See that shark there? It's a reef shark. They're not all that dangerous, apparently. They can also be caught on a line and rod. Still, they're pretty scary anyway...who wants to be up close with a shark? Not many people I know. But here's the thing: me and my sister lived our entire childhoods with a shark just like that.

It was in the basement sometimes, and other times it was in the garage. My father caught it while on honeymoon with my mom, and he had it stuffed and mounted. It was there before I was born, and to this day my Dad still has it. And it still freaks me out every goddamn time I see it!

My family was a teasin' kind of family. Let's just admit that right now. We tease one another. I would eavesdrop on Trish as she recorded herself talking and singing into the tape recorder and then mock her relentlessly. (Honestly, a lot of what she said and did was just fucking adorable-little-sister stuff; I loved it.) My parents teased one another. My grandparents picked on each other and rolled their eyes and laughed at some dumb thing the other one said. It was a good-time atmosphere. EXCEPT when it came to that fucking shark!

One ordinary Saturday, Trish and I were in the living room, eating Stella D'oro cookies and watching "The Littles", when without any warning whatsoever my father walked in the back door with the SHARK. It was In. The. HOUSE. The scary looking shark that lurked only in the basement until that time... a shadowy place neither of us went to because it was scary as hell...was now right there, in the daylight, being carried through the kitchen TOWARDS US.

We freaked out. There was screaming, there was a quick evacuation from the room. I know we practically tripped over each other trying to hustle up the stairs so we could run to our room and slam the door to get away from the shark. My dad made scary "Oooooooo, shark..." noises as he walked after us slowly.

It definitely upset us; he got more than he bargained for. Sure, he probably had a good laugh at our little-girl screaming and overreacting. But we didn't forgive him for it. A few years later, once the shark was placed in the garage, I took a stone from the driveway and threw it at it. Nothing happened; the shark stayed in place, looking menacing as ever.

Stupid shark!

Although...

I have to admit sharks are cool. You know I am always tuned in to Shark Week. And I scan the news for word of new shark attacks. I do. I think Trish might do it, too. We've got a history with sharks. Big, dead, mounted sharks with glass eyes and fiberglass bodies.

You know what else is freaky as hell? The huge fiberglass blue whale in the American Museum of Natural History. That whole ocean room is scary as fuck to me. When we watched Squid and the Whale recently, the movie ends with a scene in that room. It gave me goosebumps remembering how creepy that place was.

Between that room at the AMNH and the movie "Orca," that might explain why I was so scared to walk past our pool at night when I was in middle school. I used to imagine an orca rising up out of the black water in the dark and biting my arms off.

Hmm... I smell a new TAG-POST. Or whatever they're called.

We've done childhood weirdnesses-- so what are TWO CHILDHOOD FEARS? I'm tagging the usual crowd... Trish, Tinapopo, Lani, Jen, Smackadocious, Pixie, Fraulein N, Lengli (if she's able to blog from FRAAAHHNCE), Kane and Out in Left Field. And any of the rest of you-- I'm looking in your direction Paul, Mike "too coole for schoole" toole, Robert and all of youse guys.

Go to town, scaredy cats.

Why am I still here? Everyone else has gone home. It's a Friday. My boss is gone. Yet, here I sit at my lonely little desk in the corner. You know why I am here? It's because I am a total nerd. I am supposed to work until 5:30, and so I shall. I'm too honest for my own good. (I typed "for my own food" first, and that is also true. My food is not deserving of my rectitude!)

Tomorrow is my birthday, yee ha yee haw YEE! That's my new battle cry, in case you were wondering. It replaces "Schlip dap dip dap DOO!" Ask not about my battles, for they are many and they are bloody... you don't want to know.

It's a nice birthday, 31. There isn't the pressure of doing something I'll always remember to commemorate this birthday. Last year I made sure I went out and had some fun, and it was definitely an excellent way to enter my dirty thirties. The only thing I feel like I should do is maybe buy a lottery ticket and make sure 31 is one of the numbers. That's of course if I ever muster the fortitude to actually go down to the Circle K. So lazy.

Tomorrow is not only my birthday, it's... the day the Gravel Gets Spread. Greg has enlisted the help of two trusted friends, David and Laura, to come over and help on Gravel Gets Spread Day, which begins bright and early at 5:00am. In case you don't know, we are placing said gravel in our backyard, which is almost completed. A huge pile of it--17 TONS to be exact, yowzas!-- was delivered today. The Gravel Gets Spread at 5am because it's supposed to hit 110 tomorrow, and let me tell you that no human being should ever be spreading gravel at those temperatures. That's a surefire way to fry your skull and turn stupid.

I wish I could help, I really do. My back is not cooperating with my wishes, though. I threw it out last weekend, again. Today I am still sore and not walking completely right yet. I always forget and try to do things I am not supposed to do with two herniated discs. I hate having this particular affliction because it definitely can knock you out of doing ANYTHING if the pain is bad enough. And I don't like feeling idle. I want to do things and contribute and be useful, damn it. Stupid back.

Well, in other news, I had lunch at a place called the White Chocolate Grill today. Free birthday lunch from the bosslady. I half expected some sort of fondue thing, or weird frou-frou entrees with white chocolate in the recipe somehow, but all they had that was white chocolate was their desserts. I ordered the one dessert that did not have white chocolate in it, ironically. I had the apple pie.

I saw a little bit of "The Office" last night, and I realized something I didn't want to realize: there is a chance that I might get tired of the premise. Anyone else feel like it's a little limited in what they can do? Or is it just me?

I'm also going to be the Publicity Director of this new theater company in town. I met with the main artistic and production directors last night and they were really nice and honest and they seem like they're on the same page that I am when it comes to Community Theater. So we'll see how this goes. Doing publicity for a company is cool, because I can still say that yes, I am involved in theater, but no, I don't have to worry about learning lines or casting a show or finding props. It's an easy way to be involved, for me. I'm excited about it. Check out Insurrection Theater.

It is now almost 5:30, so I am leaving! FIZZZOWWW! I'm outta heeeeere. Like Doug. If you get that reference give yourself a cube of sugar--you've earned it.

Check out this awesome image from Something Awful. I don't know why but the illustration of the skeleton with the ball is killing me:

Just when I was sure I’d have nothing to blog about today, I am tagged by Tinapopo to share Six Weird Things From My Childhood. I happen to think I peaked at 12, so this should be a good time.

Mmm, Pass the Grass!
I liked to help my mother out in the kitchen in the days before that place called “school” started calling my name. I used to like to open the doors of all the cabinets I could reach and pretend they were compartments in a train; I would move from “car to car” while she attempted to cook dinner above and around me. I also removed all the pots and pans from the cabinets and carefully re-arranged them, because I knew there was nothing more my Mom would like than a complete Pots and Pans Placement Makeover from her thoughtful daughter.

I liked to play outside in our yard a lot when I was a kid, and I was a master at making mud pies, mud burgers (with big flat stones as the bun), and mud popsicles. I also liked to eat vegetables a lot more than the common kid. I saw something on TV about cows, and the cows were eating grass and it looked so delicious to me. I decided that I should pick some grass for my Mom to make with dinner.

So I did—I picked some of the longest grass I could find in our yard, and placed them carefully in this small plastic picnic basket. I sampled some as I went along. The whole time I was doing this, I was so psyched about how happy my Mom would be that I thought to bring some grass in for dinner. She’d think it was a GREAT idea and would maybe even cook it with butter—mmmm!

I proudly brought the grass into the house and told my Mom we should have it for dinner. And she agreed! She took the grass from me and thanked me for picking it. I was SO proud.

Later on when we had dinner, there was some cooked green stuff on the plate. “Yay! My grass!” I ate it happily. At some point, my Mom told me the truth: she had thrown away the grass and made spinach instead. “But wasn’t the spinach good?” she said. “And besides, the dogs pee on the grass and who wants to eat that?” I hadn’t thought about the dog pee thing; but, from then on, I never picked or ate any more grass.

That Fucking Cat
Even though I grew up with a cool old orange tabby cat named Benji, for a short period of time I developed a huge fear of cats. I don’t remember why, or how long it lasted, but I do know I didn’t want any cats anywhere near me. I think I thought they would run up to me, hiss at me and commence scratching the hell out of me. I was OK around Benji, but any other cat would make me run and hide. (I was probably around 7 or 8)

One day me and my sister were outside playing in our cool log cabin playhouse, when I saw the Phlyss’ cat walking across the driveway. The Phylss’ were our neighbors with the name I just can’t seem to spell. Anyway, I spotted the cat and freaking GRABBED my little sister and pulled her into the log cabin. “It’s the CAT!!” I screamed. Trish began to scream, too. Oh my God! A cat! And it’s walking across our driveway…! I closed up the windows in the log cabin and we probably moved a chair or something in front of the door so if the cat tried to muscle its way in it would have a hard time doing it.

Trish and I sat in that log cabin and screamed about the cat for probably a half an hour before my Mom came outside and wanted to know what the hell we were screaming about. It wasn’t long after that when my fear of cats disappeared as suddenly as it came on.

Wet Shoes, Guilty Heart
The big thing to do in second grade was to go to the girl’s bathroom and swing on the gray metal stall doors near the toilets. I don’t know why, but you just weren’t cool if you didn’t swing back and forth on those doors a few times whenever you got a bathroom pass. I was pre-occupied with being cool back then, so of course I swung on the doors, too.

On picture day, I was wearing this pretty dark green dress with a white pinafore, and new patent leather shoes over my white knit tights. My mom had done my hair perfectly that morning; I looked like a little angel. But before it was picture time, I went to the bathroom for the first Door Swing of the day.

