And the hits keep coming.

The search engine hits, of course. What would we do without fun google searches to create a blog post out of otherwise thin air? Hee.

Here are some of the latest and greatest:

"where to get vivarin"

Any drug or grocery store, I would think. Are you thinking that "Vivarin" is some mysterious and illicit controlled substance? Sorry to disappoint. It's caffeine, basically, isn't it? In concentrated pill form?

"what do kids need to know to go to kindergarten"

You got me. In my day, before the onset of designer preschools, all you really needed to know was...well, nothing, really. I had a pretty good grasp of reading already, but some kids learned it all there, I'm sure. How 'bout you know how to take yourself to the potty. And how to share. And not to pick your nose in public. That's a good start. Your teacher can take it from there.

"how to say dirigible"

Well, I'm sitting here saying it over and over, but I'm pretty sure you're not hearing it. How 'bout you take yourself over to www.m-w.com. They'll pronounce it for you and tell you what it means, if you're unclear.

"stole my purse"

Is that rat bastard still out there 20 years later? Damn him!

"Amy Sedaris IBS"

I'm not sure what caused you to link those two things? Is Amy an IBS sufferer? How did I not know that? I thought I knew EVERYthing about her. (Yes, I'm a little kooky on the subject of the Sedaris family, in general. I want to go one of their family reunions. Are you reading this, Amy or David? Call me!)

"do you get drunk quicker if you take muscle relaxers"

Well, you certainly get something faster if you do that, but if you're not really careful, it could well be "dead." Just say no!

"throbbing manhood"

Hee. I knew that search would come some day.

"leap of(sic) couch racing blowing shit"

Oh, my! I'm not sure exactly what you're into, but I can pretty much assure you it won't be found here. Yikes.

"I'm dreaming of a brown Christmas"

Already, dreaming of Christmas? You've got a long wait, my friend, no matter what color it is.

"brown stains on sides of house caused by bugs"

My sympathies. Not sure what you want me to do about it, though. Did you want me to come over and wash the stains off? 'Cause if you live near enough to me, I might do that...for a significant amount of money, of course. Or did you want me to kill the bugs? 'Cause I'm not so much into the killing. You'll have to do that yourself, if that's the case. My motto is "live and let live" whenever possible. Are the bugs really hurting you? Really? Give it some thought, and let me know if you're ready to pony up some serious scratch for stain removal. (And I mean SERIOUS. I'd like to buy a new car. Hee.)

"long qt syndrome famous people who had this disease"

Okay, I must confess that my near-encyclopedic knowledge of obscure diseases has let me down. I'm off to google "long qt syndrome" myself. Be right back. Okay, Wikipedia says: "The long QT syndrome (LQTS) is a heart disease in which there is an abnormally long delay between the electrical excitation (or depolarization) and relaxation (repolarization) of the ventricles of the heart. It is associated with syncope (fainting) and with sudden death due to ventricular arrhythmias. Arrhythmias in individuals with LQTS are often associated with exercise or excitement. The cause of sudden cardiac death in individuals with LQTS is ventricular fibrillation." No mention of famous people who had it. Sorry. I might start using that as my reason for avoiding exercise, though. "I'm not lazy--I just don't want to excite my Long QT."

"mom sat on top of him"

Uh...okay. Is she a big woman? I mean...is he okay? Depending on who/what "he" is, that sounds like it could be uncomfortable, or even dangerous. You should assess the situation a little more carefully. I mean...are you googling while "he" is sitting underneath "mom" unable to breathe? Maybe 911 would be a more efficient solution to your problem. Oh, wait...maybe you walked in on something you shouldn't have. When "mom" "sat" on top of "him," were they naked? Was there moaning and/or screaming involved? Look away. Look away now, before you're scarred for life!

"mister softee"

More than one search from the UK for this. Hmm....

"cats sneezing snot"

Oh, MAN, have I been there. Give them 1/4 to 1/2 tablet of chlorpheniramine. They might need some antibiotics if the snot is thick and colored. You're welcome.

"how to clean a wound on a stray cat"

I love it that I am now a source of stray cat info for the entire interweb, not just my immediate circle. Hee. But here again, I'd need more info. Is this a cat you can touch, or a completely feral beastie? Either way, proceed with caution. Cat bites can cause nasty infections. Try some betadine or hydrogen peroxide first, I'd think.

"next lime"

I've gotten this several times. What up? Is the scary cashier from Wal-Mart still pulling the "you're the next lime on register 7" line, some 20+ years later? She needs to get a life.

"he always goes barefoot"

Well, I always go barefoot at home, but I'm thinking this is a bigger problem than that. What's the deal? Is it keeping him from getting service in all the "no shoes, no shirt, no service" establishments? Or is it just making his feet really nasty? 'Cause yeah...nasty feet...quite a turn-off. Tell him to put on some flip-flops for heaven's sake. It's a dirty, dirty world out there.

Okay, that's the best of the lot this week. I hope I have been of service to all you googlers out there. I live to serve.

Life's little irritations.

I don't know if the universe is being particularly irritating this week, or if I'm just particularly irritable, but either way...Calgon, take me away! Gah.

There was one good thing--I got my hair recut Tuesday evening and I love it. And he didn't charge me. So that's a very good thing. Aside from that, though...I've got nothing on the good front.

