I didn't mention it before, but I saw "Slither" a couple weeks ago. It was kind of funny for being that kind of movie. A little gross, too, but still just a nice B movie.

I don't know why I led my blog off with that; that's kind of random. Well, I think I might be a little off these days. I had some crappy stuff happen with my job on Friday and it completely felt like a "that's the last straw" kind of thing. Of course, I didn't quit although I was DYING to. I need the money at least until I close on my condo and get all my bills paid off with the proceeds. After that, who knows... as long as I have health insurance I could potentially accept a job that pays less but offers an improvement on the mindless shenanigans these people pull right now. It would be worth it to not be aggravated all the time.

Also, I am really messed up about Katie. See, about a month ago we realized she might not work out for our home in the long run. She can be a little unpredictable with her aggression. She and Hailie have been in some terrible fights, and when they last fought and Greg was yelling at them to stop, she showed her teeth and growled threateningly at him. We realized she might be dangerous to have around. She did already bite the cable guy on the ass when we lived in the condo (although I know that was because she was 'protecting' me; the guy was following me through the living room and Katie didn't like some man walking close behind me, I think)... she didn't break skin or anything, but it was kind of bad. Later on, Greg was bitten on the hand and there was a lot of blood spilled when he stepped between the two dogs during a particularly out of control fight. She has lunged at people passing on the sidewalk during jogs and walks, and we know she is kind of nervous and afraid around kids and we are worried that one day when we have a kid, she will not respond well. We don't plan to live in Arizona forever, especially when we are ready to have kids in our lives. That means we would move away, and if she got bad with the kid or her behaviors got worse, we wouldn't really be able to get her back to the rescue group--not to mention that by that time, we would be THAT MUCH MORE bonded to her and she to us... no, after talking it over for hours and hours and speaking at length with the rescue group, it was decided that we should return her.

The group I adopted her from will take her back and find her a new home. So that's the only silver lining in this dark and depressing cloud; that she is going to be OK and they will work to find her the perfect home. She might need to be an only dog or something. She would make a great dog for a single person who wants a loyal, protective dog. God knows I love her so much-- she has been an awesome dog, to me. Even with her bad traits, I still love her. I know we need to be practical and realistic and that's why she needs to find a new home, but emotionally I am pretty torn up. I wish it could be different, I really do. But we have exhausted our available options (her behaviors are more personality-based and she doesn't respond to positive reinforcement when we praise her when she is good as we would like, so unless we got very in-depth training I don't know that we can work her bad traits out of her), and we can't afford to have the "pet behavior specialist" that contracts with the rescue group to even come out to the house to do an evaluation. At $125 an hour for a 2-3 hour evaluation, that's more than I can handle right now since I am regularly overdrawing my bank account until the condo-situation is settled. Can't believe someone would get paid about $400 to sit in our house and watch the dogs for a couple of hours and then tell us what she thinks they are doing. I am really in the wrong career.

This whole situation is enough to make me want to make a big statement like: "That's it, no more dogs for me. I get too attached and when it doesn't work out or I need to say goodbye I become an emotional wreck. It's not worth it, so I hereby swear off dogs." I really take this stuff much harder than most people, I'm guessing. I have been having nightmares and crying jags at random for the past few weeks over this. I really do NOT want to get rid of her. I would do pretty much anything to keep her; if only I could "fix" her somehow. Yet of course, you can't "fix" a personality trait in anyone or anything. The thing is, the majority of the time she is a wonderful, affectionate, goofy, playful and funny dog. I want THAT dog more, because then she could stay. This truly sucks in a big way.

Tomorrow is when she will go back to RESCUE and they will put her back up for adoption. If you live here and you can give her a good home, let me know. I know what a long shot that is-- especially since I "sell her" so well when I talk about her unpredictable aggression streak-- but you never know.

I think, if I hadn't met Greg and we hadn't come together and blended our dog-families and I had kept my life the way it was the day I adopted her, I would not be facing this at all right now. When she was with me, and even right this second, she is a totally babydoll. I can lay my head on her and hold her paws and rub her face and she will close her eyes and sigh happily. I'm not saying it was bad that my life changed and I found a future-husband and began to realize that YES, I do actually want to be a mother someday, because NO WAY! This has been a complete blessing and I wouldn't change any of it in anyway. It's simply that situations change, and I guess sometimes a pet just can't completely handle the changes.

Here's my big emotional roadblock right now: I would never give up a kid who had problems with changes... and I feel like a total asshole giving up a dog because she has some problems. I always thought people who did this sort of thing were just lazy, or selfish, or complete dickheads for treating a dog as a disposable commodity. I feel like I am being one of "those" people and I don't like the feeling at all. I took her in with the thought in mind that she would, from that day on, always be with me and always be my dog. I never would have imagined that I would give her up.

Well, it's been decided, I've cried and journaled it out and discussed the pros and cons of the decision with everyone close to me, and it's finally come down to the final night she is here: I need to do this tomorrow. I don't know how I will say goodbye to her. It's going to be strange to see her back up on the RESCUE website, to say the least. I pray her next home will be her permanent home and the people will treat her like a princess. She deserves it. I mean, this is a dog who was found wandering the streets and no one claimed her, so she was put on the euthanasia list through no fault of her own. She has a scar under her chin and a crooked jaw because, as my vet theorized, someone had broken her jaw at one point. She has a devoted and happy heart, though, and she likes to be carried around like a baby with her paws draped over my shoulders. See? She may be "only a dog" to some people, but she never, ever was and never will be with me. She's Katie, and she had better find a fucking awesome home. I'm going to do everything I can to help RESCUE find it for her.

"THROW IT TO LUCAS!"
And then remember? They threw it to him, and he caught it in slow motion while Kerri Green cheered and the coach looked agonized that he might drop the ball? And then, he fumbled it anyway, and the other team got control of the ball? (By this time, butch little band dork Winona Ryder was rising out of her seat in the stands in concern...) And still in slow motion, little plucky Lucas dives after the guy with the ball and hangs onto him, his huge glasses coming off and everything?

Oh-uh.

Tragedy.

Lucas gets PUMMELED by huge football guys. In slow motion, too, which just adds insult to injury. Everyone is like, "Oh my God...! Is Lucas OK? Oh no."

He's not OK. He is in some sort of scratched-up face, broken-glasses coma.

OH, Lucas! Why'd ya have to do it?

Why did you have to impress Kerri Green's character? Couldn't you just accept your role in the social structure of high school? Why did you have to be so SPUNKY? Couldn't you just go back to collecting your bugs and newts and give Winona Ryder's character a go? Sheesh. There was never a chance you could compete with Charlie Sheen's "Cappy" character, and you knew it.

LUCKILY, as the photo above shows, Lucas pulled through with nothing more than a big bandaid on his forehead. He returns to school, feeling a little sheepish after the big accident. People are staring at him.

But Lucas opens his locker. Wait! Is this even HIS locker? Because inside there is...

A PARK HIGH PIRATES football jacket! Holy smokes!

And that's when the SLOW CLAP begins. The one blond football player starts the clap, and then others join in. "Way to go Lucas!"
"Your plucky can-do attitude was an inspiration!"
"Glad you didn't die, Lucas!"
"We are so sorry we tormented you by rubbing Icy Hot on your genitals and locked you outside the locker room in the towel that time!"
"Woo hoo, you little asshole, WOO the fuck HOO!"

And in true 80s movie fashion, the movie closes on a freeze frame of a triumphant Lucas in his too-big jacket.

Lucas. What can I say. You touched me. You truly made this hard heart of mine melt.

I've been reading "Me and My Shadow" on Kevin Smith's blog, and today he posted the final installment of the story of Jason Mewes and his path to sobriety. If you haven't been reading it, Kevin Smith talks in extreme detail about Jason Mewes and his recovery from heroin addiction. The story follows all the way from when he was just a kid who had never used any substances at all, to the days when he was a full-out, hopeless heroin addict, and finally how he managed to get through rehab and become sober. It’s a fantastic read, and I highly recommend it.

I am linking to Part Two of the story (there are 9 parts total, with the final Part 9 being today’s post on Smith’s blog) because it talks about the time in Jason’s life where he was just starting to fool around with shooting up. I remember that time, because I saw it first-hand.

I used to be a regular patron in the comic book store on Monmouth Street that later became the first Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash (it used to be next to Faith’s Aura, that hippie store). Everyone in Red Bank was completely jazzed about the success of local guy Kevin Smith, and it was always fun to go there and look up to the View Askew offices on Front Street and wonder if Kevin Smith was in there RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT, writing the next cool movie. When he took over that comic book store, I kept going there although I didn’t like it as much as the previous shop—too little in the way of DC comics (specifically, Vertigo titles) to keep me going there exclusively. I had to supplement with Comics Plus in Middletown, where creepy geek-guys would give me a hard time when I ordered a comic by “quizzing” me when I paid. Eek. It sucked to be a comic book-reading chick in a geeky guy’s world. So even though the selection was a little slimmer, I still found myself buying comics at J&SBSS, and it was mostly because no matter who owned it or who worked there -- at least the guys were cooler and never hassled me or stared me down as I shopped.

However, I totally recall a day I went in there and Jason Mewes was working the cash register. I was a little bit starstruck, honestly. I mean, there he was, Jay! Just standing behind the counter in a white T-shirt, smoking a cigarette. I wondered if the other patrons in the store thought it was cool or not, and I realized everyone was sort of ignoring him and so that’s what I did too. He was just a guy, and in real life he didn’t seem like anyone famous or special. He looked a little dirty and tired.

