Nostalgia

It's that time of year-- where families find a way to get along, and everyone reminisces about the good memories in life. We give thanks, we drink a few, but mostly, we're together. This year feels even harder than last year; last year I was numb, this year, I'm raw.

Either way, I still like reminiscing about the good memories and looking through the piles upon piles of pictures I've somehow inherited from my grandmother. While putting together a Christmas present for my brother and his fiancee tonight (I feel fairly safe in saying that since neither of them read this blog), I ran across this photo of my grandparents and my dad walking through the streets of Seattle. This was snapped in the very early 50s, and I'm not sure who took it since both grandparents are in the shot.

On the back of the photo, my grandmother wrote:

"A sorry looking lot! Steve didn't know Kenneth was along, Steve and I left him on the corner to go to the Post Office and we were gong to the store. He said he was hurrying to catch up with us. Looks to me like he's talking to himself."

To which my grandfather added:

"Yes! And it looks to me like Marcile has been talking to herself for quite some time. HA. I call it the 'goon squad'-- except for Steven."

Now I know where I picked up my smartass side which only gets diminished when defending my daddy.

Workin' out

Despite immense soreness from a very long dance rehearsal yesterday, I made it to the gym today. I walked in, did some lifting, and as I went to the ab bench thing (the official, technical term, I'm sure) I saw something so horrifying, so off-putting, I almost couldn't do the two hundred crunches I needed to round out my day.

I saw some guy's junk. Right there, three ab benches away from me. Some random guy's junk, just out there for the world to gaze upon. It was bad enough that his shorts were shorter than something out of Studio 54 circa 1978, but as he was doing his ab crunches, his legs were bent and splayed open like a sweaty crab.

I did my crunches, trying to shake the disgusting image that had just been seared into my retinas, but I couldn't. Even after another hour of cardio, I couldn't stop thinking, "But I saw his juunnk." How could he not know this? What would possess him to neglect wearing a pair of tightie-whities under his John Stockton shorts? More importantly, why did I have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Now is the time I step up on the soapbox: If there is nothing else this blog will influence, I hope that it might change the mind of even one person when choosing gym clothes. I hope that they might realize that nobody wants to see their sweaty junk-- nobody wants it to unexpectedly become part of their Sunday afternoon workout. 

aargh

It's pacific time somewhere, I didn't bail out on NaBloPoMo. I also did not just order fast food.

It really, really is...

My boss found this for me the other day, and I still laugh every time I read it.

Pucker up, buttercup!

I don't know how to get into this anecdote delicately, so I'll just spit it out (which is a great pun if I had already gotten into this story): According to the Associated Press, earlier this week a Seattle woman was accused of biting off her boyfriend's lip, spitting it out and later resisting arrest. Reading further into the story, we learn that the two were actually kissing in bed when she bit off the bottom lip and spit it to the floor. When the police showed up, they found the man sitting on the porch, bleeding, and found the lip in the bedroom upstairs, covered in cat hair. The lip could not be reattached, and the woman was later charged with domestic violence assault.

Like the Riddler in Batman, I've got "too many questions." Here's the thing, the story says the two were kissing in bed when things got interesting. 

Yeah, the lady obviously got all hot, but why wouldn't she feel awful when she bit off the lip? How could someone even get hot enough to bite off a lip? Apparently I've been with the wrong men because I've never bitten a lip all that hard, much less bite the damn thing all the way off.

What was the woman doing from the time the lip became a Carl's Jr. Six Dollar Burger and the police showed up? 

Why would she resist arrest?

If the two were in bed together, they obviously liked each other even just a little bit, why would the guy press charges?

Where was the cat in all of this?

Can they make prosthetic lips?

What if this guy is a trumpet player, can he claim worker's comp?

If the guy played clarinet and can't play anymore, is this actually a blessing in disguise?

I read stories like these and try to put myself in the situation, and in this one I simply can't. So, I Google things. I learned if you're ever in San Diego, you can check out "Lips: The Ultimate in Drag Dining." The immensely popular drag eatery features 14-foot martini glasses as decor, a very upscale and partially organic menu and more catty bitches in fishnets than a high school drill team.

I leave this post with but one thought, if you're lucky to get some tonight, be careful! And if you're not, please wrap any detached parts in ice.

It's so simple!

Wow! I had no idea it would be so easy to meet a man. Here I thought that being single meant putting myself out there, trying to meet and connect with somebody. But no! It's as simple as a random email from some source called "StillSingle" sending me an email telling me to click the link "for a free match-- FREE!" A spam email, no less! How did it know? How am I so lucky to meet the man of my dreams just by clicking the link? Amazing.

I hate spam, it always makes me feel so violated-- and I'm talking about the unsolicited email, not the stuff Monty Python sings about. That would just be gross, being violated by a meat-like substance.

In honor of SPAM, the meat-like substance, here are some little-known nutritional facts that made me actually gag and then head straight to the gym:

Ingredients

• Chopped port shoulder meat with ham meat added
  
• Salt (for binding, flavor and firmness-- firmness?)
  
• Water (to help in mixing)
  
• Sugar (for flavor)
  
• Sodium Nitrite (for color and as a preservative)
  

Calories per serving are 170, and there are theoretically six servings per can. Assuming you could choke down an entire can of this catfood-like crap, you'd consume a whopping 1,020 calories, or more than half the healthy daily-allotted calories of the average person. 

Or, only 200 calories short of your daily-allotted calories if you're me. 

Make it so...

My dream is finally coming true, if only I lived near Burbank! A casting call was issued for people to play cadets in the new Star Trek movie. Here's the catch, the potential cadets need either be "ultra plain-looking" or "ultra perfect-looking." I can't decide in which category I'd fit, because some days I look in the mirror and go, "Ugh, I'm strange looking," but too weird for either "plain" or "perfect." Besides, what defines "ultra plain-" or "ultra perfect-looking?" What if somebody's "sorta' plain-ish?" What tips the scales and makes them less ultra-plain than a really ultra-plain person? A limp? What if they had a limp? Or does that just throw them over the edge to "super-coo coo-looking?" Am I over-thinking this?

Since I can't decide in which category I fit, and since that categorization seems to change for me from day to day, maybe I fit one of these other criteria:

• Long neck
  
• Extremely large head (Compared to what?)
  
• Wide-set eyes or close-set eyes
  
• Large forehead (Paging Tyra Banks, Miss Banks to your transporter, please.) 
  
• Short upper lip (Just what is a short upper lip?)
  
• Over- or under-sized ears and/or nose
  
• Facial deformities
  
• Pure, wholesome looks (I think I'm in!)
  
• Emaciated
  
• Regally poised and postured
  

So if you're interested in auditioning, take your freaky-assed, skinny, stick-up-the-keester, short-lipped self to Deep Space Nine! And while you're in Burbank, wave a big hello to the SoCal writers on strike for dealing with many of the real freaks in the industry.

