Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Replace the "B" with the upside-down Double-U thingie and it all bakes sense...

I’b sick.

(and also cough, cough, hack, die.)

I wish I could blabe all of my lack-of-posting od this cold, but that would be a lie. But I can blabe the last 5 days of by not posting on this cold. Also I cad hate this cold for the coldidess of it.

(seriously, hack DIE.)

Before the cold I was just so having the holidays! I was baking (but not actually baking, like with an oven, but instead baking like how it would sound if I didn’t have a cold, with an eb. Upside-down double-u thing.) things that were gifty of nature like fabulous calendars highlighting how awesome is by photo-eye (and by hubility. Don’t forget my abazing, earth-shattering hubility) and also jewelry that was sparkly. SO sparkly. And this year again I didn’t do a Christbas card but instead did a CD of all the busic with which I was obsessed in the last year, which (get this) I do in lieu of a card because I hate all the hassles of sending Christbas cards.

OK, now I’b just gonna wait here for you to stop laughing at by piles of dumb…

…(ban, by cuticles are out of control!)…

…finished? Lovely.

All of this is just to say (hold it – coughing very much now!) that I’b a bad, bad blogger who dropped off the face of the earth and all bostly because of a holiday that I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, but that I don’t seem to banage very well. (…and how was YOUR ChrisbaHannuKwanzicas?)

But now I’b sick. Hack DIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!

Here’s the deal: I have bany posts in my head. Bany of them. Know how you find a gift for someone around the holidays and then once they’re off your “purchase” list you just keep thinking of new, excellent gifts for theb? Well when you’re way, WAY over-busy to write blog posts you spend all of your free tibe (and by free I don’t bean tibe where I could be writing a blog post, but bore accurately tibe in the shower or driving or falling asleep or standing in line waiting to get a shopping ball gift card watching sobe TREBENDOUS DOUCHEBAG be totally nasty to sobe poor, abused seasonal ball employee!!!) seeing excellent things about which you could write a blog post. If you weren’t in the shower. Or driving. “Hey, buddy, could you cobe over here so I could write a blog post about how buch of a tool you’re being during this the bost “be good, don’t pout, for goodness sake!” tibe of year on the back of your head???”

So now that the holidays are just about over, and I’ve taken care of all the “being sick” I need to do in the next 5 years, and my “brain” is full to bursting with blog post potential you should, IN THEORY, have things to read for a while. HAPPY NEW YEAR, BY PEOPLES!!!!!

(Hack. Also seriously for the last time die, die, DIE.)

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Oh hi, I didn't see you standing there...

Ummmmmmm, hi.

(embarrassed, awkward pause)

Right, so I suck.

Look, I could waste your and my time with the long, whiny and entirely my fault reasons/excuses/bitchfest of where the heck I’ve been the last what – 2 weeks? Maybe more? Or I could just sum it up like this: Christmas is HARD.

I pretty much always seem to kill myself with entirely too many fabulous, ambitious projects for gifts. What starts off with “hey, I could give someone a calendar of family pictures!” always ends with “and that’s why I spent every night for a week up until 3am, searching years of photos so that I can create a chronological photo essay of the evolution of our family, printed like a painting on canvas and framed in an antique gold-plated frame. From Italy. The Country.”

The good news is that the last of the absurd, over-the-top projects was finished yesterday and I can now shun my “Santa’s Elves” existence and return to you! My Internet Bestest Friends! The bad news is that I only got 4 and a half hours of sleep last night (did I mention the final project is done?) and that’s 3 nights in a row of that and also I fell asleep typing the word “chronological” up above there, and again just now between “Santa’s” and “Elves”. So I don’t have the push in me to write anything worthwhile (I can see it now: the Christmas of the post of “eleven things I would not want shoved into my pants on a long hike.” Number 3: pickled rats-heads!) so I’m just going to leave you with three wise gems of depth and wisdom:

1) promise of a snow storm is not the same thing as a snow storm.
2) wait, what was I gonna do just now?
3) If enough pressure is placed it is possible to make a crease in the bridge of your nose with the top of the “F7” key.

But for now? S-L-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-P!

Friday, December 05, 2008

Comparatively speaking.

I finally sent a reply to Mr. Carl’s first non check-boxy communication. Not a GREAT reply. Not a CLEVER reply, or even a particularly coherent reply? But I sent a reply. I replied.

And then? Then E-Melody asked me to basically decide if I was in love or not. Right now. No pressure or anything, but now that you’ve checked a bunch of boxes and sent chunks of info and received other info chunks and you’ve each sent one whole email we were wondering if you have picked a date, color palette, song for the first dance…?

It was just a survey, I guess, but I was kind of amazed by some of the questions. Or even by the fact that they kept, they KEPT referring to the thing just barely going on here as a relationship. “How interested would you say you are in this relationship with Mr. Carl?” “Are you satisfied with the pace of this relationship with Mr. Carl?“ AM I TOTALLY NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP YET WITH MR. CARL? DO I WISH YOU WOULD STOP USING THAT WORD WHEN REFERRING TO MY EMAIL TO MR. CARL? DO I THINK THAT YOU MIGHT REFER TO A CUP OF COFFEE AND SHARING OF A CHEESE DANISH AS “MARRIAGE”?

If the survey had included the question “what word best describes your level of investment in this “relationship” with Mr. Carl?” I would have had to check the “tepid” box. There’s nothing specifically wrong with him (as far as I know – if he has a box of human heads in his attic he hasn’t mentioned it yet. Probably prudent – don’t want to give everything away too fast. Gotta keep SOME secrets, right? What were we talking about again? Oh, right. “tepid”) but I’m really not jazzed. I realized how luke-warm I feel about it when I found myself really interested in another match.

We will call him Fernando. (and we will mysteriously swoon a little at the mention of his name. Even though I just now made it up.)

First let me say that his real name was even more fabulous. I almost put the real name here in the blog only because it’s such an iconic one! Suffice it to say his name brings visions of smooth, barrel-chested, stallions gripping lacily-boddessed wenches against the mast of a pirate ship! In all honesty I originally SCOFFED at this name. Openly scoffed. Considered rejecting the match on the name alone.

But this guy’s little bio-thingy was the first one that ever really caught my attention. And no, I really can’t tell you why – I’ve read and re-read his bio a couple of times to try to figure it out, but it’s too subtle. Except one thing: he’s one of twins, and he and his twin brother were born in Italy and then moved here and THEN orphaned and adopted and all of that really intrigued me, plus the impact this unique history had on his view of “family”. For whatever intangible reason I was, for the first time so far, actually jazzed.

Which is why I should really have KNOWN that he would close the match right away. And should even more have known that the reason he closed the match was because he’s already involved with someone else. (what, me bitter? Of course not! Grumble…)

I will keep going with Mr. Carl as long as he does. But so far he’s no Fernando.

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Thanksgiving was holding me hostage. Yummy, mashed-potato hostage...

Oh hi. How was your holiday? Was it turkey-rific? Pie-tastic? Food-nomenal? Yeah. Mine too.

I must confess, and even issue a warning for some people (the “anti-holiday” people. The ones who get angry at the sight of lights strung on rooftops in early December. The ones who flinch at every “fa la la la la…”), that I am very “pro” holidays. I think I’ve already mentioned my love for all things Christmas (which I’m happy to apologize for right up until the 4th Thursday of November, but we’re officially in ‘the season’ now so Jingle Bells, baby!!!) but I love Thanksgiving too. Thanksgiving is just like Christmas but without gifts! Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE me the gift giving! That’s one of my very favorite things about this time of year: the permission to give any gift I want to any loved one I want! You can’t imagine the amount of time and energy I spend the rest of the year coming up with excuses to gift the gifts I find and want to gift. “Here, Queenie, is a very cool thing I am giving you because today is the 16 week anniversary of that one time you said I looked cute in these pants!”


But a lot of people get freaked out by the gifts thing. So Thanksgiving is excellent because you get the people and the food and the fun and the general sense of “Whee!!!” without the stress from those who find gifting stressful.

And there’s pie.

However, much as I loved the holiday weekend I am sorry about the big lack of posts. I had PLANNED to do a post on Wednesday. One could say even a solicited post. A favorite blogger of mine issued a challenge on that pre-holiday-day: give thanks for the hard, bad or otherwise “challenging” things! (and then write about it. In a blog. You see where I’m goin’ with this...) I was ALL ABOUT this challenge. Because LO! A CHALLENGE! PROFERRED INSPIRATION – NOW GO!

Turns out, though, that it was harder than I figured.

I was totally without idea! Couldn’t come up with any kind of silver lining for things like the economy or flea infestations or my overly-huge rear. (“I give thanks for my big butt, because if this economy keeps tanking I might be able to use my pants as a tent! Thereby giving easier access to the fleas...?”) I wracked my brain for ideas and came up empty handed. (keeping in mind that Wednesday was the all-time least productive work day I’ve had since last December 24th. As a whole the only benefit in my being at work at all was the way my mass kept the building from becoming airborne and floating off into the sky. And YOUR WELCOME.)

Where was I? Oh right – no ideas. So distracted was I by the impending pie and upcoming green bean casserole that no productive thought could survive the oxygen-free atmosphere.

Then suddenly it was Thanksgiving and just an AWESOME day! Food and games and family and conversations and werewolves (don’t ask) and I was finally struck with that inspiration that had been eluding me all the previous day.

And so I would like to give thanks for my single status! Because even though it means that I came home to an empty (save for cats) house and had to make my food all by myself and had nobody with which to share the joy of the Kermit the Frog parade balloon or the arrival of Santa Clause, I ALSO did not have to figure out how to juggle the gatherings of 2 (or more!) sets of family and parents and obligations. I didn’t have to have 2, or 3, or 11 Thanksgiving meals throughout the weekend to satisfy all the invitations.

