I didn't tell you guys about this cake. I realized it tonight when I was looking at my pictures file, and there it was in all its glory. It's my Martin Luther King, Jr. Cake.

I had been watching something on TV about him and felt a surge of something like a cross between respect and love. Soon afterwards, I got me a hankering for some cake. And when I want cake, I WANT cake, if you know what I mean. People could get hurt. (I get like this: MUST. HAVE.CAAAAAKE!! And I kick things and beat my chest and throw grandma across the room.) So...anyway... I ambled into the kitchen and grabbed the obligatory Yellow Cake Mix and a can of frosting and after a flurry of mixing, baking and decorating, the cake was born.

But it was missing something, sitting there with its creamy chocolate icing. It looked so blank. And it WAS a holiday at the time: Milk Day. I think it was around this time I went into a trance and the next thing I know I was drizzling white chocolate icing on the cake in a very child-like manner to create the culinary homage to Mr. King that you see above.

It was a very good cake, too. I gave my Mom a piece to take home with her when she came over the next day and she said, and I quote: "Mmmmm, that cake was GOOD!" There you have it-- directly from the mouth of my wise and cake-loving mother. She would never lie to me. Except for that one time. I won't get into it. Point: my Equal Rights Cake was a winner.

I don't really have a big point to all of this. I just felt like tonight was the night to say, "Hey, one night I made this cake because I love Martin Luther King Jr. and what he did for our nation." Some people attend parades (Milk Parades) and others write eloquent essays or speak to students about the impact he had.

Others bake a cake from a mix and eat it right out of the pan.

Ask yourself...which type of person are YOU?

I'm on a kick right now for strawberries and blueberries. Can't get enough of 'em. I bring them to work and eat them out of a little ziploc bag like some sort of simpleton. You should see me-- I snarf 'em up with a quickness that is NOT to be believed.

But why do the seeds of strawberries have to suck so much? I have crappy teeth because I have been wearing down the enamel from excessive grinding, even though I use a biteguard and everything. My teeth are just breaking down and there's nothing I can do to stop the cruel march of time on my enamel. Anyway, all this enamel-loss has meant my back teeth are softer and kind of pitted in spots. The strawberry seeds know just how to find my little dental nooks and crannies and they will wedge in there like my fat foot into a too-small shoe.

I guess I can thank the strawberry seeds, because without their ongoing attraction to the pits of my teeth, I wouldn't even know I had so many pits to begin with. The pits aren't cavities; they are invisible for the most part when I look in my mouth. But after eating berries? Wow...my teeth look like someone poured sprinkles all over them. It's gross and the seeds are quite uncomfortable when they're nestled in there.

Yesterday I attempted to pry one seed out from my gumline near the front of my mouth. Sometimes the seeds find other places to hide, of course. So I was absent-mindedly picking at my gums with my fingernail trying to dislodge it, and in the process I screwed up my gums. They were so red they looked bloody. I don't know why I didn't just go for the floss right away, but oh well. Today I still feel that spot with my tongue and swear it feels like the seed is still there. But it's just swollen, fingernail-stabbed gums.

The lesson here is: Don't grind your teeth, otherwise you'll have pits in your teeth as the dentin becomes exposed, and don't stick your fingers in your mouth and poke around. These are unhealthy and idiotic habits. Don't be a moron like me, kids.

Here endeth the "lesson," if you can call what I just typed a lesson.

I just ate today's berry rations and I am already jonesing for some more! If I stumbled upon Strawberry Shortcake today, I would fucking eat her HOUSE.

I realize that when something good happens, the universe has to balance things out in some way and make something crappy happen. That's probably why when I was riding a high of happy, jump-for-joy energy on Friday that I'd come home and the dog would piss on my leg.

