Everything I Like Causes Cancer

I'm going to make my fortune opening a school for receptionists.

2011-08-19T12:04:00.003-05:00

The following exchange is an exact account of a real event. The scene opens in a small but tastefully decorated office, and I've just placed a call . . .

Receptionist (played by a moron): “Dewey, Cheatem and Howe.”

Me: “Good morning. Is Dick Cheatem available?”

TM: “He’s not in the office.”

*crickets*

(See, this is the place where the moron answering the phone should offer me options, like voice mail or taking a message. BUT SHE DOESN’T. SHE JUST SITS THERE LIKE THE MORON SHE IS. I picture her drooling at her desk while I wait to see what she will do next.)

*if you can believe it, more crickets*

(I’ve been through this routine so many times that I revel in the uncomfortable silence. Usually they can’t take it and say something but this one was particularly thick-headed. I finally break.)

Me: “Okay. What are my options?”

TM, all snotty now: “He’s out of the country.”

Me: “I get it. He's not available. Are there alternatives to speaking with him?”

(What I really wanted to say: “Look you fucking moron, taking a message or offering me voice mail is your fucking job, and it isn’t a hard one. Your employer probably didn’t run off to parts unknown assuming that everyone who called his business while he was gone would be turned away.”)

TM: “Hold on.”

(This is where I whisper that she’s a fucking idiot while I’m on hold and hope that she hasn’t sneakily put me on speaker phone.)

TM, still snotty: “If you’re calling about a case you can talk to one of his associates.”

Me: “Now THAT’S an option. Yes, I would like that, please.”

And you know, I wouldn't have devoted 20 minutes of my life to writing out this little exchange and posting it here WITH ALL CAPS PARTS if this were an isolated incident. It happens ALL THE TIME. Really, how fucking hard is it to answer a phone, pleasantly communicate with the public, and helpfully transfer calls and take messages? I assert that it is not hard at all and that exchanges like this should happen much less often than they do, if at all.

*shakes head and clicks publish*

So this is the way it's going to be, is it?

2011-08-09T19:14:00.004-05:00

My office recently moved from way the hell out in the suburbs to downtown so I started taking the bus to work again. I like it. It's easy and cheap. And it gets me closer to the building than if I drove and paid for parking. Bonus.

So last Tuesday on my way home I got into a touch of a scuffle with a particular driver. I was standing at the stop and he blew right past me. Didn't stop. Didn't even pretend he might slow down. Thankfully, the next stop is a busy one - lots of people on and off - so I was able to run and catch it. While I was paying my fare I made sure he knew what he had done. As I walked away he hollered after me that the stop I was at is a multi-bus stop and I should have raised my hand to indicate I wanted him to stop. Now this is utter bull. No other driver does it this way. I argued that the stop is on his route and if there are people there, he needs to stop. He told me that my attitude would get me kicked off. I gave him a dismissive hand wave and we all moved on. So I thought.

He was driving again tonight, first time I've seen him since. I could tell it was him from down the street. To be safe, I raised my hand to indicate I wanted him to stop. He was all sunshine and giggles when I got on. He actually laughed and was quite pleased with himself for "winning." Whatever. I have no problem doing things your way when refusing will be a detriment to me. Besides, I said my piece.

But. You knew there was a but, right? When he stopped to let me off the bus tonight? The bastard made sure he stopped juuuust right so that I had to step into a pile of sand the exact width of the door to get off the bus.

I hope he feels like a big man now. And gets crabs.

Moving the outdated political rant down the page

2011-08-08T20:05:00.003-05:00

Thanks, SkyDad! You're the cutest.

I only have this to say.

2011-05-02T11:07:00.004-05:00

I arrived home late yesterday afternoon from a long-weekend road trip to the Nashville area exhausted. I did my level best to stay awake, enjoying the serenity of my home and catching up on the TV I missed while away, but lost the battle with my eyelids and fell asleep on the couch at about 10 pm. I woke at 3 am to find that US Navy Seals, at the direction of our President, had located and eliminated Osama Bin Laden. While I understood my countrymen's jubilation, I was uncomfortable with some of the very ugly things that were being said and done. My emotions were conflicting: pride, relief, joy, concern, sadness, disgust, shame.

This morning I watched news coverage, read blogs discussing the event, listened to Secretary of State Clinton's address . . . I spent six hours last night and this morning trying to reconcile my feelings and, in the end, posted this to Facebook:

The world breathes a sigh of relief that the foremost terrorist leader has been eliminated, and rightly so, but let's not lose sight of temperance and grace. This is far from over and the actions we take and the words we speak today will color what happens in the future.

Those who lost loved ones in the 9/11 attacks and all of the sundry other world-wide attacks masterminded by Bin Laden have closure, and that is a great thing. The leadership of this country set a goal and eventually accomplished it. We should celebrate that. But terror sects are designed to continue to thrive long after the head of the snake has been cut off. The world is watching us to see how we react. Let's do so with reason and compassion.

Other Kick-Ass Gwens

2011-04-05T10:26:00.003-05:00

The obvious.

The interesting character.

The cultured and political.

UPDATED TO ADD:

The dancer.

(Also the only ginger that I know of.)

New boots!

2011-03-31T22:08:00.000-05:00

Bring it on, Spring. I'm ready.

You look like Eva Braun.

2011-03-01T15:03:00.003-06:00

My friend Peabody came over Sunday afternoon to watch the pre-Oscars red carpet festivities and we began by watching the coverage on E! which was partially hosted by these two clowns. (On the left, Giuliana Rancic; on the right, Kelly Osbourne.)

Trust me when I tell you that the poor quality of the picture does not make them look any worse than they actually did.

Anyway, later in the show - you know, when the real celebrities arrived - Ryan Seacrest interviewed Helena Bonham Carter. The entire time Seacrest was doing his thing on the red carpet, Kelly was in the studio gushing profusely about how much she loves Helena: she loves her; she loves her style; she loves that HBC doesn't care what people think. It was uncomfortable but HBC graciously thanked her and commented, "You've gone blonde."

But what I heard HBC say was, "You look like Eva Braun." We had to rewind to be sure and I can't tell you how disappointed I was to find out I was wrong.

Headlines tell me what's going on in the world.

2011-02-25T10:54:00.003-06:00

I use an app called news360 to keep up with what's happening in the world outside a three-mile radius of my house. The service does a nice job of collecting stories from all sorts of news sources and making them available in one place that I can peruse before I fall asleep each night. Plus, their headlines are always paired with a picture. Every lazy body loves pictures!

The thing is, sometimes the picture doesn't exactly fit the story . . .

Halle Berry is neither Madonna nor James Franco.

But if I was invited to both parties, I'd go to Franco's.

And sometimes, the picture adds a layer of ridiculousness to a very serious story . . .

Nothing says crazy dictator better than an extravagant military uniform.

I want this outfit for our next Curtain Skirt party.

As you can see, I recently figured out how to take a screen shot on my iPhone and I've now collected enough of these things that I've got blog material for weeks. Whee!

Neighbors: We will pay you X amount of dollars for this property.

Owners: Please, sir, I want some more.

Humor me one more time.

2011-02-15T20:54:00.000-06:00

I posted pictures at La Vie En Rows. Just sayin'.

Hey. Whatcha doin'?

2011-02-11T17:17:00.003-06:00

I wrote something today but it's over here.

Go look at it.

JUST WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!1!

2011-01-25T17:24:00.005-06:00

I mean, really! I've been sitting here all alone, by myself, in the cold quiet of January just waaaaaaaating for one of you to come by HQ and visit. BORED OUT OF MY MIND ALL ALONE SAD.

What'sat ya say? . . .

I'm the one who's been missing? . . .

Since before Christmas?!

*sits up a little taller, squishes face and cocks head to the side, confused*

Nuh uh . . .

No, no, no. It was you! You were the one! . . .

No, wait.

Wait just a minute.

No, you're right. It was me.

Hey, sorry I yelled. I get a little kooky when I'm losing my mind. Heh. January, right? It's a bitch.

They lied about Christmas.

2010-12-23T12:36:00.004-06:00

The baby Jesus was actually born in a canoe.

No lie. Seriously. If it's on the Internet, it's true, right?

Well, I just put it on the Internet.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, MONKEYS!

Party like you tricked Santa into believing you belong on The Nice List.

The holidays can be stressful.

2010-12-03T10:07:00.003-06:00

This time of year can really take toll on a person - all the food, all the drink, all the family . . . Thankfully, while at the hardware store earlier this week, I found a product that is much less expensive than that therapist you've been seeing twice a week:

You're welcome.

Let me start by saying (ASSCAKES!) I love you . . .

2010-11-12T10:36:00.007-06:00

I have a friend who must spend countless hours scouring the In'ernets for amusement because I regularly get emails directing me to his hilarious finds. The most recent of these is a website hosted by a man named Guy who has both Tourette's syndrome and Asberger's syndrome and uses karaoke as therapy.

Now, before anyone gets all pissy with me for posting here about Guy, bear in mind that he makes it clear on his site that he knows what he does is funny. He intentionally records songs on days when his tics are abundant. We're not laughing at Guy; we're laughing with him. Besides, if you spend any amount of time on his site, Tourette's Karaoke, you'll learn quite a bit about what it's like to have these conditions and how Guy copes with them. In addition to being hilarious, it's informative.

But you don't visit EILCC to learn things, you come here to be amused and today Guy is the guy who's going to deliver the funny. I chose this particular video because the cursing peppered through the sappy love lyrics is comedy gold.

Take it away, Guy:

I'm especially fond of this one because I'm a child and I love to get you in unconventional ways. Happy Friday, monkeys! Fuck off!

Living Out Loud

2010-11-05T10:36:00.009-05:00

Walking into last night's spin class I had no idea that it would be the last one led by my favorite instructor. I was blissfully unaware of the torture I was about to endure. Apparently a full-time job and being a single dad leaves him little time to abuse us twice a week.

I was really sad when he made the announcement because he's the only instructor who motivates me to give it everything I've got. If you don't leave it all on the bike in his class, you're a loser who should attend a different class so someone else who's serious can have a bike in his class.

Halfway through, or what I thought was halfway because we ended up doing an extra 15 minutes, I was regretting having made his last class. We did everything in double-time, at high resistance. There were a couple times I thought I would puke and I was gasping like a fish out of water through the entire thing. He made us do three 1-minute sprints punctuated with 1-count jumps during the second "one last song."

I'm walking like a hooker at the end of Navy Week today, but I'm invigorated by the pain. So often we get bogged down by work and home and family - life in general - that we forget to push ourselves; we become complacent and lazy. I'm not just talking about physical complacency, but social and emotional as well. Last night's work-out not only pushed my body, but my mind.

Today I plan to live out loud: I'm going to be the best employee, friend, daughter, sister, and cousin I can be. I'm going to embrace the day as if it might be my last and refuse to simply go through the motions. I'm going to tackle that work project that's been hanging over my head like a storm cloud. I'm going to drive tonight so a friend who had a tough week can blow off steam. I'm going to do those dishes that have been in the sink since Sunday. I'm going to finish this post even though I keep losing my wi-fi connection. I'm going to . . .

Ooh! There's a Doctor Who marathon stored in my DVR? Never mind. Forget I said anything.

What did you see at The Polling Alley?

2010-11-02T11:09:00.004-05:00

This post was originally published 11/03/08 but is still (mostly) relevant.

Don't forget to vote! Enjoy the game!

This election season has been unceasingly tedious. I've actually grown accustomed to being bombarded by it and thinking about it at all times. The theme changes - the candidates, voter registration, the debates, my love/hate relationship with Sarah Palin - you name it, I've considered it.

Today I thought about the voting process itself, things like what I should wear . . . should I take a raincoat since last time I got caught in the rain and had to pee . . . not that taking a raincoat would solve anything if I had to pee . . . should I go in the morning before work (vote, not pee) . . . should I go after work . . . yeah again vote, not pee . . . should I take a book in case the line is long . . . do they allow iPods?. . . I bet not.

This went on for a while and then my feeble mind wandered back to silly things like this image that someone sent me today, a Wal*Mart Bingo Card:

A card that rewards you for witnessing an artificial voicebox and puts the pleasure back into catching the scent of someone with unbearable body odor. (Clicking the image makes it bigger so you can see some of the other fine items you're to spot for the win.)

And then it came to me in a flash - like all my genius ideas do - why not marry the two ideas? The Wal*Mart Bingo card in polling alleys across the nation . . . it's the perfect voting accessory! All you have to do is print up your very own game card and you're all set for "good times in the votin' lines" over there at the [insert where you vote here].

I recommend you print it tonight (now) and put it over there on the table with your voter registration card. That way you won't forget to take it with you and get all mad when the line is long and you've got nothing to do but think about how you wish you'd done what I told you to do.

Also, take a pen.

I'd like to hear back about any egregious sightings. If anyone actually completes a row I might consider giving said person a prize of my choosing.

The Big Wicked Online Pageant

2010-10-29T20:22:00.012-05:00

With the exception of free candy from strangers, scary stuff is my favorite part of Halloween: ghosts, goblins, ghouls . . . and pictures from childhood. Earlier this week the lovely and talented Beckeye invited folks to participate in a bit of blog pageantry dubbed The Big Wicked Online Pageant. Not being one to miss an opportunity for public ridicule, I called my mom and asked her to find and scan the evidence.

