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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And...

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

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

Anyway:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Instrumental Interlude]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Come on, Shithead."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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