What will they think of next?

Since I'm sitting here on the couch doped up on cold medicine today, I thought I'd catch up on some very important reading. When that didn't work out, I found an invention that at first I thought fit into the "Are you serious, people actually spend money on that" category. 

The invention? "Batter Blaster." The purpose? Aerosol pancake batter said to make no-mix, perfectly round pancakes every single time, at the drop of a pan. (Or easier teddy bear shapes. I've heard of someone who can make a dinosaur, but actually spotting something like that would be like finding Yeti.)

I have to admit that at first, I was extremely turned off by the name "Batter Blaster." Without getting too detailed, let's just say I have... um... textural issues and thought there is no way I would ever actually spend money on something called "Batter Blaster."

Upon further, very in-depth, research, I learned this product is all organic and is only 70 calories per serving. Now, one pancake is considered one serving, however this is lower in calories than your everyday Bisquick just like mom used to make. (Unless you have my mother, in which case you would've grown up eating Fruity Pebbles and/or Crunch Berries for your formative years, causing you to have a sick neurosis against all foods well into your adulthood.)

As I see it, there are only two downsides to "Batter Blaster" at this time. 1.) You can not treat "Batter Blaster" like it was E-Z cheese or Redi-Whip and shoot the contents of the can straight down your throat. You actually have to cook "Batter Blaster." 2.) You can't buy "Batter Blaster" in Utah. Now I'm thinking it will get here soon, we did just get a Cheesecake Factory and Urban Outfitters is on its way. I'm hoping when Whole Foods rears its ugly head along the Wasatch Front, aerosol batter won't be far behind.

I don't even like pancakes and I want to eat them all the time after hearing about "Batter Blaster." Because now that aerosol pancake batter is in the pop culture mainstream, how did I ever live without it?

Figuring it out

This will be an extremely short post today, as I've been in agony over sore muscles from dance yesterday and it's giving me creative block. 

I'm also using quite a bit of energy right now trying to figure out how to become independently wealthy. Apparently a big bag of money to pay your bills just doesn't show up at the doorstep no matter how hard you wish it.

p.s. King Tut? Wasn't hot. Isn't hot now. CNN, can't you drop it?

The birthday party

This afternoon I went to a birthday party for my friend's one-year-old. As I walked in, carrying my gift of a plush Nemo clownfish, I took a deep breath while realizing I would be the only single person there-- certainly one of the only people without a child. Inevitably, I always end up feeling like one of the witches of Eastwick whenever I go to these things. (This includes bridal showers, baby showers and, of course, weddings) Though I did immediately warm up to the tasty fall beverage of Captain Morgan and apple cider, I was definitely uncomfortable.

I was also uncomfortable heading to Toys 'R' Us earlier today when I went to find said Nemo plush, and I felt like a fraud just going to a toystore. (It didn't help that I was feeling slightly fuzzy from last night's barhopping with Urban Princess and kept my oversized Gucci sunglasses on my face for the duration of the shopping trip. I thought maybe I'd look a little Jackie O, but I just looked like I felt slightly fuzzy from last night's barhopping with Urban Princess.)

Walking through the aisles deciding on the little Nemo doll, I couldn't help but wonder if the idea of him was created just to make adults feel better. I mean, here you have a clownfish with a gimpy flipper, but he still manages to do some amazing things. Sure that's great, and adults can then tell their kids, "Even if you have shortcomings, you can do some amazing things." In reality, kids are just freaking mean. Somehow the message is lost when they're sitting in elementary school and they're making fun of the kids that are different than the others-- in reality, Nemo still has a gimpy flipper. It seems parents go to sleep feeling better that since they've shown a Disney DVD, their kid has some Ghandi-like sense of acceptance of mankind.

This party was the same way. The kid was actually forced to go all mud wrestler on his cake, when it just looked like he wanted a nap-- to make the adults feel better. I mean, this kid doesn't have a gimpy flipper or anything, but he was totally overwhelmed by all the staring and the performance anxiety of having fun at his birthday. He's one, he's got his whole life to cry over performance anxiety. 

Now I don't have kids, and there's probably a reason why I haven't even wanted any in my life thus far. I give my friends, all my friends, kudos for even attempting to train their offspring. I have a mother I still can't train, and she's over 60. I don't understand what they're going through, or what changes go through their heads when they all of the sudden have this little person for whom they're responsible. I'm constantly amazed at what they do, and I'm pretty sure there's a reason why I don't seem to be programmed to procreate. 

I'm also pretty sure I'm the Susan Sarandon witch of the group. At least I am now with this hair.

Attack of log limb

Last night, I had the pleasure of heading to bed shortly after Grey's Anatomy and ended up sacking out past my 5:45 gym alarm clear until 7:15. I was tired, and the sleep was needed, but something horrible woke me up about 4:00 this morning.

Out of a dead sleep, I woke up because I felt a very heavy, foreign arm pressing into my chest. My first thought was that someone had broken into my apartment and I was about to get killed for my fortune. (And by "fortune," I mean a few collectors'-edition Barbie dolls and a bunch of scented lotion from Bath and Body Works.) Once I realized there was someone touching me, I let out this blood curdling scream and grabbed the arm, throwing it off of me, and jumping out of bed ready to put my ninja skills to good use.

But the intruder's arm hit my side with a tingly thump. It turns out it was me. And I had a scorching case of log limb.

I read some tips on Lifehacker.com which gives 10 ways to sleep better, and I'm pretty sure that since I had the log limb, I'm sleeping too well. But for what it's worth, you can click here.

And know that if you're ever going to break into my house, I am fully prepared to kick your ass-- awake or asleep. Sweet dreams!

NaBloPoMo... going to commit

Since I have neither the time nor the patience to commit to NaNoWriMo this month, I won't be writing a novel. However, I need to commit to something creative right now since we have fewer Rocky Horror performances. Hence, a full straight month of blog posts for all to read.

And by "all," I mean "less than ten" readers of this blog. Still, my posts have been semi-regular, at best, and I'd like to see if I can maintain some consistency.

I figure it will all go to hell by Thanksgiving anyway.

There's always next November to start the "Great American Novel."

Four Way

What did you think this post was about, you dirty, dirty reader?

I'm talking four way stops and there aren't enough people in this city who know how to actually use them. I woke up this morning in a bad mood, and I ended the day in a bad mood. Somewhere in the middle I began to wonder exactly how people in Salt Lake actually got their driver's licenses because surely they never passed their tests.

Here's a reminder about laws in Salt Lake (and I'm sure many places all around North America-- even quite possibly Canada) involving four-way stops:

When two cars come to a four way stop at the same time, the rule is to yield to the car on the right. The car on the right should go first, then the car on the left and the order proceeds clockwise. Don't pull up at the same time as me and if you're to my right impatiently stare then wave me through like you're doing me a favor. 

