I was just referring to some handwritten notes I took a couple weeks ago for some articles I am working on. I was surprised to see the following scrawled on my notes: "Next continuing education conference is in South Dakota." Next line: "21 Jump Street! Bah-DOWH!"

I don't remember writing that, but it's in my handwriting and I have no idea why I would follow the South Dakota thing with 21 Jump Street. And Bah-DOWH? What does that mean, really? I know the sound it is, because I say it a lot. But why is it paired with 21 Jump Street? I am really confused now.

I don't think the 21-Jump-Street-Bah-DOWH! item is going to make it into this article. Too bad.

Jones, the Dog, is currently under general anesthesia, getting his testicles 'worked on,' and when I say 'worked on,' I mean to say, 'removed.' Poor guy. I feel sorry for the lil' dude, having that done and all. I'm crazy about him. He was very happy this morning when he woke up and ran around the living room. I hope he doesn't think that life in my house means constant genital surgery or something. I always worry about what dogs think and what they perceive to be patterns in my schedule. Hopefully Malcolm will let him know this is something that never happens, except in the very beginning of the relationship. I also think Jones has gay tendencies, in that he is kind of interested in other male dogs' private parts. ("Stupid gay dog!") This is not very conducive to a strong relationship with Malcolm, however. I've noticed Malcolm likes to just stand there and watch Jones most of the time; just stare at him while he sleeps or plays with his little green bouncy ball. Sometimes that is one long, cold stare. Malcolm is kind of cruel when he wants to be. (In fact, I sometimes think Malcolm is not only homophobic, but racist as well.) Jones is very sweet and sort of goofy, and he really wants to be close to Malcolm, but when Malcolm stares him down he just 'shrugs' and backs away from Malcolm; he's the submissive of the two of them. Malcolm can be a bit much, I admit it. I don't think I will ever have a dog as diabolical as Malcolm again in my lifetime. One is too many.

Today, this line from "Braveheart" was stuck in my head as I drove to work: "I'm your uncle, Argyle." I know, it's not much, but it sure was in there. I think I was reminded of Braveheart because the mountains here are coated with a green tint these days from all the rain we've had. They look so much better with some green. Especially when the weather is cooler and breezy like it is today, with a bright blue sky with poofy white clouds with dark gray underbellies lurking around. It looks a little Highlandy out here recently and I like it. I would say it was Spedoinkle out here, but the air really isn't as warm as a baked potato at the moment. Wait, though. It'll get there.

Yeah, it's come to this. Yeah, he's on the swanky couch. Because he's staying. I promise not to make this a blog of all dog pictures, really. But damn he is charming. Oh, and his name is JONES. As in Officer Jones, or Jonesy, of Reno911.

I'm very sad to see Hunter S. Thompson go. I logged onto the news tonight before going to bed, and saw this sad news. He was very unique, to say the absolute least. A fairy tale artist. We need more writers who can use their voice and their viewpoint to those heights... I only hope someday I can have such a flashlight in a foggy swamp voice; that my writing will be unmistakable in the mess of everyday muckiness. Really, may he rest in peace.

I don't know what is happening in my life lately. Yesterday as I walked Malcolm in the pouring rain, this dog ran up to us. He was very adorable, had no collar on, so I took him home. Anyway, it is starting to look like I will be keeping him if no one responds to my Found Dog signs, posts on Craigslist, and Pets911. How weird is this? I mean, I am looking for a new dog to go with Malcolm and one literally runs up to me and hits me with his paw, like, "Hello? I can help you if you help me." He is pretty nice. Although he did sort of bite Kane in the face last night, but in truth I think it was an accident. He gets along with Malcolm. I may name him Quinn. He's some kind of small mutt, mostly Sharpei I think. But seriously, what's with all the dogs lately? Sheesh.

Before I sign off for the weekend, I'd like to say that as jazzed as I am about President's Day, I was just thinking that perhaps there needs to be a Never Was President's Day. We could celebrate the Mondales and the Perots; the Kerrys and the Nell Carters. I think I have a favroite would-be presidential candidate, too. Not only was this guy one of the top political advisors to the Franklin Delano hizzouse, he was also once a POSTMASTER in 1933, and he helped bring an end to Prohibition (sweet!) and he later in life worked for Coca-Cola, which today produces my second favorite diet carbonated beverage (which would be Diet Coke, plain, without lime). For your consideration, I present the very charismatic, very debonaire JAMES A. FARLEY. He has a great quote: "Never think any oldish thoughts. It's oldish thoughts that make a person old." I believe it, Farls!

Some people have asked me why I am so into President's Day. Hey, why not? I like President's Day so much because it's... President's Day! Some of these presidents were righteous dudes. Lincoln was a righteous dude, and any humor surrounding Lincoln is fine with me. Loved him in Bill and Ted. Love that he freed the slaves. Love his style and his log-cabin-upbringing. Lincoln is the best ever. And he has the only memorial in Washington where it's just him, sitting and chillin'. He's got this smug look on his statue face, too, like: "Check out this crotch!" It's intentional, I'm sure, that the legs are spread just-so on his statue. There's more great things about Presidents and their humorous stories through the ages... Presidents fall into interesting categories too. Like the Loveable Screw-Up category; they also fall into the "Haved Killed a Man in a Duel" category and "Ate My Shoes at Valley Forge" category. Presidents are fun, and sometimes if you're lucky, Presidents mean you have a day off from work. How could anyone not love President's Day? Except for maybe Al Gore. I have this feeling he is a bitter, sad, lonely drunk somewhere in the woods today.

Two disturbing (and hopefully, completely unrelated) searches that brought people to this site:
"Toddler rash pimple"
"Emilio Estevez's penis"

While I am here, allow me to quote my definite favorite "Lord of the Rings" quote:
"PO-tay-toes!! Boil em, mash em, put em in a stew!" (Gangee, Samwise. Two Towers.)

This weekend, I hope to meet some dogs. That dog Gramps that I posted on here earlier? I spoke too soon; between me and the dog’s foster home, we decided he wasn’t the best match for me. I want a dog I can go hiking with, and Gramps was too old for that. It’s OK, though, because I will be meeting two nice dogs from RESCUE, my favorite local animal group, and since this group is so good at matching you with the right dog (they did match Tom and I to Callie about 2 years ago) I know I’ll have a dog soon.

I had a night last night where I was completely frustrated. I still have no phone, internet or mail, and it was getting to me. I went out to the mall with Trish and shopped a lot more than I should have, but damn it, it was a good time. Trish and I vented and talked about why we want to go back to NJ. The truth is, 7 years is enough, and I really miss some of you New Jersey peeps. You need to know that there really are no people like NJ/NY people anywhere else. I only can say that now after being here so many years already, and seeing all the strange, stupid, insincere and passive-aggressive people that populate this state. I was appreciating you’s guys in Jersey last night. And I can’t wait to come back there to the filth, the same-ol-same-ol, the high cost of living, the winters and everything else. And it’s really because of the people, and that’s the long and the short of it. I’ll take the crap if it means I can have you guys back again.

My Dad called me last night while Trish and I were in the mall. Apparently he is fixing an RV for a woman who will soon be driving it out from NJ to Kenab, Utah. The reason he called me was because this lady is going to Kenab, and he remembered that’s where Best Friends Animal Sanctuary is. I have been up there myself, and it really is a great place to go. It’s a huge piece of land devoted to giving homes to all these dogs, cats, horses, sheep, birds, and all kinds of animals, and it’s on the edge of a canyon out in the middle of nowhere—it’s simply gorgeous and calming up there. I applied for a job there myself about two years ago, but couldn’t go because the salary was really low and I couldn’t afford to live on my own up there and my friends, boyfriend or anyone else wouldn’t or couldn’t go with me. Still, I was happy that my Dad called to tell me that some woman he was fixing an RV for was going to Best Friends. I love that this was news that couldn’t wait. He is so cute, my Dad. And that’s another thing: when I finally make it back to NJ, I can hang out with him all the time and that will be very cool, indeed. He’s grown up well.

I am in a new band. It’s called Breaking Shit for Jesus. We start rehearsals this weekend, and I am on the bass. It’s radically cool because this band is completely in my own head, and I don’t even need an actual bass guitar because I have a little something I like to call, "my imagination." We can rehearse anytime, really! I decided to join this band after seeing one of those Xtreme Religious shows on cable the other day; particularly, this one show where a bunch of muscle-y guys in wrestler tights broke a bunch of bricks and boards in the name of Our Savior. They were all flitting about the stage in their macho outfits, yelling and quoting Psalms and smashing things as the lights went wild and the music got more angsty and loud, and the youngsters in the audience were screaming in brick-breaking-fueled, frenzied excitement. The power of Christ compelled them, I suppose. Either way, it was funnier than Mamma’s Family, so I kept it on and had an inspiring time. I highly recommend you watch some religious TV. We’re all sinners and we are all heathens, right? Well, this show will convince you that so are THEY, so don’t feel bad. Go ahead and have another whisky sour. I better go because I need to write some more songs for the band. These songs are not gonna write themselves, and Jesus needs songs. And apparently broken boards and bricks…and stage lights and fog machines. I totally heart religion.

There’s been a problem in my department. Apparently someone, or a group of someones, has been pouring “liquids” into the plants! We got an e-mail today asking us to not pour liquids of any kind into the plants. And there are so many “funny” liquids out there that could be deposited into potted plants. In fact there are so many and they are all so hilarious I will leave it up to you and your imagination to picture them all. (For the record, I sit nowhere near a plant and it’s honestly never occurred to me to pour anything, not even water, into them. I tend to ignore and neglect plants. But now I am thinking of doing something to them, solely because of the power of suggestion.)

