"Should I leave a note?"

I have mentioned it here before, but I take the bus to work. And I love it. It gives me a chance to read, even if it’s just for 15 minutes a trip. I can sit back and relax before I get to the daily grind. I save money on gas. I get to learn Spanish ("Stop requested. Parada solicitada.") Oh, and everyone who drives in Texas is a retard. Seriously, every one of them, and that makes it essential that I stay off the road.

So there I was. Minding my own business, sitting in my favorite seat (across from the back door right by the buzzer so I don't have to reach to request a stop– I hate reaching over people), with my nose deeply buried in a book. And then?

THWACK. BUMP. SCRAPE.

I jolt up from my book. And the bus driver – who until this day was my favorite driver – turns around and says, “I guess I hit something?” In the very same tone that Cher uses in Clueless when she sideswipes three parked cars.

Oops. My bad.

You think you hit something? YOU THINK YOU? HIT. SOMETHING! You just ripped off your entire side view mirror. No shit, you hit something. Maybe you should stop and check it out?

But nay, she does not stop. She continued on to a transfer point, which is where they switch drivers on shift change. The new driver notices the carnage of mangled side view mirror now hanging from the side of the bus, and asks her what happened. And once again she just says, “I guess I hit something.”

She got off the bus, calmly walked to her car and drove off like nothing happened. Which got me to wondering if she’s even supposed to drive the bus? Or did she just see it waiting unattended at a bus stop, hopped in and then took it for a joyride hellbent on side-mirror destruction?

(And if this was her plan then I say well played!)

So the poor new driver had to call it in, and clean up the whole mess. And us fortunate passnegers, all sat stranded on the bus waiting for a new one to come. I ended up late for my meeting, and no one believed my crazy story about the bus.

Frankly, I don’t care because truly public transportation never ceases to amaze me. And I’ll never understand why people don’t use it more often.

Treasure Hunting

I've returned. Back from hiding, with a vengeance. What brings me back? Oh let me tell you.

First, let me say that there are few things you expect to find under your refrigerator – dust bunnies, bits of what was for dinner three weeks ago now permanently a part a your floor. And there's a few things no one wants to find – cockroaches, dead body or worse a drunk and horny Kevin Federline.

But what about a used hypodermic syringe?

Uh huh, you heard me. Is your skin crawling right now because that's pretty much the standard reaction. That or aak, eeesh and munwwaaah.

So what are we looking at here? Best case scenario – diabetic? One who would need a syringe to supply his body with insulin in order to survive, thrive and become a gainful member of society.

Worst case – DRUGS. (said in the same hushed tones as your mom would say) Smack. Black tar. China white. Ack ack. Judas. Mr. Brownstone. I'm living in an old opium den. (And the apartment people certainly didn't put that in the brochure.)

My first reaction upon seeing the syringe – thanks to Nancy Regan and our friends at D.A.R.E. – was to flee the situation whilst saying NO! with a great force. And then I thought, this might be why there are bunch of indentions on my front door, you know the kind that's left by folks who knock while they're forcefully saying POLICE! and OPEN UP!

So, now then what do I do with it? Leave it? But what if someone after me finds and assumes I'm the intravenous drug user. I can't have my pristine reputation tampered with in that manner. Or remove it? And be forced to – gulp – touch it. With eleventy hundred layers of protective gear, mind you. But I know if I try to remove the damn thing, it will be the time Dallas S.W.A.T. decides to bust on in, and there I'll be standing with my needle in my plastic kitchen gloved hands.

So, yeah I'm just gonna go with that it belonged to a diabetic.

Pee Pee Kid

So let’s see. Emotional breakdown. Works sucks. Cut off all my hair. Am still crazy.

Oh, right I have a dog too.