Anyway, here’s what I always tell people about: when I went up to the counter to pay for my comic book, he rang me up, and I handed him a $20 bill. The register’s little green digital display clearly showed the change I was due back. He had the cigarette in his mouth and he mumbled, “So how much change do you get?” I blinked, and kind of motioned towards the cash register with the big numbers that indicated my change. He shrugged, opened the register and put my 20 in, and then stood there over the cash tray looking completely confused. “Shit, how many fives do I give you again?” He couldn’t make the change, for whatever reason, and I had to tell him which bills and coins to give me. I felt weird doing it, and kind of shy. I also felt like I was patronizing him in some way, and I didn’t like it. I could tell he was on something… and I didn’t want to seem like I thought I was “better” than him in any way. So, I never went back to that store.

I think it’s kind of strange to read Smith’s online story about that time and realize what was going on with him. And it really touches me. This whole story has made me stop my day and think about how happy I was to read this story and its positive conclusion. We need more real-life tales like this, told from the perspective of the people it hurts the most; detailing the brutal realities of addiction and recovery. Kevin Smith is a very good writer and tells a very compelling biography. I’ve been bringing this story up with friends and family, since it’s stuck in my mind.

In light of the recent spirit of “change is good” that I’ve been writing about and that other bloggers have noticed (thanks, Smackadocious), I figured this is one of the more powerful stories that’s out there -- it might interest or even help someone if I spread it in my own little way. I want Jason Mewes and Kevin’s Smith’s hetero-life partner story to be read, damn it. So go and read it! Thanks.

Gosh, what's with me not blogging and stuff? I guess I must be busy, preoccupied, or drunk or something. Now that tequila has passed over these wayward-virgin lips, there's really no going back now, is there? So let's just admit that yeah, since Sunday I have been knockin' back the 'la.

Either way, I have so much I need to do. One of the things I still need to do is respond to a tag I got from Jen, one of the latest bloggers added to my links. I'll get to that soon, probably. I just need to concentrate so I list the 6 weird facts about me correctly. (This could take some time.)

In the meantime, I'll just write some random crap.

Quickly, now!:

* Our pool is coming along. The excavation crew showed up unexpectedly at 6:30 in the morning one week ago. They dug out the big hole, and left us some of the dirt. Here's an interesting fact: if you get a pool dug, count on some of your neighbors to peek over the fence to watch or come over to ask the diggin' guys if they can have some of that dirt. Two different neighbors requested our dirt! (One later passed on our dirt, though. Guess he couldn't handle all that dirt.) I found it amusing as hell that people we live in close proximity to saw an opportunity for free dirt and they damned well were gonna take it. Note: if you want some of our dirt, speak up now or forever hold your dirt-needing peace, because Greg is working hard to shovel and spread the dirt we kept, and it will soon be assimilated into our yard. Just mail me a small jar, bottle, or box with a SASE and I can send you some of our beautiful, brown, clumpy, dry dirt within the next 4-6 weeks.

* As of today, the pool already has plumbing, electric and a steel frame. None of it is actually done, really... the contractors sort of suck ass. Oh, well. At least we'll be the proud owners of our own swimmin' hole this summer!

* I heard it might hit 100 degrees by this weekend. It's still April. This is just not fair. I want a spring!

* I recommend watching "Bowfinger" again. We did it this weekend and it just gets funnier and funnier every time. Here is one of my favorite quotes:

Kit: "Happy Premise Number 1: There are no aliens."
Mindhead Leader: "What is Happy Premise Number 2?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 2! There is no big foot trying to squash me."
Mindhead Leader: "And what is Happy Premise Number 3?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 3... even though I think I might ignite, I probably won't."

I will blog at a later time, but I leave you with today's magic word: GONADS!

It was an eventful, happy weekend. It began on Good Friday, which was extra Good because I didn't have to work. I had one of those awesome workouts where I felt terrific afterwards (lots of upper body weights-stuff) and sufficiently exhausted. Later on that day, I helped Greg put some edging bricks into the ground in our backyard. It was an achievement for me for a couple of reasons:

1) I normally can't do much of anything where excessive bending, lifting, raking, etc. are involved because of my stupid lower back problems, but on Friday I was really good at paying attention to my back and getting up and stretching and taking breaks before I got hurt. Usually I work through the pain because of my silly desire to 'prove to myself that I can do it' and wind up flat on my back for four or five days. Maybe...just maybe... I am getting smarter!
2) I have never laid bricks in the ground before, and it was harder than I thought it would be. But the row I did came out mostly-level and straight. And I did this while a very strong wind was blowing dirt all over the place, making vision difficult. Greg was working on another part of the yard, and I kept looking over at him and seeing a fury of dirt and dust surrounding him and his trusty shovel. We persevered though, and after showers we both looked human again.

Later on that night, I got the phone call I have been waiting for: my realtor, telling me an offer was coming in that night. The catch was, the buyer was making simultaneous offers on two other condos in my complex. So basically, the first seller to respond would be the one they bought. So began a night of happy anxiety, waiting for the phone call that the offer had been faxed to my neighborhood Kinko's, and I could respond. We had to get some dinner, though, so we went to a pizza place and were forced to leave right as our pizza was served so we could rush over to Kinko's to get the offer-thing going. With our styrofoam boxes in our grubby little hands, we made it over to the Kinko's, got the formal offer, talked to my realtor on the phone and faxed back my acceptance all within an hour. (Luckily, it was a good offer and I will get a fast close of escrow, so I had no problem accepting it.)

And then we went to a party, and then home, and the next morning after breakfast I got the call from the realtor that I was the "winner"-- my acceptance came in first, so I was the lucky seller. Damn, I was elated beyond normal levels of elation. You shoulda seen me.

Saturday was also the one year mark-- Greg and I have been together a year! To celebrate, he took me to the site of our first meeting and we sat at the exact same table and ordered, I think, the exact same drinks. (I know we both had beers a year ago, and that's what we had the other night.) It's been a really amazing year, and it's weird to think we have only known each other that long-- he feels like someone I have known for years and years. I couldn't be happier!

And finally, on Easter Sunday I tried two things I have never tried before. Both of these things are MONUMENTAL because they are both what I'd term "big deals." Anyone who really knows me will understand why the following substances merit cause for recognition:
1) I ate tilapia. Which is fish, in case you're like me and never heard of it before...and even more surprising, I enjoyed it.
2) I drank tequila shots. Yeah, I got to almost-31 and without ever having straight tequila. It's only made its way down my gullet by way of fruity margaritas until Sunday. The tequila we drank was apparently a very expensive, very exquisite, type of tequila. I had two shots of it; found I didn't like the salt-step (I just can't get used to the taste of straight salt in any form) and I really was shocked by the taste and the burn. I felt like such a "beginner". But hell, at least I drank me some expensive tequila, and can now add "tequila" to the list of alcoholic substances I have had.

Overall, it really was a great weekend. We capped it off with a dinner at Trish's new place (a Thanksgiving Part Two dinner, for which I brought the trusty Green Bean Casserole) and sleeping off a lot of food and alcoholic beverages. I have to say, I wouldn't mind more weekends like this one. It was great to get good news and to realize I could actually overcome some of my own fears and insecurities and do what most people can easily do (but is hard for me)-- TRY NEW THINGS. Yay for me! I just might become a real, socially-functioning and confident person yet.

Sweet ASS. Someone made an offer on my condo, and I accepted! So with any luck, I will close in the beginning of May and have this condo-shaped monkey off my back. I couldn't be more excited if Dolly Parton came over here today and rubbed her big ol' titties in my face!!

Now THAT'S excited.

Shyeah.

I just re-read my last post, and I realized something: on Easter, we don't celebrate the BABY Jesus; we celebrate the UNDEAD Jesus. There's a big difference.

Here's one to make my old Sunday School teachers cringe: imagine how terrible Good Friday would be for everyone if the whole crucifixion scene involved a baby? Like the Jews got together and decided to nail the Baby Jesus to the cross? Oh man, it would be about 20,000 times worse if that's what they did!

There was a time when I was a kid where I think I thought they did that. I thought Jesus was only about 4 months old when they crucified him-- because of the time lapsed between his birth and death on the calendar. I also think I thought he was supernatural though, and probably at about a week into his young life, he was laying in his manger and crying one minute, and Mary walked outside to pee or something, and when she came back in he had magically transformed into a full grown, bearded man. My kid-logic was like, "Why the hell not? He's Jesus!"

I don't even want to share how scared I was of whatever I thought "The Holy Ghost" was. I always pictured the Ghost of Christmas Past with chains and stuff. "Oooh, Ebenezer Scrooooooge, this is the Holy Ghost...wwooooooo... do not take my brother's name in vain....woooooo!"

Because, you know... Jesus, God and the Holy Ghost are all brothers. Only God is still alive, technically speaking.

Many a day has passed, and I have been unable to post anything I've wanted to here. There have been technical issues to iron out and work projects and other distractions to keep me away. Today I share with you the following TRULY AMAZING CRAIGSLIST ITEM FOR SALE:



Here's the text that went with this listing-- verbatim, but changed so the seller doesn't get hammered with (admittedly) much-needed teasing:

<><><> Cute Bird House <><><>

This is truly the greatest gift or a shelf show off there is. It stands about 8 inches tall, has a hook on its head to hang somewhere and is in un-used shape. A true must have for your favorite tweedy bird. You must pick-up. I’m 2 minutes from Meridian and University. This is $15,00 CASH ONLY. If your interested please e-mail me at >> XXXX@yahoo.com Thanks folks at Craigslist.