Not that this week has been BAD, particularly, just...irritating. Aggravating. Filled with stupid, stupid people. Is it just me, or are people (and by people I mean the general public, not my particular friends, "real" or "internet") just getting dumber? Seriously, all week I've been getting my face shoved into other people's dimwittedness....my customers, my vendors, random people in the streets. I seriously wonder how some of these people a) keep their jobs, and b) live their daily lives. (Of course, as soon as I typed that one of my customers called and made me laugh out loud by saying "Oh my god, between the Ambien and the ADHD, I'm so scattered I might as well just be sitting around smokin' a big old joint." So they're not ALL bad. Hee.) And why must they involve me in their daily lives? Going home for lunch earlier, I had to sit an an intersection while an unattractive, badly-dressed couple with questionable hygiene leisurely crossed the road in front of me, and slowed down to make out right in front of my car! Obviously they were trying to get some sort of reaction from me, but I just waited until there was enough room to go around them. Gah. I'm not saying dirty, badly-dressed people don't have the right to stroll hand-in-hand wherever they want, but I don't want to watch the dirty, badly-dressed PDA, damn it! (Would I be any more tolerant of attractive, well-dressed people in that situation? Actually, no. Not today, certainly!) Get a room. Or, you know, anywhere that's not the MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING STREET.

Has it been any less irritating at home? No, no it has not. Some cat decided to pee "outside the box" this morning. Now, I'm all for innovative thinking, but not in my cats! Gah. Speaking of cats, they're having a lovely spring molting, I guess, and there are cat hair tumbleweeds everywhere. Gah. Yesterday I opened my cable bill and discovered the cable company has decided to raise rates (without improving offerings or service, of course) AGAIN. I'm going to have to shop around for other options--any opinions on Dish or DirecTV? Gah, gah. My yard needs mowed. It's only March! I'm not ready for lawn maintenance yet. What happened to spring? I woke up last night sweating, and I don't think it's menopause. I'm sure of it, actually, since Aunt Flo also showed up last night, bless her crampy, crampy little heart. More gah. I have a headache, which doesn't seem possible, given the amount of Aleve I've taken to appease Aunt Flo, but nonetheless, I do. I filled my car's gas tank last night and, for the first time EVER, paid $25 to fill my tiny little tank. Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!

Okay, I'll stop whining now. I've got performances to do this weekend, and though I'm having trouble generating any enthusiasm about that prospect right this moment, I'm sure once I'm at the theater that I will be rarin' to go. Tomorrow's Friday, thank god. And next week will surely be better, right?

Wednesday WTF

Okay, he's just fucking with us now, right? Or is "My Pretty Pony" a legitimate look for a wannabe popstar? Sheesh.

Friday Flotsam. Again.

Well, this morning my mother listened to the radio interview I taped earlier this week and she said I sounded just fine. It must be true, then--my mother is undoubtedly completely objective and impartial when it comes to such things, right? I have to do an interview this afternoon with the theatre reporter from the newspaper, and I'm sure I will be stunningly eloquent and articulate, since there will not be actual aural evidence to the contrary. And then I'm sure she will completely misquote me, and no one will believe how stunningly eloquent I truly was. Sigh.

Omigosh, I just went to the Bravo website (in order to prove to myself that I hadn't just fallen asleep on the couch and dreamed up "Shear Genius," which I keep wanting to call "Shear Madness," by the way, and which I think would most likely be a much more appropriate title) and discovered that the host of "Shear Genius" is none other than Charlie's Angel Jaclyn Smith, looking like she hasn't aged a day. Bitch.

I'm reading Moby Dick. No, really. I thought I was re-reading Moby Dick, sparked by a discussion in the comments over at stefanie-says (sorry, no link--Blogger is refusing to insert it for some reason, and I'm too tired to fight) a few days ago, but I realized soon after I started that despite having OWNED the book for many years, I apparently never got around to reading it. I can't say we've started off like gangbusters, Ishmael and I, but it's not the most painful reading ever (for me, that's Dickens), and I have hopes of finishing it, checking it off my "great books" list and never cracking the spine again. But I was struck by something near the beginning. Ishmael is pondering his place in the grand scheme of things--here's the part that struck me:

"And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

"Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the

United States.

"WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.

"BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN."

Well, as they say, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Of course, I tried to think of some dramatic event in my life that I might sandwich between our own "grand contested election" in 2000, and the invasion of Afghanistan in 2001, but I didn't come up with anything notable. Nothing akin to a whaling voyage, at any point. Though certainly if whales had been involved, it would have been in the capacity of reverently watching them, as opposed to spearing them with harpoons. Ahem. Moving on.

I know you'll all be glad to hear that I have an appointment early next week to get my bad haircut "tweaked." Please pray for me.

For those of you interested in such things--McBeady the stray tomcat is now quite fond of head and belly rubs, and is a complete whore for a chin scratch. If only it were so easy to get human males to love me! (And, unlike with McBeady, I promise I really don't go around talking about my desire to cut off their balls. Not that I even have such a desire. That came out wrong! I prefer for human males to have their balls. Okay, shutting up now.)

Veering slightly into the political arena, I must say that, even though I am far from making up my mind about which Democratic candidate to vote for in the primaries, I am really quite sad to hear about the return of Elizabeth Edwards' cancer. I'm glad John is continuing his campaign, since it really seems like a joint decision between the two of them, and I wish her the best in her ongoing treatment. I can't even imagine how devastating it must be for a mother of small children to be told that she has "incurable, though treatable" cancer, and only a 20% chance of living five more years. She seems like a tough, cool chick, though. Give the cancer hell, Elizabeth!