You're not doing me a favor. You're pissing me off, and if I wanted to get really technical, you're breaking the law.

Two separate people at two separate intersections did this to me this morning on the way to work. We pulled up at the same time, in fact, I was even a bit behind, and each time the person on my right sat there (one of whom on their cell phone) and waited for me to go. Being such a stickler about four way stop laws, I glared at them, waiting for them to pull their heads out of their asses and go. These people, I'm sure trying to be nice citizens, waved me through once again. Not a favor. In fact, if I went and they wanted to, they could ram me and any witness would say that it was I that drove out of turn.

Maybe I shouldn't care so much, maybe I should give up this nagging sense of responsibility and drive with wild abandonment. Of course, I would then be the one to cause the accident and that would piss me off as well. I'm going to the gym, and I'm not coming back until I get out of my funk; and it's a hell of a funk today. Look for me at Gold's if you don't see me by Thanksgiving.

p.s. While changing for the gym, I just noticed something. Even though I was wearing boyshort-like Victoria's Secret underwear, I have been rocking VPL all day. I haven't had this since middle school when my mom bought me bulk packs of Garfield panties from Mervyn's.

Torture, just like in "Saw"

Since I had to leave work a bit early and run a work-related errand, I thought I should also stop and get my nails fixed. I mean, my nails were keeping me from realizing my full work potential, and I really felt that my typing time could be increased by fixing this problem still during the work day. (and we wonder why I do PR... spin me right 'round.) I've had sparkly-tipped nails for the better part of the year and I was tired of it all. I wanted my nails short, I wanted my nails black, I wanted it done today. (You know, just in case I felt like taking up rock climbing tomorrow.) After making one illegal U-turn and nearly accidentally running over a guy I dated awhile ago, I found a nail shop that looked only marginally freaky. It was called "Happy Nails," and I figured, "What could be so wrong with that?"

I was able to get right in without an appointment to have the fake nails removed and a manicure on the real nails, and was instructed to sit with my hands in bowls of straight acetone. I sat, and I sat, and I sat...

Then the skin started peeling off my fingers, leaving the fake fingernails totally intact. I thought, "Is this my test? Now am I supposed to dig a key out of a guy's colon to get out of here?" To no avail, I had to sit there and endure the stinging sensation while I watched a small Asian woman with a razor blade scrape foot-heel skin off an 80-year-old lady. It was sensory overload.

After nearly an hour, the nail lady grabbed my hands and started chipping off gooey blobs of acrylic with what is officially known as a "nail nipper." (YES it's actually called that. That wasn't a very clever pun referring to the nationality of the owners. Though that would be extremely clever, but very very wrong. So wrong I'm giggling just a little bit.) This was another pain like I've never felt before-- especially when she hit nail bed and drew blood.

The phone rang.

The Asian woman answered, "Hello, Happy Nai..." 

"AAAAHOOOOWWWWWWWWWCCCCHHH!" I screamed. Happy Nails, my ass. SAD NAILS! I was sitting in SAD NAILS. Not Happy Nails. 

Remember in the movie Saw when that guy is crawling through the cage of glass shards? Child's play. Back into the acetone for my hands, this time bleeding into the bowls as I sat there trying not to beat the crap out of the old pedicure lady secretly laughing at my pain. "We almost done here?" I attempted. More chipping, more drilling, and finally success with shiny black fingernails.

Beauty is pain; but after 90-minutes of sheer hell, I emerged from Happy Nails, well, happy about my nails. Not that I'd like to do it again anytime soon, maybe just an experience a little better than being locked in a timed head-trap poised to spring my face in two. 

But just a little. Happy Halloween.

Hopelessly obsessed

I'm having an attack of various obsessions right now...

Right now, I'm loving the new Apple Leopard. It took awhile to install, but then it's been fantastic. It should be, the world waited long enough for it.

I'm almost ashamed to admit I am as hooked on Gossip Girl as I am Grey's Anatomy, and I'm slowly steering away from reality TV-- until Project Runway starts again next month.

So what if I regularly crave Apple Cinnamon Chex Mix? I have enough willpower to not down the entire bag in one sitting.

I'm like that little kid who confided in Dead Bruce Willis; I see cute guys everywhere, it's like my Sixth Sense for horny women: the Albertson's meat counters at now two different stores, the guy who plays Dan on Gossip Girl, McDreamy, and various men from my past.

Back to school?

I had a wicked bad reaction to yesterday's flu shot and after going to the gym last night, thought I was going to die. Even my skin hurt. After sitting in the Jeep for I don't know how long, I finally made it inside and up to bed.

Sometime around 3 this morning, I had the craziest dream. Not being one to remember my dreams very often, I was taken a little aback by the fact it was so vivid. I dreamed that something had been messed up with my high school transcript and they needed to send me back to high school to complete a few courses they decided I needed to take. I went back, even with a new bookbag, as a 31-year-old back in high school, full of anxiety, not ready to face the day. After searching high and low for the office to pick up my transcript to look at it, I finally settled in for a coffee and a smoke in the school's "fireplace lounge." Mind you, Brighton High never looked so good, and certainly never had a fireplace lounge, but in my dream, it was pretty groovy. I ended up sitting next to a guy sporting sort of Flock of Seagulls meets The Cure meets Gleaming the Cube kind of blonde hairdo and after I remarked to him that I thought he was cute, I woke up.

I must have been sick.

Congraduations (yes, that's meant to be a pun, not a misspelling)

My "niece," pictured above, just graduated obedience school tonight. I'm so proud, and can't wait to go back to Boston to have her lick my face again, as she's one of the few tolerable dogs in the world.

Dodging a bullet

A little while ago, I had the unfortunate pleasure of engaging in a mild flirtation with a guy nearly a decade younger than me. He was cute, and when he wasn't around other people he was even charming. But since he was but a wee lad, he 1.) neglected to mention his girlfriend with whom he "hooked up" and 2.) texted me late at night whenever he had been drinking. Good thing I was a bigger man and called him on the fact that he should treat his girlfriends a bit better.

Here's the most recent string of messaging:
(Poor punctuation and grammar on his part retained to maintain the integrity of the piece.)

Boy: Yay for thirsty thursdays

Me: Do you seriously think your girlfriend would appreciate you texting some random, hot woman? (That would be me.)

(Long pause where I brushed my teeth, washed my face and learned Portuguese.)

Boy: You think youre pretty got huh? (I think he meant "hot." I hope he meant "hot" because I don't remember the last time I "got huh?" Huh?)

Me: I'm not bad. There are worse, though I've got a great ass.

Boy: I dont know if i am cut out for girlfriends.

Me: You think? p.s. GO RED SOX!

Boy: F**K the red sox

Me: You have such a way with words...

Thus proving the old adage, "Real women don't date Yankees fans." Or frat boys. Or those who think they're frat boys.

Major appliance repair made simple...