My mom has gotten much better at framing a shot since then.

Making an educated guess, I'd say this was Halloween of 1984, which would mean I was 15 and my brother was 4. Mom made our costumes. At the time I hated that we were dressed alike; I hated that we were bumblebees; I hated that our costumes were homemade - I was, after all, a teen girl and, therefore, hated everything - but I love this memory and this picture of us. I mean, seriously, how freaking cute was my brother? He was simultaneously the kid you wanted to eat with a spoon and the kid you wanted to beat with a stick.

The deadline is fast approaching but please join in the fun . . . The Rules According to Beckeye are as follows:

Scan a photo from your Halloween past. (Ideally, the photos should be from your childhood but we'll take what you've got.)
Post it to your blog on Friday, October 29.
Once you post your photo, email her the URL to the specific post.

My mom also sent this photo which depicts the first-ever wearing of my infamous Sacajewea costume (also made by my talented madre):

You remember this one, right? From when Whiskeymarie was here the first time? When we fake-pooped in stuff and she woke up wearing this very costume on Sunday morning, a mere 50 minutes before her flight took off? Yeah, that one. Good times. She keeps emailing me telling me how much she misses me. This one's for her. I'd better go email her back or she'll send me rotten eggs and angry wolverines.

Color me confounded

2010-10-19T09:47:00.006-05:00

During a smoking lounge discussion yesterday someone used the phrase "shit eating grin" and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. I mean, why would someone be happy about eating shit?

Happy Tuesday, shit eaters. Keep smilin'!

Lazy Monday Post

2010-10-18T11:04:00.000-05:00

Peabody on Daddies

2010-10-14T08:30:00.000-05:00

My mom has been married several times. I'm not going into the details of it here because that is her private business and not my story to tell. All you need to know of the back story for this post is that I've had multiple dads.

The other day I was telling Peabody about an on-line dating proposition I'd recently received from an older, married man who just wanted to have sex and was willing to buy me things in exchange. She and I were discussing whether having a sugar daddy constitutes prostitution when she interjected, "You know, with all the daddies you've had I'm surprised you haven't had a sugar one."

[You can find other snippets of the unintentional hilarity uttered by my bestie Peabody here and here.]

I really want to show you the big hole in my alley.

2010-10-08T09:08:00.010-05:00

A couple months ago I sent a tweet to my city government advising them of an increasingly large sinkhole in the alley behind my house. They replied, advising that a work ticket had been made with the street department who had until August 20 to respond. August 20th came and went without any action. I lost faith in twitter.

About a week later I noticed action had been taken: the street department had placed a flashing-light barricade over the sinkhole. I giggled. Whatever.

This morning, however, I was awakened at the ass-crack of dawn by a jackhammer and I cursed. Really bad words. Ugly stuff.

As I write this, a team of 3-4 guys is using a backhoe to dig a ginormous hole where the sinkhole used to be. Like, so big that they have a dump truck back there to hold all the dirt they're hauling out and I just saw a guy go down in the hole and his whole body disappeared. I can only suppose that they are trying to find, or get to, the cause of the sinking so they can fix it. I really want to go out there to take a picture of the big hole in my alley, but I'm still in my pajamas (no bra) and I've got pink hair dye in my bangs. And bad breath. (I work from home twice a week, shut it.)

Anyway, I plan to run out there to get a picture if the workmen ever walk away from the hole. Stay tuned! It's possible we'll be able to see Chinese people.

UPDATE:

Eventually - 45 minutes later, to be exact - I had to get the hair dye out of my bangs so I took a shower (and brushed my teeth) (but did not put on a bra - it's FRIDAY, people) and ventured out to the hole. There are still two guys out there so I had to stay inside the fence and couldn't get the shot I wanted, but this will give you an idea of the depth of the hole in my alley:

There is a man standing down in there that you can't see because he is waaaaay down in there. Plus, he didn't want to be in the picture and I was honor-bound to oblige him. I credit the lack of a bra for the photo-op they did allow. Free Boob Fridays (but no China-men) for all my friends!

Statistics

2010-10-05T17:36:00.005-05:00

I don't intend to keep going on about the sudden popularity of this blog (tres gauche!), but before all this new attention EILCC was just a place where I posted the things that ran through my head for the entertainment of a group of friends, people who had been here a long time. My audience was familiar, like family.

But now? Now I feel like I accidentally ripped a loud fart in the middle of a fancy party during an unexpectedly quiet moment and suddenly every pair of eyes in the room is locked on me. No, worse - like I farted in the middle of a fancy party, the room went dark, a spotlight lit up over my head, and THEN everyone in the room turned to look right at me. I can't decide whether to giggle hysterically or to panic and blame it on the dog.

Excited, I've spent a lot of time thinking about all of you new people: who you are, what you're like, what you like to do, whether or not the carpet matches the drapes. In fact, I daydreamed about you so much that, without intending to, I crafted a list of statistics about you:

As I wrote this, 75 of you were having sex. (High five! after you've washed your hands.)
It's even possible that 2 of you were doing it with each other. (It could happen.)
21% of you ride scooters for fun on the weekends. (Helmets, please.)
16% of you are not wearing pants.
4 of you still drink Tang.
Of the16% of you not wearing pants, 2% of you are touching yourself inappropriately. (Stop it. You can wait until you've finished reading this post.)
3% of that 2% you are going to want to tell me you really were touching yourself. (Don't.)
100% of me wants to switch the topic.
12% of you are eating some sort of whole grain cereal for dinner. (That's not enough for dinner. Eat a piece of fruit. Monkeys like bananas.)
56% of you like hats.
89% of you also write a blog.
One of you is a secret mime and spends too much time thinking about how to use keyboard symbols to make a box in the comments.
3% of you are seriously into Heavy Metal. (\m/)
One of you has man hands and keeps Asian teens in your basement. (You know who you are. I miss you.)
Three of you attend a monthly LARP event.
30 of you don't like me anymore.
7 of you are using a keyboard missing its "S" key.
63% of you dance it out in the dining room when you have the house to yourself.
24 of you read romance novels but don't admit it.
Everybody likes sammiches!

If these stats are accurate, ~~it would surprise the crap outta me~~ I don't think I have any reason to fret: you newbies are really nice, and the alumni are just as weird as you are.

I'd like to thank The Academy . . .

2010-09-30T09:09:00.016-05:00

My iPhone chimes, "New mail!" I check it: eight new comments on old posts from strangers.

???

My iPhone chimes, "New mail!" I check it: four new comments on old posts from strangers.

???!

My iPhone chimes, "New mail!" I check it: five new comments on old posts from strangers.

What the hell is going on?

My iPhone chimes, "New mail!" I check it: two new comments on old posts from strangers, and one of them congratulates me.

What for? Seriously, what the fresh hell is happening to my blog?

This went on all day yesterday. I truly had no idea what was happening and had no time at work to figure it out. It wasn't until about 7:30 last night that I began to understand that this here little hobby of a blog had been chosen by The Blogger Team as the Blog of Note for the day. To say this is an honor is an understatement. I never dreamed this corner lot in Blogaritaville would get this kind of traffic or following. It's like someone built a water park at the end of the street. And if I'm going to be honest, it's a little overwhelming and intimidating.

Hello, all you new people! We here at EILCC HQ are excited to have you but could you please not track internet dust into the lobby? We just had new floors installed. And you? Yeah, you over there sitting on the red couch? Please put your feet on the floor. Thank you.

According to the "Historie and Nature of Blogs of Note" the criteria for selection includes "good writing, good design, or original content or concept, or I just liked the name." This is fairly broad and leaves me wondering, why this one? At one time I'd have said Obscenity Week brought all the boys to the yard, but things have aged and slowed and tamed over here since then. I may never know why this blog was chosen so I'll be grateful rather than trying to analyze it:

THANK YOU BLOGGER TEAM AND EVERYONE WHO HAS STOPPED BY!

I hope I can live up to the hype. I suppose I'll move forward from this moment just being me since that's what got me here, The Land of Infinite Internet Fame and Fortune. My first act of keeping it real will be to go outside and pick up all the poop left in the back yard by these two adorable ruffians when they stayed at EILCC HQ last week:

Hello, Babysitter Lady!

We're the cutest Jehovah's Witnesses to ever visit your door.

Also, you need to paint your porch.

This is even better than bending spoons.

2010-09-17T10:47:00.006-05:00

As I write this I am sitting at my home-office desk. My view is of my back yard and a small section of my neighbor's back yard. About an hour ago a team of long-haired dudes showed up to trim my neighbor's very large and overgrown oak tree. Right now one of them is sitting in a chair at the far end of the yard, staring up into the tree. While I am sure there is someone else up in the tree doing the actual cutting, from this perspective - and from the way he is sitting like a swami - it looks like this guy is cutting the limbs with his mind. It's really funny. I wish you were here to see it. That is all. Go back to work now.

The library is stirrin' up more trouble.

2010-09-08T22:34:00.006-05:00

About a month ago I posted about how the librarians at the branch of the public library that I frequent periodically (Once a month? Hello, sweet power of deduction.) put together a collection of books based on a theme. See here.

Anyway, my saucy librarians are up to no dang good this time. You will not believe what I my eyes were subjected to when I was there on Saturday:

Banned books. BANNED BOOKS, PEOPLE! I was shocked. And, and, and . . . appalled. My delicate sensi . . . (ahem) . . . My delicate sensibil . . . (hrm) . . . My delicate . . .

Aw, who am I trying to kid? I checked out The Fan Club.

Sunday Punday

2010-09-05T09:02:00.004-05:00

This week I got smart: roll your cursor over the image for the answer.

Things that have faces but don't really have faces.

2010-09-02T21:03:00.008-05:00

Sunday Punday

2010-08-22T09:19:00.006-05:00

Whoops. I didn't realize a whole week had passed without a post. To recap: some stuff happened and now it's happy pun time . . .

Some of these won't be as obvious as others so I'll put the "answer" in the first comment. Don't open the comments until you're ready for a spoiler!

Sunday Punday

2010-08-15T09:31:00.003-05:00

Puns! I love puns!

Expect to see more of these. On Sundays.

(See the title? Aw, yeah.)

Saturday Matinee: Clarity

2010-08-14T09:16:00.005-05:00

I'm not so full of hubris that I can't admit when I made a mistake. When I published the post below I assumed that everyone had been raised by a very young mother, surrounded by her pop culture preferences like, say, The Beatles. I mistakenly assumed everyone was as familiar with their lyrics as I am. My bad.

To prove I'm not a ginormously pompous smarty-pants, I've returned to clarify that I was referencing the last verse of A Day In The Life:

I read the news today oh boy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall
I'd love to turn you on

I was out with friends last Saturday night and while we were having dinner I noticed that the apartment building next to the restaurant is named "Albert Hall." It cracked me up and I hoped to make you laugh as well. Eh, they can't all be winners.

This video, set to "A Day In The Life", is quite well done and contains some great old footage. I hope you enjoy it more than you did my last post.

P.S. Special thanks to my IRL friend Bryan Bean who was as confused as the rest of you, but googled what the hell I was talking about and posted a clarifying comment. Thanks for reading and caring, Bean! Consider yourself hired as an EILCC Editor.

I wonder how many holes it takes to fill it.

2010-08-10T10:08:00.002-05:00

An apartment building near where I had dinner Saturday night. STL, MO

Does anyone have drums? I need a roll.

2010-08-08T11:35:00.009-05:00

A thin pocketbook and temperatures surpassing a blistering 100 degrees recently gave me way too much time to sit and stew about my life and how I got "here" and how it isn't at all what I had planned or expected and how I desperately needed a haircut.

So, on Friday afternoon, about two hours before I was scheduled for said haircut, I decided to make a change, to do something unexpected and bold, something a little crazy. While the cliché remedies for a mid-life crisis are sports cars and affairs, I already drive a sports car and I have no one to cheat on, so I got a different kind of wild hair up my ass - a pink one:

I called my stylist, told her what I wanted to do and BAM! by eight o'clock that night my hair had been cut and my bangs had been pinked. And I gotta tell ya, I feel much better. I've got my sass back, my edge, my joie de vivre, if you will. I don't care if it's too hot to go outside, I've got pink hair, suckas.

Necessity is the mother effer of invention.

2010-08-06T09:54:00.007-05:00

In serious need of a haircut, I've resorted to wearing hats the past couple days. Today I paired my favorite olive-drab skull-studded hat with my favorite madras shorts:

I'm calling it "South American Revolutionary Visits Boca Raton." All the kids'll be doing next week, you'll see.

Slow clap for the li-berry.

2010-08-02T18:55:00.008-05:00

The branch of the library that I frequent keeps a cart of books by the service desk. The books on the cart have been chosen because they have something in common, like at Valentine's Day the cart is stocked with love stories, classic and best-selling. Around President's Day you'll find biographies. Halloween? Ghost stories. You get the idea.

I stopped at the library on my way home tonight and the most recent theme made me laugh out loud:

Bravo, Buder Branch librarians! Bra-vo.