I was in there with my friend Melissa and we were both swinging on the doors. Swinging on the doors went like this: 1) Stand on toilet seat, and grab onto top of door. 2) Jump off toilet, and swing with your body pressed against the door, moving a little to make momentum to make the door swing back and forth a few times. 3) Return to toilet seat for the dismount. OR… just drop down to the floor.

I was an ass, and tried to do the toilet seat dismount. Bad idea. Instead of landing my patent leather shoes on the black seat, I slipped and landed my feet right into the bowl. So there I was, with wet shoes and tights, and the panicky feeling that I was going to get in trouble.

I swore Melissa to secrecy as she ran back to class. I tried to mop up the moisture with those brown paper towels, to no avail. I figured the best thing to do was just walk back to class like nothing happened—maybe it would dry by the time I got back. (Yeah, the whole 10 feet back to the classroom)

I walk into class and the WHOLE room turns and looks at me, and laughs. Turns out Melissa couldn’t keep a secret; the first thing she did when she got back into the room was tell the teacher that I fell in the toilet. My teacher was nice about it—I think Melissa was trying, in her own way, to get help for me. But everyone overheard her say it. I ended up having to go for my pictures with wet, sloppy shoes. In the class photo, I am smiling the proud smile of someone with drying-toilet-stink all over her legs.

Oh, and for frequent readers of this blog, you’ll be happy to know that my nemesis, Laura, went home and told her Mom about me falling in the toilet, and guess what—two days later, when I got home from school, my Mom said, “So what’s this I hear about your shoes going into the toilet?” Damn tattletale Laura.

Another Crappy Show
I put on shows for my family all the time. In the winter, I would perform a Christmas Spectacular in the living room, decking my sister out in strands of tree garland and having her sing Jingle Bell Rock with me in the light of a desk lamp sitting on the carpet like a footlight. During the summer, we would have Water Spectaculars (the word “Spectacular” was ALWAYS in there for some reason; I guess I had a high opinion of my shows). We’d play music out by the pool, and do “synchronized water acrobatics”—fancy stuff like handstands and going-underwater-at-the-same-time. We’d dance around the pool and jump in while holding very graceful, showy poses. (The Like a Virgin album played heavily into these water shows; I particularly loved my routine for “Dress You Up.”)

I would also put on shows just for my sister, using Barbie dolls. I’d make a set for the show, and set the whole thing up underneath a snack table with a blanket thrown over it to serve as the curtain. Here’s the weird thing: I would work for a couple of DAYS to get the show right.

I’d carefully make the decorations for the set with poster board, glitter, markers and probably some shiny string or tinsel. Then I would pick the music out for the “acts” and practice each dance routine for the Barbie dolls a few times to make sure I choreographed it well. I’d also have to line up all the costume changes for my dolls, and have that ready to go. And, of course, I would make handwritten Programs for the show. For some reason, the programs were one of my favorite parts. I modeled them after the programs they’d hand out at our dance recitals.

Trish actually looked forward to the Barbie Show. And when it was finally showtime, she sat and watched very respectfully and seemed genuinely entertained by the “dancing” dolls.

I also would write “plays” and try to perform those, too. One Thanksgiving, we set up the food spread in the living room on a long folding table with a themed tablecloth on it, and I had my Granny narrate a story I made up about a little orphan girl and her dog who walk past the Thanksgiving Store-Restaurant and look longingly at the food in the window. But, they can’t have any. For they were POOR.

I told her what to say, and then I acted it out holding the leash of my Granny’s dog, Penny. There is a picture of me somewhere with my back to the camera, looking at all the food as the dog looks pained at being held there against her will.

I should also mention I had an obsession about orphans for some reason; I blame “Annie.” Those orphans might have been dirty, sad, beaten on a regular basis and missed their parents, but they sure had a good time singing and dancing as they cleaned the orphanage!

My Cartoon Boyfriends
I had to include this one after Tinapopo spoke of her crush on the Robin Hood fox from the Disney film. I, too, had two different cartoon crushes:

The Tramp, from Lady and the Tramp. I don’t know why, but I really thought he was the shit. I remember listening to the record-version on my record player and playing back his lines and singing “He’s a Tramp” into the mirror for HOURS. I’ve even considered naming a dog Tramp in his honor, as recently as…oh, a month or so ago.

A small centaur named Newt in the “Hercules” cartoon. I can’t even remember what this show was, or when it was on, except that it came on after school when I was in kindergarten. My memories are fuzzy on this one, but Newt was a little boy centaur that Hercules took under his wing. I only know I had to come home and watch Hercules everyday so I could see Newt again. No one else I have met so far seems to remember this cartoon.

The Handicapped Spot
Another frequent game Trish and I would play was Snack Bar. Our family went to a really cool pool club when we were little, and their snack bar was awesome. It had Ellio’s frozen pizza, Italian ices, the Pac-Man ice pops that were out for awhile, Fat Frogs, cheese popcorn and slushies. So later on, when the pool club went out of business and we got our own above-ground pool, we had to establish a snack bar as well.

No matter that the snack bar was housed, again, in the log cabin.

And that no one really came to our snack bar except us.

We still made signs up and hung them around the yard, and made a menu board and everything. We used the Snoopy Sno-Cone machine to make crappy snow cones for ourselves, and we drank Capri Suns instead of slushies. But it was still a good snack bar.

For some reason, I really thought someone would want to come to our snack bar. Meaning, the general public. I had this vision that once a few people visited our snack bar, they would tell other people and the next thing we’d know, Trish and I would be serving Snoopy Sno-Cones and cheese crackers out of the window of the log cabin, drive-through style.

But where would these people park? Naturally, they would park their cars on our patio. So I drew some parking spaces with chalk on the patio. And I was careful to make the spot closest to the “snack bar” a handicapped spot. I drew the wheelchair and everything, and made a sign that said “For Handicapped Only” and taped it to the wall near the spot.

To my extreme disappointment, no handicapped patrons ever showed up to park on our patio. And I protested and cried when my dad hosed the whole thing off when he got home from work.

I enjoyed remembering my kid weirdness. There’s a lot more I could have talked about, but I’m sure no one wants to read a 3,500 word blog post today. So I move on! I tag Trish, Toole, Lengli, Lani, Smackadocious, Fraulein N, Georgia and Jen to write about the 6 Weirdest Things from Their Childhoods. Wait, is that proper sentence structure there? “Childhoods” doesn’t sound right for some reason. It’s a funny plural word. Well, if saying childhoods is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. Just forget for a few minutes that I am a writer by trade. Blogs are not serious writing.

I keep telling myself that so I feel better.

• Our pool is done! This means it has been successfully plastered (as have I, ladies and gents, as have I). There’s water in it (just like me and my trusty bladder)… and all it needs now are more chemicals to adjust the pH (I’m not saying where in my body the pH needs adjustin’ but suffice to say it probably won’t hurt if I do balance things out a bit). And these are just three of the many ways that I am Like a Pool. I’d think of more, but frankly, the whole thing has grown tiresome.
The truth is, the pool is done, and now we just need to get the proper chemical mix going on, and then we can go in--we can actually swim while the plaster cures. The dogs can't, though, because the plaster isn't ready yet, and their claws could scratch it up. We'll bring them in soon. For now, they don't seem interested in going near the edge, so that's good. I am so happy the pool is almost swim-ready, though!

• I didn’t mention it before, but we finally signed up for Netflix and it’s pretty damn cool. I realized that so far, we have only received movies that begin with the letter S. They were: Stewie Griffin: The Untold Story, Shopgirl, The Squid and the Whale, and Some Like it Hot. I don’t know what’s next on our queue, but today I am wishing I could watch Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid. I think it’s further down the list, though. (Oh, and I didn’t like Shopgirl. I’m not entirely surprised, though. What does Steve Martin think he is, the next Woody Allen? He writes these unfunny movies with all these young girls after his ass. Whatever. He’s great when he is being funny and making hilarious movies; he’s pretentious when he’s writing things like that play with Picasso in it and Shopgirl. And do they really have glove counters in the upscale stores? Who could perform a job as dull as glove saleswoman, seriously? All that standing around and then selling either black gloves or gray gloves, all day long. Kill me if it comes to that. Do it with a shoe to my eye. Or cyanide slipped into my Snapple.)

• I was sick yesterday.

• My current favorite CD is Rilo Kiley’s The Execution of All Things. I don’t know why I didn’t listen to this before on recently. I bought it on sale in Borders with Iron and Wine’s album with the bearded guy on the cover, and The Fray. I can’t figure out why I got that one, because the songs I liked online have grown tedious upon multiple listens. But yes, I like Rilo Kiley. Well done, I say!

• For my birthday, we’re all going to the roller derby!

• When I sat on it last night, the couch broke. A piece on the bottom just snapped and the whole thing slid and shifted so that my side of the couch was on the floor. Breaking a couch when you sit on it is a surefire way to jettison all thoughts of “maybe I’m NOT that fat.” Yeah. I think I am. (In truth, it was probably ‘going’ for a long time and my assplant was the sit that broke the couch’s underbelly. Greg fixed the whole thing and you’d never know the couch was ever broken!)

• I’ve been having trouble understanding heavy Spanish accents lately. I feel very white and suburban for this.

• Even though I was nauseous as hell yesterday, for a brief time all I wanted was either an Orange Berry Blast from Jamba Juice, or a McDonald’s strawberry shake. I ended up getting neither!

• I’m right in the middle of reading Dracula, and I love it. It’s another thing that I can’t believe I haven’t read until now. I also have the cutest complete and unabridged edition to carry around with me—a little (6” x 4”) hardcover with gold-edged pages and a red binder ribbon to keep my place. While I am enjoying it, I kind of can’t get Bram Stoker’s Dracula out of my head. This is not too terrible, since I used to LOVE that movie when it came out. However, it’s not good to read Jonathan Harker’s parts in your head and having it sound like Keanu Reeves. Oh well, we can’t have everything.