Poor Lily. I have been so busy lately that we hardly get to spend anytime playing and frolicking outside. I have substituted red wine its place. Fun for me, but not for Lily. Now she just lays her head on the window sill, and sighs for all the fun she used to have. Outside. When we got out to potty she'll run around with poo half out of her butt, yet she refuses to poop because that means she has to go inside – and that my friends is supremely frustrating because seriously POOP ALREADY.

And because my heart cannot hold one more ounce of guilt, I take Lily to doggie daycare once a week. That's right doggie daycare, or as I like to call it "OH! Thank You Jesus". Best part? They have a webcam! I get watch Lily all day. Sometimes, I call people over to my cube so they too can share in the joy of watching my dog play. They are usually not as amused by this as I, but whatever.

Unfortunately, this webcam has turned into my obsession. I'm constantly watching it, and worrying whether or not Lily is well-liked and plays well with others. SEE! Am crazy!

It all started because every time I would pick her up from daycare she smelled of pee. And I started to freak out that she was the kid that always smells like pee. My kid (okay dog) is the Pee Pee Kid.

Great.

So it started out that I would just watch the webcam to make sure she was not indeed the Pee Pee Kid, or stuck in the corner somewhere getting her lunch money snatched from her.

And then I saw this!


That's her in the middle of that Daycare Orgy. She's popular alright, and apparently a swinger.

Now with 100% more crazy!

This is what happens when you give Crazy access to a hair salon.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

I had to beg and plead the lady to cut it. She was all like - are you sure? I was all like - is the Pope Catholic?

CUT IT.

Who invited Debbie Downer?

So this is what a quarter life crisis looks like. I'm going through some real tough emotional times right now - stuff I'm not quite ready to discuss here.

I'm not sure I will ever be ready.

The good news is that work is finally easing up enough that I might be able to start writing about the truly mundane stuff that is not a part of said emotional breakdown.

I'm sure you're all waiting with baited breath.

Ordinary

I've settled into a nice little routine these days. I go to work. I come home. If it's early enough I treat Lily with a trip to the dog park, make dinner, have a glass of wine (or two depending on the perceived annoyances of the day), read a little and head off to bed.

Rinse. Repeat.

Not terribly exciting. And that's why I've been in a bit of a slump when it comes to entries here. I just can't seem to find anything to write about. I figure if I'm not interested by my life, surely y'all won't be either.

Recently – and I'm talking the bus ride to work – I finished a book called, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, and I realized that although I think it's mundane at times there is a certain happiness that can be found in being Ordinary. The book is essentially an encyclopedia of the author's ordinary life chronicled from A to Z – it reads much like a blog does. I'm drawn to books and authors like this, ones that can find humor and levity in things that happen all around us everyday, and who have the ability to put it into words that make you say, uh huh yep totally know what you're talking about. This is probably why I love reading Dooce, David Sedaris, Amalah.com and others.

When I started reading An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, I was in the middle of another book called Atonement. I had been limping through Atonement for about two weeks, (I finished An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life in about a day in a half) and it was really starting to make me feel dumb (it's 2004's book of the year, I'm supposed to flying through it, right?). Don't get me wrong the book is wonderfully written, I just couldn't sink my teeth into it. The book is filled flowery, triple-letter-score words that fly totally over my head (have you ever used the word febrile in your life? EVER?) and long drawn out character descriptions that left me going who in the hell is he talking about NOW, oh the same person, hmmm I thought he was talking about a dude, oh well.

So I came to the realization that I like to read (and write) about the ordinary. It's relatable. I can picture myself stubbing my toe, missing the bus and having lipstick on my teeth, no flowery language needed. I'm there. But early twentieth century Americana? Yeah, not so much. And running to the dictionary every ten minutes to figure out what your flowery language actually means isn't helping. (I know, God forbid I actually learn something – boo.)

Maybe I just don't like fiction. Maybe someday I'll grow up and enjoy sitting down with my glass of merlot soaking up every word of high and mighty encrusted prose. Who knows.

But as for now, I'll stick to the Ordinary.

The Ordinary is always there, waiting to be written about.

