy over time and my roots, a darker brown, were easily four or five inches long. What the fuck was I thinking?! Oh, Christ. The two years prior, I was a cute CIT with bobbed hair and tanned legs that were all muscular from my near-constant bike riding habit. By the time I was a counselor, I guess I let myself go. So sad, isn't it?

ANYWAY, my whole 4H camp experience was a walk in the park compared to the HORROR that was Camp Nomoco.

Camp Nomoco was a Girl Scout camp that I attended during the summer I was 10 years old. I had seen a brochure of these girls having fun at Girl Scout camp, and I totally wanted to go. My best friend at the time, Tracy, went with me. We were in for an experience that, at the time, seemed like HELL ON EARTH.

In retrospect, it was probably not so bad. I think I was a little dramatic back then; a little moody and going through an unfortunate phase where I experienced intense homesickness even if I slept over a friend's house for a night. I know the camp was rather no-frills-- canvas tents on wooden platforms, latrines that were actual outhouses, a limit on showering (seriously--you couldn't shower everyday; it was meted out like a precious privilege) making for a lot of smelly prepubescent whiny girls, and powdered milk made from water we pumped out of the wells. It was pretty crappy.

I just found my old letter home from camp that summer, in which I plead with my parents to pick me up early and save me from my horrible, starving, sickly existence when I fake-puked in the woods to get sent to the nurse in my attempt to have them call my Mom to come like an angel sent from the heavens.

Here are the scans of the letters. Enjoy!



This makes me want a daughter so I too can hopefully receive letters like this someday. I can only wish my kid is this ridiculous!

"Dad said we were going to the playground, but that doesn't look like the playground up ahead."

"Umm, what's a 'Meat Packing Plant'? It smells funny."

"Just keep smiling. Dad wouldn't take us anywhere that's not fun!"

"Yeah."

Today is a thoughtful day for me. I have to be careful not to equate thoughtful with depressed, because I think in the past I tended to let the things I was thinking about get to me. I'm better these days at this; I can identify true depressing moments and just quiet, thoughtful moments as two separate things.

What am I saying? So far, this blog is boring as hell.

Anyway, it was a nice weekend. On Saturday, I walked the dogs in the morning when it was still cool out. Walking Indy and Hailie at the same time is just one extended upper body workout. They are both pullers, which I know I need to work on and make them walk a little calmer and with a loose leash, but on Saturday I just wanted to walk fast and not deal with pulling them back and keeping the leash short next to me. So there they were, like two sled dogs hitched up side to side, pulling the sled that is me down the street. The best way to handle them is to put both leashes in the same hand and brace my lower back and use my biceps to keep them at least somewhat in control. I had to switch hands every ten minutes or so.

I like walking alone sometimes. I love walking with Greg, or a friend, but there's something relaxing about being by myself on a walk with the dogs. About halfway through the walk, they both slowed down and began to walk in a civilized manner, and I know it's weird, but I felt like all three of us were in synch. It took awhile to get to that point, but once we were, the walk was just about breathing the fresh air, looking at stuff along the way.

We passed about four yard sales, all of which were thoroughly stocked with crap. I was thinking about the crap-- at one point, the people holding the yard sale made a choice to bring that crap into their home. They might have even really liked the crap in question. Maybe the crap was once a top-of-the-line object, the newest thing on the market. But now, it's outdated, old, beat-up and doesn't work as well as it once did. So there it is, in the driveway, with a piece of masking tape on it proclaiming someone could take it away for themselves for the low, low price of only $2.00. I don't think I felt sad about the crap. Crap has its day, and then crap must leave and make room for new crap. It's the circle of life. Only this is about crap.

There are also a lot of homeless people in our neighborhood. The dogs and I walked past one yard with tall, matted grass and neglected trees and a leaning fence; one night when Greg and I walked past this yard, I was totally startled to look down and see a man sleeping in that grass under the tree, only a foot or so away from the edge of the sidewalk. I jumped a little and gasped, because you don't expect to look down and see someone's body on the ground as you're walking on a dark, quiet night. I wonder if the people in that house know that sometimes, the homeless sleep on their grass at night. On Saturday, no one was there in the grass, but I wondered if that guy ever went back and slept in that spot more than just the night we saw him.

At the park, there was a game going on, probably Little League. The two teams were in black and in red, and two homeless people--a man and a woman-- were sitting at a picnic table watching the game across the way. They looked dirty, with their plastic grocery store bags on the ground and the table top around them, the half-full Gatorade bottle on the table in front of them, as they laughed and pointed at the game. The man yelled something along the lines of, "Go black! Yeah! Get 'em out, get those lousy reds out!" and it made me smile. Me and the dogs kept walking, past fathers in t-shirts practicing throws with their sons and little kids on the basketball court, making noises to attract Indy's attention when we walked by. I know it was Indy they were egging on, because Hailie looked the first time they made their noise and seemed to shrug and get back to her happy little walk, but Indy did the whole stopped-in-his-tracks, head-cocked and ears-up thing when he heard it. So the boys kept making the noise as we walked, and I just ignored it and smiled as I pulled Indy along. It sounds like those kids were jerks, but for some reason, it didn't bother me. They were kind of cute about it. Laughing, getting excited when Indy tilted his head in their direction.

Today, I am thinking about that walk and how I felt alive that day. You know what I mean? There are so many long, monotonous days of doing the same thing everyday...sitting at the same desk, eating the same thing for lunch, thinking about the same issues. For me my current issues are thinking about my health and weight (I want my body to feel good, so I am working to balance what I eat and get enough sleep and exercise to get there); thinking about the wedding; thinking about the marriage itself; thinking about why I care what other think of me so much, and how I can correct it; wondering how I will approach changes I see coming up as my life transitions into the next phase, and how some people I care about will react; handling my job in a more healthy way so it doesn't get to me when I am ignored or not given credit for things I write-- thinking the "it's just a paycheck" thought and actually beginning to believe it... the list goes on.

