daily

This blog is dead.

2006-06-10T06:29:00.000-05:00

Long live the new, improved WP blog! (Hit refresh if this link looks exactly like the old blog. The new blog is at Schnozzfest.com, just like the old one; this link was just intended for those who got permalinked to schnozzdaily.blogspot.com, but apparently some Schnozzfest.com visitors are still winding up here from their caches.)

UPDATED: OK, the link is fixed (sorry, RP--if that ever happens to you again on another site, it's a link coding error--just right click and say "open link in new window" to stop the scary frame madness ... amusingly, part of the reason I switched to a frame-free blog is so my links won't do that anymore if I forget to tell them to open in a new window).

Let me know what else I can do ...

I am using my free Blogger blog to promote other services

2006-06-10T02:30:00.000-05:00

I'm currently playing with the free blog one can acquire at Wordpress. So far I'm very impressed.

1. It's free. (Suck it, Typepad--I am NOT paying you fifteen dollars a month just so I can edit my template to my liking. Thanks.)
2. You get categories. JUST LIKE TYPEPAD. (Suck it, Typepad.)
3. You can password protect each entry with a different password (there's a little blank on the right of every post, and you just type a password in it if you'd like to protect an entry--and YOU CAN ALWAYS SEE THE PASSWORD in that blank, so you don't have to worry about forgetting what it was), grant certain users access/comment privileges, etc. All very easy to do.
4. The templates are nicely designed. As in, they're not super skinny with an annoying blue-and-green design. (Suck it, Typepad.) As for how easy they are to modify, I'm not sure yet.
3. It's not Blogger. Meaning, it doesn't appear to be collapsing under its own weight. Yet. (Suck it, Blogger.)

Think about it, dudes. I certainly am.

Also, I just found out that Dreamhost, which I use for Schnozzfest hosting, is partnered with Wordpress and offers a 1-click install of Wordpress on its servers (because installing Wordpress sounds pretty hard and I would very much prefer not to have to do it myself).

So, instead of paying for Typepad (which is $9 a month if you want ANY kind of design flexibility), you could pay for your OWN domain on Dreamhost ($8 a month), customizing its design absolutely any way you want, gaining 20GB of web space to store files or projects, and still have a Wordpress blog with all of its simplicity. I am weeping like a little baby over here. An excited, geeky little baby.

(If you do not have a domain, and you enjoy blogging, consider getting a domain for just this reason: if I switch over to Wordpress, no one will have to update their links for me. Unfortunately, a lot of you "blogspot.com" folks will be stuck with broken links for a while, though you could always leave a last "I've moved!" entry.)

The May Monthly Music Contest winner is ...

2006-06-09T20:24:00.000-05:00

Kara, with K-Os's "Crabbuckit." That is a most excellent song.

Honorable Mention goes to L for her Big Daddy submissions. I had no idea Big Daddy existed. If you still have no idea, they appear to enjoy making songs like "Ice Ice Baby" and "The Living Years" into something that sounds like it belongs on the Grease soundtrack. I think the intro to "The Living Years" is my favorite: "Hey, Marty, is that your old man's helmet you're carrying? Gee, it must be great riding with him. Is he picking you up after school today?" (Marty's answer to the first question: "Uh-huh." Marty's answer to the second question: "Uh-uh.")

I probably need to set you guys straight on something regarding the music contests: I am not very musically knowledgeable. Really, I'm not. Everyone keeps saying, "Oh, you've probably heard it," or "This came out six minutes ago, so it's kind of old ..." Allow me to clarify my musical background: I only have heard two songs EVER. Those two songs are "Whoomp There It Is" and "Baby One More Time." Really. That's it. Before the music contest existed, all I could do was hit the Shuffle button and hope that neither song would play twice in a row. Please, please do not feel intimidated by the contest or keep quiet just because you're assuming I've heard your submission already. (Unless your submission is "Whoomp There It Is" or "Baby One More Time," because I have those covered already. Thanks.)

In all seriousness, I do not listen to the radio anymore. I'm completely musically insulated. I still think "Bad Day" is a good song because I've only heard it four times, and that's from the one day this year I've listened to the radio (at Microfest). Don't apologize for liking something popular. It's popular for a reason. So please tell me about it so I can make decent conversation at the cool table in the cafeteria at lunch.

In direct opposition to what I just said about me only knowing two songs, I will now give back to the community by sharing some of my latest favorites with you. Forgive me if I've listed a few of these before.

"Toxygene," by the Orb: I discovered this after our "Little Fluffy Clouds" conversation. The first two minutes of this song are really stupid. The last three minutes are fabulous. I'm considering editing my own version so I can quit hitting fast forward until 1:55 every time. Because that's, you know, a little labor-intensive.

"Change," by Tracy Chapman: Makes me want to cry and then adopt six orphans.

"Stealing Kisses" by Lori McKenna: One of the most beautiful songs in the world, I think.

"Just a Ride," by Jem: Always cheers me up in a hurry.

"Overdue," by the Get-Up Kids: I love the generic hip OC soundtracks that keep coming out, and I don't care what you think about it.

"Unplayed Piano," by Damien Rice: Actually, anything by Damien Rice.

"Beauty Queen/Horses," by Tori Amos: Oldie but goodie. I love editing to this one, as my brain adapts to it quickly and ceases to find it a distraction.

"Destroy Everything," by Ladytron: Addictive. Very addictive.

"The Way We Get By," by Spoon: Another OC soundtrack one, I think, but I loved Spoon already.

"Railroad Man," by the Eels: I love the Eels, so they're are in very heavy Napster playlist rotation at the moment.

"Radio," by the Southland: This got onto my playlist somehow, and I kept hearing it in the shuffle without knowing what it was, while gradually developing a strange addiction to it (it's not really what I would call an addictive song). Finally I had to lose all dignity and come running from the other end of the house as it was ending.

And, finally ... drumroll please:
"Change the World," by Bratz. That's right: I like a song off the BRATZ DOLLS ALBUM. As in, the fashionable transvestite-looking plastic dolls. I found this song through Pandora, and I'm not sorry. Still, aren't you a little embarrassed that you were trying to play it cool in my contest now that you know I listen to songs sung by the toys of prepubescent girls? Hmm? (If you can't bring yourself to listen to singing plastic dolls, this is just a cover of a song called "What Are You Waiting For," by Natalie Grant. But I like the sugary-sweet Bratz version better. There, I said it.)

So, next month (well, this month, actually), let's all agree that music snobs are really just festering balls of insecurity, we're better off without them, and it's perfectly OK to recommend something off the Billboard charts if that's what does it for you. Agreed?

Best Meme Ever

2006-06-07T23:16:00.000-05:00

This wasn't my idea (I credit Shannon and Anne), but I think it's the best meme I've ever heard of.

Here is the assignment, which I have embellished (feel free to add/remove steps for your own purposes):

1. Share the worst photo of yourself you have, preferably a reasonably current one. One that makes you cringe and die a little inside because that's how ugly you look in it. The one that turned the photo developer guy into STONE and prompted a lawsuit from Walgreens.

2. Share a current photo of yourself when you've just woken up. Walk into the bathroom and just take it, under the harsh bathroom lights. Brushing your teeth is cheating.

3. Share the nicest photo of yourself that you have--again, preferably a current one. Cheat your ass off if you like; the models do it, so why can't we?

4. Feel free to add a category for your own meme-ing purposes, such as Worst Acne Ever, Worst Hair Ever, or Worst Goth Phase Ever. Be creative! (This is also your chance to use photos from times long past, if you like.)

I think this is a great meme idea, but the thing is, I don't have all that many bad pictures of myself ... not because I'm particularly photogenic, but because I have a delete key and I know how to use it. So it took some serious digging to find a horrifying photo, but the good news is, I found one!

Here it is ...

S
C
R
O
L
L

D
O
W
N,

P
R
E
F
E
R
A
B
L
Y

B
L
I
N
D
F
O
L
D
E
D

.
.
.

Yeah. I'm not even going to theorize about all the elements in play that came together to form the ugliest human ever, so we'll just move on. To something almost as bad.

Here is what I look like when I've just woken up, in the freaky pink bathroom lighting, with my face dial set to Maximum Puff. The truth will set me free. The truth will set me free.

Finally, proof that I'm a blog scammer who is actually fifty years old. If my condo owners saw that, something tells me they wouldn't be charging me sexy taxes anymore.

As for the nicest photos of myself that I have, I don't get my picture taken all that often anymore, but I like these two from the past year, neither of which have been shopped:

As for my Special Categories, I have two.

First: Scariest Shoulders Ever, in Addition to Zombie Facial Expression and Plenty of Forehead Grease

I realize how scary this is, but I swear they don't really look like that. It's just the way I'm leaning on my elbows.

Second: Biggest Leap in Attractiveness Within Thirty Seconds
(taken the day of Hugh's escape into Cotton Candy Land)

Well then. That's it. I tag ... well, EVERYBODY, especially any blogger who has yet to reveal what they look like (that means you, Moose). As Hugh would say, hop to it!

OTHER ~~BAD MOTHAF&#KAS~~ PARTICIPANTS:
Shannon of Westering Hills
Sam of Sam Not Samantha

(If you do this meme, please leave a comment here and I'll add your link.)

Abracadabra (How I almost made a rabbit disappear)

2006-06-07T20:55:00.000-05:00

Now that Hugh is out of the woods (no pun intended), I think it's time to tell the full story of Hughdini's great escape.

It all started when the Schnozz family headed up to Illinois to visit Ma and Pa Schnozz. Ma and Pa Schnozz enjoy being rabbit grandparents, so Hugh is always invited to come with us. (And now that he's neutered and no longer smells like rotting beef, Ma and Pa have even been known to pet him once in a while.)

We set up his cage in the unfinished basement, which is full of a collection of items that belong to what I like to call the Instant Rabbit Death Genre. But no problem! Hugh was raised on a farm, and staying in his cage for a day or two won't kill him ... or so we think. But by Day 2, he is so restless and beggy that I take pity on him and allow him to traipse about the basement while I supervise. (And by "supervise" I mean "continually yank him away from deadly substance after deadly substance.")

One fateful night, when playtime was over, I put him back in his cage, close the FRONT DOOR, and leave the TOP DOOR OPEN, please pay attention because this is foreshadowing, then feed him and give him some fresh water. Satisfied that I am a stellar parent, I then walk out of the room and don't think of Hugh again until feeding time the next day--when I realize I won't be home for quite a while. (I had planned to just feed him early, before I went out to Sam's for the night, but I forgot.) Not wanting him to have to wait several hours until I'm back home, I ring Ma and Pa Schnozz and ask that they give him some food for me. Their answer? "Fo sho!"*

Five minutes later, I get the call every mother dreads. It's Pa Schnozz: "Uhhhh ... the rabbit isn't in his cage."

WHAT??

I think two thoughts nearly simultaneously. The louder thought is OH MY GOD MY POOR BUNNY IS PROBABLY DEAD. The softer, slyer thought is I wonder where I can get a brown and white Holland Lop this time of night so Mr. S doesn't find out. All the possible scenarios run through my mind. Well, actually, there is only one possible scenario: Hugh had done something stupid and died. Due to the scenario shortage, I settle for replaying that one in my mind over and over while I wait for Pa Schnozz to call me back and say that yes, they found him, and yes, he was a dead pile of electrocuted bunny fur.

Instead, my dad calls back and explains that as soon as Hugh had heard his cage door open, he had come running, climbing into his cage voluntarily and flopping down in exhaustion.** Then, when Ma Schnozz provided fresh water, Hugh flung himself into his bowl, front paws and all, and drank for all he was worth. From what we know, we estimate that Hugh has been out all day, and maybe all night before as well. For the most part, we're not sure how he spent that time ... but we do know that the electrical cord to the sump pump has been chewed down to the wire, and that Hugh likely received a nasty little surprise when he found out how many licks it takes to get to the chewy center.

I listen anxiously to my parents' reassurances, stuffing my mouth several times with Sam's cookies to medicate my guilt, and make them tell me four or five times that Hugh is fine and doesn't appear injured in any way. Then I ~~race home to soothe my poor scared rabbit~~ am the last person to leave Sam's hours later.

When I get home, I immediately check on him and let him out ... and watch him hop immediately over to the unfinished walls and take a big bite of fluffy pink fiberglass insulation, chewing it and swallowing it as casually as if he's done it all his life. And that's when I realize we just might have a big problem.

Simply put, eating insulation very, very bad. Not only does it contain various poisonous chemicals, but it also tends to wad up in the intestine, causing a deadly blockage that kills humans and bunnies alike. When they get a blockage, rabbits will fatten up a bit, appearing chubby while they quite literally starve to death. Compounding the problem is the fact that insulation contains cellulose, so it smells like hay to rabbits, who apparently do not know their colors/are as stupid as the day is long.

I won't ever know how much of it Hugh ate, but I'm not willing to take any chances, especially since Hugh has begun clearly showing symptoms of a blockage: less eating, less pooping, and less activity. When we get back to St. Louis, I make a vet appointment and feed Hugh as many greens as I can, as these will help to flush out his stomach. Hay would be best, but I only have broccoli at the moment, so broccoli it is. Hugh reacts to the sudden constant availability of broccoli with blissful disbelief, staring at me in amazement as I continue to hand him broccoli, which he eagerly scarfs down, sprig after sprig. His love for me reaches new heights as he realizes that I am the Lady Who Has the Broccoli. His adoring gaze meets mine as he crunches through his 105th sprig of broccoli. The rabbit is probably croaking, but ironically, our relationship has never been better.

Thankfully, this does the trick, and by the next morning, when the vet appointment rolls around, Hugh is no longer listless and sick-looking. In fact he is hopping cheerfully to and fro and pestering me for broccoli, which he now thinks he should get all day every day, and I feel like a histrionic idiot. But the vet reassures me that bringing him in was the right thing to do, as insulation is very dangerous and could very well have killed him, especially if I hadn't fed him so many greens. Then we all agree that Hugh is in fact a very good bunny, yes such a good bunny-wunny, and then we get in the car and go home.

On the way home, the atmosphere in the car is tense. We both know we are going to have to have a very long talk about insulation abuse when we get home. I need to have a heart-to-heart with him. I need to be a role model. I need to teach my rabbit to Just Say No to construction materials.

When Hugh and I sit down together, I have two main questions.

1. How the hell did you manage to get out of your cage?
2. What on earth did you do for the twenty or so hours you were out?

In response to the first question, all I get is a coy little stare. (We still have no idea how Hugh did it; the top door is above his head even when he stretches all the way up, and we've left it open for weeks on end without an incident. Hugh has never managed to get out before, and it wasn't from lack of trying, either--it isn't unusual to see him stretched to the max, barely able to rest even the very edge of his nose on the rim of the top opening, trying to figure out how to get out. Traditionally, we have merely scoffed at his efforts, which were clearly futile. Or not.) I suppose it will always be a mystery.

In response to the second question, Hugh told me the most amazing story ...

"It all started when I noticed that your parents had put your old magic wand--the one from Halloween--in storage, and it wasn't far from my cage. Undoubtedly the magic wand never worked for you; it's a little-known fact that magic wands only REALLY work for rabbits. You know that whole cliche about a magician always making a rabbit disappear? You guys got it totally backward. Rabbits make MAGICIANS disappear, which is why the only magicians left in modern times are either fake or have made a direct deal with Satan that guarantees them protection from rabbit magicians, major network coverage, and the ability to live in an ice cube for like eighteen days or something equally moronic.

"Anyway, I stuck one little paw through the slats of my cage, and I discovered that I could ... just ... reach it. I immediately gripped it in my paws and felt the power rush through me, all the way to the tips of my ears. Kinda like I would feel in an hour or two when I bit through the sump-pump cord, only more magical. I uttered a rabbit spell: 'Crunch on carrots, chew them well, release me from this prison cell!'

"Just like that, I was out. Unfortunately, rabbits are hungry morons first and talented magicians second, so I promptly ate the wand in its entirety, breaking the spell and returning everything to normal. Except ... I couldn't get back in my cage! I expressed my anxiety by pooping all over the basement.

"But then I discovered something wonderful, and I immediately got over it."

"That's right--it was an entire WALL of cotton candy! Perhaps the magic remained after all, as I had never seen such a wonderful sight in the forest. But here, in suburbia--the last place you'd expect to find it--was a heavenly treat I couldn't wait to feast on.

"I'm not into sharing, and I knew you or my grandparents would come back any second, so I greedily ate as much as I could, hoping to eat it all before anyone could take it away from me. Eventually my belly was so full that I had to rest awhile. Soon, I started to feel kinda ... funny. And the basement looked ... weird. May have been the fiberglass. Or the formaldehyde. Either way, let's just say that's when I realized I hadn't been eating cotton candy. At least not the kind of cotton candy you can buy at the fair."

"The nice lady played the horn, drawing me closer and closer to her. I didn't feel sick. If anything, I felt uplifted ... too uplifted ...

... Uh oh."

"When I found myself in Bunny Heaven, I knew everything had gone horribly awry. I wasn't even a year old! It wasn't fair. I wanted to live! I didn't know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think of. I begged. 'Oh please oh please oh please oh please give me a second chance!'"

"Miraculously, my prayer was heard, and I was returned to earth. A mere second later, your parents walked in, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Personally, I think he's just trying to outdo me in the tall tales department. Like mother, like rabbit. We may never know what REALLY happened that day in the basement. But all that matters, I suppose, is that he's just fine now, with no signs of brain damage. (Well, no more brain damage than he seemed to have already.)

And now that he's fully recovered, the future's so bright ... well. You know the rest.

--------
*Paraphrase.
**Hugh is like a crate-trained dog--his cage is his safe place that he often climbs into when he's stressed. So hearing he came running into his cage only deepened the guilt; he had probably been very anxious once he realized he was unable to get back in.

The end of a grudge

2006-06-06T10:41:00.000-05:00

SCHNOZZ: So, Hugh, you're going to be OK!
HUGH: Yeah. Great. I'm still pissed at you for taking me to the vet.
SCHNOZZ: But I was so worried about you.
HUGH: Yeah, well. Still mad. That strange lady touched me in inappropriate places. And she kept calling me your child, which was supposed to be cute but actually came off a little creepy.
SCHNOZZ: I'm new in town! I did my best to pick a nice vet. That cost me forty bucks, you know.
HUGH: Not my problem. I'm still mad.
SCHNOZZ: I just happen to have some broccoli here.
HUGH: Oh, really? In that case, I'm even madder ... ABOUT YOU.
SCHNOZZ: That's better.
HUGH: I can't believe you guys made ALL THIS FUSS just because I ate a few pounds of tasty pink cotton candy.
SCHNOZZ: Um, actually, that was fiberglass insulation. With formaldehyde.
HUGH: Sweet Jesus!
SCHNOZZ: Yeah.
HUGH: Well, now I feel like a moron.
SCHNOZZ: You and me both.

We all contribute to the household in our own way

2006-06-06T08:41:00.000-05:00

SCHNOZZ: Hugh will make it through this just fine. He's got gumption! And moxie! And chutzpah!
MR. S: And fur!

Rabbit Watch 2006 Update

2006-06-05T23:00:00.000-05:00

Rabbit still alive. Owner looking decidedly worse for wear. Mostly because rabbit could STILL DIE AT ANY MOMENT. In theory anyway. Tests will hopefully confirm long life span for increasingly annoyed rabbit.

I am very worried

2006-06-05T12:53:00.000-05:00

Hugh had himself a little adventure the other day after figuring out how to escape his cage, and THAT part of the story is really quite amusing, but the circumstances were such that his escape went undiscovered for hours on end. He not only shocked himself on an electrical cord, he also ate several things he really really shouldn't, and right now I'm just sitting here watching him anxiously and wondering whether he's going to be OK. (Yes, we have a vet appointment.)

Will ANYONE who knows anything about rabbits please e-mail me? jenniDELETEherself@yahoo.com (remove DELETE). Thank you.

And think good thoughts for poor Hughdini today.

Dude

2006-06-02T15:58:00.000-05:00

We gotta add "Korobushka" to the list of songs my toy band will play. It's festive AND nostalgic.

On my puffy little white cloud once again (Brain Vomit, Issue 2)

2006-06-02T15:00:00.000-05:00

The title of this post reminds of me of a song I used to listen to constantly called "Little Fluffy Clouds" by the Orb. (CORRECTED--if you looked for it before, I had the title wrong--sorry! UPDATED AGAIN: Here is the Wiki. God, this song was even used in a VOLKSWAGEN COMMERCIAL. It was WILDLY SUCCESSFUL. I am devastatingly unoriginal in my music choices, which I would have realized if I had Googled the right song title in the first place. Look, when I liked it no one in MY TOWN had ever heard of it, OKAY? *steels self for onslaught of testimonials from Central Illinoisians who not only loved this song, but went to the concert and bought the boxed CD set, which was probably heavily promoted at the local music store*) I doubt you ever heard it--it's a weird song that scrambles the dialogue of some woman being interviewed about clouds and then puts it to a funky beat. It's this apparently really flaky hippie lady going on and on about the little puffy clouds of her desert childhood, oblivious to the fact that even though the clouds of her childhood fascinate her, no one else can get inside her head far enough to really appreciate what the hell she's talking about, nor does anyone want to hear about it that badly.

I can identify with that woman. Obviously. To honor her, I named this post after her and will now proceed to act exactly like her.

Welcome to Issue 2 of Brain Vomit!

First on the agenda, I would like to spend some time talking about and thinking deeply about cheese. Oh cheese. How you tempt me. How you call to me with your smooth, unnaturally yellow creaminess. More specifically, I am referring to Kraft mac and cheese. I tried it recently and now have no idea why I ever stopped eating it. Personally I prefer the spirals. They're more elegant and refined. (I'm a city girl now, you know.) Apparently some people are afraid of Kraft dinners, for some reason?? I don't understand this at all. It's called a Kraft DINNER because you're supposed to eat the entire box for dinner and then lick the bowl while you tremble with the impact of the endorphins released by your enthralled digestive system. What's scary about that? Don't fear the flourescent cheese powder. Celebrate it and the exciting future it represents for all of us. Pretend you are an astronaut as you revel in how far humanity has come with each miraculously rehydrated bite. Not only will you feel more connected with that part of all of us that strives to change the world, that ambitious, magical human element we all possess ... but it will also help to pass the time, sort of. Or so I heard.

**FLUSH**

My last book dealt a lot with Zen Buddhism, something I was previously not all that familiar with. In a nutshell, and with much fancier language, Zen Buddhism basically says, "Que Sera, Sera ... Whatever will be will beeee!" (the guy who wrote that song was TOTALLY a buddhist) and there's no reason to really get worked up about much of anything. And if you DO get worked up it's really just a malfunction of your ego, because your upset feelings reveal that you think you are important, when guess what, nothing about you is important from a universal perspective, go get over yourself and just chill out already.

Unfortunately my ego was raised by a more Western culture and has no interest in Zen Buddhism. All my ego ever has any interest in doing is heckling the referee, waving one of those obnoxious styrofoam index finger thingies, and pulling up its shirt to reveal its hairy, painted beer belly. (The button of which may or may not be painted to resemble a mouth, depending on the occasion.) Anytime I want to do anything remotely humble, such as apologizing to someone or thinking hard about my faults, I have to watch closely and wait for my ego to spill beer on itself and get distracted, because where did all the beer go, and also hey batta batta batta. And then my ego looks back up and notices that I am trying to get away with studying Zen Buddhism, and my ego then does a ludicrous and decidedly unsexy dance and shrieks, "I got your ZEN BUDDHISM right here, baybee!" and smushes its painted man-chest into cleavage while shaking its ass in an obnoxious manner. Moments later, just to make sure I've gotten the point, my ego will refuse to participate in The Wave and then ends up leading a chant of, "We're Number One! We're Number One!" while waving that stupid styrofoam finger.*

If you managed to stay with me through that entire paragraph, it should be obvious why the concepts of Zen buddhism didn't really, er, TAKE. Reading all this did not spark much of an interest in converting to a life of meditation and enlightenment, but it did cause me to wish everyone ELSE were interested in converting, mostly so I could work it to my advantage.

Think of how much easier your life would be if everyone but you were a Buddhist. For example, I have a dentist appointment today, and I am not looking forward to it, because there's going to be all these accusations and blame thrown around about who's been flossing and who hasn't. But what if my dentist were a Zen Buddhist?

SAMPLE CONVERSATION 1: IF ONLY EVERYONE WERE BUDDHIST BUT ME

DENTIST: I see that you haven't been flossing.
SCHNOZZ: Well, no, I suppose I haven't been again. For the third year in a row. Man. I bet you're so mad at me. I'm probably going to get some big lecture on flossing now.
DENTIST: Actually, no. As a practicing Buddhist, I have vowed to hold no attachment to anything, including your pretty teeth. As the proverb goes, "If you're attached to anything, you surely will go far astray." All things end. Reality must be accepted. What is simply IS, and what is is that you have lots of nasty plaque on your teeth. I view this to be true, but it is as if I am viewing it on the shoreline as I pass by in a boat.
SCHNOZZ: Nasty plaque?? Ooh, see, I knew you would be mad.
DENTIST: Quite the contrary. I have no preference as to whether you get those nasty Pop-tart chunks out from in between your molars. As a Zen master once said, "The Great Way is not difficult for those who have no preferences."
SCHNOZZ: So ... you really don't care about flossing?
DENTIST: I don't care about anything. Well, except enlightenment. And I'm supposed to get rid of my desire for it or I will never achieve it: "As long as you seek for something, you will get the shadow of reality and not reality itself." I must conquer my desire for enlightenment in order to achieve enlightenment itself.
SCHNOZZ: OK, so ... no flossing.
DENTIST: Sure. Whatever.
SCHNOZZ: Awesome. Here's eighty-five dollars. Do you mind directing me to the nearest candy store?

You see? You see how much easier life would be? I could do whatever I wanted, and no one would get mad, thanks to the Zen preference for simply living in the here and now, with no attachment to the past. And no attachment to the car of yours that I just borrowed and then totaled.

Sadly, the world is full of non-Buddhists who insist on holding me accountable for my actions. At best I could probably only work Zen Buddhism to my advantage if I mastered the art of the Zen koan--a nonsensical question that encourages people to just give up thinking altogether.

SAMPLE CONVERSATION 2: WELL AT LEAST I HAVE KOANS

FRIEND: WHAT?? You lost my baby at the park?
SCHNOZZ: Well, your "baby" is actually two years old and can run really fast, not to mention his penchant for taking candy from strangers ... plus I got distracted because I was talking on the phone. Ah well. What's done is done!
FRIEND: You stay right there. I'm calling the police. This is far from over.
SCHNOZZ: What is the sound of one hand clapping?
FRIEND: Wait, wha-
SCHNOZZ: (runs away while friend is distracted by power of Zen koan)

Actually the dentist visit went fine, mostly because I think they've given up on me. The best part was all the compliments I got on the taxidermied Alf. He does look quite nice, considering he's dead. And he very well should, for fourteen hundred dollars. You were worth every penny, Alfie.

In an amusing note, while I was searching for and pasting Zen proverbs, my mother walked by and said, "You look like some sort of guru." I was stunned by her perceptiveness--amazing how attuned we really are to one another! Also I was wearing a towel on my head.

**FLUSH**

I looooove my husband. Man do I love him. I just want to grab his little cherub face and squish it with my hands and smoosh it all together because that's how much I love him. I was exhausted and unreasonable and whiny yesterday, but he was so cute, even though he knew I had only myself to blame. HE EVEN ENCOURAGED ME TO GO TO MCDONALD'S. That's how you know Mr. S loves you--when he becomes supportive of saturated fat consumption, something that he probably has nightmares about. He fetched blankies for me, fetched more blankies when I crankily noted that the offered blankies were NOT FUZZY ENOUGH, GIVE ME THE FUZZY GREEN ONE BECAUSE I AM SO BEYOND TIRED THAT I REQUIRE ITS UNIQUE RESTORATIVE POWERS, then petted my head and tried to keep the house quiet so I could rest. And he lay next to me without comment even though it was impossible not to notice that I had a serious case of Deadline Drool, the drool of true exhaustion, a drool that you are probably familiar with if you have ever stayed awake for two or three days straight. (Gross side story that I can't remember if I've told before: a few months ago, in a rare instance of cuddly sleeping,** I slimed the entire top of his head with Deadline Drool. The ginormous patch of drool was then held firmly in place by the amazing cohesive properties of saliva combined with the shortness of his Marine haircut. I woke up, and in that weird sleepy urgency you can have right when you wake up, I said, "Oh no! I drooled all over your head!" and he was all, "Oh, that's okay, we love each other," but then he realized the recordbreaking extent of the drooling and looked scared. Later he would muse about it with continuing incredulity: "You really DID drool ALL OVER my head. You really did." Look, I said I was sorry.)

Sadly, Mr. S is at military drill right now, so I can't smush his face all up until Sunday evening. DO YOU SEE WHAT I DO FOR THIS COUNTRY?? DO YOU?? Sigh. Some other Marine sergeant is probably smushing his sweet elfy face right now. Under a boot or something, but still.

**FLUSH**

Carlos the Hamster has had a happy life ever since Hugh the Rabbit came and distracted us from our undesired attempts at affection. But then the other day, after thinking about it for a good long while, I moved Carlos's little wooden house to the other side of his cage. Carlos has spent most of his time since scurrying around in a complete state of panic, because THAT IS NOT WHERE MY LITTLE WOODEN HOUSE GOES and HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP IN IT NOW THAT YOU PUT IT IN THE WRONG PLACE. (Who paid for that little wooden house, Carlos? That's what you have to ask yourself. That house cost four dollars. Which is like four million dollars when compared with Carlos's average yearly income.) This new move is what's best for Carlos and makes the most sense for his new water bottle (which he is also pissed off about--apparently he LIKED the trippy feeling he got from drinking rust). I'm just trying to be a good parent here. But Carlos's world has been thrown into turmoil, and I ask that you think of him during this difficult time.

Hugh the Rabbit is the darling of the household, mostly because he's the only pet that seems to enjoy the role. It's kind of sick, actually, the way we talk about/to the rabbit as if he were a person. (Only if he were a person I suppose we wouldn't use singsong baby voices.) Lucky for our needy, affectionate selves, Hugh is a petting slut who is almost always willing to hop over to you and then rest his chin on the floor in a cute manner (his ears touch the floor and spread out from his head a little! so cute!) and close his eyes so you can pet his forehead for hours on end. Unfortunately, when you are done petting him, he will often run right at you and bite you quickly in what seems to be either a nip of gratitude or a nip of "I did not give you permission to stop stroking my forehead and murmuring sweet words, Human Slave." Also, we have found that if we stay very still, he will sniff us for a while, then bite us in a "Um, are you furniture? I can't really remember" bite. (Though he's great about not chewing on furniture, he does tend to identify it now and then by curiously putting his teeth on it for a second.) And when the bitten limb flails and the limb's owner curses in pain, no one is more surprised than Hugh, who is not the brightest and had simply confused your toes with the kitchen cabinets, because both were motionless, which in Rabbit Think makes them identical. An honest mistake, really. Could happen to anyone who had a lower IQ than a bagel toaster.

Neither bite seems at all aggressive and seem to occur when Hugh is happiest, as is demonstrated by the contented chattering of teeth and excited binkying (Hugh prefers the Speedy Double). But both bites frigging HURT. Rabbit teeth are no joke, man--have you seen those choppers? Fortunately I am rarely bitten, because I quickly learned to INTERACT with Hugh when he was near so he would remember I am not a kitchen cabinet, and I also now know to get out of the Bunny Bite Radius when I'm done petting him. As for Mr. S ... well, let's just say that in some ways he's just on the wrong side of the bell curve. (You know ... the same side as a bagel toaster.) And has occasionally referred to the rabbit as something that rhymes with "little brothertrucker." Fortunately Hugh is extremely cheerful and difficult to offend. And Mr. S always feels bad afterward and apologizes ... in his sincerest baby voice.

**FLUSH**

The music contest is still going, though I doubt there will be many more submissions this month. I'll leave it open until I am back home and my Internet is a little more reliable. Currently I am surfing off someone else's wi-fi, though I don't know whose or if it's even residential. I don't think that's technically illegal, but it's certainly rude. But my use of an open network has nothing to do with my sense or propriety. It has to do with my actual, authentic Internet addiction. Honestly: if addictions prompt people to act in direct opposition to their value systems, I am an addict. For me, leaving your network open is like leaving a big pile of heroin in your yard with a sign that says FREE HEROIN (or, maybe more accurately, FREE HEROIN THAT YOU'RE NOT REALLY ALLOWED TO USE EXCEPT WE PROBABLY WON'T NOTICE IF YOU DO, IN FACT WE'RE PROBABLY AT WORK SO IT WOULD BE TOTALLY HARMLESS, AND IT'S OUR DUMB FAULT FOR LEAVING IT OUT HERE ANYWAY, OR SO YOU WILL RATIONALIZE TO YOURSELF IN ORDER TO GET A FIX, but that would be some small print). Heroin junkie that I am, I have not only tapped into this network, I have also downright refused to move my laptop one inch since getting the signal, which has never been available before and may soon disappear, Shangri-la style, back into the mist, as wireless networks are known to do. My laptop is now a permanent fixture on the kitchen table, which is probably really annoying my parents. But what's more annoying, Mom and Dad? Working around my computer or listening to me whine about how you still live in the stone ages?

That said, I still wouldn't be doing this if I honestly thought you guys could make it three more days without me. Seeing as I've already gotten a concerned e-mail nothing that my blog was "29 hours behind," apparently you can't. Isn't that right, Rhonda?

**FLUSH**

And, finally, a cute description from my nephew, in his recounting of a conversation with his father: "I talked out of my head." He's going to make a great blogger someday.
---------
*There are times, of course, when I think my ego has finally seen the light. But then I always remember that it's October 31st and my ego actually just thinks it's pretty funny to be dressed up like a Catholic schoolgirl, complete with fake pigtails and asymmetrical balloon breasts. From a distance, it all looks legitimate, but eventually I always realize my ego is just trying to get a laugh from its frat buddies. (You can tell by the hairy belly. Visible under the white knotted oxford shirt, just above the plaid waistline.)
**Typically in our household, sleeping is serious business, and we adjourn to separate sides of our giant bed once any initial snuggle time has ended. We used to attempt to act like we liked each other when we slept, but frankly, I can't get over the complete claustrophobia/paralysis I feel when someone else's limb is resting on me. All I can think about is the uncomfortable warmth of his skin touching my skin and is that a little sweat forming where his arm touches my arm, because it could be and if it is that's gross, and ew I don't even know if it's MY OWN sweat or sweat HIS skin is making, and also I really want to move but I can't move or I'll wake him up, but the longer I think about it the more trapped I feel and the more I REALLY WANT TO MOVE, and then the hyperventilating begins and it just doesn't make for a very good night of sleep. Plus one of us (me) is always too hot or too cold anyway and the other one (him) snores. So now, when it's time to get the real sleeping done, we resign ourselves to the occasional sleepy visit, where one of us will meander across the giant bed and lie next to the other person at a respectful, nonsweaty distance. And never without first asking permission to come over.

If blogs had hold music, you would be currently rocking out to Barry Manilow

2006-05-31T15:56:00.000-05:00

We're sorry. The blogger you are attempting to contact is away from her desk, on the phone, or hiding in the shadows whipping herself fervently for waiting this long to finish an editorial project, then voyaging into the terrifying land of dial-up for several days. If you wish to leave a message, please call someone else. If you wish to be transferred to the next available blogging representative, please click on a Team Schnozz member in the right sidebar listing. Thank you for your patience. Your click is important to us! Good-bye.

(dial tone)

In memoriam

2006-05-29T17:24:00.000-05:00

Thinking of those who have given their lives--those from this country, and from so many countries, in so many wars, whether they were fighting for freedom or fighting because they were offered no other choice.

Thinking even more about those who sat helplessly back at home, all around the world, those who waited, worried, and waited some more, those who wished and hoped, those who begged and trembled, those who wrapped ribbons around trees and hung flags on porches and lit candles, only to have their very worst fears confirmed. Those whose suffering is far from over.

I think about them the most, because I don't want to imagine what my life would be if he hadn't come home.

My heart goes out to all of you.