Well, here's the thing: Save yourself the trouble and don't even bother contacting this person, because I already threw down my $15,00 in cash so I could own this shelf show off myself. I always say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and a bird in the hole in a ceramic pig's chest is worth two dead on my back porch.

That might not be exactly what I always say. I can't quite remember details today. I am dazed and dazzled by this remarkable pastel pig with a clean chest wound. I want to stare at it, polish it up with a nice cheesecloth, take it outside for a walk around the block with a string tied to its neck, and share it with my loved ones over a tasty mint julep. It's always great when an object can inspire so much passion, isn't it? Happy Easter, Baby Jesus! I bring you the Pig With Hole in His Happy, Pride-Filled Chest In Which Birds May Care to Live.

So, here's the back of some guy we just saw in Denny's tonight. He had the bushiest head of white hair I have ever seen on a man, and he was sitting at the counter just bothering the wait staff and being overly creepy. I had to take the picture with the "candlelight" setting so the flash wouldn't go off and alert him to our presence; that's why it's so dark. I just wonder: what battle was he on the payroll for? Or... is he advocating battling with a staff (bo staff, perchance?)? Gosh darn it anyway, we may never know.

Also, he was the Third Albino of the Night. Greg and I went to a music festival tonight and we kept seeing old dudes with gray or white long hair everywhere we went. In fact, this one very andorgynous dude-- the First Albino-- was at every single venue we were at. I'd look up and see him there, not far from us. He was taking pictures of all the bands and standing around being creepy in his shorts and I-swear-they-were-shaved legs. Second Albino was just another guy, also in shorts, with long blondish-gray hair, hanging out in a bar and looking like he only wants to be a Lord of the Rings elf or something. I know he goes home and wishes for the money to finally get the plastic surgery to get the Legolas ears. When these Albinos take their pants off, there are no genitals-- just a shimmery, sparkly area of stars and pixie-ness. (I can't take credit for this imagery, that's all my lovely fiance's idea)

By the way, none of them were real albinos. We just called them that. It made it easy to go, "Oh! Behind you! First Albino is here!" and we both would know who-or-what we meant.

As for the Third Albino of the night, ol' Battle Staff... he was just unsettling. He said to the waitress behind the counter at one point: "I don't want you to take this personally or nothin', but you are very attractive." Let the record show that the waitress was NOT at all attractive. She was a squirrely little 50-odd year old woman with stringy colorless hair pulled back with a scrunchie, who totally looked like she was working hard to put her meth days behind her and straighten up by working the Sunday night shift at the Denny's. God, the whole scenario was just so sad, now that I reflect on it. Christ. Good thing we ate and got out of there before he said anything else totally depressing. You just got the feeling that Battle Staff is in that Denny's nearly every night of the week... just hoping for some Denny waitress tail (that he is never going to get).

I gotta go and watch TV now. The best of the Soup is on E! and I can hear Greg laughing it up like a happy-man out there. At least I did get to see the "Riding the Bus with My Sister" parody commercial they did this past summer. There's few things that are better, comedically-speaking, than Rosie O'Donnell playing a retarded woman who rides a bus, with a laugh track over it.

Watch out for albinos! And have a wonderful day, all y'all.

I am so thankful for Melanie and her new blog post about lying. You have to click that link to read it-- it's hilarious.

Not only am I appreciative of her stories, but I am happy because it made me remember something I wish I could forget. I was doing good for awhile there, and kind of let this particular embarrassing memory fade away, but today it came back. I'm not upset. Instead, I am completely ready to share my stupid lie with the internets.

Melanie, I am posting the comment I made on your blog here because I am too lazy to re-tell this story. And who knows... if I did try to re-tell it, I might not get all the facts straight a second time and have to add lies in to cover it up. So here is what I commented on Melanie's "stupid lie" post:

I did want to say that I, too, say stupid lies, and never know why I said it. I still feel dumb about one that occurred senior year of high school: My history teacher was talking about native americans and how shitty they were treated and all this, and I had a question about something he said. He answered me and then made a face (I guess the thing I asked was a little strange or something--I totally wish I could remember what I had asked!), and asked me why I cared so much about it. And I blurted out, "Because I am part Leni Lenape Indian."

This lie was terrible because he continued to "quiz" me about my heritage, asking me where they lived and how far back the Lenapes were in my family. I know he knew I was lying and I couldn't admit to it. So I actually had to go home and read a book about the Lenapes to back my lie up in case he asked again.

Shit. I really, really don't know why I ever said that particular lie. If I could go back in time I would have just lied and said an 'easier' tribe-- like the Sioux or Cherokee, for god's sake.

Wow, this is a pretty cool story. I love anything to do with genetics! DOUBLE-HELIX ROCKS!!! RECESSIVE GENES RULE! Whooooot!

What the flaming lips is this??
It was on my computer, so I know I should know what it is. I think it came from the Onion...? I really don't know. I think it's funny, though, and figured perhaps someone else might know the origin of this photo:
Here's more random stuff from my My Pictures folder: I can't remember why I saved this image. I think I vaguely recall a little inside joke about bleached teeth with a co-worker from long ago, but even that's hazy. On a frequent basis, I also wonder about the relative yellowness of my own teeth, so it could be that I saved this as a reminder to myself to consider the possibility of teeth bleaching. I mean, hell! Look at her, she looks a lot different on that side of her mouth, right? If it worked for her, it has to work for me. That's the way it works.


Wow, it's Mabel and Frederick from the "Pirate Movie." What more can I say?

Here are two that have something in common:

This is a picture of my Dad when he leaned back too far in a chair and it toppled over. (I think it's a rerun, in that either myself or my sister already posted this picture, so I apologize if you feel cheated in any way.)

Now, this is another file I had on my computer. This was something I had as my wallpaper last year at some point. It just cracked me up:

I have this calendar of whales and dolphins at my desk; it was a gift from my Dad and his wife. I think they bought it in a little touristy shop when they were visiting us back in October. Anyway, this calendar utterly annoys the piss out of me!

Why?

For one thing, it’s huge. I am in a cubicle, and this cubicle has only so much wall-room on which to hang personal effects. Like calendars. This calendar is easily two feet long when it’s unfurled and open. And my available cube-walls only allow for about 20 inches of space from desk to prefab shelf. So, I need to hang the calendar up-and-behind the shelf, and the bottom part still hangs down below my desk, so I can never see the last week of the month.

For a second thing, I just don’t know about looking at whales all day. There’s something weird about it. I do really love whales, and dolphins and I like to look at pictures of them or watch videos about them just as much as the next soft-hearted pissant. But seeing this same picture for a month straight, while at work, when I am sitting and growing fatter by the second, is getting to be too much.

Last month I had to look at a beluga all month. And belugas are definitely my LEAST favorite whale, right behind the freaky-long-skinny-head jerk that is the sperm whale. I think belugas look like ghosts. I saw them for the first time in the Baltimore Aquarium when I was in Brownies and it totally messed me up. They looked so eerie when you were standing against the cold glass wall of their tank and seeing their white forms gliding along through the water. Then, when they came close to the glass, I was wigged out by their FACES. Shit, a whale with a face, and a neck that can TURN? No, even as a kid I could tell that was not right. Whales should be cuter than that; they should look like the sweet little narwhal, or even the majestic humpback. Just look like a WHALE, that’s all I ask. Don’t look like a big, smiling ghost. Ew. Fuck you, Casper.

Right now, the picture on my calendar is better than last month because yeah, I have a humpback on the calendar for this month. It’s breeching so it’s way better than the horrendous close-up of that March beluga. This is just Nature, At Its Best.

What I did yesterday for no particular reason was this: I stuck my Chiquita banana sticker on the humpback’s huge fluke. So there it is, jumping out of the water and doing a backflip or something, and it’s wearing a nice, blue, Chiquita sticker.

I forget where I was going with this post.

Well, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter?

Nope!

I have lost the will to finish a work project. So, in place of work, I throw out these quick items of potential interest:

* Today I left not one, but TWO churches! See, I belonged to one when I first moved to AZ, and never bothered to tell them when I later decided to go to this other church. When my stupid ex began dating the pastor's daughter, I obviously couldn't go there anymore. I haven't been going to church for about two years, but I have been getting mailings from both churches--did you know churches can totally find you after you move? Somehow, they do!-- and kept forgetting to write and tell them enough is enough. Today I did it. At last. I am officially churchless and officially happy to be free of the ties that bind one to a congregation. Freedom from "newsletters" and "fundraising campaign mailings" should be glorious!

* Cadbury Mini Eggs are evil. I can feel myself gaining three pounds just from sitting here, alternating between working and poppin' these little sugary delectables into my gaping maw.

* Go see THANK YOU FOR SMOKING! Greg and I saw it last week and it was wonderfully funny and smart. You'll like it. Don't worry about Katie Holmes being in it-- she is not that prevalent, and you don't have to like her character-- in fact, the audience is kind of asked to dislike her. So you will be OK watching it. No one will call you a Katie Holmes fan for going to see it!

* Ocotillos are probably my favorite desert plant, if I had to pick one.