• …and what the crap is that movie The Lake House with Master Reeves and Sandra Bullock? The commercials make me want to pee, and then violently spit, on something. “Oh, der, we are two years apart so we’ll never meet, DER!” Just retarded.

• Finally, we are going to see X-Men 3 this weekend, and I am pretty excited about it. Sorry, I should have said X-cited, right? Well, no matter, for no matter how stoked I could be to see this movie, I will NEVER in all my days be as X-cited as this fine young man:
See what you find when you do a "Wolverine Fan Pic" search? It's always a good time. In fact ANY "Fan Pic" search brings forth the best the human race has to offer. Oh, my.

Recommended music!

The Phenomenauts

Click on 'Sonic Data' when you get there to hear some sample tunes. We saw them live last weekend and it was so much fun. I smiled throughout their whole set. Which is rare, because I am also going deaf, so music hurts my ears. But yes... very entertaining.

If you like punk, Devo, robots and a little rockabilly/ Elvis, you'll like these guys. If you are anti-fun or anti-nerd...then why are you reading this blog, anyway? Don't you know what a nerd I am behind my fancy internet persona? Good God, people!

Robots are our future! I. LOVE. ROBOTS!
(sidenote: not the ones who steal and eat old people's medicine, though. They're mean--and I don't have robot attack insurance!)

It's just an ordinary day--May 23. It's a Tuesday, and nothing is more uneventful than a Tuesday. Yet, I was just feeling kind of blessed and happy. It's because every now and then, it hits me how amazing it feels to have him in my life, everyday and for the rest of my life.

I just want to gush a little about my guy. Sure, he will probably read this and blush a little, maybe feel a little embarrassed by my public display of affection, but the truth is I can't help it, I want to say it: I am so in love. I am more in love than I ever realized I could be. It's definitely because of the person I have been blessed to have here in my life.

It's just the everyday life we have-- it's pretty damn good. We went to Del Taco last night, and we were sitting there eating and listening to Elvis playing over the speakers and having an awesome time just doing that. Later on, we grocery shopped and that was more fun than the last time we grocery shopped. Every time we grocery shop is better than the time before. Sure, the previous visit was fun and we laughed very hard and all, but we just had even more fun last night--just like every time we go. Weird, but the everyday stuff just becomes better all the time. I think it's simple: we just click together. We get along great. He is my best friend and the person I can't imagine my life without. Honestly, that's one of the scariest thoughts I can think of. If something happened to him, I don't know what I'd do. Really. People say that all the time, but I know what that really entails now-- I seriously would not know how to do this, my life, anymore, without him there.

He gives me flowers--and not just any flowers, but exotic and gorgeous flowers he selected himself and had wrapped up in ribbons for me. He is an incredible cook and he is such a dog-person it makes me giggle. I love watching him with the dogs, and watching how much they adore him, too. He writes well, he is smarter than almost anyone else I know right now, and he is kind and totally sincere. One thing I really love about him is he simply does not bullshit anyone, or have insincere conversations about anything or try to keep up appearances in any way. He says only what is true and what he feels, and that's so rare, I think. I feel very lucky to be with someone like that.

And finally, this is the thing that needs recognition: my guy works HARD. I don't mean just hard work at the office, I am talking tough physical labor in 100+ degree heat; and he does it all to make our home look beautiful. He can be out there for hours, slaving away to get things accomplished and do it right the first time. And then he can work hard using his brain in ways most people don't. This is so attractive to me. I never knew how much a person who values hard work would mean to me until I met him. I can definitely say I just don't know many men like him-- younger, same age or older than us. He's the kind of guy I can't believe I was lucky enough to just find one day. There he was. And we began going out, and my life changed forever. He says his did, too, but I can't speak for him, of course.

Anyway, I now know it is possible to be more in love right now than I was just a few hours ago. It's these little, subtle and significant things that just build, grow and crystalize outward like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. Just when you think the design and the colors couldn't be any more beautiful, you gently twist the tube and the whole thing is enhanced and becomes just a little prettier and brighter than you ever knew it could be.

Well, I'm done. Is that enough mushy sweet-stuff for you? :) I love him, that's all it is. I just wanted to publicly acknowledge this incredible, multi-faceted man I have the privilege of marrying in a few months. I don't ever want to lose this feeling of being blessed and of feeling this calm, perfect and exciting happiness. Life is good. Love is better.

So, today it was windy and cooler out! It was awesome. Sure, it would be more awesome if it would have rained, too, but at least for a few hours we had a respite from the constant, glaring sun. Dust was blowing all over the place, and for awhile there I couldn't see the McDowell Mountains because there was a wall of dust blotting it out. I love stuff like that. I could ride around in my car, listening to music and daydreaming for hours in weather like this.

I think that the synapses in my brain are not working as well as they should anymore. I say this because I regularly do weird or silly things that I think I should have avoided doing. This morning, for instance, I had all kinds of computer trouble. It was slow in general; the cursor was moving around on its own volition when I tried to type; dialogue boxes would pop up and then disappear even when my hands were nowhere near the keyboard or mouse. It became intolerable, I say! So I contacted the IT people here for help.

The lady comes to my desk and asks a simple question: "Do you have it docked properly?" I have a little docking station to plug my laptop into for the days I am in the office. Sure, I thought. Of COURSE I docked it right! Look, the light is on, and the computer is obviously still working. How could it not be docked correctly? Wouldn't I have heard a snap or hit something as I slid the computer into the station if I was doing something wrong? Good gravy! Of COURSE I would have. I'm no dummy!

Ahem. It turns out I am a dummy of sorts; a Docking Dummy. It turns out all we needed to do was turn it off, undock it, re-dock it and turn it back on. Whammo. Problem solved. The IT lady had that weary look of "ohh, you people and your idiotic and trivial problems" as she walked away from my desk. I don't blame her. Here I was trying to do virus scans and deleting cookies and all that, and it turns out I didn't have the thing plugged in right. Oh, well, that's the way I roll, I guess!

Speaking of The Way I Roll, I feel compelled to share something I am not sure I should share. It's very strange. It's a sample of my writing. Not just any sample, but a sample that displays my unique style and spelling tendencies during times of inebriation. Also, it's a sample I have had on my stupid MySpace page for a few weeks now, so by pasting it here I am doubling my chances of humiliation because more people see this blog than my retardo MySpace page. (Note: we MUST begin to use "retardo" more often in conversation! Let's bring this one into style, shall we?!)

I wrote this thing deep in the thralls of Ambien. I'd taken it to try to get myself to sleep when I was up pacing the floors after seeing The Hills Have Eyes. What better thing was there to do but go on the internet...and then write something on a public site! It sure passed the time while I waited for the drug to kick in. I think this is, in essence, nothing more than glorified free association. For whatever reason I have decided it needs to go here, NOW. So here it is, peeps. Enjoy:

Oh, gee, I don't know... there's not a lot to me. I tend to be shy and keep to myself. I am coping with this world outside my house-- sometimes it's hard, loud and dangrous, but I can't keep my curiousity bottled up like pickled butterflies. If I had a bunch of buttons, I'd consider building a handsome button collection. And I would have astore named "Button UP!" and we'd have all these old-timey dolls all over the store, dressed in buttons andeven more buttons. I would be distracted because I'd know there was a cat in there somewhere, and where is that cat, because now I am dribbling Meow Mix all around my special little store. But people still come to the store, because it's well know in all of the major counties that I am the BEST BUTTON-HAVING lady this side of the country.

Ooh geez. I got to shut my ass up. What did I type? Serioulsy I took am Ambien to help me sleep and now look at the crap it' made me say. And I have hiccups, which adds insult to something like injury. I should get some reast if I am going to help in the botton store tomrrrow.I'm ready to go and my callouses are getting think and ready for Needle Thumb and Button rashes all over the gentle regions of a lady's sweet sin box. I will probably suck at this button shop; nay you may prcaim it a dismail failiure, you pouncy little velevt-shoed wig boys. And I will pack up my things and wisk off to a faraway clime--- spin the Clime Wheel, click, click. click... Oh by the hand of the mighty Zeus have I been releived of my most recent button debacle, and now it says I shall referesh and see myself headig off now to the forests! Oh, the dewey and fawn-dappled innocence of nature's silken touch! I bring nothinmg but a pack with some food (um, some apples, some bread, a bag of Skittles, diet coke and a jar of pickes) and I attach it all to some sort of modern sled thing and we ride off with just a few moments of terror and shame. We get there to the pristine, pretty woods, and we start ti break it down right away.

KAY, if anyone bugs you or see a spider, you get on out of here and alert everyone like a little bitch, or you get the approved bug vacuum devise to suck the assfly up and relese it back outside. I can't tell you good people gathered here, reading extremely weird and dicombomulated thoughts from a woman who should just go lie down now for she is feeling the FULL effects of Ambien, which is a kick ass sleeping pill. We appreciate you stopping by--especially you, babay, you brought the Jello Jiggllers amd that was just what this party in the woods needed. And yeah, any of you guys leaving... if e don't come out in three days or so come looking for us. Insane drugged girl with the button thing and the bug vacuum is not a good bunkmate. You might lose her, speshlly if she gets her boots on enough to stumnle to the kitchen where she might see a BEAUTIFUL APPLE PIE just sitting there, glistening and fresh amd with you te right ice cream to make it a la mode.