I usually limit myself to three books at a time. If I take home more than that, I end up paying fines because I can't finish them all before they're due and I'm too lazy to find my member number and renew them online. But tonight I was so tickled by the theme that I picked up a fourth book off the cart, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. Suck it, Oprah.

Apollo: For when you really mean it.

2010-07-21T17:21:00.016-05:00

It was suggested this week that during my most recent month-long blog hiatus I was "just gathering material that she'll release in a torrent of posts." I wish I could say that was the case, but it just isn't. I can't lie to you, Internet, you're my most trusted friend. No, I've just been eating M&M's by the hands full, plucking my eyebrows every time I go pee and watching movies, which, while quite enjoyable for me, isn't worthy of reporting.

But! Some Guy's Retrospective reminded me that there is love in blogging so I vowed last night to come here and write down everything that makes me laugh really hard until I can find my groove again. Even if it's just to recite email content.

Ready? Here's today's funniest moment:

A friend was telling me about something he did in the past that was (still is) very illegal. Yes, there are levels of illegal. I break a multitide of laws every day, but they're little ones - as far as you know. His was major. (That's what she said.)

Anyway, he described his actions as "Apollo illegal." Now, I had no freaking clue what "Apollo illegal" meant so I asked:

What is "Apollo illegal"? Is that something that is SOOOOO illegal that when you do it Apollo Creed shows up and punches you in the head? Because that would deter me. I have a vague memory of you telling me this story before. I must've been Apollo drunk. (That's when you're so drunk that Apollo Creed shows up and punches you in the head.)

I was laughing so hard at myself while I typed that paragraph that I had tears in my eyes, and not the fake blog-comment kind. REAL TEARS, people.

He replied - something cryptic about spellcheck - so I assume he didn't mean to say "Apollo illegal", but he didn't tell me what he meant to say. That's a mystery I don't need to solve, but I have decided I'll be using "Apollo" as an adjective that means fucking business from now on.

Peabody on Sandwiches

2010-06-16T14:30:00.004-05:00

The other day, while in the company of my dearest Peabody, the conversation turned to sandwiches . . .

Peabody: Why is it spelled S-A-N-D-W-I-C-H when it’s pronounced "sammich"?

Me: Because they were invented by the Earl of Sandwich who spelled his last name like that.

Several seconds pass . . .

Peabody (under her breath): Well, I bet his friends called him Sammich.

It could be worse; you could be BUTT GREASE.

2010-05-25T10:48:00.000-05:00

nataliedee.com

My head, it spins.

2010-05-21T10:00:00.009-05:00

I have a wonderful life: amazing friends (real and cyber), a stable job that I love, a beautiful home, and hobbies that keep me busy and happy. I'm lucky and I know it. The only thing missing from my wonderful life list is a significant other, a best friend I can smooch on. A week ago I was fine with that; I enjoyed being alone and, for the most part, was grateful to not have the complications that come with a relationship.

A week ago I also went on a first date that blew me away. We connected on many levels, discovered we have many similar interests and priorities, and he's cute as a bug in a rug. Okay fine, he's hot. And chivalrous and romantic. And masculine and artistic. I was so comfortable with him that all of my usual anxiety and guardedness melted away. I was on cloud nine. I was weightless and joyful and excited.

And then I received a message from him on Saturday night, calling from a local hospital. On his way home from our date he lost control of his vehicle, rolled it several times and literally crushed his left arm and hand. In the past week he's undergone three surgeries to put his arm and hand back together. And yet, despite the fact that our first date almost killed him, he still wanted to see me. So I went to the hospital. Every day this week. Because he asked me to come back every time I went and it felt right.

To say this is an interesting dating situation is an understatement. I mean, he's been in his underwear and an adjustable bed on our dates numbered two through five. I've already met 75% of his family and helped him do things that are generally considered taboo in the first week of dating. (Out of the gutter, pervs, I'm talking about washing his hair and being present for medical discussions about private bodily functions.)

Here's where it gets tricky for me: I'm a person who needs a playbook. I get anxious when I don't know what's going to happen. I need a plan. I need to know what to expect. And guess what? There's no playbook for this situation. He will probably go home tomorrow. Home for him is an hour away, in another state. Where do we go from here? Do we go back to the regular dating playbook? How will his recovery affect our ability to see each other?

Having tasted the sweet nectar of companionship I'm not sure I want to go back to my quiet life of solitude. Sure, it's easier and certainly less dramatic, but it doesn't have any kissing or holding hands or googly eyes. The logical part of my brain knows that the best course of action in a uncertain situation is to sit back, see how things play out and react accordingly, but the part of my brain that has been saturated with serotonin is spinning.

Music and social media have the power to heal.

2010-05-04T12:30:00.005-05:00

If you don't already know that Tennessee is suffering a major, devastating flood, you live under a rock. Suffice it to say that it's bad and thousands of people are displaced. We won't go into the details of how or why God is mad at them (I kid! I kid!) but what we can talk about is how to help.

A dear friend of mine runs/manages/programs/generally works at a radio station in Tennessee called JACK-FM (96.3 on the dial). Since 6 am this morning they've been hosting a Request-A-Thon to raise money for families affected by the flood. It's entirely legit and from what I read HERE, the money will go to The Red Cross.

Anyway, for a mere $25 donation you can make a song request and help flood victims. How fun is that? All you have to do is call the Request-A-Thon hotline at 615-737-9696. I mean, really, you were probably going to donate anyway so you might as well get a song request, too. (BTW, they will take ANY donation, it just takes $25 to get a request. You should call even if all you can afford right now is $5 or $10.)

For my part, I requested Traffic's Dear Mr. Fantasy. I thought the lyrics were appropriate:

Dear Mr. Fantasy, play us a tune,

Something to make us all happy.

Do anything, take us out of this gloom.

Sing a song, play guitar,

Make it snappy.

So what are you doing still reading this?! Go! Call! Let's show Tennessee that the rest of the nation/world loves and supports them. If all of this isn't enough, think of the bourbon and whiskey made in Tennessee. You want to help keep the whiskey river flowing, right? RIGHT?

I have to go, my song is next! GO! CALL!

A Life in Pictures and Bullets

2010-05-02T10:04:00.030-05:00

Two weeks.

It's been two weeks since you looked at me, cocked your head to the side and said I'm angry.

Wait, wait, wait . . . that's not what I'm trying to say. Those aren't even the right lyrics to the song. I got distracted again.

SQUIRREL!

My point was this: I have yet again abandoned this site for real living. Not reporting on living but actually doing it. A lot of it. So much living, in fact, that I'm reduced to summing it up in pictures and bullets . . .

I saw the play Outlying Islands with our Culture Club (a.k.a. my bestie Leslie). It was okay. Heavy on metaphor with an odd ending we've not been able to understand since viewing it. That said, I'm glad we were adventurous and saw something that doesn't often make the St. Louis theater circuit, like say A Doll's House or The Importance of Being Ernest.
I toured the first Frank Lloyd Wright house built in Missouri with ttmac and The Carpenter. My favorite period in American history and my favorite style of architecture is Arts and Crafts. I love the aesthetic, I love the philosophy and, as such, I love Frank Lloyd Wright. Yes, he was difficult. Yes, he was foolish with money and women. But damn that man knew how to design amazingly beautiful structures. The house we saw is a Usonian built for a local man and his wife. There are only TWO right angles in the entire house! Wright designed the house using only equilateral parallelograms and hexagons, EVEN IN THE DRAWERS:

And the furniture:

The guest bed.

The dining/living area.

All of the 60/120 degree angles throughout the house give it a sense of motion, almost like you're on a ship:

All of the interior lines continue to the exterior, AND THEY ALL LINE UP.

I could go on for days about this house. This topic probably should have been its own post but who knows when I'll be back here. Just one more picture, because I was mesmerized by this roof line:

Do you see how far that sharp, sharp roof line juts out, creating the sense of motion?

Take a closer look: THERE ARE NO EXTERNAL SUPPORTS! None. It's all done with framing. FLW tickles my brain.

I visited my High School Bestie and her two boys, went to my first estate auction, and had coffee with cows:

I was awed by sunsets like this:

I made sure to look up when I took walks:

NO Ball Playing IN THIS . . . tree?

I played with my food:

You gonna eat that pickle?

I built a Kat Phort and filled it with catnip:

NO GIRLZ!

I had a night out on the town with the girls that, for a couple days, made me regret nights out on the town with the girls:

I witnessed a turtle orgy:

Brown chicken, brown turtle.

And I gardened. Oh boy, have I done some gardening. Since we last discussed the garden I've re-vamped almost every inch of it. I installed new solar lights along the walk, I thinned and transplanted hostas to create the border of the new bed, I moved almost every plant that already existed, I gave away a bunch of plants and added some new (more interesting) plants, I rearranged the patio furniture, I tended the seedlings . . .

This is what success looks like.

. . . I started potting the containers . . .

Oooooh! Pretty!

This is what "welcome to my home" looks like.

. . . and I added some new architectural features like this one:

Now I just need to find some whimsical fairy statues to sprinkle around the beds. More shopping! Yay!

And finally . . . it's been about a month since I published the "Early Spring" photo overview of the garden so let's do our first comparison:

April 6, 2010

May 1, 2010

This is what progress looks like.

One more week and the whole place is going to EXPLODE in blooms. You should come over. We'll make a fire in the fire pit and talk about how awesome I am at creating beautiful spaces. Fine. We can talk about you, too. Sheesh.

Nice ash.

2010-04-19T18:59:00.005-05:00

Photograph of the crate at the summit of the volcano in southern Iceland's Eyjafjallajokull glacier by Jon Gustafson/AP

I bet Google is all kinds of disappointed that it didn't think of "Eyjafjallajokull" as a word verification. Go HERE for more amazing photos. Lava and lightning, monkeys. Lava and lightning.

Weiner! Weiner! Sausage dinner!

2010-04-16T08:21:00.007-05:00

You may think that the one thing a single gal needs most is a gay bestie with brawny arms who loves to help with house chores (especially the heavy ones), enjoys ~~critiquing~~ improving her style and will hold her hand during movies but you'd be wrong. I've come here today to assert that the one thing a single gal needs most is a year's worth of free sausage. You heard me. A YEAR'S WORTH OF FREE SAUSAGE!

And who's the lucky gal who has two thumbs and recently won a YEAR'S WORTH OF FREE HILLSHIRE FARMS SAUSAGE? (You can't see me but I've got my two thumbs raised and proudly pointed at myself.) ME! I DID!

(The actual coupons I received do not say "DO NOT REPRODUCE" on them. I was just afraid some stinker would try to print a copy from here and effectively ruin it for everyone. To anyone who considered this I say, "You should also not reproduce.")

(Dear FCC:

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to handle this. I know that I'm supposed to disclose when a company pays me to endorse their product but do you consider a YEAR'S WORTH OF FREE SAUSAGE! to be payment? I don't know. Anyway, the lovely people at Hillshire Farms have not paid me in cash monies to say they are awesome but I am going to say they are awesome anyway. You've been warned.

Yours until I run out of sausages,

Gwen)

The lovely people at Hillshire Farms are awesome! They're as awesome as Bill over at Poop and Boogies who ran the blog contest with prizes made of meat. I've linked to Bill before when one or another of his three boys has been a door bell (aka "adorable" for those of you who don't speak Gwen). One of them (the middle one?) even made me care about baseball once. Bill, anyone who offers meat as a blog contest prize CANNOT be evil. I'm just sayin'. Baby, you're the best.

Big hugs and tiny kisses to everyone responsible for supplying this single gal with a YEAR'S WORTH OF FREE SAUSAGES! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some meat to consume. Go meat!

I do my own stunts.

2010-04-14T20:18:00.014-05:00

I just took my bike out for the first ride of the year. Wow. A real bike is much different than a spin bike. I mean, there are curbs and intersections and car accidents and dogs who want to eat your face and stupid people who act like they own the trail.

Hey lady, you're walking and I'm on a bike. I WILL run you over if you look me in the eye and refuse to move from the middle of the path. I don't like wiping out in rocks, I'm not as nice as my smile would lead you to believe, and it wouldn't hurt you to pick up the pace.

I still rocked it, though. And I kicked the ass of that hill that gave me so much trouble last year. I even stopped at the top, pumped my fists in the air Rocky-style and ~~yelled~~ panted, "I DID IT!" to the amusement of another lady who was NOT hogging the path. She seemed as proud of me as I was. She was cool.

When I got home I tried using a map to figure out how far I went but it was too hard. Let's call it 8 miles, at least until I get an odometer. Also, if anyone cares, I want a bike odometer for my birthday. And a basket so I can take the cats for a ride and carry books home from the library.

Tell me I'm not the only one who noticed this.

2010-04-09T21:21:00.011-05:00

Also? Both are clothing designers.

UPDATE TO ADD:

Apparently I needed to explain this better. I apologize for assuming you watch the same movies and TV shows as me. Anyway, on the left is Edna Mode. She designed the superhero suits for the Incredible family in The Incredibles. She has a severe black bob (no judgment, I like it) and an attitude. On the right is Mila Hermanovski, a clothing designer who's currently in the final four of Project Runway. She has a severe black bob (again, I like it) and an attitude.