To be honest, one of the things that I COMPLETELY DREAD about the idea of being partnered is the hassle of having to share my life with someone else’s family. What do I do on Christmas? I open presents with my parents and go to the gathering of my family. Period. The End. I don’t have to go to my family’s house one year and his family’s house the next year. I don’t have to EVER spend my beloved holidays with people who are not MY people. I can’t even fathom the idea of spending Christmas with anyone other than my very own family. In almost 40 years I’ve never had to. It would seem like not having Christmas at all!

So, even though the goal of this whole blog is the finding of a partner, on the holidays I revel in my independence and the complete LACK of partner complications. My big hope is to find that amazing, single guy who’s entire family was lost at sea. (fingers crossed!)

Even though it’s practically a week too late, I’d still love to pass on the suggestion for everyone to look for that challenging thing that they normally consider bad news and find a way to give thanks for even that. Consider it the first step of this newest holiday season.

And then? Have Pie. Happy Belated Thanksgiving, everybody!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Right up until they join forces and overthrow me...

I want a Roomba.

I’ve never wanted one before. I’ve heard that they work best on floors and don’t do much to pull up cat fur. I live in a mostly-carpeted house with my two cats, Senor Sheds-a-Lot and Missy La Dumps-Her-Fur.

They’re still pretty expensive, and I’m sure if I held out eventually they’d drop down to nothing. Heck, some day they’ll probably be disposable and you’ll get them from those machines at the door of the grocery store. “Gumball or Roomba… Gumball or Roomba… Hmmm….”

Given that eventually we’ll all be conquered and dominated by the robots I’m not sure it makes sense to bring yet another one into the house. I’m already having to keep a close eye on my TiVO and my digital camera. (No, I’m not worried about my computer. It’s a Mac. We all know they are generous of heart and noble of spirit. When the robots make their move I’m gonna seek sanctuary at Apple headquarters.)

And yet, as of right now, I want a Roomba. Why? I give you Exhibit A:

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Because now I can blame YOU guys!

You foolish, foolish people… Why do you encourage me the way you do? (Oh, and by the way? LOVE YOU FOR THE ENCOURAGING THE WAY YOU DO! Many E-Smooches for the comments on the last post! And to those of you who have not yet commented on this post, let me just tell you that commenting will make you feel minty fresh AND will unlock the secrets of getting into some kind of E-Heaven. I’m just sayin…) Thanks to Bridget and the Anonymous but OH SO WIZE AND CLEVER commenter I’m gonna keep going. Because I might spin a tale! Because I deserve happiness! But mostly because otherwise Bridget will stop reading. (mean!)

So when last we saw our heroin she had completed all of the official E-Melody assignments. Multiple choice questions and “how much I hate these things” vs. “how much I hate anyone who ISN’T these things” and then essay questions (which, by the way, I’m pretty sure I totally aced! I feel really good about the essay portion of my exam! I used some excellent SAT words, like “illusory” and “obfuscate”, and I demonstrated a connection between my personality and the mythic beauty of Helen of Troy.) and now? NOW?

Now “Mr. Carl is taking his turn to read Dr. Warren's open communication message and send you his first message.”

Apparently if you get through all the gates and tunnels and adventurous other communication-challenges you get lectured by some guy. Also? I don’t get to read the lecture until Mr. Carl is done reading the lecture and sending me his first message. Like this knowledge is too valuable to give to both of us. Like they have just the one copy of the lecture-knowledge, and I can’t see it until Mr. Carl is done, and also please don’t fold or crease the knowledge and don’t write in the margins because we need it to be in good condition for the next folks.


Now I don’t know if I’m allowed to share the special, magical Dr. Warren knowledge with you guys. It’s possible that I’ll be required to sign a bunch of legal documents swearing me to secrecy and saying that if I DO share the knowledge I have to give E-Melody something important like my driver’s license. Or a kidney.

(If I share the special, magical knowledge of wove and womance and “how to please your man!” and they make me give up a kidney I’m sure one of you wonderful, encouraging readers will give me one of yours, right?)

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

From wanna-be-Dooce to possible-Douche

First let me just say that I would like to be Dooce when I grow up. Or Joss Jackson. Or Amalah. I would like to be any of these people who write blogs that are beloved by many, and also who are super-amusing writers (and if you are NOT reading their blogs, and you ARE reading MY blog I have to tell you both MMMMMMWAH – KISSES OF LOVE AND GRATITUDE!!!! and also ARE YOU MAAAAAAAAD????? GO RIGHT NOW AND READ THEIR BLOGS! ALL OF THEM! AND READ BACK IN TIME AND ESPECIALLY THAT FUNNY ONE THEY WROTE THE OTHER DAY! (any of them. It doesn’t matter. They all wrote something funny the other day – it’s guaranteed. That’s how good their blogs are)) I would like to be someone who can take/find/make the time to write many times a week (and here’s the big stuff) and HAVE NO DAY JOBS AND HAVE SUPER-INTERESTING THINGS HAPPEN TO THEM ALL THE TIME ABOUT WHICH THEY CAN WRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE!!!!!

In other words: I apologize that my lame life is so very lame, to the point where I have to talk myself out of writing about the funny color my poop was the other day simply because it was the most uniquely-noteworthy thing for that day. (but to be fair? Green. It was green. I’m just sayin’…)

Sometimes I see fancy photography magazines where they have this big multi-page spreads of amazing photos of vintage architecture in Venice, Italy or tremendous waterfalls in Australia or lions on the prowl in the Serengetti and these pictures are breathtaking. But of COURSE they are! I think to myself “Heck, I could take breathtaking photos of fancy old houses or waterfalls or lions if I were in these places too!” (me? Petty and envious? NONSENSE! And also gimme your cookie!)

I’m having the same thoughts about these amazing bloggers that I love and read and who’s lives I covet. Because if I were a famous author I would probably get to go to New York and have exciting parties and rat sightings to write about! If I were a super-successful, and sometimes controversial, professional, full-time blogger surrounded by the conservative capital of the nation I could have a fabulous meet-and-greet, IN LOS ANGELES NO LESS, to which I could invite my millions of readers! If I were a brand new mommy I’d have heart-touching stories about my brand new baby and the birthing of same to share!

OK, but then I know what you’ll say next (because I know you, my favorite e-friends so well! And also because you’re MOSTLY imaginary and in my brain); you’ll say “hello??? Matches on E-Melody??? There’s something you could be writing about!! BE WRITING ABOUT THAT PLEASE!!!!” And mostly you’d be absolutely correct. Heck, that’s pretty much 75% of the reason I even do the online match thing! “Lo!” I think, “I will join and I will get matches and I will regale my e-friends with the hilarious and the absurd and “oh my god, can you believe he wrote THIS???” and we will laugh, and laugh, and laugh… good times.”

Here’s the thing though: Mr. Carl might be actually in to this.

Seriously, he responds really fast! Like when I get a question I take a day or two to think about the reply. Sometimes several days. Often a week… But not Mr. Carl. I sent him my three new questions and he replied back in a couple of days! And these aren’t multiple-choice, “click a box” responses this time. We’ve apparently progressed to the essay questions, where you have to craft words together into a paragraph-type answer. These take some level of thought. And he saw the questions I sent and did the thinking and replied right away! RIGHT AWAY!

Which frankly? Is freaking me out.

What is with the enthusiasm, dude? Same time, man, same time -- you don’t know me! (and here’s where the “what ifs” show up) What if he’s chomping at the bit for WOVE? What if he’s looking for wove and mawwiage and all that stuff and FAST, FAST, FAST??? What if he’s thinking “soon there will be dates and love and everything will be SOOO perfect, because E-Melody has assured me that we’re a match. And if it’s on the internet it can’t be wrong” And what if he’s thinking that I’m thinking these thinks too? And what if I’m mostly thinking “ok, I should probably go answer the questions from Mr. Carl so that we can get to the next step in case the next step is chocked full of high-larity, about which I can blog.”

What I’m saying is this: If he’s doing it for the possible wove and I’m doing it for the blogging, does that make me a complete rat bastard? Because while I love me some writing, I don’t want to be stomping on anyone’s feelings in the process.

Your thoughts? Anyone? Anyone?

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Next I'll ask Keith to just write all my posts. Because GO KEITH!

One of things I was MOST excited about last Tuesday night was that all the politics, politics, POLITICS was going to finally settle down. Seriously, I've been afraid to answer my phone or the front door for months because 50% of the time I was greeted by someone eager to tell me why I ABSOLUTELY MUST VOTE AGAINST/FOR THE LOVE OF GOD VOTE FOR (RANDOM PERSON, BALLOT MEASURE OR PROPOSITION) OR ELSE WE WILL ALL DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!! My region votes by mail and it's great because once you figure out what you're voting for/against you can send it away and put a little sign on your front door that says "I've already voted" so that the voting police will leave you alone. (or if you're a sneaky, under-handed person you might even put the sign on your door as soon as the ballots arrive in the mail -- they don't know!)

So I awoke Wednesday to a fabulous, politics-pushing-free-zone. Revel in the lack of people wanting to tell me how to think and feel about things and stuff! Whee! What's that, automated phone message? You want to help me with my mortgage rates (a tricky thing, since I rent) or extend my car's warranty (which it's never had) or sell me satellite tv (HA!!!)? Go right ahead! Sell me and get me and extend me! Just so long as you don't want to talk about voting I'll even let you give me a longer schlong.

And then I read the E-paper, about how my good friends the citizens of California got together to present a group "F*ck You!" to the gay population of the state. And I said to myself "Oh Balls. Guess nobody called the Californians and told them how to vote."

First things first: I am opposed to the idea of Prop 8 or anything that says to a sub-section of our nation (or world) "you do not have the right to make a legal, official life with the person you love." I'm appalled that so many states decided to exercise their rights to be small-minded and selfish and petty and just generally wrong. The whole thing is tragic and stupid and other snarky, irritated and frustrated-because-I-didn't-have-any-chance-to-vote-AGAINST-it things. But rather than me tell you my feelings I'd like to continue the wave of general praise for Keith Olbermann which is sweeping across the internets and just let him tell you my feelings. Because what he is about to say? Yeah. Hell Yeah.