THANK YOU, MOOSIE-WOOSIE

2006-05-29T16:34:00.000-05:00

I love Moose. You would too, if you knew nothing about fashion and weren't above begging a near-stranger to help you find a decent dress so you don't embarrass yourself at a fancy evening wedding.

Please let it fit. Please let it fit.

Uh, Moose, do you do alterations?

Why, hello, old me. I DIDN'T MISS YOU AT ALL.

2006-05-28T21:03:00.000-05:00

(Don't forget: The Monthly Music Contest is still underway.)

I have to confess to something. Lately, old, annoying habits are creeping back in on me like ... I don't know, annoying creeping things. (Do you like how, when a metaphor is not at my fingertips, I just keep going? Quality, schmality.)

Are you ready?

My biggest habit is getting frustrated at people for not doing something I think they should be doing.

Ha! That's a big habit, yes? How nice it would be if I just had a smoking problem or bit my nails or something. Even a totally bizarre habit, like constantly flapping my hands on my wrists while I talk or continuously crumpling up little balls of paper and eating them (or both, which would be quite a trick), would be vastly preferable to this one giant habit I have. But no. When I have a habit, I do my best to make it the biggest, most all-encompassing, relationship-ruining habit possible. It's probably the overachiever in me.

In my defense, this habit is a CARING habit. My urge to control the entire population of the earth as if they are my own personal marionettes stems entirely from a set of the very best intentions. Put simply, I want people I know to be happy. And they often complain about things that make them the exact opposite of happy.

I'll give you a made-up example. Say I have this friend who is all, "Man, this house I live in just makes me so UNHAPPY. I just want to cry with the unhappiness. I just wish there was something I could do. But there is nothing I can do. I've tried moving the couch, but it didn't help. I even painted the den. I have explored all avenues of action. Nothing works. Not even hanging things on the walls that are from Target and who doesn't love Target. I am doomed, mostly because the house has three unsolvable structural problems, all of which I can describe to you in great detail, and these problems invoke my utmost misery. I am thus mired in a dark black sludge, the clutches of which I shall never escape. You're so lucky you're not me, because I am trapped in the walls of this house like a ... a house mouse. Wait, that sounds cute, but I'm actually feeling very devastated."

And innocent, sweet me, all angelic and caring, gets super excited, because, hey! I just thought of a solution! So I clap my hands together and then grab the person enthusiastically by the shoulders and say, "Oh! Oh! I know the answer! You're going to love me forever when I share this with you: you could simply move OUT of that house and live somewhere else!"

Surprisingly enough, my hypothetical friend does not, in fact, love me forever. (Join me in my shock, will you?) Actually they usually shoot me an annoyed look and don't invite me out for dinner ever again. The last words out of their mouths, before they leave angrily and never come back, are usually something like, "Ugh. Moving out of the house that makes me unhappy ... how could you even suggest such a thing? That option is clearly impractical, because ... well, I don't know, but what I do know is that you're really irritating and need to get off your high horse of advice already. Wait! I think I can't move because of interest rates, or something! That's right. Whew. I almost forgot why but that is definitely why. Well, that and because renting isn't feasible, because ... uh ... I think because I just read this article about crook landlords. Whatever. Shut up. It's easy for you to say I should just move, because you're really effing lucky and your life is awesome and you work at home in your pajamas so you can't possibly understand what it's like to be born under a forever curse, like me."

Then the hypothetical friend continues, in a sudden bout of inspiration, "The answer to my problem isn't moving at all. The answer is excessive whining about my paralysis in this situation, the racking up of some credit-card debt, and then maybe the rationalization of a purchase of a giant fudge sundae, which I will then ingest, right before I complain about my weight. Which you also would not understand so don't even LOOK at me like that, you skinny bitch."

Right now I have several friends reading this blog who are sitting there, thinking to themselves, Oh my God, she's talking about ME. In an overdramatized, side-splittingly humorous fashion, but still, she's talking about ME.

Ha! That's where you're wrong. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about EVERYBODY. I tricked you into thinking you were special, that this blog post is about you, when the fact is, I've hit all of you this week, sniper-style! I've been on a tear!

Oh, what an awful habit. Really. I hate it. This habit makes me want to rock back and forth and grind my teeth. This habit is a demon and I would so, so love to exorcise. Lord knows I've tried. I studied witchcraft. I ate boiled bat wings while chanting, "Spirit of bat, float and soar! Bring my best qualities to the fore! Leave my flaws on the batcave floor, and please let me quit being such a judgmental ... person!" Nothing worked.

This habit has caused me such guilt and unhappiness. My efforts to help people be happy didn't change anything. People were as unhappy as they'd been before. I couldn't help them, which made me sad, and they were annoyed with me for trying, which made me even sadder (and, okay, kind of defensive). Not to mention frustrated, because FOR GOD'S SAKE GET A GRIP AND JUST MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY BEFORE I BURN IT DOWN JUST TO SHUT YOU UP.

I'm beautiful and complex! Like a snowflake.

I know lots of people in awful marriages, awful jobs, awful friendships, awful LIVES, and I. just. want. to. shove. them. I want to make them move, snap them out of it, do for them what they cannot seem to do for themselves. Life is too short, and I panic on their behalf, because how can they not want more for themselves? How can they fail to care about themselves at all? How are they okay with just being so miserable all the time? Isn't it unfair that they just expect me to do nothing and watch them suffer? Isn't that asking too much of me as their friend? I care about them so much that it becomes a source of toxic impatience and frustration. It's bad for me, it's bad for them, it doesn't help anyone. I know this. I've tried to stop. Did I mention I've tried to stop? The boiled bat wings, remember. I ate them.

Let's review my About post and have a good laugh, shall we?

"I will tell you that I've gotten much, much better at realizing that it is unhealthy to be upset at people for being stupid, when they will always be stupid in some ways, and for that matter so will I. ... Know that I am working mostly on myself--what I need to do to be fitter, happier, more productive (bonus points to you if you get the Radiohead reference). There's a lot about me that I can work on, and I think I've finally realized that it is far better to do that instead of worrying about what everyone else is doing."

HA! HA! Oh God.

Exhibit B: "If you secretly enjoy the drama of feeling angry, you will never run out of things in this world to be angry about, but take it from me: that's not a good hobby. Think of all of the times you are upset. How often is it about something someone else is doing? I know people who fret constantly out loud about how their friend should stop doing drugs/sleeping around/having kids/spending money--as their OWN marriage/career/budget/value system falls apart in front of them. Try to work on yourself instead of being angry about what other people are or aren't doing. You probably suck in lots of ways too. I know I do."

Oh, that's precious. Look at how hard I was trying. LOOK HOW HARD.

That was me in November. And for a while, I was true to my word. People I knew complained, and I said either positive things ("Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out eventually--you're smart! These things just take time") or neutral things ("Oh, well, I can see how that would be upsetting") or just changed the subject ("Look! Cookies!"). And you know what? I felt HAPPIER. Because I wasn't getting ulcers over the fact that my hypothetical friend insisted on torturing herself by living in that damn hypothetical house. Instead I was enjoying my life, living and letting live, and it felt really, really good. I was realizing that we all have problems, that we all complain just because it feels good to complain, and most of us are really OK with our lives in general and aren't looking for solutions. I could admit that I am often the author of my own demise. I could look at how often I complain about deadline killing me and acknowledge that everyone knows that's my own fault, yet THEY let ME complain, how nice of them, and I should return the favor.

In fact I could understand that me writing a post about my bad habits is the EXACT SORT OF THING that keeps me from getting my work done. Yet I continue to write posts instead of doing my work. Because I am human. Just like everyone else.

In other words, I gave up that habit, and it felt wonderful.

Then, a few months later, I secretly decided once again, without really informing myself of the attitude change, that I am perfect, I know everything, and people should just listen to me. I'm incorrigible, apparently. (And sexy. But I don't see what that has to do with anything.)

So, look. It's time for a change, for me to try again, because I know letting go of this habit is the answer to my problem. And MY problem is the one I need an answer to--not everyone else's problems. I tried to give this habit up once, and I succeeded, if only for a little while, and that gives me hope that maybe, eventually, I will be rid of it forever. I don't know how I got in this damn house, but it's time to move out again and start from scratch. Well, not ENTIRELY from scratch. I'm taking the stuff on the walls, because it's from Target and who doesn't love Target.

A swim story

2006-05-28T02:04:00.000-05:00

(Don't forget: The Monthly Music Contest is still underway.)

The pool is now open. I've never had a pool, especially not a nice big heated one that is accessible twenty-four hours a day. The benefits of condo ownership continue to thrill me, mostly because I like to lie to myself and pretend we don't pay exorbitant condo fees. (What condo fees? Those aren't condo fees. Those are sexy taxes. For being extra sexy. I mean, on one hand, no one wants to pay that kind of money every month, but on the other hand, what can I do? Not be sexy? Is that even possible? Can you ask a boulder to float? Can you ask a rainbow to be less ... spectrumey? No. You cannot. Sexy taxes must be paid, and paid without a backward glance.)

Tonight was our first middle-of-the-night swim, and it went well, I guess. There was much prancing about the pool. And examining. And pointing. Why aren't the underwater lights on? They're trying to conserve electricity, I suppose, seeing as it IS two a.m. Fair enough. Hey, what is that? Is that a leaf? Or a bug? Ew, what if it's a bug? It's dark out here. There's no telling. It could be a bug. It's a leaf, right? Perhaps we should get the netty thing. Where's the netty thing? I can't think about coming up from underwater and maybe getting mysterious surface floaters in my hair. I can't even think about that. OH MY GOD what if that happens?! The possibility ... it's unbearable.

After the ceremonial prancing/investigating came the initial dipping. There was dipping from the ladder. And from the steps. And from the other ladder. Which is the warmest? Surely there must be a warmer ladder somewhere. What about the left side of this step? Perhaps more toward the middle. Don't mind me, I'm just getting used to the water one ~~toe~~ ~~pore~~ ~~cell~~ ~~atom~~ electron at a time.

It was only 77 degrees outside, making the water officially warmer than the air. Still, after taunting one another and throwing around the accusatory p-word when one member of the family or the other seemed hesitant to wet anything above the lower calf, we both plopped in. And proceeded to wave our limbs around as vigorously as possible for five minutes. Then we attempted to cling to each other for warmth, but that didn't work, invoking more limb-waving and strained, huffy conversation. One person dogpaddled from ladder to ladder while the other jerky person who is just a big jerky show-off did jerky show-off things like swimming around feet-first.

And then we were used to the water! But that took a while and by then we were sort of bored. So we got back out.

I retreated to a corner of the patio and attempted to shake the water off like a dog, bending my knees and sticking my butt and elbows out and then waggling everything as rapidly and violently as physics allowed. I can only imagine how this looked, judging from the resulting burst of laughter of Mr. S, but he gamely followed suit, and we both convulsed several more times, with dubious results.

After much prancing, investigating, dipping, taunting, plopping, waving, paddling, and purposeful convulsing, it was time to call it a night.

On our way in, I looked up ... and remembered the video cameras.

Uh. Well.

I know what they're going to say when they review the video (which is at least marginally likely, seeing as this is the first night).

They'll watch it all the way up until they see me, in my bikini, with my knees bent together, ass sticking out, pumping my elbows up and down and jerking my hips wildly to and fro, and then one property manager will look at the other and say sternly, "You BETTER be charging her sexy taxes!"

In which I suffer a small aneurysm

2006-05-27T14:21:00.000-05:00

The spammers found me pretty quickly this time. The bad news is, they won't go away. The good news is, they find my site unique and informative! Or so they say.

Obviously, if you comment anonymously from here on out, I'm probably going to miss your comment in my inbox, though I may see it on the post itself. (Believe it or not, I'm not one to continually view comments on my old posts. Yes, I find better things to do! I'm as surprised as you are.)

From now on, please do not comment anonymously. "A Random Person," or, as I affectionately call them, "RP," has the right idea: Fill in a name, any name, even a nicely anonymous name, anything but plain old "Anonymous," and I will see your comment. Blogger lets you do this easily; just click "Other" under "Choose an Identity" and it will let you fill in the fields whether you have a Blogger account or not.

Ugh. Site maintenance posts are really boring. Sorry!

I got tagged to do a meme ...

2006-05-26T20:09:00.000-05:00

... but my answers weren't very interesting. But ... I got tagged! Rules are rules! So I edited it with brackets and strikethroughs. Everybody wins.

(Don't forget: The Monthly Music Contest is still underway.)

5 items [I wish I had] in my fridge
1. A big bowl of that pale brown chocolate pudding one can only find in cafeterias and at salad bars. If you ever need some in STL, Miss Sheri's Cafeteria has that pudding. That pudding, and a lot of really old people. Eat pudding! Feel relatively young! Watch out for the ones that sneak up behind you and attempt to suck the life from your body!
2. A can of Redi-Whip, ostensibly for some sort of romantic purpose after one person or the other in the household reads too much Cosmo, but then I always end up just eating it, directly from the can, day after day, each time promising that this is the last time, and then it's gone. Sorry Cosmo. I didn't follow Step 10 of your oh-so-helpful "Twenty Steps to Wowing Him in the Bedroom!" article, and then, just to rub it in, I got fat from eating the Redi-Whip. Anyway, somebody get Mr. S a copy of Cosmo so I can eat more Redi-Whip for breakfast. (In ... the kitchen I mean. Not ... you know.)
3. A bottle of Moscato D'Asti. I always forget to put any in the fridge, and then when I want it, I say, "It will take too long to get cold, I'll just live without it," and the next time I want it, the cycle begins anew.
4. Leftovers from the Indian restaurant down the street. Actually, those really WERE in there. But I ate them. And now I want them there again. But I am too lazy to walk a few blocks and replenish the supply. Too lazy and too fat. On account of the Redi-Whip.
5. Some ... I don't know, fresh fruit, I guess. For my health, see.

5 items [that should be] in my closet
1. This dress. But that can be easily rectified, my friend.
2. A really, really good hard-floor cleaner. Does anyone know of one? I heard the Bissell one sucked. And not in a good way. HAR! No, really. Suggestions please. I won't mop, and the rabbit won't stop shedding for summer, and we're both pretty stubborn. Help me.
3. A butler. And when I opened the door, he would immediately say, "Yes, miss?" He would be fully alert already, presumably from the sound of my footsteps. I don't want to open it and feel guilty for waking him up. The idea is to make me feel as if he is eagerly waiting to dust things. Not as if I interrupted his nap.
4. A new pair of hockey skates. Yes, I know it's summer, but I can't WAIT for the ice rink in the park to open up again so I can go skating every day. My old ones are rusted out, and every few days or so I tell Mr. S I need a new pair and he looks appropriately uninterested, seeing as it is 85 degrees outside.
5. A giant pile of money. (See items 1, 2, 3, and 4.)

5 ~~items in my car~~ things I feel most guilty about not doing
1. Editing.
2. Cleaning.
3. Writing (no, like, for-real writing).
4. Cooking.
5. Listening.
(Notice I didn't say "Exercising." BOO-YAH.)

5 items [that unfortunately do not fit] in my purse
1. A dozen Asiago cheese bagels.
2. A six-pack of Woodchuck.
3. This costume, which would have more uses than I can even count, if I could just hide it in my purse and then maybe put it on in the restaurant bathroom.
4. A bullhorn.
5. A human head (YOU NEVER KNOW).

STANLEY!

2006-05-26T17:50:00.000-05:00

God, I love sidebar buttons. Don't you? They're like pretty little Girl Scout badges that you can make yourself even when you don't know how to sew or start a campfire. And they're so teeny! So teeny that there can barely be any serifs! They're sweet and small, like little digital candy hearts. Only instead of "I LOVE YOU" or "HOT KISS" they say "STANLEY."

Which brings us full circle to what I wanted to talk about. How convenient. But before we talk about it, I'd like you to go here and here so you're not all, "Stanley? Who's Stanley?" Go ahead. I'll wait. *drums fingers on desktop*

Okay. So my question is, who wants to go to Stanley with me? If you are my real-life friend who also has a blog (hint: L, Sam, Deaver, that means you), or even if you are my friend and you do not have a blog, we can leave from STL and perhaps take the train to Chicago (picking up some of you in Bloomington on the way) and have a grand old time as the countryside flickers by. And then we can all stay together in a hotel room, effectively defraying costs AND amusing ourselves all evening by playing juvenile drinking games. If you are my Internet friend or an Internet stranger, I'm not sure how I feel about sharing a queen-size bed with you, but I AM sure I'm OK with sharing the actual city of Chicago with you, and maybe even a (large, crowded) hotel conference room, should you decide to attend.

And even if you are a lurker who insists on hiding from me for no good reason (I CAN SEE YOU IN THE TRAFFIC, PERSON FROM STANFORD UNIVERSITY AND PERSON FROM RESTON, VA), it will still be fun for your lurkerly self. I mean, hey, this is your chance to anonymously witness one of the world's most striking profiles IN PERSON. In the real-life version, there are like, pores and stuff. It's really exciting. Trust me.

So who's in? Hmm?

ARGHH!

2006-05-26T11:04:00.000-05:00

(Don't forget: The Monthly Music Contest is still underway.)

No one is putting entries in for the music contest, and my comments are low in general. But my traffic is higher than it ever was. Gee, what could be the problem? You guessed it: word verification. After the post about my sister, I got an e-mail from her saying she couldn't comment on it. I'm assuming others are having this problem as well, just like they did last time.

If I turn it off, I get spammed to death. If I turn it on, a lot of people can't comment. I'd rather deal with spam than cancel the music contest, so I'm turning it off again. Comment away!

A truce twenty-six years in the making

2006-05-25T01:58:00.000-05:00

(Don't forget: The Monthly Music Contest is still underway.)

If the stinging slap she delivered to my mother upon my birth* is any indication, my sister really, really liked being an only child. Either that, or she really, really didn't like me in particular. From my position it really didn't matter which was true, as the resulting abject sibling hatred was the same in either scenario.

Our first meeting clearly did not go well, despite my mother's efforts to prepare my sister for that fateful day. My mother says she gave my sister a doll, and the idea was that caring for babies was something my sister and mother could do together, like, "Here, you take care of your plastic baby and I'll take care of this real baby, and we can work side by side and spend lots of time together making sure our babies have everything they need." I think this was supposed to convince my sister that we were all in this together and that it would be fun. Unfortunately my sister isn't really that stupid.

So instead I can imagine that whatever cute little baby doll my mother gave her became not a symbol of sisterly love, as my mother may have hoped, but a rudimentary introduction to voodoo. I was too little to remember, but if my sister's feelings for me at the time are any indication, she was holding that thing underwater and chanting in tongues while wishing fervently for my prompt demise so she could once again have all the parental love to herself. She was precocious that way.

It didn't help that my sister and I were (and still are) so very different. My sister liked to count things, add them up, witness the mechanics of reality in motion. She could read at three and was probably arranging her own sock drawer by three and a half. Had computerized spreadsheets been readily available back in 1981, she would have eagerly used one to sort her stuffed animals by size, color, and texture (Smooth gets a value of 0, Mildly Fluffy gets a value of 3, and Wispy Angora gets the maximum value of 10).

And if she were indeed into baby-doll voodoo, I have no doubt her instruments of doll torture were always sterilized and organized neatly on a surgical tray. If I know her at all, the shank she shoved into the left eye socket of my plastic effigy was carefully sharpened to a deadly point, with routine sharpening maintenance on alternate Tuesdays.

While my sister was counting things and reading and impressing the heck out of everyone in general, I was wading in my own pile of unwashed laundry and trying to build parachutes out of garbage bags, which I would then hold over my head as I leaped ceremoniously off the highest point of our house that I could climb to. Unfortunately my handmade parachutes never slowed my descent, so all I got was sore ankles while my sister racked up a perfect grade-point average. I also attempted to dig several holes to China using only a fruit spoon (which is all my mother would let me dig with) while my sister did productive things like earn an allowance and find ways to rebuild the ozone layer.

That's right. I was the quirky kid. The one people write novels about. The one with the uncrushable spirit and vivid imagination. In literary works, that type of kid is inspiring and cute. (I was Ramona, for God's sake. Who doesn't like Ramona?) In reality that type of personality can be really annoying. As my entire family could probably attest.

In fact, kid's books are packed full of lies. I don't remember anyone being all that into Beezus, but everyone seemed impressed with my sister. Her intellect and obedience were so out-of-this-world that my parents weren't quite sure what to do with me. When one child is busy carefully sweeping the porch and the other child is busy smashing her fingers into her closed eyelids because it makes funny colors,** that tends to give parents pause.

My parents looked from one child to the other and determined that I was "dumb as a box of rocks," as my mother still phrases it to this very day. They consoled themselves with the notion that one smart child was enough for any family. And it isn't as if they gave up hope for me. They made sure I got plenty of fresh air as I ran around outside, so that my spirit and body would be fed and encouraged, so that I could bask in the wholesomeness of nature and perhaps find my own unintellectual path to happiness ... or at least build up my muscles enough to turn a pretty penny as a unskilled laborer in the shoe factory.

But lo! I went to kindergarten and underwent many tests, and it turned out that I was smart too! In a fanciful, useless way, versus the productive and profitable accountant sort of way! No one was more surprised than my parents when it was discovered that I almost always knew the right answer when it was requested of me--I just never raised my hand, because hand-raising is boring and was clearly designed by The Man. (My sister, on the other hand, probably raised her hand every time she knew the answer, because that is what you are supposed to do. Suck-up.) I never offered the answer voluntarily, because why bother if no one is even going to pay you or anything.

But as soon as someone got a clue and gave me a magic pen that rewarded me with pretty music when I tapped it on the right answer in a book,*** it was discovered that I was practically a genius. A really, really lazy genius.

If anything, this discovery only heightened the tension between me and my sister. Suddenly everything was a competition. But we were so different that each of us frequently lost in humiliating defeats/won in landslide victories, depending on the competition category in question. I could draw and she could not. She could add and I could not. We didn't allow the obvious fact that we were apples and oranges slow us down any when it came to gleefully shoving our achievements in the other sister's face.

Our rough start combined with our personality differences translated into about sixteen years of household strife. There were other factors, too, especially later on; as the responsible one, she often tried to parent me, asking whether I had done my homework and so on. Our mother was sick, and I'm sure she was just trying to help, but the high-school version of me, who was as fiercely independent and bull-headed as I am today, resented it with teeth-gritting ingratitude. I didn't care about her life and was baffled as to why she would bother to care about mine. All I wanted was to be left alone. In fact I was self-absorbed and oblivious (two things I will probably always be, despite my best efforts--it comes with living inside one's own imagination and also having what is, in all likelihood, unmedicated ADD), and for every instance of inappropriate parenting my sister committed, I'm sure I committed an instance of utter failure to be there for my struggling family, to help with small chores and tasks or to realize that I was needed in some way. I couldn't stand my sister's prissy, holier-than-thou meddling; she couldn't stand my shrugging, selfish lack of contribution. Simply put, we were a mess.

I tortured her whenever possible and she returned the favor, and ... I hated her. Really hated her. I could tell you stories that would make my hate for her sound amusing, but if I'm going to be very honest with you, it wasn't amusing at all. It was sick and unhealthy. I used to wish fervently that she would run away, move away, be kidnapped, anything, just so I would never have to hear her voice again, just so she would never again get into my business or nag me about studying or whatever she felt like mothering me about that day. I used to tremble with how much I hated her. The day I found out she wasn't going away to college, but rather had chosen to stay home and attend school locally ... I think that was the most angry with anyone I have ever been, even to this day. I couldn't believe she would choose to continue living with me. I couldn't believe she had thrown away a golden opportunity to rescue both of us from what we did to each other.

After that, there was no question that I was going away to school. As I saw it, she hadn't left me with much of a choice. The day I left, I was a nervous wreck, but still somehow found time to say really offensive and selfish things, like how happy I was to finally be around a bunch of normal people rather than a family who seemed to spend most of their time in a hospital. Once I had made sure everyone's feelings were good and hurt, I headed off to school and thought only about myself and my own strife for about four years.

And then, really slowly ... I don't know. I grew up some and lost a bit of the vain selfishness, she grew up some and lost a bit of the goal-oriented neuroticism, my mother's health improved, and somehow the tension eased. Then my sister had a baby, and we all loved the baby, and that made things better too. And I saw things her way sometimes, or at least I tried to, and I think she extended me the same courtesy a little more often. I still don't understand how failing to get a 4.0 GPA every semester qualifies as some sort of tragedy, and she still doesn't understand how I can sleep at night with the knowledge that I have never, not even for the first week, balanced my checkbook, but I think we've agreed to disagree, at least on some things.

And over time, I've started to realize that she isn't the only difficult one in the family ... that we're all difficult in our own way. That's been one of the hardest things about growing up: facing my own enormous flaws and understanding how extensively they contributed to the family strife that I once blamed entirely on my sister. (She still sucked worse than me, of course. Naturally.)

HIGHLY DRAMATIZED EXAMPLE CONVERSATION ONE:
MY SISTER IS VERY DIFFICULT
Schnozz: I'm thinking of moving to New York!
Schnozz's sister: New York? Really?
S: Yup!
SS: But ... isn't it really expensive to live there?
S: Yeah, I guess ... but so many people do it that obviously there's a way. I'll work it out.
SS: I hear it's really violent too.
S: There's a lot of crime there, sure, but there are a lot of people there too, and I'll be careful. Try being happy for me for once! You can't base your decisions on the fear that someone will rape and kill you.
SS: Yes you can! Why, just the other day I decided I'd better not leave the house because I heard on the radio that some killer was on the loose a mere three hundred miles from here. Besides, three of the five weather forecasts I check every day called for rain.
S: Uh. Right. Anyway, New York! I'm excited.
SS: I don't see why you're excited about being raped and killed.
S: What?? Shut up. It's an adventure!
SS: Yeah, if you consider being garroted in a deserted subway station and then thrown on the electrified rails and left for dead an adventure.
S: Ohhhhh-kay. I'm leaving now, for New York, to have an exciting, fulfilling life. You just stay here, where it's safe.
SS: I will. I have no interest in moving to a dirty city full of homeless people just waiting to slice your throat open for a dollar, but that's just me. Enjoy New York. I'll miss you when you're dead.

HIGHLY DRAMATIZED EXAMPLE CONVERSATION TWO:
I AM VERY DIFFICULT
SS: We really need to talk about something.
S: Okay! Hey, look, I can make a face that makes me sort of look like a turtle.
SS: I'm being serious. Can't you be serious for once?
S: Fine, fine. You're serious, I'm serious, we're all very serious. We're serious lawyer types. We're so serious that we don't even laugh when someone farts really loud in church. Because it's not funny. Church is not funny. Nor is farting. Farting is merely digestive gases escaping from the body via the anus and we don't find that funny at all. That's how serious we are. Here, look, I'll make a serious face. Well, a serious turtle face, anyway.
SS: You're impossible.
S: All right, all right. I'm listening. What's up?
SS: Well, it's about Grandma. Her bills have been really high lately, but you know she's going to insist on giving us a really good Christmas anyway, even if it means she'll be homeless by New Year's. So I think we should sit down with her and explain to her that we love her whether she gets us presents or not--
S: Speaking of Christmas, my mashed potatoes are sort of in the shape of a Christmas tree. Aren't they? Look! It's a mashed-potato tree! With garlands of cheese and garlic! I wish real garlands were made of cheese and garlic.
SS: OH MY GOD. Are you even listening to me? Don't you even care about your own impoverished grandma?
S: What Grandma needs is a drink or two. Let's take her out tonight. Can you imagine that, Grandma wasted? That would be hilarious. She would be all drunk and dancing on the bar, like, "Don't you wish your Grandma was a hot like me ... don't you wish your Grandma was a freak like me ... Doncha?"
SS: Um, I'll just ... take care of this myself. Bye.
S (to self): Doncha? Haaaaah-aah? Doncha?
(time passes while Schnozz stares into space with a half-smile on her face)
S (again, to self): I suppose the question is whether, in a bar striptease, one would remove one's teeth as part of the act, if one could.

We all have our flaws, as you can see.

The point is, my sister just came to visit me in St. Louis for a few days. And despite my lack of planning and inability to get ready on time, much less be aware of my guests' obvious needs, and despite her highway-induced anxiety and continual preoccupation with whether her travel budget was being followed appropriately, we managed to get along and even have a pretty good time. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment.

I enjoyed your visit, sis. We may never share a sitcom-worthy cheesy sisterhood, but I'm glad we no longer actively try to kill each other. Sure, I still will never, ever have kids close in age just in case they turn out like us, and sure, I will actively beg other mothers to refrain from having kids close together as well ... but if I ever do move to New York, I still hope you'll visit before I'm inevitably murdered in an alley.

And ... make sure you take care of that Grandma thing, OK?****
---------
*Yes, really.
**A favorite hobby of mine for years. It kind of hurts after a while, but the longer you do it, the more interesting and rapid the color splotches get. I used to do it almost every night to entertain myself after bedtime. This probably wasn't good for me, but back then it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to pass the time.
***I only missed one question in that entire book. And it was a BS question about which was "bigger," a 2 or 3. I examined them carefully and determined that while the 3 obviously signified a larger amount, the 2 was technically "bigger," as in, its ink took up more square footage on the page. So I answered "2" and the tester was appropriately startled at my sudden lapse in intelligence. More important, no pretty music came out of the pen. I'm still pissed.
****I will totally take care of the next thing to pay you back. Unless I'm like, super busy or don't really feel like it.

Schnozzfest Monthly Music Contest

2006-05-24T12:37:00.000-05:00

Very tired. No talky. No thinky either. But the contest must go on before the month ends on me.

So have at it. If you have questions about what was entered previously or how this works, go here.

Something perky, please. For all our sakes.

etelegram

2006-05-21T11:53:00.000-05:00

STILL ALIVE. STOP. EVERYTHING FINE. STOP. WELL SORT OF. STOP. HAVE HOUSEGUESTS. STOP. PLEASE SEND CLEAN TOWELS. STOP. SEE YOU ON THURSDAY. STOP. UNLESS YOU DON'T SEND CLEAN TOWELS. STOP.

Sigh

2006-05-19T15:51:00.000-05:00

OK, so I KNOW that tripping isn't illegal.

Note to self

2006-05-18T05:43:00.000-05:00

Become independently wealthy ASAP.*
-----
*In response to the question, "Would you rather have humdrum day after humdrum day, or enjoy your life immensely a great deal of the time, but then repay that with sheer misery for three or four days here and there?" the answer is not what you might think. In fact the only correct answer is "IT DEPENDS ON WHEN YOU ASK ME."

This just in ... Britney Spears did not break the law

2006-05-16T18:15:00.000-05:00

by Schnozz
CNN correspondent

NEW YORK--Britney Spears once again rocked the nation today with her legal, but "decidedly shady," according to one childcare expert, activities, landing on the front page of CNN.com once again and proving that the legal, perfectly acceptable activities of celebrities are far more important than whatever the hell is going on in Rwanda these days. And can anyone even really prove that Rwanda is a real country? Seriously, do you even know anyone who had been there? On the other hand, Britney Spears is DEFINITELY real, at least in the "she exists" sense, if not the actual physical "this is the body part I was born with" sense.

Besides the genocide in Rwanda is pretty much over. So it's moot.

So anyway, according to eyewitness reports, Spears was once again engaging in perfectly legal mothering activities.

"I can't believe what I saw," says Barb Ingle, 45. "I looked over and saw little Sean Preston riding in a front-facing car seat. Which is legal ... if you're some sort of second-rate mother, I mean. That poor, poor baby. I hope CNN does something about this. They owe it to all of us. I bought two of her albums."

Many experts disagree with the "law," as police officers and judges often refer to it.

"Sure, it's legal," says Stanley Hoover, 55, an expert in what he refers to as "cultural law." "It's legal. But does that mean she should just be able to DO it? Right in front of us like that? That's what you have to ask yourself."

Psychologists and medical professionals alike, including Dr. Robert Brown, 39, who specializes in media medicine. "Between Mr. Federline's upcoming album and Britney Spears's continuing, desperate search for stability, I think it's safe to say that perfectly legal childseat use is by far the most debilitating factor with the most influence over Sean Preston's--or, as I like to call him, Sean P's--future happiness as a well-adjusted child. Plus having a sister so close to his age is totally going to mess him up. Gawd, can you believe she's pregnant again already? When is CNN going to inform the public of this travesty, and also maybe get around to adequately covering the day-to-day activities of Congress if they have time afterward?"

Experts agree that Spears has done nothing wrong in the legal, punishable sense. All the same, the same sentiment has swept the nation. As one expert said upon viewing the photographs, "Oh no she dint!"

"Is this really setting a good example?" the expert continued. "I mean, it's bad enough that she's on Go Fug Yourself all the time. Her outfit totally sucked and now this. What sort of message is that sending out?"

In a dissenting opinion, some boring serious person who really needs to go bother someone else called CNN and said something like, "But she didn't break the law. There's no news in this story. There's a reason we don't write stories every night about how most people in town went the speed limit--it's not interesting, and it's not fair to single someone out for it just because you feel like being snarky."

It is CNN's journalistic policy to report any and all instances of legal parenting, at least when it involves someone who used to be super hot and now she really isn't. She lost the right to parent her child in a legal manner when she DIDN'T lose all that baby weight. Ugh. Gross. Just because she's pregnant again doesn't mean she can't get skinny and then do something with her hair. Which was in curlers, by the way, as you can see in our exclusive aerial photos. (Click here for a slideshow.) Who walks out of the house in curlers? Like, you don't know people will be hovering over your vehicle and taking pictures of you from above?

Indeed, the journalism industry is concerned in general about Britney Spears. As one news photographer put it, "Someone should really take steps to decrease the danger level here. If she doesn't get a safer seat, that baby is going to get hurt the next time I have to chase them down the freeway at high speeds to get a nice shot."

Even the president seems perturbed when legal sticklers stick up for that loser Spears, who should still be arrested because in a way she assaulted the hearts of America.

"Judging moms everywhere is a proud tradition in our country," said President Bush. "It's our right as Americans to tighten our lips into a thin judgmental line when some white trash mother isn't doing her job the way she's supposed to, and by supposed to I mean the way we think it should be done, not the way some antiquated law system says it should be. Legal schmegal! That's what I said about the Patriot Act and that's what I'm saying now. If you disagree, perhaps you don't love Hollywood. And if you don't love Hollywood, you don't love America. Thankfully, everyone loves Hollywood. Or at least that's what my phone-tap transcripts are telling me. By the way, that whole phone-tapping thing was on CNN too, but I assure you it's boring reading material. Click the link right next to it instead and see for yourself that Britney is like the worst mother ever. Which is worse than being the worst president ever, I think, when you really sit down and think about it. I bet her approval rating is worse than mine right now. I'm hoping CNN will do a poll so we can find out."

In a continuing effort to keep you informed about the pressing issues of our time, CNN promises to do its part in showing you just what those stupid moms are up to, even if their crimes are not, like, TECHNICALLY crimes. (Ed: Gawd, people should, like, need a LICENSE to be parents these days.)

Coming up next week ...

Sarah Jessica Parker: Is her continuing dispensation of large glasses of apple juice really ideal? I mean, that is a LOT of sugar.

Brooke Shields: Committing legal child abuse by letting her baby cry it out.

And don't miss our Election Coverage Special. Who will our next national leader be? American Idol counts down.

Also: Popular, sexy blogger's new soapbox phase is met with rave reviews--could this strengthen the already popular trend of reverse nosejobs? Our plastic-surgery editor weighs in.
--------------
UPDATE: Oh, great. In the time it took me to do this, CNN has updated and now they're going to find a law she's breaking if it kills them. The original story said backward installation was only required in 10 states, and Britney's state is not among them. But now they're focusing on overarching federal mandates instead. (Which makes me wonder what the point is of the 10 individual state laws, but nevermind that now.)

So first CNN said it was totally legal; now they're saying it may not be. But you know, if CNN, a major news organization with an entire committee of legal experts, can't determine accurately whether something is legal, that doesn't mean Britney Spears can't when it comes to raising her own baby. Or something like that.

The new CNN story also mentions that some car seat companies actually RECOMMEND forward installation and this is reflected in the accompanying installation directions, which makes it all even more confusing. Even if she did break a law, I still do not understand how this made it onto the front pages of two New York newspapers. No matter what, this NEVER should have been a story until someone was sure a law had been broken, and even then ... front page? And earlier this afternoon there was CNN, cheerfully telling us on its front page that a celebrity HADN'T broken a law. I still think it's ridiculous.