I was watching Project Runway this week with my girlfriends (there MAY have been some wine) and I finally realized who Mila looked like: Edna Mode. So there, that's it. It just cracked me up and I figured SOMEONE else out there in the blogosphere had to have made the same connection. My bad. Carry on.

Did I hear you ask for another gardening post?

2010-04-06T19:39:00.013-05:00

I'm pretty sure I did, and I know I heard my Dad ask for one, so here ya go . . .

On Sunday I did something I've been threatening to do for years. I was all set to do it last year until I threw out my back cleaning leaves and rediscovered fear.

So, you see that darker patch to the left of the green tub? That's where I started stripping off zoysia sod. By hand. I used a shovel to cut both sides of a foot-wide swath and then pulled it off in strips. By hand. Did I mention I did this BY HAND?

Now I know I could have rented a tiller and possibly more easily turned this patch over, but zoysia is a lawn commodity around here and it would have killed me to just grind it up. (I put it on freecycle. Paying it forward, baby.)

Anyway, 3,765 trips to the alley (where I left the corpse-heavy strips for pick-up) and four hours later, it looked like this:

To say there was dirt in all the creases when I finished is to seriously understate things. I was a sweaty, filthy mess.

I even had to use a mushroom brush to get my arms clean.

Sexy!

For some time I've mulled the idea of posting a semi-regular picture of the back yard to show how it progresses through the seasons and this seemed like an appropriate place to start:

Spring: An Overview

And after that I made a delicious Easter dinner for friends. I'm beginning to question my own sanity. Keep an eye on me for erratic behavior, like blogging and lounging.

Cowguy isn't the only one who can make sawdust.

2010-04-03T12:40:00.019-05:00

A couple Saturdays ago I left the house after lunch, headed for Lowe's with little more than a vague notion of how to build an indoor greenhouse. All I knew was that I was going to use the old dining room table, that I wanted to hang lights from the cross beams in the basement and that I wanted the lights to hang on chains so I could raise them as the plants grew. Being acutely aware of my (lack of) construction experience, I made sure to dress cute and fix my hair and makeup in case I had to ask for help. I really shouldn't have bothered; it would seem I'm as smart as I am cute. See for yourselves.

I took these items (discovered while shopping) and a handful of power tools . . .

. . . and made these:

I had to measure things . . .

I had to drill things . . .

I screwed things . . .

I mounted things . . .

And then I screwed things on the ceiling . . .

And then it was time to lay down some serious seed:

In all I planted about 800 seeds in over 200 peat pots that had to be rehydrated, opened, aerated and planted by hand - by tiny, tiny hand . . .

Let me tell ya, monkeys, this was TEDIOUS work and took hours (the construction part was much more fun). I spent so much time in the basement that day, I felt like a C.H.U.D. when I finally emerged (after dark). In the end, I'm glad I spent the time to plant in these pots because the seedlings can go straight into the ground without having to be repotted. Besides, the backache was forgotten when I woke up the other day to this:

Baby zinnias!

Promtacular!

2010-03-31T08:29:00.002-05:00

Remember that prom picture of me that I told you I submitted to Promtacular!? You know, the one you demanded to see immediately but I made you wait until it was published?

It published today.

Go! Go make fun!

A smart fart that took the elevator up.

2010-03-29T09:32:00.005-05:00

My attorney teammate and I have been hosting/broadcasting a web seminar for our clients every week for the past two months. We hold classes on Thursday mornings. My job has been to coordinate all the attendees, to attend and monitor the broadcast to make sure the slides are working and visible, and to let the next speaker know when it's almost time for their presentation.

Each week as I attend I put my phone on mute so that the other attendees can't hear me clicking away at my keyboard or talking or whatever. It was uncomfortably silent at the end of the first presentation last week when the speaker (my BFF) asked for questions so I picked up my handset, went live, and got everybody talking for her. And then I hung up my handset, proud that I had helped my friend out of a sticky spot.

So then I was sitting here at my desk, being all comfortable in my own space when I belched, loud. I followed it with a tiny "'Scuse me!" because I think that's cute. And then I looked up and saw that I HAD FORGOTTEN TO RE-MUTE MY PHONE. Before I could even think I exclaimed, "OMG! I'm not muted!" And then you could hear my friend giggling.

Yes, you heard me: I belched over the phone in front of almost all of our west coast clients.

Thankfully, everyone in the conference room on our end thought it was hilarious and none of the clients seemed to notice. BUT STILL! I was so ashamed and embarrassed. It took half an hour for my face to return to its usual shade. It was an hour before I could laugh. It will be years before I live it down.

Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts

2010-03-23T09:24:00.007-05:00

Dear Steamy Becky:

I can't decide whether to love you or hate you. On the one hand, you keep me laughing what with your camel toe of a much younger woman and killing your dad with whipped cream and your Ricki Lake vagina. But on the other hand, the fact that you are so much funnier than me really pisses me off. Really. You could even say it steams me up, kid.

For a time (and by "for a time" I mean until I remembered to take my happy pill this morning) I fantasized about driving to your sunny home on the west coast, crawling through that window in the back of your house that doesn't lock quite right, sitting in your chair waiting for you to arrive home, and then breaking your hands. The thought was that doing so would teach you to be so damn entertaining with your 565 followers and comments coming out your leaky ass. AND it would keep you from being funnier than me for at least 4-6 weeks.

But, like I said, I re-calibrated my internal chemistry this morning and came to my senses. I don't really want to hurt you. You seem like a nice girl, under all the farts and penises and stainy dog crotches. No, instead I want to honor you. Steamy Becky, will you accept the Official Award of EILCC?

What's that? No, no. This isn't a trick. No, I am NOT trying to lure you into a trap by treating you kindly. NO! No, no, no, no. Nope. I promise the award isn't rigged to explode when you pick it up. Swearsies. Please, just take the damn award.

Yours until I learn how to make an IED,

Gwen

Sunday Matinee: Bad B*rbie Productions

2010-03-21T11:09:00.029-05:00

A month or more ago a bunch of us gals tricked our friend The Plant into hosting her own birthday party. (Yeah, we're pretty awesome. Wanna be friends?)

Anyway, she sent her husband to LA for a soccer match and then spent all day ~~calling in an order for~~ preparing fresh pasta. We showed up for dinner and surprised her with stupid hats, noisemakers, and gifts ranging from the beautiful to the ridiculous.

Over the years I'd heard rumors about The Plant's impressive B*rbie collection but was seriously amazed when I saw her hauling out trunk after trunk of dolls and clothes. The most amazing part is that the majority of the clothes were hand made by women in her family. And she still has them. And we still play with them.

About fifteen minutes into dressing the dolls and brushing their hair things got . . . well . . . out of hand? Silly? Surreal? Hilarious? Inappropriate?

Eh, judge for yourself:

Things started out nice enough.

Sure, Titty McBonbon is topless, but she's still classy.

Class? Just left the building.

Poor Joe (Namath), lost his feet and his right arm after he hit on that sportscaster lady.

But he can still get with other ladies.

Go Joe!

Seems Ken doesn't care about Joe's lack of limbs, or that he never takes off his helmet.

Oh. Wow. Ken's in love.

Ken! Think about things! If you consummate it's harder to get an annulment!

Aaaaaand . . . the reception gets out of hand.

Filled with shame, they drank the Kool-Aid
and lay down together to die at the end of the night.

Before they went to the Dreamhouse In The Sky, however, they filmed an off-the-cuff but highly entertaining reenactment of Mad Men. Help honor the memory of these dead plastic hedonists by enjoying their performance.

"Bring four packs, we're going to be in there for an hour!"

Butterbean Stinkaroo!

2010-03-17T19:13:00.009-05:00

Just some stuff . . .

The wedding was beautiful and awesome and oh-so-much fun. So far no one else has shared any pictures (what's up with that? share the goods, people) and I'm behind the camera in all of mine, so I don't have anything worth sharing. Yet. Stay tuned.
I left the heat on today and the house was stifling when I got home so I opened the doors and some windows. I'm listening to the birds right now.
I'm also listening to the poor dog next door scratch on the aluminum storm door with his sharp little nails. Think fingernails on a chalkboard. Dog, you're ruining my spring jubilation. They're not going to let you in - they never do - so go lay down.
My daffodils are about six inches high (I predict blooms by the weekend if it stays sunny) and the hyacinth are blooming. While this adds to my spring jubilation it also reminds me that I have to get that grow center started in the basement, stat.
I'm making tuna helper for dinner tonight (I know! Fancy!) and when I needed to open the packet of powdered cheese I realized I left my kitchen shears at the Dinner Club hosts' house this weekend. And since I got acrylic nails for the wedding it was a bitch to open. I almost ended up in a cloud of cheese.
I'm thinking about taking an improv class.
I also just realized that the coming of spring means cat puke season. Sweet! (Can I get away with not feeding them again until May?)
Monday night I was sitting on the couch when I heard a car pull up in front of the house really fast and stop. And then I heard three distinct gunshots. Last night I heard my neighbors outside talking about it but I couldn't really hear what they were saying and I was too unshowered to join the discussion. I hope it's nice this weekend so I can get outside and get the scoop.
I found a post-it note in my coffee table drawer and on it I had written, "Butterbean Stinkaroo!" I suspect it was one of those "what's your pirate name" thingies, but for the life of me I can't figure out what kind of name "Butterbean Stinkaroo" is, and why I was so excited about it. Maybe because it's so awe-some.
I wanted to get a 12-pack of Pepsi (cans) at the store tonight but they didn't have any. None. They had cherry and diet and no caffeine (what the what?!) and something else, but no regular unleaded. I think that's weird.

"I don't make dirt; I make soil."

2010-03-09T22:00:00.007-06:00

Every year I choose a new project for the garden: one year I might focus on a particular family of plants, like roses or bulbs; the next year I might tackle a troublesome area, like the dark/wet/cold corner by the house (evil lives there, and little else.) I went into this winter planning to focus on herbs in 2010. I immersed myself in plant catalogs and herb guides and recipe books and spent countless hours studying leaf texture, fragrance, flowering potential, sun preference, size, uses outside the garden . . . but that wasn't enough. No, I got super ambitious. I decided to start the majority of my new 2010 plants from seed.

"Hey, baby, nice cotyledons. Wanna set some roots together?"

It's a mighty endeavor but I'll never be good at it if I don't try, and I want to see if I can. Plus, all the time I spent plotting the new beds, researching what I would need and when I should start, and shopping for the seeds felt enough like gardening that it kept me from losing my cabin-fevered mind and robbing the 7-11. Well - that, the security cameras, and my fear of jail.

Last spring I worked Saturday mornings for a woman who runs a small nursery out of her basement. Miss V, a dynamic octogenarian, started her first plants from seed after her father-in-law told her she wouldn't be able to do it. She also backhanded me on my first day for referring to her expertly prepared soil as "dirt." To say I've learned a thing or two about starting plants from seed under the tutelage of Miss V is an understatement, it's just a matter of whether or not I can do it without her space and equipment and guidance.

Much of what I read this winter warned me to start small, to attempt no more than ten different types of seed. Last year I threw some dry seeding mix (no water + no nutrients = slim chance, dummy) into two trays, poked a seed into each slot without regard to size and set them in a window with southern exposure. I did okay: most seeds germinated; most of those plants made it outdoors; and most of those thrived all season. And since I started those seeds before I had been schooled by Miss V, I consider last year my "start small" year.

But this year I'm going large. In addition to the seeds I collected last fall but failed to tag (Trial and Error 2010: Lesson One), I bought lavender, bachelor's button, cosmos, white coneflower, strawflowers, chives, sweet cicely (myrrh), chinese lantern, 'cherry brandy' rudbeckia, 'bright lights' swiss chard, dichondra (for hanging baskets), and verbena.

I am particularly excited about the strawflowers. The strawflower isn't a fancy plant; it's hardy and laid-back and prolific (the proletariat of the flower kingdom, if you will) but it's one of my favorites. I think I was in first grade when my grandpa tilled a small, circular patch between his rose garden and my favorite tree and told me it was mine. He said I could plant anything I wanted in it but that it was my responsibility. I loved that patch of dirt (soil?) because I loved to be anywhere my grandpa was, and I grew strawflowers in it.

A Very Special Occasion

2010-03-06T17:31:00.005-06:00

Part of the reason this blog has been woefully neglected since Christmas is that I've been super busy being the best Maid of Honor I know how to be for my best friend, LilBRR. She joined our office six years ago and within six months of knowing her I was a better person. She believed in me when I didn't and gave me courage when I had none. I would not be who I am today (and I'm pretty awesome) without her.

So when she asked me to be her Maid of Honor I was, well . . . honored. Extremely honored. And glad for the opportunity to do as much for her as she's done for me. Or at least to try. The past six weeks have been a whirlwind of Saturday afternoon showers (three, one hosted by moi; it's a BIG wedding), Saturday nights spent with their family and friends, and sundry other get-togethers where we stuffed envelopes and tied bows on favors. It sounds like a lot, and it has been, but it honestly has been a blast. The bride and groom are so cute and happy and excited and appreciative; it's been a joy to be a part of it all.

Plus, I've gotten to be super girly: shopping for shoes, shopping for dresses, shopping for jewelry, tanning (just enough to take the goth off), plucking things, bleaching things, planning mani/pedi days, and, and, and . . .