Oh, someone here treats me with an uncommon kindness. There he is now! Ho, it's Sir Cool!! Yay, Sir Cool, you have returned and the straits they are indeed dire. I can't stop writing this blog on the silliest of websites, and I must go to bed and sleep. The sleeping pills are killed in, and that's why the typing is happening this way and no one knows who is thr primary speaker in any of this... just come on. Get up out of that filthy chair. It's 2:34 in the godfreakin morning. What's your excuse for staying up so late? And here is my answer: we saw The Hills Have Eyes tonight and I can't get it out of my head. I know other people said how bad it sucked, but it really messed me up. I keep seeing scenes in my head as I tried to sleep. I was worrying about mutants coming to eat us and our dogs, and then I tried to think of happy thoughts by singing the theme to "Amelie" but that didn't work, the fucking mutant cannibals came back anyway. So creepy. I can usually handle horror movies, but this one for whatever reason has me UP at 2:30, drugged down with Ambien and writing some nonsense that I will most assuredly remove in a few days, if I live. The sugar side of me says, "Button Up! It's Where High Priced Whores Go for Buttons!(TM)" The wheaty side of me says, "I am the person whose name you will be screaming when you are with your special someone. Tonight. I am THAT good."

Well, there it is. I have nothing more to say. Except maybe this: why was I so into talking about buttons and pickles? Cripes, I don't care about buttons and I am not that keen on pickles. Honestly, the things Ambien can make you say.

Be careful out there!

THIRD post of the day?! What up wit dat?

I felt I was overdue for a Community Theatre Rant, so here goes:

There's this company in town that is opening a crappy musical next week, and they are so whorey about selling tickets. I don't know what it is, but whenever I run into someone who is working on this company's most recent show, they are more concerned with getting your ass to buy a ticket than actually talking to you and finding out what you might be up to. It drives me crazy. You can't just say "Hi Lisa, what's new"? You have to say, "Oh, and make sure you come to opening weekend because tickets are ONLY $45 that weekend only...! Tell your friends!"

That's the second part of the rant. It's community theatre, which to me means it takes place in a room with bad acoustics, shitty seats that hurt your ass like you have hemorrhoids, starring your local dental hygienist and the guy who works at the Jiffy Lube, both of whom harbor secret desires to be famous one day. And for the pleasure of experiencing that for two hours, you should not have to pay more than $10 a ticket.

These companies in town are now charging anywhere from $18 a ticket to $30 or more. It's out of control. I just can't afford to see their crap shows anymore, even if I do know someone in the cast or whatever. When will this madness end?

And finally, when was the last time you had nothing to do on a Friday night and you thought, "Hmm, let's go see a play!"? Right. Not anytime recently. Go see a movie or have some drinks at the bar. Guaranteed it's a better way to spend your money. No one wants to watch live theater anymore-- it's sad, but painfully true. Hell, I used to love working on shows just as much as the next Ron and Sheila, but it dawned on me during one of the last shows I did that no one was in the audience but friends and relatives of the actors, and then a few random old people. Once the old people die off, and the friends and relatives are sick of seeing these shows, no one at all will be around to see a show. That's when I decided to take the low road. Instead of railing against the unfairness of it all, and working hard to try to make changes with theater, getting creative or edgy or spread the word that "Theater is Cool"... I quit. It felt awesome, too.

I guess my point here is: Quitting can feel really nice. Got something you do and you're not sure it's 'worth' your effort anymore? Quit! Give it a try sometime!

Two bitchy-looking women were sitting at the table next to me at Einstein's today at lunch. I was quietly reading to myself (Dracula), when I overheard the BEST overheard quote of the week/month/fiscal year:

"I mean, seriously! Even her COUGHS sound fat!"

OK, so I know it's mean because they were sitting there making fun of a heavy co-worker, but DAMN that made me laugh. I had to turn my head away. I know I was shaking though and almost did that "spit out your drink" laugh because it was so unexpected. I wonder if they noticed that I was laughing. I hope not. I would have felt like such a dork.

(In retrospect, I hope they weren't talking about me! I did cough, if I recall, when I was clearing my throat as I sat down. Mean bitches. Mean, yet funny, bitches.)

Imagine my horror when I clicked open an e-mail from my friend Kristen today and saw THIS freak!!

I am a little hazy on what this guy is from, but I think he was a character on some PBS show or maybe in those filmstrips they'd show in health class. Either way, it was shocking to see Slim Goodbody again, after all these years. Even if he scared me a little to see him again.

One time I know I had a nightmare about ol' Slim. In the nightmare, he was sitting in the meat case in the butcher section of the Foodtown my Mom used to shop in when I was a kid. He was just sitting in there, amongst the meats. I think I dreamed this because he looks kind of like raw meat in there.

Damn, if it's not just the hair and goofy, vaguely-Saget face... it's gotta be the fact that there are a whole lot of missing organs in general-- most notably, the lack of genitals and internal sex organs. Try very hard NOT to look at that blank little section in his front; the place where a wee-wee should be... I dare you not to look at it.

You perv, you totally looked just now, didn't you. I am so disappointed in you.

Anyway, does anyone else remember Slim Goodbody, or what?

Yeah, I feel dumb. I opened an e-mail from someone named "Nettie Slaughter" with a subject line of "Today's The Day!"

I wonder what about that address, and that subject line, made me open it. Of course it was just some spam. And, of course, it was spam regarding how to increase your penis size and "make her happy tonight." Yet, for reasons I don't totally comprehend, I opened it.

I should have known better. I don't know anyone--and I mean NOT ONE SOUL-- named Nettie. Let alone one with the last name of Slaughter. I also don't know why today, May 18, would be The Day! that would make me feel a sense of urgency to open the e-mail. "Oh! Yes! Of course, of course, today IS the day, right, right, right!" I thought (I guess) as I clicked to open the e-mail.

Now I figure the number of spam e-mails I get on that account is going to skyrocket. Great. That's the account I use for the more "professional" things I send out. Sheesh. Now I'll have to cancel it at some point, I know it.

And it's all Nettie Slaughter's fault!

Well, to put some salve on my injured pride, I present a photo that represents the progress that has been made on the pool. We are down to the plaster now. We have the steel, concrete, plumbing, electric and tile in place. It's up to the city of Tempe to come and inspect the pool and our barrier doors to make sure we are up to code, and then they'll put the plaster in and we can add water! Don't get too excited, like I did when I heard that... we need to let the plaster cure for 6 weeks before we can swim in it. It's kind of sadistic of the pool/plaster people to use a type of plaster that needs that much curing. Making people in the Phoenix area sit and stare hungrily at a nice, new pool during the hottest time of the year, and denying them the freedom to "take a dip." Good God. Well, we are still shit-happy because we will have a POOL and it's OURS! No more swimming at the community pools at apartment complexes and condo communities! No gross, leering fat guys watching us swim! No oily "residue you can't identify"! And maybe best of all, no screaming, splashing and peeing children to muck up the place. We are stoked. It's going to be terrific!!

This shot shows the tile, which was installed last week. It's nice because it's not the usual blue standard tile they are always so quick to push on pool consumers. We have a brighter white with a pattern! We're cool. I know. Anyway, check out Indy. I swear, that dog is really growing on me. I love him, even though he is still doing puppy-asshole things from time to time. He's just charismatic, I guess. He's got It. The It Factor. What a dog.

And...what a POOL! Hot dawg!

"Hey! Who's fryin' baloney?"

Oh, man, I love that. It was a frequently-used phrase Letterman used in the late 90s-- especially on his Top Ten lists from around that time. I think one of the places it was used was on a list about Top Ten Things Not to Say in a Crowded Elevator. He used it again somewhere else. I don't mind if he re-used it. It's funny.

Regarding the subject of baloney/bologna: I don't eat it. I no longer eat any pork products. Sure, you could argue that baloney/bologna isn't really pork, it's...baloney/bologna (hereon referred to as B/B)... but still. I think it's mostly pork. So I won't eat it. I don't dig on swine, is all.

When I was a little kid and I was doin' it up A.M. session kindergarten style, I would come home from school and my Momma would make me a baloney/bologna sandwich. Same thing everyday: white Wonder bread, crusts cut off, with a slice or two of B/B inside. The best part was that my Mom would make a smiley face with the mustard on the B/B. I'd always peek under the bread to see the yellow smushed smiley face.

I kept eating B/B for a few more years, bringing it to school as part of a balanced lunchbox lunch. I think there was a warm sandwich one day, though, and the B/B that day took on a new flavor. Kind of extra salty and warm. I have this memory of staring very closely at a slice of B/B I'd taken off my sandwich and swearing that the meat was sweating. It looked like pink, sweating skin in the heat. Could lunchmeats sweat? I wondered. It was probably just moisture or humidity, but to me it was SWEAT. I could no longer partake in sweaty lunchmeats.

I guess I switched over to tuna sandwiches, with the occassional turkey or ham sandwich, for the rest of my school career. My Mom was always great about making me good lunches, and wouldn't force me to eat things that grossed me out. Thanks, Mom. However, Mom is not off the hook yet, because all this talk about lunches reminds me of The Lunchtime Spy.

My Mom was on the PTA and worked for the school district. She KNEW people. She had her people on the inside. All I know is this: if I decided to not finish my sandwich because I really only felt like eating my pretzels and cookies that day, and I threw the sandwich in the garbage... when I got home that day my Mom would know about it! She'd say, "Oh, so you threw out that nice turkey sandwich I made for you today. I don't appreciate you throwing away perfectly good food like that!"

I was confused. I mean, how the hell did she know what I was throwing out? This continued for awhile. I'd come home from school and she would let me know that she knew I threw away my milk so I could share a Ssips with Melissa Perkins. The details were eerie. She knew shit normal people would overlook. If I ate half a sandwich, she'd know that. She'd know if I only ate the meat out from between the bread and threw away the bread. It blew my elementary mind.

At last, the seedy truth came out: one of my classmates was the spy! Yup. This girl named LAURA was watching me, along with Laura's mother, who was the lunch aide for our class. I had the two of them hot on my consumption trail, apparently. Laura's mom would report back to my mom on a regular basis.