With a febrile pestilence, fuckers.

If you've ever wondered what writer's block looks like...

(crickets chirpping)

Look no further.

My brain is all sorts of mush, and is incapable of writing actual thoughts down.

Boo.

Life's A Beach

I'm having one of those days where I just want to be really whiny, and stomp off from meetings saying I don't want to be here wah wah wah. I knew it was going to be a bad day when I went to fill my coffee cup and there was no coffee in the pot! CURSES! It's because the break room's coffee pot is incredibly dirty, and the gauge that tells you when you're running low on coffee is stained the color of coffee which it makes it impossible to know when you're about to short change the person behind you. Unfortunately, this morning I was the one who got short changed. And double unfortunately, our sweet, dear receptionist walked into the break room right about the time my rage was boiling over because oh my GOD I would have to wait an additional three minutes to get my coffee. I turned to her and barked ISN'T THERE ANY WAY WE CAN CLEAN THIS POT, SO IDIOTS WILL NOW WHEN THEY TAKE ALL THE DAMN COFFEE. My teeth were gnashed and my eye, it was a twitching. She mumbled something with head down and quickly scurried out of the room.

Eventually I got the coffee. And it was burnt. Wah wah wah.

You could say I need a vacation. The thing is? I just got back from one.

Perhaps that's why everything is so annoying right now. Everything. It's because I know there's a beach with white sand and dolphins frolicking off shore just waiting for me. A place with warm sun, good food, cool salty breezes, Charlie!, impossibly cute beach communities – I have seen the GLORY of the coming of the LAWD, and I want to march right back there.

Two weekends ago, I spent two whole days in the fun and sun of Destin, FL. And y'all, the Gulf Coast is absolutely GORG. EOUS. It was one of those vacations where you scream WEEEEEE all the way through it because there's no time to slow down because you have only TWO! DAYS!, and why are you SLEEPING? There's no time to sleep! It was also the kind of vacation that leaves you a tad more exhausted than when you left.

I would like to give a big shout out to the Erdmann family for inviting me along, and since they were also there to attend the Lee's Famous Recipe Convention a big thanks for giving me the chance to learn more about fried chicken than I ever thought I could learn.

Some highlights:

1. The beach. Beee-yoot-tiful. The last time I was at the ocean I was in San Francisco – and it was cold and rainy and being very San Francisco-ish – so it good to get back to a "real" beach.

2. FRISBEE®! I think I am half hippie because y'all? I was damn good at Frisbee.

3. Walking around the creepiest place on earth, Seaside, FL. I tend to be very uncomfortable around things that are perfect. (That's why I can't talk to gorgeous men, or spend too long in the sculpture gardens of most museums.) And Seaside was perfect in every way – quaint little shops, perfect houses, perfect manicured lawns on manicured streets belonging to the perfect Stepford Wives strolling around in Range Rovers. I kept getting the feeling I was on a movie set, any minute the director would need to call cut because I was in the frame picking my nose. Charlie's sister, Michelle, kindly informed me that Seaside was where The Truman Show was shot. And I was all like, oooooooh yeah. I can't tell how creepy it is to be somewhere you recognize, but that you know you've never been before.

Another thing that was annoying about Seaside is that it proudly boasts that it was established in 1981. I am older than this town.

4. The Erdmanns cannot for the life of them settle on a place to eat. We spent two hours searching for a place to grab a quick bite to eat. We went to every restaurant in a twenty mile radius, only to end up eating back at the hotel. This is so foreign to me because in my family when Mom is hungry the vacation is put on hold until we find somewhere to gorge ourselves. There are no qualifying factors for vegetarian menus or soup quality, my family is like do y'all make stuff in a kitchen? Is it warm? Good, let's eat.