For the last two months, my dryer has been threatening complete and total death. Sometimes it smells like burning, sometimes it sounds like grinding, most times it works for two minutes then shuts off.

Since I can't justify spending money I simply don't have right now, I decided to try a little major appliance repair the other night, thus proving bad things happen when I decide to emulate something I'd see on the TLC network. First, I researched my particular type of dryer, and after locating an online "manual" (and by "manual" I mean poor, worthless illustration) decided that was all I needed to guide my way through Screwdriverland.

That, and after a few glasses of wine, it was time to try my handiwork.

I got out my toolbox (yes, my daddy once got me a toolbox. Contrary to popular belief, it's NOT one of those "I'm trying to be so hard to be cute" pink toolboxes.) and after digging through old Sam Adams caps and thumbtacks, found a Phillips. Or flathead. Or something. Funny that you can have something so perfectly orchestrated in your head and when you're sitting there in front of a surly dryer, nothing makes much sense. I unscrewed a few things, and I got scared and screwed them back in. Yay. I know how to unscrew and screw things back in. I just wish something would unscrew me from all of this.

Finally, I let the dryer have it. Two years of bitterness and frustration and pent-up sorrow came out through my feet into the bottom of the dryer. First a few timid kicks, and then full-out Billy Blanks tae-bo, followed by a string of expletives rivaled by shore-leave.

"F**K cancer that kills our loved ones!"
"F**K the Cleveland Indians!"
"F**K that girl in elementary school who used my Crayola markers and dulled all the tips and put the colors out of order!"
You know, all the really important stuff to get upset about and kick the shit out of a clothes dryer...

Lo and behold, the dryer worked. It started, and it stayed on for a full drying cycle. Sure, it's not a permanent fix, but for a temporary solution, who says violence doesn't solve anything?

Sigh...

Why do we always want what we can't have?

I want to eat a pizza without feeling guilty.

I want to see the Red Sox in the World Series from Fenway this year.

I want to stop feeling like I should be doing something bigger.

I want to have skinny thighs that haven't been bulked up through nearly three decades of dance.

I want to open bills I get in the mail without anxiety.

And yep, I want to have someone say words as eloquently to me as McDreamy did to Meredith tonight.

Utah's Catholic Connection

The headline for this incident really caught my eye. It read "Former Salt Lake City Bishop Niederauer apologizes for serving communion to activists in drag." I don't know if I'm tired or if the headline could've been better written, but my brain thought the former Utah bishop had dressed in drag himself and got in trouble for serving communion while dressed as such.

After reading the article twice, I realized it was the activists who were dressed in drag as nuns. I can't speak to religion, however, I believe an activist's message is discredited whenever they have to cause a scene. I'm all for free speech, I'm just not for tacky-- actions or lipstick.

It sucks at S'bux

Quickly, while I let my brain take a minute to process all the writing I've done today, I have to mention I'm increasingly irritated with Starbucks.

Not only do they have more money than God, baby Jesus, and Michael Eisner, but now they've really overstepped their bounds. I'm talking about anonymity-- mine to be exact. I don't like giving my name with each order so they can call it out when it's ready. I don't like it when strangers use my name. It goes back to all those old, elementary school "Stranger Danger" videos they'd show in health.

What's more, why is it necessary for Starbucks to ask for my name when I'm in the drive-up? They can only get to one order at a time, there's only room for one vehicle at the window, it's not like they're going to call it out. This is about as well thought-out as having braille on the driver's side ATM.

I want to give Starbucks a fake name. I want them to shout out "Amanda Huggenkiss! I've got coffee for Amanda Huggenkiss!" It will never happen. My fake name wouldn't match the name I've got on my debit card, and then I'd go to jail for credit fraud or something. All because Starbucks wants to mess with the system. One more reason to patronize locally-owned coffee shops-- the people who call out your name are friends.

Thoughts on technology

Technology is supposed to make our lives easier; microwaves make dinner faster, cell phones put us in touch with the world anytime, and I dare say a college Mass Comm Law paper would’ve been much better without tackling an old-school card catalog.

Though life is probably much simpler than it was even when my parents were my age, technology is making it tougher to date in 2007. While we used to go out and meet people face-to-face, it is now entirely possible in this age to sit behind the screen and date the Macbook. It also makes it easy to check up on old flames, to Google potential dates, to profile a real-life person with their online profiles. Today, technology is making me wonder, “Can we know too much?” Is ignorance bliss? Is it better to risk meeting an axe-murder in a bar?

A little less than a decade ago, I met someone who is a very cute, fairly prominent photographer in the area. He took pictures for a short-lived fashion magazine, and one night he just showed up at a party I was throwing. I had invited the neighbors, they had invited their friends and before I knew it, I was manning the blender for 50 of my favorite friends and the strangers they had brought with them.

Eventually, it became too much dating the cute photographer because of my own insecurities. To me, I wasn’t skinny enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, and I absolutely believed I could never compare to the models he saw each day through his lens. And in my very mature way (hey, I was in my early-twenties, after all) I eventually quit speaking to him. Since then, I’ve come to terms with myself-- my body, my looks, my entire being, and even though he moved to another city, I have actually gone out with the cute photographer on a few occasions whenever he happens to be in town.

Very recently, he called me to come and “hang out” “sometime soon” during a photo shoot in another city, which sounds like it could be a nice change of pace. And since I find myself continually in need of a change of pace, and continually turned on by very cute photographers, I have recently given more thought to the idea. I have given so much thought to this person from my past that I even gave into a little “crush-Googling,” where I quickly became aware of something:

Technology is a dirty bitch. I discovered a program for a 2006 charity event where there was a listing for a “Mrs. and Mrs. [very cute photographer].” Now here’s the dilemma:
Was this two women who happen to share his same name?
Was this a type-O and he’s married?
Was this a totally different couple, even though his name has a fairly uncommon spelling?
Was I a stalker for even Googling this in the first place?

So many questions that now I can’t possibly call him without sounding like a freak. Do I just blurt out, “Um, so, are you married, or what?”

I think that technology brings out the best in humanity as a whole, but the worst in each of us as individuals because it’s taken away a lot of honest interaction. Rather than pick up the phone and talk, we would rather email the co-worker sitting two cubicles away. Eventually, this makes us very content to keep our personal relationships behind the keyboard...

Or become emotionally confused while forever wondering, “What if?”

Don't dream it... be it.

So, here's my costume for Rocky Horror in a couple of weeks. I've tried to make this picture look like me to really entice people to come and see the show.

Except I won't wear my glasses.

And the alto sax in this picture isn't to scale, it's smaller.

And the boobs in this picture aren't to scale, they're smaller too.

I see you shiver...

It's time to get your tickets and now you can do that online by clicking here or pasting this url into your browser: http://www.rockyhorrorinconcert.com/index.html

Where else will you see this much skin in one place? I mean, besides the ward picnic!