* It's weird that in the years I have been living here, I have not seen one raccoon. Used to see them a lot in NJ. I also used to see oppossums (or is it just possums?) back there, too... none here! Which is probably a good thing, because op/possums scare me. One time I was out on my swingset, just sitting there and swinging like a normal 8 year old kid, and I looked up in the branch of the tree that hung over the play area of the yard, and saw a beige op/possum sitting there, STARING at me. Its little black button-eyes were unblinking and its tail moved slowly in the breeze. I was terrified to move, having learned early on about rabid animals and the fact that if you see a nocturnal animal out during the day, chances are it could have rabies. So I sat still and waited for it to look away or something so I could run into the house. I really thought it was going to jump down and land on me and suck my soul out in tiny, mean little rabid bites. (I got away safely, you'll be glad to know!)

* I am scared of getting rabies. I have even had nightmares about it. With my mouth foaming and everything.

* Yet, I think bats are kind of cute. They remind me of Malcolm, who I sometimes call a fruit bat.

* I am craving some corn on the cob. Which is odd. I don't normally crave that. But right now I would really like me some hot, buttery corn! YUM.

He will live on!

If there's one thing I have learned from all these blogs, it's only take penicillin for infections you don't think you can recover from on your own-- if you take it for every little rash and ooze, all willy-nilly, you can wind up with a powerful resistance to antibiotics. So when the BIG VD hits, you are screwed.

Well, I learned that in health class, to be honest. What I HAVE learned from the blogs is that people truly CARE. Sometimes a blogger can go out of their way to do a nice thing for you, or your elderly, freaky dog with frizzy hair and the beginnings of what I will call the dreaded "near-death stink."

And today, that blogger is Tinapopo. THE FACE OF COMPASSION FOR ANIMALS... AND ONE FUNNY-ASS BITCH

For proof of her dedication to the cause of saving Malcolm from drowning in our pool, click HERE.

Honestly, I am overcome with gratitude and emotion, and a case of the dizzies. I almost wish I could go back in time and NOT kick Malcolm relentlessly last night. Oh yeah, and maybe not wash him in the dishwasher. Maybe this is a turning point for me! Maybe with the help of Tinapopo, I can actually learn to care, and...dare I say... love?

I want to take a moment to reflect on THINGS THAT ARE OVERRATED. Particularly, ice cream.

I like ice cream a lot. I like Carvel's soft serve. I like Marble Slab's creamy ice cream with fresh strawberries mixed into a waffle bowl. I like ice cream in pints, tubs and boxes. Whatever; ice cream is tasty and it's a good time, right?

Yeah, right. Every now and then I run across someone who swears that a certain brand/ type of ice cream is superior. "Oh you HAVE to try BlahBlah's Ice Kreemy ShitPalace, they have the BEST home-made vanilla with real bean-chunks in it..." Or when people will only buy Breyer's, or Bluebell, or some other brand, because they say they can taste the difference if they eat otherwise.

Maybe I am alone in this, but I cannot really tell the difference between ice creams. Sure, I can tell if a particular box of ice cream in my freezer is old because I can taste the watered-down crunchiness of the ice crystals forming an Albert Brooks-ish "protective layer". I can tell when ice cream is melted. And those are the two distinctions I can honestly make.

A sidenote about me: If I ever tell you I like one type of ice cream more than another, I am totally lying. I'm not saying I have never lied before. I suck at lying, and always admit it at some point because I can't keep up the vicious charade for long.

Well, I can't tell anything different when some ice cream place claims to have "fresh" or "hand-churned" or "homemade" or "olde-fashioned" ice cream on their menu. You can spoon any old pile of chocolate ice cream in my dish and I'll eat it, but I will tell you right now I won't be saying how much better it tastes than the shit I bought in Safeway because it had that all-important "Safeway Club Price" paper in front of its display. I just can't tell. I don't know HOW you tell. I mean, is it something to do with the "mouthfeel" of the ice cream? Is it "consistency" or "even flavoring" or "resistance to melting"? Seriously, how does one become an ice cream expert? Can I take a class if I wanted to figure it all out? Can I practice and train my tastebuds to taste the difference? What could I theoretically do (within reason)? Should I kill a guy to see how it feels to pour ice cream over a dead body?

Wait. Why did I say/type that last part? I meant to keep that part quiet. Well, no sense editing myself now. I will not censor myself. Nope.

The reason I'm thinking about this today was because on Friday night, Greg and I had some very ordinary and not-at-all exceptional ice cream at a supposedly great ice cream parlor in Scottsdale. I'd been there once--ONCE-- when I first moved to this state, and I went strictly because the place is pink and it looked "cute." But I never found an urge to return. I wondered why, over the years, whenever I would drive or walk past the place. Surely it was good ice cream, right? That's why the tourists flocked there? That's why Family Circus creator and genius about the dynamics of a family with retarded fat-head children, Bil Keane, would endorse the place like crazy? Right? Because the place is GREAT! That's why! ...right?

Nah.

It's NOT great. Sure, the ice cream was tasty but it was nothing to write home about. Although writing home about ice cream would be a funny thing to do. I guess I just wanted to have some ice cream there since we were in the area, and it was a place Greg and I had yet to go together. Why not.

Check out how garishly "CUTE" and PINK this overrated shithole is:


Everything in the place is pink, white and old-timey. It's supposed to be adorable as hell, what with all the whimsical drawings of shitty 1950s soda jerks and girls in skirts with ponytails everywhere. We ate at the ice cream counter, which I thought might have been pretty old since the wood was all chipped on the counter's edge. It was probably old, but that was about the only thing about the decor and the place I could appreciate. (You have to understand that NOTHING in the Phoenix/ Scottsdale area is allowed to age; everything gets ripped out and replaced with new, bland buildings designed to bring BEAUTY and GRACE to the Sonoran Desert's growing and thriving metropolitan areas.) If you like getting your ass whipped by a shitstorm of pink vinyl and framed pictures of kitties on the wall, this is the place for you! Are you corny as hell, perhaps a good safe little churchkid? You'll LOVE it! Best ice cream ever, gosh darn it anyway!

My point is: don't bother. It's visually assaulting and the ice cream will make you go "Ehhh."

Wheeeeeee! Das bike ist CRAZY-FUN!

I've decided that hearing a grown man use the word "stinky" in a sentence is hilarious.

Especially when it happens at work. And it's your boss. And he is talking about a "situation." As in: "The whole situation on this is a little stinky."

I'm dyin' over here. Am I the only one who thinks this is funny? The last time I heard someone use "stinky" was when speaking about the condition of an infant's diaper. Whew.

Strange things are afoot on the other side of this cubicle wall.

I hear things. I hear deep breathing. I hear candy wrappers rustling. I hear open-mouthed chewing. Now, I hear deep breathing again--like congested-nose breathing.

I know the source: It's the old English dude who works on the other side of the cubicle wall! He has trouble breathing! And eating! Someone's gotta stop this guy. I can't work listening to this, it's maddening.

These dogs have been on my mind a lot lately. Not just because they happen to live here and all that, either. Nope, I have been struggling with some very difficult decisions that I won't get into here. (No worries, no one is getting 'put down' or anything like that!)
Katie is super loud, annoying and can get very nasty and bite at Hailie, who is also her very best friend. Hailie is quieter and much more of a teddy bear. She lives to lick things-- any available skin she can get near her mouth is subject to her licking. She also enjoys walking over to Katie, and flipping one of her ears back and proceeding to lick the inside of Katie's ear until we holler at her to stop, since Katie's ear is now turning pink from all the licking.
Hailie's funny. She sometimes chews up random objects around the house. Things such as Greg's watchband and wallet; pens; the graphic novel V for Vendetta; a hardcover book; and today, a clothespin. I guess it isn't "funny" in the comic sense when she does this, since it is quite annoying and we can't figure out why the hell she does it. It's "funny" in the ODD sense of the word.
One time, Greg and I were walking the dogs in our neighborhood, and this little boy came out of his house and said loudly, "That dog looks like a werewolf!" I think he meant Hailie.
I still crack up about that werewolf comment.
Anyway, that is my post about the two big dogs who live here.

Right now in my wallet, I have two very-tattered coupons.

One is for Taquitos (frozen). The other one is for $1.00 off a Mrs. Smith's whole pie. Frozen, of course.

They both expire this coming month, so I sure hope that I soon find myself in the mood for frozen burrito-esque products. And pie!!

I'm kinda bummed out, because soon I have to do an unceremonious funeral for some of my favorite shirts!

Yes, it's true: some of my t-shirts get worn so often they actually have developed holes. Not along the seams-- these holes are from wear and tear in the belly region. It's weird, but true. Tiny little holes that look like moths were going at it have appeared on two of my favorite shirts. And this upsets me because man, I really loved these shirts.

I got them at Target last spring. They're just some V neck T-shirts from the fancy Xhiliration brand. I loved them because they were a longer length, the cotton was soft and not clingy, and the V-neck was punctuated by some very pretty rouching. Making these shirts ideal not only for work, but for after-work and weekends, too. I bought a black one first, and when I realized how great the shirts were, I went back and purchased the same shirt in four other colors. I have been wearing these shirts every single week ever since. And now it's time to send some away to the garbage bin, and I am so sad!

I want to find replacement shirts and believe me, I started looking for similar shirts last summer. Yet it's been really hard to find anything like them. I don't get it. It's such a simple shirt. Why is this design not all over every store? If I ran the retail clothing world, they damned well would be. I can't think of a single person who wouldn't look good in these shirts. Well, maybe Star Jones would look kind of terrible, but that's it. Everyone but Star Jones needs these flattering shirts.

So... I need to find new shirts! I am still on the hunt. If you know where shirts like the ones I described might congregate, let me know. I don't want to go back to wearing some crappy American Eagle shirts that are too tight and now look slutty. That would suck.