I find it odd. Why so much effort to watch me eat? Mom, how did you pay them off? I am assuming there was some sort of retribution going on between you and the spies. Otherwise, why else would a girl and her mother want to do that? Why is paying close attention to what I did and didn't eat such a seductive call for those people? To this day, I think this was so weird. I wonder where Laura (and her nefarious Mom) are today. Chances are they are watching SOMEONE eat, somewhere. I picture them going back and reporting their findings to some old Patty PlayPal dolls in the attic. I bet they also talk to game show hosts through the TV and wear those shirts with the cats wearing cowboy boots and hats.

These are the things I think about when I think about lunch meats.

It turns out that Angelina Jolie and I have a lot more in common than you'd think at first. Sure, my very sexy body and big lips have more than once drawn comparisons. And there's the thing with my on-again, off-again blood drinking. On more than one occassion, I have slept with knives and while the children ended up being nothing more than Raggedy Ann dolls with mohawks, I too have adopted some exotic children.

So it stands to reason that she and I are fashion twins. Yes, it's true! I took an online quiz on MyVillage today, and that website is a treasure trove of truthfulness. I believe anything that MyVillage tells me to believe. It takes a MyVillage, you know. Oh...!

Just by picking out your favorite tank top, shoes, purse and other fashion 'things', you too can find out who your celebrity fashion twin is. I urge you to click here, post-haste: Waste Time and Find Out Worthless Things Based on Arbitrary Choices Made on a Multiple Choice Internet Quiz!

I've got a craving for Flintstones vitamins right now. It's weird. I haven't had those since I was in high school, and had my last craving for Flintstone vitamins and took a bottle from the pharmacy I worked in. (Stole it, I mean.)

I'd also settle for those huge, tart Vitamin C chewable tablets-- the cherry ones. Mmm-mmm good!

I used to eat vitamins by the bottle. And baby aspirin. I prefered the orange Bayer baby aspirin. They had a pleasant way of melting on the tongue. I could take about 12 at a time, even when I wasn't sick.

Funny how I work for a vitamin company today, yet I don't touch the stuff we make. Irony is a funny and depressing bitch.

I'm kind of shocked that, according to a poll, the majority of Americans are NOT upset over the NSA's phone record collection for the sake of 'national security.' So this says, in essence, that two-thirds of Americans are OK with the government tracking what we are doing as long as it seems to be in the guise of protection of our civil liberties. As long as we are goin' after them terrorists, everything the gov'mint does is A-OK by me.

To wit:
"In a poll taken Thursday, almost two thirds of Americans said it was acceptable for the NSA to collect phone records. When asked if they would be bothered if the NSA had their phone records, Democrats and independents were more likely to be bothered than Republicans. The ABC-Washington Post poll surveyed 502 people by telephone.

Lawmakers have been demanding information from the Bush administration about the NSA's database of telephone records, begun while Hayden was in charge of the spy agency.

The disclosure, reported in Thursday editions of USA Today, could complicate President Bush's bid to win Hayden's confirmation. It also renewed concerns about civil liberties and questions about the legal underpinnings for the government's actions.

Sen. Wayne Allard (news, bio, voting record), R-Colo., said the NSA was using the data to analyze calling patterns in order to detect and track suspected terrorist activity, according to information provided to him by the White House.

"Telephone customers' names, addresses and other personal information have not been handed over to NSA as part of this program," Allard said.

The president on Thursday sought to assure Americans their civil liberties were "fiercely protected."

"The government does not listen to domestic phone calls without court approval," said Bush, without confirming the NSA program. "We're not mining or trolling through the personal lives of millions of innocent Americans." --

NO, Mr. Bush, perhaps you are not mining or trolling through the personal lives of millions of innocent Americans. However, you are apparently mining and trolling through the personal lives of anyone who the government thinks might NOT be an innocent American-- as long as they are calling oversees, and the calls last a certain period of time and any other parameters you've set that would call for the surveillance of a person. I guess we are really taking that "innocent until proven guilty" thing to heart. You're damned well going to prove someone guilty, and so what if it means stepping on the privacy and basic rights of some--or a LOT of-- people to do it?

Secondly, so the government doesn't listen without court approval. So...why did any court approve this, anyway? Seems the problem lies right there, according to our trusty leader. "Hey, if you're mad about this, blame the court. I mean, they approved it and all. If it was so terrible, would they have let us do it?"

And finally...you're not mining and trolling through the lives of MILLIONS of innocent Americans-- YET. Everything starts somewhere, including rampant government surveillance and the eventual creation of regulations, rules and restrictions on our everyday lives. This is the part that has me confused as hell. How can it be that two-thirds of this country are not outraged? How can they roll over and accept that this has happened? How can you trust that the government truly has your best interests in mind when this sort of surveillance is already happening (and the government KNOWS it did something bad because look how fast Bush made his statement yesterday and how spotty the information given by supporting Republicans has been so far) and it's happening with the blind faith of millions of our fellow people?

Isn't anyone else freaked out by this?

I'm switching my cell phone to QWEST, and I urge you to do the same. Maybe if enough people were seen moving to the one service that didn't choose to turn over its records to the government, it could send a message: Americans won't tolerate unncessary, tenuously-explained surveillance and tracking of our everyday activities. That you can't just pull this shit in this country.

Yes, please remain vigilant against the so-called ENEMY. We do have enemies, and we do need to fight them in order to retain our own country and our freedoms. But when John Kyl (yay, Arizona senator!) says, "We're at war. We need to fight the enemy," when discussing this NSA announcement, it's clear that the government might be on its way to expanding its definition regarding who is considered "an enemy." I don't think we're too far off from being considered the enemy of the United States, just by being a taxpaying citizen. Don't question anything, just be a sheep.

Wonder what the dudes who wrote the Declaration of Independence would say about this one.

Whatever. I just know I am deeply disappointed in everyone who's content to just go about their day, watch (and vote for) American Idol, numb their minds with fluff and figure, "well, our country is the best in the world, and our leaders know what they are doing, so why worry about it?" It's attitudes like THAT that enable bad things to take over. Wake up. This is shameful.

I think that tonight is the season finale of "Smallville." I plan to watch it, even though most of the time when I see this show I don't know what is going on. This is because I didn't start watching it until the very end of last season, so there's lots of Super-intrigue and Super-Backstory to learn for me!

The thing is, I just don't care about Superman himself in this show. Tom Welling? As boring as a doped-up armadillo at a roller skating party. Could they have picked a blander pretty-boy for Superman? Sheesh.

And then Lana Lang. Come ON. Yeah, that actress is really pretty, but that character is even more boring. I'd classify Lana as more boring than a dead kitten on a turntable. And why does every single episode seem to end with Lana coming to visit Clark in his barn-loft to have a meaningful talk about something very important, yet they cannot love one another. Clark and Lana have to be the most non-compelling love story on television today. Well, maybe except for the simmering tension between all of the Two and a Half Men.

Yet... there's that Lex Luthor storyline. I love that part. Everything with Lex and Lionel Luthor is worth the rest of the yawns, usually. They should have just made the show about Lex Luthor and been done with it. Villains are so much more interesting. And now you've got James Marsters in there (somewhere, a drunken Lengli perks up) as...um...The Brain? Or...the Shapeshifter Brain Alien-or-Whatever-Professor-Villain-Person...? I'd look it up, but let's be honest here: Me? Too lazy. Well, either way, it's cool. I like it, so that's that.

In honor of my sort-of love for Smallville, I post the following picture from the incomparable Superdickery, featuring what must surely be my favorite of Superman's Super Powers... Super Weaving!!!

Go weave me some gauchos, Superjerk!

A long time ago, in one of the Days of Yore (or the month of April), I was tagged by Jen to do one of those lists of 6 Weird Things About Me. I admit I forgot about it. Even on days when I would sit here with the urge to blog, yet with nothing to say. It was in my brain somewhere, but the idea failed to step to the front of my head and hit the airhorn to make me pay attention to it.

Until today! I remembered it.

6 Weird Things About Me, With One Bonus One to Make Up for Time Lapsed Since Original Tag

1) I sniff drinking glasses before I pour a drink into it. OK, I used to do this one a LOT more than I do now-- I've gotten a handle on it. It's because I really hate when a glass has a stale smell to it, or residual soap. That's the one that kills me-- when a drink tastes weird and you know it's because the glass wasn't rinsed properly. When I was in the height of my Sniffing Phase, I would sniff almost subconsciously. I'd be talking to someone, pick up a new empty glass, and sniff it without breaking my talking stride. People started to notice my habit, and that's when I actively worked to cut back on all the sniffing. It took effort, but I'm proud to say that today I don't sniff glasses unless they are very spotty or look a little dusty. And I counter that anyone would do that, not just a self-proclaimed Glass Sniffer.

2) When I hear someone speaking German, it makes me happy. I was once pretty good at Deutsch. I took 4 years of it in school and was even the President of the German Honor Society my senior year. I liked the language and the way the syntax worked; I was adept at conjucation, and I could even approximate a decent accent. My sister took it too, and I thought we would both become these perfect German speakers, and we could then have "secret code" conversations. Well, "secret" to anyone who didn't speak German, and back then we weren't really around any active speakers. I don't know why, but the gutteral and kinda-funky way of saying things makes the German language very appealing to me. The sad thing is, I can barely remember ANY of my German training. I didn't use it and the language muscle atrophied. One day I'd really like to study it again. I don't know why.

3) I peel grass. If I am sitting on a lot of grass in someone's yard, or at a park, I will always find myself picking individual blades of grass and then sliding my fingernail up the middle of it to split it in two. Then, I split those two pieces. If it was a thick, NJ type of grass, I could sometimes get EIGHT little strips out of one blade! I probably laugh a goofy retarded laugh when I accomplish this. It's been awhile, so I can't say for sure. Knowing myself though, I probably do.