Tell 'em, Keith:

(thanks, thanks and more thanks to The Queen and the brilliant pop culture pundits at for clueing me on to this.)

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

battle of the bulge, Part Four - weight loss through hate and office products

So I’ve been battling (sort of) and so far my triumphs can be described thusly: I’ve lost a grand total of something like half a pound. And also my soul has been wrung completely dry of all soulful moisty goodness. SO HUNGRY. This, for me, is extremely frustrating because I feel like the last two months have been all about me trying to eat the less bad-for-me foods and less of those food anyway and also trying to find ways to exercise, exercise, exercise. And all this for ½ a pound.

Part of my trouble is my magical and unstoppable metabolism. My metabolism is both sneaky and brilliant, and responds to change almost instantly. I change my foods from those yummy, fatty and deep-fried to their lite ™ and helthi (also ™) cousins and it confuses the systems for a day or two, sure. But by the end of the week the metabolism is on to me and it’s found a way to leech rolly-polly pounds from the Lean Pocket and the sliced apple. So I cut back on the number of apple slices and have only ½ of the English muffin and only 1 taco for dinner rather than 2. And of course the scale drops initially, but once again my danged metabolism figures it out, and even the working out it out-smarts! “Go ahead!” says Mr. Metabolism, “tap your little heart out! Bike to work three times a day if you want! Do your puny little sit-ups! You can’t stop me!!” And then it converts my bone marrow into a new chin.

To make matters worse, I have friends like Risky and the King, who have the good witch Glenda metabolism to my Wicked Metabolism of the West. My friends are related to each other in such a way as to allow them to share their metabolistic traits, which work like this:

Eat a King-Sized Snickers and two bags of Doritos per day + blink your eyes eleven times = drop a pant size, step out of your over-big shoes, become invisible when turned profile. How I hate them.

Case in point: Risky has always been the tall, willowy type with the porcelain skin and the curly, black hair, even in Jr. High School. And yet it was around then that she introduced me to Annual Pig Out Day (which you and I call “Fourth of July”) The way she chose to celebrate had less fireworks and more bopping down to the 7-11 to purchase GOBS of junkfood: chocolate and chips and ice cream and fabulous Hostess creations and even just thinking about the piles of food has caused one of my arteries to completely close – pardon me for a minute as I self-CPR me back to life.


Anyway, Risky took a day and ate, ate, ATE and when the dust settled guess how many pounds she gained. GUESS! Do you have a guess? Does your guess start with “not a danged pound” and end with “and so I killed her dead!”? Because if it does you’d totally be right! (except for the killing her part. But I think totally wanting to kill her counts. Also the wanting could be aerobic, so…)

Where was I going with this again? Oh, right! The hate. The searing, seething but apparently not at all fat-burning hate…

Right now the King mocks me and my sad, all-too-human metabolism with his biking to work. He bikes to work once a day, and then also bikes home also once a day. For a grand total of two trips a day, about 40 minutes of biking per day. (when exactly did my blog posts become word problems?) I bike to and from work TWICE a day, taking almost 50 minutes of biking time. And he loses weight! And I lose nothing! NOTHING! GAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

So here’s the plan for this, the last month of the Battle of the Bulge:
Eat nothing but salad greens, sunflower seeds and reams of copy paper. (roughage)
Stop driving completely and instead walk EVERYWHERE, and always uphill
Channel my hate of my skinny friends to my thighs and tuckas, utilizing it’s fiery hotness to burn away calories.


EDITED TO ADD: Did I mention that The Queen now has her own blog? Did ? Because she totally does! And on it she will tell you how she is attempting to win the battle of the bulge. So you can go there to read what she has to say, and then you can come back here and wonder how the hell I don't just explode from all the Strawberry Poptarts. Sigh.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Pants-wearing optional, racism a deal-breaker and other shocking developments...

So I know that I’ve never gone this far w/ a match on E-Melody before because I’m only just now beginning to think that this feels a lot like school. Like “falling in love homework” Like E-Melody is some online teacher who keeps sending me home with a new assignment. “Very nice job on your first three questions – solid B+. Now before our next class please search your soul and bring me a dozen things that you cannot live without, as well as another dozen things that you just cannot stand.” Because after there are questions and more questions then there are the Must Haves and the Can’t Stands.

Also I have to say this particular exercise just seems silly. I mean if you explained to me the various steps to finding Twoo Wove via onlineness this one would have seemed sound – compare those things that you either really must have in a mate (needs to have a head – neck-onlys need not apply!) as well as those things that you really cannot abide (anybody who shoots snot rockets really should die alone! I’m serious!) But then when you get to this step it seems silly! Because it’s not these kind of unique things, but instead it’s stuff that I have to categorize as “Ummm, DUH!”

The good news, though, was that I apparently created my list when I set up the initial profile, so at least this step was EASY. I went through the list, which I made almost 2 years ago and which I honestly don’t remember making, and can’t really even be sure I did make, because although I agree with the list WHO WOULDN’T????
Minor tangent: I’m sorry so many of the recent posts are so listy. I read them later and I cringe with all the listiness, and I promise myself that there will be no more posts which are just me telling you EVERYTHING TO THE LAST DETAIL of what E-Melody is like. Guh. But I’m sorry, I cannot seem to avoid it this time either. But next time I will! I promise! If the next blog post is all listfull you can go ahead and… read it and love it and tell your friends? Please don't go away...
Examples of things that I can’t live without include:

Emotionally Healthy: I must have a partner who is emotionally healthy, and able to share a stable life with someone else. (Not me, I want someone who can’t make it through a coffee commercial without sobbing and who insists that I enter the room backwards just in case he can’t face me at that moment.)
Communicator: I must have someone who is good at talking and listening. (Wait, talking AND listening? Where DUST THOU get these impossible expectations? I suppose you want someone who can both chew AND swallow too, eh? Ridiculous!)
Loyal: must have someone I can count on to always support me. (Or, failing that, please don’t make faces behind my back when I’m talking at parties. Or at least let me come in to the parties, rather than sitting in the car. Or at least let me get in the car. Instead of the trunk. This time.)
Spirit of Volunteerism: must have a partner who shares my willingness to volunteer and support community and/or social causes. (…ok, I have no response to this one. I seriously don’t remember picking this one. But I guess I’d better start volunteering and supporting community and/or social causes. …crap.)
Kindness: I must have a partner who is gentle and kind. (WHO WOULD NOT WANT THIS? This has to have been an “ok, I'm out of other options, guess I’ll pick the “kind” one. It’s either this one or “generally likes to wear pants when out of the house.”)

…The Can’t Stand options were much the same, and rather than my listing them let me nutshell it by telling you that I’m apparently not willing to date someone who is a boorish, depressed, mean-spirited, arrogant racist. And apparently you need to stipulate this. Because apparently there are some women out there who WANT THESE THINGS? Who are these women? And do they really need to spend $50 a month to go online and FIND these things? Are the boorish, depressed, mean-spirited, arrogant racist men of the world really such rare, precious gems that you have to search and search and search for? REEEAAALLLYYY????

I sent him my lists, because that was the current homework assignment, and in about 2-3 days he sent me HIS lists. And again to not list things I will nutshell it and say that he is ALSO looking for an emotionally healthy, kind and funny communicator, and especially does not want to date a lying, cheating, arrogant, foul-mouthed racist. (gosh, I wonder where all the racists go to find love? Is there an E-Purity website out there somewhere?)

And now I have a new assignment: sending YET MORE QUESTIONS. But we’ll cover that next. For now I have to go tell the other 10 guys that I’m already dating some story about my not being awesome enough for them (ha!) so that they’ll go the f*ck away. (good thing I’m not racist.)

Friday, November 07, 2008

Yes I Can? Really?

Is it me or is it really hopey around here these days? (and by “here” I mean the nation. And by “these days” I mean mostly since Tuesday) For the most part I don’t do the politics thing here, but I’ll go ahead and fly my flag for a minute: I’m one of the people who was HAPPY about the outcome of this most recent election. And if you need a why let me just say because we have hit ROCK BOTTOM, people, and no matter what we need something really different. Though it is trite, I’ll go ahead and drop the new party line: we need us some serious CHANGE.

Now it looks like we may get some. Yay!

As such, the concept of change has been heavy in the air, like crappy cousin Chip’s fajita farts in the communal tent. With so much talk of change everywhere to you look how do you not look inward and think about your own capacity for change? Answer: you don’t.

And so I must confess that for the first time in years and years I find myself thinking that it MIGHT be possible that I indulge in partnership.

DO NOT FREAK OUT. I haven’t met anyone or seen anyone or even had a sex dream or anything. We’re just being conceptual right now. We’re shooting the sh*t, we’re throwing around ideas, we’re raising something up the flag to see if anyone sets it on fire. But even just the act of me leaving this option open is a little huge. Because despite the online dating and the speed dating and the thousands of wooooooooooords spent on this pursuit in the last 2 years, I’ll be brutally honest and tell you I’ve not once actually expected anything to come of it. Igloos by Satan’s beach house and pigs with pilot’s licenses have seemed as likely.

But this week, while contemplating all the possible changes I could make on my life I actually entertained the idea that there had been some massive, scifi-scale shift in the fabric of reality. And that maybe there’s a person out there up to the challenge?


(also I’m going to start bathing, go back to wearing a bra and I’m going to stop ending every sentence with “and like dat dere…” It’s a brand new day dawning, people!)

(and like dat dere…)

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Q & A. Or actually A and Q.

I answered questions. I am a question answerer. Erer. Er.