CNN quoted one person as saying something eerily close to what my pretend experts were saying: that Britney was "breaking the spirit of the intent of the law, which is keeping the child alive." First: He's still alive, so actually she's in full compliance at the moment, at least strictly speaking. Even if you keep a child alive by accident, you still technically kept them alive. Or at least that's what I'll say when I have kids. Second: Breaking the spirit of the intent of the law? Is that anything like "assaulting the hearts of America"? Because I covered that already, so CNN better not plagiarize me.

Note that the new story still points out her hair curlers, just as the old one did. At least we can count on something.

The new button on the right ...

2006-05-16T17:21:00.000-05:00

... is designed to allow you to permalink properly. Over the last few months, a few people have asked how they can get the masthead, etc, to show up in a permalink, and the truth is this site is held together with duct tape and a prayer and I have no idea. Finally today it occurred to me that I could just add a button. Duh.

To permalink in my complicated site, right-click the time at the bottom of the post and click "open link in new window" (or some similar option) to get rid of the frames, then copy the post URL from the address bar of the new window that pops up.

So, tada! The permalink button. You are all now free to permalink about the country.

Did you guys see that story where the bear ate the monkey in front of everyone at the zoo?

2006-05-16T12:28:00.000-05:00

Well, I thought it was really sad. Which is probably kind of stupid, because if I don't even have the moral conviction (read: self-control) to be a vegetarian, it's probably not right of me to get all up in some bear's grill just for eating a tasty-looking monkey. Hell, I've probably eaten a monkey myself. The Chinese place down the street serves giant buckets of food for four dollars. Is all I'm saying.

All the same, I found it sad, and was a little annoyed with all the discussion-boarders who enjoyed going on and on about how hilarious this was, because come on, I may be a meat-eater but I don't actually think of the cow slaughter and LAUGH or anything callous like that. In fact I think of it as rarely as possible, attempting to focus instead on the tasty, tasty beef. Then I imagine the beef tree where this delicious beef surely grew and was then harvested in rustic handwoven baskets by charmingly traditional beef-pickers in ... Italy. Yes. Italy.

So yeah, I was hypocritically sad about the poor little monkey who got eaten, because this monkey was highly visible in the zoo and for some reason that's morally different than hidden slaughterhouse farm animals, or so I say as chewed bits of bacon fall out of my mouth.

And then ... someone made this joke: "Oh look! Rhesus pieces!"

And I laughed. Against my will. I hated myself. The hate radiated from inside of me, screaming IT'S NOT FUNNY, IT'S NOT FUNNY, POOR CUTE LITTLE MONKEY, SO NOT FUNNY, but ... but ... rhesus pieces! Oh God! It makes me laugh! I don't want to laugh but I am laughing! Even still! My eyes look scared of the hell I am now surely headed for, yet the corners of my mouth keep twisting up anyway. As soon as I get it under control, all I have to do is mentally repeat it to myself again, and the same shameful delight bubbles up in my throat.

Rhesus pieces!

I know. It is so not funny. Natural animal behavior, maybe, and nothing to get all that freaked out about, but not FUNNY. You can hate me now. I certainly do. But you know what I don't hate? PUNS.

Rhesus pieces!

I felt sorry for myself because I'm on deadline and my computer is being slow ...

2006-05-16T01:41:00.000-05:00

... but I suppose it could be worse.

Stick with this to the end if you can bear it. The end is very satisfying, and the evolutionary vestiges of our relation to (furious) chimps is apparent. Personally my favorite part is his brief attempt to "think positive" before he abandons it and continues to just completely lose it. (I recognize the possibility that this is fake, but all the same ... wow.)

Personally I have NO IDEA why parents get so up in arms about their kids' addictions to video games!

Hmm. Well.

2006-05-15T23:06:00.000-05:00

Guess what? He said he was just kidding. And I need to lighten up! Raise your hand if you're surprised. (Sits motionlessly with arms glued to her sides.)

I quoted you his e-mails directly. Did you read it? Did you see a smiley? Or a hint of irony? If it was a joke, and I'm willing to accept the possibility that it was, it was pretty poorly executed. And not really that funny, because ... well, that's like saying "I'd like a milkshake please" is funny. What's funny about it? There's no joke material there. (And I should know. I'm hilarious.)

At any rate, his very long response, excerpted:

"Don't go accusing me of anything, please. You say you're trying to refrain from
judging me further, so, well, then do it. Give someone the benefit of the doubt. I didn't say anything suggestive or rude or even remotely offensive. I didn't say 'Does she have big tits' or 'will you be wearing nothing but sports bras' or anything like that."

In other words, it's not like I was a TOTAL obvious bastard. You are only allowed to be angry at total obvious bastards, not semibastards who only ask straightforward questions about your attractiveness and marital status in plain English. Only if I use silly slang or ask outrageous questions are you allowed to be offended.

"So, come on, spare me the lecture. Because if you think about it, if my intent was to create a dating scenario, I wouldn't have picked dodgeball."

Exactly. That's what makes it so messed up that he was asking those questions at all. Had he been planning a singles dance, the questions would have made some sense. The dodgeball scenario is EXACTLY why I found this so wrong--the questions were irrelevant and inappropriate.

"I hardly think any of my comments warranted the lecture or the accusation that I was some raging uncontrollable hormonal sex addict, or thought women should be hung like beef in a meat market."

Ah, the old trick of blowing it even further out of proportion to make me sound like an unreasonable accuser. I don't remember calling him a "raging uncontrollable hormonal sex addict." Because such an accusation would be unreasonable, and thus I would be unreasonable. As he is trying to make me seem now: Yes, it's me, the crazy accuser who makes wild allegations that this man enjoys hanging women on hooks.

"Putting all that aside, let's start over."

Ha! I gotta give it to him there. This guy really needs dodgeball players.

This is where I start giving him SOME credit:

"Hi, my name is {Pervy McFondle}, and I want to play a fun, active, competitive
game that is slightly violent and a bit masochistic. Would you like
to join me? [Then he just gave game details.]

The, apparently, sexist pig,
{Pervy McFondle}"

OK, so he wants to start over, though from a situation of obvious disagreement, and he's willing to make some jokes about it. If he's willing to do it, I'm willing to do it. I wrote him back and wish I could quote myself, but I'll have add it here when he bounces it back in a reply, because I forgot to save a copy of it. Basically, these are three basic points I made:

1. I still find it inappropriate. Period. We're strangers and no amount of friendliness on my part makes it OK for him to ask questions like that.
2. It didn't look like a joke. I will accept his explanation that it is one, but I feel that the joke was nowhere near obvious enough. And not particularly amusing anyway. (What's funny about straightforward questions? I'm going to test his comic approach by asking people where they're from and then laughing uncontrollably.)
3. He is deliberately overblowing my accusations to make me sound unreasonable. I am onto him and there's no point in playing that game, period. My original accusation was that he was focusing on datability, not dodgeball, and that it was inappropriate. That is all I said, and I stand by that accusation.

But then I said that we don't have to agree. I thought it was inappropriate and still do, and I told him so. I would appreciate it if he would stick to dodgeball from here on out, and if he does we'll get along just fine and maybe even have some fun. I promised to start fresh, and I meant it, despite the jokes I've made here (and despite the fact that after replacing his name in these quotes, I am going to HAVE to call him Pervy McFondle). I don't think he's Satan. I just think he did something wrong. As we all have done. If he needs me to say it wasn't wrong in order to be my friend, we will not be friends. If he's fine with agreeing to disagree, then let's throw some rubber balls at each other. Though I can be the indignant sort, I'm also quite certainly the forgiving sort.

It disappoints me that he thinks there was NOTHING WRONG AT ALL, NOT EVEN A LITTLE, with what he said, but I'm not surprised. People hate admitting they've done anything wrong, ever. They focus on their own innocent intentions, and genuinely feel that if they didn't intend to do wrong, then, well, they didn't do any wrong.

It may surprise you that I don't need his apology, but I don't. This wasn't about getting an apology. This was about speaking my mind about something that wasn't right. I've never gotten why people demand apologies. If he was sorry, he would have said so, but he didn't, and it's my job to decide whether I can live with that or not. A forced apology isn't an apology at all. (If you can't live with someone's lack of remorse, go hang out with someone else. Don't make them falsely say they're remorseful anyway and then feel satisfied and appeased for no logical reason.)

Shoot. He just answered me, but my e-mail got cut off, so you guys will have to live without part of my response. Here's some of what I said back to him:

"Your comment about this being dodgeball and therefore obviously NOT a dating scenario was what made it so completely weird to me that we were even discussing
it. Had you asked me if I were single and attractive in the context of trying to plan a singles dance or something, I certainly wouldn't have thought twice about it.

... Contrary to the rather unfortunate impression you've gotten from me, I actually typically am positive and tend to assume the best of people, so I just shrugged off the curiosity of the first e-mail, figured you really really meant "young and active" (instead of the Boy Code, which is "wrinkleless" and "thin") and wrote back a friendly e-mail. The next line of questioning was just too much for me, as it
seemed to be continuation of the OH LOOK! A GIRL! thing that seemed to be going on, which I was already a little tired of, as I just wanted to sign up to play some dodgeball already. If you say it was a joke, I have no choice but to believe you, but understand that at the time, from my perspective, it didn't feel like a joke after the tone of your first e-mail, which asked that I "not be freaked out" (which honestly never fails to make people suspicious immediately, even if they agree not to be freaked out) ... in e-mail people really can't tell, so they're going to go on the limited information they have, which thus far was kind of suspicious on my end ...

I did and still do find commentary about whether my friends might be desirable to be inappropriate in our current context of being mostly strangers, though I probably wouldn't have if I knew you and we were laughing and sitting around. If it was
a joke, I feel you failed to make that obvious (a "big tits" comment would actually have been MORE obvious as a joke, honestly--I wouldn't have found it funny, but
I probably would have assumed you couldn't possibly be serious). You don't think there was anything wrong with it, and that your joke should have been obvious
enough and I just missed the signal. OK. I wanted to say something, I did say something, I'm fine with it. Your vehement denial of any wrongdoing has been duly
noted. Whether you are really a sexist pig has yet to be determined; I meant it when I said I was willing to start over ...

Looking forward to meeting you. I doubt we can pretend this never happened, so I'm hoping for humorous poise and grace under awkwardness. What do you say?

Oh, and I have another for dodgeball. (That's two guys and three walking vaginas, if you're counting.)"

Yes, I really said the part about the walking vaginas. What? He deserves it.

His response:

"Ok, you're my favorite person in the world. Or at least, damn near. Not just because you fight me, but because you do it and write well at the same time, with very persuasive and amusing arguments."

Flattery is the best medicine. No, this one isn't stupid at all. But I'm not going to complain. He's being nice. It's either be nice or be a jerk, and he can't win much with either right now, but at least he picked the better choice.

"We'll get along just fine, no awkward moments necessary. I'll just tell everyone to target you first."

Ha, ha. But did you notice? It was a REAL joke. Distinguishable from sexual harrassment. Improvement!

"The facebooking treatment is just a reflex. People respond, and if I can find them on Facebook, and maybe read a bit about them before committing to them, all the better. It can help weed out the people I don't think would be cool to have around. And since you're so {frigging} sensitive about the definitions of words, I'm using 'cool' here not as a sunglasses and smokes kind of cool, but just, 'chill' or, 'kosher' or, 'probably not going to bring a weapon and kill us all.' And just
for good measure: ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;)
;) ;) ;) ;)

Enough smileys?"

OK, he's doing pretty good so far. Back to trying to charm me, make friends. I'm fine with charming people into a truce. I did it to him quite a bit in my e-mails as well, like, haha, let's not get crazy and kill each other, we're all just humans after all.* Charm keeps people from totally losing it with each other. He realizes that too. Good for him.

He continues:

"Thank you for making my day, your argumentative spirit is wonderful."

Wow, laying it on pretty thick, but then again, I'm pretty wonderful.

"I wish you weren't married."

Wait ... what?

"That was both a joke and non-joke. It was meant to be not necessarily laugh-out-loud funny but perhaps, somewhat endearing, a compliment in part. If you're offended, then dammit, I guess we have to start all over again."

Believe it or not, I'm not offended. I can't be. I tried, but I laughed so hard at poor Pervy McFondle's complete cluelessness that I just can't be angry anymore, even though I should be--this guy simply can't help it. (It would be like punishing a pedophile for continually having sex with children. It's not wrong if you can't help it. Duh!)

The conclusion: I will play. Though he obviously is not going to change, and I find him immature (at 24, one would expect him to have the social skills to recognize the "I wish you weren't married--and I'm half serious!" comment to be, uh, a little OFF), and we're probably never going to be best friends ... I already told him it was wrong, I've done what I can, and I'll be damned if I allow HIM to keep ME from playing dodgeball. Uh-uh. If I don't play dodgeball because of a guy like THAT, he wins. And so do the terrorists.

He's willing to let it drop. I don't think I can ask much more than that. Well, I CAN rightfully ask that he stop making weird comments about wishing he were my husband, but he seems stuck as he is, so really it would be a pointless endeavor. It's time for me to decide whether I can accept him, just as one must decide whether to accept a lack of apology. If I choose to accept him and therefore keep subjecting myself to this, what he does is still wrong, but I'm the one who keeps allowing it to be done to me, and henceforth I have no choice but to accept partial blame for my own continuing suffering, though I accept no blame for his continuing inappropriateness.

And I do accept him ... as someone I can fling a rubber projectile at. Close enough for my purposes.

What I CAN ask is whether, if I end up on his team, I'm allowed to call him Captain McFondle.
----------
*In my permanent high-school record, I was listed by the one of the psychologists as "highly manipulative," one of the only students to get that distinction. It's true: I'm highly manipulative to the point of nearly being a MAGICIAN--all it means is that I can often predict how people would react to things, and thus I can figure out what will trigger the reaction I want. It's not voodoo; it's a knack for human psychology. However, after manipulating my way through high school and college, I'm now reformed and only use my powers for good--I only do it consciously when I'm looking for the best way to motivate someone to work out, for example, if they have told me that's what they want to be motivated to do. And lies aren't allowed; I am only allowed to HONESTLY say the best thing I can think of that will get them going. So now I'm just more of a ... a People Whisperer. Yes. (Truthfully, I just found it easier to make friends I truly liked, who already treat me the way I want to be treated, thus removing any need for puppet strings in the first place. I'm not reformed! Just lazy.)

Yes, I'm a nonranting saint. And now: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!?! (updated)

2006-05-14T21:09:00.000-05:00

Oh, come on. You didn't think me going on and on about what a saint I was involved an ulterior motive? How gullible are you anyway? Of course I'm not a bileless saint. In fact I'm a woman who is READY TO RANT. But not about littering. Ranting about littering is Mr. S's special X-Man power and I wouldn't dream of infringing on his territory.

My topic is a safe one from Mr. S, as he's not really inclined to complain about it: sexism. I want to complain about sexism. And this is from a girl who openly admits that women can't frigging parallel park. Well, at least they can't according to a survey I took in which the only person who responded related a tale where she kept trying to parallel park and the situation worsened horribly until half the car was up on the sidewalk and half the car was out in the street, and a group of people had ACTUALLY GATHERED TO WATCH IN SILENT FASCINATION. OK, the survey respondent was me.

Here's what happened: I e-mailed someone about a dodgeball league that seems to be forming. My e-mail was a one-liner just asking to be added to the general contact listing for upcoming events. I did this both for myself, as I loved to play in school, and for Mr. S, who would adore this opportunity almost as much as he would adore the opportunity to shoot at people for real.

This was part of the dodgeball guy's response, verbatim, the tail end of a generally friendly and conversational e-mail on his part:

"... not to freak you out, but you are the first female that's responded. So I was curious, and facebooked '{Schnozz Schnozzerston}.' 36 matches were found. I sort of assumed a girl interested in dodgeball had to be somewhat young, and active, so I just wanted to check. Are you a student? Please don't be freaked out, mere curiosity only. If you are, you can Facebook me, too."

So what are you thinking right now, Internet? If you're like me, you're thinking, This is a young guy who is trying to subtly find out whether Schnozz is a) "young" (cute and maybe even, shall he dare hope it, stupid) and b) active (thin). Ah, but he has not been TOO obvious! Only kind of moderately obvious! We give him partial points for at least attempting to be clever. Though his naked desperation still shows through, at least he tried. Poor guy. Ah, well. Can't really blame a dude for having a one-track mind. You know those guys! Only after one thing! Har har!

Because that's what I thought. Well, that's not all I thought. I also thought How can a one-line contact request e-mail generate this much shady inquiry and Dude I don't know if you just started dating yesterday but telling a girl not to freaked out is sort of the number-one way to freak a girl out, but now that I'm a saint, I try to quash such nasty thoughts. So I assumed the best of him and wrote back:

"Hrm. Well, I thought I was young. But I'd never even heard of facebooking people, so apparently I'm getting old after all. I'm 26. And active enough, though I'm guessing I'm probably going to be the worst player by far, especially if I'm the only girl. Not that having an all-girl league would help, as I'm not sexist about who gets to kick my ass and pretty much am involuntarily compelled to allow anyone stronger than me to do it. Which is most people."

Note how I immediately deferred to all the men's strength. Oh, little old MEEE? You boys could sure teach me a thing or two about how REAL MEN play dodgeball! Titter! I wish I could tell you that this was the patriarchy talking, that really I'm good at dodgeball but my culture has convinced me that I am a worthless female. But the truth is, I AM a worthless female, at least when it comes to throwing things long distances. Sorry. I wish it weren't true so I could be less sexist myself. I am trying to get more fit so I can be less sexist, just like one of my personal heroes, but right now it ain't happening.

But anyway, after noting my weakness and telling him to let me know if he thought it would actually be unsafe for me to play (it depends on how much they're planning to emphasize victory and what sort of ball they're planning to use--I'm not into getting my face broken). Then I continued:

"My husband, on the other hand, is an athlete robot person with nearly psychotic determination, so even if I end up chickening out for fear of ending up the token punching bag of a bunch of macho guys, I'm sure {Mr. S} would love to play ... I will say that if he and I were on the same team (my preference, obviously, as I really don't need to hear him gloating over dinner all night!), {Mr. S}'s intense desire to remove someone's liver from their body via a rubber playground ball would probably make up for my complete incompetence."

Look how I offer my manly husband as a trade. Hey, I'm worthless! But the good news is, I belong to a beefy man! I shall lead you to him so that I may still fulfill my inherent feminine wish of being useful to you and giving you exactly what you want! Man, I am such a good feminist. Again, honesty wins: Mr. S would love to play, and Mr. S is totally into removing livers, and Mr. S will indeed rock just as much as I suck. I'm sorry that the truth is once again sexist. Damn sexist reality. (First the liberal media bias, and NOW THIS.)

But look! I sort of redeem myself.

"It's kind of sad that a girl's interest in dodgeball would be so notable, but I guess it's true that most girls wouldn't do it. Wimps. :) If I am required to bring an similar female weakling to even out the teams, I could probably find one, as my jogging partner tends to enjoy that stuff, and she also has the biceps of a six-year-old boy, just like me. Would that help?"

This is a fair suggestion, I think. If I'm going to play, the last thing I want is to be the sucky girl that one team has to put up with and compensate for. Therefore, new policy: EVERY team gets a sucky girl! You are assigned a sucky girl when you walk in the gymnasium! Fair's fair, so take your sucky girl and we don't want to hear any complaining! Unfortunately, a necessary requirement of this policy is that any sucky girl who wants to play dodgeball damn well better know another sucky girl to bring; as a girly loser type, you are in this manner required to neutralize the damage you've done to your team with the mere presence of your starkly uncoordinated vagina.

Sadly, my jogging partner could totally kill me in dodgeball, so even if I bring her, I'm still going to be the one everyone fights to get rid of. Hence my preference that Mr. S and I stay together on a team. Not only will he vastly make up for my incompetence, but he will also be unable to resist vindicating me every time someone hits me in the face. The trade will be that if you break my jaw, Mr. S's macho pride at having his wifely property damaged will drive him to find a way to "accidentally" smash both your kneecaps AND your testicles using only one playground ball. So, though I will be cast out into the bleachers almost immediately, the disappointment of this will be greatly soothed as I get to watch my man destroy the bastard who gave me a bloody nose. Are the multiple macho dynamics of this situation getting interesting enough for you yet?

But wait! It gets better.

The VERY FIRST LINE of his response was,

"Is your jogging partner single? And, attractive?"

I'm sorry. I need a moment. Just typing it makes me furious.

OK. I will not explain the wrongness of this--why it shouldn't even matter, why I shouldn't have to answer questions like that just to join a league, why it's horribly insulting--but that would take forever, and this is long enough as it is. Plus, as my readers (who are surely all geniuses themselves, as they clearly can recognize damn fine writing when they see it), I'm assuming you have a clue and can process these ideas on your own.

So I will just say that I guess I should have seen it coming, but I was stupid and naive (probably because I'm a girl), plus I wanted to believe the best because that's what non-bile-spewing saints do. And as cynical as I secretly am, I never ever thought it would come to this--that I would be expected to swallow something so blatantly nasty (just a metaphor, honey) in order to enjoy some dodgeball. I can't believe that while every other person who signed up for this is just getting info and schedules, I'm getting facebooked and interrogated about my jogging partner's sex appeal and marital status.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to at this time wave the bullshit flag. Because this? IS BULLSHIT. Please join me in waving the bullshit flag.* Then tell me what I'm supposed to say. Because despite what the length of this post would imply, I'm just speechless. Am I going to call him to task on it? Of course I am. The question is, am I going to be able to do it maturely and legally, without being tempted to go get a pretty girly sorority manicure just so he can make me blush by admiring my sexy nails out loud and inviting me to scratch his back with them ... right before I hook them INTO HIS EYE SOCKETS and emit a primal (yet markedly feminine) scream?

~~People~~ Men, I need advice. After all, I can't think for myself with this damn girly brain. It just keeps going on and on about Barbies.

ASSASSIN BARBIES.
-------
*I am seriously considering getting one embroidered in case this happens again.

-------
UPDATE:

Here is some excerpts of what I sent him, with the boring dodgeball scheduling parts removed.

"OK, I was polite and let it go the first time, but ... 'Is your jogging partner single? And, attractive?' Why are we talking about this?

Girls, even single attractive ones, get a little annoyed at the implication that you would only want them to come play dodgeball if there was a possibility you were going to hook up with them. We girls are weird that way: We appreciate being seen as people too, people capable of interesting conversation and dodgeball fun, whether or not we're planning on hooking up with you. I doubt you asked all the guys who replied whether they were single and attractive. This is dodgeball, not Match.com.

That said, if you promise to at least ATTEMPT to stop treating dodgeball as a meat market, I'll refrain from judging you until I know you better, I'll bring my friend, there will be no hard feelings, and we'll all have a great time. I'm not blaming you for looking for a date, but all I wanted was to sign up to play dodgeball like any normal person, and I'm pretty sure you didn't treat the guys like you first treated me and then my friend ...

I'd like the same treatment anyone else would get instead of having to answer all these questions that are basically designed to find out whether you've got a chance with any of your dodgeball players. I understand the plight of the young hormonal guy as much as the next girl, but believe me, you're far more likely to hook up if you just give it a rest and get to know people."

See? I wasn't too horribly mean to him. I don't think there's anything wrong with requesting equal treatment. Sure, it would have been snappier and cooler to just say "This is dodgeball, not Match.com" and then leave it at that, but I am taking Mr. Toast's thoughts into account too and choosing to believe the best in this person, therefore considering him worthy of an explanation and another chance to NOT be my sworn mortal enemy.

As far as those who have asked why I would even want to play in this league--he's just the guy trying to get everyone together. People who respond to the advertising don't even know him. So even if he really does turn out to be a macho moron (I promised to reserve judgment, and I'm trying), all those other people could be great. I still think it's worth it to play, especially if, miracle of miracles, I can wake this guy up a little to the fact that his reeking-of-desperation tactic is really not going to work with any half-intelligent female.

Do you like how I still didn't answer him about her singleness/attractiveness? She is actually both of those things, but I didn't see what that had to do with dodgeball, so I didn't feel the need to answer it. He can do his own research. And if he's lucky, I'll resist the temptation to tell my partner she needs to be as vague as possible about her dating life for as long as possible, just to drive him slowly insane.

Anyone else up for dodgeball, girls or guys? (And that means you, L--your hubby too.) I'd love to get more girls involved and show this dude what's up.

The sainthood prep (rant imminent, in other words)

2006-05-14T19:29:00.000-05:00

OK, I know I just complained about some of the shortcomings of society, so it's really tiresome of me to do it again so quickly. And I do tell myself, all the time, that it's not my job to judge anyone. Many a critical comment has died before reaching my lips in the year since I made a pact with myself to stop uselessly complaining about other people's disturbing tendencies--first, because I have so many disturbing tendencies of my own and am really not one to talk, and second, because there's nothing to be done about it and my time is short on this earth, which prompts me to deprioritize complaining in favor of more worthwhile activities, such as deciding who is going to play the triangle and who is going to play the plastic crocodile. And are tambourines REALLY necessary? That's what you have to ask yourself.

One of Mr. S's more annoying traits is his intense reaction to littering. Because guess who gets to hear about how bad littering is and why it shouldn't happen, ESPECIALLY WHEN THE TRASH CAN WAS RIGHT THERE, I MEAN TWO FEET AWAY, HOW EFFING LAZY CAN YOU BE, I AM TOTALLY GOING TO GO GET MY SEVENTY GUNS AND PUMP THAT GUY FULL OF LEAD, THEN I WILL BURN DOWN THIS RESTAURANT FOR ALLOWING SUCH A MAN TO PATRONIZE THEIR ESTABLISHMENT? Me. I get to hear about it. The litterer is long gone and has not repented of his crimes, even though, as Mr. S and I had both watched the offending party throw his cigarette butt on the sidewalk, I had done my best to plead with my sweet puppy eyes. Please don't throw that on the ground. I get punished when that happens. What? No, no, I don't mean I get punished because I have to live in a dirty environment. I mean, I live with THIS guy--jabs weary thumb in direction of steaming short man directly to her right--and THIS guy really hates both littering and researching his target audience, which is why he spends most of his time complaining about littering to a person who couldn't bring herself to spit her gum out into the shrubbery even if there were a big sign that said "This Is the Gum Shrubbery. Please Dispose of Gum Here When You Are Tired of It. We Won't Even Be Mad. In Fact We Like It. And So Does the Gum Shrubbery. The Gum Shrubbery Eats Your Tasty Gum and Then Smiles Gratefully and Grants Every Last One of Your Wishes."

Everytime Mr. S rants to me about littering all the way to the car, I think about how often I've committed the same bile-spewing infraction. In the end, it's not fun for anyone, and I'm a thousand times happier now that I only do it when it's appropriate and amusing, such as when I'm with a friend who is not only enjoying my bile but is begging for more and offering to buy me another drink. Funny bile is not even the same as regular bile. Regular bile is small, self-loathing, and pitiful, ready to cut others down just to raise itself a notch. "Funny bile" is just another name for my unique brand of irresistible charm. The two are completely different.

This no-bile (OK, less-bile) pact with myself is one reason this blog is usually so positive; I very rarely make an exception to it, even for celebrities who are practically begging for my criticism. It doesn't hurt to make fun of celebrities, does it? Yes, it does, at least for me. Because that's not what I want to spend my time doing when there are so many more positive experiences to be had. Well, I don't want to spend my time doing it unless it's going to earn me an appletini. In that case, open your wallet and I'll tell you exactly what I think of the latest American Idol contestants ... Ha! I don't even watch that show! Too late, I already took a sip.

So yes. Both in my personal life and on this blog, the bile has been greatly reduced, and the bile reduction has gotten easier and easier over time, until it almost feels unnatural and wrong to publicly say something mean about Britney Spears. I KNOW! Crazy! Resisting the urge to say mean things about Britney Spears is downright un-American. But the more I try to keep my mouth shut, and the more I try to be aware of my own bile-spewing failures and improve on them, the worse other habitual bile-spewers sound to me. I start thinking, Wow, the person you're bitching about sounds pretty lame, but you sound even lamer, because you're angry about something some irrelevant stranger did. You've gone on and on about that woman's fanny pack for fifteen minutes. And just yesterday you were mad at someone else for wearing ill-fitting cargo pants. Now that I think about it, you spend an awful lot of time steeping yourself in senseless anger.

So, as part of my obviously successful journey to sainthood, I now just wince inwardly at whatever silly human tendency is bothering me, recognize it as my issue, not theirs, and move on. Well, I move on unless the person in question is a really obnoxious hipster. Or a really annoying self-righteous virgin. Ugh. Don't get me started on OBNOXIOUS AND SELF-RIGHTEOUS VIRGIN HIPSTERS. That's the worst human being possible and I offer you a $500 reward for every one of them that you can deliver dead onto my doorstep.

Ha! Kidding. I don't want to kill hipsters OR virgins. Those are just silly examples! And besides, I must now devote all of my energy to killing the person I'm about to talk about. In the next post.

You can tell I'm feeling a little better ...

2006-05-14T16:34:00.000-05:00

... because the ridiculous ideas are creeping back in again. When I'm running at top speed and am my usual annoyingly boisterous self, I'm always churning out these absurd, yet tantalizing plans instead of, you know, updating my paperwork or putting gas in the car. Who wants to put gas in the car when you can write out a detailed outline of how exactly you would put together a band that plays only children's toys, once a week, in the park?

Not that I can take full credit for that idea. From the moment this happened, my love of music has been resurrected ... but in a rather odd form. I just keep thinking, What if there were a band where anyone could join and anyone could play, as long as they knew their numbers and/or colors? What if all you needed to succeed was a nearly unhealthy level of enthusiasm and some semblance of an attention span?

First, I have the musical know-how and designing ability to create sheet music for each toy instrument with little effort; I can read music and have no trouble making sense of it or transcribing it into colors/numbers. Second, the world of children's toys offers so many options, even for really stupid people. Take, for instance, deskbells. Oh, you're dumb? No problem. You get one bell. Please push the button whenever navy blue shows up under the lyrics, which happens exactly four times during this song. You don't even need to take that other finger out of your nose ... but for obvious reasons, I would prefer that you please designate a Bell Finger early on and stick with it.

For the more advanced musician, there's always the 8-note glockenspiel.

Best of all, we would of course avoid songs like "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," choosing instead to cover such classics as Eminem's "Mockingbird" or perhaps the Super Mario Brothers theme. I'm thinking that Tenacious D's "F--k Her Gently" will be necessary for those romantic types.

I like the idea of a band where the goal is not for each individual musician to become very talented or very capable, but for each musician to offer his or her very simple part for the greater good, so that, after more practice than most boring and unimaginative adults are willing to devote themselves to, something complex and elaborate may be shared by all, presented with a charming element of dissonant chaos. In other words, I'm a filthy godless communist. Or at the very least someone in need of either a life or a consolatory membership in the local handbell choir.

But handbells choirs are so TIDY. They all are in perfect tune with one another, which isn't really that much fun at all. MACHINES can do that. There's no personality there. I want my band members to have the freedom of choice! If not the concertina, then the slide whistle! If not the slide whistle, then ... oh hell, for all I care you can play the crocodile.

Even the utterly musically hopeless have options. Yes, even the really, really musically hopeless. I think that's why I like the idea so much. From what I can tell from the various product descriptions, our biggest weaknesses will be a heavy dependence on bells and toy pianos for the sharps and flats, and a lack of bass, though some bass will be helpfully provided by Sam, via the mini button accordion--one of the only toy instruments available with a decent level of bass. (Apparently kids love hearing shrieky high-pitched noises as much as they enjoy making them, if the current toy instrument offering is to be believed.)

At any rate, I see no reason not to get started. I've got my work cut out for me, though. Not only do I need a talented but humble giver who is willing to lower themselves to the not-so-simple but decidedly boring task of providing the basic beat on the woodblock (harder than it looks, if you've ever tried it), but I also need a member who is selfless enough to drag this to the park once a week.*

I have a long way to go, so for now I'm going to have to content myself with Sam's enthusiastic offer of joining me in a duet. We're going to focus mostly on vintage Michael Jackson (I'm thinking "Man in the Mirror" will be our finale piece, but it's still very much under discussion), but eventually I'm thinking we'll at least get around to the Metroid theme song and maybe even a little Eric Carmen. Hungry eyes ... I've got huuuuungry eyes ...

As for band names, well. Let me know if you think of anything. For the toy band, I'm thinking I'll stick with the concept Sam and I came up with together: Ages 3 and Over. I think my accordion duet with Sam needs a special name, though ... Wheezer.

Get it? WHEEZER? Oh man. This is gonna be great.

No, I'm not done with my manuscript yet. I don't see what that has to do with anything.
-----
*As a once-proficient pianist who still has a great deal of residual skill, I play a mean pink grand piano, but I hate to hog the limelight.

Cancerbaby is dead. My throat hurts.

2006-05-13T01:34:00.000-05:00

Cancerbaby, who we now know as Jessica, has died. What a terrible loss for her family, for her readers, for those who never got the chance to know her. Rest in peace, Jessica. You touched so many.

Miss P commented on my last post, "ha ha you're a great writer and I am a faithful reader....maybe you should read cancer, baby today before you complain about your sore throat again!"

I was initially just going to ignore it, but I just had to speak out on this, not because I want to punish Miss P but because the "it could be so much worse, thus your pain doesn't matter" philosophy behind her words is so frightfully common. And so frightfully flawed, in my opinion. How we hurt each other with this idea. How we disrespect each other with this idea. Just because two events are simultaneous, that does not make them related. I am startled that anyone would draw a parallel of any kind between my sore throat and a tragic death just because the two situations are occurring at the same time. Yet the majority of people I know share the basic philosophy behind this idea, which is why it seems important to talk about it.

First, I understand this comment was an attempt at humor, but I feel compelled to say that I found the joke to be a pretty inappropriate way of informing me that someone I care about is dead--yes, this is how I found out the horrible news. I'm not angry, as I like to assume the best in people and am guessing the intentions are good, but ... yeah. I enjoyed neither the implication that I do not appreciate what I have, nor the ill taste with which this sentiment was delivered. If you were geniunely mistaken about who I am as a person, please know that I appreciate everything I have. I love my life. I hang onto it with everything I can, enjoying everything I can, because you never know when it will be gone. As moments happen I try to trap them, savor them, seize them, keep them, as best I can. I have a collection of them, and they are more treasured than anything else I own. Each has been a gift. None of them were owed to me.

She's dead, my throat hurts. Both are as true as they ever were. In fact, my throat hurts worse, and today I discovered an ulcery thing back there that explains the problem, which means the problem is not going to go away soon, and quite frankly I'm pretty pissed about it. That's right: she's dead and I'm mad about that AND my sore throat. What exactly does that say about me, again?

If only those who had it the worst were allowed to complain, nearly all of America would be silent tonight. Not even Cancerbaby would be allowed to complain, even if she could speak; after all, she did enjoy thirty-three years of a privileged developed-country existence that most people in places like Ethiopia can only dream of. Does that make her pain irrelevant or unimportant?

God, I certainly hope not. She mattered to me.

I matter to me too.

We all suffer. It's OK for us to say it aloud.

I? Am pathetic.

2006-05-12T03:51:00.000-05:00

Did you realize that my throat still hurts? Did I mention that enough times already? Do you have any idea how old a sore throat gets after a while? Almost as old as a blogger who will not stop complaining about it.

At any rate: after this week of the stupid sore throat that won't go away, I am feeling pathetic. So, so pathetic. Like, I'm the rotten part of an apple. Or perhaps some sort of sewer sludge. I felt sick for a week, did nothing, and now I am made up entirely of tooth crud, or at least that's how it feels. I rarely indulge in self-hatred, but when I do, it's always always always about this: about the way I will merrily FLING myself off the slippery slope of laziness and unproductivity, rather than easing down it more innocently.

"Oh, you're being too hard on yourself." No. I'm not. I have done nothing for days on end. NOTHING. Your idea of nothing and my idea of nothing are not the same. You're thinking, "Oh, nothing, like you mean you did the bare minimum by going to work, coming home, eating something, and falling into bed." No, I mean nothing, like I've barely left the house, have made no money at all, and have slept for like sixteen hours a day. The only "something" I have done is sit and think about how I should really be doing something. And wondering why I can't just do something already. Seriously. I can control my own limbs. Surely I can make them do something. Or I could just sit here. Hm. Time for bed! Because my throat hurts.