4) I really hate missing the previews. Seriously, the coming attractions are crucial to my movie going experience. I get agitated when I am standing in the snack bar line and it's not moving fast enough...what if I miss the previews? (Yet I can't seem to give up the popcorn habit; this is part of the reason why I can't lose weight) I love seeing the previews. I like to get excited when a movie I am waiting for gets a preview, and I like turning to my theatergoing partner and proclaim 'yes' or 'no' to each movie as the trailer ends. Plus, I want to see as much movie-related material as I can for my money. Sounds stupid, but it's true. (For the record, I don't mind missing the "pre show entertainment" that craps up the screen with easy trivia, Coca Cola ads, car commercials, a look at how Maggie Gyllenhaal prepared for her role as an ex-con in her new movie, or a little behind-the-scenes feature showing actors like Robin Williams and Rosie O'Donnell standing behind microphones with headsets on as they record the voices for the latest craptastic animated movie with talking animals.

5) I don't like to deviate from my shower routine. I MUST rinse my hair first, then wash my face, then I shampoo and condition, then use the net spongey -thing to soap up, then I shave, and then I pumice my feet. Sometimes when I am running late for something, I don't wash my hair or shave, and it always makes me get that "I am not complete" feeling. The one that's most likely to get dropped during crunch time is the pumicing. Ick. I can't stand my feet's callouses and dry skin; and the feeling of sloughing it off always makes me cringe a little. (Also, I don't like to shower at night, I prefer the morning--it's mostly because of my hair, too. I don't want to sleep on wet hair and wake up all creased and wavy. And I am particular about washing my hair only every other day because it gets so dried out if I wash it too frequently.) I also try to move through my shower routine as quickly as possible, and sometimes time myself and try to beat my previous day's time. I bought a little bathroom clock at IKEA mostly for this purpose.

6) I say "draw" when I should be saying "drawer." I just don't acknowledge those final letters for some reason, and I never have.

7) I once took my anger out on a gallon of milk at the grocery store. I was pissed about something, and I was using one of those self check-out stations, and the milk just would NOT scan. So I started slamming the gallon onto the little glass window, punching the side of the container (yes, punching a milk container) and cursing loudly, throwing my keys to the floor like a jerk. Trish was with me, and I think she felt both amused and worried--but mostly amused. She reminds me of this event sometimes. In the past, I have also thrown the family vaccuum cleaner into a chest of drawers. Or, chest of draws. It broke the vaccuum and chipped the draw. These are my two favorite Lisa Freaks Out and Throws Things incidents. I know there will be more in the future, so stay tuned!

OK, I tag Trish to do this, and that's because I think everyone in the whole world has done this list already. And I want to see if Trish lists her story about how she insisted on being called The Governor when my family went on a vacation to Lake George when she was about 4 years old. We played a whole round of mini golf with The Governor one night, and let me tell you, The Governor was a shrewd, take-no-prisoners kind of preschooler.

I just checked my bank account online and I am furious at the Red Owl!

The Red Owl is this little sports bar right near our house. Sometimes, Greg and I walk over there and have a drink or two, sit and talk on the patio and then walk home again. I like their logo, which is the face of a cartoon red owl. (I know, you wouldn’t have guessed they’d use the owl thing, would you?) For whatever reason, I am always rooting for the place to do well and not go out of business. I like that there’s a bar like that down the street that’s independently owned; kind of a dive but not so bad, either.

We went over there on Saturday night after we got home from seeing “Brick.” I was in a happy mood, for the most part. I like going to the movies and hanging out with Trish and everyone else, and I was still riding a happy high from depositing a check into my bank account that was for an amount that was roughly my yearly salary plus another half-year of salary. I decided I was buying the drinks that night.

So, anyway, we had two beers. Total. As in, one for me and one for him. Not much, you know? My first clue that something could potentially be amiss with this evening was the surly bartender. She was obviously not in the mood for being friendly to the customers in any way, shape or form. When we got to the Red Owl, Greg went to the men’s room and I walked innocently up to the bar. I saw they had High Life on draft, and it was a beer I hadn’t tried yet, so I asked Surly if I could “get a High Life.” She shot me a nasty look and said, “What do you want it in?” Honestly, I haven’t ordered many drinks at a bar, and I am very naïve when it comes to mugs, pints, etc. I have lived a cloistered life for 30 years, and have only come out into the open in the last one. Cut me some slack.

I was flustered, my confidence shot. I really wanted to be the chick who got the beers while he was in the bathroom. I wanted to be slick about it. Nope. I didn’t know what I wanted it in. Which was bigger? Which is more expensive? I heard myself yell back to her, “A pint,” since I had a clue how big that would be. She got it and slammed it down in front of me with a frown—a real, honest to God frown. “So are you paying cash, or what?”

“I’ll start a tab,” I meekly offered, and handed her my debit card. She took it and stalked off to another part of the bar before I could even say I’d like another beer for my guy. What crawled up her ass and gave her colon the time of day, I’ll never know.

Anyway, Greg ended up getting a beer from Surly after all. We went outside to enjoy the ambiance of the lovely, peaceful Red Owl.

We sat on the patio and tried to talk, but there was a loud, dirtbaggy table of trash sitting out there too, and they were doing that super loud drunk-screaming thing. It was amusing at first, especially since they looked like they were wanna-be bikers, and wanna-be bikers are funny; and also, one guy had a Brett Michaels look going on with the bandana and the hat, and he was screaming out quotes from “Ace Ventura” and “Anchorman.” However, it quickly got annoying, and we had to move inside to escape the drunken hollering and guffawing.

While we were out there on the patio, Surly left and she said as she was leaving, “I switched your tab to another server,” and that was that. OK, no problem. Besides, the new server turned out to be a lot nicer and didn’t make me feel like a brain-damaged cave hermit come out for the night to try “the drinking.”

When it was time to leave, I closed out the HUGE tab of the cost of two beers. It was $6.00. I added on some tip—like two dollars, for I am not generous with the bar tips since I don’t know what I’m doing, and I still was smartin’ from Surly’s condescending attitude. I got my receipt and we walked home again, happy as little clams. Clams that can walk, wear pants and think about things; clams that have debit cards, the power of the English language and the ability to shower. (We are so much better than clams!)

So anyway, today I was shocked to see that the Red Owl is attempting to take $16 out of my account. What the frig! We had two beers, $3 each. I have a feeling it’s the work of Surly. I bet she ran our tab through before she left. And then the new server ran it through again. But usually, that would show up as two transactions. There’s just one listed there, and it’s for $16. I guess the newer and nicer server was either stupid and hit the wrong number in, or just mean in a whole other way. Curses upon you all, Red Owl bartenders!

I don’t have the receipt anymore—I think I threw it out yesterday when I cleaned my purse out. Who keeps a bar receipt? (Maybe everyone does. Again, here’s me with the lack of bar-sense.) I bet it says $8.00. Or, I could be dumb and it did read $16 and I was too lazy to look at what I was being handed. Either way, I am not sure what to do here. Can I just go into the bar and ask for $8.00 back, without a receipt? The most I can get is a printout of my balance page.

And is it worth further Red Owl embarrassment and shaming, to go back there and make a fuss over $8.00? I am SO bad at things like this. I think I try too hard to do that, to “not cause a fuss.” I need to grow a spine and stand up for myself and my bank account. Sure, it’s fat with home sale proceeds at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I feel like inadvertently donating $8.00 to the Surly and Stupid Servers Fund. What should I do? Forget it and shake it off, or go there and ask them to fix it?

Is it lame that I even posted this? I don’t know. All I know is: Stupid Red Owl! Piss on you. I’ll drink in my living room from now on.

My Name is Earl... I didn't want to like this one. My reason? It was on NBC, and I had grown to not-like NBC. It made me think of one of the shows I can't stand, Will and Grace. It made me think of formula sitcoms that were not funny, but featured beautiful skinny people making witticisms over a laugh track. Even though I supported Jason Lee in his various Kevin Smith vehicles, I just didn't want to watch his new show. I thought it would be typical NBC fare. I was too busy watching Arrested Development, South Park and Family Guy.

Then, The Office happened. It turned out to be really good. And it was on NBC. What the frig happened? Did someone there suddenly decide that people were ready for shows without a laugh track instructing us when it was appropriate to laugh? Was it OK to feature actors who looked like regular people? When did THIS happen? Well, whatever happened, it was a good change.

The lead-in show has been My Name is Earl, and I didn't really pay much attention to it until a month or so ago. I saw an episode and found myself laughing out loud at some of Randy's comments. This led to me watching another episode, and another... I have now seen about 3 full episodes. And I can tell you honestly that I like it.

Last night's episode had some stuff in it that killed me. If you didn't see it, there was an alcoholic father character who was living in a trailer-- and Earl was trying to bring him to meet his daughter, who hadn't spoken to him in years. I won't get into the whole Earl-based premise regarding karma and all that... what I really want to talk about is this part where the alcoholic dad is dragged out of the trailer by Randy in from of the courthouse where his daughter works. He has his pants down around his ankles and is struggling to get away from Randy.

Anyway, he grabs onto a parking meter, and Randy starts to try to pull up his pants. And he says, "If you pull 'em up, I'll poop in 'em."

This was, of course, absolutely HILARIOUS to me. I was just taking a drink, though, when the line was uttered. I didn't expect there to be a funny line right then and there. Anyway, I couldn't swallow it because I was laughing really hard. So I squeezed my lips shut tightly and tried to hold the drink in so I wouldn't spit it out. But by then Greg was laughing really, really hard at my predicament (as well as the poop line). His laughing made me laugh even harder. I kept trying to "shush" him by putting a finger in front of my lips-- the universal "shhh" sign. Nope! He just kept laughin' at me. I mean, he was REALLY laughing. Whoopin' it up over there at the Lisa's little problem. I couldn't breathe. There was pain. Still, I laughed some more.