Okay, now that I've veered slightly into politics, I'm going to stay here for a moment. Stop reading now if you're not interested in my viewpoint on exit strategies for this mess in Iraq. I won't blame you a bit--unqualified political viewpoints being a dime a dozen. But here's how I see it--we are going to have to set a timeline for withdrawal, like it or not. Yes, we owe the Iraqis something, having invaded their country and destroyed much of their infrastructure, but...imagine this scenario, if you will. You're in school, and one day the teacher says to you, "I'm assigning a class project. It's going to be very difficult, it's going to involve a great deal of sacrifice and compromise on your parts, you're going to have to work closely with people you may not like, but it's very important--in fact, it will effect the rest of your school career. No due date, though, you all just get together and let me know when you're ready to turn it in." Would that assignment EVER have been turned in? Hell, no. And I think it's the same with the Iraqis--without some external motivation, I don't think they'll ever feel "ready." I can't blame them, they're in a helluva sticky situation, but we can't stay there forever, and (in my opinion) our presence is in many ways making the situation worse. Does that analogy make sense to anyone but me?

Okay, okay, enough rambling. Happy weekend, everyone!

What next?

So, I was watching Top Design last night, and they ran a promo for their new competitive reality show--"Shear Genius." 12 ambitious hair-stylists competing, blah, blah, blah. Does the ousted contestant each week hear "Please pack your scissors and go?" In the interest of full disclosure, I no doubt will watch this show, since I have apparently become Bravo's little Wednesday night bitch, happily watching whatever Project Runway knock-off they choose to show me. Project Runway with its "Auf Wiedersehn," Top Chef with its "Please pack your knives and go," Top Design with the cheerful "See you later, decorator"--I've watched them all.

But I'm beginning to wonder where this all will end. I foresee for myself an endless future of Wednesday nights, sitting on the couch watching the latest competition dreamed up in the Bravo programming department.

"And now, an all-new Top Lawyer. Watch 12 ambitious attorneys compete for the top prize! Tonight's competition involves suing a large appliance corporation on behalf of your client, who didn't realize stove burners are hot. Each contestant will be given $10,000 for expert witnesses ("There is no way the average person would know that stove burners, capable of cooking food at a high temperature, shouldn't be touched. It is unconscionable that this corporation did not include a warning label on each and every burner."), and will have the assistance of a paralegal, assigned to you at random. I'm your host, Star Jones-Reynolds (I am a LAWyer). Please welcome our regular judges: Judge Wapner, Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, and our special guest judge: that blubbering idiot from the Anna Nicole Smith 'get her in the ground please, she's decaying' hearing. Let the competition begin." And later in the program: "You made good visual use of your client's scarred palm, we really liked that pie chart in your Powerpoint presentation, but unfortunately, your client is still poor (and stupid), so...see you later, litigator!"

Following closely on its heels: Top Doc. (Alternate title: Project O.R.) 12 ambitious surgeons competing blah, blah, blah. Your host: Sanjay Gupta. Your judges: the doctors of "House," "ER," "Grey's Anatomy" and "Scrubs." (Yes, we know they're not "real" surgeons, but they're so pretty.) "Tonight, each contestant will attempt a radical new brain transplant procedure. You will each be given $10,000 for surgical supplies, and the services of a scrub nurse, assigned to you at random. Let the operations begin!" And, of course, later: "We thought you displayed an appropriate amount of cockiness, you really seem to be developing your god complex, and your choice of O.R. music was funkalicious! But, unfortunately, your patient died, so...see you later, operator!"

The possibilities are endless: Top Teacher--"see you later, educator!" Project Law--"see you later, adjudicator!" Project Wait Staff--"see you later, lousy waiter!" Top Prom Star*--"see you later, masturbator!" Project Pest Control--"see you later, exterminator!" Project Vulcanology--"see you later, loves-a-crater!" Top Archeologist--"see you later, carbon dater!" Project Greek Mythology--"see you later, impish satyr!" Top Merchant Marine--"see you later on the freighter!" (Okay, okay, enough already! But I was just getting ready to go for "Seder" and "Darth Vader." Quite possibly "tater" or "termater." And you'll notice I refrained from a Crocodile Hunter-style "see you later, alligator.")

I personally can't wait for Project Drive-Thru. 12 ambi--okay, maybe not, let's just say 12 polyester-clad fast food employees compete for the top prize. Their challenge? Take the drive-thru order accurately the first time, provide the customer with EXACTLY what he/she ordered, remember to include napkins, salt and appropriate condiments WITHOUT being asked, top it off with a cheery "have a nice day" or "thank you" and DON'T slam the window in their faces. The tagline? Delivered over the drive-thru speaker, of course: "garble garble later, squawk squawk static." I'm sorry, could you repeat that? ""GARBLE GARBLE LATER, SQUAWK SQUAWK STATIC!" I'm sorry, one more time, please? "GARBLE GARBLE--" You know what? Never mind, I'll just drive myself off.

Now wouldn't that be compelling television?