I’m getting word from a source close to the plant problem that the liquid has been coffee. No wonder the plants were lookin’ so jittery these days. They also took up smoking. But don’t worry… it’s been just tiny little Tiparillos, not big smelly Camels.

I wonder how many poor schleps throughout history have tried to smoke an actual camel. It would be totally cruel to try to smoke a live camel, even if you did start with the tail. But maybe a deceased camel, all dried out and rolled into a huge piece of rolling paper.

At the moment, I have no phone and no internet connection at home. It’s maddening, I tells ya! Especially since I have the cheapest cell phone plan with only 400 minutes a month, so I spent the night in near absolute solitude, alone with the dog and my video tape and DVD collection, all so I could save minutes. I also can’t get into my mailbox, since the condo complex has one central mailbox location and the douche I bought the condo from “can’t remember” the mailbox number. Plus, he left me about 6 random keys that I have no clue as to their prospective locks, so I am not even sure what key opens the mailbox I don’t know of. I did a load of laundry and realized my washing machine is the loudest freaking washing machine in the free world. I couldn’t hear myself think! Don’t you love it when people say that? “Shut up! I can’t hear myself think!” Um, since when COULD you hear yourself think? The world would suck if all you could hear all the time was the sounds of brains clicking and whirring away with thoughts. Spray some oil on that shit and quiet it down. I would not like to hear myself think. I’m pretty sure it would end badly. I’d take a few people out with me, I promise you.

On a happier note, we’re really coming down to the wire on President’s Day! Now it’s only 5 days away. I have been leaning towards Franklin, yet again. I know that is such an obvious choice, but the dude was flying kites in storms and wearing those little spectacles and just being an all-around awesome guy. I have this feeling that Franklin and I would get along splendidly. I, too, wear knickers. And I regularly ‘discover’ things. I discovered glass. OK, that’s a dirty lie. But I did discover that glass is apparently ‘transparent’ and can be ‘placed in houses.’ No… that’s not really true either. I guess Benjamin and I are not so much alike, after all. Yet, I find the man alluring.

Today is my Mom’s birthday! Happy Birthday Mom! We don’t have shit planned for you. Sorry. But, that’s not to say we won’t throw something together. Trish and I are excellent and throwing things together. The best Mom Birthday was the one where we actually kidnapped her and drove her to Las Vegas for her 50th. It was so fun because she didn’t know where we were going as we drove miles and miles through the desert. We finally told her once we were out “Ole’ Wickenburg Way”, as the Arizona locals and dumb asses who move here from other states like to say. She was so excited she cried. Nothing beats making your momma cry. But seriously, I love my Mom. She was so much better than that old wire Mom they gave me for awhile.

I am in a "Wet Hot American Summer" mood today. I keep thinking about Gene and giggling to myself.

Gene: (Over Coop's shoulder) "It isn't about the girl."
Coop: "It isn't?"
Gene: "It is...and it isn't."

Cue training sequence!

I moved into the condo; it went well and the place is funkariffically magical. That's a lot of magical. It really is nice and I am happy I did this. I still need to unpack some stuff and set my computer up but it's going well. It almost wasn't going well, though, when at 10:30 pm on Saturday, after a whole day of heavy lifting and moving that began at 6:30 am, I went to leave the condo and go retrieve Malcolm from the apartment, when I shut the screen door behind me and it locked. And it turned out the key I had on my keychain did not work in that particular lock-- the key I needed was still inside the condo, dangling from a green string in my kitchen. So I was effectively locked out. Making me sing a variation of the Chumbawumba song in my head. "I get locked out, I can't get in again/ I'm never gonna get back in!"

I called Trish, had her pull out the phone book and find me a 24 hour locksmith, and when I got to her place I called. I had a swig of apple martini, gathered up Malcolm and headed over to sit in front of my new home in the dark with my dog in my lap. It took about an hour and twenty minutes for the locksmith to show up at the condo. When the guy shows up, he is a young-ish guy in a long black leather trenchcoat, driving an old Datsun. He is wearing a pentacle on his neck, and carried a tiny little leather case with his lock-pickin' tools. While he worked, I could hear the leather of his jacket making that leather-creak sound. I asked him how one becomes a locksmith, and he said you do have to go to school for it and that the FBI and Interpol (yes, as a matter of fact it IS the band Interpol, fyi Kane) have to know all about you to make sure you aren't a terrorist or anything. It was interesting conversation to have with a Wiccan. Plus, I happen to have this little ceramic frog figurine-- a frog with a little gnome sitting on its back. It's sitting just outside my door. The locksmith looked at it and said, "Oh, I love gnomes!" and he meant it! How cool is that?! The leather-coated Wiccan locksmith who saved me from a night of sitting on my porch loves gnomes! Awesome.

I got in, OK, in case you are wondering, and the gnome-loving locksmith went home. I slept really well, and yesterday Trish and I went to Target and I got a TV. It's been a long-ass weekend and I need a nap. Oh, and remember we are only 7 days till President's Day, so start sending in your votes for Favorite President! I am still undecided, myself... I loved Reagan's hair, but I think that FDR was so much cooler. But Taft reminds me of Taffy, and that's OK by me.

Well, the condo is mine! I did a squeal of small delight and glee as soon as I left the title company with my key. It was pouring rain, and the bottoms of my pants got all wet, but I didn't care! I went and bought a banana and a chocolate milk to celebrate (well, I hadn't had any lunch and was starving and I didn't want Taco Bell) and drove down to the condo. I went in and turned the lights on and went from room to room, almost like I was checking to make sure it was all there. It was. I feel pretty cool. I did it without a realtor (although Jacki Brown was so awesome, it turned out the place I needed to buy was a for sale by owner who didn't want to work with a realtor, so I had to do it all myself, which wasn't really easy and basically was the source of my massive stress this past week when things weren't happening when they should have been) and I didn't borrow any money from relatives or anything... it's all me. That is a cool accomplishment, if I don't say so m'self. Mmmm.

This is my last post in the apartment, and as soon as I finish this I am disconnecting this computer and packing it up. The movers will be here at 8am. It's sad to be leaving my little baby sister all to her own devices and moving two miles away. We started to have some fun living together, and the animals were a constant source of malaise. I'd sit there and pet her cat Fizzie for about 45 minutes straight sometimes. Luckily, Kane is moving in with her... so everything is happening according to plan. The plan being, we all work to save money to go back to the mother(fucker)land that NJ. Sharing rent, buying real estate to eventually pay off debts with... it all falls into the circle of life or something.

Everything's good, obviously. What's funny is the notary guy that stamped all my papers and the deed and stuff today asked me if I had a date for Valentine's Day. He wasn't asking me out...he was about 65 and was wearing a wedding ring, which in my very sweet and naive universe means he could NEVER be thinking of cheating on his wife with someone younger or anything like that!... but he was making conversation to lead up to telling me how he was planning to take his wife to this ncie restaurant called the Pointe. I've been to the Pointe before and it's very a frou-frou, a drizzle of red stuff on a white plate kind-of place, very romantic atmosphere at $60 a plate. It is pretty up there and they have flambe. I can always enjoy a good flambe show.

I told him that no, I have no plans for that night, and will probably spend it at a furniture store looking for a dining table. He chuckled a little and kept stamping my papers. But he's been the first person to ask me about Valentine's, and I really do mean it when I say I am looking forward to no expectations this year. It's great. I had it last year, too, and while other people were worrying and making impulse purchases of giant gorilla stuffed animals holding big felt red hearts or, even worse, expensive jewelry, I was probably wandered a Barnes and Noble or something. It's just never been 'my' holiday. I do wish I had someone to slip a Valentine to, just to be, for lack of a better word, 'cheeky.' (And by Valentine, I mean 'a mickey.') But it is fun to flirt, that's what I mean. Only I SUCK at it. I like one person right now and he knows it. He knows because I told him in black and white. Wow, I am quite the romantic, I guess.

I have a history of being upfront about a crush. In high school, almost every guy I liked, I ended up just saying, "I like you, want to go out?" to get the ball rolling. In the case of my longest and best relationship to date, I put the word out there to his friends that I liked him, yet this guy just sort of kept walking past me in the halls like he didn't know me or anything. We didn't really know each other-- we never had a class together or anything, but one day I noticed him because of some writing and a drawing he did, and started to develop a huge crush and I started to just watch him from afar, and saw he was actually a lot like me. We both had chocolate milk at lunch! (Yeah, so what... so did 88% of the other kids too.) Anyway, after a whole summer went by and nothing had happened, when the new school year started and we were sitting on the bleachers waiting to be assigned gym lockers I decided I was going to do something about this. When the bell rang, I followed him out into the hallway. He looked at me and I smiled. He smiled back. I said, "Do you know who I am?"
He said, "Yes, you're Lisa."
I said, "You know that I like you, right?"
He smiled. "Umm, yeah. I do know that."
I said, "So when do you want to call me?"
He said, "How about today?"
And he did. We talked for about 2 hours, and two days later we were dating exclusively and very romantically. It was so much fun back then to do that whole forward-thing. These days I am not as great at it, and the results are much harder to come by due to stupid logistical facts and stuff.

For the moment, I am supremely content and happy with the way things are going, no doubt about it. I like being single very much, and I like thinking about writing and doing fun little weird stuff and having adventures. This Valentine's Day my date is me, and I HAVE TO STOP BEING SO QUEER ON THIS BLOG!

Someone slap me, and do it hard. I want to be out cold for a couple hours. Minimum. Fuck.

I should be packing, and instead I am sitting here reading blogs and lamenting when some of my favorites haven't updated, when I myself have not updated in two days. How lame. But I've had the kind of week that leaves me just staring and wanting entertainment, yet being unable to provide the entertainment myself.