The Question Man we will now call Mr. Carl. For no reason other than I’m sitting here watching a NASCAR race and the guy for whom I’m cheering is Carl and so Mr. Carl it is. Mr. Carl asked me 5 questions, as is the way they roll at E-melody. His questions were these:

1) What kind of exercise do I prefer?
I wanted to say that I prefer to not need exercise, and to be skinny and pert anyway. I wanted to say that I prefer to go dancing with fabulous packs of fierce homofexuals, no boyfriends allowed. I wanted to say that I would vote for any presidential candidate who can promise me a completely exercise-free method to be both trim and also fit. But that seemed like a lot of crazy right up front, and also you shouldn’t talk politics on the first ‘date’. So instead I told him that I’m a tap dancer. Because he should get at least a little of the crazy up front, right?

2) My idea of a romantic time would be:
OK, so this is tricky because I don’t respond well to the idea of a romantic time. I tend to roll my eyes and bite my lip and here my own voice yelling “lame!! Laaaaaame!!!” at each lighted candle and Celine Dion song. But didn’t we just decide that the crazy needed to be spread out over time? So I simply told him “You show me your favorite movie and I’ll show you mine.” Because just saying “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” was dangerous.

3) What style of dress do I prefer?
Danger, Will Robinson! Of the 4 pre-crafted answers I could pick from I decided “I dress for the occasion” was sufficiently non-committal. I’m hoping that, inspired by my answer to number 1, he’ll picture me in white tails and top hat, black cane and surrounded by Busby Berkely girls.

4) Would I rather date someone who is:
This question is one I have also sent, because it touches on the issue of time. How much time do you want? How much time will you need? If I never have any time for you at all will you WHINE ABOUT IT? I told Mr. Carl that I would prefer someone who is busy, with a structured scheduled, where I would know what days they will be available for fun. Mostly because he’d better be looking for someone just like that. Because I have an important blog to write, and he’s gonna have to wait his turn!

5) How often do I find myself laughing?
This is where I get a danged trophy for NOT answering “every time I read the profiles of dudes who match me on E-Melody!” I was swimming in self control. I was careful and forward thinking, and I, as it turns out, was not going to sabotage things instantly after all! After such impressive willpower I felt I should immediately go to the living room and eat every last bit of Halloween candy in the bowl. But first I needed to give Mr. Carl some kind of answer, so I picked the almost-honest “I crack myself up!”

Once I sent these answers to Mr. Carl I was then instructed to send him some of my own questions. I was there, the mountain was showing me it’s big, mountainy butt as if to say “bet you can’t climb me!” so I capitalized on my momentum and 5 sent questions:

1) When in a relationship, how much personal space do you generally find you need?
Most questions have 4 answers to pick from, plus the option of "other" and you write in your own response. The options for this question were:
- I don’t need personal space; I like together time.
- time spent at work is enough personal time and I wanna spend the rest of the time with my partner.
- I just need one night a week of personal time and the rest with my partner
- when I’m with my partner I’m completely there, but I do need personal time for reflection
Sadly, this is a trick question because none of these work for me. I’m looking for that one guy out of twenty who writes “look, I’ll call you when I call you. Back off, will you? YOU’RE SMOTHERING ME!!!”

2) Which of the following scenarios would make you more nervous?
- making a presentation in front of 500 people (because apparently I’m looking for someone not afraid to start a pyramid scheme?)
- taking a long car ride with someone you just met. (isn’t this how most episodes of “Without a Trace” begins?)
- talking about your biggest fears with your lover. (Or being involved with someone who wants you to call them “your lover.” Ech.)
- meeting with the president of your company (…ok, that has potential for being scary…)

3) On Saturday night, would you rather go to:
I won’t even give you the options here, because the only bad answer would be if they wrote in “bed.” (unless they mean it in the dirty way. Except that would be “ew!”, so I’m still opposed to the answer “bed”.)

4) What is your opinion of traditional gender roles?
OK, if you’re a guy this has to seem like a complete trap, right? And it is! Instead of the normal 4 possible answers this one just has 3, and they’re basically “loves me some Donna Reed!”, “loves me some Sarah Connor” or “pass.”

5) Outside of a romantic relationship, are you competitive?
Translation: can I play RISK with you or not?

I sent these questions to Mr. Carl, and since I was on a productivity roll I sent them to all 4 of the other matches too. Lookit me, sending questions out like I’m actually looking for wove. Who IS this woman?

Friday, October 31, 2008

Happy Halloween...

...and abracapocus! (for the King)

Watch more Dailymotion videos on AOL Video

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Matches? We don't need no stinkin' MATCHES!

OK, so I’ve been through the matches. There were something like 20 of them when I first checked in! I thought “Man, I am some extra-matchable kind of chick! Lookit me matchin’! Matchy-Matchy-MATCH BABY! Twoo Wove in no time!”

Then I noticed that about 1/2 of them had already sent me “thanks but no thanks” emails. So nice that my good friends at E-Melody take the time to send me pre-rejected matches, thereby saving me all that pesky time normally spent reviewing their profiles and getting excited at the prospect of them and maybe dreaming a little dream where you meet and they look like Robert Redford and talk like Paul Newman and their biggest worry about you as a potential mate is that you won’t be able to spend all of their big, heaping heaps of cash as fast as they absolutely MUST be SPENT. Much better to see that it took them all of about 16 minutes to run away, away, away. MUCH better.

I also love how they insist that you look at the “reason” that you’ve been rejected before you can just make the rejections GO AWAY. Most of the reasons were the same as that which I have used: “Other” (because they don’t have a pre-fabricated rejection reason for “Your favorite movies were “Deliverance” and “Dude, Where’s My Car?” or “I already lived with my mother – I don’t want to live with yours”, let ALONE “you look like Nick Nolte’s mug shot”) The one(s) that were more specific were Michael (not his real name), who rejected me because of our different family backgrounds (I come from Europeans, he comes from jerks who pre-reject people) and Del (not his real name too) who rejected me because he’s pursuing another relationship (with his hand. HO!!!!)

You don’t think I’m taking these rejections personally, do you? Me neither.

ANYWAY, after I closed the fabulous rejection connections I was left with about 10 or so guys who either still might think I’m match-worthy or don’t realize there’s the pre-rejection option. I started looking through them and in a word? AWESOME. (another possible word: celibacy! I also like “dies alone!” but it’s too many words, so…)

My favorite is the guy who is 1) shorter than me, 2) possibly naked in the picture? And 3) LIVES IN A COMMUNE. Having read his profile now about 16 times I still cannot for the LIFE of me figure out why we were a match. I’m officially doubting the relationship wizards and their systems if they can find a single thing in common between myself and someone who could keep a straight face while typing “I'm looking for a woman who can navigate the rapids and enjoy the calm, serene waters of a relationship.” Oh yeah, and did I mention COMMUNE? Imagine how awkward it is when your date has a roommate. Now imagine the roommate is a family of 6, their compost heap, their rain stick and their goat named “Mr. Crystal Hope Rainbow.” (if this self-sustaining living collective is rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’, but DO attempt to use our kinetic energy as a new power source!)

The rest of the group was a disappointing collection of invisible men (want some lovin’? SHOW YOUR FACE, DAMMIT!) with some wee bits of possible potential (but still no picture) and guys who posted pictures, and probably should not have. (Note: just because you CAN post a picture of you shirtless does not mean that you SHOULD.) After 30 minutes of checking the matches I realized that this experiment is doomed because I’m suspicious of those who DON’T post photos, but turned off by most who do.

And then there was the guy who sent me questions.

This means that one of my matches looked at my info and thought “hey, this could be interesting. I will interrogate her for possible future love.” Nothing much to look at and all, but for the sake of the experiment, the project, the FRIGGIN’ PILE OF MONEY I SPENT TO JOIN I’m going to answer the questions. We’ll see where it goes from there.

And of COURSE I’ll post about the interrogation! Sheesh! What do you think we’re DOING here?

Monday, October 27, 2008

Green... thumb.

I started this post about the matchie matches, but lost it and now I can’t get it back. My brain is stalled. So I will try that one again tomorrow, and instead I will tell you now about how my landlord raised my rent.

And that it is awesome.

I have lived in this same 1/2 of a duplex for almost exactly 5 years. When I moved in here fall of 2003 my landlord explained that I had to keep my lawn and corner lot trimmed and such. I didn’t have to GARDEN, mind you, but packs of raccoons should not be able to travel through my lawn unseen. And let me assure you, nothing that I do could accurately be called ‘gardening’; however I can shove a mower in waves across a lawn. In fact, I pushed the hand-me-down mower from my uncle back and forth so diligently the first 3 years that it eventually coughed a final gas-powered gasp and croaked. And I did what any responsible home-renter would do. I nestled the non-mowering mower in the bushes ‘round behind my carport, bought a new one and finished the lawn.

My landlord has only raised the rent once before, so I was a little bummed to hear of the hike in early October, but mostly on principle. It’s not a lot of money at all. But it’s more than the previous amount of money. Sigh. I decided to blame the government and moved on with my world.

Then about a week later I was home during the day, eating lunch, and I spied someone stealing my lawn mower. My broken lawn mower. Someone was pulling my dead lawn mower out of the corner of the carport bushes right there in front of me! “Scuse me!” I yelled, “are you stealing my broken lawn mower???” and then the next few minutes are a soft, nice-smelling blur of hot dudeness.

Here stood this hot dude! A lawn mower stealing dude? Well, sure. But it was so broken and he was so YUM! Let him have the mower! Finally the blood rushing. Hormone-fueled, past my ears calmed down and I heard hot-mower-stealing-dude mention that he worked for a yardwork business that my landlord had hired to come and clear out the mass of bramble bushes behind the house. With my brand new, now completely justified and maybe even a bargain, rent hike.