I realize that I was geniunely sick, and that the highly distracting and tempting Mr. S has been home for what is starting to seem like the longest vacation ever (not because we're not getting along, which is actually kind of amazing now that we are both here 24/7, but because I seriously can't remember the last time he went to work--it was before Hawaii). I realize there are extenuating circumstances. But let's admit it: the circumstances faded out about three days ago, for the most part, and now it's just me and my own laziness dragging me down. Which makes me feel pathetic. And I hate feeling pathetic. I like being happy. I'm a happy person! Except when I am sewer sludge.

I do not want to limp along. I want to be POWERFUL. I want to own it, work it, and shake it, snap snap snap. I am currently not owning it. I am currently just sort of wandering around in my bathrobe, not owning or working anything and certainly not snapping.

So. With that in mind, here is the plan.

I am going to get some cheese. And some tea. And possibly Cocoa Krispies. And then I am going to work, and make some money, and pull myself up by my robe straps, and remember a little thing called jihad. The very, very long chapters 3 and 4 are going to be MINE tonight. Or this morning. Whatever. It's going to take a long time, but when I am done, I will feel better. I will feel like me again.

Except I will still have a sore throat, of course. But whatever.

*SNAP!*

UPDATE: Mission complete. Am feeling better about myself and ready to go out and have fun tonight. Am once again happy person. Tired happy person, but that's OK--I needed to do this so I didn't worry myself into an ulcer this weekend. Now I can enjoy my visiting friends without having to work, or more accurately, without having to fake a smile while not working when really every bone in my body is crying out, OH MY GOD WE HAVE TO WORK OR DEADLINE IS GOING TO KILL US. And instead I have to be festive and eat hamburgers while worrying incessantly in the back of my mind--it's torture when it happens, and I'm so glad I avoided it. My friend would be like, "So where do you want to get coffee?" and my bones would be all SWEET JESUS WE ARE ONLY ON PAGE 27. Which is distracting, as you can imagine, because the real answer is "I want chai. We must go somewhere that has chai." But I saw it coming and kicked some ass, and now I can tell you all about why researchers think Prince Henry the Navigator was gay. I'm thinking I'll be the source of ALL the party conversation at the rate I'm going.

Have a good weekend, everyone! Enjoy not being made of tooth crud. I certainly am.

I think I scared Fluid Pudding.

2006-05-10T22:36:00.000-05:00

So Angela of Fluid Pudding and I happened to be in the same chatroom today. I read her all the time, and as a result I greeted her so enthusiastically that I think I geniunely frightened her. She was all, "Oh, ha, well anyway, gotta go to bed," but what she really meant was, "It terrifies me that you so casually and effortlessly infiltrated my online world. Goodbye." I had to laugh. But it was a dry laugh. Full of bitterness, actually. A dry, bitter laugh.

Or maybe she really had to go to bed. But anyway! What we were doing in the same chatroom, you ask? Well. Recently I joined stlbloggers, and I just wanted to plug it here in hopes that other STL bloggers will join too. There are some very cool blogs on there. And some blogs manned by completely insane people, like the kind that can make your heart beat faster just by standing ten feet away from you in the produce section of the supermarket. Also some blogs are written by people who frighten other people out of chatrooms. So basically it's kind of a sampling of the wider web in general.

Anyway, if you're from STL, and you're normal or better yet harmlessly abnormal in a charming sort of way, go there and join and be my friend. I'm planning a sort of mafia within stlbloggers--a posse, if you will. We can have sparkling dinners out about town and we can throw our heads back and laugh, especially when we know other people are looking at us, and then we can walk down the street in slow motion while wearing coordinating clothing and everyone WILL BE SO JEALOUS.

Hi, I'm Schnozz. My throat is still sore and I don't feel well enough to go anywhere but I'm getting sort of stir-crazy over here so please help me.

Anyone looking for a car?

2006-05-10T22:10:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: SOLD! Sniff. Goodbye Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty. You were a good car. Good luck being repaired and flipped by Mr. Handyperson. May you cruise to loud tunes (hopefully not Matchbox Twenty tunes) for many more years.

(taken from the craigslist posting):

"This listing is for a 2000 Dodge Neon, automatic transmission, with 120,000mi (but these are almost entirely highway miles--it was a commute car). Several belts and other parts have been replaced as routine maintenance, and it's been well taken care of.

This car is in nice shape overall and is a good deal for someone who is handy. We are not handy.

The car itself is in good shape, but it leaks a little oil in town and a LOT of oil on the highway (as in, do not drive it on the highway). For a long time, no one could find any problems with it at all, so we had it tested with dyed oil, and the problem is the head gasket.

We're not willing to spend the money to replace the gasket. But just like anything when it comes to auto repair, if you knew how to do it or knew someone who did (guess who doesn't?), it wouldn't cost much. A head gasket kit for it costs $150 or so. You could get away with delaying this fix if you're driving it in town, but please realize that massive oil leakage is guaranteed if you push this car to highway speeds. We can drive it in town all day with no problems--in fact, we originally drove it to death in town trying to figure out what was wrong with it, and finally had to take it on the highway to get the dyed oil to leak out.

**OTHER ISSUES**
An informed consumer is a happy consumer, yes? No one likes nasty surprises, so here is every other issue I could think of.

--The emergency brake on the car works, but I don't recommend using it for long periods of time. Actually, no one recommends that on ANY car. Which would have been good to know when I parked it for a month at the airport, only to come back to a stuck-down brake that wouldn't budge. Be aware that the tendency exists, though like I said, supposedly this is common knowledge on any vehicle. Also this car has an automatic transmission, which supposedly means the brake is never necessary as a parking brake, even on hills. Perhaps you should reserve the emergency brake for, like, emergencies.

--There is a crack on the corner of the front bumper that isn't all that noticeable, but it is there. The car has never been in an accident that would damage it structurally--this was just a tap. You know, the affectionate sort of tap that says, "Hi! Here I am, parking right behind you!" Ahem. The crack is included in one of these images, but it's tough to see in pics this small. I have a better picture if you need it.

--Another weird little problem with the car that isn't all that significant is that it's best to leave the steering column cover off. It's a design flaw--at certain wheel-height settings, the cover fits too tightly and will often pinch the wiring that controls the taillights and gauge lights, causing them to turn off unexpectedly--obviously a safety hazard at night. After struggling with this problem a year or so ago, we got tired of adjusting the cover to prevent this and just left it off, and we haven't had the problem since. It's cosmetically less desirable, but otherwise not much of an issue.

That's it for the problems--everything else is in working order. The car has a good amount of use left for the right person.

Interested buyers can (comment on this blog or e-mail me, jenniDELETEherself at yahoo, please remove the delete).

Thanks!"

Sigh. I like this car. I'll miss it if we actually manage to sell it. The car's name, if you were wondering, is "Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty" (because the car is standard and unexciting, but always seems to get the job done reliably). I wonder if I'll be able to convince the buyer that the name comes with the car in a package deal.

Anyone? Bueller?

(UPDATE: OK, the good news is that lots of people appear to want the car. The bad news is, THEY ARE CALLING AT SIX AM. ARE YOU SERIOUS? SIX AM? I mean, I'm often still awake then--as I am now, at eight--but how rude is that? Calm down, people. It's a Neon with a blown head gasket, not a World Series baseball that has just fallen into the bleachers next to you. Frantic scrambling is really not necessary.)

Incoherent ramblings about a certain seven-year span

2006-05-09T17:50:00.000-05:00

When I was younger (I'm old now, remember), and someone asked me about Mr. S, the words came easily. They spilled out eagerly: He's hilarious, he's sweet, he's smart, he's so full of energy and life. I would talk about what a great father he was going to be, how I couldn't wait to have kids with him. I would go on and on about how he always made me breakfast, took care of me in a million different ways.

Now, if someone asked me to describe Mr. S, I'm pretty sure I would open my mouth and then just close it again.

"Well," I might say. "I dunno." And then a minute would go by. And then I would add helpfully, "I read books. He flies planes. We have a rabbit." And then you would find some reason to excuse yourself, perhaps saying you had to go to the bathroom. "Oh, Mr. S and I do that sometimes," I would say cleverly. You would nod over your shoulder as you strode swiftly away to call the proper authorities.

I find myself, Mr. S, and our relationship increasingly difficult to describe. Does anyone else find this to be true of their long-term relationships? Everything gets a little more tangled, a little more complicated. Categories start to disappear, or at least complexify. Though I'm no less happy in this marriage than I was the day I walked down the aisle, I can no longer give you the Match.com profile breakdown of what my husband is like, or even what I'm like. I suppose I used to be "outgoing, goofy, and energetic." I still am those things, but there are weird tastes mixed in with it these days--strange contortions of increasing maturity that I find very difficult to summarize here. It seems that as you age, everything comes with a yes, but in some way.

If you can't tell, I find this concept very difficult to articulate, and am just sort of struggling through it here, because I want to say all of this, even if I say it badly.

I suppose what I mean to say is that everything starts out black and white, and the longer you make it past the first date, the more you slide into the Great Big Gray Area of Love.

Mr. S and I have both grown up. He's not necessarily the one who cooks anymore. I'm not necessarily the one who forgets to put away the milk. I no longer entirely accept his theories on what should happen next; he no longer entirely believes me when I say I plan to get a lot of work done right after I finish this video game level. Under the illumination of years of day-to-day living, as we're turned this way and that, small flaws and strengths have emerged, little niches of ability (or lack thereof) that neither of us were aware existed, and so much less is certain today than it was yesterday. I both cringe at this uncertainty and embrace it; after all, nothing was certain before. I just thought it was. Which was actually kind of dumb of me. And I'd rather know the truth of uncertainly than live in a lie of confidence.

So what's certain now? Nothing, really. Our decision to move away from our hometown was the beginning of something bigger. The plans that existed when we got together have mostly been swept away, replaced with new ones that may or may not come to fruition. I grew up, he grew up, I grew up some more, and suddenly a needy infant wasn't quite so Hallmarky, suddenly a house looked like a lot of work, and suddenly our riches didn't seem nearly so guaranteed. Suddenly everything required reevaluation and meditation, and suddenly the answers seemed very far away.

But with complexity comes options, and the increasing feeling that Mr. S and I are sculpting something new together, rather than trudging along together, tracing tired old tracks, with similar couples both ahead of and behind us. This new voyage is both refreshingly open and a weighty responsibility. Gone is the idea that we're simply going to have two kids and a yard. Gone is the notion that we'll simply be together forever; though I still believe it, I no longer accept it as a right I have been given, a wish that has already been granted. Now it seems like a wish that should be made every day, voiced with a kiss or a kind word. The scary truth of this journey is that we could fail. The scary truth is that we have only ourselves and each other to depend on, to listen to. The scary truth is that it's only been seven years, which is not even that long, yet so much as changed already as to render the future completely unimaginable.

The refreshing truth is that no matter how it turns out, it belongs to us. Together. We are not living someone else's expectations or demands; we are not subscribing to a future just because we've already seen it in our parents or grandparents. Whatever happens will be ours to regret or celebrate. That makes me feel proud, even when it also makes me feel afraid.

The love we had no longer seems like a bright, sweet beam that blasts a straight path for us to follow. Now it has currents, eddies. Now it has sparkles of bliss and crackles of pain. Now we have to dig the channel it flows in. Now there is work, but also much reward.

I've never been more confused. I've never been less certain of my future.

I've also never been happier.

Every day, when I (finally) roll out of bed, my life feels real to me. It feels alive, present, accounted for. It doesn't feel tired, or cliche, or thoughtless. It is deliberate, chosen, preferred. On one hand, it doesn't feel guaranteed. On the other hand, it doesn't feel like a trap. And every night, when I look over at Mr. S and see that he has once again surrounded himself in a sea of pillows, yet is still managing to practically fall off the edge of the bed, the unsuppressible grin on my face feels truer than all those generic, cliched, sappy things I used to love him for. Nearly falling off the bed amid a sea of pillows ... what a strange thing to love someone for. But life seems full of that odd, nearly indescribable minutiae now. The small things seem to matter more than the intensely romantic marriage proposal or the amazing birthday. Whether we like it or not, the small things are the everyday reality. Fortunately, I like this particular reality very much, even if it's absolutely nothing like what I thought it would be.

On May 15, I will have known Mr. S for seven years. I will have loved him for nearly that, though in a much different way today than I did then. Mr. S, I am still choosing you, perhaps more deliberately than ever before. With my eyes open, I am choosing you--not through inertia, not through habit, not through fear, but through love: for-real love, falling-off-the-bed-despite-all-those-goddamn-pillows love. I am choosing to believe in us, despite the flaws I now know you have, and the flaws of my own I've been ashamed to discover.

And as much as nothing seems the same, as much as I can't believe that was you and that was me up there in front of everybody saying our vows, as much as I can't believe we even thought we knew what the hell we were doing then, I'm so glad we're still here, discovering that no matter what city we move to or how scary and old we get, our laughter still sounds the same.

Especially when you're chasing me around the house, after very suddenly announcing, for no logical reason I can discern, that you're planning to pee on me. Which was gross, by the way. Not to mention completely bizarre. Though I must admit, as I saw you galloping merrily across the living room with your pants half down, even as the shrieks of disbelief and terror came out of my mouth and scared the neighbors, even as I scrabbled backwards on both hands and feet trying to get away from you, I couldn't help but think, God, I love this man.

But only because I knew you weren't really going to do it.

Happy Day-We-Met Anniversary, Mr. S!

Bleh.

2006-05-08T23:48:00.000-05:00

Still sick. Just watched documentary about immune system. Am wondering where the hell my T cells are. COME ON T CELLS, THIS IS GETTING RIDICULOUS.

Must go sleep for forty more hours now. Jihad is temporarily in ruins. Stupid T cells.

Oh no.

2006-05-07T20:35:00.000-05:00

I knew this was coming, but I still can't really believe it. It just seems so breathlessly, stunningly, helplessly unfair.

If you've never read her, read her. She's an unbelievable writer and an inspiration. I want to say that now, before it becomes past tense, before I become any angrier than I already am.

Thanks for everything, CB. So many of us are thinking of you tonight and always.

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

2006-05-07T07:46:00.000-05:00

OK, so the jihad continues, right? THE JIHAD MUST GO ON. Despite the sore throat and chills and greasy hair. (The last of which is not actually an uncontrollable symptom, but for my purposes, we will pretend.)

As soon as I decided to work DESPITE the flulike illness I have, the very second I thought to myself, "I can do this," I immediately spun around enthusiastically and slammed my forehead into the corner of an open cabinet door hard enough to see sparklies. The sound of my skull bouncing off the wood was so loud that it even startled the rabbit. OW. As amazing as it sounds, I'm generally not one for hitting my head on things. At least I wasn't before I declared war on myself.

I shook it off and worked anyway. Despite the sore throat, chills, greasy hair, and NEAR CONCUSSION. Because this is a jihad and jihads are not negotiable. (It is the policy of this administration not to negotiate with terrorists.)

And then ... around page 7 ...

Guess what. No, really, guess.

CHEST PAINS.

Is that not the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard in your entire life? I will pay you a dollar if you can tell me a less logical true story than the one I'm telling you right now.

I think this makes me officially crazy. Doesn't it? I would laugh if I weren't so freaked out right now about the ass-toxin theory, which has returned with a vengeance. I need to take a vote: now that I've smacked my head, had a sore throat, had ... digestive issues, been cursed with sort-of-inexplicable-but-mostly-logical greasy hair, and now am having stabby pains on the left side of my chest right in between my ribs, how many of you think I'm really doing this to myself? (Go ahead, be honest.) Because that is a pretty fascinating theory to me right now. It's been two days, and I've had more physical problems than the entire previous year. I always thought the concept of "mind over matter" was ridiculous, but that was before I had a lump on my head and I couldn't get warm and it hurt like crazy to yawn.

Look, I'm still not giving up. But apparently I don't have control over whether I assassinate myself. So I'm not promising this jihad is going to work out, continuing determination or no. I promise to do my best to finish the introduction of this book today, as planned, before my dark half kills me off with an aneurysm.

You know what would REALLY make this jihad impossible? You know what would keep me from ever being productive again?

Big boobs.

*waits expectantly*

Whatever happened to Hugh the rabbit?

2006-05-06T21:37:00.000-05:00

Some of you have probably wondered about a certain hoppity Hugh Hefner. There hasn't been much mention of him lately, has there? He sort of just disappeared off the rabbit radar, did he not?

Well ... there's a reason for that.

Oh, now. Come on. That was funny.*

Anyway: Good news! The ball-removal operation took care of Hugh's pungent, unlivable stench. Hugh is the least smelly bunny on the planet now. You can scoop him up and kiss him and pet him and sniff him, and there is nary a noxious odor to be found. (What will be found is a highly annoyed rabbit, so I don't recommend doing this to him all that often.)

Best of all, having his manhood removed didn't affect his handsomeness in the least. Say it with me: Awwwwwww.

For those of you new rabbit owners currently wearing clothespins on their noses and begging their rabbits to stop making sweet love to them, I will say that neutering comes at a price. Not that I regret it--anyone who regrets it apparently has no olfactory function--but it IS a little sad that I'm not Hugh's girlfriend anymore. There was a time that he would never leave my side, but after I handed him over to some guy with a scalpel, he totally broke up with me. He used to bring me chocolates and take me out dancing. And now, if I'm not petting him on the forehead, I'm of little use to him, and he prefers to traipse about the kitchen, pushing empty boxes around in circles with his nose and gleefully tearing up paper towels. (He LOVES it when I put a few down on the floor for him, and he has a favorite empty soda-can box that he scoots merrily all over the kitchen.)

He is rather hard to photograph when he's feeling rowdy, but you can't say I didn't try.

Therefore, in the pictures that actually turn out, Hugh is half awake, if that.

Another sad thing is that Hugh doesn't buzz much anymore. He used to buzz loudly when he was talking to me, and even when he was far away from me, he would punctuate each hop with a quiet little buzz to himself as he moseyed along. It was really cute, and it never occurred to me that he would stop doing it just because we maimed him a little. But it turns out that rabbit buzzing roughly translates to "Get over here, baby, and let Poppa give you some sugar." Because now that Hugh isn't nearly so amorous, he isn't nearly so loud either. Thankfully, he does still buzz a little, usually when he wants me to pet him.

Most of Hugh's personality is intact, though. He still makes himself into a rabbit periscope, little front paws dangling in the air, as he checks out his surroundings. He often swivels to and fro when doing this, making his ears flop about in a very charming manner. Only coldblooded serial killers are not charmed by this. In fact that's how police identify them: the Rabbit Ear Flop Test. It's admissible in court, you know.

And Hugh still likes to show off his big rabbit booty and his giganto back feet. You know what they say about a rabbit with big back feet.

They say, "Look! A rabbit."

Perhaps the most exciting news, at least for lazy me, is that Hugh simply does not poop or pee when he's out of his cage. He'll make it four hours in his carrier (perhaps longer, but we've never tried it) and as long as he needs to in the kitchen --which isn't all that long, because he will often climb back into his cage on his own after he's done playing and rest in there with the door open, as he prefers to sleep/poop/eat in there, where he knows we've agreed not to bother him. (Though, as you see in the pictures, he also likes snuggling against the outside of his cage and sleeping that way.) I let him out every day for a couple of hours of playtime, and he's never had an accident on the floor. Nor has he ever had an accident in his carrier. Not one. I find this astonishing, and have no idea if it's typical or not. All I know is, it makes Hugh very little work, as I pretty much never have to clean up after him, besides just folding up his old puppy pad, spraying a little disinfectant, and laying down a new one in its place. It amazes me that Hugh is far, far easier to take care of than Carlos**, but he is.

Hugh will climb into and out of his cage when prompted, which is what the rabbit people recommend, so the rabbit won't feel as if he is a prisoner being dragged everywhere. Getting him to climb out is easy; he's usually pretty eager to come out and play, which he casually, subtly demonstrates by smashing his face against the cage bars so hard that his nose and cheeks ooze through the grid.

Getting him into the cage is just as easy. I had read that if you annoy a rabbit, he will usually get into his cage just so you'll leave him alone. It's true: all I have to do is talk to him loudly while following him there, and he finds me so irritating that he'll do anything to get away from my loud singsong voice. He hops right in every time and lets me close the door. At which point he gets lots of praise--WHAT A GOOD BUNNY, OH HUGH IS THE BEST BUNNY, YES HE IS--and a sprig of broccoli as a treat. He then munches happily for the next few minutes before realizing that he's been duped. Again.

But Hugh is a forgiving bunny, so he usually doesn't hold it against us. In fact, Hugh is a lot sweeter and snugglier these days.

The other day I decided to see what he would do if I didn't pet him right away when he put his head down for me to do it. I just lay next to him, where he could see me. He surveyed me, waited a minute for me to pet him, then buzzed loudly and smushed his forehead into my forehead.

And that's when I knew, for sure, with no more "if we keep him"s or "if this works out"s that Hugh was the rabbit for me.

Welcome to the family, Hugh Hefner.

(P.S., I am still sick, Internet. You are not allowed to stop feeling sorry for me.)
-----------
*Originally I was going to stick Hugh in a pot, set him on the stove, and wait for him to inevitably peep out in bafflement. Then I would take a picture of it, and it would be hilarious. But at the last minute he looked at me with his sweet little face and I just couldn't go through with it. As even-tempered as he is, no one likes being trapped in a giant metal cylinder.
**Speaking of Carlos, a few people have asked me if Carlos is being ignored now. The honest answer is, "Well, sort of." And the truth is, Carlos loves it. As far as we can tell, his attitude is, "Thank God they got a pet they can actually TOUCH, so they can finally stop terrorizing me as I scramble from one side of my cage to another to avoid their filthy human flesh." That said, I make sure to spend a little time hanging out with Carlos now and then. Even though Carlos doesn't care. Just to ease my conscience. Humans are weird sometimes.

Booyah.

2006-05-06T01:06:00.000-05:00

(See also: shazam.)

I am not going to tell you it was easy. It was not easy. I proved to be a much more tenacious enemy than originally estimated.

The day of the closet attack, I woke up feeling horrible. I mean, really horrible: chills, stomach cramps, weird things coming out of my butt. I mumbled that last part so you wouldn't really hear me.

I was, and still am, more freaked out by this than I have ever been about anything. What if it wasn't a coincidence? What if I have the ability to physically sabotage myself? How unbelievable is that? Does my lazy ass manufacture certain fever-inducing toxins that are only released in an emergency, such as when my ass checks my blog and finds out that it's closet-cleaning time? I expected the struggle. I expected the claims of fatigue. I expected the procrastination tactics, such as "Hey, this would be a good time to rearrange the furniture, plus weren't you planning on randomly starting to write a book today?" I was prepared for that. But the ass toxins. I did not expect the ass toxins.

So anyway, there I was, violently ill, shivering, miserable, thinking, Okay, I really really can't do this today. I know I said I would, but these are extenuating circumstances. Surely everyone will understand. Surely a jihad gets postponed occasionally. Even extremists get the flu.

Which was exactly what I wanted me to think. Exactly what I had planned against myself all along.

Deep down, I could not shake the belief that there really were deadly ass toxins (not to be confused with deadly-ass toxins, which just means normal toxins that are really deadly). I realize that science very nearly demands that I admit it was just coincidence ... but then again, abnormal psychology demands no such admission, and when one is waging a jihad against oneself, abnormal psychology is empirically considered the more relevant field, wouldn't you agree?

At any rate, I dove in anyway. I could not be prouder of this. I swigged Pepto Bismol, ate some cheese for good measure, ate some more cheese because cheese tastes really good, and geared up to try on everything in my wardrobe. And possibly run around the house in it. To music. Which is what I did when I found my blue satin cocktail dress. The one with a corset for a top and a skirt of flouncy organza that lands at mid-thigh. (I think I've grown since high school. Either that or my mom likes her daughters slutty. If you knew my mother you would be as sure as I am that I've really just grown a little since high school.*) Yes, I was still sick. But you have to run, or the skirt won't swish out around your legs. Plus your legs look better when you're running vs. just standing there. And then you need music or there's nothing to run around to.

Also the dress looks better with a tiara. Or so they say.

The above picture of my messy closet does not do it justice AT ALL. That mess was like four feet deep, as I soon discovered when I started tentatively poking at my closet with a stick. I broke some dam somewhere, and the deluge was intense.

The closet was fine until I messed with it. Just fine. Then I poked it in the wrong place and ...

I'LL NEVER LET GO, JACK! I'LL NEVER LET GO!

I don't think I realized how long of a night it was going to be until I was standing in my slowly emptying closet, looking out. Sweet mother of God.

Please note that absolutely no effort was made to make the above photos look extra messy for dramatic effect. I might have, just for the humor, but to my mingled excitement and dread, that turned out to be very, very unnecessary. In a way that sort of makes you laugh and cry at the same time. Please note also that despite the giant mess on the floor, BOTH BARS OF THE CLOSET ARE NEARLY FULL ALREADY.

Once I had managed to spread the contents of my closet throughout the large bedroom, I began throwing things away with extreme prejudice. My problem in the past has been that when I assessed what to throw away, I asked myself the following questions:

1. Is it in good shape?
2. Do I like how it looks on me?
3. Does it go with lots of other stuff, including shoes?
4. How much did it cost?
5. What sort of sentimental value does it hold?
6. How angry would the starving children be if they found out I threw it away?
7. Can I think of at least five highly unlikely but remotely possible scenarios in which I would wear it?
8. Would other people wear it if they owned it?
9. Could it perhaps be used as a dustrag or something?
10. Or a weird sort of hat?

The implementation of these already questionable questions bordered on the ridiculous. In response to question 7, for example, my mental commentary was often something like, What if someone was throwing a Green Sweaters with Purple Stripes Party? If I threw this away then what would I do when that invitation showed up in the mail? Well, besides just wearing my other green sweater with purple stripes. But I might not feel like wearing that one. I NEED OPTIONS.

This time, I recognized the error of my ways. I only asked one question.

DO I EVER WEAR IT?

With this new and improved method, I threw away more than I kept. Seriously. I feel a little sick admitting that I had this many clothes in the first place, but I got rid of four garbage bags of clothing. Four big garbage bags. Stuffed to the gills.

It's not that I have ever been some giant fashionista, though I suppose I had my brief day in high school. It's that the ten questions I used to ask made throwing something away nearly impossible, so even with my infrequent shopping and ability to be content with the same clothes for a very long time, the situation just sort of snowballed. When I only asked one question, and when I answered it honestly, I was then able to cast off enough clothing to adequately dress the entire population of the state of Rhode Island. Or even New Hampshire. It's all nice stuff. It's all perfectly wearable stuff. It even looks good. I just don't wear it. For reasons unknown even to me, I prefer the same four outfits, regardless of the sea of clothing that I apparently own. It was time to just acknowledge that, so I could finally do ALL of my laundry without running out of places to hang it up.

In the end, there were only a few things I simply couldn't bear to throw away.

One was the blue flouncy cocktail dress, which was so fun to run around the house in that it seemed downright sinful to toss it into a bag and let some jerk at Goodwill have it for five dollars. Besides, it's the only dress I've ever had made just for me, and it fits as such. Nevermind that I could not possibly find a reason to wear it to anything. There's always Halloween, I guess.

Another was a pair of jeans with stars stitched down the sides (these are actually visible in a few of the photographs). Those jeans represent my very first pipe-leg, skater-pantsed deviation from The Man, and I just can't toss them. In my head I will fantasize about giving them to Goodwill, so they may be found by the next generation, but ... I just can't.

Everything else went, for the most part. I threw away bridesmaid dresses, prom dresses, tons of sweaters, jeans, and so on. At first it was painful. And then it was less painful. And then it just felt GOOD, like pulling on a particularly thick scab. You know, the really raised-up kind, with stiff edges that very nearly lift themselves away from your skin. That puppy is just DYING to come off. All you have to do is grit your teeth and pull with a wince of ecstasy. Underneath will be sweet pink baby skin. I promise.

And I did pull. For about eight hours I pulled. And as promised, under that nasty scab was ...

... a tile floor. Who knew?

Closet attack: Complete.

Oh, and the rest of the room? It's clean. I'm not about to cheat in this jihad. In fact after I finished the closet I went and flossed just to show myself who's boss.

Onward and upward. Watch out, me. I CONTINUE TO PLOT AGAINST YOU.

Oh, and this morning, after sleeping off the ass toxins, I awoke with a sore throat. I'm no doctor but I know that sore throats and scary butt emissions don't even go together. So apparently I will try any physiological tactic, however illogical, to ward myself off. Next week, when I begin my workflow attack, I fully expect a raging case of the shingles combined with some form of glaucoma.

(UPDATE: Turns out I'm actually dying after all, judging from how much worse my throat hurts now, and the fact that I am wrapped in six blankets and still have goosebumps. Also my muscles are suddenly really sore, and I can assure you that's not from the pitiful cake-stuffed jog I took the other day. Either the bad side of me is REALLY REALLY determined to triumph over this jihad, or I'm geniunely sick--and ass toxins are yet another urban myth. I can't decide if I'm happy--because my butt isn't poisoning me after all--or sad--because DUDE I'M SICK. Do we even have a thermometer? No. We do not. This means my temperature is 103 degrees by default and it's time to play video games all day. I can't edit with a mind-dulling 103-degree fever. It's irresponsible.)
------
*Yes, my dresses from high school still fit, eight years later--or at least, the ones with fitted bodices and loose skirts did. (Actually, all of them did, but sometimes the effect was ... unpleasant.) And yet I have gained over 35 pounds since high school. This confirms my worst fears: My torso is incapable of putting on weight. As I age, I am slowly but surely turning into a centaur.

No Pants Day

2006-05-04T20:20:00.000-05:00

No Pants Day: "People are encouraged to revel in the absence of pants, and not replace pants with other clothing. The point is to relax and enjoy the humor inherent in people not wearing pants. A good rule of thumb is to pretend like you were going to wear pants, and then just fail to put them on."

I think you already know what your Friday assignment is, boys and girls.

JIHAD.ach

2006-05-04T19:16:00.000-05:00

The other day, as I stood in front of my closet and surveyed its utter disaster, I suddenly became angry at both the world and myself. How dare the world be so chaotic that the laws of physics actually allow the monstrosity that is my closet to form? How dare I be so weak, so blind to the screaming red emergency that is my closet? What possible defense is there for standing idly by as my closet grows and grows into a seething mess of holey underwear and bridesmaid shoes from a 1999 wedding, forming tentacles and snatching little old ladies and small children alike, then yanking them into its sock-filled maw?

I was mad. Really: I looked at all of it and felt a rush of geniune anger. RIGHTEOUS anger. I was so mad that it really put me in the mood to sputter something to my long-suffering husband. So I did.

"I," I declared, with great emotion, "am declaring a ... a JIHAD on this closet."

The moment I said it, I knew it was true. Nothing less than a jihad would do. Cleaning my closet is not a goal. It is not a task. It is not a battle. It is a jihad. It will require courage. Strength. And the selflessness to fling myself on top of my laundry pile, thus protecting the world from its fumes.

Mr. S, who lost nearly everything in the Sept. 11 attacks and still can't really talk about what happened that day without either welling up or becoming so furious that we can't speak to one another, did not bat an eyelash, which is why I like him. He understood. He understood why jihad was the right word. The ONLY word that was strong enough. The only word that would save the planet from my high-school prom dresses.

In the days that have passed since I declared holy war on piles of dirty pajamas, my determination has only deepened ... and spread. Why stop there? I thought. Why stop at the closet when so many things in my life are in need of some serious jihad action?

It's true: that closet is an excellent metaphor for my life. There's no reason my life should be so messy. No one is overly busy. No one is incapacitated in any way. There is plenty of funding and access to helpful information. It is reasonably clear what SHOULD be happening at any given time (usually in alarmingly stark contrast to what is actually happening). I can't explain how I manage to make such a shambles of my deadlines, my budget, and my collection of brimming laundry baskets. I do not have children. I do not have a demanding job. I do not have much responsibility whatsoever. My life is actually pretty awesome. But when I say that, realize that by "my life" I mean the structure surrounding my life--the good job, the lack of responsibility, the nice place to live, etc. My life--my ACTUAL life, the experience and daily events of it--is a raging mess, as most people who know me could attest.

I do not have an excuse.

So, without further ado, I hereby declare a jihad on my entire life. I DECLARE A JIHAD ON MYSELF.

You heard me.

The next year will be about change. The next year will be about effort. The next year will be a stranger to complacency and denial. The next year will involve a DAY PLANNER. I might even manage to RSVP to something just to say I can't make it. You know, like you're supposed to, but no one ever does. No one like me ever does, anyway.

Jihad FAQ
1. Are you even using the word "jihad" correctly?
Yes. Webster defines a jihad as a crusade for a principle or belief. The principle or belief here is that I am a danger to myself and must be stopped immediately.

2. Don't you realize that the word "jihad" is a politically charged term, and your taking it lightly is disrespectful to victims of terrorism?
I resent your implication terrorists can own words--that they can take them away from us ... AND FROM AMERICA. The terrorists don't get to claim words, okay? These are my words too and I can use them when I want. If you make me stop using them, the terrorists won.

3. Um, fine. So what, exactly, will this jihad on yourself involve?
I'm not entirely sure. The closet attack is first; that is scheduled for tomorrow and I intend to work on that all day. After that, who knows? Perhaps there will be a cooking attack. Or a novel attack. The possibilities are endless. All I know is, I won't rest until my incompetent leader gets a grip and starts running things appropriately under the new regime. I deserve a jihad against myself. I am my own worst enemy. I do not care about me; it's evident from my lack of nutrition, organization, workflow, and any semblance of a budget. If it weren't for me, my novels would be finished by now. If it weren't for me, I would be able to sleep on my birthday, not struggle to make a deadline that should have been a piece of cake. If no one else is willing to take out the monster responsible for the travesty that is my life, I suppose it's up to me to finally do something about me. If I can get around to it, I mean.

Step 1 of the Schnozz Jihad (Step 1 being "find good software to help me sort out this gargantuan offensive") has been completed. After demoing various productivity software titles, I settled on the amazing Achieve Planner. This program is simply unbelievable in its flexibility and automation. A little bell goes off when it's time to go running; I've only had to tell it my running schedule once, and now every occurrence appears on the calendar, forever and ever, until I tell it otherwise. My task list is linked to the calendar; if I spend two hours editing a book and check it off in the calendar, my task list will update to log those hours. I'm fascinated with the notion of making myself completely pie-chart-able. Freaky. JIHAD.ach is now my computer's most frequently accessed file. I open it. And then I plot. And rub my hands together. And cackle to myself about how I'm so dumb and trusting that I'll never see THIS coming.

Mr. S watched me play with the software and listened to me marvel at its seemingly infinite life-management capabilities. In excitement he asked, "Is it OK if I add stuff to your calendar?" I got the sense that our entire marriage had been leading up to this question, which he spoke so delicately, afraid that if he talked too loud, he would wake himself up from this truly stellar dream he was having in which his wife not only PLANNED THINGS OUT, but invited him to JOIN IN THE PLANNING FUN.

Um, no. First of all, Mr. S is bossy enough as it is. As the laid-back member of the family, I very rarely assign him tasks; I simply don't care if anything gets done. As the more anal member of the family, Mr. S is always making annoying requests like "Hey, maybe you could read your mail sometime." Do I really need a hardass like that accessing my calendar file?

Second, not only is Mr. S bossy, he's also not very realistic about some aspects of marriage. Namely, all of them. You might even call this his tragic flaw. Mr. S's ideal wife wouldn't be much of a wife at all, at least not in the monogamous sense. She would also have the body of a professional athlete. She would eat lots of fruits and vegetables and would not even think of ingesting cheese that came out of a can, unlike his current spouse. She would love talking about football and wars and guns. The list goes on and on. In fact I'm pretty sure that if I allowed Mr. S to access my calendar file, it would look something like this.

Note that Achieve lets you schedule two tasks at once, something that I needed but couldn't find in a lot of the software. Note also that the schedule linked above uses this feature in a rather alarming fashion.

Step 2 of the Schnozz Jihad, the closet attack, will be carried out today. I am afraid. Any sane person would be. But no longer will I cower. It's time to take a stand. Against myself.