Today was the Oddest Day. Enough was going wrong from midnight on to make February 10 go down in history as one of the oddest days ever. Odd, because I went to bed with a killer migraine last night, woke up to puke a couple times--yay, lots of fun there-- slept late because of being sick, couldn't log onto the work computer because of network problem (I was working from home, only the second day of my new schedule and also, conveniently, the second day of dial-up computer problems, terrifying me that they'd be like, "Oh, since you can't seem to log on from home, you're going to have to go back to working full time in the office."), I get a completely-out-of-left-field e-mail "relationship proposal" from someone I haven't had a conversation with in what qualifies as years, and would be vehemently opposed to dating based on some very simple principles alone... find out I am not closing on the condo today, as planned, so I had to call the movers and change my moving time and all this other garbage. And to top the day off, I got my official rejection letter from a job I was hoping to at least score an interview with, since it was one of those rare jobs that don't come along very often, and even if you are OK at your current job, you still have to at least try for it because it would be so good.

Anyway, that being said, the puking last night was kind of a different experience. Normally, when I have to puke, I try to relax but end up getting so worked up about feeling crappy that it just gets out of hand and I wind up throwing up a lot and crying and stuff. So gross. But last night I was calm about the whole thing. I woke up with the headache, and took some medicine, and realized nope... that was a bad idea to do, the medicine was gonna make me sick. So I sat up and watched Comedy Central (ahh, "Passion of the Jew"... very nice. "Drawn Together"...not so nice. In fact it was stupid, just stupid) and tried to forget about feeling crummy. After a whole hour I accepted that this was not a battle I was going to win; I was indeed, nauseous. So, I went into the bathroom, raised that lid, and prepared for the onslaught. I pulled my hair back neatly, and sat on the floor and read an old "Real Simple" magazine until it finally happened. When I was finished, I cleaned up, used the Listerine and went back to bed. Very task-oriented for a puke session, I thought. And this is probably one of those instances where I shared much more than is necessary. But to me, this was intriguing; this new 'calm before the storm.' What's the deal with that? No crying, no pleading with God, no denial ("I'm not gonna throw up,I'mnotgonnathrowupnonononono...!")... just acceptance and follow-through. Now I need to apply this concept and attitude to the rest of my life. Or, maybe, I already do and the puking has been the latest area of my life to be touched by it. Cripes. This is bigger than I thought.

Oh, wow. What else. Let's see. I watched some "Maury Povich" today. I didn't mean to, but it sort of happened in the midst of all the strange things going on today. The show was great, in that ironic way of saying 'great'. It was something to do with "My secret crush won't be able to resist the sexy new me!" As I watched it, I was thinking it would be good to do a show that has the theme, "My secret crush is sure going to be disappointed to see how I've let myself go over the years."

Maury Povich looks like he's dead. I went to a taping of his show in college once. It was the only show I ever went to a taping of, even though for years I put my name in for Letterman and never once got a ticket. I went on a school trip to the Maury show, and I brought Trish. (I think Trish even wrote about this on her blog before, but I'm way too lazy to check) But all I remember was thinking how WAXY he looked in his makeup. Just like a corpse in a funeral home, only this corpse was walking around and moving his scary mouth under the studio lights. The studio was smaller than I thought it would be... and I hated the warm-up comedian guy who came out. I hated him so much I can't even remember more than a vague, blurry memory of him. The topic was the worst ever: "Lottery Winners and Their Tales of Woe" or something. So boring. It was all these farmers and poor old souls who won the lottery and thought their dreams would come true...but they DIDN'T. Oooh, the intrigue. The edge-of-your-seat madness! At least we could have been at the taping of a transvestite-heavy show or something, anything...no, hell no. When the episode was finally aired, me and Trish were hardly seen on camera in the audience, and when we were, we were looking down or looking completely glazed over. So much for Maury.

I just had a random thing pop into my head: I am standing within an old, rickety covered bridge somewhere in the country. I can hear the lazy ol' river churning along below, and perhaps some birds chirping at one end. I'm walking through the bridge, perhaps even whistling a little tune, like, "Safety Dance" or something. Yes, Safety Dance. At this point, from the open end of the bridge in front of me, comes Boyz II Men. They are in snappy white suits, and they are singing, and moving closer. And closer. They are emoting; putting their hands to their hearts and reaching OUT and UP as they sing and try to get closer to me...I turn and try to run... but I am surprised to see I have run right into, you guessed it: Color Me Badd. I'm really not sure how I am going to get out of THIS mess. And if I can really finish this post even close to coherence. Nope. I haven't th' foggiest!

Since I have been busy today, I decided it was a good time to just upload a bunch of recent pictures I've taken. It's a lot easier than thinking of witty prose, let me tell you.

Anyway, in this shot, Trish is really serious about that grilled cheese. Notice how freaking sharp those bite-marks are in that sandwich. Either she has a tiny little jaw or she's been creatively cutting bite-sized chunks in her sandwich when I am not looking.

This lovely photo was taken in the old-folks-death-rattle-central that is the Village Inn. Trish wanted some dinner after getting home from Tucson, so we went there. The funny thing was, a couple of old guys were sitting two booths behind us discussing the finer points of the Bible as I took this photo. I heard "Mark of the Beast" and "Rome? Are you sure it was Rome?" several times. And yes, the rest of the room was clogged with death-rattle coughs!
Oh Trish, aren't you the smug little bitch...now I want a grilled chez sammich too.

I have a knack for finding the most elaborately-decorated vehicles. As Trish and I left the Village Inn, I spotted the Tonymobile in the darkness behind the restaurant. Apparently, this is a truck whose sole claim to fame is large plastic and fiberglass likenesses of Kellogg characters attached to it. I think it just drives around, spreading awareness of Kelloggs.
Well, whatever its mission, I decided to finally achieve a lifelong dream of standing really close to huge Snap Crackle and Pop heads. There I am! With a jaunty arms-akimbo pose and everything. Oh wow, I love cereal.

Come on it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you.
I guess.

Allison emerges from the ladies' room at the Spaghetti Factory a changed person. Well, her bladder was changed. I know that much. I love this girl, and how she can muster a quick thumbs-up even as I surprised her as she left the bathroom. Can't ruffle this dame's feathers. No sir!

Weekends are the best. I'm sure everyone agrees. Heck, I would wager money that even a brain-damaged pelican would have to say weekends are better than weeks. And brain-damaged pelicans have a rough time of it, don't get me wrong. Imagine trying to be a pelican in 2005, what with all the fish disappearing from overfishing and a lot of pelican-hatred going around amongst the general public-- now imagine trying to get through your pelican-day while being brain damaged. Not a lot of fun, I'm sure.

I had written the most glorious, most random post on Friday and blogger ate it up. I was so distraught I couldn't blog until now. Sure, I posted a picture of Tha Dog, but I didn't really write very much there. But I had a fun weekend.

On Friday I took my mother to IKEA for the first time and watched her get overwhelmed at the Swedish amazingness of it all. Then on Saturday, me and Malcolm went out to meet dogs at different rescue groups, and had a lot of fun in the car. We had to take a long-ass detour to get home after meeting Tha Dog, because some jackass guy driving on the 101 decided to do something unbelievably fruity. He was in traffic that was moving slow, so he thought, "Heck, I will stop my car in this moving line of traffic, exit my vehicle to see if I can see what is causing the cars to slow down." This big asshole, by doing so, caused a massive pileup on the freeway, with one car bursting into flames and killing all the people inside, one SUV flying through the air and landing on top of another two cars, and a huge fire that burned out a commercial truck as the cars behind him crashed to avoid hitting this loser. I was on the 101 and saw the smoke from the flames go up when it happened, and they diverted traffic off the road completely and I ended up having to finally exit near the airport, Malcolm just getting fed up and laying on the passenger seat on his side with his paws straight out in the air, as if he were thinking, "Christ, I am sick of this shit now." And it was hot, and I had to turn my A/C on for the first time in 2005 as I sat in the diverted traffic. But the good news is, my DJ player's random selection was really good the whole drive-- heavy on the Life Aquatic and Elvis. I realized I like hearing "All Shook Up" as I watch traffic cops in reflective vests wave their arms at traffic, and seeing pissed-off middle aged ladies get all screamy inside their cars when they can't "get over." I might consider making a music video of this, if the Presley Estate will allow it.

On Saturday night, I finally saw Shaun of the Dead. I LOVED it! Absolutely fantastic. My favorite part has to be when they are all driving in the car after picking up Shaun's mom and Philip, and Philip dies in the backseat and Shaun cries, "Mum, Philip's gone!" and the mother looks back at her husband and then goes, "What? Where's he gone? He's right there." And of course the scene in the bar where they are all smacking the old man zombie with pool cues to that Queen song. Overall, there were maybe a thousand great moments in there, and I think I need to buy this one in the sale bin at Hollywood video if I ever see it.

Yesterday was just all packing and seeing another dog who was NOT Tha Dog, so the plan is still on to take home Tha Dog, hopefully next weekend. I packed and watched part of "The Craft" on, I think, TBS or something. Man, I hate that movie. Why are Fairuza Balk's teeth pointy? And look at Skeet Ulrich trying to rape someone. Mmm, tasty in a warm beer kind of way. I hate the scene where Christine Taylor's hair is falling out as she sits on the floor of the shower; I hate the slut-way they decided to dress the girls, I hate the plot, HATE IT. Yet it was on. I was waiting for the part with the sharks washed up on the beach. For some reason, I always want to see that part because it makes me think of Kristen and Sara making fun of Fairuza as she yells, "These are my gifts!" That cracks me up. Other than that, fuck you, Craft.