Tangent: I’m extremely independent. To the point of being simultaneously stupid and annoying about it. I get angry when my helpful Auntie M folds a towel for me, because my overly independent brain translates the act of towel folding into somehow impuning my ability to clean up my own towels. Many smart, loving people in my world would probably hesitate to pee on my flaming form for fear of my insisting I was just about to pee on myself and totally didn’t need the help thank YOU! So for months now I have been girding my loins in preparation for an assault on my neighbor’s attacking bramble bushes. I even got gloves! Special barb wire gloves, so very thick and stiff as to not allow one to touch thumb to finger! But these brambles were apparently transplanted from the land of Sleeping Beauty, being the same ones they used to keep Princey McPrince-boy from reaching her for some hot smoochey-smooches. Of course none of this kept me from momentarily getting defensive at the idea of someone being hired to do this bramble bush warfare. Because HELLO, I was TOTALLY going to do it! I was! I could totally do it myself. Wanna see my plywood gloves??

Beautiful bramble bush attack boy worked all during my lunch and I was able to find a good 11 or 30 reasons to go into the back of my house during lunch and peek out the back window. “hey, I wonder is the sun spontaneously setting in the east? At 1pm? Nope! Good to know! Veeeeerrrryyy good….” He was still hard (gulp) at work when I went back to my job. I came home to a note that he was all finished and some other guy would be back in a few weeks for general maintenance. Wah.

And yet there he was again, today, to blow my leaves and edge my lawn, both of which suddenly sound just a little dirty. Do I know his name? No. To me he is just Hot Yard Guy. But I am very much looking forward to the summer months! The hot, sweaty, hopefully shirtless, summer months… I think I may take up gardening after all!

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

My, what a very full circle I have found

So somewhere along the line when I wasn’t paying attention this humble little blog passed the 2-year mark. Two Years! Kind of amazing really. According to my good friends at Google, those two years included 255 published piles of words. 422 published pictures, a happy little chunk of comments (thank you so VERYmuch!!) and one o’ these:

In the beginning it was all “ooh, look at me being so single and Wah, I sure wish I was less single and Grrr, being not so single is HARD!” and nobody tired of that shit faster than me. Because seriously, crap or get off the pot, right? MOVE ON, WOMAN!

After a year I said “ENOUGH!” I said I didn’t want to keep bashing my soft, squishy head into the glass ceiling of relationships. I was DONE with all that crazy free dating sites and speed dating and meeting some random dude in a restaurant, all the while trying to figure out if I could make a break out the back and get the bike unlocked without being seen through the window. (good times.) I said to you, my peoples, “hey, couldn’t we have just as much fun if I stopped hunting for love and just wrote about my life? And the stuff that I do? By myself? With nobody along with me? Eh?”

This winning strategy brought such posts as “My co-workers are filthy, filthy people – look how I mock their fridge use” and “my pritty, pritty toes – let me show you it.” and (of course) the classic “Gu-Huh… blue pens R fun.” Clearly my choice to refocus was genius.

I won’t lie to you, my peoples. Sometimes I sit here in front of my keyboard wondering what in the HELL I could possibly write about which anyone other than my mother would give a single ounce of crap. And she doesn’t even read this blog anymore!

And then the universe started poking me. Poking, poking… insisting that I look more than 2 inches beyond the end of my adorable little nose. It sent me not one, but two cool chicks who mete their eventual husbands online. It gave me a tiny little bonus that I didn’t expect to get and don’t already have spent. And it gave me something like 12 matches on one of the most popular online dating sites around.

So tonight around 10:39pm I gave this online dating site a pile of cash. And they promised to give me Twue Wove. (or the cash equivalent. Or possible a home version of the game.)

I’m not feeling confident about this. In fact I made the payment but could not bring myself to look at the matches. I’m actually kind of sure that I’m going to go through things and find nothing but rat droppings, pumpkin scones and serial bed farters. UUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHH. But I gave them the money and their promise of wove, wove and fabulous wove lasts for the next three months. And you can’t let me go through this alone!!!

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Girl-Island, no boys allowed

Ugh. I’m a very bad friend.

I went to the wedding reception party thing today of a friend of mine whom I will now dub “Kermit”. Kermit is a very cool chica who is my age, my temperment, my style, and just generally very me-like. Me-ish, if you will. Me-esque. A lady I have always felt like could easily be a super-close friend if it weren’t for the fact that she lives over an hour away. (stupid geography.) She got married up in Canada this summer with a petite little “family only” wedding, so TODAY was the domestic, less-Canadian party where the rest of us not shiny enough to trek to Canuklandia could come and say “woo hoo!” and the like.

But instead of woo-hooing like a good friend shoooo-hoould, I waffled back and forth between being annoyed that she got married (because hello, wasn’t that something that we had in common? Being the last single women on the planet? Did I mention HELLO???) and being uncomfortable that I, in fact, now AM the last single woman on the planet. I just kept waiting for that fabulous moment when someone would ask me “so, when are YOU getting married?” so that I could reply with the requisite “SHUT UP YOU SUCK I HATE YOU AND SHUT UP (please pass the turkey rolls) YOU SUUUUUUUUCK!”

This is the second fellow last-single-girl-ever to quit the club this year. You may remember the SUUUUUPER-COOOOL co-worker who got engaged last May (I called her then, and will continue to call her now, Joette Cool, or JC for short)? HER wedding took place last month. (and, big surprise, her wedding was tremendously and absurdly cool, cool, cool. Of course.) For both of these folks I should be very happy and “good for you, getter of a life partner!” but I swear that the petty and crappy part of me can’t seem to get past the part where I resent them for not just staying here, on this desert island of singledome with me. We can make s’mores and braid eachother’s hair! But do they care? No. They want someone to mow the lawn and make waffles and sometimes do sex-things! Sheesh!

So now I’m sitting here staring at E-thingstuff because I came home to find that “Hey! You have a new match! We’re your last chance for partnership because you’re broken and stuff! Click now or die alone under an avalanche of cats! Matchy-matchy-match-match!” I don’t even WANT to find a life-mate-partner-dude through an online matchmaking website. I have long ago decided that would be embarrassing! I mean, why should I even believe that there is any chance?

Other than the fact that BOTH of the ladies who got married this year met their now-husbands on E-thingstuff?

And also there are somehow not just one but six new matches there?

And also I have this tiny little extra pile of money in my last paycheck?


Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Stuck in the middle with EWWW...

I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out how to set this scene and this is what I came up with: The other day I “dropped the kids off at the pool” and it the “pool” turned out to be more like “the elevator from the Shining.”

(other rejected ideas: “a few days ago I had a long sit on the throne and the finished product was way more colorful than normal. And by “colorful” I mean mostly brown and bright red.” OR “recently I was taking a dump and started my period. Out of my butt.”)

Anyway, I went to my doctor and she tends to be very “It’s probably this little thing, but just in case I’m going to also check that it’s not this very BIG THING.” And by “BIG THING” she meant colon cancer. I’m very happy to make sure that I don’t have colon cancer, because I’d like to have no cancer at all. It’s just a decision I made a long time ago: I want to avoid any and all cancer-like-things. However the steps involved in making sure that you don’t have colon cancer involve getting stuck. A lot of sticking. And not any of the good kinds.

So first I got stuck by needles. Funny thing about me: I have a tremendous clotting ability. Seriously, I’ve had to give up donating blood because I’m always clotting before we get the full unit. So Mr. Blood Drawing Dude (or MBDD) stuck me in both arms, and failed to even fill a test tube, and finally resorted to sticking an IV needle in the back of my hand.

This was a first time for that trick for me, so I says to him “hey, I’ve never had blood drawn from the back of the hand. Does it hurt more or less than the arm?”

And he says “Hmmmm. It depends really…”

And I says “No, no, no, that’s not the right answer! You’re supposed to say “oh heck, it hurts WAY less than the arm does!” No matter what, that’s what you say!”

“Oh! Then oh heck, it hurts WAY less than the arm does!”

“Well you can’t say that NOW!!! NOW I KNOW you’re bullsh*ting me! What, are you new or something?”

A week after I got poked in both arms and the back of the hand (oh, and for the record? It doesn’t depend on anything. It hurts more on the back of the hand. It just does. Works pretty well, but hurts super-crappy. I’m just sayin’.) I had to go to a Gastroenterologist. She was a lovely person and very witty and charming and very clear and all of this really doesn’t matter at ALL once she started sticking things up my poop-shoot! There’s no way to charmingly wedge something inside the out-door, know what I’m sayin’? I mean, I’ve prided myself on keeping that particular avenue as an “out only” orifice! (I know that’s kind of a strange thing to pride oneself upon, but you take your pride where you can get it, people! That door goes ONE WAY!)

What I’m saying is that all the parts of my rear that are designed as a defensive line are SERIOUS about it! When there’s any kind of rear invasion all kinds of walls and fences and locks come into play, and they will not be dissuaded! So here’s me, standing pantsless in this brand new doctor’s office, trying very hard to distract my ass from it’s whole job by looking out the window. At the parking garage across the street. And the random stranger there, obviously locked out of their car. Trying to shove their arm inside the little window gap they’ve left. WHICH IS ENTIRELY TOO SIMILAR TO WHAT’S GOING ON BEHIND ME AND PROVIDES NO DISTRACTION AT ALL!!!!

The good news is that all the various medical poking-people reached the same (extremely intrusive!) conclusion: I have no cancer, but instead a pretty impressive case of mystery hemorrhoids. (I call them “mystery hemorrhoids” because when the doctor ran down the list of all the things that can CAUSE hemorrhoids I came up zip for zip. I’m one of those precious few who can just get hemorrhoids. From nothing. Whipdee-friggin’-doodlepants.) The bad news is the treatment: I get to stick something up my butt.

Twice a day.

For a week.

I’m pretty sure I’m just gonna stick with the hemorrhoids.

Monday, October 13, 2008

That's what friends are for.

You know how you can tell that someone is your very best friend? When you’re 38 years old and single and still living fairly hand-to-mouth and they keep saying ‘WHEN you have a baby” instead of “IF YOU EVER have a baby.” Because they know that you’re probably beginning to think it’s just never gonna happen, but that thought bums you out because you really would like to have one, so they’ll have faith in you even though you don’t really have the faith anymore.