*Metalia's lovely term for "adult movie performer"

Just a ramblin' fool

That's me. I just did a radio interview (via telephone, and to air on the same radio station where I worked as a DJ in college, actually) to promote the benefit performance of my current play that we're doing in my small hometown this weekend. ("It won't air until Friday, so we'll say 'tomorrow night' instead of 'Saturday night,' okay?" Got it. "Now remember, we'll say 'tomorrow night' instead"...got it.) I had all kinds of witty, articulate things to say, planned out in my head. Pithy quotes about the beautiful script, compelling insights about my character, etc. Sadly, they're mostly all still there...unsaid. Gah. Instead, I rambled. I even (gahhh!!) succumbed a couple of times (briefly, thank god) to the dreaded "umm..." time killer, while I ransacked my brain for all those words I knew were there. Damn you, words! What, you couldn't come out from behind my medulla oblongata for a minute and say hello? It wasn't all my fault, though...the interviewer asked mostly about my connection to my hometown ("I, um...grew up there and, um...went to school there and, um...my family still lives there." Okay, maybe I exaggerate slightly.), rather than about the play specifically. Still, I'm generally a fairly articulate person--why did "okay, we're recording now" turn me into a stammering rambler? Oh well, it probably wasn't as bad as I thought it was. The interviewer insisted, when I apologized for rambling on, that it was "great." I have done interviews in the past (mostly for the newspaper, a couple of times for television; at least radio doesn't have the added pressure of making you worry about how you look) that I felt made me sound like a bit of an idiot, only to have everyone assure me that I sounded just fine. Which makes me wonder--maybe I always come across as an idiot, unbeknownst to myself, and therefore when people say I sounded "fine," they're really only saying "no more of a fool than usual!" That's...um...a sobering...um...(what's the word I'm looking for here...) thought, isn't it?

Friday Flotsam Redux

Well, I made it through the first week since "springing forward," but I am tired. Yesterday I went to the Kwik-E-Mart and Apu said "you look tired, are you tired?" (Actually it's the Kwik-Mart, and I don't really know the name of the cashier, but since it's owned by Indians/Pakistanis, I like thinking of it as the Kwik-E-Mart, and any time the cashier is of Indian/Pakistani heritage, I like thinking of him as Apu. Is that culturally insensitive? If so, I'm sorry, but it's the Simpsons. Who can help it?) And then he started flirting with me. I think. And then a truck driver who came in to pay for his gas started flirting with me. No "I think" on that one. He stood next to me, made inane small talk about my selections for purchase (honey bun, Corn Nuts and incense; I wish I'd had tampons to really test his resolve to make what he apparently thought was witty banter) and jovially nudged my elbow with his. Um...okay. I'll be taking my purchases and returning to work now. I guess "tired" is a good look for me. Who knew? Maybe I should stop with the under-eye cream and just let the bags do their magic. And how would you fellows feel about wrinkles? I could really save some money on the beauty products if this catches on.

I actually had someone say to me yesterday that he didn't understand why the time change made people tired. "You're getting up at the exact same time as you were before." Um...no, I'm NOT. The time displayed on the clock is completely arbitrary to my body's stubborn circadian rhythms. Fool. Okay, I didn't say the fool part--I'm not quite that cranky. Yet.

Thankfully, today is my monthly "early day," so I only have to make it through the morning at work. And then I'm free--free to take my cat to the vet. Whoo hoo! I'll spare you the details of his ongoing battle with diarrhea. You're welcome.

Here's my favorite google search hit for the week:

"what does it mean when a crush says sweet dreams"

Well, I'm going to hope that he simply means that he would like for you to have a sweet slumber, filled with dreams of kittens, lollypops, adorable babies dressed up like flowers and the like. Of course, if he's saying this to you as he's pressing a pillow to your face, and there is a diabolical glint in his eyes as he hisses "sssweet dreamssss, preciousssss," well then, good luck to you!

I've also gotten several hits for "MeMarmony." And really spelled like that, too. Is someone looking for stefanie? Or has "MeMarmony" really caught on in the blogosphere? Hee.

Okay, I'm just going to close for today by inviting anyone within driving distance of Tulsa to come to my upcoming play. Of course, if my stats are to be believed, that's probably only gorillabuns, so...gorillabuns--please consider yourself invited!

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Well, now I've seen it all.

I went to my front door yesterday evening to see if I had mail, and saw the strangest sight, across the street, a couple of doors down. I literally did a double-take, then a triple-take, whipped my head back inside to do a visual comparison against my Star Wars Pez collection (what?) and looked again. There was no mistaking it. My neighbors had their garage door up, and standing guard at the front of the garage was an enormous perfect scale replica of R2D2. WTF? It looked to be at least 4' tall (one of the occupants walked past it while I gawked, giving me some measure), and at least 18" wide, and looked to be perfectly detailed in every way (though, admittedly, I was some distance away). I say again, WTF? This, for me, begs the question...no, it begs several questions: a) WTF?; b) Why do they have R2D2--no, wait...he's at least R2D4...why do they have R2D4 in their garage?; c) Where does one get a R2D4 of their very own?; d) Does he do anything? I mean, does he have any capabilities beyond stunning the neighbors? Does he twirl around and beep and chirp, or is he purely decorative?; e) Why don't I have a giant 'droid in my garage, 'cause that would be the coolest thing ever!?; f) When am I going to break down and get a camera phone, because if EVER a camera phone is needed, it is to snap a discreet picture of the R2D4 in your neighbor's garage, am I right?

I don't know those neighbors at all, not even to wave or nod to, so I'm unlikely to find out the answers to any of my burning questions, damn it. Leftover Halloween costume is the best I could come up with, though it's not generally a neighborhood noted for celebrating Halloween (no trick-or-treaters at all). Any other suggestions/theories? Help me, Obi-Wan Bloggers--you're my only hope. (Hee.)

Hello, Muddah. Hello, Faddah.

I watched Wet Hot American Summer this weekend. No, I'd never seen it before. No, there was nothing better on. So I watched. I must say, they got the hairstyles and clothes of the late 70s right. And Paul Rudd is sooooo cute, even playing a dick.