It's bedtime. But before I turn off the computer, I thought I would paste this "thing" I found on an old floppy disk tonight. I was searching for a specific file, and instead opened a whole folder of "essays" I wrote between 1998-2001. No reason to keep this shit to myself. So here it is:

******

Hello again, and welcome to another installment of WINKY McGILLICUDY's
GARDENING TIPS!

I am your host, Winky. Many of you may be thinking to yourselves, "Hey, why is Winky called Winky?" Well, as you probably have already guessed, it has a little something to do with my trick glass eye. But enough about me! Let's get on to the Gardenin'!

Today's topic is Mulch. Mulch is God's gift to the wayward gardener. You can buy mulch at any corner mulch store. Mulch comes from wood. And vitamins, nutrients, and sometimes the body parts of dead animals and sometimes Pat Sajak. All of these things naturally secrete "mulch."

Now you'll want to spread the mulch evenly around your garden, preferably using a rake or hoe. I personally like to pay someone else to spread my mulch, ever since I had that incident. You know, the one they wrote about in all the papers. NO, not THAT one...not the one with the old man and the duct tape. Anyway, I pay someone named Hamhocka to spread my mulch. Hamhocka is a Mexican prostitute I picked up one lazy Sunday down at the Lonely Beaver Lounge. She will spread anyone's mulch, so why not ask her to spread yours, too.

Once your mulch is spread, you'll want to plant some plants in it. I prefer flowers, mostly because they are eye catching and will lure delicious tasty bees to your garden. Have you ever eaten a bee? They are crunchy.

Some people prefer to plant vegetables in their gardens. However, this is something I am strongly opposed to. After all, just because someone was left a quadraplegic from that stroke in '89 and has to get around in a wheelchair doesn't mean the poor sonuvabitch deserves to be chin-deep in dirt in your backyard. Remember a little thing called "empathy" while you are gardening, folks.

Well! That's about all we've got time for today. Tune in next week, I'll be showing you the basic methods to trim your hedges using only nail clippers and a midget albino named Frank. Good night, and happy gardening!

****
The preceding message has been brought to you by one Lisa J. A. (The "J" is for "Juice", yo). It was conceived after a day long gardening and weeding "stint" in the front yard a couple weeks ago. A. is recuperating from one blister, sunburn, and an extreme case of talking to herself and calling herself Winky. She has to go now, as she has just "pulled a hammy" from all this physical exersion.

Lisa would also would like to know the status of Beef, and if it is, indeed, what's for dinner.

Thank You.


(4/11/01)

Hey, I'm not deceased yet. Just thought I should share this news, especially after the lovely Tinapopo wondered about my alive status in the comments. Thanks for your concern, she who writes of the engorged tick on her dog's neck!

I am still sick, but it's so weird because everyday my sick is a little different than the sick I had the day before. Tuesday and Wednesday was filled with me coughing and coughing a little more after I coughed. Yesterday I was coughing very violently all morning, and then it subsided a bit and turned to Massive Heachache and Dizziness. Greg and I were all set to go see a play downtown and I just couldn't do it. My headache is so bad it woke me up in the middle of the night last night, and I am sitting here at work at 1:30pm and it's STILL there. I took medicine and nothing's working. I think I might pass out. If I do, that would be so cool because everyone at work would finally see how sick I really am! Maybe I could go home.

That reminds me of my daydream of wishing I could puke in my garbage can. I hate puking, but it would be so satisfying to just grab my can and vomit in it right as my boss stands at my desk telling me some random task he wants me to do for the day.

They can see my sickness today, if they are looking close enough. That's because my left eye is watering like I am crying. I was talking to a co-worker this morning and felt my eye start to burn and then the tears came down my cheek before I could stop them. She thought I was really upset about something and she stopped talking to ask me if I was OK. I was embarassed and wiped away the non-emotional tears and explained I just have a wicked cold and possible sinus infection, and the pressure in my eye is making it water uncontrollably.

It feels really weird to have tears on one side of your face when you are not sad. I kind of wanted someone to see my profile from the right and be all, "Hello, Happy Lisa!" and then I could dramatically turn my head to the left so the tears are visible--turning my lip down into a scowl for the full effect-- and this person could then be all, "Hello, Sad Lisa!" I could then turn and repeat this little act for anyone else who might happen to walk by.

I could keep that up for a good hour or so.

I'd probably get extra dizzy and would have to take a nap when I was finished.

So anyway, Greg and I are getting a pool. We were approved for it, and the worker-guys came out and spray painted the shape of our pool in the dirt out back. They even spray-painted the steps and the little bench they are going to put at one end of the pool! We are pretty excited about the prospect of having a pool. It's going to make the summer here so much more tolerable. Not to mention it should bump the resale value of the house so we can afford mad crazy new digs when we finally decide to pack it in and leave the Arizona desert once and for all.

The fun thing to do is let the dogs out into the yard and watch as they "go in the pool." As in, they run into the area where the pool is marked out and then we say some variation on, "Oh no, look out, Katie's pooping in the pool!"

I'm sure the pool is going to be an asset to our lives in a lot of ways. But I still feel a little nervous about Malcolm-- I keep thinking he will blindly walk into the pool one day and drown. There won't be a fence around the pool. He's not exactly a spry little dog anymore; in many ways, he is closer to being one of the undead. Either way, I really would hate it if my little freakdog drowned in the pool. That's why I am asking you to leave comments about things you've witnessed/heard/read about dogs and pools. Particularly little dogs. Am I worrying about nothing? Will he likely swim if he falls in? Will he stay clear away from the edge?

In other news, I just sharpened a pencil today. We have an electric pencil sharpener here, next to the fax machine. Sometimes I just like to write in pencil, and today was the day I finally needed a good sharpening. I got up and walked to the pencil sharpener and had a huge flashback to those metal pencil sharpeners in school. Remember-- they had the little crank on one side and the disk you could move to the appropriate diameter for your pencil? There was always a little pile of shavings on the floor underneath it, because the shavings-catching-canister was never emptied as much as it should have been.

I wished we had one of those old sharpeners. But then I would have had the urge to raise my hand and ask my boss for permission to get up and sharpen my pencil. Like he needs any more ammunition for his argument against my sanity. Ah, hell. Leave me alone. I'm just the girl sitting here writing with her sparkly red SHARP pencil and the half-crying face.

I have the weakest immune system ever. Maybe I didn't get enough shots as a kid or something. Well, whatever the case may be, I am sick again. I have a garden-variety head cold at the moment, and a low fever. I had afever that reached 100 on Saturday night, and that's something for me since my normal temperature is about 97.9.

Remember when you got sick at school, and the nurse wouldn't let you go home unless you were at least showing a 99 degree temperature? That sucked for me, since it rarely went that high unless I was really sick. I'd even get the standard, "Oh, this hasn't even gotten up to normal yet," which made me feel like I was a failure at achieving a normal temperature. Surely there must be something I can do to be hotter, I'd think. That's probably around the time when I began wearing the hooker boots and shoving chicken cutlets into my training bra, but that's another story.

I think I hate coughing the most. Well, I think I hate throwing up the most of all, but coughing is pretty bad, too. I hate that I have to do it in places where other people are around. It makes noise and it sounds sort of obnoxious when you need to do it in places like the office or in church. Whenever I hear someone coughing at work, all I think is: Damn it, just go HOME already. Yesterday I was the cougher. And I didn't go home. Sure, I am home today and all, but that's not the point. The point is that yesterday I was one of the people I am annoyed by.

Coughing not only makes too much noise, it can be painful to the throat. And what's the deal with this wet stuff? It's not quite spit, and it's not quite mucus... shit, what is that?! I hate it. I hate when I have to cough and no tissues are nearby and the wet has to land in my hand. And I have to rush to the sink to wash up, or at least find a tissue/napkin to do a quick spot-clean while I make my way towards the nearest sink. Coughing is a hassle, and I for one am not enjoying this. Not one bit! I feel LOATHESOME.

Maybe at some point I will remember the thing I thought about last night that would make a good and hopefully-funny blog, but until then, I will just remind you that the shitter is full.

I'm reading an excellent book right now called Fledgling, by Octavia E. Butler. It's sort-of a vampire novel, but it's about more than that-- it touches on race issues and morality of genetic engineering and questionable relationships between one being who needs the other to survive (in this case, the vampire and its victims--although in this book they are far from victims, since when they are bitten by the 'vampire' they become a symbiont and live longer, healthier lives alongside the vampire who loves them and needs them to survive). It's been an intriguing and thoughtful read. I'm not quite finished with it yet, but will probably be done with the book by the end of this week.

Anyway, something interesting happened today in regard to this book. I was giving it some serious thought, and jotted down some thoughts about the writer's style and her short, concise prose and how I wanted to emulate some of this in my own books, when I suddenly had the idea to check out the publishing company that took a chance on this book. I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier... I picked up this book not just because I tend to like vampire themes and stuff like that, but because the plot seemed a little similar to my long-suffering and often-neglected book "Zachary." Anyway, I thought I should maybe pinpoint this publisher since they might be a perfect fit for my book when I am finally ready to finish it.

I go on their site, and the very first thing I read is that Octavia E. Butler, the author of this book I am currently enjoying and an author I was hoping I could follow in the coming years to see where she goes and what she writes, has died. It made me a little sad, to be honest. I never met her, and frankly I feel like I was only starting to 'know' her through her words, and to know she is gone is quite sobering. Oddly enough, she died of a head injury, which if you read the book is exactly how the protangonist in Fledgling almost dies right at the beginning of the novel.