The anniversary

Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of my greatest personal loss, and it was extremely anti-climactic. In fact, the build-up throughout the week was probably more traumatic than yesterday. Yesterday was... just another day. I don't know what I expected, really, if I would get haunted or if my dad would walk in and say he was just kidding, but nothing.

I watched the latest episode of Moonlight.

I went to the gym.

I washed my hair.

Part of me feels extremely guilty that I've gotten on with my life, a feat I didn't think I'd be able to do last year at this time. And for that, part of me feels a giant sense of accomplishment.

Praise the idiot box

The only thing I’m liking about this time of year is all the new television shows I’m finding. As a self-proclaimed reality show junkie, I’m pleasantly surprised at the new dramas I’m finding this season. First, the premiere of Grey’s Anatomy last week rocked. After a crappy season finale, I feared for the future of Grey’s, however this year’s first show left me hopeful; and made up for the fact that Kate Walsh’s spin-off show “Private Practice” sucked.

I’m giving “Grey’s” another chance this season. After Meredith was thrown into the water in a slightly pithy three-parter last year (sorry for the spoiler, but if you haven’t seen it by now, give it up. Just start fresh with season 4), I still tuned in even though I was just about over it. This year’s new characters are familiar, the old characters have new problems, and Meredith and McDreamy are still just plain hot together.

Hats off to the CW who is finally channeling their inner WB. I knew it was in there! Just because you became the CW doesn’t mean you didn’t have a good drama in you. I had a hate affair with the WB after “Dawson’s Creek” ended, and have to admit the CW’s “Gossip Girl” is my new guilty pleasure. This is a show from the creators of “The O.C.” and has all the elements of when “The O.C.” was great, before Marissa died, before it sucked. “Gossip Girl” is the classic “Pretty in Pink” dichotomy of rich vs. poor where all the rich kids drink, do drugs and have threesomes and the poor kids are the moralistic salt of the earth. But it’s updated; the guys are beautiful, the clothes are amazing and it’s just something you hate to love. The show is tied all up by a narrator calling herself Gossip Girl who airs the secrets of the characters in her personal blog (kind of like a voyeuristic “Wonder Years”).

What I’m most surprised about this season is the CBS network. When did CBS become almost hip? I’m used to the CBS of oldendays which programmed for “Touched by an Angel”-loving grannies, but CBS has made watching TV on Fridays nearly acceptable by running what I’d like to coin “Freaky Fridays” by showing paranormal delight “Ghost Whisperer” and my new favorite vampire drama, “Moonlight.”

“Moonlight” is about a freaking hot vampire private investigator who uses his powers for good while trying to keep the identities of the “vampires who walk among us” a secret. Sure it’s hokey ("As darkness falls, a hero is born?" who writes that stuff?), but I am who I am, and I am a sucker for a good vampire show. Remember “Kindred: the Embraced” that short-lived Fox show in the mid-90s? It was good, but didn’t catch on, and I’m afraid “Moonlight” will have that same fate. Until it goes away, I will enjoy my Freaky Fridays on CBS, even if I have to tape it. (Yes, “tape.” I’m taking donations for a TiVo, though.)

Two things I didn’t particularly like about my new favorite show “Moonlight.”

1.) The use of an Evanescence song during a particularly “sentimental” scene. I feel the usage of popular (term used loosely because I detest Evanescence) music in an already trendy television show is a very delicate balance. From day one, Grey’s Anatomy found this balance, as did The O.C., however not every show can do it well. Music has to be part of the script, and not just make a cameo appearance just because the director thinks it will “make the show cool.” The best usage of music as part of a TV show script is throughout the series “La Femme Nikita,” God rest its soul. I’m reminded of season 4, before Michael became a total pussy, when Madeline and that chick from Red Cell were trading posses in an empty football field. The whole scene was set in slow-motion to an Enigma song-- and it was beautiful.

2.) Number two isn’t so much something I didn’t like about the show, but more a tip of what not to do during a new television show you’re enjoying. Do not, I repeat, NOT, consume an entire can of fat-free Pringles because you’re so drawn to what you’re watching. The Olean they use to make the things so damn tasty is like colon silicone come 2:34 in the morning.

See what happens when I feel sick and stay home to get better and watch television? I am glad I'm getting over the sickness and my reality tv obsession at the same time.

Adventures in snacking

Fat-free "cheese" does not melt.

After two weeks of no exercise and a wicked lot of East Coast draught beer, I went to the gym yesterday to sweat it all out. After 45 minutes of killing myself on the elliptical trainer, I opted to hit the grocery store for nacho fixins. But guilt got the best of me, and while I did get nacho fixins, I got fat free shredded cheddar "cheese" and fat free chips.

Excited to make my snack for lunch, and thrilled that I would still be somewhat healthy, I hurried home from the store. Chips onto the plate, shredded "cheese" onto the chips, one-minute in the microwave...

Fat-free "cheese" does not melt. The shreds were still every bit as defined as when I took them out of the bag. Maybe another 30 seconds would do the trick.

Three minutes later, fat-free "cheese" does not melt.

Instead, the whole mess of cheese and chips had actually become part of the plate. The whole phenomenon reminded me of Sweet Home Alabama when the one cute guy turns sand to glass and then professes his love to Reese Witherspoon. Except there was no love triangle. Or Southern rock music. Or cute guy. (Yeah, that analogy was a stretch.)

Instead of throwing away the whole mess, plate and all, I decided to try and break apart the upper part of the chip-wad and eat it. After a couple of bites, I realized that not only does fat-free "cheese" turn into titanium when put on chips and microwaved, but it also tastes like shit. One hour later, I had pried enough of the mess off the plate where I hope a dishwasher will help at some point.

My snack was defeated, and I moved on. For dinner I thought I'd be safer and ate dry Stove Top stuffing out of the container.

Philadelphia, in pictures

I haven't had a chance to upload ALL of my pictures I took in Philadelphia, but here are some if you want to check them out on Flickr: http://flickr.com/photos/princessgolightly/

Now you know my Flickr address, so you have no excuse not to regularly check out my pictures-- and I have no excuse not to be more regular in taking them. Gotta' use that fancy camera!

Keep watching for one of the strangest pictures I've ever taken, when we decided to go on a ghost tour through the "City of Brotherly Love."

Go Sox! Where's the Bah-tendah?

After spending last week in Philadelphia for work, I decided heading to sunny Massachusetts to visit my brother and sister-in-law (well, they're nearly married... I'm in the wedding next summer) would be a nice, relaxing bit of a vacation.

Turns out, I like this state.

I like drinking draught Sam Adams while watching Red Sox games.

I like East Coast men with accents.

Ultimately, I like the fact that everywhere I go does not remind me of the emotional rollercoaster I've ridden for the past few years. When I'm in Salt Lake, it is hard to get through the day when just driving past a grocery store reminds me of my dad. It started to get to me so much, the thought of returning at the beginning of the week rather than the end seemed like the only way to continue to center myself.