Why was I so happy? I got a new job! I'll be starting in mid March. The company seems so nice and down to earth. I'll be very busy there, which is good. Too much free time at this job has made my mind mushy. I was so excited to give my notice. It felt awesome. The funny thing was that it was another co-worker's last day on Friday, so after we gave her a going-away Gathering at the Cubes, I ended up sending my resignation letter to my boss. We're dropping like flies around here. I wonder if management will maybe take it as a hint. One would hope. Well, either way, said co-worker's Gathering at the Cubes involved berry torte. I had a nice slice of berry torte and gave my notice, and after several surprised congratulations, I went home early. SO NICE.

When I got home, Greg had flowers for me. I'm talking a gorgeous bouquet of gerber daisies and other perfect flowers with a sweet congratulatory note. I was just feeling so happy at that point. But nature called, and it was time for me to visit the loo, as it were. Little did I know that when I allowed Indy to trot in behind me as I shut the door, disaster would occur.

Now I know this might seem weird, and I realize that by publishing this on the web I am opening myself up to public ridicule, and you know something... maybe I deserve it. Whatever. The thing is, sometimes when I have to take a pee, Indy or Malcolm both try to come in with me. I don't know what they think they're going to get in there. They think it's a secret room that the other dogs aren't special enough to go into, or something. Most of the time, I deny them access because it IS kind of weird. But other times, especially when I am not thinking about them and just rush in there, one of them gets in. Well, I let them in. Yeah, so? A lot of times it's much easier to just let them in when you really have to just go, rather than struggle to push them back out of the doorway. Moving on...

So I am doing my bidness, ahem. Still happy at this point. Indy is in there, and he walks over to me and leans up against my legs and begins to PEE all over my left leg and shoe!

What the fuck?!

Honestly, I have no words. I was shocked, disgusted and just plain horrified that my seemingly-sweet dog would do this, again. He did this once before on my leg when I was trying to work on some training and he felt like resisting, that little prick. That time, it made some semblance of sense; he was being challenged and he is a dominant personality, so that was his way of 'marking' me and trying to show he was better than me. (This got him flipped on his back right quick.) But on Friday? I didn't do anything. In fact, I was giving off happy and calm vibes. And he just figures, "Well, this is a good time to piss on her." What the hell is THAT?!

And so goes another chapter in my life. I get a new job; I get pissed on. Like sands through the hourglass. I really get that, "this could only happen to ME" feeling over this incident.

In case you're wondering, I got it cleaned up and did an emergency load of laundry after disciplining Indy. Then, Indy peed again moments later when Greg looked at him unapprovingly. He did it one other time this weekend, too. Obviously we have a LOT more work to do, again. He's got a pattern where he will be doing so much better and be obedient and decent and then out of nowhere, another streak of BAD comes on and this is the sort of stuff we have to deal with. It's enough to make us want to take him back to the pound and ask for a refund on some days. Grrrr! I find myself regularly pleading with him. Yes, I plead with my dog, like he understands me and can reason with me. "Please be a good dog! No more peeing! Be good!"

This time, Indy seemed to know he was in trouble, which is new. Usually he acts upset when we are hollering and flipping him, and then he gets up when we release him and his tail wags and he's ready for play. On Friday, he was banished to the backyard for over an hour as we ate dinner, and when he came inside he just went to the bedroom and moped for awhile. When we checked on him, he had gone into his crate and closed the door; like he was locking himself up. It was funny. But I'm glad he did it. I'm hoping he is starting to understand that misbehaving gets him no attention, no love, no inclusion with the rest of the 'pack'. He's so smart. He's got potential, that one. But unfortunately, he often uses his powers for evil. Diabolical little thing.

Off the subject (finally, right?), but we got our new couch on Thursday; huzzah! My sister and I had dinner together that night and we reverted back to high school days when we would pose in weird costumes with little handwritten signs for nonsensical pictures. We haven't done this in years. I wonder why. It's fun. Totally impossible to explain, since there is no reason involved, but fun all the same. Anyway, she posted some of the pictures on her blog. Thanks, Trish. Now that my camera is dead, your photo-taking skillz are much appreciated.