5. Deep sea fishing. I know NOTHING about fishing, but this was by far the coolest experience of the trip. We went out 28 miles into the Gulf, and then proceeded to fish and fish some more. Our fishing consisted of letting a six pound sinker um, sink to the bottom of the ocean. The "mates" explained that after your sinker sunk to the bottom that you could give your line a couple tugs and most likely catch your fish right then. "Most likely" never happened for me. My entire haul was only two fish. I only got to keep one. Something called a mingo. (when I googled it I found out it also goes by the name bastard snapper which rocks so hard) I must have looked like I really knew what I was doing because the guys on the ship would come by and be like, you got something, and then after reeling in over 150 feet of fishing line there would be nada. After about five times they stopped coming around to me.

When I first heard we were going out on the ocean (gulf, whatever) I was a little worried about getting seasick. Although I never get motion sickness, I remember my brother talking about everyone being affected by the proverbially motion in the ocean when he was on the military's big boats. And let me tell you, being out on the waves is like being on a roller coaster ride that never ends. I never got sick, but that's not to say my stomach's contents didn't try to lead several escape attempts throughout the day. Charlie battled the nausea all day. Charlie's dad did get sick, like three times. (Charlie even took a picture of his like seconds after he got sick, which I thought was a little mean. But then again I just told the internet.) Next time, I will pack the Dramamine.

6. While we were fishing Charlie kept telling me how proud he was of me because I went fishing and I was such a tough chick. (Even though I made him bait my hook every time because touching squid? Ew.) When we got back to shore I totally princess-ed out on him. I was like I'm cold and hungry, you're going to get me a big hamburger when we get back to the hotel all while I sleep a glorious little nap wah wah wah. It's a wonder he puts up with me.


The lowlight:

Getting stranded in Houston overnight because I missed my connecting flight to Dallas. I won't go into much detail because there's already enough profanity on the internet. However, I will say that if I ever meet the woman who was at the Continental Airlines counter in the Ft. Walton Beach airport again, I will swiftly kick her in the shins. I told this woman no less than eleventy hundred times that if I was going to miss my connecting flight in Houston (because my first flight was already delayed) I would rather reschedule the flight for in the morning. She looked at me like I was certifiably nutty, of COURSE you'll make your flight, don't be silly. Big surprise, I missed the flight. And frankly after 55 dollars spent on an itchy 4 hours of sleep at the shadiest hotel ever, plus an hour and half waiting on their shuttle, then spending 2.75 on a plastic toothbrush and half a tube of toothpaste because the airline held my luggage hostage, and a 40 dollar cab ride back to the airport because the hotel's shuttle didn't leave before 8 a.m. she's lucky I'm only kicking her in the shins.

Wow. I didn't mean to write a book. But if you're with me this far you get a prize: Boring vacation pictures!

Luck of the Irish be with ye

I want his gold too.

Cause We Can't Be Sad ALL the Time

Folks, I give you what might be my finest achievement in Photoshop to date:




















I like to thank RoboFavo, Nancy Rice and Google Image Search.

And I think I have found my calling - you think hotjobs.com has any positions where the only required skill involves slapping your friends' heads on random pictures for an outrageous salary in Milan, TN?

My Pock

(First, I want to thank everyone for their sympathies about losing my family pet, Ricki. I can't tell you how much it helped.)

Now, on to The Weird:

For those of who remember the birds and are keeping count with me - the count is up to eight (minus the original 17)

The latest dead one was at the front door of my office building. Which means they are indeed following me.

At this rate, there will be one at my desk by the end of the month.

At first, I was like, oh this will make a funny blog. But now it's giving me a serious case of The Icks.

No one likes to have dead birds follow them, especially when you're named after a bird.

Miss Ricki

My parents wrote me this weekend to tell me that they were going to have to put our family dog, Ricki, down. I knew it would be coming soon, - when I saw her at Christmas time she could barely walk and was having seizures pretty frequently – but still when I heard I couldn’t help but stop and cry. Like a little baby. My only regret is that I didn’t get to say goodbye when I saw her last. So I’m choosing to do it now.



Goodbye, sweet girl.