Speaking of being girly, I decided a couple weeks ago that I wanted to wear a Marcel wave in my hair at the wedding. My dress has a similar cut as the white dress Marilyn wore on the breezy grate and I thought a soft, vintage 'do would do nicely. When I asked my hairdresser if she knew how to do it, she told me that hairdressers in Missouri (maybe everywhere? who knows these things?) have to be able to do a Marcel wave in order to pass their state boards. Sweet.

My style team came over Thursday night for a dry-run and, being back in tune with this here corner of the web, I remembered to document the evening for your voyeuristic pleasure.

Pizza Rolls: fuel for champions, beautifully coiffed champions.

No hairstyling party would be complete without Edward Scissorhands.

(I like what he's done with his image since the movie. Much prettier.)

The dress I'm wearing to the rehearsal dinner is hanging in the doorway.

Size? Juniors Medium. Snap. Thank you, spin class.

Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.

And this is what it looked like when it was done:

It took me a while to get used to it. It's radically different than anything I've ever done with my hair, but as the evening went on I kept catching glimpses of myself in the mirror and I liked what I saw. ROWR.

I love it and can't wait for next week. Three more work days. Three.

Lent

2010-03-05T13:56:00.007-06:00

Did you know McDonald's sells a McFalafel in some countries? I want one, if only to be able to say I had a "McFalafel."

McFalafel: it just rolls off the tongue.

McFalafel: an Irish Catholic Arab.

McFalafel: "There's protein in them balls!"

Somebody stop me.

What's new, pussycat?

2010-03-02T12:36:00.004-06:00

As my own blog creativity wanes I get excited when I find it elsewhere. The blogs I'm about to tell you about may not be NEW but they're new to me and that's all that matters when you're scrounging for inspiration and material. (This is where, if this post were a college essay, Dr. Metcalf would have written "Expand on this." but since he doesn't read this (OH DEAR LORD I HOPE HE DOESN'T READ THIS) I don't have to if I don't want to.)

First up, we've got Juz, the Tick on Planet Capri. Juz commented last week and said nice things about EILCC so I checked him out. (Take note of how that works, Lurkey McLurkersons.) The posts are one-frame cartoons of Juz and his mates drinking, recovering from drinking, shopping for drinking . . . you get the idea. But it isn't that one-dimensional; it's cute and clever and refreshingly creative. And it'll make you feel better about your own drinking.

Next up is Kingsley Tang & The Purple Reaction. A local radio station here in The Lou is having a love affair with Eric Clapton's I've Got A Rock N Roll Heart and I heard it twice last week. Both times I was surprised by how happy it made my ears, so I bought it. And then, being slightly obsessed with having to know things about things (Thanks, Pop!), I researched it and ran across a review on The Purple Reaction. I loved the review, so I kept reading. (Sorry, Kingsley, that was me skulking in your archives, not a rabid raccoon.) I really identify with the way KT feels music and his descriptions are so well-written that you can almost taste the songs.

And finally: Promtacular! (tagline: "The Sequins. The Lace. The photographic Evidence.") P! is a collection of terrifically awesome prom pictures that will take you back to high school faster than a DeLorean. As soon as I saw it I sent an email to my high school sweetie and asked his permission to submit a great one of us standing next to his two-tone Firebird. He has a mullet and my chest is flatter than his. He gave me the thumbs up. I'll let you know if we make it into this Hall of Shame.

What the what?!

2010-02-25T16:27:00.006-06:00

I just read that GM is no longer going to make the Hummer. Well, frig. What the hell am I going to make fun of now? Who the hell am I going to call out as supreme douchebags? Who will replace Hummer drivers as the recipients of my most consistent ire and disgust? Who, I ask you? WHO?

I feel so lost. Hold me.

(EILCC newbies can read about how much I hate Hummers here and here. I'm certain there are more posts of this ilk but I don't have the patience to find them. And really, you get the idea from those two.)

For The Love of All That Is Holy

2010-02-24T20:04:00.005-06:00

Dear Lady Who Rode Next To Me In Spin Class Tonight:

You smell like clams that were left in the sun for a week in July. I almost puked three times. Spinning is hard enough without having to hold your breath. I've been home for an hour and I can still smell you because your funk is clinging to the cilia in my nose. Please try applying soap to your twat. That is all.

Yours in Christ,

Gwen

No one wishes I had a more exciting report than me.

2010-02-10T22:00:00.005-06:00

You know that feeling you get after a major exam like the GRE or the MCAT or a pap smear? The one where you feel like you performed terribly but when you review it in your mind it's only logical that you did well? That's how I feel about last night's big date. There weren't any awkward silences, there was a lot of laughing, I was my charming self without exceeding my baseline level of spazz, it appeared he was having a good time, and yet . . . no moves were made. None. I even kept my hand available for holding during the movie and took a mint when we left the theater!

I suppose now we just wait to see what happens. In the meantime, let's focus on the douchebag who has handicapped plates AND a lift kit:

creeeeeeeeaaak!

2010-02-10T20:21:00.015-06:00

Hey-hey, party people! It's been a while, hasn't it? It might have been too long this time because being here feels a little awkward and scary, like walking into an abandoned building. There's even a dank, musty smell in here but that might be my feet.

Anyway, it's good to be back and I hope there are still more than three of you around because I feel like I might be back for good. That and today Whiskeymarie pledged to post every day for a week and I can't have that bitch showing me up and winning your affection.

Speaking of dank, musty smells in abandoned places (that's a joke about the sad state of my love life - before this week), I have a date tomorrow night! Very exciting stuff. I'm trying to stay cool about it, though, because I like this guy and I don't want to be a total spazz. I have very little dating experience: I had one boyfriend during the first three years of high school, I married my college sweetheart, and I dated/lived with my last boyfriend for almost five years. What can I say? I'm a serial monogamist. I don't consider that a bad thing, but being one has left me ill-prepared for dating at 40, which is exponentially harder than dating at 20. Or 30.

I understand that dates are just opportunities for people to spend time together in order to determine if they want to spend more time together and that it's okay to NOT want to spend more time together, but I get so worked up about the whole business that my heart races and I can't concentrate which leads to inappropriate giggling and talking too loud. I think dating should start with laying around in pajamas, reading newspapers and watching movies together, and progress over time into dinners and movies. I mean, wouldn't it be easier to start out in your most comfortable zone and more logical to eat in public and see a movie AFTER you've grown bored with one another? I don't know, but it makes sense to me.

So yeah, a date. Squee. And so far? No anxiety. Like I said, I like this guy: he's cute, we're in the same profession, we come from similar backgrounds, he's easy to talk to and he makes me laugh - hard. The only thing weighing on my mind now is that this morning I woke up from a dream in which I had a terrible, painful sore throat only to discover that I actually did have a sore throat. I spent time with my favorite kids on Sunday and I was lovin' on 'em all day so I'm 75% certain that I am coming down with something. There's an 85% chance of kissing tomorrow. I'm not telling him.

Sunday Matinee: An EILCC Special Video Presentation

2010-01-17T13:02:00.008-06:00

Many years ago my cousin and I got so excited about the Olympics that at the start of the Opening Ceremonies we were jumping around in her living room and singing stupid made-up songs at the top of our lungs. Before long a tune had come together and we had written ourselves an official 'Lympics Ditty. As with much of what we do, we beat that song into the ground. We sang it so many times that we eventually realized you could insert ANY WORDS AT ALL and it was still a great song.

And there you have it: the genesis of our famous (in my mind - and that's the only place that matters) BERFDAY SONG.

Some of you were lucky enough to have been born on days where many years in the future I would feel like writing a berfday blog post for you. Most of those have included the words to this uplifting tune. Many others of you have included me in your Facebook Family and on your berfday I have worked the words into my greeting. All the while, I've been promising to record it because it's better in person. (Oooh! Foreshadowing!)

So yeah, yesterday was ttmac's berfday! berfday! and we spent the afternoon touring and tasting at a local brewery. No, not THAT ONE; THIS ONE. It was ~~delicious~~ educational. Our second stop was Citygarden where we entertained ourselves mightily (I'll post pictures later) and recorded this masterpiece:

So, if you've had a birthday this year, or if you plan to, this Special Presentation Sunday Matinee is for YOU.Because you're special and it's yer fuckin' berfday.

What the French, toast?

2010-01-14T20:41:00.007-06:00

Sitting at my desk today I overheard one of my favorite coworkers calling another favored coworker a "lint licker." I immediately stopped typing and turned down my music to eavesdrop.

"Stinky McStinkface!"

Now these two are office BFFs so I was bamboozled by their passionate PG-13 name-calling and had to check it out. After recovering from paroxysms of giggling they explained that there's an Orbit "dirty mouth" commercial airing and the two of them were reenacting its hilarity.

I challenge you to watch this and NOT end up calling me a hoboken:

In case you couldn't catch it all:

Lint Licker: You son of a biscuit-eating bulldog!

Stinky McStinkface: What the French, Toast?

Lint Licker: Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little doo-doo head cootie queen?

Cootie Queen: Who are you calling a Cootie Queen, you lint licker?

Lint Licker: Pickle you, cumquat!

Stinky McStinkface: You’re overreacting.

Lint Licker: No Bill, overreacting was when I put your convertible into a wood chipper. Stinky McStinkface!

Cootie Queen: You hoboken.

I called everyone else a "cumquat" under my breath all day.

Yes, snippets of emails are the best I have to offer.

2010-01-12T17:00:00.005-06:00

I received an email today from a very dear friend who was sending me her homemade hummus recipe. She opened with this:

Hi Stinky!

Long time no blog. I've missed reading your whacky spin on life and I would worry, but you've been leaving comments and Face-booking so I figured you're not kidnapped. If you are kidnapped, it must not be so bad since you've got internet access and all.

So I replied:

Hey, nerd!

You crack me up! I haven't been kidnapped but if I had I would INSIST on wifi. And I can be a real pill when I want to be so I'm sure my kidnappers would comply (or just take me RIGHT BACK HOME to get me to shut the hell up.)

Yeah, for some reason I'm just not feeling Blogaritaville. My life has been kinda poopy which has made me melancholy. I've had car troubles since mid-December. First it was the transmission and then it was terrible metallic squealy noises (which turned out to be an axle seal) and then it shook like your moneymaker at speeds over 45 mph (which turned out to be tires). It has been in the shop three times in as many weeks. I've spent about $3k and now I am BROKE. Like well and truly broke. Like ramen noodles broke. If something else happens I'm putting a "hit" out on it - you can pay the mob to "steal" your car, right? And you can pay them in sexual favors, right?

Pair all that with this craptastic sub-zero weather and you get a surly, hermity Gwennie. I only have about 140 characters worth of pleasant thoughts at a time right now. (Maybe I should just cut and paste the past three paragraphs into a blog post.)

Homemade hummus will make me happier. Garlic and chickpeas are cheap and the making of it will make me feel creative again. You rule, my dear friend.

Yours until the mob breaks my knees,
Gwen

Where's Kool and The Gang when you need 'em?

2009-12-17T19:15:00.022-06:00

In an abundance of caution and fear, I've held off announcing my recent come-from-behind victory over the hugely talented and revered Wendy Brandes in the Most Swears category of the The 2009 Drysdale Awards. I mean, come on! She’s beautiful, she runs in circles so far outside my wheelhouse that I can’t even imagine the fabulosity; she’s huge and hordes of people fucking love her.

So yeah, I’ve been traveling incognito since Monday - driving a hoopdie and wearing a trench coat, a big, floppy hat and dark sunglasses - in an effort to evade her adoring fans and the rotten tomatoes (or rocks) I expect they would throw at my tiny head if they could catch me. Suckas!

But the time has come to thank MY adoring fans and friends and family for their ~~ballot-stuffing~~ support and to toot my own damn horn. You guys rock! We did it! David felled Goliath!

It was a really fun campaign - y'all were so into it! People were texting updates, other people were emailing for status and cheering me on. Like a true politician, I drunk g-chatted with some of you. It was exciting. Thank you for all of it. My favorite response to the call for votes was from my dad, who said "Go you girl! Or maybe if it still counts: Damn, Go you Girl! We voted. As you can see we are always there when really really important stuff happens." Awesomesauce.

I also won the award for Worst Spelling and Grammar. I'm not sure I get that one . . . but WHO THE FUCK CARES? I WON SWEARS! I WON SWEARS! With that, I think it's high time we started doin' some tootin', monkeys!

We've got inappropriate tooters!

(The way her little doe eyes are looking up at him. Awkward.)

We've got a tooter for the Jews!

I’ve not ever seen a shofar blown with such exuberance before.

It’s like he’s saying, “Fuckin’ right it’s Hanukkah, you circumcised weirdos! HANUKKAH, bitches! Suck it! And my friend Gwen won Most Swears, too! Mazel tov!"

Hey kid! It’s a TUBA, not a fucking sandwich.

Stop gnawing on it and make some noise.

We've got people to entertain!

We've got a Swedish tooter!

This instrument makes a hell of a bellow.

Well, it does when the musician plays it instead of loading it up with hippie lettuce like Hans here did.

Party on, Hans!

We've got Patriotic clown tooters! A whole car full!

And finally, we've got a mostly naked, dancing, midget elf.