Anyway, I am still going to pursue Seven Stories Press, and this news about Octavia E. Butler only reminds me that I really do need to finish and publish my stories. Even though she's gone, her works remain and that is just freaking awesome. I still have more of her to learn about and get to know, even though she is gone.

My hope for today is that all the artists, writers, filmmakers and poets out there find it in themselves to complete a project and have absolute faith and confidence in the message or feeling you are conveying. Even if you only think it's a little work, it does matter. Someone will see it, read it or experience what you are making and it will change them-- whether it's a noticable change or a subtle, added file of knowledge or beauty that now has a place in their person, it's worth your work. I hope you finish it!

Wow, this blog has some problems. The comments are unreachable for some reason, so I thought I would test this with a new post.

We saw V for Vendetta last night, and we loved it! I don't think it's for everyone but I enjoy the fact that it's a mainstream movie that gets into some complicated topics. I loved that about the book, too, of course. The movie is different from the book (Greg said V is more humanized in the movie than the book, which has both pluses [audience has something they can latch onto and care about, somethings they can identify with to make the subject matter easier to understand and care about] and minuses [is it more effective when V gives up all of his human characteristics and feelings of love because the man has become the Idea? Possibly. But again, I think they changed it to make it more palpable to the public. And that's the other reason it sucks: why does the movie industry believe AUDIENCES NEED THINGS HAND-FED TO THEM? Why don't they respect our intelligence more?]). Even though the movie and book have their differences, I feel that both stories work wonderfully.

Oh, and for the record, that much-talked about hair-shaving scene for Natalie Portman? It happens quickly and is definitely NOT the thing anyone should be latching onto when they discuss this movie. I've hated how the media always brings up the fact that she shaved her head for this movie--ooh, beautiful woman uglies herself!--when they could be talking about the themes and ideas in the movie. Also, she is really a kick-ass actress in all regards. You totally forget it's The Beautiful Natalie Portman, Harvard Student and Sweet Actress Extraordinaire. You go, Natalie, because you've got a talent practically no other actresses your age possess.

OK, one more thing... Hugo Weaving was good too, and you never once see his face. The lips on the mask never move. Once in awhile I realized everyone was talking to a mask, but when you think of it and accept it in the context of what V is about, it makes perfect sense. (And Ben Miles, who played Patrick on the BBC and only-version-that-matters Coupling is in the movie! Score one for the man with the Cupboard of Love!)

I hope this post works. If not I might have to go live out in the desert and eat scrubby little trees and get dehydrated and die. A lot's riding on this one, blogger, don't let me down!

I've been jinxed! First, my dear, sweet, kissable blog disappears because of some mysterious Blogger problem. It was initially "Forbidden (403)" and then it moved on to being "Under Maintenance." Now, it seems to be back, but there are still errors. So I won't be surprised if this post doesn't post at all, or if you leave comments you can't go back in to read them. Things are weird today.

Secondly, I am having Dreamweaver problems at work. I need to post some files to the work site, and every time I create this one file it goes to shit when I post. It winds up pointing to a WHOLE other website and my file is nowhere to be seen. I don't get it, and I am waiting for the trusty IT wizards to help a sistah out.

I am a little afraid to touch anything important today. I am staying out of my online banking site, just in case.

Well, let's see. In other news, two different birds have flown into the window in front of my desk today. It makes me sad! Poor little guys walk around in the gravel all dazed and I just want to go out and take them to the vet for treatment. (What if they have internal bleeding? I have to help!) Then, later, they seem to get their bearings and they either walk or fly away. But the fact that two birds did it today is kind of odd. Both times I was scared by the loud thump of it, too. I startle so easily anyway.

Today's St. Patrick's Day-- Happy St. Patrick's Day! I don't think I have celebrated or done anything St. Patricky since I was in 4th grade, when I recall there being cupcakes with green-tinted icing in school. In my office, it turns out this is a BIG holiday. I know my boss left for the day at lunch. There is shamrock confetti at the front desk; people were apparently strongly encouraged to wear something green today. I don't like when they tell you that a certain dress is expected on a certain day. It's like "Friday is Hawaiian Shirt Day. So, if you have a Hawaiian shirt, go ahead and wear it." Blah.

Oh! I remembered the thing I wanted to blog about as I drove in this morning: Why do some truck owners feel the need to start a fight with other trucks? In particular, what is the larger social motivation and expected outcome behind this message I saw plastered on the back window of a Dodge Ram today:

"EATIN' FORDS
& SHITTIN' CHEVYS"

Why must the major truck manufacturers fight like this? What's the beef, if you will, that Dodge has with Ford and Chevy? I feel like there is a turf war going on between the American-owned truck companies.

I think a lot of dyed-in-the-wool good ol' American boys would be pissed if a Toyota Tundra rode down the road with that same sticker on it. "What the fuck? Them Japs pickin' on Americans now? That shit ain't cool, man."

Either way I don't think truck owners should put these stickers on their windows. It not only makes them look like morons who just want to not like something, and it violates the basic rule of putting curse-words out there in a place where little kids could see it. I don't know... when you do this, when you plaster something like THAT on your car, you are doing just a little more to make our society a crappier place to be.

Oh, and no car name sounds more homoerotic than the DODGE RAM.

I like when homes look unique. I hate the boring whites and beiges. Take this house in Bisbee pictured above, for example. It's got a bunch of red objects nailed all over its exterior. Why? Who knows. It's just fun to look at and let's face it, red is a funky color.

I caved into the pressures of the real estate market last night and painted a room in my condo white. Which room? Why, it was my prized Green Room. It used to look like this:



Unfortunately, a lot of people who have been coming to view my condo have made comments about the "bright green room" or the "UGLY green room" or the "oh my GOSH, that certainly is GREEN" room. I caved and realized I needed to sacrifice the green. I decided that since a lot of financial issues are riding on the sale of this condo, I needed to BLAH it up just enough so Joe Public can come in there and say, "Ooooh. Now THIS is just bland enough for me." And then Joe Public would make an offer. I would love to get an offer. Even if it's just one offer. That would be so cool. I think I my eyes might tear up if I got one, at this point. I feel like my condo has been on the market for 38 months or something.

Thanks to Greg and Trish, my condo now has a lovely white room and I am thinking that this bitch is gonna sell now. I have it posted up on Craigslist and everything (since my realtor sucks and my own ad is better written and has nicer photos than the shit she pulled together). However, in the past two evenings another problem about my condo has come to my attention...

There are loud, white-trash gangster wanna-bes living next door now, in the rental unit adjacent to my condo. A few months before I moved, I reported that two college girls moved into the condo next door, and to my surprise, they were quiet. Harmless, kind of dumb college chicks. And they were slobs-- they didn't cover the windows so you could see in and notice that they threw crap all over the living room so it constantly looked messy and dirty in there. But hey, when has slobby ever hurt anyone, right? I didn't care. They didn't bother me, they were quiet, I moved out, and I thought nothing more of those silly, slobby chicks.

However. I guess one of them got a boyfriend, or something. Either way, it appears that one or more "dudes" are now living there with the naive, stupid chicks. And these guys are quite obnoxious. On Tuesday night while Greg and I were there painting, two of them were sitting out on the little common wall that separates our two condos from each other (it's about three feet high and stucco... it basically means our front doors face one another, which I never totally liked but it never was an issue until now), drinking and being as loud as they possibly could. We were in the condo for 2 hours painting, and we had the window open so we could hear the whole mess.

These guys? SO stupid. I mean, first they are drinking out in public in a condo complex with a notoriously strict HOA. I knew someone was going to report them. Beyond that, though, was the volume of their voices and their offensive language. Now I appreciate a well-placed "fuck" or "motherfuckin'" here and there in conversation, but to inject these phrases in between every third word is a little excessive, I think. It makes the speaker sound kind of, well, ignorant.

Especially when said speaker is talking about such retarded things. Here are some gems I can recall from the overheard, drunken conversation:

* "I used to be, like, a motherfuckin' PLAYER in my school and shit! Fuck, I had, like, fuckin', five girlfriends, all on the same fuckin' street."
* "I was at the fuckin' strip club down on fucking Scottsdale Road, and this fuckin' stripper was fuckin' giving me free fuckin' lapdances ALL fucking night, dude!"
* "Well, I love her, man... she's having my fuckin' baby."
* "I'm not racist, but Puerto Rican girls will FUCK your shit up, man! You get into their fuckin' families and you are fuckin' IN for LIFE."
* "I'm not racist, but black chicks just ain't fuckin' hot, I don't care."
* "I was in Vegas, and I was fuckin' coked out of my mind and shit, and she calls me and she's like, "why the fuck didn't you fuckin' call me back?" and I was like, "FUCK this shit! I don't need to fuckin' deal with your shit right now, bitch!" and I fuckin' hung up on her! I mean, FUCK that SHIT."

And so the conversation turned... until the sun went down. Or, at least, well past the time we left because they were still out there, drunker than ever, louder than ever and racist/ignorant/disgusting as ever. The stupid ASU chicks? Nowhere to be seen. They must have been inside the condo, hiding from the assholes on the porch.

We went back last night, and this time Trish came over to help us do the final coat of paint. The front door of their condo was wide open and you could see right into their living room, where Asshole Dude #1 was slouched on the couch in a wifebeater, drinking. They just blankly stared at us as we went to my front door and turned on the lights and went in. Soon afterwards, the music began.