Sure, it was tough to call my mom and tell her not to find me at the airport tomorrow, but I'm trying to find my mojo. My mojo's been gone for awhile now, and quite frankly, I'd like it back. I'm tired of being mojo-less.

And if I happen to find a cute smile to make me smile along the way while hanging out with the best brother and sister-in-law anybody could hope to have, so much the bettah.

Karma Blows

I don't know what I did, but karma is sticking its tongue out at me. I was on the freeway after work last night, during rush hour, behind a mini-van and sandwiched between two semi-trucks. When the mini-van spit an eight-inch piece of tire shred right out into the air.

I thought to myself, "Hmmm... rubber is squishy and bouncy! This is noooo prob..." SMACK!

Right into the corner of the hood of my car, my baby. No biggie when I saw the hood flapping in the breeze, I figured the little tire chunk just unlatched the hood on one side. After pulling over, there is a damn dent in the hood along with a broken latch. Not a big dent, not a hugely disgusting dent, just a dent large enough to look ugly and piss me off.

After getting estimates all day, estimates that range between five- and six-hundred dollars, I am wondering what I did to piss off karma so much this week:

Is it because I jokingly referred to an old lady as "The Cryptkeeper?" This is not an untruth; she does look like the Cryptkeeper, I'm not saying it to be mean, it's just... true.

Is it because I didn't really jump to save my mother as she fell down the mezzanine stairs at the Capitol Theatre during the intermission of Spamalot Sunday night? I didn't want her to pull me down too, not to mention I did finaly help her off the ground after she slammed her head into a pole. (I was also in a slight daze from the hotness of Sir Gallahad or "Dennis.")

Is it because I borrowed someone else's wine, the wine about which I wrote last week?

I got the hood latch fixed this evening by the fine folks at TeraFlex, who even used a ratchet thing and helped with installation. Still doesn't fix the dent in the hood, but at least I'm saved from said hood catching air and slamming up into the windshield.

My perfect car that has always been perfect isn't quite so perfect anymore. Like so many things in life, it's just an annoyance that adds a little color the the monotony of the day. I'm reminded of a saying I like to tell myself whenever I'm feeling sad and blue:

"If you light a man a fire, he'll be warm for a day but if you light a man on fire, he'll be warm for the rest of his life."

Take them how you will

Just some random thoughts for your Wednesday night pleasure... take them how you will.

1. No matter how sweaty you get at the gym, do not blot your disgusting face with cheapo toilet paper from the bathroom stall. You'll only end up looking like you've had a horrible shaving accident, and you will not realize this until after you've walked back out through the gym and are sitting in the car.

2. If you are dating someone and that someone happens to die, do not keep their old bras out on your shed workbench. It will make the person you might later date question your affection for them, and that will be the start of a slow spiral down the proverbial relationship toilet. Until it flushes and it's gone.

3. Thank goodness for fast-thinking friends who come up with the idea to use a towel to slide and carry a television. That's right! If you feel that number two pertains to you, then you're the same person from whom I stole said tv-moving towel! Bwahahahahahaaa! I also borrowed a bottle of wine from you, and it was the best wine I've ever had.

4. Is Ouija necessarily bad? Is it only bad if the walls begin to bleed? What if I use Ouija and my dad tells me from the "other side" that he saw me borrow wine and take a towel?

5. Power outages and elliptical trainers do not mix well. If the power goes out while you are climbing at a 10 and the machine stops, you will get suddenly launched over the front. Red wine and someone else's Xanax prescription do not mix well either.

Only one more week until I leave for Philly. I'm excited to room with the life-saving towel-stealing accomplice. It will also be a much-needed diversion right now as I get into Fall and the one-year anniversary of some ultimate sadness.

One last thing...

I got new glasses.
Methinks the day-long vertigo is worth it. Apparently you're not supposed to go five years in between eye exams and now I feel like I have X-ray vision.

The postman stole my Free Panty.

There are few joys in life greater than getting something in the mail from Victoria's Secret, other than their monthly credit card bill. If you're a card-holder, occasionally they'll send you free stuff. Free panty here, $10-off a purchase there, all with the assumption you'll visit their store and spend five-times what you'd normally spend.

Today, I got home from yet another nerve-wracking day at work and saw a little glimmer of salvation: the Victoria's Secret mailer announcing "Free Panty." The Free Panty is a good one, and having acquired several of the little gems over the years, I was excited to redeem the coupon and perhaps spend actual money on a few well-deserved items for myself. Upon opening the poorly glued mailer, I discovered something so horrific, so mortifying, so heinous I was forced to check the mailbox several times out of desperation.

No Free Panty. None, no card-like coupon stuck to the inside of the card. The words echoed inside my head: No. Free. Panty. For. You. Holly.

The postman stole my Free Panty. That's the only logical explaination for it's disappearance. Isn't it just my luck today that I would look so forward to Free Panty and then have my hopes dashed?

Apparently you don't get something for nothing.

Why so sad?

I could hardly believe what I heard on the radio on the way to work this morning: Owen Wilson was in the hospital after having allegedly attempted suicide by slitting his wrists and taking pills (not necessarily in that order).

It made me wonder why someone so funny cute and together would try to off himself. It seems it's always the funny ones who are so inwardly tragic. It's that cognitive dissonance of a crying clown, except Owen is less creepy than a real clown.

Or even a mime.

With the news of the day, I'd like to reflect on my top five creepiest suicide scenes in movies:

5.) Heat (1995). Val Kilmer's daughter tries offing herself in the bathtub. It was creepy.

4.) Leaving Las Vegas (1995). Pretty much the whole thing. Nic Cage epitomizes the typical suicidal character, the antithesis of Owen Wilson.

3.) Wizard of Oz (1937). Okay, not a real suicide, however there is an urban legend that one of the munchkin actors allegedly hung himself in a tree... and they left it in the final print. Turns out it's a big bird. This also ranks up there with the "ghost boy" in 3 Men and a Baby, which turns out is a cardboard cutout. But I digress...

2.) Royal Tenenbaums (2001). This is extremely strange given Owen Wilson's latest display. I hate watching people cut themselves with things in movies, I hate it worse than watching people shoot up with needles in movies. I hate pain.

1.) Balls of Fury (2007). Christopher Walken's career suicide. Makes me wonder, does he really need money or is he to the point where he doesn't really need money?

At Least She's Pretty

When Miss Teen South Carolina grows up, she wants to be a veterinarian because she loves children.



I could see the next line of question going something like this:

Guy with Microphone: "Tell us your thoughts on euthanasia."
Miss Teen South Carolina: "I think youth in Asia have small feet 'cuz they bind them when they're little."

I know how it goes. I was in the Miss Dixie College pagent.