Because what victory celebration is complete without one?

That, and it came up when I googled "tooting your own horn."

So, enjoy yourselves with the clowns and that hungry kid and Hans and everyone else. There's day-old doughnuts and a couple of room-temp bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 (grape) in the back room. You earned this party, freaks.

Wah! I broke my tranny.

2009-12-16T20:31:00.005-06:00

Well, hi! Gosh, it's been a while. Have you lost weight? Changed your hair? No? Well, whatever it is you're doing, it looks good on you. Rowr.

What's that? How have I been? Meh. I'm having expensive car troubles again. It's possible this is the time I should have sent the old girl to The Great Junkyard In The Sky (guarded by Old Yeller and Lassie, BTW) but by the time we figured out the second half of the problem was INSIDE the transmission (*cha-ching!*), I was in too deep. Blahblahblahwhatever.

I had been without a car for about four days when I remembered a friend once mentioned he has an old truck he would loan me when I need to haul garden supplies. I called him up on Sunday and within an hour he was at my doorstep with the keys, which were handed over with a chuckle. It wasn't until I was trying to maneuver out of a parallel park that I realized Lil Truck (yes, I've named it) doesn't have power steering and that my friend was full-on laughing at me. I've gotten the hang of it - I park very far away from stationary objects - and have discovered that my briefcase can double as a drink holder. Sweet.

In other news . . .

WHISKEYMARIE VON PARTYPANTS AND I WILL BE REUNITED IN DOWNTOWN CHICAGO IN TWO DAYS!

At the annual Chicagoland Gang Christmas Night Out!

She's gonna meet all my other stupid friends!

Awwww, yeah, bitches.

I hope she remembers to pack extra underwear.

There's nothing that a hundred men on Mars could ever do to get this song out of my head.

2009-12-04T10:06:00.005-06:00

Most days I wake up with a song stuck in my head. I don't know if this is common or why I do it. Maybe my dreams (which I rarely remember) are musicals. Yes, I am THAT happy sunshine girl you all hate to love.

Anyways, this morning's song was Toto's Africa. I shook my booty and sang "there's nothing that a hundred men on Mars could ever doooooo" while I made coffee and showered and started a load of laundry and . . . well, you get the idea: it's STUCK in there. So I'm sharing, but I'm sharing an a capella version that Skyler's Dad recommended because these guys are cute. I love the guy who sings the plinky keyboard sounds and the howler.

From the chatter on Facebook this morning it would seem we ALL have a song stuck in our heads today. What's got you singing this morning?

In high school we fought behind the Dairy Queen.

2009-12-03T13:48:00.001-06:00

Could everyone PLEASE put on their BIG GIRL (or boy) PANTS and stop fighting about how much attention you are or are not getting, about who’s following or unfollowing who, about who’s commenting and who isn’t?

Seriously.

It’s making me sad and when I’m sad, I cry. And when I cry my face turns red and my eyes and nose get puffy. It’s truly hideous. This, in turn, only makes me sadder and then I cry more. It’s a terrible, terrible circle of unhappiness for me and, as we all know, it’s all about me.

So quit it. Either kiss and make up (groping would also be a nice way to mend fences; I’m just sayin’) or shut up and ignore each other. Like RIGHT NOW. If you don’t, I’m going to grow my hair out and get a spiral perm to complete my “we’ve all gone back to high school” look.

Comments for this post have been closed because I absolutely DO NOT WANT to hear anymore about this.

That is all.

Happy Franksgiving! (or, Stupid Is As Stupid Does)

2009-11-26T11:46:00.004-06:00

Urged by Cowguy and Skyler's Dad I showered SEVERAL HOURS before I had to today so that I could make this video Thanksgiving card for y'all that I woke up planning this morning.

Thanks for being my friends, monkeys! Eat until you're triptophantastic today!

(Editor's Note: The signs read "PRETEND THIS WAS SHOT OUTSIDE", "PRETEND THIS BROOM IS A SHOTGUN", AND "PRETEND THIS VEST IS ORANGE." This was a no-budget film; the crew makes no apologies for the production quality.)

Comments:Bloggers::Brains:Zombies

2009-11-21T13:52:00.007-06:00

Let's be honest with ourselves for a second and admit that 75-90% of the reason we blog is for affirmation. We love comments. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If a blogger writes a post and no one comments on it, does he become suicidal?

My good friend Candy started blogging just a little over year ago and kicked off her success by creating the Candy's Daily Dandy Comment Content Hall of Fame and then pitting us against each other for the honor. I said it then, I'll say it now, Candy is a natural blogger. I bet she published an illegal paper during the Revolutionary War. You know, in another life. Duh.

I am humbled to admit that she nominated me this year. Stop laughing.

Anyway, go look through your archives and find TEH FUNNEH-EST comment you received this year and nominate that person for The Hall of Fame over at Candy's place. I think the deadline is Sunday at midnight. Or Monday, whatever. Telling time is hard.

If you suck and didn't get any funny comments this year, feel free to just vote for me when it comes time to vote on the nominees and I'll be yours 'til the terrorists win. KTHXBAI. Happy Saturday.

Quitting is for quitters.

2009-11-18T22:18:00.008-06:00

I was in the hallway of the gym last night between classes, watching the itty bitties splash around in the pool in the name of learning to swim (it's ovary-tuggingly adorable, like looking at newborns in a hospital), when I overheard a woman telling her friend that she hadn't attended the spin class because when she tried it last week it was too hard. It made me think about the first time I tried it and how bowlegged and noodly and dehydrated I was when it was over. I understood.

And then she ended up on the mat next to me in pilates. After an appropriate amount of mat positioning and sock removing I made eye contact with her and said, "I overheard you in the hall outside talking about the spin class."

She smiled and seemed interested in what I had to say so I continued, "Give it time. Six weeks ago I had never even been on a spin bike and now I love it."

"I don't know. It's just so HARD. I mean, I tried it once but I don't think I can do it."

"You'll get the hang of it after about the third ride. Just hang in there."

"Oh, I don't think I'm going back."

Huh. It never dawned on me to quit. Even when it hurt to walk and to bend and to get up and to roll over in bed and . . . never once. Even when I had to start all over after being sick for weeks. Even then, EVEN THEN, I never thought about quitting, because pain is temporary.

We had barely moved into some of the more challenging balance and ab work in the pilates class when Ms. Everything's Too Hard stopped trying. I'm not sure what she was accomplishing on that mat of hers but I do know it wasn't the least bit strenuous. She eventually rolled up her mat and left. Poor dummy. She'll never know what it's like to have conquered something soul-suckingly hard like riding a bike and doing fancy crunches. Stupid quitter.

Sunday Matinee: Putting a Little Zest in Your Taco

2009-11-15T08:34:00.005-06:00

Last night's dinner club host approached me almost as soon as I arrived, leaned in conspiratorially, and said, "You know how sometimes you see or hear a phrase and after that you can't get it out of your head?"

"Yeah."

"Well, today I was coming home from running errands and as I drove past Hardee's I noticed that their billboard read, 'Put a little zest in your taco.'" (insert juvenile chortling here)

Let me just say that thereafter we DID NOT abuse that phrase the entire evening. Not. At. All. Way to go, Hardee's. You've finally done something more memorable than making burgers from Angus beef.

Here's a little song by Michael Franti and Spearhead that I am going to set on "repeat" until I can get the ~~zest out of my taco~~ phrase out of my head and the lead out of my ass (I'm so very tired but have a big, fat day of Culture Club activities lined up: brunch, an exhibit at the History Museum and a play at 2 pm.)

Happy Sunday, monkeys! Crank this one up and shake that ass, k?

Continuity be damned

2009-11-13T07:18:00.003-06:00

The 2,000 mg of antibiotics I am taking per day make my pee the color of marigolds.
I suspect that I was thrown under the bus at work but I don't yet know who did it. Operation Ferret Out The Weasel commences today.
In Missouri you have to pay personal property tax on your vehicles yearly. The amount you owe is calculated using the value of the vehicle and the tax rate where you live. My bill this year? $15.30.
I hope I didn't just jinx my 10 year-old car by bragging about it's lack of value.
Bring on the weekend.

I may brag about having the day off but I won't forget why

2009-11-11T10:11:00.004-06:00

I feel only slightly guilty for stealing this from Real Live Lesbian today (I'm not even sure she knows I exist and read her) but the reality is that she stole it from someone else and it was actually written by someone else entirely. All this is to say that I was moved by the author's words and I want to share them.

By Bob Greene, CNN Contributor
Editor's Note: CNN Contributor Bob Greene is a bestselling author whose new book is "Late Edition: A Love Story."

(CNN) -- The woman's Halloween costume featured a Third Reich motif.

This was last weekend in a sprawling bar-and-restaurant complex near U.S. 41 on the west coast of Florida. I had made the miscalculation of stopping by in pursuit of a quiet cheeseburger, not realizing that adults in trick-or-treat costumes were making the rounds on this sultry evening.

The woman (or the costume shop from where she had purchased her uniform) at least had the good sense to omit the actual swastikas, but that was the only bit of subtlety. The Heinrich Himmler high-fronted military cap, the boots, the swagger stick she kept slapping against her palm. . .some of the customers, playing along, did little comic goose steps as they passed her.

I looked up from my newspaper and tried to surmise if anyone was going to be offended enough by this odious display to leave. She beat them to it; she and her friends made a few quick passes through the aisles of the place, then returned to the night, ready to continue their revelry elsewhere.

Halloween in the United States is an increasingly odd holiday, no longer child's play, but on this evening I was thinking about another holiday, this one official, that is coming up this week: Veterans Day.

And, having unexpectedly encountered the woman in her getup, I found myself wondering what, six and seven decades ago, they would have made of it: what the 16 million Americans who served in the armed forces during World War II, who were sent across the ocean to defeat a brutal enemy, would have thought about this scene.

They're old men now, the soldiers who remain; many are frail and in ill health. It can be easy for us to forget that, when they were uprooted from their daily lives in the 1940s, no one knew what the history books would eventually say. No one knew the outcome. They were little more than kids, many of them; they were in effect told by our country:

Are you in school? You'll have to leave it. Have a new wife? You'll have to say goodbye to her. Working at a job you like? Tell your boss that you have to quit.

We need you to go halfway across the world, because we need you to save the world.

And they did it. Some 292,000 U.S. soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines were killed in battle during World War II; another 114,000 died from noncombat causes. Some 671,000 U.S. troops were injured, many of them grievously.

The uniforms they put on were not Halloween getups; neither were the uniforms of the enemies they confronted across the oceans. On their way to fight the war, it's a pretty fair guess that they were scared and lonely. They understood that there was no guarantee they would ever be coming home.

Each November we are asked to pause and honor them, which is, or should be, an honor in itself. After the events of the last week at Fort Hood in Texas, with their reminder of the sacrifices that the men and women of the military make for us, Veterans Day will hold special meaning this year.

This November also marks the second anniversary of the death, at age 92, of my friend Paul Tibbets, who I got to know extraordinarily well during the last years of his life. I'd like to say a few words about him here.

At the age of 29, out of all the men and women in the U.S. military, he was selected for a task of almost unfathomable importance. He was told to recruit, organize, supervise and command a group of soldiers and airmen who were to train in absolute secrecy. If he succeeded, he was told, then the war could be won.

Someone had started a terrible fight; he was asked to finish it.

He did. He got his unit ready. And on an August day in 1945, he flew a B-29 he had named for his mother, Enola Gay, to Japan, where he and his crew dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. It was the single most violent act in the history of mankind, and he carried it out without flinching because he believed, in the deepest part of his heart, one thing above all others:

He could end the long war. He could stop the killing. All of the American soldiers who were on their way to the shores of Japan for a land invasion could turn around and go home, could raise families, could live again in a world at peace.

He understood the controversy, and the anger, with which his mission would be received by some. He understood that there were people who would forever hate him. He and I talked about it many times before he died. After the war, he told me, President Harry Truman asked him if people were saying unpleasant things to him because of the bomb. Paul Tibbets told the president that, yes, some people indeed were.

And Truman said:

"You tell them that if they have anything to say, they should call me. I'm the one who sent you."

So it's November again. Veterans Day is upon us.

There is a quotation variously attributed to Winston Churchill or George Orwell. Regardless of our individual politics, regardless of our beliefs about the rightness or wrongness of a particular war, the words are worth reflecting upon anew this week:

"We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm."

And so, to all who have served us, then, now, and in the future, a word of somber thanks, from those of us here at home.

Thy rod and thy staph, they actually DIS-comfort me.

2009-11-10T12:59:00.007-06:00

Alright, first things first: I am not dying (yet). I do not have a brain tumor or lymphoma. What I have, according to the experts, is a staph infection. On my head. When I asked how in the holy hell this happens I was told that something as simple as a tiny cut or a wonky hair follicle can cause it. I’ve decided I’m going to tell anyone who asks that I got it from a swirly Whiskeymarie gave me in scary bathroom in March. Implausible? SURE! But certainly more entertaining than an ingrown hair.