Ricki was our first family dog. In the spring of 1989, we loaded up the family and went to check out some free-to-a-good-home puppies. We brought her home where she met her adoptive parents, Ozzie and Harriet. (I guess my mom had a thing for the Nelsons) We named her Ricki (notice the “i” please don’t call her a BOY!) and fell in love with her immediately. I was 9 years old.



Ricki was so very smart. Her face would light up when we would ask her if she wanted to go on a walk. In fact, it got to the point if we even said, “walk” in passing conversation she would go sit at her leash. Eventually we had to start spelling the word, and still she caught on to that.





We taught her how to catch Frisbees. In 1993, she was named State Frisbee Champion. Her trophy hung in our living room for many years after that. She so loved to catch Frisbees that even when arthritis limited her ability to get around she still wanted to go out and show off her skills. We ended up having to hide all her Frisbees because if she found one she wouldn’t let us rest until we went outside tossed a few around. She would go for hours until her poor little body would give out.



We used to call her “Monkey Dog” because her nervous/excited chattering sounded exactly like the monkeys at the zoo. When one of us would come home after a long day, Ricki would be there oooh-aaah-aah-ooh-ing her entire day’s activities. She couldn’t wait to tell us about how the UPS man had come to visit, or how the crazy lady across the street had let her cat wander into our yard.




Ricki had a nose for water, be it lake, creek, or even large puddle. And when she found it she would bolt towards the water’s edge, and doggie canon ball right in. She would emerge with the biggest grin on her face.



Ricki was the most loyal and eager to please dog I have ever known. And in the end, I’m positive it’s what kept her hanging on as long as she did – she did not want to let us down.

When we lost Ozzie, my mom brought home a new little puppy, P.B. – who quickly became Mr. #1. Yet Ricki was content to play second fiddle. (And secretly Ricki, you were always my favorite. Sure P.B. might have been cute, but he couldn’t hold a candle to how sweet you were.) My mom tells me that P.B. has been walking around the house searching for Ricki, reminding me that we weren’t the only who lost their best bud.



I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mom and Marvin because underneath all the gray whiskers and ailments were the eyes of a puppy. You would almost forget just how old she was. To look into those eyes and have to say goodbye must have been absolutely soul crushing.

I can't understand people who tell me that they're not "pet people." The love of a pet is far-reaching and unconditional. It’s the kind of love that can know when it’s time to go - the tumors and seizures were just too much for you. It’s that kind of love that can give you your last kisses, and whisper that it’s okay, you can let go now.

I know Ricki is in a better place. It’s full of unlimited Frisbees to catch, toys to chew and leaves to bark at in the front yard. I know she is no longer is carrying the weight of a body that can’t keep up with her spirit.

We love you, Ricki.

We will miss you more than you will ever know.



Goodbye, sweet girl.

Dream A Little Dream

I've been so busy at work. Like ridiculously busy. Lily looks at me with the hot hate of a latch key kid when I come home. There's about seven hundred dirty dishes in my sink right now, and instead of cleaning them I am going to blog instead. Not because I love you, but because if I spend one more minute thinking about work my brain will start to seep out through my ears.

When first got The Bed, the sales lady told me it might take a couple of weeks for the bed to "loosen up." Well, we've reached those couple of weeks, and bed is as loose as the quiet guy from work after a couple of cocktails. The bed is sleeping phenomenally. And filling my most blissful sleep have been the most amazing dreams. Recently, I awoke from such a great/bizarre dream that I sat up and was like I have to blog about this. (Then I cried because seriously? It doesn't get any nerdier than that.)

So I give you my inner conscious' deepest thoughts (in stereo where available);

It begins with me walking down the streets of downtown Minneapolis. I'm totally stoked because all my friends are getting together to watch the MTV Movie Awards, and it's going to be one bitchin' throw down.

So I hop in my car and head out to the party. I want to get a head start because I want to make sure I get to New York City in time to mingle with all the super hot party guests.