My weapons? My cunning, my perseverance, and my Napster playlist. The enemy? Formidable, as she ALSO has cunning, perseverance, and a Napster playlist.

May the best woman win.

Sunrise, Sunset

2006-05-03T20:17:00.000-05:00

So I had a pretty good birthday. But it didn't start off that way. At 12:01 AM on May 2, the VERY MOMENT I TURNED TWENTY-SIX (well, legally anyway), I was hunched over my laptop, slaving away, making a very painful morning deadline.* I hadn't really imagined exactly how I would spend the first moments of my birthday, but I'm pretty sure I hadn't intended to spend them reading an academic discussion on whether Jesus's original offer to Israel involved a political or spiritual kingdom. (On the plus side, I am now an expert in one more microniche topic. Collect 'em all!)

I was drop-dead tired by the time I climbed into bed at about 10:30 in the morning. I strategically arranged pillows around my wizened, rapidly aging face to block out the light, and as I settled my frail, aching bones down into the mattress and drifted off to sleep, my last thoughts were, Dude. Being twenty-six sucks. Being twenty-five is all about vacations to Hawaii. Being twenty-six apparently is all about editing 107 footnotes and then only getting five hours' sleep before rolling out of bed with just enough time to yank on shoes before stumbling out the door to go jogging. Oh wasted youth!

I don't remember the exact moment my birthday started to improve, but I'm pretty sure it was when I woke up a few hours later to the heavenly smell of a cake baking. Mr. S was trying to be all sneaky by making it while I was asleep, but he, despite my freakish physical appearance, had underestimated my sense of smell. Mr. S may have minded that I caught him, but I didn't mind ruining my own surprise one bit. Everyone should wake up snuggled under the weight of lots of covers, smack in the middle of the day, to what smells like the world's biggest sugar cookie baking in the oven. I mean, that's a pretty damn good Tuesday right there.

I drifted in and out of sleep, enjoying the wafting aroma of my rapidly improving birthday, until it was time to meet my jogging buddy in the park. Mr. S realized I needed to wake up soon, so he decided to sweetly and gently wake me up by clutching my foot as quickly as possible, dark-basement-stairs-killer-style, prompting me to jerk awake and curse his name.

But then he showered me with birthday excitement! Because he had been working on my cake all day! And now it was time for me to be excited too! Nevermind that I just woke up! COME ON SLEEPYHEAD! IT IS TIME FOR BIRTHDAY FUN!

Which is how I ended up opening my birthday present while sitting half-awake on the toilet. And also how I ended up allowing myself to be cajoled into eating two pieces of cake immediately before jogging (and long before actually blowing out the candles, which didn't happen until hours later). Sometimes I think I already know what it's like to have children.

Besides the fact that the cake was responsible for one of the most unpleasant jogs of my life, the cake really was quite spectacular. Mr. S did everything right, from the white creamy frosting to the happy confetti cake with all its little colored dots. It was touching that he knew me so well. He couldn't have pegged my tastes more perfectly, even if he had asked me what my perfect cake would be, and I had thought it over carefully, then described my fantasy cake in painstaking detail. Which is exactly what happened, of course. About five days ago. Look, this isn't Hollywood, OK? Husbands aren't just going to figure this stuff out.

I was dubious about the candles-forming-numbers thing, but it actually looked pretty badass when lit. Not that I took a picture of that. I was feeling withered and decrepit by then and could not be bothered, so busy was I gearing up for my attempt to wheeze out all 26 candles.

Anyway, Mr. S and I went to dinner and had a lovely time in general.

Here I am! I'm 26!

I just realized I'm wearing the same shirt I wore in the last photos of me. I swear I do wear other clothing. In fact, you can't see it in this picture, but I am wearing very special birthday undergarments.

If socks count as undergarments.

These socks were given to me months ago by my mother, who somehow has gotten into the habit of buying me socks for every occasion imaginable. I'm sure that she thought I would shove them into a drawer and forget all about them. BUT NO. I waited reverently for months, refusing to let the socks so much as touch a pinky toe until the real day came. I have discipline. At least when it comes to socks.

Anyway, it was a fun birthday, blah blah blah. Suddenly I'm feeling very bored with myself. Perhaps that's also a part of getting old?

Moving on--or rather, moving BACK--I have to tell you about the cake Sam and Becky and I made a few weeks ago. It all started when my sister worried aloud that she may not have time to order a Thomas the Train cake for my darling nephew, who was turning four.**

"Don't even worry about it," I said boldly. "I'LL make him a Thomas the Train cake!"

Sure, I'd never even made a cake before, much less a gluten-free one (so that my mother and sister could eat it too), much less a Thomas the Train cake. But I had the only important ingredients one needs to make a fabulous cake: moxie! and chutzpah! Plus a thesaurus.

Of course I would need backup, so I called my bakin' homies for some support. I was all, "Yo yo wassup we need some SPRINKLES." And they were all "We hear dat, we hear dat. You gots candles?" And I was all, "Oh I gots da candles. WE GOAN LIGHT IT UPPPPP!"

And then we all waved our hands in da ayair.

To fan the black, rolling smoke, I mean.

No, I'm kidding. It worked out fine. I was more than a little concerned that it had turned into a brick, because it weighed approximately 35 pounds, but apparently that's normal for a gluten-free cake. By the time we were finished decorating it, it weighed even more, but that's OK, because it was the best. cake. ever. Or at least you would think so if you were four.

BEHOLD:

Now THAT is a cake. Or an acid trip. But mostly a cake. That cake could kick your ass. That cake shattered the Cake Awesomeness Barrier. It also cost like forty goddamn dollars (note to Lis: my tone is playful, do not give me money), mostly because I doubted my ability to make trains out of frosting so I made them out of my credit card instead, plus we needed some stars and some frosting and sprinkles because THIS CAKE MUST REFLECT THE FULL SCOPE OF MY AUNTY LOVE. THIS CAKE MUST HAVE PERFECT CHOCOLATE TRAIN TRACKS BECAUSE ONLY THE BEST WILL DO. IF WE DO NOT MAKE HIM THE PERFECT CAKE HE WILL NEVER GET INTO HARVARD.

My nephew enjoyed it greatly. I won't post a picture of him enjoying it greatly because I value his privacy, but trust me, it was worth all the hard work my friends did while I sat and ate frosting out of a tub I had bought specifically for that purpose.

Anyway, happy birthday, Kyle! And happy birthday, me! And happy birthday, Internet! Eventually, I mean.
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*It's my fault, though. I have the greatest job ever. A job that lets me just flit off to Hawaii whenever. A job that lets me work when I like, or not at all, all the way up until deadline. A job with complete freedom. In other words, a job that gives me MORE THAN ENOUGH ROPE TO HANG MYSELF WITH. Stupid job.
**I know it's the biggest cliche ever, but can I just say that I cannot BELIEVE he's four? Just yesterday he was throwing up on me, and now he's throwing things AT me. With decently developed gross-motor skills. Sigh.

I know I've been back from Hawaii for several days now ...

2006-05-01T13:24:00.000-05:00

... but tomorrow is my actual birthday, when I turn the big two-six. (I figured I would tell you a day early, so you could get started on leaving lots of comments--maybe five or six per person--in time for the actual day tomorrow. REMEMBER: MY LOVE IS VERY CONDITIONAL.)

When I was born, my parents thought I wouldn't last two decades, between the extreme klutziness, poor judgment, and daring nature. They didn't realize how successfully I would offset those traits with my thick, bouncy skull, extra cartilage (mostly in the nose region), and a generous helping of luck.

Living to be 26 ... it's an unbelievable accomplishment, really. I'm ready to go sit on my porch rocker now. Maybe feed some feral cats. Isn't that what old people do? Feed feral cats?

Anyway, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

And the winner of the Monthly Music Contest is ...

2006-04-28T15:44:00.000-05:00

... Aaron! With Broken Social Scene's "Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl." The prize, should he choose to accept it (several alternatives will be offered as well), is a $15 iTunes card.*

(View other entries here.)

The winning song accomplished the main objective of having a really unique sound. Some who listen to this song would dismiss it for its repetitive lyrics, but I like repetitive lyrics, at least when I feel they're being interpreted musically in a really powerful, emotional way. Another, very different song that accomplishes this is Elbow's "Grace Under Pressure," the lyrics of which consist only of this:

**WARNING. F-BOMB FOLLOWS.**
Grace under pressure
Cooling palm across my brow
Eyes of an angel
Lay me down
We still believe in love so fuck you
**END OF F-BOMB ADVISORY.**

And then there's a bunch of screaming. Which I could actually do without. But up until then, it's a damn good song. Still is a good song, despite the brief, intentionally unpleasant screaminess.

Anyway, I knew Aaron would be a formidable contender when he entered Feist's "Mushaboom," which is one of my favorite songs ever, but all the same, I was impressed with his submissions and must give "Beat Dazzler" the most honorable of honorable mentions as well. (Click here to experience "Beat Dazzler." You won't be sorry.)

Now, before you go put on your pajamas and cry into a giant bowl of pudding as you lament your suddenly painful lack of an iTunes card, please note that I am not a music critic. I cannot guarantee that I picked the "best" song, whatever that means. My process for choosing a winner was so unscientific that it is nearly outright offensive. I assembled a playlist, hit Play, and listened over and over again to all of the entries. Then I did it several more times. Then I picked the song that resonated with me the most. That was it. Sorry.

I was prepared to give the advantage to a dancey tune, but apparently you guys are listening to the same folksy stuff I am, for the most part. Which is still great ... but the next contest may have a disco theme or something, so watch out.

Sad, Prizeless Honorable Mentions also go to ...

Eels, "I Like Birds" (Catheroo) I adore this song. I don't know how I missed it; several Eels songs were already on my playlists. But for some reason, I'd never given this track a try. This song is pure genius, to the extent that I very nearly declared this contest a tie. I would have, in fact, but I can't afford to get into THAT habit. So you lose! Life sucks. (I also give you credit, Cath, for the Weepies submission. And by "credit" I mean "you still don't win anything, though my guilt is deepening by the minute.")

Lemonheads, "Being Around" (Johanna) Johanna was absolutely right when she threatened to defriend me if I did not love this song. The threat was appropriate and warranted, but not exactly necessary, as there was no way I wasn't going to love this song.

The Also Unfortunately Prizeless New Artist Award goes to jts, as I had never listened to Buju Banton and am now enjoying him greatly. A frequent occurrence in this contest was that I would listen to a submission, then like it enough to listen to other songs by the same artist, often discovering a track I liked even better. (This happened so often that I'm considering allowing such discoveries to count in favor of the original submitter. Maybe next time.)

If you were not mentioned above, not to despair! First, I had already heard some of these songs (Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Tori Amos, Willy Porter, Luce, several others), so those entries didn't count. Second, the point here is simply to share our favorite songs in a place where others could join in by listening or contributing, and that was accomplished. I hope I'm not the only one who enjoyed it. To pay back the favor, here are some of my recent favorites, in no particular order:

Spoon, "That's The Way We Get By"
Patrick Park, "Something Pretty"
Ladytron, "Destroy Everything You Touch"
White Stripes, "Forever for Her"
Ryan Adams, "Desire"

May's contest will open soon. Will the owners of January's All Time and the Camper Van Beethoven songs please submit them to jenDELETEniherself@yahoo.com? (Remove DELETE. The spam robots are watching. Always watching.) Those were the only ones I couldn't find. If I receive them in my e-mail, I'd be happy to include them as entries in the upcoming contest.

Thanks everyone, and good luck next round!
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*The plan for the music contest is that sometimes the prize will be straightforwardly awesome. And sometimes it will be uselessly bizarre. I think this adds to the fun, though you may not agree when you win on the one month that the prize is a giant cheese wheel.

Favorites: Thumbscrews

2006-04-28T15:27:00.000-05:00

I've always liked Thumbscre.ws, but I laughed out loud at this. (Warning: Contains tampons.)

The Hawaii Post

2006-04-28T02:38:00.001-05:00

Ahh ... finally, a trip I can sum up in one post! One picture, actually. Are you ready? Here we go.

(Click here for a larger version in a new window)

See that mountain? I hiked to the top. The view was amazing. See that ocean? I swam in it. The view was amazing.

The End

Really, that's it. You can stop there.

All right, fine. Also there is this:

(Again, clicky.)

Which is a nice calm scenic lagoon across from our hotel. (As usual, pictures do not do it justice. Which always seems to be the case of any tropical photograph I try to take. How do the Corona people do it?)

And also there is this:

(CLICKY!)

Which is where I spent my time basking in the sun when I was not basking in the sun in a calm lagoon or pretty ocean or on top of a pretty mountain after climbing through a pretty crater.

I spent four days in Honolulu, but I really didn't do much of anything. But that's fine. Better than fine. I would even go so far as to say that such inactivity is RECOMMENDED. State-mandated, even. I realize that most of you are not the cosmopolitan travel expert that I am. Fear not! I can sum up all of Hawaii's daunting travel-advisory legalese in one simple equation.

y=10x

x=days in Hawaii
y=allowable calorie expenditure while in Hawaii

So if you spend four days in Hawaii, you have a forty-calorie budget to work with. And once you get the basics* out of the way (dressing oneself, eliminating waste, chewing, applying sunscreen**), forty calories is actually more like twenty calories ... or five calories a day.

How to spend these precious calories? Well, it's YOUR vacation, so it's up to you. For your reference, I present a typical 5-calorie daily budget, with a little maneuvering room.

Walking to elevator: .3 cal
Pushing buttons on elevator: .2 cal
Squinting in the delightfully warm Hawaiian sun: .2 cal
Walking to the beach: a disastrous 1.4 cal
Shaking out/arranging beach mat: .4 cal
Flopping down into the sand: 0 cal (thanks, gravity!)
Turning over: .2 cal (Smart travelers only turn over once all day. Wait until Side A is flaky, with a bubbling, crispy crust and a rosy glow.)
Rolling up beach mat: .2 cal
Walking back to the hotel: 1.4 cal, ugh
Pushing buttons on elevator: .2 cal
Picking up remote control: .3 cal
Pushing buttons on remote control: .1 cal
Falling asleep: 0 cal
TOTAL: 4.9 cal

Sadly, this calorie-sparing travel system does not leave me much to blog about. There are no whitewater kayaking stories. Nor were there midnight tangoes or beachfront luaus. I could have done these things, I suppose, but nothing screams TOURIST like burning 17 calories all in one day.

There weren't even very many interesting conversations to be had. It's a little-known fact that when you check into the Hawaii terminal, you are forced to leave your brain at the gate. (Don't worry, they put a little barcoded luggage-claim tag on it so that you may retrieve it upon your exit back to the mainland.) I have proof of this. I will provide you with a few examples.

SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 1
Mr. S: You know, I've never noticed it before, but girl surfers are kind of sexy. I don't know why ... it's kind of like girl snowboarders, I guess.
S: You mean, bent over with their feet apart and their asses sticking way out?
MS: (Pause) ... Yeah! I guess that's it, huh?
S: Yep.

SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 2
S: You know, when you think about it, sunscreen is amazing. Like, "Here! Smear this on, and you will REMAIN UNAFFECTED BY THE RAYS OF THE SUN!" How did someone even some up with something like that?
MS: (Doesn't even bother to respond, so fed up is he with the way his wife constantly feels stoner-style amazement at everything she ever thinks about.)

SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 3, which occurred against our will EVERY SINGLE TIME we exited the hotel
S or MS: Wow, it's really nice out.
S or MS: Yeah.
(Both chuckle as they remember, duh, they're in Hawaii.)

You see? You see how little blog fodder I have to work with here?

All I can offer you, then, are my observations. Moving your eyeballs around in your skull only burns like .0001025 calories with each glance, so I did a lot of that all day.*** In addition, receiving various kinds of data from the neurons in my skin only burns approximately .000357 calories, so I did a lot of that too. (I'm not lazy, you know. Just frugal.) Also, neither of these activities required much more processing than what my left-behind brain stem could provide, so that worked in my favor as well.

So despite the stringent brain-check policies of Hawaii and despite my careful caloric budgeting, I do have some interesting Hawaii observations to offer you. I will provide ten. Well, eleven. Just in case you didn't find one of the first ten to be very interesting.

1. No words exist to describe the niceness of Hawaii's mid-April weather. I'm really not sure how it could have been nicer. Improving that weather would require something really, really drastic ... like chocolate frosting, for instance. I know, I know, you're all like What does frosting even have to do with weather? But I was just in Hawaii and you weren't, and you're just going to have to believe me when I say that nothing short of the mystical, inexplicable powers of soft, spreadable, creamy chocolate is going to increase the niceness of Hawaii weather ONE IOTA.
2. There are a great number of fake breasts in the world. Many of the owners of these fake breasts have a special smug look they give you if they catch you looking at their twin surgical marvels. I don't get this. What's there to be smug about? I'm not staring at your breasts because they're sexy.**** I'm staring because your neck and abdomen are near fifty, yet your breasts float in some magical Neverland o' Bosoms, forever in their early twenties. I'm staring because I'm fascinated with the way your breasts are actively straining against your sternum, and against gravity, and against the very laws of nature themselves. I am not staring because I envy you. So why the smugness? If I had a horn surgically attached to my forehead, I wouldn't feel smug when people paid attention to it. I would accept their stares as a matter of course, because I AM FREAKY. If you need a closer analogy, I myself have been known to contort my poor negligible boobs into cleavage using a wire-and-pulley system marketed under the brand Victoria's Secret, all for the amusement of my easily pleased, I-like-shiny-things husband. And then sometimes I adorn that forced cleavage with a revealing type of shirt and then go out on a date with the aforementioned husband. And then sometimes total strangers look at my contorted chest flesh. They look because this chest flesh has been manipulated within an inch of its life. And I know this. So when they do look, my first thought is not I am such a fox. My first thought is Ah, I see they've noticed that I am holding my poor breasts hostage in a veritable prison of lycra. Okay, that's not really what I think when they look. I don't know what I think when they look. I just know I never have that ridiculously smug expression on my face when they do it. Okay? This is supposed to be about Hawaii. LEAVE ME ALONE.
3. The scenery is just as amazing as the weather. Going on and on about that would be really boring, but I will say that the big banyan trees and the tiki torches lining the streets at night were especially cool.
4. People in Hawaii pronounce it in very distinct, choppy syllables: "Hah-wah-EE," with a lot of emphasis on that last I. Every time someone said it that way, I felt ashamed, because of my ignorance, and vaguely annoyed, because deep down I was pretty sure those bastards were just showing off. I considered looking "Hawaii" up in Webster and listening to the pronunciation they give there, but then I realized that doing so would prove how super cool I was, and I'm not sure I want the whole world to know. Yet.
5. There were a ton of Japanese people in Hawaii. I had no idea so many Japanese people traveled there, though I suppose it makes sense. The overwhelming Japanese presence was especially noticeable to me and Mr. S because we had planned to go to Tokyo, not Hawaii. It was strange to NOT go to Tokyo and then feel like we were in Tokyo anyway, eating at a restaurant while everyone around us conversed in Japanese.
6. Trying to learn to surf on Waikiki is a great way to get your whole face scraped off by the surfboard of some other moron who is also trying to learn to surf on Waikiki. At least that's how it seems to me now that I've watched about twenty beginner surfers attempt to crowd onto the same tiny beginner wave. An impromptu meeting between a rented surfboard and the outer bone of my ankle as I bobbed innocently in my little inner tube only strengthened my position on this looming safety hazard. Right after Mr. S and I were assaulted by a stray surfboard, we were snootily told that we weren't exactly swimming in a safe place. For one thing, there had been very few surfers where we set up shop originally; they arrived in droves after we were already obliviously floating along. For another thing, whose fault is it that we aren't floating in a safe place?? I'm going to start hanging out in public places while warning people in a similar fashion. "You really shouldn't walk around like that," I'll say in a patronizing voice. "I tend to head-butt people who walk around like that."
7. Many, many people are out of shape. I know, it's not a big news flash. But this fact really was one of the more depressing aspects of the trip. Mr. S and I hiked to the top of Diamond Head (see the labeled picture, above), and all we heard were people either talking about how they can't believe they made it to the top or how they actually DIDN'T make it to the top. I'm not saying I didn't get out of breath or that it was an easy hike, but for one thing, there's a trail going all the way up. With HANDRAILS. And WATER FOUNTAINS. And wide clearings in which to rest. For another thing, the entire hike up the mountain is .8 miles. Yet at the top, people purchase certificates saying they did it. I'm not sure I understand their confusion. "Diamond Head" and "Everest" don't even SOUND the same. Yet there they all are, standing in line to buy a certificate that PROVES that they climbed .8 of a mile using only their wits, a trail, a handrail, multiple water fountains, and two slushee trucks. (There really were two slushee trucks on the way up Diamond Head, though admittedly they were more near the bottom than the top.) I wasn't uplifted by the obvious triumph of those who reached the summit. It made me geniunely sad instead. Is it really true that climbing what is really just a big hill is now a certificate-justifying accomplishment? I'm not known for my athleticism either, but COME ON AMERICA ... and come on Japan, I guess.
8. There are a ton of ABC Stores (a convenience type of store that sells beach mats, sunscreen, etc) in Honolulu. I used to think there were a ton of Waffle Houses in the south and a ton of Starbuckses in every major city in the country, but that was before I visited Honolulu and witnessed the unbelievable frequency of the phenomenon that is the ABC Store. Don't feel like crossing the street to buy sunblock? Not to worry! There is an ABC Store right behind you. And in front of you, actually. And on your right and left. And also further right and further left. And also directly beneath that manhole cover. And also suspended right above you on a dangling platform. Once, while walking barefoot, I tripped and scraped my toe. (Klutzes should never walk barefoot.) Mr. S immediately walked away from the scene to buy me Band-Aids. And by "walked away" I mean he walked six feet, which landed him directly in front of the ABC Store cashier. Six feet is actually pretty far away for an ABC Store, but I DID trip right in the middle of the crosswalk. I'm sure mid-crosswalk ABC-Store kiosks are under development as we speak, so that such a six-foot-long travesty of a Band-Aid journey need not ever occur again in the fine city of Honolulu. THIS IS HAWAII FOR GOD'S SAKE. ABC STORE PRODUCTS MUST BE WITHIN ARM'S REACH AT ALL TIMES. EVEN FOR MIDGETS.
9. Hawaii establishments serve the best. pineapple. ever. Pineapples are now ruined for me. There's no point in ever eating one again. Unless I go back to Hawaii, I guess, and I'm not sure how likely that is yet. The notion that I am just sitting amid a huge ocean sort of weirds me out, a feeling that didn't really go away until I set foot in Los Angeles on Monday night.
10. No one is actually from Waikiki. I find this unsettling because it means that there isn't really a Waikiki at all. It's actually a ghost beach--just a bunch of empty hotels and restaurants, just waiting for the tourists to arrive to give everything a reason for existing, to make everything real. It's all very Langoliers and I do not like it. How can I sleep at night knowing the very existence of Waikiki hinges on a random assortment of people just DECIDING to go to Hawaii all at the same time?? (What I do like is inventing weird things to worry about, apparently.)
11. You pay for everything in Waikiki. Actually, I'm not sure this is true, but that was the hotel desk clerk's extremely snippy explanation to our question of why in the world we were expected to pay for high-speed internet access at an effing Marriott hotel. Wi-fi was $13 a day. Can you believe that crap? I've stayed in lots of hotels. Mr. S has stayed in about forty thousand hotels. Neither of us have ever heard of such a thing, especially at a fairly expensive resort. I mean, I once stayed at a ghetto Ramada where my room didn't even have a NUMBER on it, and the lobby had some sort of weird exposed giant metal ventilation fan, and I really didn't feel safe leaving the room at all, yet still, STILL I had free wi-fi. Anyway, when Mr. S asked about the charge, the woman behind the desk snapped, "Well, this is Waikiki. You pay for EVERYTHING in Waikiki." First of all: Well, excyoooooose us. Second: Thank you for that helpful explanation! You know what would be even MORE helpful? To Serve Us Better, perhaps next time you provide a customer with that useful explanation, you could try not to be such a heinous bitch. More specifically, you could attempt to avoid being that insufferable kind of bitch for whom, in some miraculous biological adaptation, our godless universe spontaneously generates a hell in which you can reside, because mere death and the typical subsequent nonexistence IS SIMPLY TOO GOOD FOR YOU.***** Anyway, this became a favorite joke between my husband and me. For the rest of the trip we would worry aloud about how much everything cost, including sand we stole from the beach on the bottoms of our sandals and the breeze we occasionally enjoyed. For the record, in my opinion a certain universal law applies here: the more immediate the bitchiness of a desk clerk, the more ridiculous a hotel policy is. If she can get that angry that fast, it means that she deals with the same question four million times a month ... and a policy that generates so many questions is perhaps a policy in need of some revision. DO YOU HEAR ME, MARRIOTT? I AM BLOGGING ABOUT YOU. IN ALL CAPITALS. WHICH IS NOT A GOOD SIGN.

That's it. That's all I've got. At least it's all I can think of right now. It's possible I am still half-snurred.

And now for a poll: If I videotaped a drunken Mr. S while in Hawaii, and it was eleven minutes of him not making a whole lot of sense, plus it was full of profanity and graphic concepts in general that I lack the know-how to bleep out, would you still want to watch it? This is all purely hypothetical. I was just wondering.
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*If you really want to glam it up, I suppose you could add such frivolities as showering and brushing your teeth to this list. But you're only hurting yourself with your little prima-donna act.
**Yes, applying sunscreen IS a necessity. Do not kid yourself. Any body part or patch of skin left bare to the elements will simply curl up and fall off, burning up, meteor-style, before it even hits the sidewalk. Do not miss that shoulderblade or it will be reduced to embers. EMBERS!
***Although I did blink as infrequently as possible.
****And even if some of them ARE sexy, it's not like they were earned, the way nice abs can be earned. I repeat: Why should I be impressed?
*****If you were wondering, I'm not really an atheist. It is my opinion that firmly anchored religious people and firmly anchored atheists, no matter how good their intentions are, are making the exact same arrogant mistake by assuming they know crap about anything. I prefer to be a member of the Order of Fu-i-Hum (futility-induced humility). Looking to strengthen those shrugging muscles? JOIN TODAY!

And you thought this post would be about Hawaii

2006-04-26T16:52:00.000-05:00

(For once I'm not procrastinating. The Hawaii post is already written. But I'm not about to upload photos over dial-up, so you're just going to have to wait until I get back to STL tomorrow.)

So often this whole blogging thing feels like some sort of ADD-paradise merry-go-round that is positively loaded with brass rings, most of which my outstretched fingertips bounce uselessly across. Precious few of these dangling rings whizzing by actually get plucked, pulled down safely, and bent into anything of interest. Too often a particularly shiny ring will twinkle out of my grasp, and I know that by the time my plastic pony makes it round these parts again, that shiny ring will have dulled with time, having lost its glimmer of relevance. Some would have the talent to polish that old ring back to its old sheen, and maybe I even do, but too often it's just not worth the effort when there are so many other rings to grab onto.

But this particular ring is one I want badly to pull down and keep in my clutching little bloggy fist, even if grabbing that ring means I have to damn near slip a mental disc as I bend backward off this stupid horse. Stretching ... reaching ... ALL THE WAY INTO LIKE LAST WEEK OR SOMETHING. I know, it's courageous and admirable, especially since I don't even have that long of a torso. MENTALLY, I mean. Wait, I'm confused.

Anyway, that much-coveted ring is Sam's visit to STL. I feel guilty for not having written about it sooner, but shortly after she left, Mr. S and I went to see David Sedaris, and then I had to pack, and then I flew all the way across the damn Pacific, and I'm sure you can imagine how such a task may put a minor kink in one's blogging efforts ... into friendship efforts, even. (Jet lag is killing my relationships at the moment.)

But at least I'm writing about it now. That's just going to have to be good enough.

Wow, that was one hell of an introduction, wasn't it? After all that buildup, you're probably expecting a sensational story. You'll laugh! You'll cry! You will, just for one instant, glimpse and absorb the very nature of the human condition!

Perhaps something really meaningful will happen! Does Sam need a kidney? Does Schnozz need a life? Does someone need to confess what happened that dark night so many years ago, to erase the black guilt that is slowly suffocating her soul?

Sorry, but it's nothing like that. Here's what happened: Sam came down from Illinois, bravely staring down Highway 40 and emerging the victor. On the first day we wandered around my neighborhood, and on the second day we went to the Galleria, and ... then she went home. No one was asked to have anyone else's baby or anything like that. Sam knows I would never have her baby. Just in case it inherited her tragic inability to love cheese the way cheese so deserves to be loved.

So much more happened with that visit than the activities themselves, at least for me. I'm trying to put my finger on it here, outline it with words, but the something that happened is not something very tangible, so you're going to have to bear with me.

First, it was so nice to see a familiar face in STL. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends here (hi R and L!) and feel perfectly at ease with them. But there's something about talking to someone you've known for over a decade that you can just feel in your BONES. I didn't even know my bones could relax, but they can. It's not a competition, so don't make me sing that stupid materialistic friend song about the silver and the gold. Just understand that Sam is special. Most of my friends now only know me as the upstanding, devastatingly gorgeous adult I have become. Before we were even old enough to drive, Sam and I used to hole up in her tiny bedroom and listen to Jagged Little Pill over and over as we discussed, in great depth, the long list of disgusting sexual acts (almost all of them, actually) we would NEVER partake in, no matter how big of an engagement ring the man in question bought us, not even when we were THIRTY.

I spent so much time alone with Sam in high school that she is by far the main keyholder to the me of the past--the cheerleader me, the me who used to spend hours on her hair every day, the me who could run for six miles without walking, crying, OR vomiting, the me who wouldn't do THAT to a boy, NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES HE SAID HE LOVED ME. EVEN IF THE RING WAS FROM TIFFANY'S. IT DOESN'T MATTER BECAUSE DUDE THAT IS JUST GROSS.

Frankly, I like the me of now so much better. Moving to STL was the symbolic icing on a cake that took way too damn long to bake, and I continue to celebrate my exit from the world of hot rollers and toe-touches and locker-room gossip. I continue to celebrate who I am now, and I look forward to the amazement I will surely feel at the changes over the next ten, twenty, thirty years. I'm no longer afraid to grow up, or more specifically, afraid of who I'll be when I do. Even better, I no longer feel the need to apologize for becoming a lot more me and a lot less everyone else.

All the same, the me of the past matters too. I don't think I realize how important my roots were to me until Sam got here. As I showed her my neighborhood and watched her absorb it all, I felt as if I were grabbing my past and leading it around by the hand. As if I had been sitting in the heaven that is my present, waiting for my past to hurry up and die so it could just ASCEND already and pass through the pearly ~~gates~~ arch, so I could babble at it in excitement about condos and sushi and vodka bars and gigantic public parks. It felt so good to let the past into the present, to put them together and take the best of both of them.

Of course, right now Sam is cursing at her monitor. "Oh, so THAT's what I am to you, huh? Some narcissistic reflection of your younger, skinnier, shallower self?!" Not at all. I realize that this post is turning Sam into a symbol, and I'm not sure people like being symbols. Sam, you're more than my past and you know that. I would still like you just as much if I met you today, even if I hadn't been there for the tragedy that was your bangs ten years ago.

Sam is not a symbol. Sam is Sam, with her own past embarrassments and present triumphs (new job! woo! so happy for you!), her own jokes and her own intense passion for the accordion ... and most importantly, her own exciting future. She has her own problems and her own destiny and her own certain SAMNESS, if you will. And it was so great to have that Samness here, where I live now, in the neighborhood I love. It was so great to realize that so much about us is the same, even when the scenery is so different. The Samness endures, people. The Samness endures.

I don't know what I thought. I don't know whether, in the back of my mind, I had this idea that if I ever looked at her and said, "Let's get out of our hometown and never come back," and she nodded and we packed our shit and got in the car, some bond between us would shatter the minute our front fender crossed the city limits. I don't know if I thought geography would distort things, our friendship grinding away with our tire treads as the miles rolled under us. I don't know if I thought I would have to visit her at home forever, because that was the only place our friendship was real. Maybe she would feel too intimidated by my new life to take her rightful place in it. Maybe our STL selves wouldn't know how to do anything but just stare at each other. These are silly fears, of course, but if you've never had them, you're lucky.

All I know is that before I got to see her sitting at Coffee Cartel, before she stared at the crazy people with me, before she laid eyes on the doorman and the antiques shop and the awesome mod furniture they sell down the street, along with everything else that seemed so unfamiliar to me a few months ago, I was afraid. I was afraid that growing up and finding my own groove would come at an awful price. It's a price that I would have paid--what choice would I really have?--but I would not have walked away whole.

By the time the elevator chimed at my floor, the way it does every day, and its doors closed behind her on her way out, the way they never have, everything was different. And by different I mean GOOD, the kind of good that makes you laugh out loud with relief like a big old weirdo. The kind of good that gives you power. The kind of good that lets you smash your foot to the pedal without guilt or regret.

It doesn't matter where I go, or where she goes. We will stretch without breaking. I knew that before, but for some reason, after one silly fun visit that lasted two days and didn't involve much of anything at all, now I really believe it. It's ridiculous maybe, but there it is anyway.

Welcome to my future, Sam. I'm so very glad you're here. And I promise to show up in yours whenever you need me to.

And quit crying, you sap, or I will post that horrible picture where we're supposed to pretending to make out but we just look as if we are experiencing dual epileptic seizures. YOU KNOW I WILL DO IT. MY FINGER IS ON THE PUBLISH BUTTON. WIPE THOSE TEARS AWAY, YOUNG LADY.

Oh, and I love you. :)

I'm baaaaack!

2006-04-25T11:04:00.000-05:00

And so so so tired. So tired. Eyes are bleeding. Must go sleep now. After blotting eyes. Gross, I know. You should see it from my side.

I will be in touch once the snurr wears off. (Snurr being a combination of "snore" and "durr.")

Six Things Meme

2006-04-23T21:29:00.000-05:00

I got tagged to do a Six Weird Things About Myself meme (thanks Cath). For some reason, I found it really, really hard to think up weird things about myself. This scared the crap out of me because there are THOUSANDS of weird things about me. The fact that I can't think of them anymore means I really am officially insane, having spent the majority of my time alone for so long that I now think it's completely normal to churn my own butter and have hair down to my ankles. I feel thoroughly creeped out about my inability to complete this meme, so I'm just going to get it overwith so I can sink back into denial as I pet all of my pretty pretty little porcelain dolls.

1. My mother handpicked the husbands of both of her daughters. On the first try. She is not a professional matchmaker, but she probably should be. So yes, I met Mr. S on a blind date at my mother's request. He had no idea whether I would be horribly deformed, but he took a chance; after all, my mom is hot, so he banked on genetics and set out with optimism, even bringing me flowers in what was probably just an attempt to get laid. He also borrowed his father's Corvette to impress me. Consequently, one of the first things he ever said to me was, "That's not my car," in a frank, unapologetic tone, something that tickled me to death for some reason. The first thing my father said when the front door closed behind us was, "They're going to get married." That sounds cute, but my mother claims he did not say it very nicely; I was only 19 and he blamed her for encouraging me in my dating endeavors when he felt my time would be more appropriately spent at home, alone, not having sex. This put him in stark contrast with my mother, who felt I should be not having sex while attending parties, eating fine dinners, and watching movies.

2. Speaking of sex, I think prostitution should be legal. I can offer a variety of reasons, mostly having to do with public safety and keeping women off the streets and away from the clutches of pimps and serial killers, but the biggest thing that sticks in my craw is that it's legal to do these two things: 1) Use your body and wiles to marry a billionaire 50 years older than you and then benefit financially for the rest of your life in the name of "love" and 2) Pay an actress to have sex on camera and then sell it to the masses. (If you paid someone to have sex OFF camera, you both could be arrested. LOGICAL!) Plus really I just feel like if I wanted to have sex with my neighbor for a couple hundred bucks, I should be able to do it whenever I want. Deep down I really feel that it's my vagina* and his wallet, and we both have the right to barter with them without any meddling from the likes of you. Why not? What business is it of yours? People whore themselves every day. It's a shame that the film industry and the dilettantes of Los Angeles are welcome to profit from giving up their goods any day of the week, but poor people aren't allowed to do it. It's classist when you really think about it.