While I was all jokey-jokey about it yesterday (What? Me? Using humor as a defense mechanism? Inconceivable!), I was pretty scared when I left for the doctor’s office. Given that the majority of your comments on yesterday’s post were adamant that I get my ass to a doctor, STAT, I think you were, too. (I love you for this, by the way. Special thanks to the anonymous spammer who recommended guaranteed cheap Viagra from India. Very helpful, spammer, very helpful indeed.)

Now, even though I make melodramatic jokes on this blog and within my circle of friends, I do not make stupid-ass jokes when interacting with professional people who don’t know and understand me. This is to say that I did not made jokes at the doctor’s office about brain tumors and aneurysms. So when my doctor took my hand and asked me to look him in the eye during the exam? Well, my terror level immediately elevated to RED! And then, very seriously, he said to me, “Lymphoma isn’t painful; staph is. I’m pretty sure this is staph.”

Have I mentioned before that my primary care doctor is odd? He’s a tiny Pentecostal Japanese man and, as if that weren't an odd enough combination, he is also easily embarrassed. The first time I saw him he did a complete physical which, of course, involved the dreaded backless paper gown. Outside the ob/gyn or proctologist, you are usually instructed to leave your unders on. But I don’t wear unders. During that first exam he repeatedly tried to tuck the paper gown into the top of my non-existent unders. I finally had to explain that there were no unders there for the tucking which made his face immediately turn red. I laughed and told him it was no big deal and didn’t bother me but it was clear that it bothered him. My first clue was his obvious discomfort and the fact that he said it did.

Anyways, after he was done scaring the crap out of me yesterday, he sent me to the lab for more tests. He wants to check my antibodies and rule out mono since I’ve been sick so many times already this fall. Have I told you I HATE needles? I hate needles. And this will make the second time I’ve been in the lab to have blood drawn in like a month. The lab tech remembered me from the last time. She remembered me suggesting the hospital house monkeys in the yard outside the lab's windows so patients would have something funny to look at while they are being stabbed and having their life-blood sucked out of them, one small vial at a time. (Okay, maybe I DO make stupid-ass jokes with professional people who don’t know me. Shut it.)

The bottom line of all this is that I am going to live another day. Thanks so much for your concern and offers of assistance. Son of A Thomas even offered to come over and play doctor. Now that I think about it, there is one particulary troublesome lab test my doctor requested that I haven’t yet completed . . .

SOAT? Still want to come over and help? I'll take care of "production" if you'll handle collection and packaging.

One last thing . . . you’re all a crass bunch of sick mother effers for calling dibs on my stuff and requesting an open casket so you can play grabsies with my corpse. I love you.

This IS the bright side.

2009-11-09T10:48:00.006-06:00

When I first opened my eyes yesterday morning my neck hurt. Assuming I'd simply slept funny, I lifted my head off the pillow and WHAM! Instant pain that felt like some brawny dude had very precisely whacked me at the base of my skull on the left with a big stick. It was swollen and HURT when I touched it. (And no, I did not get drunk and fall down and bang my head and not remember it, but thanks for thinking so highly of me.)

I took a naproxen and moved forward with my life: showering, raking leaves, cutting the grass, doing laundry, brining a pork roast . . . all the stuff normal people do on Sunday, right? But, at the end of the day it hurt much worse. I took another naproxen and iced it but eventually just went to bed, figuring it would resolve itself overnight. Notsomuch.

Today it's bigger, generally more painful and increasingly tender to the touch. AND! There's a huge swollen gland on my neck now and the pain is moving into my shoulder.

I'm pretty sure I'll be dead by dark. I loved you, all of you.

Sunday Matinee: Make like a tree and leave.

2009-11-08T09:12:00.004-06:00

It's supposed to get up to 75 degrees today and I have a yard full of leaves that dropped from the neighbors' oak trees. Guess what I'm going to be doing . . .

If you're in the neighborhood feel free to stop by and help, I mean, play.

PSA Tuesday

2009-11-03T09:18:00.003-06:00

I’m not the kind of blogger that gets asked to review products. Something about vulgar immaturity and swears. Whatever. BUT! When I find something that is more awesome than I ever imagined possible, I’m going to tell y’all about it whether they want me to or not. I’m just that kind of renegade.

My couch is covered in a fabric that likes to absorb pet hair into the weave in a way that makes vacuuming the couch little more than aerobic exercise. Over the years I’ve tried sticky tape rollers, more than one of those maddeningly ineffective electro-static brushes, and more recently resorted to brushing the entire couch with a Furminator, which is tiresome and not so good for the upholstery. At times I’ve felt that the damn couch was hoarding cat hair in an attempt to actually morph into a cat.

So over the weekend I saw a commercial for Pledge’s new Fabric Sweeper for Pet Hair and decided that since I’d purchased every other pet hair remover on the planet and been woefully disappointed, I might as well try this one. What’s another $3 in the grand scheme of things, right?

The freaking thing works, people. IT WORKS. It took very little time to do the whole couch and picked up every tiny little bit of the hair without making me sweat and curse. Try it. I promise you’ll be impressed. You may even stop fantasizing about your pets passing into the Great Beyond just so they’ll stop shedding on all your stuff.

Writing Wrongs

2009-10-31T10:55:00.004-05:00

As I lay in bed this morning thinking about my favorite accessories . . .

The new cowboy boots . . .

The necklace made of nails . . .

The headband made of fabric from the artist’s grandma’s dress . . .

And the beaver belt . . .

. . . I realized that I still had not made good on my promise to take funny pictures of me wearing my beaver belt to submit to the real-life Beevers who created it.

My initial plan was to go to the zoo wearing my belt and stage some dumbass picture of me in my belt with real beavers. I wore that belt to the zoo like three times this summer and never once saw a beaver.

So I lay there, wondering how I could right this wrong, when suddenly it came to me that I could WRITE this wrong and crafted this poem as a way of letting katrocket and The Beevers know that I have not forgotten my promise:

There once was a gal from Toronto

Who liked to do things on the pronto.

She gave me a belt.

My heart, it did melt.

But now I can’t find a damn beaver.

Things I was doing when I stopped blogging for like three weeks.

2009-10-29T19:38:00.010-05:00

This one's for Son of A Thomas, who always makes me feel like the hottest chick in the room and isn't so hard on the eye himself (and neither is his wife, nosey parker). Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce my new boots . . .

My friend Leslie is my style and tact guru. I follow her lead in most situations, confident that I will win friends and influence people. Anyway, after her last trip to Chicago, girlfriend shows up for brunch in a hip, trendy little outfit that was made perfect by the most divine cowboy boots. The color, the cut, the stitching . . . all of it beautiful. Instant WANT.

I started looking for western stores in town the next day and shopped for about a week before I found these on zappos. (Their customer service is as good as advertised, btw. Fabu. I did not get paid for this.)

These lovelies are seriously the most comfortable shoes I've ever owned and I feel like a total fucking badass in them. The jury is still out on whether or not emboldening me is a good thing. Over the weekend I told off a former classmate AND an old lady while wearing badass boots. I apologized to the classmate but the pushy old bird at Perkins deserved it.

You should feel sorry for me, because I do.

2009-10-28T16:26:00.005-05:00

So, I'm sick. AGAIN. I sound like Kathleen Turner on the back-end of a 10-day bender and it feels like fire ants are living in the left side of my face. It's not a good feeling. It makes my eyes water which leads people to believe that I have feelings and shit.

My doctor says it's a sinus infection and that it likely started three weeks ago when I thought I had the flu. This is ridiculous. I want off the ride. Outside your undying adoration, vintage clothing and milk chocolate, I make very few requests so I don't think adding NO MORE FIRE ANTS IN MY FACE to the list is asking too much. Please and thank you.

I had other things to blog about - Homecoming weekend and my new cowboy boots quickly come to mind - but for now I'm going back to the 5'3" body-shaped indentation on my couch.

A homeless rose by any other name . . .

2009-10-22T10:22:00.005-05:00

Having been graced with an uncommon name that I love (Thanks, Mom!), my interest is always piqued when I meet other Gwens or when I see it mentioned anywhere. So much so that as a senior in college I once terrorized a freshman girl named Gwen in an effort to convince her that she should use her middle name. I think my position was something like, "When people say 'Gwen' around here, I know they are talking about me and I don't want there to be any confusion." Yeah, I was a peach in college.

Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when one of my friends brought it to my attention this morning that American Girl has a new doll named Gwen. And she's homeless. Apparently, Miss Gwen's daddy lost his job and left his family thereby forcing Miss Gwen and her mama to live in their car for a while.

Now I should probably be upset that American Girl is selling a HOMELESS doll for $95. (Ooooh, the irony!) Or that they are sending terrible messages about daddies and men in general. But I'm not. I'm upset that she has my name.

I wonder what her middle name is and whether or not Miss Gwen and her mama have a phone now.

I can't stop laughing at this.

2009-10-02T12:24:00.003-05:00

see more Lolcats and funny pictures
Following the work week from hell outlined here, I was decommissioned by the bubonic plague.Actual content coming soon.Stay tuned.

Huzzah!

2009-09-25T18:26:00.003-05:00

I stole the idea for posting this video from my friend Johnny the Jeweler who posted it on Facebook but he doesn't read this blog so I figure he'll never realize I'm a big stealer.

Raise a glass, monkeys, this fucking week is over.

Let the weekend begin, stat.

You say hello and I say goodbye.

2009-09-21T10:25:00.002-05:00

It’s not as if I’ve been updating this site with any regularity of late but I’ve come here today to recommend that you lower your expectations even further this week.

Outside all my regular duties – working, working out, cleaning up after two lazy cats, maintaining a rock star image and just generally living fabulously - I also have a house guest arriving on Wednesday just about the same time I am taking off for Boise, Idaho (Idaho? YOU da ho.) to attend a settlement conference for work.

I get home so late on Thursday that it might as well be Friday and, after working another full day, I have a birthday party to attend Friday night, a wedding to attend on Saturday, and on Sunday The Culture Club is meeting for brunch and then viewing the latest exhibit at the Contemporary Art Museum, “For the blind man in the dark room looking for the black cat that isn’t there.”

I’d say something silly like “Please know that I’d rather be blogging”, but we all know that isn’t true. This week may kick my ass before it’s over but it’s going to rock. I hope you all enjoy yours and I’ll see you on the other side of it.

This is your chance to be a part of something big.

2009-09-16T20:19:00.002-05:00

The very first time I saw the swine flu's official name in print my brain registered

it as "heiney" and it made me laugh really hard.

I've been calling it The Heiney Flu ever since.

I can't be the only person on Earth who read it this way

but with this very blog post I am kicking off the official movement to rename it.

Help me spread the word!

But wash your hands first.

The author of this blog is at the gym. Please call again.

2009-09-15T21:44:00.002-05:00

Ten years ago I was a lean, mean fitness machine. I was a size 2 and on a good day I ran a nine-minute mile. I was trying to get a job with the FBI as an agent (me? with a badge and a gun? yes!) and was training to pass the next round of testing: the physical tests. I loved it. I loved feeling strong and powerful and being lean but I ended up shredding the cartilage in my right knee and finding out I had arthritis, the kind you're not supposed to get until you're well past 60. I let it get the best of me, physically and emotionally, and stopped working out altogether about a year later.

I spent the next ten years on the couch eating chips and gaining weight. The change was never drastic or egregious so I told myself I'd do something about it when it was time. It must be time because something snapped in my head over Labor Day weekend. I wish I could bottle and sell the drive I'm feeling right now because I could make a fortune, get liposuction and get back to my TV shows.

Knowing that was unlikely, I marched my happy bootilicious ass to the YMCA on Tuesday after the holiday and renewed my membership. So far I've walked four miles on my own one night and have been to a yoga class, a water class and a spinning class. And I was even out of town for two days!

So far the only downside is that I'm pretty sure the mid-60s water class instructor has a crush on me. She constantly stared at my boobs in class (Hello! I can SEE you!) and spent an extra 30 minutes with me after class explaining that her class might not be strenuous enough for me but that I should come back but also do all these other exercises on my own. She even got my phone number out of my file and called me under the guise of checking on me. I knew meeting someone was a possible added bonus of membership but this is not what I was hoping for. I switched classes and will be keeping my eye on that one.

I have nothing to say so enjoy this comic.

2009-09-08T21:14:00.002-05:00

marriedtothesea.com

Mailbag

2009-09-04T08:09:00.007-05:00

Well, it would seem that SOMEONE is trying to blackmail me:

The joke's on her, though, because if I'd been in a threesome (also known around this blog as a Taj Mahal because it's funny) with Eric Dane I wouldn't be ashamed of it or try to keep it quiet. Hell, I'd probably rent a billboard:

HEY EVERYBODEEEEEE!!!!! I HAD SEX WITH ERIC DANE!!!!

THERE WAS ANOTHER GIRL THERE BUT I PRETENDED SHE WAS THE MAID!

DID YOU HEAR ME? I. HAD. SEX. WITH. ERIC. FUCKING. DANE.

ME! WHICH MAKES ME BETTER THAN YOU.

I'm still going to send this blackmailer her cookies, though, because she's cute and I like her.

Growing Up and Leaving the Nest

2009-09-03T07:15:00.003-05:00

My very dear blog friend Sass, who quickly became an in real life friend and was brave enough let me hang out with her awesome kids and tell them things like the zoo always loses one kid off the train in the tunnels, announced today that she is closing the doors on her blog "Are You Sassified?" to pursue a career in writing that actually pays. I sincerely hope she goes into fiction because in her farewell post she described me as "the epitome of elegance, class, grace and poise."