It takes me about an hour and a half to get to NYC from Minneapolis. (In dreams you either move super fast or you can't move fast enough)

I walk in the front door and no one's there. Except my main man Hugh Hefner. Oh, me and the Hef go way back. We chit chat for awhile, (the Girls Next Door were not home, but he informs me that they are doing well) and then Hef tells me that the MTV Movie Awards are in fact not in NYC, not LA.

D'oh.

We go out into his backyard and catch fish coming out of a drainage pipe. Hef tells me that this particular fish was thought extinct, but in actuality it just had been our old friend evolution at work. It's then that I realize that if I ever play Trivial Pursuit I'm definitely picking Hugh to be on my team. He's wicked smart.

I apologized to Hugh for not being able to stay longer, but I need to get to LA in time for the awards. He tells me that he understands, and that I shouldn't be a stranger. So gracious, that Hef.

When I get in my car, I figure I should call all my friends to make sure they know that the Movie Awards are in LA, and not NYC. My friends are all like no shit Sherlock, and when they said "watch the MTV Movie Awards" they meant watch them from Minneapolis.

Right.

When I get to Minneapolis the party is in full swing. Although we’re in a giant and sprawling mansion, the entire party is packed into the teeny tiny kitchen. Ridiculously packed.

Then this dude who was vaguely familiar (which isn't everybody in dreams because hello, it's your own sub conscious) came up beside me. He then starts to bump and grind all up in my junk. He starts to grunt (which in fairness could be me snoring at this point). I start to get skeeved out.

And guess who comes to my rescue? No, not Hugh Hefner he's in NYC, silly. It's Charlie! He gets the Vaguely Familiar Dude off of me, and he's about to kick his ass when out of nowhere a giant animatronic leprechaun appears. (Yeah, I know it's the what the fuck moment everyone has in a dream.)

Mr. Leprechaun is supa pissed. Apparently someone ate all his cocktail weenies because he's stomping around smashing all the booze. NOT COOL.

Charlie flies in from stage right to save the day (and the booze!) with the ol' lighter and can of hairspray trick – originally made famous by Rob Lowe in St. Elmo's Fire followed by Kristy Swanson in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I believe I mention this little known fact, and people are so disgusted by it that they up and leave the party. Everyone.

This leaves only Charlie and I to go out back and catch fishes out of a drainage pipe.

Then I woke up.

My radio was playing an NPR story about fish – once thought extinct – along the Nile River, which explains the fish. The other stuff? I don't know.

Interstate Love Song

This weekend I loaded up a rental car and headed to Milan.

Milan, Tennessee, that is. It's pronounced all country-like (My-Laaaaaan), not all foreign-ish like the city across the pond (Meeeeee-lan). What on earth is in Milan, you ask? CHARLIE! And fried chicken, but that's another story for another day.

As Lily and I rocked the Mid-South in my pimpin' Malibu Maxx, I realized I might live in perhaps the ugliest part of the country. Seriously, exciting scenery equaled a change from boring trees to less than boring trees. But fret not because as it turns out driving for hours along the Eisenhower Interstate System allows one plenty of time to compile a fetching entry for a blog. (I'm not saying that this one is it, but saying that at least the time was there to compile one)

So besides the trees here's what else I happened to notice while cruising along:

1.Traveling gives Lily gas. Hot, stinky, vile gas. She slept for nearly all seven and half hours of the trip, which apparently did nothing to slow down her digestive system. Every now and then she would sit up, look around and then cut the cheese. Satisfied with herself she would then return to her nap. It was like traveling with a truck driver. Bad Lily.

2. Since I was traveling with a dog, I had to take "advantage" of rest stops so we could both tinkle without separate stops. Now everyone knows that some rest stops are better than others, but something that is found in both of The Fancy Just-Across-the-State-Line Rest Stops and The Rickety We-Put-This-One-Here-Because-You-Haven't-Seen-A-Building-In-400-Miles Rest Stops is The Super Flush. Where are the rest stop toilets flushing to that they have to flush so violently? One toilet at a rest stop in Arkansas bid the contents of my bladder such a fond farewell that the commode nearly shook the foundation.