Last night, Allison and I went with Trish and Kane to a little short-film show down at a place called Modified. Oh yes, the too cool for art school crowd was there in full force. I really loathed the majority of the films shown. It got me thinking: at what point does art pass over into stinking pretention? Damn, and it was really hard because I was sitting in the front row and the filmmakers were all over the room, only you didn't know where and who they were, and I so wanted to laugh my ass off at some of these films. I just bit the inside of my cheeks and squeezed my hands together a lot. I couldn't even dare to glance at Allison or Trish. One of Tom's films was in the show, that was why we all went, and his movie was one of the best-received all night. It was nice to do something different on a Sunday night, and the traffic wasn't bad because everyone else was SuperBowling (which would be way cooler than football). When we got home, Trish and Kane put on "A Touch of Satan," which is in my top 5 of favorite Mystery Science Theater 3000 episodes. It was a good night to be a Lisa.

So anyway, I want to throw something at something. That's vague. Let me try again: I want to throw a rock, and I want to throw it down a big hole. Like when I went to the Grand Canyon and had that very human urge to pick up a stone and throw it down into the canyon. Why do we always want to do that; what is the big fascination with throwing something down a hole? Even when I go to the woods, I sometimes throw a stone into the trees to listen to what it hits. Don't worry, I never hit animals... my stones are specially thrown as to only hit vegetation and minerals. But it would be great to stand at the edge of a great vastness and throw things at it today. When I threw that stone into the Grand Canyon, I waited and listened to hear it hit the bottom, but I didn't hear crap. Probably because all the chipmunk chatter drowned it out. A lot of chipmunks up there at the canyon. Well, only if you are like me and bring the chipmunks there, and listen to them on your walkman at full volume. It is, of course, Alvin and The, that I speak of. Sweet, dear Chipmunks. Let's get together and smother Dave in his sleep!

This is a dog that is currently named "Gramps." Today Malcolm and I met Gramps, and they acted like two old men hanging out a bocce game in the retirement village. (Did I spell bocce right? I don't have a dictionary handy right now. Damn it!) So basically, I decided that as soon as I move into my condo next weekend, I'm going to pick this dog up and bring him home to live with us. I don't think I will keep calling him "Gramps" because that reminds me of a doll I used to have as a kid that I called Dirty Old Gramps. Dirty Old Gramps was basically an old-man Barbie doll, with a beard and everything, and we used to play that he liked to look in the windows of the Barbie dreamhouse as the Barbies got dressed. I am positive that Trish and Tracy both remember Dirty Old Gramps, fondly, as I do.
Anyway, the dog.
I have never had a dog that looked like THIS. I hope he's not too old, but since Malcolm is older than this dog and acts like he's an ADD kid without his meds on a regular basis, I figure Gramps will be fine once he comes out of his scared lil' shell. Look at those sad, sad eyes and the way his head is tilted downward like, "Umm, excuse me...can anyone...um...can anyone please take me outside? I seem to have to urinate..." He charmed me. He even charmed Malcolm, which is really tough for a dog to do. This is such a strange little soul. I can't help it, I must be his friend.
Any suggestions for names for this guy? So far I am thinking "Elliott" in honor of Chris Elliott, but I don't know how Cabin Boy-esque this dog is yet. Also, Rupert Giles and Bill Murray are some names I'm considering. As well as Django. He looks like a Django. Although it would be fun to yell, "C'mere, Bill Murray!" in the dog park. I could use a little help, so offer some if you've got it. Thanks.

When I wasn't looking, I went and realized I am happy. How interesting for me to realize that. No, really... I am actually just a happy person right now.

Well, for the past few years I have been an alternate universe-place, where I am perceiving things in grays and blahs. I just wasn't what I am now, is all, and not that long ago I realized this. It's just a very cool revelation, and I wanted to document it here because it really is cool that it happened. I am not sure if it's everyday that you suddenly stop the bullshit for a minute and notice that there really is nothing to bitch about, nothing to really kill your sense of perception, and you are just honest to goodness happy. It's momentous for someone like me.

I think I am waking up from a long time where I had shoved my personality down into a locking lucite container. I could still see it in there, but I never opened the fucking box very much. I did plays as a cheap form of instant gratification, I fell into bad habits and all the usual crap people do. When I finally stopped doing theater, man... breath of fresh air! Theater blows on its bullshit anyway, and it blows for ME. I'm a writer. I need to spend my timing doing that, not flitting around with a bunch of actors and a script someone else wrote. Feeeeck. It might have been fun in college as an escape and all the cliche shit you hear about, but today I want to feel things more viscerally and my personal, Lisa way of doing that for real, is to write it. I've been reading books again, and right now it's "Black House" (sequel to Talisman, my favorite book since 9th grade) and I really get so excited about the way things happen in books, the way action unfolds and characters are embued with their characterizations, and the smudges on coffeemugs and the dead eyes and sweeping tree branches and all the many details that make it work... things the theater can never bring the audience's eyes in close enough to see. (By the way, if you read this and you do theater, I am not slamming you, per se. If theater works for you, by all means do it-- do something, anything to be creative! I mean, this is how I see it, and why I am not excited about it anymore for me. That's all. Close the book, BLAM!)

OK, so... Me Happy, Yay.

Moving on: Kane finally released me after my mom paid the ransom.

Last night the Tibetan Freedom Fest came up in conversation. I went to that in, I think, 1996 or something. It was somewhere in NY. I drove everyone to the concert, and it was in a part of NY (was it Brooklyn? Man, anyone remember?) I'd never been to before. In the backseat it was Mike and his brother Roy. There were high and talking crazy, long, stupid talk. It was getting on my nerves. All the sudden, my exit was RIGHTTHERE! I had to get off this stupid freeway or whatever it was. With them babbling in the backseat and other drivers not letting me over. I ended up losing my temper and careening across the lanes of traffic, riding over the painted divider and slamming full-on into one of those big plastic garbage-can-looking bins that are often seen near freeway exits. I pushed it OUT of my way, and exited. I was pissed off. Mike and Roy were laughing hysterically, and Kristen was sitting next to me giggling, and I yelled, "WHAT?!" really nasty.

We get to the stupid "freedom fest" and go in, and it's all these pseudo-hippie college kids like us, wandering around playing hackysack in little groups and buying devil sticks. Lots of tie-dye and concert T-shirts for sale. Lines at the port-a-potties. Go in and See The Monks Praying! You go into this big tent and inside it looks like a temple, and the monks in yellow and red and kneeling and chanting and doing their monky bidness, and the stupid concertgoers are wandering in and out of the tent and staring at them while they pray. I would hate it if I was in my church praying and stinky clove-cigarette-smelling suburban brats came in and watched me pray. Although I'm thinking now that perhaps churches should consider turning themselves into an attraction to raise some money. Hmmm.

Anyway, the concert! Oh no, Alanis is taking the stage and we are way the fuck in the back of this crowd! AhhhhhhhALANIS!! You could hear her, "Ayyiii!"'s all over the place anyway, you didn't need to be in the stadium area where the stage was. We bought some Gyros.

We did get a place in the stands, and we saw a bunch of bands. Mike and Roy lit up in the stands and I got all paranoid we'd get kicked out, and asked them to stop and they got angry at me for being so anal. Guaranteed the Red Hot Chili Peppers had to have been there, otherwise Mike wouldn't have gone. I think Bjork was there, and I must have gone down and bopped around in the crowd at the foot of the stage for that one. I know we were down in the crowd for the Beastie Boys, though. They were very Beastie Boys that day, and it was worth the annoyingness of the rest of the day just to see them and jump around to So Whatcha Want. Kristen was laughing at the whole scene and putting it into perspective for me-- I was just bitchy that day. I love Kristen.

But the point is, I don't like concert festivals. I never did Lollapalooza, and I missed all the Woodstocks. ("Look at all the Woodstocks.") Outdoor, all-day concerts are a bad idea if you have a tendency to get even slightly irritable. I do have that tendency, and I have it gladly. But those PEOPLE who go to these shows are so fucking gross and loud and gangja-stanky and everything and they are all in your face and it's hot and there's no bathrooms and the Pepsi costs $4 and there's mud in your bra and your feet hurt and where the fuck is the car now, god damn it, I want to go home already! (That's me at the Freedom Fest. That day I decided to forget about the Tibetans and just go home and watch Mystery Science Theater and take a shower.)

I started this post talking about being happy. And damn it, I'm going to finish it. I am home sick today with a bad stomach-thing, and it's sunny and breezy outside today. It's actually a gorgeous day. The window's open and I am getting ready to read "Black House" on my bed, and Malcolm is curled up dreaming and the water tastes extra-watery today. The condo-purchase is moving along very well, and I move in next Friday. A week from Friday. I'll have my OWN house, with my own office (with a pretty window) for writing in. I can write and play my music loud, it's so cool. I'm happy because I am mellow and unattached to anyone, and I love my friends and feel good about them. I just bought "Family Guy" and "Garden State" on DVD. I have new drinking glasses from IKEA. My hair's getting longer again. I'm happy I am typing this at home, wearing my red pajama pants with the cows and milk bottles on them, the Transylvania halloween t-shirt and my worn out black slippers. It's in this state that I said, "Hmm. I'm just happy." Anyway, not to be a sappy fruitcake-fuck, but I hope you are happy, too. And if you're not at the moment... give it a minute. It might be on its way to you. That's it. I am going to go read now.

MOM: PLEASE SEND MONEY. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN, I THINK HE'S GOING TO SHOOT ME. IF YOU DON'T HAVE MONEY PLEASE SEND A SONIC OREO BLAST BECAUSE I THINK HE LIKES THAT. OR SOME CHINESE FOOD. DO SOMETHING, MOMMA. please. i love you...

I was just typing up some copy for our website at work, and I made the following typo:
"If you are like moist entrepreneurs..." Moist entrepreneurs are the most interesting type of entrepreneurs there are-- well, with the possible exception of "syrupy entrepreneurs."