I'm off to live the rest of my Monday and hopefully avoid any futher dog-urination incidences as I do it. Cross your fingers that my pants and shoes stay dry!

Oh, come on. There's no way this is the first time a beaver has been spotted in NYC. Isn't the city loaded with these things? Hairy beavers, bald beavers, artfully waxed beavers...

I don't know what to say about Nicholas Cage's latest cinematic gem earning over $50 million at the box office this past weekend. I don't get it. Then again, I don't "get" a lot of things, like the appeal of things everyone else loves, like American Idol or the taste of coffee. Still, I would think that a movie about a guy who rides around on a motorcycle with his head on fire would be one of those things that would sink fast. Add to it that the best Hollywood could do was Nicholas Cage to play said flaming-head-biker guy, and it really seems to be a no-win situation. I hate to beat this to death here on this blog, but he's just not that good. He's not good looking, his voice is terrible, and he is limited in his acting range. There has to be someone more appealing to play flaming-head-biker guy! Take any of the guys from Arrested Development (well, maybe not Buster. Sorry, but I can't see him as a flaming-head-biker guy)! Try Josh Holloway from Lost! James Marsters! Ryan Gosling! Whoever...just someone who might be able to pull off bad-ass with a little talent on the side. Oh, who am I kidding? It's still a movie about a guy who rides around fighting evil while his skull is on fire. Maybe there's no saving it.

Well, when I am not shaking my head in disbelief at the box office numbers (and I do this frequently, in fact), I am marveling at the beautiful weather we've been having here in Arizona these days. I know how boring it is to write/ read about the weather, but it's really been cool lately, so I want to talk about it. We've had a lot of rain this past week. On Valentine's Day night, we had a thunderstorm. We've had huge clouds rolling along over the entire valley for days now. Yesterday, it was very windy and it rained during the day. It was warm enough that we didn't need jackets, and the sun would break through and shine while the rain was coming down. Palm trees were swaying in the wind, leaves were flying around high and rain was dropping in tiny little needle-drops all over the place. It's cool because when you drive through rain here, you will be hit with a downpour for one minute and then within the next couple of minutes, it will taper off to nothing. Dry roads. Then...you hit a patch of wet pavement and the rain hits you again. I love this so much. I would be quite content if it rained at least once a week here. Rain here is not like rain anywhere else in the country. It's pretty, it's clean, it's appreciated. Now I know why Indians are so into rain dances. I pray for rain on a regular basis now, too. Maybe I don't pray while dancing and chanting and wearing feathers and other finery, but I do a little mental dance, I guess.

The rain smells wonderful. You can smell the desert in it, even if you are right in the middle of the city when it rains. It's a fresh, sweet smell and if you breathe it in, it feels like your lungs are working better than they were before. Rain in Belford, NJ smelled a lot like dead fish and what I'll just refer to as "muck." I didn't care for the rain there. I never knew I'd grow up and live in a place where rainy days were the absolute best days. But I'm glad I do.

Today it's overcast, but the sky is electric blue as the clouds roll past. On my lunch hour, I looked up and saw the sunshine tinting the edges of a huge cloud stark white...the contrast between the bright edges, the sky and the grayness of the cloud almost hurt my eyes. I wanted to look up at it all day, though. Too bad the light changed and I had to drive. Stupid driving.

And last night, when Greg and I were heading into the movie theater to see Smoking Aces, the sky over the mountains was deep grayish-black. The wind was blowing, and even though it wasn't raining at the moment it was about to come back any minute, even though the sun was shining in the rearview mirror. That light made all the pastel-colored buildings and the art deco design of the movie theater look so awesome. They were glowing against that black sky.

Why do I get so crazy about this stuff? I love it, though. I can get lost in the weather sometimes. I revert back to my elementary school days, when I received high grades but always had the little note on my report card from the teacher that said something to the effect of, "Lisa is a daydreamer, and she needs to pay attention more in class." I used to sit and stare out the window at the sky and think of the weirdest stuff. I thought elves sat on the windowsill and watched me during the day, and that I just might see a luck dragon flying through the clouds. Yeah, I was that kid. And I am still that kid, that's the funny part.