3. Speaking of naked people, I prefer baths. I was raised on them due to some strange circumstance involving exposed insulation in the bathroom of my childhood that my dad kept meaning to fix and never did. I think he meant to get around to it, and a few weeks went by and a few years went by, and finally he just built a new bathroom in the basement, but by then I had been taking baths for years and was used to it. But I can't blame my parents entirely; bathing fits with my lazy "why stand up when we can lie down in some nice warm water and maybe even fall asleep" persona. In fact I hate showers with a passion and will only take a shower when absolutely forced to do so. If there is a bathtub within fifty miles, I will hike to that instead. Barefoot. Over fields of nails. For some reason I find my preference for bathing mildly embarrassing. Don't ask me why; there is so much about me that is even weirder than that. But the showering people JUDGE the bathing people. They do.

4. Speaking of ... uh, me being weird (sorry, there is just no segue to be had here), I very very frequently dance by myself. Like, almost every day, if not every day. I sing and I dance and I pose and I swing around on the doorframe. I usually do it best to music that is widely considered by music snobs to be awful. My current personal favorites are anything off Britney Spears' In the Mix, a few Abba hits, and Rihanna's Pon de Replay. Occasionally there's some vintage Christina Aguilera in there too ... oh, and plenty of Justin Timberlake. Always plenty of Justin Timberlake. It's a lot of fun. You should try it. And if you already do it, you should comment here, because I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one who can have one hell of a party by myself. I will actually sometimes put on cute clothes just to do this. Plus I have this awesome swishy black satin Marilyn Monroe-type dress with rhinestones all over it that is perfect for "Dancing Queen." Once I was partying in it with considerable gusto and Sam messaged me to see what I was doing. I wavered for a moment and decided to just be honest. She still talks to me, so I figured you guys would too.

5. I hardly ever eat the last bit of food on my plate. There is always exactly one bite left. Don't ask me how I manage to do this every time. All I know is that when there is one bite left, I wake up from some sort of stuff-my-face fugue state and realize that I am full. Actually, I was full ten minutes ago. I realize this and then I don't want that last bite. I can't even IMAGINE eating that last bite. I am not going to eat that last bite and you can't make me. In fact I sort of wish I had a time machine so I could go back to ten bites ago and just walk away rather than waddling away as I must do now, thus retaining some of my dignity. Anyway, Mr. S plagued me about it forever, but he finally just gave up. When he sees me lean back and there is one bite left, he simply reaches out with his fork and takes it without asking. An eyewitness may find this inconsiderate of him, but trust me: short of a gun to my temple, there is no way I'm eating that bite.

6. I have never been to the funeral of anyone I knew when they were alive. This is pretty damn amazing when you consider that I have a giant family. Not to be morbid, but there's like a million of us, and statistics being what they are, you would think someone would have bitten it by now. It's only a matter of time, and I realize that, but still, I'm almost 26, so the fact that I have only attended the funerals of dead strangers is pretty remarkable. (And even then, I've only gone to two: that of a friend's father, and that of a friend's mother.) If I'm the first one to die, make sure you mention at my funeral that this is the first time I've ever been to the funeral of anyone I know. HA! That would be kind of funny. (No, seriously, if I die, you can totally make jokes about me dying right away, especially if I died in a particularly funny way. I encourage that sort of thing.)

Well, that was certainly lighthearted and amusing! Now, if you don't mind, I need to go back to practicing the accordion while I whisper to my herd of cats in a breathy singsong, struggling to think of a few more weird things about me. Perhaps I could think better if I adjusted my special tinfoil earmuffs.
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*Well, let's HOPE that's the orifice in question. I'm new at this for God's sake, plus I'm only charging $250.

It's a small world after all

2006-04-23T21:15:00.000-05:00

Mr. S bought a T-shirt yesterday in Honolulu. He just noticed that according to the tag, the T-shirt was made in St. Louis. Heh.

Note to self

2006-04-22T13:46:00.000-05:00

Just because you can't see your sternum very well doesn't mean you don't have to put sunscreen on it.

Love,
Lobster Chest

Woot

2006-04-20T20:13:00.000-05:00

Am in Honolulu. Am the bomb. Am totally winning at game of life. Am congratulating myself on devoting half my suitcase to Hawaii and half my suitcase to Japan. Am gloating over the controversial decision to waste precious suitcase space on flipflops. Am going to go get drunk on Waikiki beach now.

It's time ...

2006-04-20T00:49:00.000-05:00

... to quit messing around on the computer and PACK already. So off I go, to ... well, wherever I end up. Though there is a specific destination I would prefer to end up at, Mr. S and I are going to see which planes are hoppable out of Chicago and just go where the open seats take us. Topping the list are Hawaii and Cancun, but I won't tell you the number-one preference until I find out whether I'm really going there. (Hint: It is nothing like Hawaii or Cancun. I realize that doesn't narrow it down.)

It's adventure time with my husband, and I LOVE IT. I love it that this is how we do things. I love it when we walk out the door together and we don't know what's going to happen, and there are all these little moments where we stand in front of the big flight board and decide which ones to try and then I sleep on him at the airport and he snuggles down into me on the plane and I don't worry about where we end up, because even if we never make it out of St. Louis ...

... I'm totally joking, of course. I will be so pissed if we don't even make it out of St. Louis.

Behave while I'm gone. I'll update when I can. Feel free to talk about how jealous you are of me. Extra points if you go on and on about how you wish you actually WERE me, as opposed to just being yourself in my current circumstances. Super duper bonus points if you discuss a possible rhinoplasty to make your nose bigger.

In the mood to cry your eyes out?

2006-04-19T20:49:00.000-05:00

Then go here.

I'm going to go feel insanely grateful about everything in my entire life for a good long stretch.

It's All About Hugh

2006-04-19T20:06:00.000-05:00

(Updated to add: Hugh pulled through his surgery just fine; I wrote this awhile ago but didn't manage to make it to a wifi hotspot in the effing wifi-less wasteland that is my hometown. My mother is watching him in Illinois, as we're preparing to go out of town. I have already proved my attachment to this bunny by calling her repeatedly and asking anxiously, "Does he stink? Well, how about now? OK, pet him, and then see if he stinks." I realize the stink could take six weeks to die down, but why wait when you can plague your well-meaning mother right NOW? Anyway, I really was worried about him, much to the vet's amusement. They don't get a lot of rabbits, much less rabbits who are carefully pampered in a tasteful beige carrier with leopard-print accents that offsets the rabbit's cinnamon coloring PERFECTLY. Much less rabbits whose mothers won't stop talking to them in a high-pitched voice and saying things like, "Well, we have to be going now, don't we, Hugh? Off to enjoy the nice weather! Say thank you, Hugh!" Did I really ask him to thank the people who just sliced off his manhood with sharp instruments? Talk about inconsiderate. Apparently the people at the vet are used to dealing with wackos like me, because they all called in sweet, singsong unison, "Bye, Hugh!" as we walked out the door. I don't remember what I said after that but I'm sure it was something really asinine, like, "Do you hear that, Hugh? They're going to miss you! They must have really liked you. Everyone likes you! Because you're such a good bunny.")

I realize this is turning into a rabbit blog. That will change soon, I promise. I still want to write about Sam’s visit, and my nephew’s birthday, and a few other things. (Not to mention that the music contest winner must be unveiled. You’re all dying to know. Admit it.) Plus I have a meme to do for Cath (I haven't forgotten, and it's on my list of Stuff To Do While On The Plane.) But tomorrow my little baby rabbit is getting his nuts cut off and I just had to take his water and food away and he has no idea what’s about to happen to him and I feel so MEAN and I could cry right now.

But I also cried at the OnStar radio commercial today (they were in an accident! right there on the highway! they were so scared! but the OnStar lady was so nice!), so it’s possible other issues are in play. Ahem.

Anyway, this will be the last rabbit post for at least a week. I promise. Well, there might be a teeny update to let you know that Hugh’s ~~balls were successfully hacked off~~ surgery went smoothly.

Some of you have asked about Hugh’s litter training. A few people have asked me about this in real life, too, so I thought I would address it. We spent exactly one day litter training Hugh. I’ve written a little story about it.

“Hugh’s Litter Training”
Day 1
12 PM: It’s the first day of litter training, Hugh! Aren’t you excited? Here, have some fresh bedding to sleep on. Your litter box is nice and full of odor-absorbing litter! Look, it’s over here in the corner, out of the way. Are you ready to use it? You’re growing up, Hugh! How exciting!
12:05 PM: The bedding has been thrown up to five feet from the cage. The kitchen floor is covered in it from corner to corner. Hugh has gaily dumped his litter box upside down, then dragged it to the middle of his cage. Not a single piece of litter remains INSIDE the cage. The water bowl is upside down. All the same, Hugh is in a fantastic mood and ready to have sex with me.
THE END

I have come to several conclusions thus far concerning rabbit ownership. Let me share them with you.
1. Neuter, neuter, neuter. Or, alternatively: Clothespins, clothespins, clothespins.
2. Having the right type of cage and bedding is more crucial than you can even imagine. The difference is huge. With the right type of cage (mesh bottom) and the right kind of “bedding” (puppy pads folded to the size of the little slide-out tray, folks, I just wad ‘em up and throw ‘em away once a day, and you can call me a cheater and I’ll call you a sucker who is stuck vacuuming up bedding all day), daily upkeep of your rabbit will only take six and a half minutes per day. Six and a half! No joke. If you do not have the right cage or the right “bedding,” it will take all day. Every day. And you will cry. Also all day. Any rabbit upkeep that involves millions of small pieces of ANYTHING is a bunch of crap, no pun intended, made up by crazy rabbit-loving hippies who don’t care about you, your feelings, or your kitchen. Plus your Dustbuster will smell like feces. And your rabbit will think you’re a total moron. You’ll be able to see it in his eyes. His gloating, mocking eyes.
3. Your rabbit, though he can’t figure out how to use a litter box, is a savant when it comes to escaping carriers. Do not load him in and then set him by the door without locking that thing DOWN. Do not leave even an inch unzipped, or you may return ten minutes later to find an empty carrier and a very happy rabbit hopping merrily around the room on the dark carpet. Carpet that is approximately the color of poop. Which means you will have to do an Impromptu Flashlight Poo Hunt even though you are already running late. You may even refer very, very loudly to your happy, dancing, ducking, weaving rabbit, your rabbit who squirts through your fingers with remarkable ease, as something that rhymes with brothertrucker. As in GET OVER HERE YOU LITTLE BROTHERTRUCKER. Thank goodness you remembered to put the Dustbuster back on the charger after the LAST debacle.
4. Believe it or not, you CAN get used to the smell. This isn’t really a good thing, because this means you are now THAT person, the one who doesn’t realize her house smells completely disgusting. You might as well wear your bathrobe all day and only shower once every several days. Wait, you already did that. Oh my God.

I hope these conclusions do not paint a dark picture for you. The truth is quite nice, actually. After several days of great suffering and expense, I’ve now found an extremely neat and efficient method, and my relief at how easy it is compared to what I’ve been doing is so intense that rabbit ownership now seems ridiculously manageable. If I hurried, I could probably give him fresh food, fresh water, and a fresh bedding tray in a minute and a half. That’s my kind of pet, yo.

And I’ll admit that I love Hugh.* Seriously. When he’s not humping me, he’s actually very sweet and amusing, and I find myself getting up to go visit him all the time, just so I can hear him buzzing** at me to let him out so we can play/freak nasty all night long. I also talk to him all day. I’m the crazy rabbit lady. Yes, Hugh is my little bunny baby and sometimes I put him in a blanket and pet his soft ears and he lets me because he is only moderately cute and therefore very tolerant in general. He has a cute wiggly nose and gigantic back feet and I’m going to be so sad if he still stinks in six weeks, because I’ll have some hard decisions to make. Rabbit or friends? Rabbit or husband? Cross your fingers that the Internet is right about neutering reducing the odor, or there will be tears at the rabbit farm when Mr. S makes me hand him back over for the good of the entire city of St. Louis, a city that refuses to change its motto to Home of the Rabbit Ball Stench.

In addition, my description of Hugh’s litter training would imply that he is untrainable, that our future is full of flying poop every which way. This is not the case at all. Hugh may not be litter trained, but he is cage trained. (I had nothing to do with this, honestly, though I’ve read that it can happen.) Cage training is like litter training ... only with a cage instead of a litter box. Yes, it’s rocket science.

Cage training is usually done with a mesh-bottom cage. Mesh-bottom cages are the bomb because everything just drops through to a tray that you slide out and clean. (Rabbits poop a billion times a day. They also have big feet and they hop around a lot. Think about what that means for a minute before you buy a solid-bottom cage. I wish I had. And hey, if you still want a solid-bottom cage, I’ve got one here that you can have for free.) Unfortunately mesh-bottom cages aren’t as recommended as solid-bottom cages, because the mesh is harder on the rabbit’s feet. But truthfully Hugh seems to prefer mesh, as it’s what he’s lived in on the farm his whole life. Give him bedding and he just sort of sits there and looks at you, like Are we having some sort of weird toilet-paper party? Give him mesh, and he’ll immediately flop down on it and stretch his feet every which way with his eyes half open. This is great, because even though that damn rabbit is getting a mesh-bottom cage whether he likes it or not, it’s nice to know he isn’t at all disappointed.

In the morning, I let Hugh out for our playtime ... which mostly consists of me shoving him and his erection off me, if you must know, but he can be really sweet too, flopping down by my side so I can pet him. He likes it when I sit with my back to the cabinets so he can run frantically in a circle under my knees, around my back through the little tunnel formed by my back and the underside of the cabinets, and under my knees again, over and over and over (which according to the Internet is still sexual behavior, but I’m OK with anything sexual that doesn’t involve actual rabbit wang). And it’s cute, the way he’ll suddenly just get a bug up his ass and tear around me twenty times, then flop next to me and pant in exhaustion while I pet him. Then he’ll feel all encouraged by my affection and try to have sex with me, and I’ll shove him away, and he’ll glare at me from across the kitchen because I’m an effing tease. But if the rapid return of a rabbit boner is any sign of forgiveness, I’m here to tell you that Hugh certainly isn’t one to hold a grudge.

Anyway. I got distracted. What I was going to tell you was that during our half hour to an hour of kitchen time***, Hugh doesn’t have accidents on the kitchen floor. Honestly I’m not sure whether he poops at all during our morning time, but I can tell you that he hops in and then right back out of his cage a lot. And I can tell you that he usually poops about a billion times an hour while IN his cage, so it seems unlikely that he’s just holding it, though I guess it’s possible. So though I can’t prove it, I’m pretty sure he’s hopping back in his cage to poop. (I would clean the cage bottom first to prove it, but I actually want it to already be soiled for now, in case that helps him find where he’s supposed to go, so I don’t clean it until I’m done ~~being sexually assaulted~~ playing with him for the day.) When I realized that Hugh had cage-trained himself in just a day****, my first thought was I’ll be damned and my second thought was I’m taking full credit for this. Mr. S will be so impressed with my rabbit hypnotism!

In more Poop Proof, he went three and a half hours in his carrier without peeing or pooping. THREE AND A HALF HOURS. I was dreading what was going to be in that carrier, oh how I was dreading it, but it was dry as a bone, and with no Magic Hugh Pellets to be seen. I loaded him back into his cage, and voila! He pooped approximately 507 times in 10 minutes. This can’t be a coincidence.

I do expect him to backslide a bit in the cage-training department after his surgery; I think that’s just to be expected. I guess if that happens, I’ll just have to, um, work extra hard to cage train him again, just like last time. With lots of, um, rabbit whispering and stunning ingenuity. Cough.

Wish the poor bunny luck, guys. :(
-----------
*Mr. S loves Hugh too. He asks about him all the time and is already worried about when Hugh is going to die. (That’s how you know Mr. S cares. He is also obsessed with Carlos’s imminent demise. Much more so than Carlos, who does not seem even remotely concerned.)
**Yes, rabbits buzz. It sounds a lot like purring, but he’s actually chattering his teeth really fast.
***I don’t mean to neglect him. He can spend more time out of his cage when his doing so doesn’t make him stink to high heaven. Right now a half hour is about as much ball smell as I can take.
**** From what I’ve read, my experience with Hugh’s cage training isn’t unusual. Rabbits don’t like getting eaten, so they tend to all poop in the same place on purpose, thus providing minimal evidence of their actual location to predators. (If I were a predator, I would just wait by the big pile of rabbit poop, but apparently rabbit-eating animals aren’t that bright.) So the cage training happens pretty naturally, as long as you don’t give the rabbit so much room to roam that he forgets where his cage is. Not that rabbits are stupid. Well, OK, they are.

Some say WWJD, I say WTFIWWY

2006-04-17T23:47:00.000-05:00

I reached new heights of cold cynicism today. This is the hardest I've laughed in a long time. The more I thought about the circumstances of this news story, the harder I laughed, until I just had to lay my head down on the table, alone in my condo, and giggle helplessly in a very long laughing fit that grabbed hold of my ribs and simply would not let go.

(Note: Elements of this story are pretty dang disturbing and decidedly unfunny. Unless you're me. Then they are HILARIOUS.)

"God Made Me Cancel My Own Crucifixion"

If you did laugh, what set you off? The booing crowd? The convenient instructions from God? The fact that a camera crew was present? The fact that someone found it necessary to actually say to a reporter, "At no point was it ever conveyed that I would definitely be crucified"? (Damn inaccurate crucifixion conveyance.) Which unbelievable aspect of human nature sent you over the edge? For me I think it was ... well, all of it.

Crucifixion is being televised to generate ratings and advertising revenues for the owners of a television network. Crucifixion is being televised so a network can promise a soft-drink company or a car company a certain market share. If Jesus is basing his second coming on when humanity hits rock bottom, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE'S WAITING FOR.

MILF

2006-04-17T17:59:00.000-05:00

I have good news and bad news.

The good news is, Hugh's smell is not so bad after all. In fact, if you leave him alone, he doesn't smell much. We know this because the first night he was here, we agreed that the bathroom had to take one for the team and shut him up in there, fully expecting to be knocked over by ball-smell the next morning. Rabbit balls: The pungent aroma you can nearly taste!

To our surprise, the bathroom smelled fine. In fact Hugh smelled fine unless I was petting him and being nice to him. And this didn't make any sense to me at all. Until, of course, he started having sex with me. Or rather, my pajama-clad calves. Hugh has also made sweet love to several of my towels. Nothing, er, COMES of his humping, so normally it really wouldn't bother me. In fact it might even make me laugh ... if it weren't for the odor that Pepe Le Hugh puts out to charm me.

It turns out that Hugh and I have bonded rather well. TOO WELL. Every time I come around him, he immediately tries to capture my fancy by manufacturing his own Axe Cologne for Rabbits, which smells remarkably similar to a rotting piece of meat.

The trick so far is to just woefully neglect him to keep our house from reeking. I feel so bad about this. I can't look him in the eye or pet his ears. I am forced to ignore him when he purrs and prances and thumps to get my attention as I walk by his cage. (In fact I've been forced to drape a towel over his cage, as the mere sight of my hot body gets him going. Do I look like a rabbit or something? You guys can tell me.) I want nothing more than to play with him and let him hop around, but the minute he gets out of his cage and catches sight of his mom/girlfriend, then BAM! ball smell. Plus humping. But mostly just ball smell. I think my nose is curdled. I didn't even know that was possible.

Rumor has it that our Hugh is just ... sexually energetic. (His name could not be more appropriate!) Neutering, everyone's favorite rabbit cure-all on everything from litter training to longevity to humping avoidance, should clear things up. Which is why this bunny ...

... is in for it on Wednesday. Sorry, bunny. But I just want to be friends.

A Hamster's Tale, Part II

2006-04-17T15:02:00.000-05:00

So we left off with Carlos exploring his punk identity and hating me with all of his little hamster being. We left with Carlos's paws in the air, middle claws defiantly raised, as I struggled to figure out what had upset him so.

About a week ago, the answer came. But it turns out I had known all along.

In my original letter to Carlos, I said,

You used to love your wheel. You ran and ran and ran! You were an Olympic hamster! Now you climb in it and run a few steps on it, then give us a Look. Clearly this is not the same wheel you had yesterday. Obviously we've changed something, because this wheel is no longer fun. This wheel is totally lame. As is the chewy square and the Hamster Lookout Tower. Stupid chewy square. It's blue and you HATE blue and no one understands you.

Well. You know what? It turns out I was right. I had the answer all along. A mother does know best after all.

I have checked Carlos's wheel repeatedly in between my requests that he turn down that horrible racket and clean up his cage once in a while. The wheel always appeared to be functioning perfectly. I would take it apart and wash it all out in case anything was stuck in it, spin it with my hand, and nod with satisfaction. Then Carlos would swallow a bunch of pills and I would be busy dealing with that all night, so I never had time to pursue the issue much further. Besides, forgive me, but I just kind of assumed Carlos was nuts. It wasn't as if his wheel was his only source of displeasure. What WASN'T a source of his displeasure, really?

So the wheel spun easily under my hand. But a big monster hand is not a tiny hamster. Unbeknownst to me, the wheel was getting slower and slower. As Mr. S put it, "We were turning up the tension on his treadmill and we didn't even know it!" As I eventually discovered, the very inside of the wheel was grinding away, getting rougher and rougher, slowing the wheel down. A normal hamster probably wouldn't even have noticed, but Carlos weighs like .1 pounds and it's kind of a big wheel. He used to FLY on that wheel, his little legs a blur, but of late his running had become a bit slower, more labored. I just figured he was getting old ... until the day finally came that he tried to run and the wheel, which still spun fine under my hand, wouldn't move under his insignificant weight. Poor Carlos tried several times, cursing and kicking the wheel and trying not to cry, but it really was the last straw for the poor guy, and he climbed back out of the wheel hopelessly with the air of a broken hamster and cried himself to sleep.

Mr. S and I looked at each other. A lightbulb went on. DUHHHHHHH.

In the end, Carlos's angst was solved with a little olive oil on the inner parts of the wheel. Yes, really. That was it. We lubed it and put it back, and Carlos climbed wearily into it with resignation, like "Fine, I'll humor you, but trust me, this is totally going to suck." Then he ran a little bit. Then he ran a little more. Then he TOOK OFF in a HAMSTER SPRINT OF JOY, OH GLORY, THE WHEEL IS BACK AND I CAN RUN AND RUN SO FAST WATCH ME GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I saw something I never thought I would see again: blurry hamster legs.

An orgy of wheel-running followed. Carlos ran until he was drunk with it, staggering along in sheer bliss, generating enough kinetic energy to power the block. When he finally climbed off, hours later, he plopped into a cage and languidly smoked a cigarette. His little hamster mouth curled around the cigarette in a smirk as he gazed upward at the red plastic ceiling. We didn't have to ask if it was good for him.

(The crushing mommy guilt followed shortly afterward. Look, I kept TESTING the wheel. I was trying my best!)

We have not heard a peep of complaint out of Carlos since. He runs his little heart out, then staggers over to the nearest bedding and passes out. Really. He sleeps as close to the wheel as humanly possible, completely ignoring his little wooden house, where he used to hang out sullenly all day while sniffing glue. If he's awake and not running, he's standing in the doorway of the wheel, making sure no one takes it. (He's learned that I can't remove it if he's in the joint between the wheel and the cage, so he lurks there as often as possible to deter me from stealing his favorite toy. When he finally wanders away to eat or drink, I immediately yank the wheel and you can almost see him slapping his paw to his little forehead, like "Crap, she got me AGAIN." Then he smashes his nose against the joint and waits impatiently for the beloved wheel to return.) He no longer frantically throws himself about his cage, looking for an escape. He no longer cuts himself or writes in his journal. He hasn't listen to emo punk in DAYS. He simply swaggers into the wheel and back out again, giving us a cool nod that clearly says, "Congratulations for finally figuring it out, you f@#$ing idiots," once in a while as he prepares to get some spinning action.

This post would have pictures, but right now Carlos is either running and blurry or asleep and buried. Eventually the infatuation will be over, but I get the feeling that as long as we keep him supplied with olive oil, Carlos's teenage years have departed as quickly as they came, leaving behind a satisfied hamster, puffing away on his cigarette and celebrating the manhood he finally reached ... with the help of a little lubricant.

THE END

I never hate myself

2006-04-16T22:12:00.000-05:00

Except when I'm trying to accomplish ANYTHING.

My seething hate for my lack of productivity makes me want to claw at my own face.

My seething hate for my lack of productivity does not, however, make me PRODUCTIVE.

How can that be?

I am hoding by dose wight now

2006-04-15T23:23:00.000-05:00

I'm sure there are a million ways to say this, but right now I'm busy shriveling under the onslaught of something I will describe further in a minute, so I'm just going to tell you:

We got a rabbit. His name is Hugh. (As in Hefner.)

Here he is, after a long day that included a bath and blow-dry, much handling by my nephew, and so on. Though he's a gentle, tolerant, sweet little thing, every rabbit has his breaking point, and Hugh is extraordinarily pissed off in this picture.

Why a rabbit, you ask? Because it's Easter? NO, NOT BECAUSE IT'S EASTER. Though now everyone probably thinks I'm THAT idiot, the "I bought a Dalmatian after that Disney movie came out" idiot. LISTEN. I AM NOT THAT IDIOT. I HAVE WANTED A BIGGER PET FOR QUITE SOME TIME NOW. BUT IT CAN'T BE A DOG BECAUSE DOGS DON'T USE LITTER. AND MR. S'S WINDPIPE BEGINS CLOSING AT THE MERE MENTION OF A CAT. AT THE MERE MENTION OF A CAT'S WHISKER, EVEN. SO IT SORT OF HAD TO BE A RABBIT. EVEN THOUGH IT IS EASTER. I CAN'T HELP IT THAT IT IS EASTER. SHUT UP.

So anyway. I wanted a pet that I could actually "pet." Hence the name PET. I adore Carlos, I really do, but Carlos is a prima donna diva type who shudders at the prospect of even brushing against human flesh. So I decided I wanted a rabbit, and began looking on Flickr and fantasizing about how insanely cute my rabbit would be.

But today we went to the breeder, and today I broke a family tradition. I did not pick the cutest pet. (Not that Hugh isn't cute. He is very cute. Especially when he's hopping all over the kitchen or flopping down on his blanket like a dog.) I did not pick the pet that would have made the cover of the Pets So Cute You Can't Even Breathe Because That's How Cute They Are 12-Month Calendar.

Throughout history, my family has chosen the cutest pets. And throughout history, our high-strung, inbred pets have continually attempted to rip people's faces off, or bite a limb down to the bone, or bark until everyone just WISHES that terrier would hurry up and bite through their jugular so they wouldn't have to listen to that godawful yapping anymore. Thoughout history, our precious, photogenic pets have foamed at the mouth as they begged to be released from their harnesses so they could feast on tasty newborn babies.

Well, I've had enough of that. As tempting as the soft little gray bunnies are, as adorable as their pert little swiveling ears are, I picked the pet that had a great personality. I picked the pet with the floppy ears and the odd haircut. I picked the pet that, when viewed from a certain angle, sort of looks like a cross between a guinea pig and a donkey.

And Hugh rewarded me by having the best personality ever. Today he let us blow-dry him without a complaint. Sure, he went sort of comatose, into some happy place deep down inside, listlessly allowing us to do our worst. Then, when he had recovered sufficiently, he entertained us all by hopping about and sniffing everything and just sort of behaving like a rabbit in general. A nice rabbit. A kind, nonbiting rabbit, unlike the littler, fluffier, cuter ones with the ears that stick up. According to the breeder, those rabbits are the harbingers of evil. I believe her. After all she has like four hundred rabbits, so I'm assuming she knows what she's talking about. Those little rabbits are awfully darn cute, and I have more than enough family experience to know that this means my fingers will be ripped off and stuffed into those little rabbit gullets. Those sweet looks don't fool me. I'm breaking the cycle.

Anyway, Hugh is sweet, and loves to snuggle down into my lap and be petted, and he doesn't cause any trouble. And occasionally he'll fling himself down like a dog, sprawling out with his big hind feet in the air, and it is more than cute enough to make up for the aforementioned donkeyness.

So what's the catch, you ask? Well.

This rabbit? SMELLS. Oh man, does he smell. We thought it was just his environment, being with a ton of other rabbits and all, so we gave him a bath, despite his spirited protests. (Being a good rabbit, being the not-so-cute GOOD RABBIT, he submitted wearily after mere seconds of flailing and let us rub baby shampoo into his fur. Then he looked completely ridiculous for the next half hour as we blow-dried him. Poor thing.)

After the bath, Hugh smelled sweet as a bundle of roses. We were thrilled. We knew no bunny as special as Hugh could smell like a rotting corpse! Or at least we thought we knew that.

Several hours later, we are holding our noses and praying for Armaggeddon because at least that will stop the smell. The musky smell. The salty, musky smell.

Yes. It's Hugh's balls. The stench emanates DIRECTLY FROM THE BALLS. This rabbit's testicles are beacons with far-ranging capabilities. Every female rabbit on this side of the Rockies knows that Hugh is looking for some action. His balls are broadcasting that loud and clear, much to our distress.

We have wiped the balls. We have washed the balls. The balls are relentless. The balls cannot be stopped. The balls are something so much greater than you or me. There is no "team" in "balls."

It's OK, though. My good friend Google, and several other sources, just tells us that neutering will take care of the rampant ball smell, which is created by sex glands that will be surgically removed. We'd been told to neuter him soon anyway, so this is really not a big hurdle. The only difference is, the neutering has been raised from "Sort of a Priority" to "Oh Dear God, Are Vets Open on Easter, Because Really, I Think I'm Going to Throw Up." Come Monday I plan to frantically dial the phone to see if I can drop Hugh off, oh, I don't know, TODAY, or maybe LAST WEEK, I know that last week already happened, Mr. Vet, but I can't think straight right now because my nostrils are being invaded by my rabbit's formidable balls.

You have never seen two people in more of a hurry to cut off a rabbit's genitals. This is history in the making, folks. We are setting world records in sheer eagerness. I cannot WAIT for someone to hack into my cute new pet! How many pet owners can say that?

The Internet has promised me (and several other horrified new rabbit owners with the same complaints) that neutering will resolve the problem. If for some crazy reason neutering does not solve the problem, it's OK. If I can't live with the smell (and I can't, dude, I can't), Hugh can go back to live on the farm. And no, that's not a euphemism for killing the poor rabbit; the very awesome and informative breeder sells rabbits on a trial basis, and the farm is more than happy to take him back if he doesn't work out. He was kept there as a favorite because of his personality; his very first owners, who were breeders themselves, were going to kill Hugh because he doesn't fit the crazy breed standards (head must be perfectly round, toenails must be 1/8 inch long, must have exactly 28000 hairs, etc). The farm owner we bought the rabbit from is a real softie and couldn't live with that, so he took Hugh on and has been housing him ever since, and many have enjoyed his doglike antics. I told the breeder that temperament was everything, and looks were secondary, and she picked Hugh for me immediately. I have to say she was right. Nothing freaks this rabbit out--not car rides, not baths, not small children screeching in his direction, nothing. He is the first pet I've ever had that does not appear to have a taste for human blood. His calm amid four-year-old-induced pandemonium is eerie. In fact he may actually be brain-damaged or something. But in a rabbit that's not a huge concern, really.

At least it's not a huge concern the way a raging, invasive ball smell is a concern. Everything's relative! Believe me.

The monthly music contest ...

2006-04-15T23:01:00.000-05:00

... has ended. I'm on deadline for the next few days (of course that doesn't mean there won't be a "Look, I don't care if it's due in five MINUTES, I need a BREAK" post or two), but soon the fantastical, inconceivable prize will be awarded. I need to listen to a few more submissions, give it a rest, and listen again.

Thanks to everyone for your submissions ... deep down inside, you're ALL winners.

I love Mr. S

2006-04-13T00:06:00.000-05:00

(The music contest continues. Listen. Enter. Win!)

As we all prepare to go out for a drink ...

Schnozz: You really need to get rid of that shirt. It has a stain on it.
Mr. S: Oh, I'm not wearing this out. (Pause) You think I should THROW IT AWAY? (in horror)
Schnozz: Yes. It's so old. It's so faded it's not even red anymore. It's PINK.
Mr. S: Hey, pink is in.
Schnozz: Actually, it is.
(We argue of the merits of such a fashion trend.)
Mr. S: Hey! It's OK for me to get in touch with my feminine side. (Slyly, in a low voice, clearly very pleased with himself) ... because that helps me get in touch with a feminine's INside.

Three things: Ha, ew, and congrats to me on such a fine catch.

(P.S.: Something tells me he wasn't even referring to ME.)

A Hamster's Tale, Part I

2006-04-12T22:46:00.000-05:00

(The music contest continues. Listen. Enter. Win!)

Remember poor Carlos? Poor Carlos, who went from a lovable, fluffy hamster to a monstrous teenager with black nailpolish on his little claws and a chip on his shoulder the size of a pencil eraser? (Note: For dwarf hamsters, that's HUGE. That's tantamount to borderline personality disorder.) Carlos, who has squeaked repeatedly that WE JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND HIM? Carlos, who would have slammed the door to his little wooden house repeatedly, if his wooden house weren't such a cheap doorless piece of crap house that isn't any fun and LIFE SUCKS?

Well.

Carlos's angst has deepened since. I know. You're thinking, how is that even possible? How is it possible when Carlos ALREADY spends all of his time either lying listlessly in his bedding, waiting for the end to come (to be fair, it's only like a year away, so this is somewhat appropriate), and bouncing off his cage walls, twitching madly in hamster fury? How could it get any worse?

We didn't listen to him. We didn't care about his feelings. Carlos stared into his reflection in the shiny plastic walls of his cage, and what he saw disgusted him. All he saw was gleaming black eyes, an adorable little nose, and precious little whiskers. He saw fluff. He saw a trinket. He was so much more than that. He was a flailing, furry ball of angst. He epitomized the ~~human~~ hamster condition. but it didn't show on the outside. He tried to glare at us. We just saw sweet little white eyebrows. He tried to hide. We laughed at how cute his smooshed face was when he smashed himself all the way between his house and the wall. He tried to flip us off. But all we could see was his sweet little claw sticking up in the air. What a sweet, tiny little claw!

It was time Carlos did something about it. Something radical. Something that would show the world he was different. Something that would command respect while at the same time getting him into all the right parties so he could smoke weed and engage in some heavy petting. No pun intended.

After carefully reviewing The Legend of Billie Jean for inspiration, Carlos set to work. I watched in amazement as my hamster, who can't possibly have an IQ higher than 12 or 13, used his water bottle to STYLE HIS HAIR.

Do you think I'm kidding? I am sorry to say that I am not. Carlos warmed up by listening to emo punk and biting himself (the hamster form of cutting). He allowed a few tears to brim in his shining eyes, making sure to record the touching moment by self-consciously dripping the tears onto the pages of his journal, which he kept stashed under his food dish, as he wrote about what it was like to live in the bottom of a deep, dark, pit of brightly colored plastic.

April 10, 2006. Another day slides by in my ever-shortening life, wasted in the captivity of these insipid, cooing humans. My prison is in primary colors. But I think only in gray. I live only in gray.

Once Carlos was fully amped for his big move, I watched in amazement as he rubbed himself back and forth, back and forth on this water bottle. I can honestly say I have never seen him do anything remotely like this. Usually one drop from his water bottle sends him into anxious convulsions, because OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT. Mortified grooming would usually immediately follow such an indiscretion, and was usually carried out as far away from the offensive water bottle as human possible.

But not today. Never again.

Carlos's punk era had begun.

Once his hair was sufficiently spiked, Carlos stalked around his cage, pleased with his new dangerous image. No one would mess with him now. He balled his paws together. Anyone who dared laugh at his new hairstyle would have two and a half inches of hamster to contend with.

For the first time, I couldn't even try to reach out to Carlos. I was too afraid. I had become scared of my own hamster. He could feel the change in me. He fed off it, drew strength from it. My growing fear only fueled his rebellion. After a few short hours, any of my attempts to talk to him were met with lurking, glaring hostility.

The razor-sharp spikes on his hammy fauxhawk gleamed as he sullenly ate his food.

I felt hopeless, like I had lost the cute little hamster I used to know forever. But deep down, I knew that his punk furstyle was just one more cry for help.

There had to be a way to reach him. And it was my job as his mother to find it.

I had to get my sweet little hamster back. My sweet little baby hamster. Who used to look a lot like this. But how?