Well, it cracked me up, anyway.

It's been just another Monday of my ass getting sore from sitting in this chair so much. It seems like whenever I take a walk break, someone is ALWAYS looking for me while I was gone. Yet I sit here, hour after hour, feeling my blood grow thicker and more unhealthy as I sit and glaze over, and no one will come by until I leave for a few minutes. I just don't understand the way it works.

Yesterday I decided it was time to leave the apartment and venture out into the city to purchase a couch for the new place. I took Malcolm with me, just because he was acting clingy yesterday and it pained me to look back at him as I closed the door, so I finally let him run out with me. He waited in the car, since this is the great time of the year where it is OK to leave the dog in the car with the sunroof open and I won't look like a dog abuser. While he waited, I purchased a red couch and loveseat set for the low, low price of $699.00. It's so bright and I love that it's that smooth microfiber material. I can glide across that shit like an old-timey film star on coke!

Defensive Driving School was all I hoped it would be. And not much more.
Except I ended up leaving scared out of my mind of the people sitting in the room with me. The retarded questions were enough to make an actual certified retard go, "Oh, please, everyone knows that!" And that's pretty retarded.

Me and Trish had our share of laughs. The instructor was an ex-traffic cop and he was kind of no-nonsense, but overall I liked him and didn't actually laugh at him. Except for one point, and it was only because of a reaction to one of his stories. He was talking about the use of seat belts, and he said the passengers in the backseat don't have to wear them by law.

He used an example: "Say you've got Uncle Bill sitting in the backseat, and Uncle Bill... he HATES wearin' his seat belt and he is NOT putting his seat belt on. Now, he's sitting right behind you, the driver. What happens if you get in an accident?"
The classes mumbles, in general.
The instructor continues. "That's right, think about Newton's Law, that an object that is in motion will stay in motion until it is acted on by an outside source." (At this point I swear I could hear some whispers of "Who's Newton?") "So now, you have Uncle Bill flying forward, right into the back of your head and neck, and a high speed. Guess what that's gonna do to your head and neck."
And this is the best part: A younger guy in the back of the class goes, "...Nice!"

We also got to watch a video. This video was the "Valvoline Driving Challenge, hosted by Robert Urich." It was filmed in 1996. It was not only very dated in the info (they said AZ's DUI minimum level is 0.10 and it's not anymore, it's 0.08-- whoa, don't I know it) but it featured weird celebrities like a young Candace Cameron talking about the cars of the future. "By the time I'm driving, there will be cars with extra wheels!" and Connie Selleca telling people to watch out because people leaving your party that are too drunk to drive could get in an accident and you'll be in trouble. Even William Shatner was there, referencing his "Rescue 911" days: "While the show Rescue 911 is very exciting, it's one show you DON'T want to be the star of." Amen, Willie. A-the fuck-men.
My favorite was Marsha Warfield. You know, Roz. In her segment of the video, she was talking about night driving, I think. The writers had her say the obligatory "Night Court" joke: "When I was Roz on Night Court, I saw a lot of crazy things happen at night. Night's not only the time that monsters like vampires come out and vamp, it's also a time when you need to use your headlights properly." Sorry... vampires? That was a non-sequitar. What do vampires have to do with anything? Are we positive that vampires actually vamp? And if so, are they vamping near the roadside and should we use our highbeams or anything to slow down their crazy vamping?

Anyway, the day finally wrapped up and Trish and I got our certificates of completion (we were sort of hoping for a little impromptu graduation ceremony-- like maybe we could have spent the last hour figuring out our formations for going up to get our diplomas and making sure the girls had white caps and gowns and the men had black, that sort of thing) and we left. We hurried, as to avoid the people in the class recklessly leaving the parking lot. Trish took the above picture of me as I pretended to look through my purse in front of the sign... at this point, the lobby of the hotel was crawling with bad drivers all confused about where the restrooms were and if they could have any of the hotel's continental breakfast offerings or sleep on the couch out there in the 15 minute break.

I like the arrow pointing directly into my ear. Because the defensive driving skills went in one ear... and stayed inside my head. Bet you thought I was gonna say they went out the other ear. Sorry, I don't do that particular cliche.

Side view of the highlight of my day. (I think it's really the same van as the one in the movie. Awesome.)

Imagine my unadulterated glee when I was driving down the road to go get some lunch today, when I looked over and saw the Mutt Cuts van just parked right there on the side of the road! The same vehicle Harry and Lloyd set out in to go see Mary in Aspen. Wunderbar. Historic, even.
Anyway, nothing says 'great lunch hour' like seeing the Dumb and Dumber van. Maybe I am just a dork, but hey... it was the best thing to happen to me all day, so fuck it.

So on Saturday, both me and my little sister get to go to Defensive Driving School. Tonight we purchased our money orders so we can pay for the class, which will be all day on Saturday. You know, I am still excited to go on this very primitive, geeky level. It's going to suck so bad. We are going to be bored and hungry and sleepy and everything else. But somehow I like torturing myself and especially in a classroom setting. And, I am excited to learn how to prevent accidents by being defensive. Because I was a one-woman accident tornado prior to this, let's be honest.
I wonder if they will tell us how to avoid being set on fire, too. I hope so. I really hope so.

"Follow the North Shtar for the anshwersh to all your dreamsh!"

This is a Minchie. Trish created it, and I find it stunning. I love the flattened right cheek the most.
(Today I accidentally typed 'minchies' when I meant to type 'munchies'... and just like that, the Minchie was birthed! If you like-a the Minchie, take a look at it on Trish's blog too. This thing can change your life!
...Not in an especially 'good' way, either!)

I just wanted to report, for the few people who care, that OTCHROT seems to be MISSING. She hasn't been clomping around the office, and her car wasn't here at all today. I am hoping she still is employed here. I'll keep you posted on further developments the rest of this week. Man, I work from home for one day and Otchrot goes all Houdini and shit on me. Damn. Forget an Amber Alert, we need an Otchrot Alert. Right now. (cue old-timey news footage of sirens and people running; maybe a snappy police-man dressed in a smart black uniform speaking into a loudspeaker to a search party as they get ready to comb through the swamps.)

I have not had any good ideas of things to write about here, and today is no exception. I'm sitting here at work, kinda bored, and I want to write to keep awake and to just keep the ole' blog going. But will I come up with anything to say? I don't know. Technically, I am saying stuff now but it's so completely boring that I want to ram a shovel into my own face. Yeah, I do.

So let's see: I haven't been watching TV. I think it's just not my thing lately. I have been doing things I can't remember the next day. (As in, "What did I do last night? Oh well, couldn't have been that good.") I'm reading books again. I fixed my DJ and now can download songs again--which I have been unable to do since Christmas. I'm shopping when I shouldn't be shopping. However, recent reviews of my spending habits have shown I am a lot better than I was a year ago-- I am buying a fraction of what I used to buy. I stick to things I really need or want. I went out on Saturday night and shopped by myself for a few hours, spending the majority of that time in Barnes and Noble. I like to wander through the science fiction section and pick up books at random, read the back and if it sounds a little interesting, flip to a page and see if the style grabs me. It hardly ever does anymore, but in the past I've found some of my favorite books that way. This activity can eat up at least an hour for me. This weekend, I did find a book or two that I admit I bought, and now can add them to the long list of Books I Own and Need to Read. Luckily, I am on book 2 of 13 at the moment. I'm confused if the next book I read will be "Wicked" by Geoffrey McGuire or "What the Dogs Have Taught Me" by Merrill Markoe. Or if I'll skip to the end of the list and go with that "Wizard of Earthsea" book since I've been in the sci-fi mood lately. Such choices, and so many of such choices...!

I've had odd as hell dreams lately; some are personal things I won't impart here completely, but I have to say, they are not normal. One common thread I have noticed in the past week or so-- ALL of my dreams seem to either take place in New Jersey or, by the end of the dream, have me winding up in New Jersey. I dreamed that I bought this condo here in Phoenix and my Mom went in on the deal with me for some reason, and we were moving in and the neighbors were all coming out into their little tiny yards to yell hello to us. They were just standing behind the fences that separated the yards and hollering--we never saw them. Next, there was something with pastel-colored watering cans and a picnic, where a small Hispanic girl was crying for her mother while holding a black cat. Finally, I wake up one morning in the dream and I tell my Mom goodbye for the day, go out the door to go to work and it's a green, leafy parking lot that I see and I get into my old NJ car. In another dream? I'm making out with Jay (you know, Kevin Smith's Jay). Couldn't have called that one. But there it was. Oh man, it has been an active dream week and I can't say why. I'd like to have one night where there's nothing going on so I wake up feeling like I actually slept. I get this weird feeling when I dream like I am directing the dream, so there is constant work to be done. Vigilance. I can't explain it, but dreaming is not a restful activity for me. I wake up and write things down or keep thinking about the dream for hours and hours into my day. Some of my dreams have been awesome as hell-- two of my books have come directly from things I saw in dreams-- but most of the time they tire me out.

So this is off the subject, but I was hoping I could get off the subject and end this entry... it's raining here. And the residents of Phoenix have had to boil their drinking water, because some sediment or something has seeped into the water supply and contaminated a few of the filtering-stations or something like that. I am too lazy to look up the facts. Still, water here is so fucking newsworthy all the time. It only rained 0.03 of an inch today and it's one of the top stories of the day. Oh my fucking God, rain! People, LOOK at the rain! It's raining at the airport! And at the spot on the corner where the newscamera guy is sitting filming cars going by! Shit! And now the water supply is having trouble... oh NO! The fact is, gentle public, we cannot stop thinking about and reporting on water. It's too intriguing. Oh my God.