That’s totally how you can tell someone is your very best friend.

(of course, if they were TRULY your very best friend they’d break into a sperm bank and steal you some grade-A sperm, preferably from one Mr. Daniel Craig or Mr. Robert Redford or Mr. Robert Downey Jr, (but without the crazy drug addiction genes of course) and they’d help you figure out how the hell you get the frozen sperm into a turkey baster and they’d sit there and keep you company while you lie with your ass in the air for a day, hoping that the swimmers have a good sense of direction and a triumphant spirit and “take no prisoners!” attitude. But the other thing is also totally awesome.)

(Love you, Queenie. Thanks for keeping the faith!)

Thursday, October 09, 2008

Do you get dental with this blog?

My stupid job is ruining my blog.

Because the thing is I promised that I would not write about the job in the blog. (I didn’t promise you guys, but I just generally promised myself. Because even though I’m not religious, I do believe that Heather Armstrong’s job died for our sins. Amen.) But right now I’m working so damned much that I don’t seem to have anything else to write about!! I get home from work and eat and feed cats and then I sit there on the couch saying “I really need to get up and go in there and show my love to my readers! Because love them? Oh yes, I do! But the only thing I can think of to WRITE is either “Gah, my job is all the time all the time and then more and more MAKE IT STOP!” or “Zzzzzzzzzzz…”

And then I doze off in front of some pithy little drama about doctors or cops or time traveler cops or time traveler doctor cops who travel through time and invent “soup”.

Heck, even if I DID have a date I’d have no time to go! (not that I have a date. Don’t get the wrong idea here, I’m not turning down hot date requests because of my super-excellent career. I’m just sayin’…) Or if I went on a date first I’d have nothing to talk about except how stupid-busy my danged job is, and then I’d fall asleep in the soup or salad or mozzarella sticks or mozzarella sticks served with a side order of cheese-fries.

Man do I love cheese fries.

So, to recap: too busy, glad that tv is back, love cheese fries, zzzzzz…

Monday, October 06, 2008

Couldn't agree more

You probably thought that I'd totally forgotten about Desktop Fun, what with two whole months having passed and no such posts. Truth is that the August change of desktoppery happened while I was in the devil's crotch-sweat and the September change happened while I was deep in hecticity (IS SO A DANG WORD!) so neither of them were really honored in the way they should have been.

But now? Now I'm done being so busy (which is a lie -- I'm just done having official excuses for being busy, so everyone is sure I'm not busy, which is a problem because I actually am still super-duper-SomeoneKillMe-busy, but whatever, "here'ssomethingelseforyoutodo'kaythanksbye" and bleh. All of which was just to say it took me no time at all to pick the following as my desktop icon. Because EXACTLY.

Thursday, October 02, 2008


September was my month to "clean" the "kitchen" at work again. Its a joyous thing because I not only get to go through our little mini-fridge and do away with the scores of lost, abandoned and rogue foodstuffs, but I also get to mock my co-workers for their negligent food care-takery.

Here, for your reading enjoyment, is my debrief after the 2008 fall fridge free-for-all:


Once again we have a fridge that is so very, very clean that you could actually even store things to EAT in it! And since I had such a positive reaction to last year’s list of “Things learned” from this experience I figured I should share again. Never let it be said that you cannot learn new things even while doing something that makes you wish you were totally, totally dead. Please to enjoy…


Things I learned THIS TIME while cleaning out the kitchen fridge:
  • There are some exciting new products out there that I had not heard of. They include:
  • Kraft’s Honey Dijon wallpaper paste, guaranteed not to let your wallpaper come off. Ever. (seriously, ever. You’ll burn down this house and the wallpaper will still stand.)
  • Ranch-flavored ice cream, complete with icee crystals on the top and a festive red tint to the edges (which screams like boiled lobsters when you wash it down the sink)
  • Yoplait Blackberry slow-setting cement – just add cold and lots of time.
  • Chunky’s new Petrified Beef and Noodle Soup (chisel not included)
  • Ever still our department’s love for the un-eaten yogurt continues unabated. I believe now that we may have a grassroots “Save The Yogurt!” campaign happening right under our noses, where we flock to the stores and buy yogurt in order to protect them from ever, EVER being viciously consumed!
  • Did you know (because I didn’t!) that there is a flavor of Jello which, if left alone long enough, will eventually smell like a combination of cumin and the blood of a thousand lost souls? True story!
  • The noodles used in Lean Cuisine’s Fettuccini Alfredo can, in some cases, attain a sort of animation, nay even life, and attach themselves to your skin, say if you were unfortunate enough to let one get on you.
  • In such cases the appropriate response is to flail your hand over the garbage frantically while screaming like a little girl
  • Neither action will get the noodle/attack worm off, but it does make you feel a little better about your chances for survival
  • Eventually you will have to have the noodle/worm-attacked hand removed.
Let’s see how long it takes for the box of cold to get filled up this time…

-Lefty McOneHand

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Do I always have to be the grown-up?

So mostly I really like being independent. I have this whole life-rule-motto-thing where it’s really important to me that I never be prevented from doing anything I want or need to do just because I’m terminally solo. It was this vow, this creedo if you will, that lead me to carry a 50 lb television up a loft ladder by myself one night because I wanted to be able to watch tv in bed and just because my bed was in a loft, and just because the tv was heavy, and just because I was a single woman that was not going to stop me so BY GOD, I WAS GONNA HAVE A TV IN THAT LOFT! (as it turned out, I had tv and a wrenched shoulder and a big dent in my loft wall. And also Sunday mornings in bed with my NASCAR race and my sleepy kitty. All good.)

Where was I? Oh, right. I’m INDEPENDENT!

Even with my ironclad, bulletproof independence, there are still times when I really wish there was someone else that I could ask to do the stuff I hate to do, or don’t do well. For instance, I really hate to do the dishes, and would LOVE to be able to say “tonight it’s your turn to do the dishes, while I will eat bon bons and drink champagne and watch some girly show with fancy shoes or long, deep conversations about feelings. Tra la la and whee!” I would also say that sometimes about cooking, and sometimes about mowing the lawn. Except less tv shows about feelings about shoes and more NASCAR races. About feelings.

But what I REALLY wish I could let someone else be in charge of is the MONEY. Not that I can’t deal with it, but I just don’t like to. It forces me to be extremely responsible and level-headed and “good”. When really what I want is to BUY! COOL! THINGS! Sigh. Like when I got the first credit card ever, which I didn’t even really ask for and didn’t think I wanted, I was all about “use wisely. Don’t be stupid.” For like 5 seconds, and then it was all magic money that I didn’t even have to earn first, and the fabulous thingies that I could buy with the magic money.

I haven’t used a credit card for close to a decade. And I’m finally closing in on a zero-balance on that one that I did have. Blessed, debt-free nirvana.

I want a laptop. I really want a laptop. MAN do I want a laptop. But laptops are expensive. And good laptops are even more expensive, and then you talk about the nice software to go on the good laptop and now we’re talking serious money in the house that Jack built. Where as most of my money is extremely light-hearted, trivial, silly, even ridiculous! (thanks, Roget!!) But in October there is talk of a bonus at my work. Bonus, which I believe is French for “money that is not already earmarked for rent or gas or bills or anything.”

Money that I could maybe use to get a laptop.

Money that I really SHOULD use to get even closer to that credit card zero balance.

See, this would be the perfect time for me to have some other person who always manages the money and gives me an allowance and balances the wants, like laptops (and I-Phones, which I also want, and a new photo-printer and did I mention that I-Phones are super-cool?) with the shoulds, like credit card balances. (and financial aide, and a couple of kitty check-ups and WOW, did those lame college classes really cost that much? Gah!)

I won’t tell you how this gripping suspense ends. Suffice it to say that if you read a future post where I comment on how nice it is to write while lying in the sun you’ll know what happened. (and also that the weather here in Hippyville is strangely sunny for the fall or winter!)

Wish me strength.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Attention to detail

Lest everyone thinks that I have absolutely no idea how to flirt or jive or be with people without sticking my finger in my nose, I give to you this story from a recent Friday night:

I’m with a group of ladies from work – one of those things where the fact that we work together 40+ hours a week somehow mandates that we need to spend a few more hours together to make sure we’re super-excellent BFFs, and you can see how enthusiastic I am about the whole concept, but anyway – at this slightly snooty pizza joint. The joint isn’t so snooty as much as their ideas about pizza are snooty -- they make snooty, gourmet, fancy-pants pizzas. This is the kind of place that has a whole category of pizza called “chicken”, which includes things from the darkest corners of asia and exotic chili peppers. The place is HOPPING and everyone at our table is loud and obnoxious, as is the rule for any table of over 6 women.

All evening long there’s this big guy who looks like he MAYBE works there, but different from the others who OBVIOUSLY work there, and he’s patrolling the restaurant constantly, so I peg him for management. Every time Mr. Manager walks past our table he takes a good, long look. Eventually someone at our table makes comment, along the lines of “what is the deal with the big guy in the black shirt who keeps looking at our table?” I explain my management theory, but still the “why” becomes a topic of goofy, giggly girl conversation, and eventually our table has narrowed the reasons for his constant drive-bys to two:

He wants us to get the heck out of dodge
He’s thinks we’re a table of hotties

For everybody else the speculation is fun, but I'm not speculation-girl. I'm forward, direct, no-sense-of-shame girl, and so I offer to just ask the guy. And the next time he comes by I share our expert hypothesis (as well as the scientific method used to identify these options, which consisted of mixing estrogen, vodka and beer and shaking well) and ask him to select option A, option B or an option C of his devising.

He chooses option C, which is this super-safe combo platter of equal parts "hot chicks! Woohoo!" and "for the love of Pete, please free up my table!!!" Problem is we're waiting for a to-go pizza still baking, which is when he offers to give us our “to go” order for free if we’ll leave, which some people would be offended by but I’m all “hey, free pizza!” He doctors the check and we place the order and eagerly await free pizzas wafting out of the kitchen!