3. Why is it that I become bored with the mixed CDs that I burned specifically for the road trip after about twenty minutes? Some selections left me scratching my head, was I smoking The Crack when I put this playlist together? Did I really think that Debbie Gibson would see me through Arkansas? And this unfortunate phenomenon leads directly to number 4…

4. Adult Contemporay/Easy Listening/Listen While You Work radio stations have the same frequency across the country. Inevitably anytime I ejected above mentioned Crappy Music, the radio was blasting all of yesterday's favorites from the 80s, 90s as well as all of today's hits. Indeed we should all take these broken wings and learn to fly again, little Miss Can't Be Wrong.

5. Another note about the radio, without a shadow of a doubt The Song that you have been dying to hear, the one that will MAKE your road trip – perhaps when you hear it you exclaim, Fuckin' A that's what I'm talking about! who knows – will begin the SECOND you get out of range of above mentioned stations. If you're lucky you'll get in one good chorus before it fades quietly into oblivion. If luck's not on your side, you'll get the dueling radio frequencies throughout The Song. It's then you're left with, "I'M FREEEEEEEEEEEE FAAAAAALL – shish crrrrruh shish – dribbling down mid-court the Turtle Bum high school kids seem to be in control – shish crrrrurrl shish – a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis…" and so on until you give up and move on.

6. Audio books frustrate me. Either I get far too involved in them that I suddenly look up, and realize Wha? How did I end up in North Carolina? Or I'm far too concentrated on the task of driving that I end up completely lost. Wait a minute who is sleeping with the vicar? What the hell is vicar? Also I am the only one who is a little disheartened with the fact that a book can be read in about 3-5 hours? Why does it take me like three weeks, how fucking slow do I read?

7. I love to imagine what people's lives are like in the small towns that I drive past along the interstate. What do you think is the most exciting thing to do in Earle, Arkansas? Because frankly, it sounds like the most boring town in 'Merica. Like you just have to sigh and flatly (sans emotion) say "I'm from Earle, Arkansas ho hum." On the flip side there's Cumby, Texas. Which I like to think is pronounced like "come by" because I'm dirrrrty. And the neighboring towns of Friendship and Hope, Arkansas put a smile on my face. (Double Jeopardy fact: Hope, AR is the birthplace of Bill Clinton – I nearly stopped to snap a picture, which nearly makes me exactly like my father) And Hooked on Phonics clearly worked for the town folk who were in charge of naming Daingerfield, Texas – "Spell it like it sounds Phil, Daiiiiiin-ger-field, duh."

8. I'm also FAS.CINATED. by the taglines of cities. As if to answer the nagging question in the back of my head, Milan, TN proclaims itself to be "A Good Place to Live"** So color me confused when I discovered that Arkadelphia, AR is "A Great Place to Call Home!" Exclamation point to really drive it home. And to top it all off Paris, TX had the AUDACITY to announce to the world that is "The Best Small Town in Texas," and between you and me I think the research must have been shady at best. Then there's Texarkana, TX. Emblazoned across their water tower is the fact it is "Twice as Nice." But given the fact that the city name cleverly combines all three states that it borders – Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana – into one geographical ménage a trois, it seems like it would make more sense to go with "Thrice as Nice."

9. I wish that life had "SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT" signs.

10. There's no finer end to a long day's drive than being scooped up into your boyfriend's arms and planting a kiss that's been 6 weeks in the making right on his deliciously bearded face. Well, nothing except maybe a Sonic Sweetheart Blast.

**Or "Jesus is Lord Over Milan" depending on what sign you decided to believe.

Is This Burning an Olympic Flame?

Do you have it? The Olympic fever!