I almost forgot: the best part of the weather yesterday was the tumbleweeds in the parking lot at the movies. We don't see that many tumbleweeds here, really... they don't just appear in the city and suburbs. But the movie theater is on the edge of an open, currently-under-development strip of desert, so when the wind kicked up yesterday it blew hundreds of tumbleweeds across the road and right up against the fence surrounding the site of the new Wal-Mart. It looked like the tumbleweeds were trying to get into the Wal-Mart in a desperate mob. "Let us in there, we want jobs!! We want low prices! We want jobs AND low prices!!" The tumbleweeds can get big, too. They were surrounding some of the cars in the parking lot, and one huge tumbleweed was wedged between two cars. I'm sure the owners were going to love coming out and finding that. "Couldn't get in the car because a tumbleweed was blocking the way... and all those thorns scratched the shit out of my paintjob! All this just to see Ghostrider! I should have stayed home and saved myself all this pain."

I've got a second interview for a promising job tomorrow. Only problem-- a friend of mine who is currently out of work is also going in for her second interview for the same job. We both want it. I wonder how this is going to play out? On one level, I hope she gets it since she needs it. On the other hand, I want to work only 10 minutes from my house and get the kick-ass benefits this job would include. May the best writer win, I guess!

I need to go do some work now. I wish I could throw up at will, so I could get out of all this work.

I just switched over to the new Google account for the blog; whatever THAT means. I just do whatever the nice screens tell me to do. As a result, my display name is now Cruel Shoes. This is a nod to a fantastic Steve Martin book. Genius, actually.

I hope everyone had a great Valentine's Day. Even if it's a day you hate, I hope you had a successful hate-filled day. I like to remain positive. I don't really buy into the whole thing, myself. I did when I was little. Wow-- I LOVED Valentine's Day as a kid. All that pink and red stuff; the doilies; the candy; the cupcakes with pink icing...good times. When I was in high school, I think I liked it for the traditional reason of wanting my boyfriend to get me something. It wasn't about expensive gifts for me; it was about writing some meaningful crap in a card. I was way into the written word in those days. And perhaps, a guy could earn points with me by sending me a carnation in class. Our school did a thing where for a dollar, you could select a white, pink or red carnation to be delivered to a schoolmate of your choice with a message from you. I think the student council ran it, or something. I can tell you right now, I don't recall getting a lot of carnations. I believe some girlfriends of mine sent each other white carnations as a token of friendship, and I might have gotten some of that action...but I'm pretty sure it was only senior year boyfriend who might have sent the coveted red carnation. I can't remember now. So you can see getting carnations really didn't mean all that much, in the long run. I just know he was nice to me where other guys were tremendously lame and/or scary.

As I got older, I really lost interest. It's not that I'm not romantic...well...I don't know, maybe I'm not that romantic, come to think about it. I like non-traditional stuff, and I am fortunate enough to have found a guy who gets that about me. We're a perfect fit when it comes to how we express ourselves and what we like in terms of "the romance." We both knew in advance that we weren't going to do anything special on February 14, and I honestly had no hidden wishes or regrets, like some people at work assumed when I answered "nothing" when they asked "what are you guys doing for Valentine's Day?" People just can't seem to believe that me, a technical "woman", would not want flowers, candy, heart-shaped shit and other forced stuff. Ehhh. I keep the romance brewin' all year long, baby. We're good. Trust me, there's no need for us to pull out all the stops just because it's expected on this date. I'm very happy, and just wish I wouldn't get the funny looks from co-workers who apparently believe that something must be wrong if I say I don't want anything. Yeah, we're newlyweds, and yeah, we're doing great. Now leave us alone. It's our business, douchebags.