At long last, I was able to muster the ability to swallow again. I must have taken deep breaths for about 10 minutes after that, in between a lot of "HOOOO!"s as I held my belly. "God DAMN!"

It was great. So, in closing, let me just say thank you to NBC for almost killing me last night. I appreciated it!

I promise I'll try not to make this an All Dogs, All the Time blog from here on out. It's just that I love the shot above because it looks like Hailie is laughing at something Indy did, and he is clueless about what's so funny. They're adorable.

In other news... Greg and I saw The Hills Have Eyes (2006) last night. Many reviews have said it was stupid, and had a lame Spielberg/Die Hard-ish ending that wouldn't be possible, but to me it was pretty good. In fact, I was kind of shaken up by the movie and could not fall asleep last night because I kept thinking of some of the imagery and how I bought into the horrible, helpless feeling of being isolated with psychotic killers outside your trailer. Ew.

I hated the movie, but since it's a horror film, I actually mean that in a good way. Sure, some people might think it was cheesy or kind of lame, but for whatever reason I guess I was in the mood to be scared by hill-people last night. I think I might have even gotten nauseated at one point, if I recall. And the last time I became physically ill from watching a film was when I was in middle school and was watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2--YES, the horrible, stupid one!-- and my friend offered me a frozen waffle that she'd cooked in the same toaster oven as a slice of pepperoni pizza, and when I bit into the waffle it tasted like pizza. There was something with a guy gnawing through someone's bloody skin on the screen at the same time as I bit into it, and for whatever reason I just could not stomach even smelling that waffle/pizza. But that was a long time ago. I haven't had it happen again, really...

Nope, wait. I forgot about Fire in the Sky. That scene where the aliens have the guy on some table and they put this filmy plastic-looking cover over him to hold him down, and he's suffocating as they jam huge machinery into his mouth and down his throat and then that HUGE needle thing comes down into his eye, which is forced open with metal things, and all he can do is a muffled, agonized screen through the plastic-film... Ohhhhh, okay, I shouldn't have remembered that. The feeling I get when I think of THAT scene is definitely a queasy stomach, but with the addition of hairs-standing-on-end on my arms. I'd go so far as to say that single scene alone scares me more than any other imagery in any other film. I don't know why. Mean, torturous and killin' aliens are my kryptonite. Faced with a real-life mean and torturous alien, I know I am totally going DOWN.

So, on that note: what is the worst horror movie scene you can think of? Put it in the comments so we can get all skeeved out together! It's fun for everyone.

I'm lining 'em up, and knocking 'em down! I just signed all the documents at the title company to close on the sale of my condo, so by Friday I will have a nice check to cash.

The next thing I've done is apply for jobs. About 3 of them. No calls yet, but I had to do something to feel proactive and not like someone's bitch, just sitting around waiting for not-really-anything-good.

And finally, I have been working on researching things for the wedding. Things like caterers, table and chair rental places, photographers... It's nice to know we don't have to worry about the wedding cake or flowers, since Greg's mother is a wonderful baker and she'll be making our cake; and I plan to just go to the florist, gather up a bunch of pretty flowers the day before the wedding, and wrap some ribbon around some of them for a bouquet and use the rest to decorate with. I'm not falling for the bouquet scam, no, uh-uh. That ain't me. I'm going to do this my way.

So...Indy. Well, we've had him for some time but I waited to share the news until I knew for sure that he was staying here for good. We brought Katie back to RESCUE, which hurt so much. I didn't think I could handle all the crying. It was so hard to say goodbye to her. I keep thinking of her waiting for us to come and get her and bring her home-- crap, I can't think about this, or I will make myself cry.

Anyway, through a series of events I found myself down at Animal Control soon after. I just kept thinking about the fact that we had a dog-sized hole in our home, and there are dogs that are dying everyday right down the street from us since there aren't enough homes. I went there and spotted the dog that we'd later call Indy, as well as two other possible matches for Hailie and Malcolm's next friend. It was only a couple of hours later when, after some discussions, Greg and I went back down together to see these dogs.

Animal Control is tough. It's loud, smelly, and very sad. It also made me angry. I wanted to punch some of the people that were there turning over their dogs. There was a LOT of white trash there, and on my first visit there that day, 3 of the 5 dogs waiting to be sentenced to the pound were pit bulls or pit mixes. Later in the day, we saw a hispanic family with two little girls turning over their two sweet looking dogs. The little girls obviously didn't know their pets were about to disappear; one of them even told me as she was petting Hailie in the waiting room that she had "a big dog like this." As we were leaving the pound with our new dog in the backseat, we saw this family walking away dogless. The little girl I'd talked to was looking back where they left the dogs and crying quietly. Damn it. Sorry, little girl, that your parents are so MEAN.

Greg and I took Indy outside and got to know him a little. He was rambunctious with puppy energy (he is only about a year or two old), but overall he was very loving and affectionate. He's apparently some kind of cattle dog mix, but he is only 29 pounds. We could tell he had an even temperment and would likely be very nice with our dogs, so I stayed with Indy as Greg drove home very quickly and brought Malcolm and Hailie back to the shelter so we could see how they all got along. It all happened so quick. The pound closed at 5:30, and it was already 5:00 when Greg got back with M & H. Luckily, they all got along just fine. We signed the papers, paid the fee to adopt him, he got his shots, and we were out of there, driving home with three dogs in the car...

...and I was feeling overwhelmed and confused. How could I have adopted another dog so soon after losing Katie? Did we make a mistake when we made this spur of the moment decision to adopt this dog? What were we in for, training-wise?

After a couple of days, it became pretty clear that this dog was not going to be a problem. He is very sweet, and almost too affectionate and playful. His trusting and confident personality are the polar opposite of Katie, so that was good for a few reasons; especially that he wouldn't remind me of her, and he would not have the aggression problems we had with her.

He is the most curious little guy. He follows us around, Hailie right by his side like a big sister, watching us do everything from wash dishes to brush our teeth. He seems fascinated with us, and all these objects in our house. His negative habits are he likes to chew things, and he will sometimes whine and act like a baby when he's in his crate. He's still bad on a leash, but we think he hasn't been on a leash very much until now. He'll get it; we'll work with him until he does.

He also is learning commands very quickly. He got "sit" down by the second day or so, and is getting to be consistent with "stay", "come", "back", "off" and even "give paw." He is one of the smarter dogs we've ever had. And Hailie is teaching him well, since when we give him a command she automatically does it too, and that helps. He sits right next to her and waits for us to put their food dishes down. It's really cute.

So that's Indy's story. I think he will be here forever, so don't plan on any future posts about having to get rid of a dog. The only dog that could be going anywhere is Malcolm, and that will probably be of his own volition. That little asshole will escape and run away down the street any chance he gets. I have no clue where he wants to go when he does it (he's 'gotten out' 6 times when I had to rush around the neighborhood frantically trying to find him), but he's the problem dog, not these other two clowns. Right now, the two big dogs are lying on the floor next to my desk chair, their bodies all pressed together, with Malcolm sitting on the other side of my chair in his Sphinx pose, staring down the big dogs with a malicious gleam in his eye. It reminds me of that speech in Jaws about the shark's eyes being like a doll's eyes... Malcolm's eyes can be like a shark's eyes. I'm serious. Malcolm is very, very scary. He definitely runs this joint.

We got another dog. He's a happy little guy, too:

This is what a trip to Animal Control will get you, if you're not careful! By the way, his current name is Indy (Indiana). I may disclose further details soon.

Ever have a day where you just hate people? You know... the kind of day where you wonder if the decent people can really make up for the sheer number of assholes out there, spoiling life for everyone else and spreading evil?

Well, I can give you a day like that right now if you read this:

Dog spraypainted with anti-semetic and racist symbols

Fucking PRICKS. I say we root out the bastards and forcibly castrate them all. Oh, what the hell: without anesthesia. Yeah. I'm sick of thinking that people with this much stupidity and hatred are breeding future ignorance.

I was just thinking: what was the deal with Garfield always wanting to eat lasagna? I've seen some cats in my time, and cats don't really care about lasagna unless there is cod or liver in it or something catty like that. And who makes liver lasagna, anyway? No one, that's who. No one makes liver lasagna. Or cod lasagna.

Garfield was funny to me when I was in 5th grade. I know this, because I used to buy those Garfield books at the book fairs all the time. (I think one of the books was "Garfield at Large" or "Garfield, Large and In Charge"... they were all about Garfield being this fat crap of a cat, which really not a riveting storyline if you stop and think about it.)

The major points to know about Garfield:

* His owner, Jon, was a loser who couldn't score with the ladies.

* Odie was some strange bug-eyed dog with an abnormal tongue. He was not smart.

* Garfield slept neatly in a little box with a blanket over his back-- just like a real cat.

* Garfield's girlfriend was a pink slutty cat named Arlene.

* Garfield would regularly taunt Jon and make fun of his tiny penis.

* Odie spit a lot. Which was, apparently, hilarious.

* Arlene had big red hooker lips. Cats should NEVER have big red hooker lips.

* Garfield's nemesis was the cute little kitten named Nermal. Nermal is a FANTASTIC name, by the way. It reminds me of thermals, which are my favorite underwear.

* Heathcliff and Garfield should have done a crossover. I'm thinking something like when the Harlem Globetrotters ended up on the island, or when Josie and the Pussycats stepped over into Scooby Doo territory. I can't even get my head around the possibilities of what two fat, orange cats with the same sardonic wit would do if they were brought together! Those sly fat cats...! The awesomeness would be off the charts.
[Actually, NO. I don't know anyone who liked Heathcliff. Heathcliff was the most retarded rip-off ever and I hated his guts when I was a kid. I also hated Marmaduke. Stupid big sloppy Marmaduke, always ruining everyone's life by throwing his huge fucking dog-face in the mix!]