To be continued ...

The Schnozzfest Monthly Music Contest

2006-04-11T17:35:00.001-05:00

Greetings, Schnozzsters.

I have been kicking around the idea of a blog contest for quite some time. Moose's cookie contests are so fun that I couldn't help but ~~steal her idea~~ feel inspired by her genius.

The thing is, Schnozz don't bake. And if Schnozz DID bake, she sure as hell wouldn't turn around and MAIL THE COOKIES TO PEOPLE. She would eat the cookies. Immediately. Which is why she doesn't bake in the first place. It's like that old proverb: What's good for the moose is not good for the goose. Or something.

I needed to do something different. I needed to do something SPECTACULAR ... or at least something that required very little effort from me. Something I would not have to stir. Something that required no preheating. Something that would not prompt me to lock myself in the closet so I could smush my eager face into the batter bowl without anyone bearing witness to my shameful, doughy desires.

With this in mind, the Schnozzfest Monthly Music Contest was born. It's clean. It doesn't have preservatives. It does not promote childhood obesity.

Here's how it works: Recommend a song, or more than one song, in the comments section. There is no limit to how many songs you can recommend. The person who recommends the track I like best wins. The contest ends when I get bored and decide it's time to give out a prize already. Yes, there is a prize. It's even a pretty good prize. And I did not mean "good" in the sense that you should eat it. So don't try that.

I don't have a genre preference, but there IS a secret to winning this contest: Do your best to choose a song that is unlike any other. This sounds simple, but it's actually pretty hard to do. I can only think of a few examples off the top of my head. Radiohead's "No Surprises" comes to mind, or Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek," or "The Headphonist" by Kinky (the version with the Cake lead singer ... LOVE IT). I'm not saying they're the best songs ever, though I like them. I'm saying you recognize it immediately if you've heard it before, and it's not likely to be confused with a different song. I am looking for songs with IDENTITY.

WRONG: "Who sings this? Pearl Jam? Three Doors Down? Matchbox Twenty?"
RIGHT: "Dude, I can totally tell this is Tori Amos, because no one else is insane enough to attempt to rock out with a HARPSICHORD."

It has to WORK, though. It can't be just some weird crap. Don't recommend a song where someone just sneezes electronically the whole time or something. Unless it sounds cool. Then, by all means.

Don't worry about genre, but bonus points will be given if it makes me want to dance. I love The Shins and Joshua Radin as much as the next guy, so don't hesitate to provide something tinkly and dreamy and haunting and thoughtful if you're sitting on something really good ... but the truth is I love that stuff way too much. Consequently everything in my collection sounds like a makeout song, with the exception of approximately two bands (Hot Hot Heat, Barenaked Ladies). Far be it from me to turn away yet another "kissing sexily in the rain, a la Garden State" song, but really, you're probably just enabling me, so if you really care, you'll find me something with a beat.

Ready? GO!

This post will do nothing for you if you are unfamiliar with 80s music videos.

2006-04-10T03:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, I'm done talking about Seattle. But that doesn't mean I'm done talking about Shannon. The events of my meeting with Shannon were so strange that I feel compelled to share them with you. Even now I wonder if it was all a bizarre, schnozzy dream. Even now I wonder if I didn't just lose my mind. Perhaps I am recounting this story from a padded cell, mumbling to myself, imagining that I am typing on a blog. All I know is that after what happened to me and Shannon in Seattle, ANYTHING is possible.

But first, a little background: Things have always been tense between Shannon and me. She has a schnozz, and I have a schnozz, and sometimes creatures with schnozzes can get a little ... territorial. Sometimes schnozzes get competitive. Everyone wants to have the pointiest, bumpiest schnozz in all the land. Obviously, this isn't going to be possible.

Obviously, someone has to lose.

I knew that as soon as I laid eyes on Shannon, I would get served. I knew that her schnozz would be looking to defeat my schnozz in an official schnozz-off. I wondered when the chip on Shannon's shoulder would fall. I wondered when the schnozz-off would begin.

We began on a friendly enough note. She was excited to see me, and we had a good time playing with her cats and photographing ourselves. "We'd better take a picture in front of your house to prove I was here," I joked. "Great idea!" she responded. Much fun was had. As you can see in the photographs, our schnozzes got pretty close without attacking one another:

And when we created this humorous shot to prove that my visit to Shannon's house had been real, we were downright jovial:

Though my chin did something unpleasant in the photo, we didn't let it ruin our day.

But then it started. The competitive little barbs. The edgy tones of voice. A schnozz-off was imminent. Finally, in an argument over which one of us used more Kleenex in a month that elevated to a heated discussion over which of us bore a greater resemblance to a toucan, the gauntlet was thrown.

"It's time for a schnozz-off," Shannon snarled. "You and me, on the street corner by the park with all the prostitutes. I'll see you there at high noon."

Then she stalked away and I went ... somewhere else, by myself, in Seattle, even though I didn't have a car or anything. That's not important to the story, plus it really doesn't make any sense, so we'll just ignore it and continue with the tale.

As noon neared, my nerves jangled with apprehension. The temptation to cheat intensified. Would my schnozz emerge victorious? Did my nose really have what it took? Maybe I could just ... pad my odds a little. I headed to Archie McPhee's to see what help I could find.

When the time came, I was ready. Sure, I was cheating, but my triumph was guaranteed, and in my victory-hungry heart, that was all that mattered.

But when Shannon arrived on the corner, I saw that we were both cheaters. We grinned sheepishly at one another, each hoping the other would be fooled.

Unfortunately, it didn't work. I struck first, ripping off Shannon's fake nose to reveal the true schnozz beneath. She reciprocated, and the schnozz-off was on. The very fabric of time and space rippled as our schnozzes went head-to-head, face-to-face, consequences be damned. In the next journalistic photo, you can see that tensions ran high and the competition was fierce:

She leaned in ... I leaned in ... and then ...

and then the craziest thing happened.

The Seattle Wrap-Up Post

2006-04-10T02:58:00.000-05:00

I think we can all agree it's time to move on from Seattle. In fact some of you probably wish I'd never heard of Seattle, much less journeyed there. Fair enough. I understand. With your needs in mind, Schnozzfest.com presents

**THE SEATTLE WRAP-UP POST!!!**

That's right: After this post, no more Seattle. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care if this post is 40,000 words long. We are going to deal with Seattle, and Seattle will be RECKONED WITH, and then Seattle is going to run away with its tail between its legs. Go on, Seattle! Git! And don't come back round these parts!

Where should we start? First, the Seattle timeline has been updated. Remember that timeline? Well, it sucked. I started it, and then I interrupted it, and then I remembered it but by then no one cared, including me. So I went back and updated it, but you didn't miss much the first time. Basically, I chose not to sleep, and I really should have, and then I was tired, and then I acted stupid, and then I slept for a long time. Boring, right? Right. Let's all agree the timeline was a mistake and move on, OK?

Hurry, hurry, sit. I have pictures to show you. Seattle isn't going to go away on its own. So just look at these as quickly as possible. The sooner you do this, the sooner we can pretend the big earthquake has already happened and the United States now ends at the Midwest.

Michelle showed me some cool sights around Seattle. One of them was this troll:

Note that he is holding a Volkswagen. It's important that you notice that and nod your head so I can show you the next picture and put all this behind us. Do you see? Yes? Good.

There's a blogging joke in there somewhere but SWEET MOTHER OF GOD WE HAVE NO TIME.

Seattle has a big troll AND a big Lenin. They thought of everything!

Michelle took me to several wonderful restaurants and a few bars. One bar was so homey that it had a big fireplace AND a cute little dog wandering around in it. It also had this sign:

The sign made me laugh, because it made me think of Moose. Then I noticed that the sign actually was of a moose and featured the word "moose" several times, which made it even MORE fitting than it already was.

Shannon was kind enough to show me several sights, including Bruce Lee's grave:

Which is located in this pretty cemetery:

Actually, various streets in Seattle featured those pretty blossoms. I would tell you all about how gorgeous it was and how the vision filled my soul to bursting with springtime optimism and the joys of nature, but I waited too long and no one cares anymore.

NEXT!

Shannon also took me to the Space Needle. I wanted to be all cool and uncaring about the Space Needle, but when we got there I couldn't help feeling excited. Except for a brief incident where I thought my camera was broken and almost cried (it wasn't broken; the wrist strap was preventing the camera from opening all the way), much fun was had at the Space Needle.

(Looking eastish? from the top of the SN)

(Looking westish? from the top of the SN)

Shannon and I also went to the aquarium, where I took many many bad pictures full of blurry underwater objects. A few photos did come out, though, including one of me riding majestically in the very large whale tank.

Notice my camera holster on my belt. The camera holster is really convenient. The camera holster also marks the day that I gave up on coolness forever and decided it was OK to wear a camera holster on my belt out in public. Someday my children will look at these photos and witness the EXACT MOMENT their mother gave up on cool and gave in to sweet, sweet convenience. Sorry, kids. I tried to wait for you. Hopefully we'll have cool neighbors you can learn from or something.

Other aquarium shots:

The best thing about the aquarium was the extreme otter cuteness. Witness the cuteness of the sleeping otters with their paws around each other:

Cutest. Otters. Ever.

I tried to take more otter pictures, but quite predictably, they all stank. Here is one that sort of came out:

I'm pretty sure that otter cuteness is too powerful to be accurately captured on camera. Either that or I don't know what I'm doing. I prefer the first explanation.

Lastly, I went to the famous fish market where everyone throws fish and it's really fun. Except no one threw fish all that often. But that's OK, because there were people in silver paint pretending to be puppets, which is even better.

When you gave them money, the puppet woman sang as the puppet man moved her arms around. (The better shot happened when these folks took a break and the woman was stuffing a sandwich into her silver mouth, but I was too shy to photograph it.)

And then we went some other places and then I got stuck in the airport for a long time and I finally got home. The end.

That wasn't so bad, was it? That was sort of worthwhile and fun, yes? And we can all stop talking about it now? And move on to perhaps a hamster story or a cute nephew story or an essay about my four buttcheeks or ANYTHING THAT IS NOT SEATTLE?

Good.

K-k-k-k-karma

2006-04-09T22:58:00.000-05:00

There's this horrible Jessica Andrews song* that goes something like this:

"What goes around/comes around/I'm tellin you baby/It's called karma/what goes up comes down/hits the ground/you're gonna find out/all about all about/kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh karma!"

I'm sure the writer of this song was pretty proud of the innovative intentional stuttering, but let me assure you that while the song may be innovative, it is in no way pleasant to listen to. It isn't even catchy, yet it has often replayed in my head against my will, a circumstance I am forced to chalk up to post-traumatic stress syndrome, as there is no other reasonable explanation.

So the song sucks. But what about the principle behind it? Well, I'm not sure I really believe that karma exists. But when you find yourself stuck in an airport for the third day in a row, you get a little desperate. You start to believe because you have to believe. You start to believe because if that slutty man uses your cell phone to chat up total strangers ONE MORE TIME, you'll simply implode, and then your remains will have to fly standby, and then no one will be able to fit you into the cargo bay because of all that spring break luggage, but at least you won't care because you will be dead.

While stuck in the airport, I did my best to generate good karma. I joked about it on the phone with Mr. S, about how all of my good deeds would prompt the universe to save a seat for me on the plane, but opportunities for karma-building really do present themselves at every turn when one is stuck in the airport. I helped people check in for their flights. I even booked flights for one couple on my laptop. I lent my cell phone to many a needy ear. I graciously chased those who forgot hats, bags, and small children. I watched bags for people while they used the restroom. I allowed people in a hurry to cut in front of me in line. I helped one gentleman figure out how to use his calling card, and when it didn't work, offered him my phone instead. If everyone in society behaved the way I did at that airport, "utopia" would be what we called the slums in the bad part of town.

Did I do all this because I'm a nice person? Not really. It's true that I am in fact a nice person. But another factor made a bigger difference: I had all the time in the world. Why not help people? Helping people is more fun than doing nothing. So I helped people, and helped people, and helped people, until my hair started to sort of glow and my facial features took on the look of mosaic tile. I was downright saintly in that airport. "Oh, thank you!" patron after patron would gush. "Don't mention it," I would say, my skin pearly and luminous. One harried man offered to buy me lunch after I sorted out some confusion with his ticket. "No, thanks, I'm happy to help," I said, idly plucking a harp. "Just pass it on by helping someone else when you get the chance."

By the end of the third day, I was SURE that the universe owed me big-time. I said as much to Mr. S, who skeptically said, "I think you used up all your karma when you rode in the 777 business class." I ignored my pessimistic spouse and waited for my miracle.

Imagine my surprise when my karma-building efforts actually paid off. Even thinking about it now, I can't get over the sheer strangeness of it.

On Monday night, I waited faithfully for the redeye flight, knowing I was probably not going to get on. And I didn't. Seven or eight of us were left behind when that plane took off (yes, that is a LOT, and didn't bode well for the next day's travel). Some were crying. Some looked utterly defeated. I was pretty cheerful, because I knew I could just call Shannon and she would just come get me. There was nothing desperate about my demeanor when I walked up to the gate agent and pleasantly asked her whether she could print me a new boarding pass. She apologetically declined, as she had just shut down the machine. I thanked her anyway, and all of us headed away from the United gates and back toward the main terminal.

We were nearly at the main terminal when the agent, Michelle, said, "You know, I have a few companion passes left. If I gave you one, that would bump you up in the ranks considerably, so your odds of getting on a plane tomorrow would be pretty good. Would you be interested in that?"

Employees only get a few of these passes a year. There were several people she could have given one to that night, some of whom were literally sobbing. For some reason, she offered it to me, even though she saw disappointed standbys every day, and even though I was a complete stranger. I accepted, of course, and she stayed after her shift ended to fill out the pass. She even checked me in for the flight and printed my boarding pass, so I could head straight for security when I came back to the airport the next day. She apologized for how slow the computers were, even though she was the one who had clocked out twenty minutes ago and should have been heading home. We stood alone at the United desk in the empty airport at midnight, with me thanking her profusely and her merrily waving me off and wishing me luck.

I got on that flight the next day and rode first-class to Chicago, all thanks to Michelle the Gate Agent.

Is there a moral to the story? Well, the moral is probably "Sometimes Good Things Happen to You For No Reason, Regardless of the Fact That You Just Helped Like a Dozen People in the Seattle Airport." But it's more fun to think that the universe paid me back.

Next time you get the chance to help an old lady cross the street, don't think of it as a burden. Don't think of it as your duty.

Think of it as a golden opportunity to get your own ass out of trouble. Cha-ching!
---------
*Mind you, I love Jessica Andrews. Now was a great album; every song on it is good, and I've nearly worn it out in my CD player. But there's no way around it: "Karma" is one of the worst songs in the world. Perfectly mentally healthy individuals have killed themselves because of it. It is responsible for the extinction of several species and has done more than its fair share in damaging the ozone layer. But don't take my word for it. Go ahead, have a listen. Then try to forget. Try, as I did. Then watch helplessly as the curse of your curiosity follows you through airport after airport for the REST OF YOUR DAYS.

I'm sorry.

2006-04-07T04:49:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my currently nonfun blog. My brain is mush. I am not funny. I am not sad. I am not anything. I am some sort of pile of disassembled cells garbed in pajama pants and ingesting a great deal of sugar. A USELESS pile at that. I can't make a joke or do my job or apply eyeliner. Any wit is accomplished merely by accident. I am also confused and possibly hallucinating. This morning I woke up and staggered into my bathroom and thought, "The bathroom in this hotel is just like my bathroom at home," I really really thought that, and then I woke up all the way and remembered that I finally WAS home, and there will be no more airports for a while, really and truly, and it's time for my normal life to start again but I don't know how, yet I am not alarmed because being alarmed requires brain cells and I do not possess those, because they have all flown away into the atmosphere above Sea-Tac or perhaps O'Hare, and all I am left with is the smooth, crisp, dense, cool texture of potato brain. It does nothing, this potato. It is a sleepy, thoughtless vegetable. I wake up and try to think and it just says snurrrrrr really softly and sweetly until I close my eyes again. It seems as though I used to feel all sharp and smart and so AWARE and there were things in my life that could be observed and chronicled and laughed at but that is all in the distant past and besides it is too much work and anyway all that matters now is snurrrr plus also bleh.

Yeah. So. Some other time, then.

Fa rizzle.

2006-04-05T01:02:00.000-05:00

I'M HOME!

My apologies to the six million people I haven't contacted yet. I just haven't had time; it's been a crazy frigging day. And now you're all asleep. (It's very early Wednesday morning, no matter what the stupid timestamp on this post says ... someday I'll find the setting that fixes that.)

It was a lovely trip and I had a great time, even in the airport, and though I will never attempt travel during spring break again, and though I will never EVER choose not to bring a pass again, it was all worth it and I am now reliving my trip and hopping around my living room with joy.*

Thanks so much to Shannon and her man, who saved my ass beyond all measure. Shannon, if you ever find yourself in STL, please please come over and stay as long as you like. There will be palm fronds. (Oh, and your lamp isn't broken. It's unplugged. I was tired, the switch wouldn't cooperate, and I gave up.) I will give you all lots of Shannon details when I return. I will even discuss in depth how ~~smokingly hot~~ personable her fiance is.** (Because I know you're reading this, B, I would like to express my appreciation that you let your fiance's weird blog friend stay. I realize that pretty people walk through life suffering under the stereotype associated with vapid Calvin Klein models, but I want you to know that I respect you as a person too ... or at least as someone who didn't make me stay in a hotel. But let's not nitpick.)

Anyway, I am half tempted to beg those two to reproduce so that kid can get Shannon's eyes and B's pleasing hair-ness, and God I hate it when people do that, so I need to sign off now lest I be tempted.

Goodnight/good morning, all.
---------------
*I am hopping in my new Danskos that I got on eBay. Dude. Danskos are awesome. I am rarely one to get behind a pair of shoes that retails for $130 ... or even half that, really (which is more what I paid). But the Danskos? Are worth it. These look more than dressy enough for a skirt, but they're so kind to my feets that I feel as if I could go jogging in them. Plus they slip on easily. SLIP ON! I am too lazy for buckles and too wimpy for dress shoes, and yet Dansko makes a shoe for me. That's how great this company is. Buy Dansko shoes. Buy them now.
**And now I will find out whether Mr. S reads this blog. And then I will find out whether he reads the footnotes. Did you get this far, Mr. S? I still love you the best. (I was actually just being polite, honey. Shannon's fiance is a sad, unattractive hunchback. I would prove it with photographs, but ... uh ... he doesn't like it when we take pictures of him. Probably on account of the unusually severe cleft palate? I don't know. What does it matter anyway? The point is I did nothing wrong and I don't know why you're looking at me like that ... hey, who wants ice cream?)

First of all, I'm still in Seattle ...

2006-04-04T00:05:00.000-05:00

... and second of all, I'm pretty sure the sky is not supposed to look like this.

I'm actually having a lot of fun. I'm not sure Mr. S knows what to think. Every time he's called, I've just giggled into the phone like a schoolgirl while sixty of my new friends mooned me or shoved me or made faces at me. And he's all expecting me to be totally depressed, and I'm giggling, and he's like "What is going on," and I'm like, "I'm showing Jessica your Iraq pictures on Flickr!" and he's like "Who the hell is Jessica?" And I'm like, "My new friend! She lives in Canada, eh!" (more giggling ensues as Mr. S's bafflement deepens)

It's fun to be stuck, so long as you aren't the only one stuck. We're all considering getting a bus and driving it cross-country, and dropping everyone off as we go. We are also considering a secret handshake of some sort. I've promised to visit Jessica in Canada soon, and I nearly cried with joy when poor Nikki finally got on the plane. Now she won't have to miss another day of school. And that other girl, what's her name, now she won't miss her final presentation at Purdue, and I will never forget the YouTube clips she showed me where that girl spit on that other girl. Plus I've never seen such a detailed Led Zeppelin tattoo before!

Now it's just me, the very very gay boy who is calling MySpace strangers on my cell phone to arrange casual sex with them while he waits for his flight (no, really--I'm trying not to listen but he keeps saying things like "Well, is your roommate going to be home? Where do you live?"), the guy who keeps rambling about all the film he can't wait to develop, and the Pajama Family. But I'm still having fun, and if I don't get on the plane in an hour, I'll go see Shannon.

I am too amused to be upset. You are allowed to stop feeling sorry for me, but only temporarily.

Warning: Blog is not responsible for your feelings beyond this point.

2006-04-02T14:37:00.000-05:00

I'll admit that it does cheer me up, just a little, that I was selected for a secondary screening yesterday, patted down, had my clothes rearranged and stuffed back into place all wrinkly, had all of my bizarre Seattle purchases examined (Shannon, you know what I mean, and so will everyone else when I blog about it), and rather rudely made to feel like a criminal in general.

Why does this cheer me up? Because I got my revenge, if only by accident.

(Some would find the following story really gross, OK? And I'm not actually very patient with people like that, because I consider such an attitude to be a little childish ... but as a courtesy I usually try to steer clear of topics that might prompt such a response. So run now if you must, or continue reading and face the complete nonexistence of my sympathy.)

If you ever get searched, make sure you have a Diva Cup in your suitcase. Also, make sure the screener is a guy, and has never heard of such a thing, and therefore handles and examines it for quite some time before figuring it out and/or being informed of its purpose. I promise you that if you're not the overly embarrassed type, and the screener IS the overly embarrassed type (not to mention the squeamish type), it will so, so completely make your day. And you will be able to give them a look that plainly says, This is what you people get for dragging me over here, taking my shoes away, and groping my thighs.

And for those of you who don't know what a Diva Cup is--especially the menfolk--there is a reason I didn't link it. I am trying to preserve your innocence, just in case such a discovery would scar you. (If you must know, Google would be happy to assist you.) I promise to never bring it up again. I won't even inform you that Diva Cups don't retain that nice clear color for long, because that would probably give you too much insight into how amusing this really was and ruin your lunch ... if the look on the screener's face was any indication.

(I am still, of course, very anxious over here. You're not allowed to stop feeling sorry for me just because I am enjoying the fact that I now belong to the rather exclusive club of people who have used a Diva Cup to exact their revenge. I am anxious AND pitiful. Did I mention the pitiful?)

Ms. Potatohead is suing me over the contents of this post

2006-04-02T13:07:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah, I know, the timeline. But more important things are going on. The VBI that began that timeline is nothing compared to what I'm going to share with you anyway.

OK, so I'm stuck in Seattle. But I'm not panicking like usual, because I promised myself that if this happened, I would just get a hotel room and work, and enjoy the quiet, and work extra hard to just make up for the cost of the hotel, no harm done, no one is panicking, just relax. Relax and be grateful that this is still so much cheaper, that you enjoyed first class, that people would kill for the flight privileges that I have--privileges that so far have gotten me to Cancun and New York for free without a single night stuck anywhere. I promised that I would remember that I was due to get stuck, as it just happens sometimes, and it's still way cheaper than actually buying a ticket.

And I did that. Am still doing that. No problem.

But it is spring break, and I am an idiot and didn't know that, and the flights are all horrible and it was impossible to get home yesterday and is equally impossible today (per the advice of the airlines, I'm not even trying--yesterday people were near tears everywhere, and they had PAID for a seat and still weren't getting one anyway). I am going to try again tomorrow, but the odds are very good I'll be stuck until Tuesday, when the flights are more open. That is still OK. Tuesday is still OK. If I'm stuck later than that, I am going to freak out, because I am going to become convinced, all rules of logic and cognitive reasoning be damned, that I am stuck in Seattle for the rest of my life, and will never see my husband or hamster again. (Is SEEING the Space Needle worth living UNDER the Space Needle? Time will tell.)

But it's still OK. I have a TON of work to do (which is why I am not calling you to come rescue me, Shannon--I need to work and would rather do it here, because I cannot resist temptation to chat with people instead when they are in my presence) and this is a good environment in which to do it. I also really can just work a little extra and make up the cost of the hotel room. No biggie. Really. Intellectually I understand that there is plenty of paid work to be done with my free time here, and that I may even net a PROFIT because I got stuck (this boggles my mind, but it is quite possible nonetheless). Intellectually I understand that this is not an emergency. This is far from an emergency. Like, there are emergencies, and there is this situation, and if the dictionary listed an opposite for the word "emergency," there would be a little black and white picture of this situation drawn in bad line art right under that opposite listing. Really! I just can't stress that enough to you. Or to myself. OK, mostly to myself.

But here's the thing I can't stop thinking about. Here is the thing that is driving me absolutely insane, and it is the reason that I am probably going to end up crying in the bathroom AGAIN if I don't make it out of the airport tomorrow. I will not be crying because I am in an emergency situation. I will not be crying because I am losing money.

I will be crying because IT IS JUST THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING, DAMMIT.

I can fly on US Airways, America West, or United on a whim; I need only to pick up the phone, dial a special 800 number, and list myself on the flight. I did this yesterday with only two hours' notice, and my boarding pass printed at the check-in kiosk as if I had booked it months ago. Ahhh, technology. Too bad it's spring break and the seats are stuffed full already this weekend. (Still, standby passes make great kindling for the homeless, which is important to remember, especially when you may end up homeless in Seattle yourself. Ahem. Whenever I need something to burn for warmth, I can always just find a payphone and list myself on like a hundred flights at once.)

I can also fly on American Airlines, but this works differently: I need a certain type of printed pass. Mr. S has to get it for me at a special office, and it usually it takes about a week for it to arrive in the mail. But this really shouldn't be a problem, because I already have such a pass; the darling Mr. S made sure to get one for me as soon as I mentioned that I would want to visit Seattle sometime in the next few months. I have an American Airlines pass from Seattle DIRECT to St. Louis. Direct. As in, no risk of getting stuck anywhere else. American Airlines offers the only way to fly direct, therefore eliminating the chance of getting stuck in Denver or Phoenix or wherever (though really, what's the difference between being stuck there and stuck here, I guess).

That pass? Is sitting on the kitchen counter at home. In Missouri. Yes.

The worst part? I can't even pretend that I FORGOT it. God, how I wish I had just forgotten it. But I didn't. I DELIBERATELY CHOSE NOT TO BRING IT, WHICH IS A FAR MORE UNBELIEVABLE, HEINOUS, AND TRULY UNFORGIVABLE ERROR. What the hell was I thinking? I don't know. I cannot put that thought process into words for you. That would be like thinking with a lumpy, dirty, half-rotten potato instead of your brain and then describing what that felt like. There just aren't words for that sort of thing.

See, I checked the flights--checked them incorrectly, I might add, because my brain is actually just a potato--and somehow got confused into thinking the direct-flight pass (only good for that particular SEA-STL flight) wouldn't be any good, because I didn't see any direct flights listed for the days I would be trying to get back.

The only problem with that is A) I was wrong, and direct flights ARE in operation this week and B) I still should have just brought the damn pass, because it couldn't have hurt, and it may have helped, in the event that I got stuck for a really long time and direct flights were once again an option. Even if I had been right about the nonexistence of direct flights (and I repeat: I WAS NOT RIGHT, GOD HELP ME, I WAS TOTALLY NOT RIGHT, THANKS FOR NOTHING YOU STUPID-ASS POTATO BRAIN), it was still stupid to leave a possibly useful pass on the counter.

Because that's where it is, you know. On the counter. I can see it there, in my head. I can see it there, lying USELESS, speaking to me in taunting whispers. Why did I leave it? It's so flat. Just a silly little highly necessary piece of paper. It takes up hardly any space. Why not just sort of, you know, tuck it into my wallet, as I keep wishingly and very bitterly picturing myself doing?

The flights have been horrible all weekend. It is likely that they still will be tomorrow. I am not banking on getting home tomorrow at all; the airlines have already put many PAYING passengers in hotels for the weekend, much to the passengers' distress. Yesterday not a single plane left Seattle with an empty seat on it. You think I'm kidding; you should have seen the flight data. Yesterday was full of overbooked flights and tearful people wearing Hawaiian shirts, begging the gate agent to help them and then, later, ranting over ruined vacations at the service desk. (I spent the entire day at the airport, so I got to witness the entire emotional spectrum firsthand.) In the coming days, the flights are going to be tight as all of those people are compensated with vouchers and given a seat.

In short, the airport is a mess, and the flights are likely to be packed tomorrow.

Except. Except except except. Guess what I just found out mere moments ago.

Remember that direct flight that I thought didn't exist this week?

There is one tomorrow. Oopsie!

Miraculously, there are still open seats on it.

TWENTY-SIX open seats, to be exact.

There haven't been that many open seats on an airplane since ... well, I don't even know. It has probably never happened. You are probably witnessing the very makings of aviation history. How coincidental that such a thing would happen in Seattle while I was trying to GET OUT of Seattle! How coincidental and possibly fortunate! Had I brought that pass, I wouldn't have to sit here and worry about getting home. Instead I would be kicking back, doing my work, and resting assured that everything was going to be fine and I would not in fact eventually be forced to become a Seattle streetwalker. Instead the possibility of my Seattle demise yawns before me, open-ended, murky, mysterious. And I have only myself to blame. The fates smiled upon me, and then I flipped them off, and now I must pay.

I keep thinking that if I just go throw up it will help. But truthfully the only thing that will help will be getting home earlier tomorrow than that flight would have allowed.

I have two chances to do that. Cross your fingers with me that this will work out. Not so I can come home. Not so I don't have to buy a hotel room for yet another night. But just so that I will be able to forgive myself for VOLUNTARILY leaving my best chance to get out of this city on a kitchen counter a billion miles away. Just so I can say, "Even if I had brought that pass, it wouldn't have made bit of difference to the final outcome." I have to be able to say those words out loud with sincerity, or this mistake will taint me, and as a result nothing in life will never feel good and right again, and ice cream will taste like chalk, and fresh spring days will only repulse me, and no matter how much cheese I eat, I will always be hungry for more delicious, unsatisfying cheese, for there will never be enough cheese to fill the void that this mistake has left in my soul. Some say I'm prone to hyperbole, but in this case I really think I've nailed it.

People, for the sake of my sanity, I simply have to beat that flight home.

I will, of course, keep you posted.

Schnozzfest: When Life Gives You a Potato, ~~Make French Fries!~~ Die of Shame.

Ain't No Drizzle in Seaizzle (Timeline Intermission Rap)

2006-04-01T04:43:00.000-06:00

(Schnozzy G, speaking)
Souvenirs in full effect.

(Clap of thunder)

(Sound of rain is heard, intensifies, then fades away quickly)

(Schnozzy G, intro rap)
What's up y'all
Besides Schnozz in da plane?
What's up y'all
Besides big ol' Mount Rain?

(Lil Blossum)
-ier.

(Schnozzy G, intro rap cont)
What's up y'all
Besides da pointa da needle?
What's up y'all?
Now please listen and heedle.

(Lil Blossum, speaking)
Girl means heed, y'all. Holla if ya jet-lagged, Schnozzy G.

(Schnozzy G)
Hollaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

(Bass beat begins)

(Schnozzy G)
Seattle they say you is all cloaked in a cloud
They say yo frontman's dead and still the grunge is too loud
They say you gots some flannel and some straggle-ey hair ...
Yo, those who say dat ain't never been there.

Whaddabout da needle?
Whaddabout da ocean?
Whaddabout da monorail wit its teeny locomotion?
Whattabout da needle?
Whaddabout da ocean?
Whaddabout da crowds wit they dancin' an' commotion?

Seattle they say you is all about rainy weatha
They say you is a buncha towns all cobbled togetha
They say you ain't no pretty city, justa plain ol' town ...
Yo, those who say dat ain't never been aroun.

Whaddabout da lattes?
Whaddabout da hoods?
Whaddabout da hookahs all offerin' they goods?
Whattabout da lattes?
Whaddabout da hoods?
Whaddabout da mountain-dwellin', Pine-Sol-smellin' woods?

(Bass beat pauses, then begins anew)

(Schnozzy G, breakdown rap interlude)
Oh the sun shines down on Schnozz today
Cause our good friend Fate knows when it's time ta play
Oh the space needle points up toward the sky
And Lil Blossum and Schnozzy is gettin' high

(Lil Blossum)
On the elevator y'all, just ta clar-i-fy

(Schnozzy G)
Thanks Lil Blossum you is a true friend
Now let's rap it out to the end

(Schnozzy G and Lil Blossum)
Whaddabout da needle?
Whaddabout da ocean?
Whaddabout da monorail wit its crazy locomotion?
Whattabout da needle?
Whaddabout da ocean?
Whaddabout da crowds wit they dancin' an' commotion?

Whaddabout da lattes?
Whaddabout da hoods?
Whaddabout da hookahs all offerin' they goods?
Whattabout da lattes?
Whaddabout da hoods?
Whaddabout da mountain-dwellin', Pine-Sol-smellin' woods?

Whaddabout da music?
Whaddabout da bands?
Whaddabout da venues and da rockin' in da stands?
Whattabout da music?
Whaddabout da bands?
Whaddabout da fans all wavin' wit dey hands?

(Schnozzy G)
Let's give it up in the blog-o-sphere
You gonna love Seaizzle once you here
You won't never wanna leave, or so they say
Which is good cause the damn planes is full anyway

When I gonna go? Am I gonna stay?
May not win this crazy bet, but I just gotta say
No matta what, I give thanks, cause one thing is fo shizzle ...

(Schnozzy G and Lil Blossum)
No way no how, weren't no drizzle in Seaizzle.

(Bass beat fades)

Lookin' back fondly on y'all now, Seaizzle. Peace.

Schnozz goes to Seattle, Part 1 (updated)

2006-03-31T04:21:00.001-06:00

Our story, Schnozzsters, involves a Very Bad Idea. The full implications of this VBI will not be described until the next timeline, so pay attention. I didn't have time to even glance over this timeline for typos, so be kind.

10:00 AM Tuesday - I wake up. This is very early for me, but I am attempting to switch to first shift.*

4:30 PM Tuesday - I suddenly decide I’m going to Seattle on Wednesday. Why, you ask? Well, why the hell not? (Actually, there were like ten reasons why not. Ranking highly among those reasons was my general unpreparedness, laundrywise at least; the fact that I am juggling two projects while attempting to switch to first shift, and ... some other reasons that I can’t remember now. And couldn’t remember then either, apparently.)

4:31 PM Tuesday - Wait, WHEN do I have to get up to make that 6:30 AM flight? Let’s see, I still have many hours of work to do on this project before I could justify going to Seattle ... and I have to pack ... and do laundry ... and it takes a half hour to get to the airport by train ... OK ... 2 AM.

4:32 PM Tuesday - Getting up at 2 AM seems excessively silly to me. Who does that? No one who makes any sense at all does that. Only crazy people are hitting the snooze button at 1:45, I tell myself. Objectively speaking, setting one’s alarm for 1:45 is wildly irrational.

4:33 PM Tuesday - I decide to just stay up. No! Don’t do it! you say. The downside of such a plan is painfully obvious! Look, don’t rub it in.

4:33:30 PM Tuesday - My brain seems to be dimly trying to tell me something, but I’m too busy churning out pages of edited manuscript to listen to it. Something about how staying up all night is really easy when you’re working third shift, but it’s another thing entirely when you *crackle, crackle* I’m sorry, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you over these dangling modifiers. We’ll have to talk some other time.

4:00 AM Wednesday - Standing on the train platform in the dark after dragging my luggage down the empty and decidedly sinister city streets, I realize that I have already been up for ... uh ... 18 hours.

4:01 AM Wednesday - Dude. Wait. How is that even possible? My day is just getting STARTED. I’m feeling confused. And sort of tired, now that I think about it. How can I be tired? The sun isn’t even UP yet.

4:29 AM Wednesday - I involuntarily make friends with an old man on the train. "HAVE A GOOD TIME IN SEATTLE, BABY!" he yells when he gets off at his stop. I decide moving to St. Louis was one of the best ideas ever.

5:12 AM Wednesday - I yank my shoes off, throw them in a bin, yank my laptop out of its bag and throw it in another bin, and hurl everything else onto the moving belt. I do all of this as quickly as possible, as if I am being jabbed with spears. I must not hold up the line.**

5:12:30 AM Wednesday - I even pass bins back to the guy in line behind me. He asks blankly, “Are these for me?” I do my best to give him a beatific, saintly smile, but what I really want to say is FOR GOD’S SAKE HURRY TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF OH HURRY THEY’RE GOING TO BE SO ANGRY WITH US. They will give us looks and we will feel so shamed. They give us these looks because we are country bumpkins. That intense frown indicates that there are worthless oafs gallivanting in the airport AND WE ARE THOSE WORTHLESS OAFS. Stop asking me stupid questions and hold out your boarding pass. HIGHER! HIGHER!