Anyway, it got me thinking about summer camp. I never went to the summer-long, or month-long, or weeks-long "Camp Waziyata" kind of camp. (Did anyone watch that cute little reality show called "Bug Juice" a few years ago? I loved that show.) The "oh, here we are in the Catskills, and why does that annoying girl over there look JUST EXACTLY LIKE ME ONLY WITH LONGER HAIR and OMIGOD SHE'S REALLY MY TWIN SISTER--let's trade places and reunite our estranged parents" kind of summer camp. But I went to my share of week-long theme camps. Girl Scouts camp. Church camp. Band camp.

Girl Scout camp was my first. I can't say I get all warm and fuzzy remembering it, though. My best friend and I went together. It was a fairly rustic (as befits Scouting, I suppose) place near the Illinois river. The "cabins" were merely a sort of glorified gazebo, really, with open sides, and coverings you could roll down if it rained. We slept on cots. The mosquitos slept, and dined, on me. All of them, apparently. My mother was appalled at how many bites I came home with--I looked much like the tastier "Survivor" contestants, apparently. I specifically remember the instructions we were given if we should at any point be bitten by a snake. We were to turn to the fellow Scout closest to us and say, "I have been bitten by a snake. Stay calm, and go tell a counselor." Apparently, we were trusted to be calm enough to GIVE this information, but not to HEAR it without an additional reminder. No one was bitten by a snake, to my knowledge, but we did SEE one. As we were trooping single-file into a seldom-used outdoor ampitheatre with stone seats, my best friend and I walked right up to a copperhead. I said, "hey, look...a copperhead," and we all stopped dead in our tracks and had a staring contest with the snake. Apparently further instruction should have been given to us; no one told us what to say if we encountered a snake, only if we were actually bitten. Eventually a counselor noticed the column of little marching Scouts had stopped and came to investigate. The snake knew a good time to leave when he saw it, and disappeared. We were relocated to another section of the ampitheatre for our evening campfire, and nervously twitched our feet and legs for the rest of the evening, certain we felt snakes wrapping around them. Exciting! My most vivid memory of that week, though, is of the horrible counselor who hated me. Really, she did. I have no idea why, I certainly hadn't DONE anything to her, apparently she just hated shy, chubby little girls. Bitch. We had to play horrible games, including a relay race where you had to carry a spoonful of dry beans behind your back. The team with the most beans left in the spoon at the end won. For some reason I was forced to go first and, you guessed it, lost all our beans on the first leg. What can I say? An athlete I was not, and am not. But it's a GAME, lady. It's supposed to be for fun. There's no prize money at stake, and if your self-esteem is tied up in how well your little group of Girl Scouts does at carrying beans in a spoon--well, let's just say that's sad. Very, very sad. But she was just appalled, and exclaimed loudly, several times, to the poor fools who had to carry an empty spoon back and forth for the rest of the race, "it's just NO FUN without beans, is it?" WHAT A BITCH. We all were assigned little tasks each day, and one of the possible tasks was to be "jump-up" for a particular table in the dining hall. Basically, the "jump-up" had to jump up and fetch anything the diners at the table needed during the meal. There was one counselor at the head of each table and each counselor selected her jump-up from the pool assigned to the task that day. Guess who chose me? Correct. And criticized every jump I made during the whole meal. To this day I wonder what the HELL her problem was. I mean, really...what. the. fuck!? At any rate, the week eventually ended, without too much further trauma. There was the mild embarrassment of failing, just barely, the swimming test that enabled you to go near the "deep hole," and having to remain in the wading area with the non-swimmers, but I didn't care all that much. I was actually going to go back the next year, but all the mosquito chomping must have made me somewhat allergic, and when I encountered a swarm of mosquitos before I even left home that swelled my arm up like a puff adder, my mother intervened. Probably for the best. If that bitch counselor had been there again, I might have had to kill her, and wouldn't THAT have made for interesting headlines. SCOUT KILLS CAMP COUNSELOR, WAS HEARD REPEATEDLY MUTTERING "HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM BEANS?" Hee.

Next up was church camp. Forget what the American Pie people would have you believe--church camp is where the real action is. There was, of course, hiking, climbing, swimming, crafts, etc., but I also remember a whole lot of "oh my god, I made out with Mikey behind the cabin and he totally FRENCHED me" drama. I didn't experience any of that personally, of course, late bloomer that I was (no, seriously). Parents, don't assume that just because your kids are churchgoers that they aren't susceptible to the same onslaught of teenage hormones as everyone else. Put them in close proximity to a passle of the opposite sex (or the same sex, I suppose--I'm sure that happens, too) with "supervision" mostly by slightly older teenagers and omigod, they're totally going to be all atwitter about the cute boys (girls, whatever)! This was in junior high. I was going to go back the next year, but...always a but with me, isn't there...I broke my arm a couple of days before camp started. I did GO, actually, but I didn't stay. My best friend begged and pleaded with me to go, assuring me she'd help me do everything I couldn't do with a broken arm, but by the first evening I realized I'd made a big mistake, and I called my parents to come and get me. (She meant well, I know, but I was completely cramping her style!) I didn't go to regular summer church camp again, but I did go to a couple of high school winter weekend retreats at the same campground. Again, I behaved MYself (late bloomer, remember?), but I will say that at least one friend lost her virginity there, and I saw (and was offered, but refused) marijuana being smoked for the very first time. Which made me so incredibly nervous that I had to leave the deserted cabin where the illicit activity was taking place, and walk through the woods after dark by myself back to the lodge. Which was scary, it being all dark and woodsy and did I mention DARK, but not nearly as scary as being in such close proximity to PEOPLE DOING DRUGS. God, I was such a good kid. My parents owe me big time for all the grief I didn't cause them back then. (Okay, maybe they don't; I've probably made up for it since.)