I feel like Phoenix is some sort of futuristic metropolis wasteland with doom just waiting around the corner. All because of the precious commodity that is water. Civil wars will break out when the water becomes too scarce. This city will be the biggest ghost town in about 50 years, when I predict the water will be all gone from here. People aren't supposed to live here in these kind of numbers. It's not going to last. I am sure of it.

MY GOD! How much cheese is this crazy bitch eating that she grew her legs that freakishly long? Her shoes are bigger than her skull. Honestly, lady...I don't know what to say. Just stop it already with your legs and your cheese wheels and your stupid hat. I'm perturbed.

Today is all about the dogs. Trish just told me about dogs being cast in the Broadway revival of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and I had to post it here. I love that people are starting to care more about homeless animals. It's so easy to ignore them but damn it, if we don't do something--no matter how small it is-- to help the helpless, we suck as a dominant species. That's the long and short of it. So there.

As for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang; well, that's something I never understood. I know I saw that movie when I was little and I really don't think I cared about it. So the car could fly--whoa, big deal. So there was an annoying song-- nope, didn't hook me. I wonder what the formerly homeless dogs are going to be doing in this show. Sitting behind the wheel of the stupid flying car with aviator goggles on? Or just walking around the stage? If so, that would be cool. I'd pay to see a flying car and women in big old timey hats and shit if there was the promise of random wandering dogs included. I'd pay even more if said dogs were really random and barked a lot and jumped on and off the stage and annoyed people in the front rows. Like if there was a patron wearing a meat vest, the dogs would run off the stage and start barking, snarling and basically eating the guy's clothes off. And the orchestra would play on... The actors on stage would be all pissed and frazzled because no one is watching them act--everyone is watching the dogs, the stupid fucking untrained dogs! That would be a good show. I'd give it two thumbs up, five stars and 18 buckets of popcorn. Bravo, and long live the theatre.

Malcolm slept on my bed last night and he woke me up when he actually KICKED me in the FACE. He was dreaming and peddlin’ his little spindle-legs as fast as the dream would let him. He was making little whine-grunts, too. I can’t believe he actually kicked my face.

Now I'm all paranoid that I could get in trouble for my last post because I was talking about someone at work (yeah, thanks Mike!). But overall, I am feeling OK because I feel, in this case, I am simply reporting the facts. Otchrot is Otchrot.

Real estate is annoying. I opened escrow today on a condo (that house I posted up here? Fell outta escrow because it didn't appraise, so I was back in the market and this has NOT been easy, given the supply/demand ratios here in Phoenix) that I really like but I'm not totally sure the whole thing will go through because again, I might be paying more than it appraises for and the bank won't finance my loan in that case. All I am trying to do is pay off debts and get my ass ready for a big cross country move in the future. Real estate, if you can get it, is the smartest investment a person like me can make. I'm just not totally confident I can get it anymore. This is the third contract I have written out, and I am a more world-weary, savvy person today as a result. But still, just let me get something and be done with it already.

Something must be in the air lately, because all I feel like doing is complaining and that's not cool. It's weird when a mood strikes like this because life has been pretty nice the past few months or so. You'd think I have just watched "Dancer in the Dark" on repeat in a dark, cold room for a day or so. The complaint fairy likes to drop bundles of suck-mood on me from time to time, I guess.

On to random stuff:

Twice a day, I have to drive on a road that runs next to the landing strip at a small airport. Today as I was returning to work after signing all the papers at the title company, I saw a small plane coming in for a landing. As it touched down, it bounced twice. Is this normal? It literally touched down...hopped back UP for a second or two, touched down again and bounced once more before it finally landed for good. It wasn't like little bumps or skips-- it really went up higher than it looked like it should have.

I woke up thinking about that old Reach toothbrush commercial with the Flip Top Head thing. (Which looked like it was drawn by the same shaky-handed cartoonist who draws the dumb Red Bull commercials)

Kids who are under 7 years old and wear glasses--particularly little girls-- are really, really cute.

I might play a little trick on my kids someday in regards to the tooth fairy. I think I will collect Sacajawea gold dollar coins and save them, so when the teeth come out on those hypothetical kids of mine, I will place the gold dollars under their pillow. But the trick part will be, I will tell them that Sacajawea IS the tooth fairy. I will tell them an elaborate tale that, after her death, Sacajawea found a new job in the underworld as the taker of teeth. That way, they will think that the tooth fairy has her own currency and she is not someone who takes death lying down--she kept working! Now my kid will know that shit doesn't stop just because you die. What a valuable lesson. Feel free to steal my great idea if you are a parent and the kids' teeth are falling out. Plus the US Mint has not enjoyed tremendous success with this particular coin, so you will be doing your part to raise its profile, so it will give you a good feeling of accomplishment while you're at it.

I'm on a mission to catch "Otchrot."

There is this absolutely bizarre woman who started working here about a month ago, and she drives this huge old Astrovan with the vanity plate, "OTCHROT". She parks in the handicapped spot just outside the building, and she wears those sunglasses that are really just a sunglass-flap that clips onto regular glasses; she will walk around with the sunglass-flap up in the air like she's Dwayne Wayne or something.

I've been bringing my digital camera to work everyday this week, hoping to take a picture of both her and her license plate. The reason being I just want to show my sister this woman and keep photographic evidence of her on file in case anything weird happens. I just don't trust this lady to not do something completely inappropriate. What sort of person gets OTCHROT on their license plate? What could it possibly stand for if it's an acronym? All I can think of, like any of us, is crotchrot. No reason to advertise that. Unless you're into that sort of thing... not that there's anything wrong with that...

She also lacks social graces in the office. For instance, one afternoon me and the graphic designers in my department, Sean and Mike, went over to their department to take a picture of their team for the magazine we put together. I'd written a Pulitzer-worthy article on how wonderfully terrific this team of customer service folks was, and needed a picture. So Sean got the digital camera, gathered me and Mike, and we walked over to snap the glorious photo of everyone lined up in their business-casual best.

I just stood there, and so did Mike, who was new at the time and was more or less observing as Sean took the picture. The team members on Otchrot's team were all talking and yappin' away about dumb inside joke stuff, and as they lined up to smile for Sean, someone said, "Hey do we have enough people in this photo? Ha!" (so queer)

And Otchrot says, "No, we should get that homeless guy to join in, too! Someone go get that homeless guy!" They all laugh. Sean, Mike and I feign smiles of amusement at their lame joke. God, I hate office humor. We all knew they were talking about this one dude who is always out in the parking lot walking around-- some might think he is homeless, while I just think he is a shabbily-dressed office worker out for a simple walk. Either way, this group, led by Otchrot, obviously thought they could make a funny by implying they add this guy to the photo. Ha, ha, HA. Shut up. We took the picture, thanked them, and everyone went back to their prospective cubes and returned to normal. No big deal.

Here's the actual funny part. About ten minutes later, Otchrot appears in our department. She walks over to Mike, and says, "I wanted to apologize for my comment. See, we have this joke over there in our department about the homeless guy... we say things like we need him to come in and help us when we get busy, things like that... ha!... Anyway, I didn't mean to imply that YOU were the homeless guy."

Mike just sat there, confused. I should also mention that Mike happens to be the only black guy in this part of the building.

Mike mumbled something about not being offended, and he didn't think she was referring to him when she said that, and all this, and Otchrot continues. "No, I am so sorry, I really am. I shouldn't have made a joke that you were homeless." Welcome to the company, Mike. One week in and you are already ostracized by Otchrot!

It was pretty funny, because after she walked away, the three of us gathered up and had a laugh with those rolling-eye-shrugs and stuff... not one of us had thought for a second her lame joke was directly at the sole black guy in the vicinity, and she had made the whole thing worse by coming over with her apology. It definitely made that week a little more interesting.

Anyway, I recently realized that she was the Otchrot lady because I am always behind her when I am waiting in traffic as I leave work. I love you, Otchrot. You are a true class act and I think I need to keep my eye on you. Also, if anyone knows of any laws against publishing photos of license plates on blogs, let me know, because I so want to post it up here when I get it. (I can't seem to get a good angle on it, and there are always people out in the parking lot when I go out to take the picture, and a picture through the windshield won't work due to the fast, crazy traffic around my job at 5pm)

On Friday I threw a "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" party. The idea was: come over, watch my DVD of Dodgeball. Bring food that is ball-shaped. I posted the pictures in the total wrong order because I'm a doof.
In this photo, it was late and I let them take my picture. (At last I make an appearance.) From left: Awesome SuperMixer5000; Paper Towels; Riley; Me and My Protruding NeckBone 5000; Yoda.

After the Dodgeball party wrapped, Trish and Kane joined the talking Yoda for some good ole'fashioned armfarts. We tried so hard to impress the Jedi master--you can see from his bulging eyes that impressed he was.

Robert and Brianna enjoy pizza (sort of like eating a ball--a flattened ball of dough, sauce and cheese) as Malcolm looks on. Notice grapes in foreground--my contribution to the ball foods.

Here is a photo documentary depicting some of the foods that people brought to the party. Trish made ice cream chocolate balls; Robert made popcorn balls-- oh man, there were a lotta balls there.

The occupation of Iraq is damaging archaeological ruins, and I want you boys and girls over there as part of the US Armed Forces to watch where you're rollin' that tank: this article goes into a little more detail on the matter.

OK, so we understand that military maneuvers are not easy on the terrain, sure. And yes, we did help preserve some ancient artifacts during the Actual War back in '03. And while I don't want to get political here, of all places, I do think that there's a major lack of concern for preservation of all types in this entire war. This is just one example.