Here are the things I absolutely do NOT like:

*Stuffed animals, especially ones holding a little stuffed heart. The hate-factor rises if the heart has any writing on it. I don't need some piece of shit made in Korea to deliver a message of affection and to let me know I can have someone's heart. I'm too cool for that...I get guys who TELL me this stuff and do nice things to prove it. Eff you, stuffed animal with the heart in your sad little lap!
* Heart-shaped boxes of candy. Half the time, you open up the box and the chocolate has that white, waxy stuff on it and you know it's old. Plus, who knows what you'll bite into. I hate peanut butter and a wide variety of fillings (I only like chocolate cream, vanilla cream and coconut and THAT'S IT) so there's a chance I could get a mouthful of disgust if I were to eat that candy.
* Roses. They die quickly, and they smell bad as they do it. Nah. Give me some daisies.
* Singing telegrams. I never received one, per se, but they are the reason I carry pepper spray.
* Romantic, candlelit dinner in an expensive restaurant. OK, there's really nothing wrong with candlelight, and nothing wrong with a decent, expensive restaurant. But the variable here that creates a problem is ME. I am a klutz, and I am also gifted at saying awkward things that could potentially ruin a moment. I'd be the lady to knock over her water glass and stick her elbow in the butter pats. Or do one of my patented uncontrollable muscle-jerk things and kick my date, or stick a fork full of costly chicken into my left cheek. Plus, I don't think I clean up all that well. I always feel like a buffoon when I try to wear a nice dress with heels. My hair always feels awful with a million flyaways; and I feel wobbly and like a little kid playing dress-up so I walk stupid as I go through places like a nice restaurant. I try too hard and I think I end up looking like a sideshow attraction, shaved down and let out of the cage for a night on the town with the ringmaster. At any moment, disaster could strike. It's best to just go to Denny's. They expect shit like that at Denny's.

Well, the good news is I did have a lovely Valentine's Day. It was "Lost" night, after all! Plus, he gave me a new mouse for my 'puter (which was the perfect, unexpected gift) and I made him a recipe binder since he's a kick-ass cook. We ordered Pizza Hut and went to town on the breadsticks. Excellent.

I've got some other good news in the hopper. Wait. Did I just say it was "in the hopper"? Why'd I say that? I never say that. The go-to cliche I normally use in this case is "good news brewing." What can I say, I like me the brew. So I don't get it...I don't know why I just said something about a hopper. What's a hopper? Is it like one of those things they put popcorn kernels in and it gets hot and pops them up and makes them "hop" out and into machine at the movies? Is it a rabbit of some sort? Why would you put anything in a rabbit? Maybe it's some ancient traditional thing, wherein rabbits with objects inserted into them were thought to be good luck. I don't like that idea; it's gross, cruel and wildly inefficient. Since I am way, way too lazy to look this up right now, I am just going to let it go. Sound good? I think so.

My good news is career-related. Let's just say I am in high demand these days. We're talking raises, multiple interviews, promotions, decisions...yeah. I don't know what happened, but within the last week or so a lot of good things have been coming my way. I'm giddy about it. But, since I don't want to jinx anything and/or enrage any current or future bosses who might find this here blog, I'll shut up now. More later, maybe.

The bad news? I have adult acne. Mucinex ain't getting the little animated phlegm-guys out of my lungs. And someone ran up to me and hung a sign on me that reads "I HAVE A BLADDER CONTROL PROBLEM" so everyone looks at me when I get off the elevator.

Guess you can't have everything.

Sometimes I lose all control of my muscles. Well, let me clarify that-- I lose control of my major muscles that control physical activity; the bladder and bowel control usually stays under control. Usually.

Anyway, the other night as I was driving I was drinking a soda I'd gotten at dinner. A cup with ice, a straw and a plastic lid. I was going about 70 on a freeway, in the dark, when without warning or reason my hand just opened up and I dropped my soda all over my leg, the floor of my car...everywhere. When I got home, the floor mat was dripping with diet coke and ice, and I managed to drip it through the house from the front door to the back door as I rushed it to the patio so I could hose it out. I guess my brain muscle didn't work well enough to tell me to just toss it over the fence into the backyard, rather than carry it through the house like a jackass.