And then, in high school, I did actually go to band camp a couple of times. And, this one time, at band camp...I did NOT do anything untoward with my flute. (And let me tell you, no self-respecting flutist would dishonor her instrument in that way. Puh-leeze. Now I can't vouch for those goofy brass players [I kid, brass players, I kid], but amongst us woodwinds--not a chance.) There was lots of flirting, of course, but amongst my personal friends, no SERIOUS action. I also did the All-Star Marching Band one summer, and that was fun, but again, nothing but flirting. Who had the energy, anyway? We marched all stinkin' day long in the hot Oklahoma sun. On Astroturf. I lost at least 10 pounds that week.

So those were my youthful camp experiences. I'd like to say that they were among the most rewarding weeks of my life, and that I made friendships to last a lifetime. I'd like to say that, but I won't, since it'd be a big fat lie. In college I did outdoor theatre in the summers, and THAT, my friends, is where the fun was had, and the lifetime friends were made. I'll have to post some of those stories some time. Ah, Miss Sparkler Pageant, how I miss you. ;)

Life's little annoyances. Or, make it frickin' Tuesday already!

Could today BE any more of a Monday? (/Chandler Bing voice.)

It started Friday evening, though, really. I went to get my hair cut, to the same stylist I've been using for the last year. He seemed in a bit of a hurry--his best friend was there waiting to get styled for a photo shoot--but when I left there I looked okay. Since then, though, it's just been bad, bad, bad. I HATE it. Now, I am the most easy-going person in the world when it comes to hair. I've let friends cut it with office shears, always figuring "it's only hair," so when I say I have summoned up actual hatred towards a haircut, you know it must truly suck. I guess it looked okay when he styled it because, you know, he's a stylist, but I am most definitely not, and I can't get it to look like anything other than hammered crap. I would very much like to return and make him fix it, the first time in my life I've ever considered doing such a thing, but he is OUT OF TOWN ALL WEEK, and I can't. I don't have the time or energy to search for another stylist at the moment, so I guess I'll just live with it until he gets back. My co-workers insist it's not that bad, but I know better. I wish I could describe it to you--basically it just looks like two different haircuts, one from the top of my ears up, one from the top of my ears down, and I don't like either one of them. Sigh. I sort of have...wings. And flaps. Right now I very much wish I could use those wings and flaps like an airplane, and just sail away.

So that's when the annoyance started. It continued through the weekend, when for some reason I started to get what I can only describe as a crick in my chest muscles. I fall asleep in one position, all is well, and then when I roll over it feels as though someone is stabbing me in my sternum. A slight shift of position, and it goes away. Another slight shift, and it's back. It's making me crazy, not to mention doing wonders for my quality of sleep. And speaking of sleep, the quantity of my sleep is all messed up, too--thank you Daylight Saving Time! I didn't need that hour, really. You take it.

And then today has just been one little aggravation after another. Little aggravations, not life-threatening, by any means, but just one after the other. On my way home for lunch, I was passed by a large van in a big hurry, and there must have been a giant pothole in his lane, is all I can think (and it's been raining here all weekend), because my car was suddenly enveloped in a sea of mud. Lovely, just lovely. I continued home, only to sit for several minutes waiting for a stinking train to get the hell out of my way. Delightful, just delightful. When I arrived home, I decided I'd better hook up the garden hose and try to wash some of the mud off the car before it baked into clay. Well, the hose had apparently been champing at the bit all winter, sitting there disconnected, and it got all giddy and immediately did its best impression of a Wham-O Water Wiggle,

and soaked me from head to toe. Refreshing, so refreshing. And if I thought my hair looked bad BEFORE, well...let's just say that when I went out into the backyard, my stray cat Dolly took one look at me, hissed, and ran out of the yard. She did. I'm not making this up, sadly. We're at the time of year when neither my heating nor air-conditioning is kicking on, which is great for the utility bill, but not so great for the air quality inside, so when I went inside the house smelled...not BAD, exactly, just stale. The cats had taken it upon themselves to reposition every one of the area rugs. Ah, sweet kitties.

I'm back at work now. I have a headache. My plans to dazzle the blogosphere with the world's most brilliant, insightful, humorous post--in honor of my six-month blogiversary--have fallen to the wayside. (I fully realize, of course, that today's post likely would have fallen far short of that laudable goal, anyway, but a girl can pretend...uh, I mean dream, can't she?)

I just want to go home. Unfortunately, I have a rehearsal this evening, so I'm quite sure the fun is not over yet, by any means.

Oh well, tomorrow is another day. (/Scarlett O'Hara voice)

Feel free to tell me I'm being a big, whiny baby. ;)

Feral Friday

Enough of this sex talk and googling (dirty!)--we want to hear about the continuing saga of Dolly and McBeady! Or so I choose to imagine you might be saying. Well, all right--if you insist. (Ahem.)

Well, McBeady continues to be a frequent overnight visitor, often staying in bed until well past noon. Lazy! He's learning to tolerate my presence, and a couple of days ago...he let me pet him! He didn't seem thrilled about it, but he didn't run away, so I guess we're making progress. I have ulterior motives, of course. He doesn't need those little fuzzy dice hanging down back there. Hee. Poor McBeady--he has no idea what I'm planning for him. But the poor scruffy thing has scars all over his head and face from previous tomcat battles, and if he's going to be hanging around my house, I don't want him doing it with a giant, smelly abscess, which I would no doubt feel obligated to try and treat. So, you see, it's all for his own good.