*Update: August 27, 2007*
From people.com
"The beauty contestant's video on YouTube has received more than 2 million hits thanks to her amazingly off-the-mark answer at Friday night's pageant, when she was queried about why Americans are so bad at geography.

Specifically, she was asked why one-fifth of Americans can't find the United States on a map.

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don't have maps," she ventured.

During her meandering response, she also tossed in out-of-the-blue references to "the Iraq" and "Asian countries" and their need for the support of the American educational system in identifying the United States on the map.

Upton is described as a varsity athlete and student leader at Lexington High School, where she graduated in June with a 3.5 GPA.

Despite the on-camera gaffe, Upton finished as third runner-up."

The Mother Lode.

Tonight, just now, I discovered that Pepsi Jazz Carmel and Creme flavor tastes exactly like diet creme soda. Diet creme soda is extremely difficult to find, for whatever reason, and so right now I'm giddy with excitement. Zero calories of yummy.

I've also had over a bottle of Argentenian red wine prior to discovering said caramel creme soda.

I am blogging on red wine. Alone. In my thoughts.

For those of you who don't know me, or even for those who do, I'm a dancer. I have been a dancer for my entire life, starting at the age of two-and-a-half because my mom lied and said I was three to get me into classes. I danced through high school and when I attended the University of Utah was a modern dance major who defected and became a competitive ballroom dancer. I won't lie, it was the glitter and feathers that got me. (Unfortunately meeting men was tough, it was the glitter and feathers that got them too.)

Why is this relevant, you ask? I am currently in a hip hop, jazz, contemporary dance company here in good ol' SLC, and as a "senior member," am going to teach a new audition piece this Saturday. Which is why I found Pepsi Jazz caramel and creme. I've had creative block tonight, and rather than going to the gym, rather than making up the dance, I went to the store to wander. Creative block is a bitch.

I'm pleased to announce that after over a half a bottle of red wine, I have come up with not only a song I like, but also the first sixteen counts of choreography with which I'm pleased. This isn't particularly relevant to the world around us; this isn't going to cure cancer or save the rainforests or find the trapped Utah miners, but it brought a smile to my face.

Dancing is a story, and mine lately is a pretty twisted one. If finding a pretty song and making some gorgeous movement to it can bring a few minutes of thought this weekend to strangers, then I guess tonight wasn't a total loss.

In the morning, we'll see if my head actually agrees with my typing fingers...

and my tastebuds.

Good to Know!

Bliss.

After feeling extremely stressed out and not sleeping for the past week, I had an early work-morning and then am taking the rest of the day off. Sure, I have to work tomorrow, but for today, it's bad reality television and Boo Berry Cereal.

I have had a love/hate relationship with Boo Berry. I used to love it, obsess over it, eat it whenever I could find it, but it was tricky to find from time to time in the late-90s. Until one heavenly Halloween (my favorite holiday of the year) when my mom and dad showed up at my apartment with a case of Boo Berry-- 24 boxes all to myself. I lined my pantry shelf with rows of boxes, and would sometimes just open the cabinet and stare lovingly.

Every morning I ate Boo Berry for breakfast. Every night I ate Boo Berry for dinner. Snacks? Boo Berry. And it was good.

My boyfriend at the time was very into making cheesecake, and had unbeknownst to me swiped a box to create a Boo Berry cheesecake for my birthday a month later. He showed up with this oddly blue-purple mush encased in a graham cracker crust, sprinkled with half-squishy Boo Berry. Apparently when you try to mix Boo Berry into a cheesecake recipe, it turns to shit.

It turned me off, and he and I are no longer dating. He left the country. I like to think it was cheesecake shame rather than my issues.

Now, nearly a decade later, I have found Boo Berry again. I even bought milk for it so I wouldn't have to eat it dry, though I will probably do that too. The box illustration has gotten a bit of an update, ol' Boo Berry is hipper, happer, less freakishly Casper-ish, but still a familiar friend. He still has that familiar stoned look/lazy eye. Sure the look has slightly changed, but the sugary crunch has remained the same.

Old habits die hard.

Worst. Cover. Ever.

I thought the idea was to make a cover model look even better than they would in real life, thus facilitating sales of more magazines? Gwyneth Paltrow looks positively horrid on this recent cover of W Magazine. I didn't even know it was her, I peed a little.

Because I'm so disturbed by this cover, I have but a few random thoughts to share. These thoughts are totally unrelated to said cover, but just some things I've been kicking around in my head:

1) My lip is still numb from Rocky Horror rehearsal last night. I expect the feeling will return by tomorrow, but by Saturday will suffice. (Sidebar: even if you don't like Rocky Horror, plan to come. We're boasting the tallest Dr. Frank N. Furter ever. He tried on his 5-inch red patent leather platform shoes yesterday and he's nearly seven-feet tall. With fishnets. And garters.)

2) The Discount Tire Company commercial where the old lady throws her old tire through the front window of the building is still airing on various television stations. Why this? Why not the old "Where's the Beef?" lady from the Wendy's commercials? She at least has some personality.

3) Random Kitty has told his friends I'm apparently the cool lady. A new random kitty has been stopping by my apartment for the last two nights. This one is all black-- omen?

4) I'm sorry for the miners and their families in Huntington, Utah. I really do hope they are okay.

5) Brad Pitt showed up for jury duty today. Why is it the rest of us are subjected to sit through jury duty and/or subpoena with people who are missing teeth and open beer bottles with their toes? This also applies to emergency room doctors who seldom resemble McDreamy.

6.) Three words: Rob. Zombie's. Halloween. I'm giddy with anticipation.

Aaaarrrghh...

Despite being exhausted when I came home from work today and falling asleep on the couch until about 8 tonight, I still went to the gym. I'm proud of this.

But I digress.

Being a Mac geek I admit I was excited to come home and read all about Steve Jobs' revelations at today's Apple media event, but now I'm not that thrilled. I do love the latest iMac's shiny aluminum casing and pretty glass screen (a' la iPhone... can we expect a touch-screen iMac in the future?) however, I will officially go on the record stating I can not support Apple's decision to remove the "open apple" from the "command" key on their new keyboards. I'm a purist. Still, the new iMacs are really swell and I wouldn't put up a fight if some nice person were to send me one. Beyond that, nothing else from today really flipped my bunny. The new iLife '08 seems nice; the new version of iPhoto is great and the redesigned iMovie looks a bit more professional than iMovie from iLife '06. Ultimately, I think Apple pretty much blew their hype-wad when they released the iPhone earlier this summer.

After spending time at the gym this evening, I came up with some workout iDeas (get it? ideas?) in honor of today's Apple event:

1.) iSpandex- This is for the woman who filled up her water bottle ahead of me. She very much needed the stretch feature in her biker shorts, so much that she had both front and back camel toes that actually made me feel her pain. This camel toe feature is also interchangeable with the iMooseknuckle and the i'Msmugglingayoyo.