Well, on the positive side, we are making history. Someday, the archaeologists of the future will look at the broken tiles, tire track marks, bullet holes and homemade bomb-craters and discuss it as important evidence of the coalition's occupation in the early 21st century, so it's not ALL a loss. Our negative impact on the planet--and apparent lack of concern-- is so staggering it gives me a migraine right on the left side of my forehead, and this is a migraine that Just. Won't. Quit.

I'm on my way to driving school! This coming Saturday, I get to sit in the Hampton Inn and hear all about defensive driving. Why am I so excited? Well, sit down a spell and I will tell you.

I'm a good girl. As in, I never do anything majorly wrong. I use my blinkers when changing lanes and clean up after my dog. I don't use up the milk without clearing it with Trish beforehand. I often choose to forgo a paper receipt at gas stations and the bank so I can save a tree. I vote. Yeah, I am somethin' else. Yet somehow I was busted by the long, photographic arm of the law recently. I got caught going 57 in a 45mph zone. Horrors. (I was rushing along to get to a showing of "The Life Aquatic" the day after Christmas and was nearly blinded by the flashing lights of the photo radar... seriously, they need to consider dimming those lights or something, because I nearly swerved off into oncoming traffic because the flashing lights spooked the hell out of me. Real good, cops... you saved society from the menace of a driver going 12 miles over the speed limit, only to risk a potential death-causing accident. Very smooth indeed. You're lucky I am an excellent driver.)

So, in an effort to keep my spotless driving record spotless, I enrolled in a defensive driving class. I have to waste a whole Saturday in there, but the payoff is my insurance and record remain unscathed. I know you are still wondering why in the gravy-filled hell I am excited, and I'll just say it's because on some level, I am expecting it to be like Moving Violations.

One of my favorite 80's movies, this one opened me up to the humor of "Blood Flows Red on the Highway" and the hilarity of people in duck costumes flying off of a parade float into a pile of garbage, yelling "Oh Shit!" in a duck voice the whole way.

I think I might get reprimanded during class for incessant giggling. I find humor in almost any situation, and if people are asking funny questions to the instructors, or if the instructors are making stern faces or anything like that: I'm cracking up. I plan to take notes and become the definitive defensive driver. Man, I was good before this class-- I expect I will be damn near unstoppable after this.

The funny thing is, Trish also got a speeding ticket at this same exact photo radar spot, only a couple of weeks earlier. We both have our lovely traffic photos and plan to post them on one of our blogs soon. I am currently trying to recruit her for the class this Saturday and enjoy the hijinks of traffic school. Maybe I am a little nuts ("Mom? 'My nuts?") but I can't imagine why everyone and their cousin Hugh wouldn't want to go to traffic school with me. I promise to be a barrelful of belly laughs. I better go and start drawing up my list of questions for the instructors. Questions like, "So why is it wrong, exactly, to go down on a dude while he's driving?" and "If I see a monkey in the road, and it's clearly injured but not dead, is it best to pull over to the side of the road to save it or just drive by, open the driver's door, lean out and scoop up the monkey without stopping?" and "By defensive, do you recommend ramming right into cars that are in the way of the goal?" Wish me luck, my friends. I will return a changed, yet defensive, driver.

Just look at the glistening, gleaming come-hither-you-hot-bastard that IS Hall and Oates.

“Reaching out, for somethin’ to HOLD!”

I can’t get Hall and Oates out of my head today. Why did this happen to me? I haven’t heard Hall and Oates today. Sure, last night in the grocery store with Trish I am almost positive that “You Make-a My Dreams Come True” song was on (but then again, this is exactly the type of thing I often dream about on nights after I take cold medicine. I hate dreaming about boring things like food shopping.). But today? Nothing! Instead, I find myself singing “Out of Touch” to no one at all as I sit at my desk and zone out while I wait for more work.

“You’re out of touch, I’m out of time (TIME) but I’m outta my head, when you’re not around…”

Hall and Oates are nice. When I say nice, I don’t mean it like I know them personally or something. “Yeah, that Oates, he’s a nice boy. Came over to mow my lawn last week, and he picks up the papers in our driveway when we go on vacation.” I mean it like, I don’t hate them and I don’t like them a lot, either, they are simply a presence that I recognize. It’s OK to have them around. Their music doesn’t offend me, like Celine Dion’s does. Their music doesn’t get me in the mood to write or do anything creative, like Nine Inch Nails and classical music does. Nope, it’s just Hall and Oates. Something to play in the background while you clean out the garage. Maybe you can put it on when you’re a little buzzed and dance around the living room with your friend. But it’s not like you’d get all excited because Hall and Oates was on. If you’re out dancing at a club and “Maneater” comes on, sure, people will dance, but it’s not the same way they’ll dance if “Baby Got Back” comes on. I have noticed that people fucking love that song at clubs.

“Oh oh oh! Oh oh ohhh, ohhhh!! (softly, slowly building) Out of touch, out of touch, out of time…yow!”

My mom had a Hall and Oates album ("H2O") when I was in my formative years. It was a nice ol’ vinyl album with the good songs on it, like of course, Maneater (“She only comes out at night!”) and One on One (“I wanna play that game tonight…”), and I would play it often on my own record player. But I always hated the cover art for this album. It had close-ups that haunt me still. The first is of Hall and Oates, making hot, sweaty eye contact on a red background. The back of the album had a close-up shot of sweaty human skin. What the hell did they do that for? I mean, cripes, Hall, you should have thought about this before you let Oates run with his great idea of sweaty skin on your album; did you even think of the children? And how those children will grow up and they will sort-of like your music on a unobtrusive level, but they will always first think of your disgusting album cover and make the connection to your music and sweaty, smelly people? Let me answer that for you: No, you didn’t. You were too busy ballin’ Oates, weren’t ya. I knew it. I knew you had a think for that stache. You didn’t even care that he looked like Mario; those were some Oates you definitely could eat a lot of in the morning, with lots of milk.

“Smoking guns, hot to the touch! Would cool down if we didn’t use them so much.”

This is what happens when elderly gold men explode. Scientists find it intriguing that the skull reshapes itself into a charming cake-shape right before the final bang.
Honestly, this is one of those things I see on the internet, and it seems to make perfect sense to post it to my Blog, and then all of the sudden I shake myself awake and say to myself: What the FUCK are you doing awake this late? Go to bed.

Because we are "frugal," "pennypinchers" and "spendthrifts," me and my trusty sister decided that since we both wanted two soundtracks, we would do this: one of us would buy one, and the other would buy the other. And then...! And then... we would share our purchases by the magic of the computer. It was a plan that seemed foolproof, and easy to achieve on a nothin' kind-of Monday night.

Alas, the problem arose when we attempted to purchase said soundtracks. We went to Best Buy, and to our dismay, there were no copies left anymore of "The Life Aquatic" or "Phantom of the Opera". Not so much of a surprise there; Best Buy's CD section sucks. Oh, sure, there was about 23 copies of the "Lizzy Maguire" soundtrack and "Princess Diaries", and the Musica Latina section has grown exponentially since my last visit. But hell, no CDs we wanted. So we did the only thing we could: we drove to ANOTHER Best Buy.

At this point it might seem strange that we would attempt the same chain store, but Trish thought she had a coupon for some percentage off her purchase (I say 'thought' because it turned out it was left on a chair in the living room at home anyway). We went to the second Best Buy, which was bigger, and by all reasonable rationales should be BETTER, but it wasn't. Best Buy Indeed! They should call that place Worst Buy! Because that store, too, was sold out of both of those soundtracks.

We finally crossed the street and went to Borders, where we were able to purchase the CDs according to our plan (I bought Life Aquatic and listened to it on repeat last night 2.5 times before bed and had dreams of red caps and the sweet lilt of the portugese tongue). We also got more stuff than planned, because Borders is evil in its "listening stations" and its "aisles of books." I get sucked in every time. Now I have "The Book of Positive Quotations", which will serve me well in the soft-focus kind of writing I need to do for my job; and "The Wizard of Earth Sea" by Ursula K. LeGuin. I haven't seen any of the series on Sci-Fi Channel because I am terrible at making time to watch TV, but I read somewhere that the books are very good. So here I go, starting another book when I still have at least 3 that are still sitting there neglected and unfinished. Damn you, Old Man Borders, you got me again!

For anyone who can spare a moment of thought (and who can, really, in these times of Brad and Jennifer breaking up and everything!), I am no longer buying that house I posted here-- it didn't appraise, and now I am looking for a sweet condo. Condos are rarely sweet in the literal sense, and I know this; but I like saying, "I am looking for a sweet condo." The only problem is, everyone thinks I am saying "sweet" because I am a huge Napoleon Dynamite fan or something, and I'm not-- I only saw it once and the guy's hair was scary.

There was a news story that rats can differentiate between the Dutch and Japanese languages. Making them automatically smarter than me. I didn't even know there was a Dutch language.

Good evening and welcome. If you're from out of town, I hope your trip in was nice.

I was thinking about "Guilty Pleasures" today. Guilty pleasures are those things you really, really like a lot but are sort of embarassed to admit to people because these things might not be "hip", "cool", "slammin'" or "tasty," depending on your choice of lingo.