In another instance, I was about to put back Malcolm's can of dog food when a weird thing happened. I guess I was holding it mostly by the lid, and maybe it slipped because of that. The more likely situation was I just dropped it. The can had maybe another 1/2 of wet dog food in it, so the dog food splattered all over the floor. Two big dogs raced over immediately and helped me clean up the mess. (The little one never saw or heard it, let alone have time to beat the other dogs over to the scene of the mess and get a few licks in) I cleaned the floor, threw away the can, and thought nothing more of it except that I was a spazz and I didn't know why I just let go of the dog food can like that. But that's where the weird part comes in.

A week or so later, Greg asked me what the brown substance on the ceiling in the kitchen was. I had no idea. It looked like a splatter of gravy. And that's when I realized that the dog food I'd dropped had managed to get up on the ceiling. I don't know how it happened; I really don't understand how it COULD have happened. There wasn't any dog food on the wall, and I didn't get any on me...unless I did have dog food in my hair or something and I went to work like nothing was wrong but everyone around me was wondering why I smelled like rotting meat in savory gravy. So how the hell does a splatter of dog food go straight up and stick to the ceiling? I guess I'll never know. I did get up on the stepladder and wash it off, though. So at least I cleaned up my own mess, albeit several days after the fact. NOTE: I really hate wet dog food. I wish Malc still had strong enough teeth to eat the dry stuff like a civilized dog.

I also regularly hit my own skull into my car's door frame when I get in and out of the car. I somehow misjudge the distance I need to get my fat German head into the car, and whack myself upside the head. I'll be so anxious to get out of the car that sometimes my legs will make me stand up before I am ready so I hit the other side of my head as I get out. I'll do this most often in our own carport, which is good because it means fewer people have seen me do it, but I have also done it at the gas station, at work, and other public places. It sucks.

One that cracked me up (yes, I amuse myself from time to time, 'tis true) was when I was brushing my teeth and totally missed my own mouth, and pushed the foamy brush right into my cheek. I did it hard, too! That's what was funny to me. It was like my hand was temporarily possessed of retard strength. I wouldn't need that kind of force to brush my teeth; so I don't get why my hand put that kind of force out there just so I could hit myself in the face like that.

And finally, I am a kicker. I involuntarily kick my poor husband when we are sleeping. He says as I fall asleep, my legs just start getting violent. They jerk out and thrash around like I'm in a sleeping-mosh pit. I wish I could control this, because I really, really, really do not want to kick Greg. I love that guy. He's pretty cool. Kicking him is pretty much nowhere on the list of nice things I would like to do for him.

Once in awhile I do it while I am awake, too. I know one time I was sitting here at work, feeling kind of stressed out, and my foot shot out and I kicked the cubicle wall under my desk hard enough to make my cube-mate on the other side of the wall ask what was going on over there, and was I OK. I lied and said I dropped something because I didn't want to just say "I kicked the wall because I can't control my limbs."

Oh, wait, I just remembered one more dumb lack-of-control thing I did. One time when I was getting ready to dye my hair (I am a do-it-yourselfer when it comes to hair color) and I opened up the little bottle of dye and before I could stop myself, I lifted it up to my nose and took a deep sniff of it. I smelled HAIR DYE. Needless to say, that shit burned. You do NOT want to take a big pull on some strong chemical hair dye fumes, trust me. I started crying and yelling and when I told Trish what I did, she laughed, and then looked at me with a hint of incredulous wonder and asked, "Why would you do THAT?!" And all I could say was, "I don't know! It just happened!" I'm not kidding. It really did just happen. No explanation. To this day, I don't get it. And I pray I don't 'just do that' again.

I feel sad, like George Michael Bluth, when I think of my lack of grace and basic motor control. Cue the Charlie Brown sad music so I can wallow in this "poor me" feeling a little more!