I don't do stuff like that walk alone much anymore. I had forgotten how cool it can feel to just let go of the junk that clatters around in my brain all the time and just look at the world around me again, and appreciate things like the enthusiasm of the dogs on their walk, the fact that people who are down on their luck can sit in a sunny park on a Saturday and have fun cheering on a kid's softball game, and that I am actually growing a little wiser everyday and learning to put everything in its place, as they say. So what if anyone says something negative about a thing I do or a choice I made. So what if I have extra fat on my arms. And most of all, so what if I haven't written anything fiction-y for a very long time. None of it defines the person I am and am becoming.

I read something this weekend--I don't remember where it was-- that said, in essence, stop worrying and start doing. The dogs don't worry about shit; they just do whatever and get happy over things like getting dinner or being taken outside on a long walk. And their happiness is unmistakable; it's not polite, restrained happiness. I think I want to try jumping up and down in excitement more, and laying down with a long, contented sigh at the end of the day.

So that's my plan.

Here are some pictures in lieu of a real blog:Lisa and Greg at the Grand Canyon, in our hats. Hats are where it's at, folks.

Don't Bust the Crust! This is a sign at a trailhead we stopped at. We found this poster to be quite humorous.

This is a good chunk of the new family. I like that we are all actually looking at the camera and no one seems ready to throw food at anyone else. I think this whole marriage thing might be A-OK.

Please ignore the stupid face I am making and any pool-related physical flaws evident in this picture, but take note of wee little Malcolm. He is so good in the pool, and will ride around on a raft for awhile without complaining; he will also ride on my belly when I float on my back. He's my awesome little freak. He looks very nice with wet hair, as well... you can clearly see his liver spots on his scalp. Which is actually really endearing to me. I could look at this dog all day. And sometimes I do. Other times, I just let him sleep in his basket, and I go about my business and we do not interact. If you want a low-maintenance pet, get yourself a Malcolm. They're the best.

I will try to get back with a real blog tomorrow. I'm still recovering from the season premiere of LOST last night. It was a good episode, sure, but it's also the first one we've seen on TV. And it really BLOWS with commercial breaks every six or seven minutes. God damn it anyway. That's the downside of watching shows on DVD-- you get spoiled. And I am definitely spoiled. Maybe some big-time advertiser will decide to buy the block of advertising so the shows can be presented without interruption in the future. I could get behind something like that. Come on, Coke. Get with the program, General Motors. Golden opportunity here.

Underpants Under Attack
I wasn’t going to blog about something quite personal and embarrassing that happened to me last week, but it’s Monday and I need to write something that cheers me up. And besides, since when have I censored myself and kept strange stories a secret? If I can write about fishing the room key out of a toilet with my bare hands, I can write about this. For whatever reason, this quick little tale I’m about to tell does make me smile…and cringe, and shake my head in disgust.

Last week, my underwear was torn off in the ladies’ restroom here at work.

It doesn’t seem true. But it is true. I wish I was making this up, but alas, I am not. Here’s the story in brief, and please don’t pardon the pun:

There I was. In the bathroom. I was in a stall, doing what I had to do, and when it came time to stand up and pull my underwear back up, that’s when trouble entered the picture. I know I’ve shared before how awful my balance is, and of course, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened if I had a decent sense of balance.

It happened super fast. I stood up, hiked up the ol’ panties, standing on one foot for a brief moment. I stumbled to my left, where my (admittedly cheap and worn-out) underwear caught on the edge of the toilet paper/ seat cover dispenser. At the same time, my other foot came down and pulled my body to the right…but the underpants were stretched beyond their limits and there was a loud tearing noise as the elastic band gave way and the fabric tore down the side.

The best part? A lady was in the stall next to me and heard the ruckus. “Are you OK in there?” I thought I was going to die. What did it sound like to her? A lot of banging around, stumbling, tearing and whispered swearing? Probably. I think I just said something like, “Yeah, I’m OK” and stood there wondering what to do now that my underpants were in shreds.

I also wanted to wait for her to finish up and leave before I exited the stall. Whoever she was, I didn’t want her to see my face. I hoped she wasn’t peeking at my shoes so she could perhaps identify me later in the hallway or something. I intentionally stalled, hanging out by the toilet awaiting my chance to bolt. She finally did leave, and I was free to go.

But first, I had a decision to make regarding said underpants. I was wearing a skirt, and when it was pulled up you could clearly see a torn panty line underneath. All bunched up right near my left hip. Plus it felt incredibly uncomfortable, and like the panties were going to give way and slip down to my ankles when I least expected it. Obviously, this was NOT a chance I was willing to take. Sure, I am clumsy and I also have no problem sharing stories like this one on the internet, but one thing I don’t want to be is The Girl Whose Panties Fell Down to Her Ankles as She Walked to the Copy Machine. Knowing my luck, this would be exactly what would happen. Cripes.

So I decided to trash ‘em. Good bye, sweet panties. I had no choice but to go commando the rest of the day. Luckily, I only had a little over an hour to be in the office, so I just tried not to think about my wounded and brave underpants, laying in the garbage can in the bathroom under a carefully-placed balled up paper towel… because I didn’t want someone to walk in and just see panties lying in the garbage all willy-nilly.

I don’t like going commando, especially in the office. It feels so, so wrong on thousands of levels. That day was just no fun.

Anyway, this is what happened to me, and as strange as it sounds, it is fact. I urge you to practice caution in a closed stall, for you never know when a sharp edge on a wall-mounted dispenser will go after your undergarments. Them things is ruthless.