I say, why all the guilt? Why should I hide behind my shame for another filthy second? It's time for me to come clean. Come in socks, whatever it takes. Which brings me to my list of Guilty Pleasures, Updated for 2005. I am so arrogant in my shame I feel the need to list it on a public blog. Hey, does it get better than that? Anyway, here they are in totally random order:

1) "Because I Got High" from "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back"
2) Spanglish
3) The Phantom of the Opera
4) Howard Jones' "Like to Get to Know You Well" from Better Off Dead is my current favorite song
5) Pirate humor/ movies
6) Brian Froud fairy and goblin drawings and paintings
7) the Cornflower crayon
8) Brownies (the snack; not the young militants in brown smocks)
9) Thin Mints
10) Legends of the Fall
11) OK, anything with Brad Pitt when he had long hair
12) Kirby's Pinball Land on my Gameboy
13) Entertainment Weekly
14) Daniel Day-Lewis
15) Cocoa Krispies, Lucky Charms, Cinammon Life
16) The Pee Wee Herman Show (HBO Special)
17) IKEA
18) Popeye, esp. the song to SweePea
19) Doc Martens
20) "Amish Paradise", "Christmas at Ground Zero" and other Weird Al hits
21) Big League Chew (strawberry)
22) Six Flags Great Adventure-- Roarin' Rapids, Great American Scream Machine
23) Dolphins
24) "Float On"
25) Zebra and/or leopard print
26) Shopping in hippie stores, especially for floaty skirts
27) Pina Coladas with a shitload of shredded coconut
28) Goth
29) Comic book stores
30) Chocodiles
31) Lace-up boots, in general, especially with skirts and black tights
32) "In the Cold Cold Night"
33) Tarzan
34) Mulan
35) Totally immoral and socially inappropriate humor
36) Dove milk chocolates
37) Singing really loud in church
38) Monty Python, especially Life of Brian
39) "The Gambler"
40) Soft serve chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles
41) Quoting "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves"
42) The fact that I really don't feel the least bit of guilt over enjoying any of these things.

This was kind of fun, just listing crap that I like. Maybe I'll add an addendum later, where I add the fact that I like blowing bubbles without any irony or cutesie-ness (I seriously want to blow the bubble that will dwarf all previous bubbles), and the "Pure Moods" CDs, but we'll see. Write some of yours in the comment area and tomorrow when I am at work punching myself in the face over boredom, there will be something else to ponder. And yeah, like I said early on, there's nothing like Phantom of the Opera. OK? Yeah.

When he showed his nips, the cars began to pull in. When he finished downing that Jim Beam in the Solo Cup, the carwash really got a little crazy. Overall, it was a good day to be a towheaded prepubescent 'scamp' out to make a buck.

Because there isn't much else to watch after work as we eat dinner, Trish and I have been watching "That 70's Show" or "Friends", and in regards to "That 70s Show" I have to say: why the fuck did that girl who plays Donna dye her hair blonde, when she had that awesome red hair? She looks totally retarded now. She should NOT have gone blonde.

Also, someone just smother Ashton Kutcher in his sleep already. He bores me.

In other news, I think I need to be on alert and watch myself so I don't let my house become a Haven For Lost Souls. By that I mean, I will have a tendency to take in animals that need a home, and because I have no landlord restrictions anymore, this could get hairy (ha!). I'll end up being one of those crazy dog-hoarder ladies you see getting arrested on Animal Cops. Luckily I think just by being aware I can prevent this from happening. But the thing is, I am not even moved in yet and I am about 90% sure I will be taking a cat in that no one wants anymore. I have lived with this cat before--she belonged to Tom's parents-- and I like her a lot and don't want to see her get put down. In fact, one time a few years ago Tom and I were charged with driving her to the Humane Society since no one wanted her anymore, and it was the WORST. We were crying and holding her and didn't want to do it because she is so sweet; and also, we knew she would probably get euthanized before we even left the building because she was old. We got so far as to hand her to the shelter tech, who placed her in a tiny little cage/box, and Tom started filling out the surrender paperwork, when we both suddenly decided not to go through with it. We demanded they let her out of the box, and we took her back home. She couldn't move with us to our new house, so the neighbors took her in. She was living happily with them until just recently, when they decided they don't want her anymore. Now she is going to be heading back to that shelter (and almost certain death) if someone doesn't take her-- and since Tom can't, my Mom can't and Trish can't, that looks like it's going to be me.

I don't mind, really, since she is mostly an outdoor cat and will probably keep the yard and house clear of any rodents. Plus she is a cuddlebug and likes to curl up and purr a lot. I have just never had a cat that I was responsible for. My family had cats, and Trish's cats and I live in a nice little harmonious understanding at the moment, but never before have I had a cat. I'm not too excited about the litter box, and the smell of cat food (which I think is way worse than dog food). But I know it'll be fine. I just need to keep a lid on taking in the animals, that's all.

Because I DO want another dog. A big dog who can scare people away who might mess with me. So in my plan, there will be no more than 3 animals living on the premises with me, and Malcolm hardly qualifies for an animal since he is so unobtrusive and his genius keeps the whole thing running. It won't be too bad.

I slipped and fell down some stairs today!

I had parked on the top floor of a parking garage, and because it's been raining for the past two days, the surface of said parking garage was wet. And so were the concrete stairs leading down to the ground level, where I had to go in order to enter the building where my mortgage company is located. So there I was on my lunch hour, getting ready to go sign some Very Important Papers or whatever they were, and I'm in my work clothes (AKA: nice pants).

I take the first step, and I slip. My ankle twists painfully and my leg collapses above it. My ass slams down on the stairs behind me; I immediately feel "wet" soaking through to my ass and thighbacks (is thighbacks a word?). I was still down there, feeling out my ankle to see if any damage was done as I struggled to my feet, when I started wondering if anyone saw me fall. I probably looked good and funny, and I say that because I know how hilarious it is to see people fall on their asses. Also, I happened to vocalize this time, too. I yelled something like, "Arrrwow!" as I tried to prevent the slip from happening. They say a vocal release during anything physical heightens the experience-- be it tennis, or sex, or, hey, falling down the stairs of a parking garage. So all I am saying is, if I had seen or heard myself, I would have definitely enjoyed the laugh.

Now I was all wet and sloppy, and slightly limpy. I made it into the office and tried to "smooth away" the damage. Why do we do that? We get wet, for instance, and start wiping at the wet spot with our hand. As if human skin is an absorbent material or something. Our hair gets all swooshed around in the wind, and our first instinct is to rub our tubby hands all over it, when what's really needed is a fucking brush. We are such a touchy species. And that would explain my current parole stipulations, but that's neither here nor there. That kid had quite a wrinkle on the front of those BabyGap onesies, was I supposed to just ignore it?

All this falling-down-the-steps reminds me of something that, all these years later, still makes me giggle: Eddie Murphy's Aunt Bunny Falls Down the Steps bit. "OHlordhelpmeJesusohGodplease!!" thumpthumpthumpthump "My shoe!" thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. Comic AU.

Few things are worse than a sneeze that should be dry...but ends up wet. Damn it, you know? I have a bad headcold, and I really felt like my runny nose was drying up a little, and I sneezed and then there was a mess to clean up. Luckily, this happened in private and no one saw it. But I'm starting to think about going home for the day. Not much is going on here in the office anyway, and I have a lot of other stuff I could get done at home (in between healing naps).

I talked to Uncle Snake yesterday... he's such an inspiring person, because he just does whatever he wants to do. Not pay taxes? Nah, why should he? Throw a four day party with all your biker friends? Absolutely. Tatoo your entire body, grow a long-ass beard and never wear a tie? Fuck yeah. Drink, drug, whatever you want to put in there-- do it already, life is short. Be a generally nice and humble person and always, no matter what, be there for your friends and family-- you bet your fucking ass. But when Trish and I talk to him, we miss him. He lives in Florida and we don't see him very often, but he is very centered and honestly cares about our current situation. It was so cool to talk to him out of the blue yesterday, because I didn't expect it and because he is ready to back his nieces up, no matter what. Thanks, Uncle Snake! :)

I saw a lot of movies this weekend. I elected to spend New Year's Eve alone this year, just relaxing and doing my own thing. It was fun... I rented Resident Evil: Apocalypse and Anchorman, got some McDonald's salad with a milkshake, and watched Milla kick zombies in their faces, and enjoyed the hell out of the last milkshake of 2004. I liked Resident Evil 2, but I didn't completely understand some things about the ending, so that bothered me. But overall, I blame Buffy for making me enjoy women who kick ass. Sometimes that's the sort of thing I have to watch. I just never would have guessed that, on a night where I could have pretty much rented anything I wanted-- a classic film, a sappy love film, an independent movie no one else wanted to watch but me-- I rented Resident Evil 2.

Last night I watched Anchorman with Trish and Kane. Brick is my favorite character: "I ate a big red candle."
And that cat show was worthy of several repeat viewings; as well as pretty much any and all Brick scenes. I think I need to buy this one for those lonely nights in the new house. I might need it to play at full volume to scare off bears, who will undoubtedly be attracted to my house, because of my menstruation.

I took my Mom to see Meet the Fockers on New Year's Day-evening, and it was pretty good. I laughed pretty hard at some points, I'll admit. The movie definitely belonged to Dustin Hoffman. Overall, I feel ambivalent. I guess that's hard to not have happen when you need to wait in line to see the movie with a thousand other people and the theater is crammed. That sort of thing definitely affects the moviegoing experience for me. I hate crowds, and I hate large doofy crowd laughter. I don't mind cult-film movie laughter in a crowd, that's different somehow. If there was a showing of Better Off Dead or The Jerk, I would absolutely go and laugh my ass off en masse with the other people like me who can quote the movie verbatim. That is my type of crowd.

I spent the last 24 hours making offers and counteroffers on this house, and a few minutes ago I found out my offer was accepted. So, by the end of this month, this will be my house. I'm pretty excited, of course...it's awesome inside, and it's in a neighborhood with rising property values. But best of all, I can now run around in my best underwear and sing into hairbrushes all I want, because it's my house damn it, and I can do what I want. Most likely the neighbors will find me unconscious on that nice green lawn, by sometime in February, after one too many speedballs. This is an exciting and scary time, financially-speaking, but I can make it work. Let me know if you want to rent a room from me, I might consider it-- it depends on how much I like those speedballs I'm going to start doing as part of my New Year resolution. I might need a bit more money comin' in.