This is old, but a couple of weeks ago Greg and I were walking into Walmart for some late-night shopping, and we saw some shopping carts in the lot. That's not an unusual occurence; shopping carts kind of live in places like Walmart.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but there was talk about two different kinds of shopping carts. And somehow we were talking about shopping carts mating, or something. I seriously don't recall the details, or how we ended up talking about this, but I do know that as we were nearing the doors and getting ready to go in, I said:

"They like to go with their own shpeeshies." (That's supposed to be 'species.')

Now I have been saying shpeeshies ever since. I wonder why I said that. I do admit I have a lisp, but it's not a big, obvious "shhhh" lisp. I learned how to fake my "s"s a long time ago. I had to come up with something so the people at school would let me stop going to speech class. Speech class made me feel like a retard. I'd have to leave class to go down to the Speech Room. And sit there and practice saying "s" words for a really long time. Lots of talk about Sally, and her shells she sells at the seashore. And snakes. Christ, they loved making me say sentences with "snakes" in it.

Come to think of it, I never did really convince them with my improvised "s" technique. I only stopped going to speech class when I went off to a school that didn't have it anymore. I don't know if that is sad or not. My money is on sad.

In my excitement over the Buffy comic news, I didn't get to mention a couple of other interesting things that have been going on in my life. So, I will take a break from writing about Jambi, Chocodiles, That Baby Smell, and other topics to share some actual news from my actual life:

I joined the National Association of Women Writers last month, and on Wednesday night I went to the local chapter meeting for the first time. I was floored...these women were AMAZING people. We were all sitting around this long table in the private room of a restaurant, and everyone got to stand up and do a "30 second commercial" for whatever it is they are writing, and at least half of the women in there have published books already. On one side of me was a columnist for the major newspaper here in Arizona, and on the other side was an author named Dana Davis.

Dana and I talked at the end of the meeting because when she shared her writing news, she said she writes speculative fiction (that's the official classification of "Zachary", to any of you who've read pieces of it) and sci/fi. Out of all the women there (about 30), I was lucky enough to sit next to the only other one who wrote the sort of stuff I write. I introduced myself to her as soon as we could talk, and she told me SO MUCH great information.

She was incredible to talk to, because this is someone who has done it; she has written a complete book (yup, that's the hard part) and gone through the steps to get it published. She gave me the names of some sites to check out for critiques and readers of manuscripts; she told me what NOT to put on my business cards; she shared her own personal experience with getting an agent... my brain was going NUTS! I felt like sparklers were going off in my head, and I was smiling way more than Antisocial and Malcontented Lisa usually smiles. When I went home, I looked up her website and read her writing--I was totally impressed, too-- and yesterday she wrote me a nice e-mail, offering to help me with any industry or genre questions I had. WHAT a fortuitous thing this is.

There's more writing news, though: I have pinpointed the magazines and literary journals to which I am going to submit the first two of my short stories to be sent out into the world. I've got a plan, and I know what the next steps will be. This feels so freaking good.

I also will begin writing some freelance articles for a new Phoenix online magazine. Once that happens and I have an article published, I'll link it all up here and everything. I just don't want to jinx it because it sounds like so much fun. It's unpaid work right now, but it's a start. I just need that one freelance project to kickstart other ones into being. I don't want to be known solely for the stuff on my work resume. I want a fun, creative portfolio, damn it! So this is the first step towards getting it.

ALSO, there is a documentary project in the works, and Kane and Trish have asked me to be the scriptwriter. That's cool; any writing is a good thing. But the really incredible thing about this project is it will be something to highlight the pet overpopulation and get publicity for no-kill shelters...probably the ONE issue I am the most passionate about! I feel really giddy about this one, too. I plan to contact the woman (who first contacted the Phoenix Film Commission and asked for a filmmaker to work with her on her story; the PFC then contacted Kane, who is getting a ton of notice for his short film "No.12") who runs the shelter very soon, maybe even this weekend, to start to figure out what the angle is and what I'd want to do to get this message across. Their website is www.tarasbabies.org. They took in a bunch of the Hurricane Katrina rescues this past fall, as a matter of fact. They only have 10 left who need homes. So cool.