Music. It was like Gay German Rave music. Loud, techno, crappy and totally shitty. And they cranked it UP. It was at, 11. REALLY loud. We looked out the window and saw they had gone back out to the porch and left beer bottles on the wall as they went in and out of that white-trashy open door. The LOUD NOISES! were too much! And it continued for at least 45 minutes at that volume. I couldn't imagine that my other neighbors were tolerating this very well. I had visions of the nasty old lady from the HOA Board who lived five doors down coming over and telling them to turn it down or report it to the Board, so they could contact the owner of the condo and maybe get them to stop their shenanigans and act like normal human beings who live in close proximity of other people. I couldn't imagine if I still lived there how I would tolerate it. I would be over there physically threatening them, and reporting their asses to the HOA and maybe even calling cops. I would NOT take it. I'm like that: I don't take any "fuckin' shit" from white-trash, racist, ignorant punks.

So anyway, the thing I am now concerned with is this: what if the perfect buyers show up to see my condo... they love the layout, they even love the bland white bedroom, the price is in their range... and then the assholes next door open their front door to reveal a complete disaster area littered with empty bottles and pizza boxes, and the Gay Rave music begins pounding through the walls and windows, and then they come outside and sit on the wall drinking while the perfect buyers leave in a hurry. Yeah... I am so sure they'll want to buy a place that's right next door to that.

Any ideas on how I can "get rid of them"? You know, "take them out"? And "not get caught?" Nothing is too gruesome for me, so e-mail me your creative little ideas.

And now, in honor of Maureen Stapleton, here are my favorite Ma Kelly quotes from "Johnny Dangerously":

"But Ma, it's Prohibition!"
"Oh, shut up, and stop acting like a fag choirboy!"

"Bless the Saints! It's an ashtray! I've been thinking of taking up smoking... this clinches it."

"Now that you're family, I gotta tell you something."
"What's that, Ma Kelly?"
"I go both ways."

Rest in peace, dear Maureen.

OK, if you have delicate sensibilities (what the hell are those?!) or you are my Mom, maybe you don't want to read the following information. So I advise "you people" to stop reading now and go check out the news, or something appropriately safe and friendly.

If you are still reading, bravo to you. Because now you get to find out about the lovely e-mail I got on my work account this morning!

My work e-mail account is blessedly devoid of filth. I manage not to get any spam e-mail, or anything nasty on that thing because we have an actual IT department that does a great job of filtering that stuff out. (Not like my last job, where the IT guy was an angry Frenchman who would basically laugh at all of us dumb Americans and let us wallow in mountains of junk mail because he said there "vas nothink he could dooo about eeet.") As much as I like me the corn with a P, I don't like it when it arrives in multiples of 37 each morning. So this job has been nice and clean.

Until today.

One got through. One little spammer made it through the security nets and landed a "juicy one" on my Outlook. I was a little shaken to see it there, to be honest. I wondered if my computer had been compromised in some way, and now was going to be defiled with this crap everyday, or wind up in trouble from that super-efficient IT department for allowing filth into this fair, decent company. I pointed my mouse at it, highlighted it and got ready to hit that "X" in my toolbar to erase the wickedness once and for all!

Then, I read the subject line.

"The safe way to drown your girlfriend in yur cum."

It's funny on so many levels. The least of which is probably that misspelled "yur" at the end. The most of which is the idea that YES, there really IS a safe way to keep the bitch afloat during these trying times of ejaculatory pleasure. Wow. My eyes are open, and I am willing to learn. More than willing. I NEED to know how this miracle is performed. Maybe at some point I will do a little research (at home! On my home computer! Of course!!) into this intriguing idea. I am a good, Christian girl, and I wouldn't mind putting my editor/writer skills to work to write a little brochure/pamphlet/leaflet/paperlet that I can hand out to the Unfortunates and the Down N Outs in the Rough Side of Town to give them good, practical, Christian advice to avoid the tragedy of drowning in the bedroom. I can do my part to stop this senseless killing. For, there IS a safe way to do this! I will spread the word!

Well, to be honest, I probably won't. I will just sit back, let the ugliness happen somewhere else. I wish I was the charitable type of Christian, but let's face it... I'm not. I believe more in natural selection. Let 'em go.

I wonder if more nuggets of sexual advice will find their way to my work e-mail account in the future! If they do, I sure hope they are as amusing as my old (now deleted) pal, The Safe Way to Drown Your Girlfriend in Yur Cum. Magnifique!

This thing looks like a Muppet! But it's a new animal that they recently discovered at the bottom of the ocean. Here's the story. I read about this a few days ago and whenever I tried to explain it to anyone, I sounded crazy. "They found a furry lobster! And it has long blond hair!" Now, here is some evidence, anyway, that I speak the truth. There is a blond lobster-thing out there.

I was taking a leisurely look through my My Pictures folder on my work computer today, and I realized it has been a long time since I went in there. I found some hilarious stuff! I need to go back there more often, and post these things.

The picture above is something that makes me laugh out loud every time I see it. Granted, I haven't seen it for probably about a year, when I saved it for some future nefarious purpose I never actually saw to fruition. But it made me gasp a little in seeing it again and this awful, work-heavy Friday.

God Bless Bea Arthur and her Leia bikini! So hot!

Thrill as Wacky Movie Star Mel Gibson pulls cobwebs from his dirty beard!

Congratulations to Kane, who was just cast as Sick Boy in a theatrical version of Trainspotting! Who knew that the little Asian mutt had it in 'im to play a Scottish heroin addict? OK, we kind of all did. Have fun pretending to shoot up!

Everyone else is doing this list-thing, so I wanted to join in on the fun, too. Lani kind of started it when she pseudo-tagged everyone, so here I go. And I go mostly because I can’t think of another thing to blog about at the moment.

I just realized this is pretty much the standard thing people write as their “lead in copy” when they answer these things. Only I didn’t say “I really hate these things, but…” I don’t hate them. I think they can be interesting to read sometimes. I have a hard time completing one myself, but I love being the voyeur knowing all about the lives and times of the Bloggers.

Well, on to the answers, I s’pose…

Four Jobs I Have Had:
1) Clerk at drugstore: I stocked shelves, worked the register, gave old people their little white bags with their prescriptions inside, sold lottery tickets and cigarettes, and did free gift wrapping. I liked this job a lot because I had fun with the other people who worked there, and we got an awesome discount on everything (OK, we stole a lot of it) and I had more nail polish and shampoo in those years than I ever have had since.
2) Video store clerk: Best job ever--free movie rentals, access to new movies before they come out (screeners!), sit around and watch movies when it is slow, OR play pinball when it is slow, getting to know “the regulars” and what’s going on in their lives… man, I loved it. Wish that the movie rental racket was still a business you could go into on your own, and not monopolized by two big chains. I’d definitely have a store to support my writing habit!
3) Editor of five different trade magazines: Technically, I held this title at two different companies/jobs, but it was the same thing: I wrote about, planned the content of, traveled to trade shows for, and basically did a ton of thankless work every month on magazines for the following industries: carwashing; infection control (sterilization in hospitals and stuff like that); marinas and boatyards; buses and motorcoaches. The fifth magazine didn’t really print more than one issue since the company killed it due to poor sales (and sabotage, but that’s a whole other thing right there I won’t get into), but it was one I launched myself and it was on stagecraft and technical theater.
4) “Writer”: Yeah, so this is my current title, and it means that I basically “write” things for my company’s affiliate department. I write pretty much all the lame stuff for websites, brochures, manuals, order drops, news alerts, and I even ghostwrite letters for people. If it has words in there somewhere, guaranteed it ends up on my desk. I keep the word “writer” in quotation marks here because I am not doing the kind of writing I always thought I would be doing when I grew up. So while I am officially titled a “writer,” I strive and work on being a real WRITER outside of work and in the future. This is butt-monkey stuff, here.

Four movies I could watch over and over again:
1) Wet Hot American Summer
2) Better Off Dead
3) The Jerk
4) Billy Madison (I like a lot of serious movies, too, it’s just these are the first 4 that came to mind. For economy’s sake, I need to move on and not be so lengthy in my answers, so… on to the next thing)

Four TV Shows I love to watch:
1) Arrested Development (pleasecontinueonShowtime!!!)
2) Buffy or Angel (yeah, I don’t watch a lot of things that are still on the air)
3) The Office (OK, there’s one!)
4) Northern Exposure (…nope, I am back to the DVDs again. I just can’t shake a good show when I find one.)

Four places I have been to on vacation:
1) Disney World, Epcot, Sea World and Universal in one action-packed trip
2) Lake George, NY (hey, didn’t I see you standing on the pier next to the Minnehaha cruise boat? If you get that reference, come here and give me a kiss!)
3) San Francisco, CA (Setting for the best bike ride ever--and worst Chinese food hyped by a concierge. Never listen to the concierge.)
4) Martha’s Vineyard, MA (my family rented a Jeep and I recall bouncing around in the backseat as we drove to the spot overlooking the nude beach. Also, there was a shark fishing tourney going on, so we saw a lot of dead sharks and blood.)

Four websites I visit daily:
1) All the blogs. I’m addicted.
2) AZCentral.com
3) Yahoo for my e-mail and ‘news’
4) Bank of America. (“Am I still poor today?”)

Four of my favorite foods:
1) Fresh-cut strawberries
2) Pasta w/ marinara and occasionally, alfredo.
3) Green salad
4) Greg’s chicken (he does a wicked marinade and knows how to use sea salt to its full advantage!)