2.) iGrunt- This is for the guys who load up their weight on a Nautilus machine far too much. Yes, I know you're manly, but must you broadcast this by slamming down the stack of weights in such a prehistoric way?

3.) iFreshener- The best part of my gym experience tonight. I won't go into detail, but for the man who was next to me on the elliptical... Just because you're wearing headphones doesn't mean we can't hear it when you rip one.

Go forth and conquer, Apple.

Light at the End...

...of the tunnel?

This day started out like shit. I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair, and after running around all day like a crazy girl, my whole head is threatening to turn into a giant dread lock.

My very expensive, eight-dollar Clinical Secret deodorant for extremely high-strung, sweaty girls doesn't seem to work. How anything you put on at night and then expect to last through the next morning's shower is supposed to work is beyond me. Eight-dollar deodorant?

The light seems to be the prospect of wearing a dog collar on stage and playing my saxophone in Rocky Horror 2007. Click on my name, see my picture, drool over it-- even with smelly deodorant and a head dread lock.

Lord Balthazar of the Flies

When I was in eighth grade, I had an uncanny love for Balthazar Getty. I remembered seeing the picture above in an issue of Seventeen magazine, and I hated Milla Jovovich with every fiber of my being just because she was touching my Balthazar. Sure I had glasses, headgear and played in the school band, but I was so much better than Milla! How dare she pose with Balthazar, how dare she get her breast buds so close to him!

I saw Young Guns 2 twenty-five times in the theatres, each time spending my hard-earned allowance to feed my Balthazar obsession. It's bad enough to see any movie twenty-five times in the theatres, much less the fact that it was Young Guns 2. I purchased every Teen Beat, Tiger Beat, and Bop I could find if it contained Balthazar (and Jonathan Knight from the New Kids was an added bonus and another obsession. His birthday is the same day as mine almost!) My bedroom wall was literally wrapped floor to ceiling with glossy Balthazar pictures I had ripped out of my various mags, and every time his Young Guns 2 character died, a little part of me died as well.

Here's the icky thing: I actually came home from work this afternoon to find Lord of the Flies on the 24/7 Chiller channel. I actually thought, "OOOOOh! Balthazar! I love him!" Then they showed him, and he's like twelve-years-old and then I felt really creeped out. Sure, Balthazar has aged just like I've aged, he's even aged on TV, but for the first time in a very long time, I felt really old.

Here's the other thing: Kids have it so easy these days! Not only did I spend thousands of dollars on teen tabloids, but now all kids have to do is jump online, click their keyboards and print out free pictures of their crushes! It's so unfair. Kids these days will never fully appreciate the act of riding one's bike to the 7-11 to grab a Slurpee while pouring over the magazine rack.

While I appreciate all my childhood activities, I also realize my old habits die hard. My Balthazar is married and I'm still wearing glasses and playing in the band.

To bling or not to bling.

Just like last year's Justin Timberlake album, the word "bling" is apparently now "whack." According to Kanye West, if you use the word "bling" nowadays you're unhip and totally out of style. This makes complete sense, my mom was using "bling" last November, I should've been clued-in then.

In honor of Kanye's colloquial revelation, I'd like to present some slang I enjoy to work into the vocabulary to once again be one of the "cool kids." Because just look how cool Kanye must be to pull of the hot pink sweater pictured above.

1. Earworm noun
A song that sticks in your head and won't leave no matter how hard you try. The best way to get rid of an earworm is to replace that song with another.
Songs that are the worst: Toxic by Britney Spears. I Want it That Way by the Backstreet Boys. Jeopardy! Theme song.

2. Digilanti noun
Combining digital expertise with vigilante mentality, the folks who anonymously police the Internet, exposing scams and fighting spam for the interest of the greater good.
"Our computer guy forwarded up an email he confirmed as spam, he's such a digilanti."

3. Backne noun
Severe acne on one's back.
"That chick looked like a pizza with all the backne she was sporting under her tube top."

4. Cafediem phrase, Latin-ish
Caffeinate the Day.
To ask someone if they want a coffee, ask, "Cafediem?"

5. Mouse Potato noun
The current cyber-version of sitting on the couch and watching TV, instead sitting behind the computer surfing.
"I've done nothing but trash people on their own Web sites today, dude. I feel like such a mouse potato."

6. 404 noun
Someone who's clueless. From the World Wide Web error message "404 Not Found," meaning that the requested document could not be located.
"She's exausting me with all the wrong information, she's got the dumb and is totally 404."

7. Post-Potter Depression noun
The empty feeling that comes from finishing the seventh book in the Harry Potter series and realizing there will be no more.
"My friend went back to reading Stephen King to get over her post-Potter depression, but she just kept waiting for Voldemort to show up."

8. French Exit noun
Leaving a party without saying goodbye to anyone or thanking the host. Disappearing, or sneaking away, from a party.
"Tommy's party homing-beacon must have gone off because he's made the French Exit again."

9. Typeractive adjective, adverb
Somebody who is overly-talkative on text messages or emails.
"She sent me ten emails today detailing why we're no longer friends. Not only is she psycho, but she's completely typeractive."


And my favorite I just heard for the first time a few weeks ago:
10. Crop-dusting noun
Surreptitiously farting while passing through a crowd of people sitting at a table, then enjoying the sounds of dismay and disgust.
Self-explanatory.

Happy communicating.

Quite the day today

Today, Michelangelo Antonioni went to the big sound stage in the sky. He was an amazing director who made Blow Up, one of my favorite films. I was first turned onto this movie by someone for whom I will have an eternal soft-spot, so I'm wondering if I love the movie because it reminds me of him, or if it's really a brilliant film. Chances are, it's a little bit of both-- it's set in the 60s, when I should've lived so I could've gone to Beatles concerts and Carnaby Street in whirl of mod-ness.

As I said, Antonioni went to the big sound stage in the sky today. Why do we have to sugar-coat the phrase, "he died" or "he's dead" or "he's taking a dirt nap?" Something I've learned all too quickly is when someone's gone, they're gone, and they're not coming back no matter how you spin it. Reality can be quite a bitch.

Before this post becomes too morbid, let's switch gears...

Karma wants me to be a crazy cat lady. For the last week, Random Kitty has been living on my doorstep. I have told Random Kitty to go home, I have called the number on Random Kitty's tag to try and get them to take Random Kitty back. I have offered to take Random Kitty back to its owner. To no avail, Random Kitty was sitting in the passenger side of my Jeep this morning. Random Kitty has even started coming to me when I call out, "Raaaandooom Kittyyy?"

What's a girl to do when they're single and a cat shows up at the doorstep? Accept the possibility of becoming a crazy cat lady, and embrace it? Start shopping for my old-lady red hat? Or do I resist taking in Random Kitty no matter how much it lets me scratch its chin?