So lesson number one here: hang out with amusing people with no reasonable sense of personal boundaries = get free pizza!

Now, I mentioned that it was busy, right? OK, so we ORDER the pizza but it takes a stinkin’ long time to cook and in the meantime there we are, all occupying this table that the guy specifically wanted us to FREE UP. And sure enough, eventually he comes by and notices how not gone we are. (because we’re something like 85% not gone. So not the deal he made!) And he complains that we’re not doing our part (but he’s joking here) and that he’s gonna have to give us something else to make us vamoose (funny, funny guy still all jokish) and “next you’re gonna want a date!”

Um, what?

He keeps talking, I keep talking, many pithy, ironic and super-clever lines are bandied back and forth, and really it isn’t until 5 minutes later, when the pizza arrives and we depart, that I start thinking “hey, did that guy kind of ask me a little bit sort of out?” I've since decided that he didn't, but where as most people figure these things out as they're happening, it takes me (apparently) at least a WEEK. Apparently I have the reflexes of a stoned turtle! The response time of the Titanic making a U-ey! I'm slow and stupid!

Don't get the wrong idea: He wasn’t my type and I wasn’t looking for a date. But with this attention to detail I'll be married for three years before I realize some dude thinks I'm cool.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008


I KNEW it! Call me lazy, call me slacker, call me narcoleptic! But I totally knew that all the naps I am always all-the-time takin' were noble, healthy, nay even ORGANIC and good for me! And LO, see how the good people of the Boston Globe (a real paper written by real journalists and read by people who went to real colleges!) broke down the ins and outs and various facets of that most glorious of health regimens: THE NAP!

Some things I learned from the Boston Globe Smarty-smarty-smartsmarts? That I'm an owl, not a lark. and this is good, because I'm pretty sure that the lark is the dorkiest of the birds. Seriously -- I think they have little bird pocket protectors and play lark Dungeons and Dragons and the like. Whereas owls are stinkin' cool; they fly the coolest cars and smoke and swear birdy curses.

Also, I'm NOT afternoon-stupid! No, it turns out that my days have been plagued, nay MOCKED, by an afternoon quiescent phase. A PHASE, people! How could someone combat that? Answer: nap.

My nap of choice? I rock that 4th image where you're lying on your face, naked, with your ass lovingly covered by some kind of blanky. That's how I roll. (and also between 60 and 90 minutes of hardcore, quality nap-action. and also when I nap I'm devoid of hue. But hey, aren't we all?) But let's not take anything away from Mr. Clean down there, with the bare feet and the headphones, huggin' his security pillow. That is a guy I could learn to love: a man who naps unabashedly. Unashamedly. Puts his all and his everything into every nap.

So the next time you fall asleep on your desk at work, your nose covered with "sign here" tags and your screen full of nothing but g's, g's, g's, don't get down on yourself! You're just overdue for that power-nap, people! Time to find a couch! A sofa! A loveseat! and GET our NAP on, my people!!

PS: seriously, counting sheep or "floating Z's" actually works? Man, I owe Chuck Jones an apology...

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Wait, there's one in the morning AND in the evening?

Amidst the various hecticities (is so, is so, is totally so a word!) of the last few weeks there was a 42-hour window where I had to work three shifts: one from 7ish(am) to 3ish(pm), then one from 10ish(pm) to 7ish(am) and then one from 3ish(pm) to midnightish(am? Man, that one always confuses me).

Understand that I still believe, despite recent evidence otherwise, that I’m 17 years old and can work for 24 hours in a row without even getting tired and only need 4 hours of sleep to be fresh as a daisy and other stupid, untrue things. And as such, I did this schedule to myself. (also I just couldn’t bear to do this to anyone else. Not since I was so young and spry and all.)

ANYWAY! I worked the first shift that morning and all was fine. I went home by way of a soccer game (watching, not playing) and some Jamba Juice (Razzmatazz, why must you tempt me so with your berry siren song?) and had about 4 hours to sleep before I had to be back for shift #2. And I’m thinking “no problem! I feed kitties, pack my bag of stuff for tonight, get up with 30 minutes for dinner and I’m there in no time!” (clearly I should also have been thinking “and later I’ll meet Debs and Scooter down on the Quad for coffee and a gab fest about our classes and how much Professor Smithers sucks with all the homework, and man am I lucky I’m so very, very young.”) I fed kitties and packed bag and flopped down on the couch for 4 hours of quality nap-sleep.

And I marveled at how bright the sun was outside and how very middle-of-the-afternoon it felt, and how not at all sleepy I was.

So I’m lying there watching tv and stressing that I’m not sleeping and flippy-flopping with not sleeping and realizing that if I were as spry as I think I am I wouldn’t even know enough to stress about not sleeping and thinking “why do I have to have a ‘coming-to-grips-with-my-maturity’ moment NOW???” But somewhere in there I DID fall asleep. A hard sleep. A rock-hard sleep. Sleep of the damned and all.

And then I woke up, and the morning was bright and crisp. And also it was the morning. The clocks all mocked me with their “6:30”ness and I FREAKED OUT BECAUSE I HAD SLEPT COMPLETELY THROUGH THE WHOLE OVERNIGHT SHIFT AAAAUUUUGGGHHH!!!! Now, properly inspired by the panic of the completely screwed, I grabbed my purse and shoes and was in the car and out of the driveway in about .2 seconds.

I RACE out to the location for these funky shifts at about “bat-out-of-hell” times 10. (Oh no, not conveniently close enough to be biked quickly, and therefore driven even more quickly. No, these shifts are out at “far away pavilion land”, which takes 15-20 min. to even drive there. Fabulous.) I’m all over my phone calling the managers who should be managing the thing that I didn’t come and do, and nobody is answering their damned phones! Exactly why do we have cell phones if not to answer them any time I call and need them? Plus, might I add, FREAKING OUT!!!

Finally I get a manager type and I explain my whole missing of my shift and the tremendous badness of same. And she is fine with it. She doesn’t even seem to understand what the heck I’m talking about. In fact, the tone of voice smacks of “oh darn, Femtastic has finally jumped the crazy shark of no saneness. Had to happen eventually.” So frustrated am I by her distinct lack of getting it that I hang up pretty quickly and start the turn-off to the last 5 minutes of the drive and hey, did my phone say PM?

Did my phone say that it’s 6:30PM?

Gosh, 6:30AM and 6:30PM sure do look similar this time of year! Except that would definitely be what we like to call “West” that the sun is melting down into.


…I have no idea why I jumped immediately to 6:30AM. It never for even one second occurred to me that it could be only about 40 minutes after I’d fallen asleep. I knew, 100% knew, that it was the morning and no amount of it actually being the evening could slow me down!

So I turned the car around and drove the reverse route back home, at a much more reasonable “I am such a complete moron” pace. Of course now there’s enough adrenaline rushing through my system to reanimate Uma Thurman, so even though it’s 7PM when I get home it’s at least 8PM before my lids dip even a smidge. And that shift from 10ish to 7ish was SO MUCH LONGER than I’d hoped.

Lesson learned: I need AM/PMs on all my clocks. Or to work overnight less. (“or a husband” says a friend. Do they help with this stuff?)

Monday, September 22, 2008

Potty Poetry, Volume 1

I have a magnetic poetry kit, have had for years. Just like most folks, when I first got the kit I put it on my fridge. I made 2 or 3 pithy, clever phrases and then never composed while in my kitchen ever again.

Then one year I had a burst of inspiration. I picked up a magnetic white board from Ikea and hung it beside my toilet. Ever since that day, my magnetic poetry kit has been on FIRE!

I bring to you now the current genius items of poetic majesty on my magnetic potty poetry kit, for your poetic and scatological enjoyment:

  • Essential beauty needs to incubate
  • Never smear power with luscious lather
  • The fluff crusher produces a garden of enormous black men
  • Mad visions of a Delirious egg diamond
  • Hee, hee, panties
  • She can picture me one honey of a boy
  • I love the maybes & lies
  • My dinosaur suit is but a sad shadow
  • These sausages are not true meats
  • You want purple juice, I want white milk
  • Chocolate is an elaborate apparatus for delicate arms

Sunday, September 21, 2008

An Open Letter to Whomever Is Left...

Hi. My name is Femtastic. Used to be I kept a blog and blogged about things and stuff. But then I had this job and it was hectic. And then it was super-hectic. And then it was “holy crap, I got me no time for anything except the job” hectic.

But lo, I am Free-ed! I am back to the bloggy goodness of my life, because the hecticity of the job (is too a word) has finally calmed down. And, might I add, “Whew!” So sorry for the distinct nothingness and also the pervasive quiet and lack of words and such.

To make up for this I have a goal for this week: to blog every day. This is my goal. It is a GOOD goal. It is a SOLID goal. It is a NOBLE goal.

It is also probably an impossible goal. Because TV comes back this week, and tap dancing also returns. And there are plans on some nights with friends and family members who also kind of forgot I existed because I was tremendously not around. And also sometimes I get sleepy.

But it is the goal that I promise to you, the 6.3 people who foolishly keep checking back to see if I’m around, to do my best to achieve.

Wish me luck, my friends.

(PS. You look great! Have you changed your hair or lost weight or something? How are the spouse and kids? Are you still in that book club/cooking class/Young Republicans Coffee Clatch? Never stop being you. Kiss Kiss and some huggies.)

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Battle of the Bulge, Part Three – Bad Days = Bad Food

You know what happens when you decide to watch what you eat? Food begins to drop from the sky. Bad food. EVIL food. Soulless food with a chocolaty coating and creamy, black filling.