Four places I would rather be right now:
1) Home with Greg
2) Deep Cut Park in Middletown, NJ (but it has to be on an early summer day)
3) Any beach in San Diego (or on Coronado)
4) About to enter the office of a publisher who tells me that yes, they would love to publish my books, and here is a contract to write three more…

There! I feel a sense of accomplishment now that I have done this little meme. It only took me all day, in between silly work interruptions and stuff like that. This work thing is really starting to cut into my Me Time. Or, you could say it is cutting into my Meme Time. ...Oh! See what I did there? Hot damn in a basket; that was hilarious.

Oh, and I am not tagging anyone. Know why? No one ever tags me directly and I am an angry bitch about it. Also, tagging people to do memes can give you cancer of the butt, so be forewarned.

There was something on VH1 tonight that featured web clips, and it was hilarious. It made me pine for my all-time favorite clip, though. So when the show was over I went on trusty old YouTube and found THIS!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtQUd4bSemg&search=PARASAIL

Stupid Blogger, not letting me hyperlink, again. Actually, it's my computer. I think it's busted. Like your mom's hymen. Well, hold on there. Of COURSE her hymen's busted; she gave birth to you, didn't she? And of course, my computer would be crap, too. That's why this analogy works.

I also can't use my assholish Dell DJ again. This is the second time I have had one of these shitballs freeze up on me. I had to send the first DJ back when the hard drive just crashed for no reason one day, in the middle of playing a song. They sent me this other DJ that was "refurbished" and now, one year and three months later (three months after the warranty ran out, conveniently) it appears this one is going to die an early death, too. Son of a bitch, you know? I just want to hear my tunes. And now my tunes are gone. Silent. Something needs to cheer me up. I know, I will just watch THIS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtQUd4bSemg&search=PARASAIL
again and again and again until the pain stops pummeling me so relentlessly. Oh, pain, you are no match for THIS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtQUd4bSemg&search=PARASAIL.

I am sure this blog post is going to look FABULOUS when I hit that Publish Post button.

Mickey Rooney came up twice this weekend. I don’t mean that the little guy came jumping up at us, out from somewhere below us; because that would be utterly terrifying. More accurately, he was mentioned in conversation on Saturday and then we saw him at the Oscars as Robert Altman was talking about the importance of movies. Both times he was in the spotlight, Greg and I both pondered his still-alive status.

The first time ol’ Mickey was mentioned was when I was wiping down the refrigerator. We have one of those stainless steel jobs, and it needs to be wiped down occasionally with the “stainless steel wipes” because regular cleaners will dull the surface and basically tear the soul from the delicate stainless steel. Stainless steel is the pussy of the kitchen… well, maybe next to the cutting board you need to massage with oil every once in awhile to make the wood last or whatever.

So there I was, wiping the doors of the fridge down in a circular and rather jaunty manner. It made me think of “Pete’s Dragon” again (god, I think that movie pops up in my head far too often for me to be healthy) and the scene where they are singing as they clean the windows of the lighthouse. So I started singing a few lines of that song, “Razzle Dazzle Day” as I wiped in a Disney-esque fashion. And then I proceeded to tell Greg all about Pete’s Dragon, and that scene. “Mickey Rooney is wiping down the windows of the lighthouse like this (I demonstrated), and he is singing that song. His character is an alcoholic, too.” Next, one of us wondered aloud if Mickey was dead or not; and after that, we quickly jumped to a new subject altogether. It’s best not to think too long about Mickey Rooney.

Then, last night as we watched the Oscars, we were treated to a brief crowd shot with a close-up of Mickey Rooney. He looked so old it appeared he was in pain just sitting there and breathing. I wonder if wrinkles can get so dried out they could crack when you try to show emotion on your face. I wonder if Mickey Rooney still misses Judy Garland and those halcyon days of Old Hollywood. Damn right he does. What else would he be thinking about?

As much as Mickey Rooney bugs me and scares me on some level (he looks a little like some random demon that would have been on Buffy), I have to give him some credit for even getting up, getting into the tuxedo, and getting his ass to the Oscars. And it looked like he was actually listening to what was going on, and I have a feeling that he was UNDERSTANDING and FOLLOWING the speeches very closely. Which was more than I was doing. A few times during the night, I noticeably “zoned out” and realized I was thinking about other, non-Oscar-related things as some silly actor was on stage talking about the relative importance of art.

That’s another thing: yes, art is important. It’s CRUCIAL. Without art, we are just a bunch of schlups walking around doing jobs and eating and sleeping without any passion or excitement. But I have been struggling with the movies in recent years; I very rarely see film that I would qualify as art. Of course, art is subjective, objective and all about perspective, right? So what I would call art another person would call shit. Either way, here is my point:

No matter what your occupation is; no matter what form of art you are working in; no matter how well you do your form of art… keep it in perspective. Actors, directors, writers and even sound editors are just cogs in the wheel. You’re not THE wheel itself. No one art form is. So don’t act all grandiose and self-important about what you do or what you created.

They're going to give out awards. Everyone loves awards. So when you get one, here's how you act: Be gratious, be humble and accept your award, but don’t make retarded statements like the guy who won for the Crash script. He said something to the effect of “art is the hammer that shapes society, and that is what our film has done.” SHUT IT. Yeah, maybe that art/hammer statement has something to it, but it’s taken out of context here to glorify a project, and I think that is just wrong. (Not to mention the fact that he probably should have talked about how their movie was a reflection of society, really; it’s not a means to CHANGE society—it’s one movie and from what I have been told, not a very good one either.) Self-confidence is great, but really, who wants to hear someone yammer on about how great they are or how much this one project matters? I really have grown to loathe the entertainment industry, a little more every year. If I met a Famous Actor, I think I might end up walking in the other direction muttering “fuck you” into the wind.

Maybe I am cynical, or maybe it’s just that we are holding ‘celebrities’ up as modern gods and even leaders. Maybe it’s the fact that people like Jessica Alba have careers (she’s nothing but a little bit of skin over some bones) and that actors get paid millions to appear in one film. It could be all the retarded gossip magazines all over the place. (I couldn’t find Premiere or Entertainment Weekly last week in the store because all the racks were holding Life & Style, People, Star, US Weekly, the Enquirer and the huge new TV Guide. I just wanted to read some reviews and get information on what new things are coming out—I really do NOT want to know about Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston’s hush-hush wedding since she is already sporting a ‘baby bump’) Either way, I am losing interest in a big way. It used to be a fun diversion and eye-candy; now it’s just a source of annoyance and evidence of our society growing dumber by the minute.

This brings it all back to the Mickey Rooney thing: the only time “celebrities” should really matter on a wide-scale level is when they create actual, real, valid works of art; or when they die. It’s the fault of the media it’s like this. Stop covering the gossip and raising them up to icons, and only talk about their work-- applaud them for real work, performances, and discuss how this new piece of work contributes to society. Who care if they have babies, get married or drink Starbucks everyday while they walk the dog. I care if they are writing a great new movie or play, or if they have truly brought a character to life, or if the new album reflects how they are improving as a band. That’s it. Amen.

"RARRRR! I'm a spinosaurus, the biggest meat-eater around, like, EVER! Gimme an ice cream sammich!! I am also the biggest ice cream sammich-eater, so get me an ice cream sammich now, bitches!"

I spit in the face of modern bridal traditions and bought a wedding dress without seeing it or trying it on, even! It's true. See, I kind of abhore those bridal shops; you know, the ones where when you walk in they are offering you tea and coffee and everything is poufy, fluffy and positively expensive. I don't like the salesladies who give you their card. I don't like the thousands and thousands of styles and excuse me, but WHAT is a "sweetheart" neckline?! It's just not me. That's all. I accept that. (I was engaged once before in stupider time long ago; and I visited exactly one bridal shop with my sister back then and could only bring myself to try on bridesmaid's dresses with the promise from the saleslady that I could order them in white... the bridesmaid's dresses, from Watters and Watters, were ALL I could tolerate because they didn't have trains and crazy rouching or layers and layers of crap. Anyway, I left without any ideas and actually not excited, at all, about the prospect of dressing like a bride. So I recalled that experience and decided I was not going to kill myself trying to find The Perfect Dress.)

One day at work a couple weeks ago I was bored and had nothing to do, so I started perusing wedding websites and somehow found myself on Windsor's website. Yeah, you know... that crappy store in the mall where girls go for prom gowns? THAT'S the place. But one time when Trish and I were in there, I remember we saw some decent looking dresses in the back of the store that we both thought wouldn't make for bad wedding dresses. Even if you had to embellish the dress or alter it a little to make it more bride-like or more personally yours, those dresses had potential. Not to mention, they cost a fraction of what most people spend on dresses. So Windsor was on my dress-radar. Laugh at me if you want, but the facts remain: I am not rich. I don't like bridal shops. I don't like a lot of fussing and prissiness. I like to get what I want, get it now, get it over with--DONE. I don't have any pretenses of worrying what people will think of my Windsor dress (hence, the public writing about it on here) and could give a shit less about the label or brand of my dress. Finally, I am having an outdoor wedding and reception, so I want a dress I won't freak out over if it gets a grass stain or gets dirty. WINDSOR, consider this deal closed!

UPDATE, 3/2: I took the wedding dress link down; I decided it was a one-day-only peek and that was it. Thanks for your comments on it!

It probably needs some minor alterations if it doesn't fit (it was only available in limited sizes so I might need it taken in, but who cares, it's still cheaper than other options), and I actually like the silver sparkles and flowers. I plan to wear this dress with either Chuck Taylors or white chinese-style maryjanes, if I can find them. I am going to be a funky bride. I am quite excited!