Dolly continues to be a little lovemuffin. She just can't get enough petting. And she seems to have come to terms with both her affection for me and her affection for McBeady. She's no longer pretending not to know me when he's around, but goes back and forth between us, rubbing her head against first one, and then the other. When I open the blinds in the morning on the back windows, she's usually sitting on my grandmother's old wooden glider just outside, peering inside intently, as if to say "What's taking you so long?" Very cute. So it's all good.

Okay, now that I have relieved your burning curiosity on the feral cat front, I will take my leave. I need to come up with a great idea for a Monday post--as that will be the official six-month blogiversary of LizLand. Six whole months--that's like half a year! Hopefully I won't be so bleary-eyed in response to "springing forward" that I'm unable to form coherent sentences. Motherfrickin' Daylight Saving Time.

I accept.

Greatest google search leading people to my blog EVER:

"As a form of apology, I would like to buy you lunch."

Hey, whoever you are, I accept! And they said there was no such thing as a free lunch. ;) (Psst...depending on exactly what you're apologizing for, you might want to also bring me flowers. No carnations or baby's breath, please.)

I'd much rather have lunch purchased for me than tell someone where to bring their dead pet, or discuss children being left in vans at daycares in North Carolina, wouldn't you?

I've had one heckuva busy day, and my brain is basically fried, so I will just quickly ask, have any of you watched that Lifetime show "Gay, Straight or Taken"? I have seen it exactly twice, and both times I have correctly pegged the guys within the first two minutes of the show. Am I particularly astute, or is it just that easy?

Everyone's doing it...

There seems to be a rash (maybe that's a poor choice of words--hee) of bloggers itemizing their "lists." You know the "list" of which I speak--the list of the many/few men/women with which one has been...intimate. That's probably too pretty a word, in many cases. I would say "with which one has been naked," but, you know...that's not always the case, either. (Can you say quickie? I thought you could.) But you know what I mean...your list. I'm not going to attempt to share my entire list, for various reasons, including a somewhat faulty memory (I blame the pharmaceuticals which theoretically may have been occasionally involved, and also my advanced age. Hee.), but I'll hit some high...or low (as it were) points. I think I'll stick to list entries which did not involve actual relationships. That's more fun, right?

Where to begin?

Ooh, how about the big city lighting designer? Years ago, I was working administratively in the non-profit arts. One evening I went out to a restaurant to meet some of my stagehand friends. (Word to the wise--stagehands are great fun to hang out with, and they know ALL the best gossip. A "rumor" heard from a stagehand will almost certainly turn out to be true. And they are generous with the drink-buying. I used to sometimes have a drink for each hand. Ah, good times.) At any rate, joining us that evening was the big deal lighting designer brought in from NYC. We clicked instantly, and were having a delightful time flirting and eating off each other's plates. A few of us decided to segue down the street to our regular bar hangout, and...let's just call him L.D., L.D. came with us. More flirting. Mad, crazy flirting. Footsies under the table flirting. You get the picture. All too soon came last call, and we began readying ourselves to leave. I was pretty sure the evening wasn't over, but couldn't figure out a delicate way to proceed. For some reason, L.D. and I were convinced our flirting had been very subtle, and we didn't want to just flagrantly go off together. What to do, what to do? He grabbed my hand to shake it, all "nice to meet you," and when I pulled my hand away I realized his hotel key was in it. Smoooth. Only...wait...I don't know what hotel he's staying in! What to do, what to do? "Hey, any of you guys want to give me a ride back to the "Moubletree"? Ahh...smooth...now I know where to take the key. We weren't fooling anyone, though. "I'll bet Liz will take you. Won't you, Liz?" Uh, sure...it's not really out of my way. Hee. We had a delightful time, though sadly our schedules precluded any additional fun before he had to fly back home. He thought at the time he was going to come back for several shows the next season, but then he got a better offer, and never returned to Tulsa. Oh, well. Probably for the best...particularly since I found out later that HE WAS MARRIED AT THE TIME. Nobody knew. Okay, obviously somebody knew, but nobody I knew knew. I heard through the grapevine that his wife was a real bitch, and they got divorced not too long after, but still. My conscience is clean on that score. No ring! (Does it make me a bad person that I'm sort of glad he was a liar--otherwise I'd have had to regretfully refuse the night of fun?)

Let's see...sifting through my brain cells for particularly fun times...okay, let's dispense with most of the details on this one and just say if you ever get a chance to sleep with a Russian ballet dancer with the body of a god (and 0% body fat), and whose dancing alone made you weak in the knees...you should totally go for it. And if you end up racing to the store for eyedrops after a particularly... shall we say salty, substance accidentally ends up in your eye and stings like hell, well...it still would be totally worth it. Totally.

How about one more fun memory, and then I'll try for some more embarrassing ones. That's what you really want, isn't it?