If you know her, don't miss this chance to say farewell to one of the most engaging bloggers in Blogaritaville. If you don't know her, don't miss your last chance to check her out.

I'll miss seeing you around the 'Ville, girl, and I wish you the very best of luck.

Fly, little one, FLY!

Michael

2009-09-01T21:16:00.015-05:00

I was in small appliances; you were in the young men's department. I couldn’t hear her words but I could hear the tone she was using with you. She just kept repeating your name. It was incredibly annoying and we both wanted her to shut the hell up. Listing all the good reasons not to have children under my breath, I continued perusing coffeemakers.

Louder now, “Michael, we are leaving. You are just going to have to do without it."

I gathered that it was over a belt and that the belt was very important to you.

“Michael.”

“Michael."

“Michael."

I watched her beckon an elderly store clerk. While wondering what in the world she expected that poor woman to do, I heard her ask the woman to call security on you. My stomach sank. I chanted, “Don’t do this. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to him."

“I don’t want to go. Don’t do this,” you sobbed.

It broke my heart, Michael. Your boy’s voice, laced with strains of looming manhood, shoved me back in time. I recognized that voice, with its helpless frustration and anger, because it was mine. My throat closed, my hands shook, my eyes watered; I reeled.

I was wrong to think that your interaction had anything to do with a belt. It wasn't about holding up your pants or looking snappy. It was about a need to be heard and respected. A need that you're too young to recognize and one that you certainly don’t know how to request.

Not knowing any other way to make it stop, you fight. “I hate you! I don’t want to live with you. When I get home I am going to kick your ass. I’m going to kill you.” You choked on the words as they came out. You fight hard and you fight dirty because you are desperate.

You are also done for. Your meddling little sister takes this opportunity to show how adorably reasonable she is by announcing that she’s "going to go wait by the make-up counter", the pint-sized bitch. The store employees, attending your melt-down while waiting for security, have heard you; they’re on mom’s side now. You are clearly a demented beast.

The way you moaned when she announced, "Now I have to call 911.” (as if you had forced her), made me die a little inside. I wanted to run over there and hold your hand. I wanted to mediate. I wanted to tell you it was going to be okay. I wanted to make it stop because it was clear you didn’t know how.

I left a piece of myself with you today, Michael. I hope you’re okay.

Don't hold happy hour for me.

2009-08-28T15:46:00.005-05:00

No, really, it's kind of you to offer to wait for me but I'm heading off to the lake for a bachelorette party weekend and won't be able to make it. In my absence, please enjoy this cartoon set to The Real Tuesday Weld's The Day Before You Came. If I had been able to make it, we'd have had highballs and a smoke or two and caught up while something equally relaxing and fun played in the background.

You should fix yourself a drink and sit and enjoy this in a dim room - pretend I'm there! Just don't get caught talking to yourself with me about what that rat bastard in accounting did in the copy room yesterday and laughing about old cartoons. That would be so uncool.

Loophole In My Laptop

2009-08-26T18:55:00.009-05:00

Something really weird happened today. Like, Biblical weird. Like, I'm still reeling from the weird-weird. I was having a normal day at work, toiling for Uncle Sam, brokering deals and generally making Important Things happen, when in a burst of silliness (I know! So hard to believe!) I opened a new email message and typed, "Are you there God? It's me, Gwen."

And this is where the weird started go down. First, the email vanished. Disappeared. *POOF!* Gone. Just like that, de nada. I checked SENT MAIL and found nothing. I checked DRAFTS, nothing. And then, before I could start emailing y'all to find out which one of you was getting a free ride to the pokey for buggering with a U.S. government computer, I got this reply:

Yes, my child. What may I favor you with today? I know you don't need me to help grow your boobs.

Uh. Huh? Did I? What? Oh, holy crap, did I somehow email God? THE GOD? The man above? Lord and Saviour? Father of all fathers? Person I agreed was an opiate for the masses? Holy crap, I EMAILED GOD. And he made a crack about my boobs. He's real. And I like him. I'll be damned. Or maybe not . . .

Playing it totally suck-up safe, I replied:

I am sure there are other people whose needs are greater than mine. I just wanted to know if you were there.

But nobody talks to me anymore. They're all atheists or humanists now. So really, it's like you went to the deli and there was no one in front of you. You don't have to take a number from the little machine. Whether you need turkey breast or spiritual renewal, I am here.

Well, I suppose I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Did I just call you a horse? Should I have at least capitalized Horse? Do you care about that stuff? You know, all the hommy-glommy that surrounds you?

Also, I could use a soda. [Hey! He offered!] Pepsi. But I'd take an orange if that's all you've got. For some reason I suspect you drink Sunkist orange, like me. Maybe because it's so damnably (See what I did there? Do you like humor?) refreshing.

Oh, you know me. I'm low-maintenance, even for God. I don't need all that capitalization stuff. The way I look at it, if I need that for my ego then I must not be a very secure and powerful God, you know?

I can totally do a Pepsi. Although you should know that I drink Diet Coke. That's the Official Soft Drink of God. What do you think I could get for THAT kind of endorsement? If you ever visit me up here (and I pray to me that you don't for another 40 or 50 years), I'll let you try the soda flavors you guys don't even have on Earth. Orgasmberry Splash, anyone?

It pleases me that you are much like I expected. I bet you're cute, too. Are you allowed to make out? Wanna make out?

Just reading Orgasmberry Splash made my pink parts tingle a little. Good work, G-man. (OH! That makes me wonder if the G-spot is named after you. Is it? I almost asked if you could make it easier to find and then I remembered that things are better when you have to work for them.)

Speaking of endorsements . . . are the Cowboys really God's Team?

Are you Allah and Mohammed and Buddha and Ra and Zeus, too? Or are those different guys?

So many questions! You know, hiding from mankind is something I've always done out of habit, but this is fun. Maybe I'll call a respected journalist and do a sit-down TV interview. Who do you think would be best? A few years ago I'd have said Oprah, but now she's a bit of a wackadoo. Maybe I can get Letterman to give me a whole hour and let me pick the musical guest.

I have been told that I am cute, and I am allowed to make out. After all, I'm God, right? Who is going to tell me what to do? But I must warn you...making out with God is dangerous. Afterwards, no mortal man will satisfy you even a little. I mean, I INVENTED those pink parts. I know how they work better than anyone. So think carefully. And yes, the G-spot is named after me. Because if you find it, you see me and many have been known to call out my name.

I'm so glad you asked me about the Cowboys. They are NOT God's team. I don't care if they DID put a hole in the roof so I can watch. They are sinners and idolators, and they are unworthy before my eyes. The only time I visit the filthy hole they call a stadium is the one game each year when the Eagles visit. They are are pleasing to me.

While we're talking about football, let me make something clear - I DO care about the outcome of football games. Everyone who sees a player thank me and says "God has better things to do" is dead wrong. I mean, it took me seven days to create the universe, and make no mistake, that was hard work. But after that it's just routine maintenance. I have a lot of down time. By the way, I like the Chargers to win the Super Bowl this year. Just a tip from above.

As for whether I am all those guys, yes I am. I like to talk to people in a way they will be receptive to hearing me. Kind of like how Dukakis tried to woo conservatives by sitting in a tank, Kerry tried to get blue collar people by eating a cheesesteak, and Hillary tried to completely hide who she actually is. (Being God, I am much more successful than these train wrecks. Really, Kerry? Swiss cheese?)

It's so great to get all this stuff off my chest!

Would you be willing to be interviewed by a small-time Midwestern blogger who likes to swear and talk about poop? My sources say she has A LOT more questions for you.

Also, I just got up to get a Pepsi - I was even going to pay for it! - and discovered there's no ice in the office fridge. I'm questioning you and your omnipotence.

Do you look like Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski? Because that would be awesome and make me willing to forsake all mortal men. WAIT! I changed my mind. I'm not ready to give up penises just yet, but if you could see your way clear to sending one of those mortal men my way, it'd be super. I'm into cute with a sense of humor, confident but not egomaniacal, thoughtful, not gay, not married . . . whatever you think is best for me within those loose parameters.

I would love to be interviewed by you, I mean a small-time Midwestern blogger. That will give me street cred. After all, I'm a God of the people.

Silly child...it is not my omnipotence you should question. You should be asking yourself whether I wanted there to be ice in the fridge. I just blew your mind, didn't I? I tend to do that.

I do not look like Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. I can make myself look like anything I want, but I do not wish to look like that. I'm God, I can't be running around slacking off in a bathrobe and existing in an inexplicably popular movie all the time. I prefer to look like Kurt Russell. Or maybe George Clooney if I'm going somewhere fancy.

As for your request, I will do my best. But it's pretty hard to find a guy like that who is not gay or married, even for me. But I'm glad to see your parameters are loose, that will help. Anything loose will help, frankly.

"Anything loose will help, frankly." Ha! I had almost forgotten about Mary Magdalene. How long did you two date? Is she the Holy Grail or is Dan Brown demented?

You know, nobody is going to believe this, but he got everything EXACTLY RIGHT. When I read it, I was like "What the fuck? How did this guy get all this information?" Then I realized he had probably come up with it completely independently and didn't even know he was right. So I figured I'd gently persuade some hipsters to trash it and let them do my dirty work.

Mary Magdalene? Oh, her grail is holy all right. She does shit that would turn Paris Hilton's hair white. We went out for a little while, but frankly, you can't keep that up. She's the kind of crazy where it's fun to date her for a couple of weeks and then you find yourself not picking up when she calls and making up excuses like you "have a lot of work to do."

Oh, God, you're a stitch! Listen, I'm sure you've got things to do so I will let you go but before I do my friend wants to know if you are a PC or a Mac . . .

All computers are equal in the eyes of God. Except those piece of shit HPs.

Hahaha! This was a lot of fun and very enlightening. Can I email you again some day?

Anytime, baby! It's lonely at the top.

So yeah, I've got some sort of back-of-the-wardrobe loophole in my laptop*, which is equal parts awesome and freaky. Got any questions for God, monkeys?

* I don't really have a laptop but I loved the alliteration of "loophole in my laptop" so much that I lied. In a blog post quoting God. I should ask him about hell next time.

FIAL.

2009-08-24T21:31:00.003-05:00

"IN MEMORY OF EILZABETH"

He loved her enough to create a mobile memorial,

but not enough to spell her name right.

Everything I Like Causes Cancer

I'm going to make my fortune opening a school for receptionists.

So this is the way it's going to be, is it?

Moving the outdated political rant down the page

I only have this to say.

Other Kick-Ass Gwens

New boots!

You look like Eva Braun.

Headlines tell me what's going on in the world.

Humor me one more time.

Hey. Whatcha doin'?

JUST WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!1!

They lied about Christmas.

The holidays can be stressful.

Let me start by saying (ASSCAKES!) I love you . . .

Living Out Loud

What did you see at The Polling Alley?

The Big Wicked Online Pageant

Color me confounded

Lazy Monday Post

Peabody on Daddies

I really want to show you the big hole in my alley.

Statistics

I'd like to thank The Academy . . .

This is even better than bending spoons.

The library is stirrin' up more trouble.

Sunday Punday

Things that have faces but don't really have faces.

Sunday Punday

Sunday Punday

Saturday Matinee: Clarity

I wonder how many holes it takes to fill it.

Does anyone have drums? I need a roll.

Necessity is the mother effer of invention.

Slow clap for the li-berry.

Apollo: For when you really mean it.

Peabody on Sandwiches

It could be worse; you could be BUTT GREASE.

My head, it spins.

Music and social media have the power to heal.

A Life in Pictures and Bullets

Nice ash.

Weiner! Weiner! Sausage dinner!

I do my own stunts.

Tell me I'm not the only one who noticed this.

Did I hear you ask for another gardening post?

Cowguy isn't the only one who can make sawdust.

Promtacular!

A smart fart that took the elevator up.

Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts

Sunday Matinee: Bad B*rbie Productions

Butterbean Stinkaroo!

"I don't make dirt; I make soil."

A Very Special Occasion

Lent

What's new, pussycat?

What the what?!

For The Love of All That Is Holy

No one wishes I had a more exciting report than me.

*creeeeeeeeaaak!*

Sunday Matinee: An EILCC Special Video Presentation

What the French, toast?

Yes, snippets of emails are the best I have to offer.

Where's Kool and The Gang when you need 'em?

Wah! I broke my tranny.

There's nothing that a hundred men on Mars could ever do to get this song out of my head.

In high school we fought behind the Dairy Queen.

Happy Franksgiving! (or, Stupid Is As Stupid Does)

Comments:Bloggers::Brains:Zombies

Quitting is for quitters.

Sunday Matinee: Putting a Little Zest in Your Taco

Continuity be damned

I may brag about having the day off but I won't forget why

Thy rod and thy staph, they actually DIS-comfort me.

This IS the bright side.

Sunday Matinee: Make like a tree and leave.

PSA Tuesday

Writing Wrongs

Things I was doing when I stopped blogging for like three weeks.

You should feel sorry for me, because I do.

creeeeeeeeaaak!