Well, it's been a nice week, that's for damn sure. Isn't it strange how one week, things can be totally bland and monotonous as always, and then the following week things become more colorful and interesting? I'm grateful it happened. I am going to make the most of it, because I appreciate the universe handing me this. Sure, I did have to get proactive to get most of these things accomplished, but at least I had the universe kicking me in the ass to finally get off the couch and do something. Thanks for the beatings, universe! Kick me anytime.

Kane shared some great news with me this morning; Dark Horse comics is launching a brand-new Buffy comic that picks up where the show left off. It's basically Season 8, and it sounds like it's going to be so much fun to read.

Here's a TV Guide Q&A with Joss Whedon, and the official Dark Horse article from their site.

I have to say, I am pretty excited to read this. I really adore Joss Whedon-- his vivid imagination, the characters, the stories, his writing (not only the word-kind but the music-kind, too)... Finally, I have a reason to geek out again with the Buffy stuff. It's been too long. Commence Snoopy Dance.

"Hey Hey Hey! It's Fat Lisa!" I have Fat Albert's voice in my head today. I wish I could get away with speaking with his soft, gravelly-yet-still-Cosbyesque voice as I go about my day. It would be so fun to say things like, "Hey, I finished that rewrite of Chapter Two like you asked," but in Fat Albert-ese. I'd just say things in that voice and never give anyone an explanation. I'd just do it, all serious.

Speaking of fat, I think I have a problem with Chocodiles. I love them. I wish I could go buy one right now. They are so delicious. I loved them when I was little, and they sold them in a brown wrapper with the little crocodile mascot on it, and I love them now even though they are in boring white wrappers and are not sold on the East Coast for some reason. They make me want to do a jaunty dance; probably one in which I stick my heinie out and jiggle it for the audience.

Hey, that's another new idea: Instead of saying "asshole", I could try starting the trend of saying, "Heiniehole." I know it sounds a lot like Jambi the Genie's "Meka,leka,high, meka,heinieho," but there could be worse things to have people think of. I'm sure a lot of people would actually appreciate being reminded of Pee Wee's glowing, blue/green floating head in a sparkly box.

Didn't Jambi seem gay? He had glittery lipstick. I guess straight genies could wear glittery lipstick, but you know what-- it seems unlikely. It's creepy that Pee Wee would have a gay genie with no body, and he keeps this poor gay genie in a box for his exclusive wish-granting. Who has that? No one. That show was unrealistic. But it was VERY FUNNY when the secret word got screamed...and the King of Cartoons showed up with a trippy old cartoon from the olden days...and Captain (Phil Hartman) Carl came by and taught Pee Wee some lesson about the sea, or about wanting to woo Miss Yvonne... good times.

By the way, if you want to read an excellent write-up about a particulartly disturbing episode of Pee Wee's Playhouse called "The Pajama Party, click here. It's hilarious.

Saturday morning TV. Fat Albert, Pee-Wee's Playhouse, that short-lived "Hey Vern! It's Ernest!" show (I can still sing the theme song, a fact of which I am equally proud and disgusted), The Littles, Land of the Lost... it's nothing like that anymore. If I get up and turn on Saturday morning TV now, it sucks so much. Kids today. How the hell can they like that dumb crap? I'm going to force my children to watch my beat-up and grainy VHS tapes of Pee Wee. Best. Mom. Ever. That's gonna be me, alright. Also: I plan to spank 'em and yell at 'em when they are misbehaving. Go on and take me out back and shoot me now, all you conservative ninneys who believe kids shouldn't even be whacked on the heinie. Because I am DAMNED well gonna do it. I'm bringin' it back, 1970's-parenting style.

I'm going to be all, "HEY HEY HEY I'm gonna whoop your ass!"

And then we will have Chocodiles. All will be well. You'll see.