Oh, the Costa Mesa guy. That's a good one. Some years ago a friend and I went to California to visit some of our college friends. We got there mid-morning on a weekday, and our friends all had to work, so they dropped us at the side of their apartment complex pool with a case of beer. As we tanned and drank, we noticed a couple of cute guys seemed to be moving into a nearby apartment. They interrupted their move-in to flirt with us, and before we know it, we had a date to explore the new neighborhood with them the next day. (They were from out-of-state. One of the Dakotas. Can't remember which.) So we took off with them the next day, and the next. They were really fun guys, and at some point during those two days, the dark-haired one and I snuck off for some even more special fun. Then he had to start a new job, and we had to redirect our fun. Which was no problem. I "redirected" mostly in the direction of the brother of one of my friends, who was also in town visiting from Alaska, where he worked in a goldmine. (For real.) Man, that was a fun vacation. I have a bunch of pictures, and there is at least one beer in my hand in every single picture. Ah, youth. The next summer I went back again, and the Dakota boys were still living in the same apartment. I actually ended up spending the first day and night of my vacation at their place, due to some logistical difficulties with the friend I was staying with for the duration. That was a fun trip, too...although once again I ended up "redirecting" my attention by the end of the week. That was actually a 4-in-1 story, wasn't it? Something about Southern California just brings the slut in me right out, I guess. But what happens on vacation stays on vacation, right? Until you're foolish enough to confess to the internet, I suppose. ;)

Well, I'm not nearly out of memories, but I may have to save something for another post. I promised something embarrassing, though, didn't I? (Like random sluttiness isn't embarrassing enough?) Well, how about the time I sort of slept with a drug dealer? This was during the relatively short period of my life where I thought it might be convenient to have easy access to pharmaceuticals (we're not talking heavy stuff here, mind you...no heroin, etc.), and I ended up drunkenly making out with this guy. What do I mean by "sort of" slept with him? Well, we started the process, and then I suddenly became sober right in the middle of it, excused myself by saying something like "I don't think I want to do this after all" and got up and left. And you know what? He still wanted to go out with me again afterwards. Have some self-respect, dude. I left in the middle. You should never want to see me again. Jeez.

Then there was the French guy. I totally slept with him because he was French, and I thought surely a French guy would have something special going on in the bedroom. Aside from singing little French love songs in my ear, though...nothing special at all. Such a disappointment. And for that I willingly drank warm Scotch Buy brand beer. Anyone remember Scotch Buy? It was the store brand of Safeway, and had a little green plaid logo. French Guy was very excited because he thought it was Scottish beer. Poor guy. And poor ME. That shit was disgusting. (The beer, not the sex. The sex was...average at best.)

Well, I'm not nearly out of bad memories, either, but that's enough for one day, I think. Don't you? No? Oh...you want to hear about the public places, don't you? Maybe later. ;)

Don't tell me I don't know how to have fun.

I had a delightful weekend. What did I do? I replaced all my worn-out, stained, not adequate to the task litterboxes with fancy-schmancy Rubbermaid "jumbo extra-large grande" (half-caf soy milk...oh wait, got off track) litterboxes, as pictured above. (Minus the "sold separately" scoop holder and mat.) There ain't NO WAY the little beasts are going to be shooting streams of "Hildegard" over the top of those babies! They were a bit expensive, but they're Rubbermaid--they'll last forever, right? Anyone whose cats have similar "aim" problems--I heartily recommend these boxes. I think they're going to change my life.

Okay, the sad thing is that really WAS the highlight of my weekend. (Not that it was a BAD weekend, just non-eventful.) Sigh.

Friday Flotsam. Now with Added Jetsam.

TGIF.

I've gotten some interesting google searches in my sitemeter lately. I'll share some of them with you:

"orange fungus on my garage door" - Huh? Well, I'm not sure why that brought you here, but my condolences. That sounds icky!

"product endorsement letter" - Again, not sure why you're here, but if you're wanting to write a "product endorsement letter," how about you just list all the things you love about said product. You know...in letter form. You're welcome!

"dreaming of a dead pet" - Okay, I've done it (though I'm not sure I've ever blogged about it), and that just makes me sad. :(

"why would someone sleep with a knife under their pillow" - Well, I can come up with a myriad of reasons. Starting with "there may be a crazed criminal lurking in my backyard!" and ending with "I'm a homicidal maniac and plan to murder my bedmate in his/her sleep."

"Madonna in a broken arm cast" - Okay, whatever floats your boat.

And my personal favorite:

"Tulsa crystal meth blog" - Now, admittedly, I've never been quite sure where I'm going with this blog, but I can assure you, it will NEVER be a "crystal meth blog." Yikes. Though that might be fun to read. I'm imagining it to be a bit run-on, probably in ALL CAPS, lacking in focus, and lacking in any punctuation other than !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And despite any possible tendencies of mine to ramble and lack focus, I'm generally pretty good with punctuation, in all its various forms. Hee.


My spam content has been pretty lackluster lately, but there have been some good subject lines. Here are some of my faves:

"The Minus on Promiscuity" - Wait, there's a MINUS?!

"Looking for perfect sex" - Well, aren't we all? That's the point of all the promiscuity, isn't it?

"Mean-spirited food stamp" - Man, that sucks. Like the impoverished don't have it rough enough, without their food stamps hatin' on 'em.

"Best place to find care for your disease" - I wasn't really aware that I had a "disease," but thanks for the concern.

"on go maroon" - Huh? I mean, seriously...WTF?

"Because he was." - I love the simple declarative nature of this. "Because he was." Ah, of course. Because he WAS.


Speaking of garage doors, I would like to share with you all the joyous news that my landlord just bought me a new one. Pretty! (With no "orange fungus" anywhere.) And not falling apart! It's very exciting for me to have a landlord that will actually pay for improvements. Sadly, this has not always been the case. I should blog about THAT some day.


And now, apropos of nothing, I will leave you with this photo of my great-great grandparents. Don't they look thrilled to be here?