I don't think they have Garfield anymore. I wouldn't know because it's been about 10 years since I bought an actual newspaper. Do they still have "For Better or For Worse"? I stopped reading a few years back when some grandparent had cancer or something, and then they brought their old dog in to be put to sleep. The dog's name was Farley, I think. I just don't think it can be called a "comic strip" anymore when the stories revolve around dogs dying and sick grandpas. That's when it becomes a "depression strip."

One more thing: I had a GIANT Garfield back in the day. I asked Santa for it, too. And I got it! Lucky me! The girl with the gargantuan stuffed Garfield that you can't do anything with! It was about 3 feet tall and about as wide, and it sat in the corner of my bedroom with its big plastic eyes, gathering dust and doing nothing to make me smarter.

I am so dumb now. I wish I had Stephen Hawking in the corner of my room instead, softly chattering away the secrets of the universe through his voicebox as I slept. Smartness would seep in to my subconscious brain and I could have been the goddamned valedictorian. And it would be all thanks to my genius paralyzed friend in the corner of my bedroom! Thanks, Stephen Hawking!

Oh my God, I would freak the hell OUT if I woke up and saw the still form of Stephen Hawking in my bedroom... his chair pointed in our direction and his listless eyes gleaming behind those glasses. "I LIKE TO. WATCH.YOU SLEEP."

“You wouldn’t know a good time if it fell out of the sky, landed on your face and started to wiggle.” --The Great Outdoors

Hello again, my little blog. I haven’t given you anything for a couple of days and I know you’re probably a little peeved about it.

I bet you are wondering why I used the word “peeved”, too. Oh, my dear little blog. I think that, perhaps, I am trying to cut down on the swearing.

Yesterday I was driving and I realized I have a pretty foul mouth. I swear a lot, and I swear a lot at work. There’s a guy I work with who is a Mormon and I know he never swears, and I think I curse a little too much around him. He’s nice and never says anything or acts offended, which is to his benefit (he’s giving Mormons an OK name!)—but I’ve become aware of my own swearing more once I began to notice his lack of swearing. I don’t want to be an assh—JERK, so today I slowed down my talking and made an effort to replace the curses with less offensive words.

It’s hard to do! I never realized how easy swearing is. I do it naturally, and I do it casually and I do it any time of the day, seven days a week. What can I say, I like the cursing.

I wonder if my foul mouth and lack of fashion has kept me from getting a better job or moving up the all-important corporate ladder. I’ve been thinking about the way I dress in recent days. I know I don’t, and probably never will, dress like a Manager or a CEO of anything. I just can’t do it. Something about suits, expensive shoes, conservative colors and overly-styled hair just makes me sick. I am a blue-collar girl, working in the white collar world. It isn’t a comfortable fit. I wonder sometimes if I made no change to my work output, quality or skills, yet wore a suit everyday I am in the office, if it would get me a promotion. I’ve concluded that yes, at this particular company, “dressing for the job you want” would get me noticed and moved along the path towards whitewashed corporate greatness. Maybe at other, more balanced places where superficiality with money isn’t as valued, this wouldn’t be true; but I am watching it happen in front of me on a regular basis.

I guess it just comes down to the simple fact that I don’t make an ideal employee for anyone who is overly conservative, easily offended, shallow, or opportunistic. I think I need to figure out what other types of jobs I might excel at more than this one. Here’s a quick list of some possibilities:

• Professional writer of fiction and blogs.

That’s all I can come up with right now. I need to think a little more about this list; just in case the publishers never get around to sending those acceptance letters or calling me to tell me they want to see more of my writing. Maybe I can work as a keeper of pygmy goats. Because, awwwww! Pygmy goats are adorable little guys!

Well, that’s it. In closing, let me leave you, my dear blog, with one more quote from the Great Outdoors, for no reason other than these quotes make me laugh:

“I don’t want to hear anymore about anyone blowing anything out of their ass.”

Today, the new lady referred to me as “Laura.” Guess what, bitch… that ain’t my name. Get it right and come back to me tomorrow and maybe we’ll talk.

I know that happens sometimes; that people will call you by the wrong name. I don’t usually get bugged out about it, but I am feeling a little testy these days. I don’t feel like taking crap anymore, from anyone. I better straighten up and get this toxic attitude FIXED, otherwise I risk becoming corporate poison! And that leads to being laid off, methinks.

Oh, well, I don’t care. Shit on it!

The other name I have been called in the past on more than one occasion is Amy. I don’t know why. But it’s happened a few times since elementary school. After I would be called Amy, and proceeded to correct the namesayer, the person would say something like, “Oh, well, you look like an Amy.” Really? What does an Amy look like? How come I don’t look like a Lisa? That’s the part I always wondered about. What about me made me look like Not-Me? Was it my hair? It was probably my hair. It’s ALWAYS the hair. Or, perhaps it was my big-boned frame. Maybe to some people, Lisas are a lithe, sprightly people. Maybe to these same fools Amys are chubbier. Those people are such bigots. There’s no reason to make that assumption about Amys. They don’t ask to be thought of as chubby.

You know what’s stupid? Sometimes, when I am telling someone my name over the phone or at a desk somewhere, and I have to spell out my last name, I sometimes spell out my first name, too. Just kind of automatically. And come on… who doesn’t know how to spell Lisa? I treat people like they are dirt. Stupid, ignorant, can’t-spellin’ dirt.

Even worse is when I hear myself say: “Lisa… as in Mona.”

Or, even more horrible: “Lisa, as in Mona Lisa. The painting.”

Yeah, I have said that. Wow. It’s amazing I still have all my teeth, for I truly deserve a beating sometimes.

Last night we watched this show on A&E called "Intervention." It was oddly entertaining and we had a good time rooting for the bulimic girl to give up her puking habits, although we weren't as sympathetic to the crystal meth addict because he came off as such a selfish jerk.

I've seen this show before, and I think the last time I saw it they documented an anorexic and some girl who did drugs. That last episode was not as memorable as last night's episode. The bulimic girl did some really sick stuff. Just the footage of her binge eating at buffet restaurants was enough to make us cringe. Later on when she would go home and throw up in ziploc bags and then hide the bags in her closet so her husband wouldn't know she was throwing up, we were on the edge of our seats, literally. It is hard to watch this stuff. She was really ill, this girl... throwing up 2-3 times a day like that, and then going to that trouble to hide and store her vomit. It was strangely funny, though, when she gathered up a week's worth of vomit bags from her closet and put them all in a big box and dumped it in a dumpster. We imagined the owners of that dumpster going, "Oh, no, that girl with the box full of vomit is back again!"

By the end of the episode, the girl's family confronted her in intervention and she handled it very well and accepted the help. It was a good ending and we were kind of cheering her on to get better. So that was nice.

However...

Crystal Meth guy: not so much. They showed this guy smoking up and said he did it pretty much every hour of his day. He was homeless, and spent his time crashing at friend's apartments and surfing the internet for gay porn, and arranging hookups with as many as 20 men a night. He also had syphilis and didn't want to use condoms.

At one point in the show, this guy couldn't pay the rent on his storage unit so he decided to load up a friend's pickup truck and drive all his stuff out to his Mom's house in Tucson. The mother knew he was coming, but had no idea he was bringing so much crap. When he got to her house, he was kind of mean to her and started right off with the drama queen comments about her "not accepting me" and "sorry I am not the perfect son," even though his Mom was being very even-keeled, calm as possible and never said anything like that. He just got all upset when she said it looked like he had a lot of stuff (he really did, too) and they didn't have that much room in their garage to store it. Meth-guy starts complaining and saying he's leaving, his mother obviously doesn't love him, etc... and MAN, it made you want to reach into the TV and smack the shit out of him. All she said was she didn't have a lot of room. He was acting like an asshole drug addict. I don't have sympathy for that.

The funiest part was when his Mom offered up, "We can put your stuff on the deck," and his answer was, "I would rather have bamboo shoots shoved under my toenails, and hang upside and have water dripped into my nose." Jeez, buddy, she is just saying you can put your crap on her deck. Your answer seemed a little extreme.

By the end of the episode, he too was faced with an intervention with his family and friends. The difference was he acting like a little bitch about getting help and only finally agreed to help once he called his friend Frank to make sure the rehab place he would be sent to would be OK. Oh, yay for us, because Frank said it was legit. Meth-guy was sent off to rehab, and the credits at the end of the show said he has been sober since January, 2006. I think they filmed the show in 2004. So it's obviously taking this guy awhile.

I don't know why I am so callous about drug addiction, but I am. Even given the story of Jason Mewes that I mentioned a few days ago... I still believe everyone has a choice and you can choose to do this crap to yourself, or not. It's always wonderful when someone can clean themselves up, get sober, or otherwise change their lives around, but when people just spin out and expect other people to just take care of them or pay the price for their habits, I just feel like turning my back and letting natural selection take place. And besides, since when does addiction give anyone free reign to just be an asshole to their families? I know there can be two sides to any story and all that, but it really gets me pissed when I see or hear things like the way meth-guy treated his mom, who in my opinion really was trying to help yet help without enabling him. (She wouldn't let him stay at her house, and she did do the intervention thing shortly after) I believe Moms deserve a little more respect than that, end of story, and I hate watching when there is a lack of it.

Whew, soap box much? Well anyway, my point is that Intervention was that entertaining train-wreck kind of TV, but if you have a black sense of humor it is also kind of funny, too. I can't wait to use that bamboo shoots/dripping water up my nose line the next time Greg asks me to do something.

"Do you want to get pizza for dinner?"

"Bitch, PLEASE, I'd rather shove bamboo shoots under my toenails and have water dripped up my nose!"

"...OK, then. No pizza."