5:13 AM Wednesday - I’m done with security! WOOO! I think the trick was not wearing a belt. As soon as those slip-on shoes I bought online arrive (I have discovered the joy that is Dansko, and already Life Before Dansko is an unpleasant-but-fading memory), I’ll shave even more precious seconds off my time. And if I got rid of the laptop ... no. No. Not that. Never that.

6:00 AM Wednesday - I call my dad to give him my flight number. My parents sometimes seem a little nervous about me flying around, so before I hang up, I add helpfully, “Know that if I die, I’ll die in FIRST CLASS. I’m going down in STYLE, baby!”

6:00:30 AM Wednesday - Apparently that’s not funny to anyone in earshot who is about to board the plane with you.

6:15 AM Wednesday - I board the plane. First. Because I’m first class, bitches.

6:29 AM Wednesday - The plane takes off. As always, I feel a rush of triumph at having beaten the system and gotten on the plane. I forget about all of the woe that comes with being a pilot’s wife post 9/11. I feel as if I’ve really gotten away with something. The engine is roaring and I can feel the dollars burning away and very very few of them are MY dollars and that makes me want to laugh and clap my hands.

6:29:30 AM Wednesday - As always, this rush of triumph is immediately followed with a consuming sense of horror that our plane is totally going to crash. Most crashes happen on landing or takeoff, you know. Hollywood tells you that it happens right in the middle, after everyone has eaten and formed interesting alliances and perhaps bantered a bit, and we’ve seen the shot from the outside of the plane where it’s lit up peacefully as it traverses the night sky. But Hollywood lies. I know the truth, and therefore I hate taking off. The plane dips and bumps and makes noises and the whole time I just think it’ssupposedtodothat, it’ssupposedtodothat, it’ssupposedtodothat in an effort to keep calm.****

6:30 AM to 7something Wednesday - Apparently we're not all going to die after all, so I find ways to occupy myself. (You're wondering right now why I didn't sleep. I was way too excited about my trip to sleep.) I chat up the sophisticated rich chick sitting next to me. Ah, hobnobbing with the bluebloods! This is fun until I find out that she’s just an off-duty flight attendant. She’s faking, like me. I cast a suspicious eye around the rest of first class. First class just isn’t what it used to be. They’ll let any riffraff in these days. We finally land in Denver. As I disembark, I remind myself to wash my laptop bag, as that first-class urchin had put her filthy charlatan paws all over it.

8:00 AM Wednesday - I chew through my entire lip waiting to be called for the Denver-Seattle flight. The flight is very, very full—stuffed to the gills, actually, and things are not looking good. I don't handle it well when I get stuck in a city; in fact, the last time I got stuck in a city, I locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried my eyes out. (I know, I know--I really need to stop flying standby if I can't handle the rejection. But if it were free, would YOU be able to resist the pull?) Many names are called and none of them are mine. This is like The Bachelor or something. My sadness deepens when several minutes pass and my name is still not called. What’s the deal? I’m wearing tasteful gray pants. I smiled humbly at you with gleaming, freshly glossed lips when I checked in at the gate podium. My hair is in a neat bun. I just SCREAM First Class. Maybe YOU don’t deserve ME. Has that even occurred to you?

8:11 AM Wednesday - “Passenger Schnozz to the podium, please.” WOOOO! I pop up rather violently out of my seat like the legendary plastic weasel, eager to be whopped by the decidedly less legendary Mallet of Indescribable Relief.

8:15 AM Wednesday - Have any of you ever seen the business class section of a 777 jet? HOLY CRISPY CRAP. I have my own video screen with nine channels of programming. I can’t touch the seat in front of me even if I stretch my legs out all the way. And my seat has four separate adjustment levers. FOUR. I’m no physiologist, but I don’t think I even have four parts in my WHOLE BODY. I vaguely realize that in my efforts to take everything in at once, I am rolling my eyeballs around like a startled horse. I briefly attempt to control my glee.

8:18 AM Wednesday - I fail. And start taking pictures like the giant blogging loser I am. I can feel them all judging me. I don’t care. People in coach are weird. People in the 777 business class are merely eccentric.

8:30 AM-10something Wednesday - A series of geniunely unbelievable events occur. I am offered a drink, and finish it, BEFORE THE PLANE EVEN TAKES OFF. The second the last slurp of orange juice has passed my lips, the empty cup is nearly yanked out of my hand. My chair reclines nearly horizontally. A really good movie that I’ve been wanting to see is on.*** (Warning: Footnote contains very mild spoiler.) I am handed a hot towel with a pair of tongs. The towel smells like lemons and it is nearly too much surreality for me to bear. Everyone watches to see what the ~~weird~~ eccentric girl in 4F is going to do with the hot towel. (Fortunately I figure out I’m supposed to wipe my hands with it. “Steam my facial pores open” was a close second.) I am fed tasty croissants and cheese and fruit. Empty plates are whisked away even as I lift the last bite to my mouth. These business-class people are kind of starting to freak me out.

10:25 AM Wednesday - The Schnozz has landed. Seattle, here I come.

(timeline, continued 4/9/05)
11:00 AM Wednesday - My friend Michelle comes to retrieve me at the airport. Yaaaaay, it's Michelle! I haven't seen her in years! Hooray! I am mercifully flooded with excitement, to the point that I forget how tired I am.
11:05 AM-11:25AM Wednesday - I talk Michelle's ear off so excitedly that she surely begins to wonder about my sanity. I tell her I want to be microchipped, ask her repeatedly what it's like to birth babies (she's in midwifery), repeat that I would really like to be microchipped, and go on and on about this GPS watch I saw on the Internet. At this point alarm bells should be going off. Mania, my brain should be whispering. This is the mania of exhaustion. But this doesn't happen. Instead I just feel witty and bursting with energy. Michelle probably just feels really, really afraid.
12PM - 3PM Wednesday - The mania continues as Michelle shows me around Seattle. We visit various neighborhoods, including Ballard, and browse various shops. I have way too much fun with a hamster puppet (I consider buying it to serve as Carlos's friend/lover, but I'm not sure I can fit it in my suitcase). I am no longer making sense even to myself. How long have I been awake? I can't remember.
3PM - 11PM Wednesday - Michelle drives me around town in a continuing effort to keep me awake. We visit several bookstores and coffee shops. I start falling asleep anytime I stand still, but I determinedly push forward, browsing books and sipping coffee with all the enthusiasm I can muster ... which isn't much. At this point I strongly resemble a zombie, and Michelle is politely pretending not to notice that I am making very little sense. I keep falling asleep in midsentence but continuing to talk, stringing together bizarre phrases and gesturing wildly. During this time span, I fall asleep drinking, reading, and looking at pictures. Every time my head dips in a microsleep, I compensate by saying something really enthusiastic, like "I love Seattle architecture!" Michelle is undoubtedly regretting ever inviting me.
11PM Wednesday - I finally go to sleep. By the time my eyes close, I have been awake for 38 hours. I drop like a stone into unconsciousness. In the meantime, a cat has sex with my sweater, I drool everywhere, and various people are forced to tiptoe around my motionless form in the living room. I do not care. My first day in Seattle is over, and the second day will just have to wait until I'm ready for it.
-----------
*I remain annoyed at this great life revelation, because it essentially boils down to peer pressure. I’m tired of the third-shift stigma. There’s this unbelievably pervasive cultural insistence that anyone who gets out of bed at 3 PM is lazy ... even when they went to bed six hours ago. This attitude wears on my nerves to such an extent that I’m willing to do ANYTHING to avoid it, lest I grind my teeth to stumps in my extreme irritation. I’m willing to do anything, including modifying my own behavior and thus reinforcing the cultural idea of normalcy. (This also annoys me. But not in the outward facial-stabbing sense. More like the inward eye-gouging sense. By my strange logic, that’s preferable.)
**Holding up the line is unacceptable to the TSA. It’s punishable by death. You would know this too if you had paid ANY attention to page 457 of the Patriot Act.
***The Family Stone. I really liked it, but frankly it is not the best movie to watch on an airplane. Were you under the impression that the movie is a comedy? Obviously you haven’t seen it. Sure, there are funny parts, but there are many more parts that make you want to cry like a little baby. A sad, lonely little baby. A sad, lonely little baby with one of those coneheads that is garnished with a horrible tight elastic lacy garter-thing. That’s how sad it is. I resisted crying, but still felt ashamed of the lump in my throat. Until I looked across the aisle and saw the sobbing fifty-year-old man. That cheered me up and scared me all at the same time.
****How do I feel about landings, then, you ask? I don’t mind them. See, we’re already plummeting fairly rapidly, so I figure I won’t really know when the end is near. I don’t really mind dying all that much. It’s the terror-filled plunge that I don’t really enjoy the thought of. I don’t even like the flume rides at the amusement park; the resemblance is just too strong.

Oof

2006-03-27T14:27:00.000-06:00

I have a lot to work on. I mean this in the broadest, vaguest sense possible. I mean it both in the "deadline is coming" sense and the "God will I EVER GET MY LAZY ASS TO SEATTLE" sense and the "I just had giant life revelations" sense. I mean it as only a huge procrastinator can mean it, as only a freaking-out would-be traveler with piles of laundry can mean it, and as only an utterly self-absorbed young person with too much contemplation time can mean it.

I need to take a blogging break for a week or so. I used to hate it when bloggers said this, because seriously, how important do you think you are that you have to say, "Hey, guys, FYI, just posting to let you know I won't be posting. I know you'll panic without my reassuring presence, but please, brace yourselves." But now that I'm blogging, I understand the compulsion to explain any sudden deviation from the blogging norm. I like you guys and don't want you to have to wonder if I fell down the stairs again (admittedly a likely happening). Seeing as I usually never shut up, it would probably only take 48 hours or so before you guys called the police. "No, officer, I don't know her name. Her nose is sort of pointy and she lives somewhere in St. Louis. SHE IS FATALLY CLUMSY. YOU HAVE TO FIND HER BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE. You may want to check local staircase landings."

Anyway, I'm fine and happy and, uh, ecstatically bursting with life's promise. This week is just going to require my full attention.

I find it hard to believe ...

2006-03-26T03:14:00.000-06:00

... that this many people really get to my site by searching for "hair arrow." Is this some big fashion trend I'm not aware of?

An evening with the Schnozzes

2006-03-25T05:49:00.000-06:00

Originally, Mr. S and I were going to go out dancing. But then we remembered that we don't know the first thing about dancing. So I suggested staying in and LEARNING to dance (thanks, Amazon DVD!) instead. To some, this may mean a boring night in on the couch. But, let me remind you ... we live in a nightclub.*

You thought I was kidding. And yes, that's a real bomb.**

So anyway, we decided to stay in. I hopped in the tub, got all my makeup on, and brought out the black heels and the sparkly scarf belt (L, you're going to see some familiar clothing in one of these pictures). I turned Napster to the Latin radio station, and the stage was set. All I needed was Mr. S, who was still getting ready.

But Mr. S never showed.

In his place arrived a man who introduced himself, with a flourish, as Raoul.*** Despite the uncanny resemblance, I had to believe him: Mr. S does not flourish.

Who was this man? What secrets were behind those rosy shades? I was mysteriously drawn to him. I wanted to run my hands up and down his chest, feeling the texture of the scratchy, six-dollar Kohl's button-down under my palms. I wanted to look through the magenta plastic, deep into those soulful eyes. I knew it was wrong--almost as wrong as Raoul's odd fashion sense--but yet ... it was as if I had known him for years.

After a few shots of whiskey, Raoul loosened up a bit and the party really got started.

Raoul left me at the bar as I sipped my drink. I spun on my stool, my eyes searching for him in the vast black ~~living room~~ club. He was ~~in front of the couch~~ on the dance floor. He didn't move, but his eyes were already dancing ... and beckoning. I felt nearly weak with the crush I was forming on this man. I glanced down at my fingers, which absentmindedly stroked the cheap black vinyl of the $25 Target barstools, and noticed I had forgotten my wedding jewelry. Had something inside me told me of this night with Raoul? Had our souls known 'twas our destiny to meet here, in this very very (very) exclusive club? Perhaps the rhythm of our feet needed only to follow the rhythm of our hearts, which already beat together as one.

I caught his gaze and held it. I hadn't finished my drink, but who was I to resist? It was time ... for the cha-cha.

So we cut the music, hit the lights, and popped the DVD in, where we watched an odd, stuffy couple very slowly attempt to teach us the cha-cha.

Did you feel the romance drain away just then? Yeah, so did we. Trust me.

Poor Raoul. For all his initial smoothness, he turned out to be a bit ... inexperienced. (At the cha-cha, I mean.) There was a bit of cursing and much muttering of "cha-cha-cha" to himself as Raoul's feet, curiously encased in a pair of gym shoes that didn't really go with the pink shades, attempted to step to the cha-cha rhythm.

But after a few breaks and a LOT of practice, Raoul and I were officially dancing the cha-cha together with a fair amount of ease. We were surprised at our own success. THIS? THIS IS THE CHA-CHA? Hah! No mystery here. Soon we shall be cha-cha masters!

We practiced a bit more, and then we were ready for some music. Napster's Latin channel was flipped on once again ... but this time we knew what to do.

Or at least supposedly we did. It turns out that Raoul is completely tone deaf. In addition, the rhythm of the music, which seemed obvious to me, was so lost on him that he had no idea at what pace to proceed. So I danced to the rhythm while Raoul stared down at my feet and copied me, thus dancing a beat behind as I dragged him around the living room. By this point, Raoul had a violent case of the hiccups, so his faltering steps were punctuated by full-body seizures that did nothing for his overall grace, which was already sadly lacking. Raoul had tried hard, but his eyes were glazing over behind those shades. Things were no longer looking quite so ... rosy.

We had had our fun, but it was time to say ta-ta to the cha-cha. Raoul disappeared into the bedroom, and out came Mr. S. My heels were kicked off, my clothes got chucked into the closet, and we tumbled in a pile onto the floor to ...

... watch cartoons until Mr. S fell asleep. And then I watched a show about animals were most of them were "saved" and then euthanized anyway (no fewer than A HUNDRED cats and dogs were euthanized in ONE EPISODE, what are these people trying to DO to me), so I ended up crying by myself about the poor starved dog they found chained in a yard, then fed to full, glowing, rompy, adorable health, then tested for aggressiveness, then killed (after the dog's tester cried her eyes out--she and the dog had bonded for weeks prior to his failed evaluation) while Mr. S snored through the whole thing two feet away from me.

Another evening with the Schnozzes had concluded. So much happened that night with Raoul and Mr. S, the two loves of my life. Drinks were consumed ... but then the buzz wore off. Romance was had ... then lost. Some dances were learned ... then butchered. Passion was ignited ... but then not, er, consummated. Animals were saved ... but then they all died.

But the bonds formed during those faltering, hiccupy steps would last a lifetime.

~The End~

Epilogue: For those who found Raoul a bit ... metrosexual, to say the least, I have this picture to prove that Mr. S is ALL MAN:

Observe the manly beard. That sad stubble took him a week to grow. Alas, pilots are not allowed to have beards--if you could even call that a beard--so it had to come off. If you are wondering, this is because in the event of the plane going down, Mr. S, as the pilot, would need oxygen so he could operate the jet and hopefully, but probably not, save all from a fiery death that would smash them all to smithereens ... and the oxygen mask won't fit properly if facial hair is in the way.

On that cheery note ... goodnight!
---------
*This picture is highly inaccurate because of the photostitching; the table, the bar, and the TV actually form three points of a right angle. The barely visible audio rack to the left of the TV is in one corner of the room, and the bar is in another, and the table is in another. The fourth corner is the front door, not pictured. Notice that curvy rail the dining pendants hang from? That's MONORAIL, baby. About thirty feet of it curve down the length of the room (the part that I am standing under to take this picture, which is why you only see a little bit of it). At the other side of the room, opposite the table, four other lights are attached to light the entryway. Please ignore the ugly table. I don't want to talk about the ugly table. Please also take note of our big TV. Mr. S would never forgive you if you didn't notice the giant, glaring square in the back of the room.
**Guess which one of us OWNS A BOMB. Hint: That person also owns a gun safe and several fighting knives. That person is not very tall. That person may possibly be overcompensating for something.
***No, really. I didn't make this up. I don't think I could have even if I tried. Those are MY sunglasses, by the way. He didn't even ask if he could borrow them.

HA! HAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

2006-03-24T14:48:00.000-06:00

Ladies and Gentlemen,

It is with great pleasure that I announce that the furniture company has FINALLY agreed to send us a new dining table. To replace the one that arrived broken in JANUARY and has been sitting sadly, cracked and unfinished and looking like hell, in our living room ever since.

But you're thinking, "I would have expected them to just do that in the first place." Uh, me too, but there were some extenuating circumstances--mainly, the acceptance of the package by the doorman, who was just doing his job ... but his signature voided the insurance policy on the table, as the acceptor was supposed to make sure the table was undamaged, blah blah blah we're a lazy company.

It's a long story, but after several e-mails following up the chain of command, countless phone calls, and threats of fraud litigation with the credit-card company, reports to the Better Business Bureau, and reports to Yahoo Business, we are finally getting a table.

Truthfully, we probably spent more time on this than it would have for me to just edit a book and make the money for a new table all over again. But as Mr. S has said about a bajillion times, IT IS THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING.

And it is.

Please join me in celebrating the fact that soon we can have REAL DINNERS in our new house ... real dinners with candles and centerpieces and napkins and placemats. It has been months of eating off our laps on the couch and off the counter in our tiny kitchen ... and months of me staring at the stupid broken table with clenched fists wondering WHEN WILL THIS ROOM FINALLY BE FINISHED. I have a vision, people, and that table was ruining it. If YOUR living room was done entirely in black, and the dining table was natural, bright, unfinished pine, with no end in sight, would that not drive you mad?? Hrm?

Oh, look! A rant out of nowhere. Surprise!*

2006-03-23T07:40:00.000-06:00

Subtitle: "Now some idiot is going to comment to tell me I spelled 'corporal' wrong twice in this post"

I left an angry comment on a blog somewhere that I probably shouldn't have (hello, people who clicked on my angry comment! I'm Schnozz, and I'm usually very nice), but one thing really burns me.** It burns me because it's pathetic and small and petty, and because it makes editors and grammar-types look like smug bastards who think they're better than everyone else just because they know what defenestration is. My comment was in response to a patronizing comment made by the grammar police, correcting the blogger's English in an attempt to make the blogger feel bad about themselves. (I assume the intent somewhat ... but if you didn't want to shame them, why wouldn't you e-mail them privately?)

Surprise, surprise: The commenter was anonymous. They probably heard I've been working out. (Menacingly and repeatedly slaps fist into open palm.)

No, really, I'm surprised that comment was anonymous, because now we don't get to find out who the smartest person on Earth is. What a letdown. For one thing, I'm disappointed because I was going to start relying quite heavily on this person, this nearly-immortal mental Hercules, as the source of all my political and philosophical views. Also, I had the Guinness Book of World Records on the phone, because I figured they would want the name of the person who shattered the intellectual frontier and changed the way America thought about plurals, and there was hold music, and I was scrolling back through the comments to find it again, and just as I clicked on the link that led to a fake e-mail address (though I bet we could still find him/her ... you know that person is out partying with the Flickr snobs), GBWR was like, "Hello, how may I help you?" and I'm like, "Uh, well ... uh. There was this commenter person ... uh. Nevermind." It was pretty awkward. It's going to be even more awkward when Mr. S gets our phone bill and finds out the GBWR Hotline costs 99 cents a minute. This day is just going all kinds of wrong already.

Uh ... what was I talking about? Oh.

I hate hate hate it when people make mean comments just to tell a blogger that the post used English incorrectly in some way. First, I hate it because the commenter is usually wrong in the first place (as was the case today--hello, clicky people! Glad you're still here); second, I hate it because the rules are just guidelines, not edicts from God, and some of the best writers and artists regularly break those rules for effect (with much success, I might add); and third, I hate it because people like THAT are the reason some of my friends don't like to e-mail me. They tell me they're nervous to type anything in my direction, because I am a *gasp!* PROFESSIONAL EDITOR.

Because everyone knows that editors are jerks who walk around correcting everything in red pen, whether it asked to be corrected or not. Not all of us editors deserve this reputation, but plenty of us devote ourselves to earning it every day, with the help of some annoying sidekicks who fancy themselves editors even though they're not in the industry. (Incidentally, when I worked with a roomful of other editors, I would always cringe at the constant unsolicited editing. NO ONE ASKED YOU. Plus: No one really cares, seeing as it's just a garage-sale flier from Betty down the hall. Plus: Correcting other people's printed fliers in bright red marker is sort of rude. Plus: It's dumb to ever think like an editor without getting paid like one, in my opinion, which is why that switch stays in the Off position unless I'm banking it.)

I would be more forgiving if I thought the person were geniunely trying to be helpful. But they never are. It's always about shame and embarrassment for one side and the delusion of superior intellectual pedigree on the other. Look, I can spell better than anyone I've ever met. That doesn't make me Einstein. (In fact that doesn't even make me functional, as I often find myself looking for my keys while already clutching them in my oblivious, daydreaming fingers. Earth to fingers: YOU HAVE THE KEYS. YOU COULD HAVE TOLD US. WE HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR THEM. FOR TEN MINUTES. SNAP OUT OF IT.***) And if someone spells a word wrong, that doesn't mean their whole argument/post/political view is moot. As anyone who made it through Philosophy 101: "Common Sense" should know.

Guess what? There are mistakes all over this blog.**** Who cares? It's a blog. It's a hobby. I spend eight hours a day being grammatically perfect. I have no interest in doing it here.

Schnozzfest: If We Ain't Billin', We Chillin'.

Like a villin.
----------------
*Do you ever get annoyed at yourself for feeling compelled to explain why something is wrong, even when you know that any decent human being you would even WANT to be friends with already gets it anyway? Yet you can't stop? On account of the rising bile that simply must be released? Anybody?
**I know I'm supposed to stop being angry at other people's business, and honest I really am working on that, but I should get to rant when there are victims. VICTIMS!
***Ha! Snap out of it. That's a pun, you know.
****As Mr. S once pointed out. Mr. S, who had to ask me how to spell "honor" (and about sixty other words) while composing his Marines essay. Mr. S, who once called me to find out how to spell "corporal," even though he WAS a corporal at the time. That same man pointed out that this blog has an occasional typo ... you know, the same man who left two (2) messages on my voicemail regarding the spelling of "corporal." (Even though he WAS one. Did I mention that already? Because that seems really prudent to the comedic factor of this little side story.) The fact that I let him live after he pointed out one little typo with the victorious air of a ~~corpral~~ ~~corperal~~ corporal winning a battle--the fact that I let him do that and escape with his life after the years of out-loud spelling he has made me perform on command--is a testament to how much I really love him.

The evolution of babysitting

2006-03-23T04:46:00.000-06:00

So recently I've been looking for an occasional babysitting gig--you know, one weekend night here, a weekday there. For one thing, I like kids. For another thing, I like getting out of the house. For another thing, it would be nice to make money in a way that does not involve compound adjectives. Don't get me wrong: I LOVE compound adjectives. Where would be we without them? And without their loyal sidekick, the hyphen? I can't even think about it. I would have nightmares if I did.

I make a pretty good babysitter. I have experience (though most of it is outdated at this point) and have always enjoyed watching my little nephew, poopy diapers and all. (In fact, it was worth it all when he directed, "Make sure you wipe my butt. Did you wipe it? Wipe my butt." That kid is hilarious. Unintentionally, but still.) I have a college degree, which means there's a fair to middling chance I'll be able to at least read the kid a book or play with Legos or something.

Anyway, I looked around on craigslist, figuring that there's some nice, normal couple out there who is just looking to get their drink on once in a while. Some nice, normal couple who is willing to pay me like twenty bucks to make sure their kid doesn't starve or suffer any sort of life-threatening impalement. Such couples are a dime a dozen, right?

Apparently not.

Either babysitting has changed, or it's a little different for these here city folk. Here is what a typical babysitting ad would have looked like back in my day, circa 1996:

BABYSITTER WANTED

One night a week so we can get wasted, just like in the old days before we had this damn kid. Babysitter must not be a recently convicted felon, as jail time may interfere with needed babysitting schedule. Past felons OK--we won't ask and you won't tell, har har ... no seriously we really need a night out, and anyway you've paid your debt to society. It is important to us that our child not 1) die or 2) well actually that's about it. Knee scrapes and bulging egg-shaped concussions are fine--these things happen. In fact after six shots of tequila I doubt we'll even notice. Feel free to eat everything in the fridge/have your boyfriend over to make out with you on our couch/watch all the smut that is on Cinemax these days. (Please mute Cinemax if child is still awake and watching along with you.) Must not have tuberculosis, polio, meningitis, or other communicable diseases that could result in death or the loss/weirdness of limbs. Not that we care, understand, but the kid's grandma is real touchy about the kid getting polio. ~~Must have reliable transportation~~ Oh Jesus, we'll send a taxi, just come watch this kid before we lose our minds. We haven't had sex for a year. That has nothing to do with the babysitting--at least not directly--but we had to tell someone. Don't ever have children.

This contrasts rather sharply with the ads of today:

NANNY WANTED

Full-time live-in nanny needed (can stay in guesthouse, party house, or pool house, depending on preferences). Nanny will provide round-the-clock care for our little Spencer Alexander McWorthington VII. Please plan on having no life whatsoever. Keep in mind that if we catch you watching TV, thinking about watching TV, or failing to continuously stimulate our child's neurons in any way, we can have you summarily executed on the spot, as we are diplomats with special permits for that sort of thing. One of us will be home at all times, which kind of makes you wonder why we need a nanny at all, but for one thing we have a lot of money and for another thing nannies shouldn't ask such questions, because good nannies are seen and not heard. Just like children, now that we think about it. Other job duties include fending off the advances of Mr. McWorthington, but also distracting him from other women, especially that slut housekeeper, and reporting back to an anxious, tranquilized Ms. Hathaway-McWorthington, who will need to know everything that bastard's wandering eyes have seen. Nanny must be prepared for dozens of awkward, dark situations that reveal the human condition at its worst--and must take them in stride without feeling too sorry for little Spencer, who at twenty-one months of age is already being groomed for law school. Nanny must also be prepared to do pretty much whatever we tell her to do, including mopping floors and walking the dog, because as we said before we have lots of money and that means people have to listen to us and also pretend to be our friend when we're feeling emotionally needy. Nanny must have a PhD in child education, child care, the culinary arts, and massage. CPR certification in addition to medical degree is required. Must also have one reference whose life you actually saved with said CPR. (His or her heart must have actually stopped--no cheating.) Nanny must also speak three languages and be a ninja.

P.S. We haven't had sex for a year ... well, at least not with each other.

I think the difference here is obvious. I am just starting to realize how naive I have really been. I thought that as a reasonable adult who knows how to make a grilled-cheese sandwich and heat up tater tots, plus also has the ability to determine whether an object is "sharp" or "not sharp," I'd be all right. Now I'm starting to wonder.

I answered a few ads anyway. We'll see. The good news is, I just happen to be a ninja. Unfortunately, I'm just not sure that's enough. Little Spencer Alexander McWorthington VII deserves the VERY BEST ... which is why his parents are outsourcing in the first place.

Be still my heart

2006-03-22T13:41:00.000-06:00

Mr. S just called me and asked me to log in to a Web site for him to check the status of ... something. (I'm not being vague out of secrecy. It would just take too long to explain.) He does this type of thing a lot, though not as much as he used to--first, he's not home a lot, and he doesn't always have Internet access, so it's just a necessary evil, but second, he knows it kind of annoys me, having to be his operator standing by, so I think he keeps it to a minimum.

Anyway, I couldn't log in. I kept getting error messages, and Mr. S became convinced I was doing it wrong, which could very well be the case, since I don't really have a clue about how this site works. Mr. S got irritated that I wasn't doing it right, even though it wasn't really technically my problem in the first place. That last sentence makes me sound indignant about it, but truthfully I didn't really even notice, as we all have our little quirks, and insta-rage is Mr. S's main one. He is an angry little man trying to make his way in a big big world. But he's still a sweet little elfy person most of the time, and the insta-rage is not personal and usually fades as quickly as it arrived, plus it's been like seven years, so all in all I'm pretty used to it. Plus he put up with me the other day when my sore tastebud made me want to remove my tongue entirely. (A solution he would probably not argue with, if only for his own selfish benefit.) He didn't even take it personally when his friend K called to see if Mr. S wanted to do something, and I was shoving Mr. S's shoes onto his feet and steering him toward the door before he could even answer.

ANYWAY. He just called me back to APOLOGIZE for his attitude. APOLOGIZE! For his ATTITUDE! Seriously, what is this world coming to? I'm running, Mr. S is sorry about things I didn't even notice in the first place (most people with insta-rage are good apologizers, at least the still-married ones are, but this was unprompted and not even necessary), and the hamster ... well, OK, the hamster is still mad. And still struggling against a great unseen enemy that forces him to alternately claw at the walls and flop desolately into his bedding. But we're hoping Carlos notices our efforts to improve ourselves and takes the initiative eventually.

Soon we shall be superhuman. Soon.

Talking out of my ass.

2006-03-22T02:04:00.000-06:00

It was fuh-REEZing outside today. I walked out in my coldgear, but the cold burned my throat and sinuses almost immediately. I jogged to the park, unable to just walk in that weather. My body sped up out of hurry-up-let's-just-get-where-we're-going instinct, so I knew my body would not be pleased to discover that we were headed for the park. The very OUTDOOR park. The very OUTDOOR and SHIVERY and ICICLEY park.

C didn't show. She had warned me that she might not make it today. In one way, I was glad she wasn't there. She's pretty new to all of this, so I'm not sure she even owns coldgear or any of the other proper equipment. In another way, I was very disappointed that she wasn't there. This was going to be hard to do by myself.

Snow crunched under my running shoes as I crossed the bridge. And that's when it started.

You'll slip and fall, my ass warned. You'll slip and fall and you're all alone and no one will hear, and it will be just like the stairs, except you'll freeze to death. You should have brought your cell phone, but you didn't, and you would be a fool to continue at this point. I think we'd better just go home.

It will be fine, my mind replied through (figuratively) gritted (mental) teeth. We're not eighty years old. We can fall down. There's a difference between a concrete set of stairs and a flat wooden bridge with snow on it.

Four sets of three minutes running/four minutes walking today, running at nearly a six-minute-mile pace. I tried this for the first time yesterday, and I am still sore from that effort, though I did finish yesterday. It will be much harder today, alone, sore, and in the cold. The wind pushed through my coldgear, and my skin was already weary of pushing itself into goosebumps.

I ran the first interval, and before the three minutes were over, I was snotty, my throat was killing me, and my lungs were on fire. Great. My breath puffed out and my nose felt as if it were going to fall off. Somehow I knew my ass would seize this opportunity. It always does.

There could be rapists, my ass piped up helpfully. Forest Park rapists. Is it worth it? Is it worth getting raped just to run for twelve minutes total? Twelve minutes total is nothing anyway. It's really going to be nothing if you get raped in the process. I think I read somewhere that this park is crawling with rapists.

There aren't rapists, I answered, my tone level. It's too cold for rapists. Everyone knows that rapists hate cold. Just look at the crime rate in Canada. People don't commit crimes in the cold. It's just not worth being outside.

But you're all ALONE out here!

That just makes it peaceful. Serene, even. Shut up.

The next interval was more difficult, as subsequent intervals always are. I kept my eye on the finish (which always happens at about the same point on my little loop) and tried not to think about the queasy fatigue that was creeping into my stomach. My nerves start to do funny things when I get tired--my lips or face tingle, and my stomach tightens. But it has always been so, even back in the track years. It wasn't going to kill me. It wasn't even painful, really--just distracting and good fodder for asshole excuses. No pun intended.

The end of that interval marked the halfway mark.

Only the halfway mark, my ass commented mournfully. Already I am so tired. So tired after six total minutes of running! This is pointless. It's going to take forever for you to become a real runner again. You'll probably get injured or lose interest long before that happens, so why are we even here now?

The journey begins with a single step, I replied calmly. The best thing about running is that everyone gets better at it if they do it enough. That's not true for a lot of other sports, which is why we chose running in the first place. We are not racing against our old teenage selves. We are racing against our nonrunning selves of a few weeks ago. We would win that race hands-down. That's improvement. That's progress. We're not in a hurry. We're going to do this right.

Plus ... those geese look sort of dangerous, my ass continued hopefully. I read somewhere that geese killed Donna Karan's dog in Central Park. A whole dog! A dog can run faster than you.

Those were swans, I answered, not really even listening now. And it was just a Jack Russell terrier. Those aren't very big.

Either way, there's goose poop EVERYWHERE, my ass said, desperate now.

You seem like the last person who would be bothered by a little poop, I shot back scornfully.

Oh. Oh, I see. So you're going to bring THAT up again, are you? But the tone was sullen, defeated.

My watch beeped and I kicked up my pace for the third interval. That was when the homeless guy showed up, staggering along the trail at a snail's pace.

OK, that is totally a rapist, my ass said smugly, on firmer ground now. I told you. I told you. We'd better turn back now. My God, look at him. He's just waiting to snatch an innocent jogger from the park. He probably has a basement dungeon. He looks like the type of guy who would wear a weird mask and take your picture and then keep you chained up for a while, and then maybe show you a creepy filmstrip or something. It won't be quick.

He just looks like a drunk, I responded in my most practical (mental) tone. I think I could outrun him ... and that's really saying something.

That's all part of his schtick, my ass said patronizingly. This guy is smart. And diabolical. The ones with the basement dungeons and film strips are always the really intensely clever ones. You're going to pass him, and he's going to reach out fast as lightning and grab your wrist--

Do you want to ever have only two buttcheeks again or not? I asked bluntly.

There was no arguing with that. My ass knew as well as I did that having only two buttcheeks again would be pretty awesome, rapists or no rapists.*

I had one interval left. My ass didn't even bother voicing an opinion at this point; with only one three-minute round left, it knew it had lost. I finally felt warmer, and my throat and lungs had made it past the burning stage.

In my triumph, I decided to run this one even faster, pushing my tired legs as far as they would go for the full three minutes. While my knees pistoned and my feet pounded the snowy gravel, I pulled out every chant and mantra I could come up with. (I would say I pulled them out of my ass, but it still wasn't speaking to me.)

The only way out is through.

It's up to you to change your life. No one else can do it for you.

This will get easier. The harder you work now, the easier it will be. And making progress will never be easier than it is right now. If you wait, this will just get harder.

Like it or not, this is what you want.

You're here already. Make it count.

And I did.

Ass: 0, Alcoholic Homeless Park Rapist: 0, Goose Poop: 0, Schnozz: 1.

Buttcheeks: 4.

But not for long.
--------------
*Look: I really do have four buttcheeks. It's a family thing: even the skinny ones have four buttcheeks and weird knees. (REALLY weird knees. You're thinking "How could knees be weird?" but I have family reunion pictures full of the same weird-looking knees. As far as the buttcheeks go, we even have a family name for the smaller set: the first major set are buttcheeks, and the second much smaller set are cheekybuns. As in, "That swimsuit really minimizes your cheekybuns! I think you should buy it." You can stop me anytime if I'm oversharing. Really. Stop me. Please.) Much as I would enjoy having two buttcheeks, I am running because I don't do enough to stay healthy, and because exercise is good for you in all kinds of ways. Honest. I like how I look, but I don't like how I pant after walking down the street. Frankly I think the cheekybuns are here to stay, but my ass doesn't need to know that. If it found out, it would RUN WITH THAT. Or not run with that. And now I've confused myself.

I gave in ...

2006-03-21T03:37:00.000-06:00

... and joined MySpace. Sometimes it's hard to look in the mirror.

OK, so now my problem is that I have no MySpace friends to go visit. Who wants to be my MySpace friend? I'm lonely. Come friend me. I need you. And your validation.

w w w . m y s p a c e . c o m / y o u w i n m y s p a c e

Copy, paste, remove the spaces, and come gawk at me in all of my pathetic glory.