I’m trying to be good! I mean, not last week of course. The big push last week was to remove the bad foods from the house. It was with this noble goal in mind that I ate fish sticks, tater tots, frozen waffles, peanut butter cookies and terrible, terrible Cap’n Crunch. (oh you devilish seaman, you, with your swarthy, sugary mustache and your berries of tempting crunchitude…) And I was rewarded for my noble deeds! Rewarded Sunday night when I stepped on that scale, STEPPED ON IT WITH PRIDE! Stepped up and said to it “do your worst, Scale!” And it replied “you gained two pounds, Fat-Ass. Step off before you damage my insides.”

Still, I’d done the hard work and now it’s time to dedicate myself to the good foods. The Fish! The Veggies! The foods called “Lean” and “Light” and “of COURSE there’s no flavor here! You want to lose weight, don’t you? Then shut it!” I did away with all the Pockets that are Hot, and turned to the Pockets that are LEAN! Surely they would still be a tasty way to take care of the occasional lunch, right? And just as I’d hoped, they were fine! Oh sure, the sauce puts one in mind of light-orange milk and the crust is most definitely made from mulch and manila folders. But other than that? Fine.

But things at my work are difficult right now. Nay, some might even call it craptastic, with the constant stress and too much to do and “Hey, who put this flaming sack of poop on my chair???” And, like many organizations, we combat the work stress with FOOOOOOOD! At every turn the universe jumps out and attacks me with the savory bombs of temptation! Scrumptious bullets of sweet decadence! Sneaky Snack Attacks! Make it STOP! Just yesterday I fought my way through the day and was doing ok. But I ended up the day at a very angry work meeting, capped off with a lovely plate of rage cookies. Who can say no to sweet little rage cookies, shaped like angels and hearts, but brought forth only to stuff the mouths of the rageful meeting participants? Its just not fair.

And today! Today! Today I didn’t even take a lunch, so busy with crazy was the day, and I thought (in an effort to sketch a lovely, silver lining on a day too busy for lunch) “hey, at least this should help me with my desire to be less of a fatty-fatty-fat-fat!” And like THAT boxes of free pizza and bags of chips and plates of home-baked, love-filled desserty things sprang forth from the ether! Swarmed my desk! Wedged themselves down my helpless mouth! Oh sure, I nommed! I nommed like nobody’s BUSINESS! But still, what is with the non-stop buffet from Temptation Island, people?

Tomorrow my plan is to have a simple P, B & J for lunch. As a result, I’m sure I will receive a gross of deep-fried Twinkies in the mail.

Monday, September 01, 2008

Battle of the Bulge. Part Two - Suck it Billy Jean

Now that we’ve covered whence we’ve placed the finish line, let’s talk about my two prongs of racing-winning success: finding some way to get some exercise in my big, stupid life AND trying to moderate my intake of food without starving or getting very, very blue. And cranky.

OK, so not sure if I mentioned this or not, but I super-hate to exercise. However I do NOT hate to get some exercise if it’s a great big accident, say as a side effect of doing something fun. Remember tap dancing class? FUN! Also the biking to work and back? (sometimes damp but still mostly) FUN! These are some of the keys to my most certain and triumphant success.

Tap class starts back up next week. This is tappy, sweaty exercise that I most definitely love to do. And even though it’s getting rainy, and presently I just cannot find my rain pants, and also I keep having to go to these meetings out at the very far away new hospital which is too far for biking and also I really need to figure out some way to wear a helmet, STILL I will continue to be a bike-commuting girl. Including, whenever I can, doing a scenic route home that takes me about 30 minutes and be even more exercisy.

On top of those existing exercise super-genius plans I’ve got two more. The first? Tennis! Or, more accurately, “chasing yellow, fuzzy balls around a tennis court while explaining what it was that happened that last time which made it totally impossible for me to hit the ball even though it was right where I was. And I was swinging every which way. And did I mention that the sun was in my eyes?”

My Dad and I decided to invest in uber-cheap used tennis rackets (which came with fancy, zippy covers with shoulder straps that make us look like we’re totally good at this! Like the dudes that bring their own cue to the pool hall! Not at ALL dorky or lame!!!) and we’ve been going to one of the multiple free, common-use neighborhood tennis courts that surround my house one night a week. We go about 10pm (for we require an entire day of walking around and talking and just existing in the universe as our warm-up before we risk actual exercise, and also there’s generally nobody else there at that time.)

Now counting the two times that he and I have gone over the last two weeks I’ve only been playing tennis for approximately (wait, let me check this to be sure… yep, that’s what I thought) two weeks. So you can imagine how truly fabulous I am. Why there was one time last week where I served a ball and he hit it back to me! (yes!) Not only that, but I was feeling all kicky myself so I hit the ball back to HIM! (seriously!) Of course by then we were both too exhausted and amazed with ourselves to continue standing, and we did that traditional lying down on the court and wheezing thing that you always see on the Masters or the World Series or whatever that tennis championship thing is called. Which, by the way, I’ll surely be winning next year.

But the REAL key to my exercise success with the balls and rackets and very, very bright lights at 10 at night is the dozen or so times each week that I accidentally hit the ball pretty much right up in the air, way over the stupid fence that surrounds the courts (and which, by the way, is about 11 feet too short!) This gives me the opportunity to run to the single door in or out of the courts (sure, the fence is too small, but they sure didn’t waste any fencing on copious doors in or out!) and then roam around in the neighborhood around the court looking for the runaway ball. My rule has been that I have to run to get the ball and run back. Or at least run our to get it. Or at least run to the door. Or do that little hoppy thing when I first head off to get it that makes it look like I’m about to run, but then I don’t. or at least say the words ‘I’ll run and get it” when I hit it over, even though my Dad wasn’t for even a second planning to go get it. I’m pretty sure that saying the word “run” does burn more calories than any other word.

My other secret exercise weapon? Hot Hoola Hoop Action. I can say no more at this time.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Battle of the Bulge, part one - the Goal.

OK, so this may be an unpopular, unsubstantiated and possibly ludicrous concept, but I’m here to tell it: big, chunky girls don’t get the lovin. They just don’t. And by “they” I am really saying “we” because people, I am currently both big and also inordinately chunky.

Unfortunately I also have some handicaps that make it tough to combat this situation. For instance, I really hate to exercise. Hate it so much that I think my hatred actually does burn calories. Also, I really love to eat food, and especially those things a) deep fried, b) covered in chocolate or c) made entirely of fat. God bless the inventor of the deep fried Snickers bar – I think I love you the most, Scarecrow!

(gurgle, gurgle, drooly love of deep fried Snickers bar…) Sorry, where was I?

Oh, right. Lovin’.

So The Queen is a motivated type. She does things like run marathons and try to push a person through her cooch for something like 62 hours. Give her a challenge and watch her CONQUER. A year ago she had a baby, which lead to some surplus or bonus bodyness, some of which is still hanging around. When she heard that I sometimes sit on my couch and run through my head all the things that my poochy tummy is larger than (loaf of bread, copy of Moby Dick, child’s bowling ball…) she was struck by motivated genius and she came up with our Battle of the Bulge.

The first version of the Battle of the Bulge was just us competing for who could spend more time each day doing something exercisey. Like for me it was biking in to the office twice a day or taking walks or lying on the grass imagining what I could look like skinny. That burns more pounds than you’d guess. For her it was things like going for a run at the break of dawn or taking the kids to the park and chasing them around for an hour. Probably not once did she do any cardio-imagining. She’s hard-core.

But now we’re kicking it up a notch. And this next step required that I do something that I NEVER, EVER DO. This silver-tongued devil, this Svengali, she talked me into STEPPING ON A SCALE! ONE THAT TELLS YOU HOW MUCH YOU ACTUALLY WEIGH! OH, THE HUMANITY!!! As a rule I never step on scales and, in fact, I have not seen/known my own weight for over a decade, on account of I think people completely obsess about The Number. The Number. The Damn Number! But The Queen had a plan, and the plan really did demand a benchmark. And that benchmark really needed to be our terrible, terrible weight. Sigh. So weigh me she did, and she looked at the number and wrote it down and I averted my eyes and stuck my fingers in my ears and went “La, la, la, la, I can’t HEAR you, can’t HEAR you!” (just in case, when she saw the actual number, she spontaneously let loose with a “Great Googly-Moogly, I didn’t even know the scale WENT that high!”)

So between now and the end of November she and I are going to do whatever it is we’re going to do and see which of us can lose more weight. We’ll weigh each week (and by “we’ll weight” I really mean “I’ll get back on her big, dumb scale and she’ll write down a number”) and the winner will get some kind of CASH PRIZE. If I’m the big winner I’ll be spending that money on cases of deep-friend Snickers bars. And a dainty little chocolate covered, deep fried trophy. Whee!

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Big Fail, part 2 -- the Punishment

Here, for your reading enjoyment, is the email conversation with The Queen which followed the blog post about my epic fail with Big City Guy. It started with my assertion that the Queen would never have let me leave that room w/out at least a sweaty-palmed handshake and a “Dude, you were super!”, to which she left a comment.

Q: So true! Consider yourself tskd, tskd!

I even considered going back on Saturday night for the last performance, and subsequent last night reception, but I was so pooped from wandering around the county fair and I'm sure I looked like deep-fried ass, so I didn't. And thus my one and only chance for love was forever lost. I'll be headed to humane society to adopt my required additional 35 cats this weekend. Sigh.

I think we should come up with some sort of penalty for you when you are in these situations and you don't take advantage of them. yeah, I'm liking that idea...

What KIND of penalty? Isn't letting the love of my life get away enough of a penalty? (notice the overly dramatic words here -- I'm definitely appealing to your romantic dime novels side.)

Well apparently not since you let him get away without so much as a "hellomynameisfemtasticIloveyou."

…I ask you, oh best beloveds of the Internets Super-Highway of information, do you think I need a penalty for my epic fails? If so, what KIND of penalty? I’ll get the ball rolling: what about I am forced to eat a heaping bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream every time? THAT would sure show me! Your thoughts please?