To quote Ashlee Simpson: I "L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E, L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E!" the Olympics. (hells yes, I just quoted Ashlee Simpson, suck it) I don't care if it's the Summer or Winter, but every two years I get all caught up in that competitive spirit and unbreakable courage that is the over-produced and over-hyped world of the Olympics. I cry like a baby every time they do one of those segments on what it's like to grow up in Russia/Serbia/Trenton, NJ with only some bread/your orphaned brother/million dollar sponsorships and your measly figure skates to get you through all the hardships of life as an athlete.

I'm such a sucker.

And I don't know if it's the fact that I didn't grow up around winter sports, but whenever I watch the Winter Olympics most of the time I think to myself: Dude, I could totally do that.

Speed skating? Sure no problem. You should have seen me in the 7th grade when my shuffle skate was second to none.

Luge or Bobsled? Pfft, riding on a sled? Yeah, I got that one down. You see, I'm from the south, and when it snowed down here we grabbed whatever we could find to use as a sled. So I've flown down many a drainage ditch on inner tubes, air mattresses and even cafeteria trays ten times faster than some fancy high tech luge.

Curling? Ha, don't make me laugh. I'm proud to say that in my long and illustrious career on the Tour De Dive Bars, I have only been defeated once in shuffle board. And well, curling is just shuffle board on ice – so go ahead and give me the GOLD.

Figure skating? What do you need grace, beauty and athleticism? Hell two out three will get you a silver medal, just ask Tonya Harding.

Ski Moguls? Bounce bounce bounce? Sure I'll take that one too.

And then I remember the first time I tried to ski. And the fact I can't even stand up in figure skates without breaking a hip. And I refuse to participate in any sport that requires a bodysuit for a uniform. (Those things are flattering on exactly no one. And my eye is usually automatically drawn to one's down there delicate area.)

But still, the luge? C'mon.

See you in 2010.

Too Cute Not To Share

Alternative Title: Humliation By Owner










She's sporting Charlie's favorite-est shirt of all time. Seriously, just ask him.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's Raining Grackles and Sparrows

On any morning that I drive to work I park my truck about a mile and half from my building and then walk. Walking is so completely foreign to Dallas that I have people who exclaim in shock, you walk to work? A half! mile! every morning? And when I respond that I walk that far any day that I don't take the bus, it starts a whole new conversation about the utter craziness I'm exhibiting when I ride the bus by choice. (Sigh, it a vicious cycle.)

Most days the walk is rather uneventful. Although, I have to be on high alert because Dallas drivers are all like, "Whuuuut's a peee-destri-ayun?" while they're turning left at ninety miles an hour without bothering to notice that SOMEONE'S IN THE CROSSWALK.

But pissy drivers have been the least of my worries because for the past two weeks it been something else. Something strange. Strange, as in two dead birds. The first bird was a half eaten carcass that could have been easily eaten by animal. I thought nothing of it until I saw this week's bird in the exact same spot as last week's. This week's bird was a grackle, or rather what was left of a grackle – the head and wings. There was a neatly severed head just lying on the sidewalk like when you would ripped off your Barbie's head. Then there were its wings which appeared to be ripped off at the shoulders. (do birds have shoulders? Whatever.) All of it was displayed ritualistically, although I am not an expert on rituals so how the hell would I know? Either way it was a little creepy.

My first thought was man I need to buy some more Street Wise newspapers because the homeless people are killing birds. My next immediate thought was how the hell did they cook the bird, I mean it's not something you can just walk into a restaurant with and say, I'll take this blackened with a side of mashed potatoes. (I cannot balance my checkbook, but I can have this entire conversation with myself in less than two blocks – go figure)

And then suddenly it hit me. They're back. The dead birds have found me.

You see a little over a year and a half ago I was confronted with more dead birds at my parents' house in Tulsa. It was 4th of July weekend, and I was hitching a ride with Travis, his wife Cyndi, and Nikki to Minneapolis. I was headed back to Mpls for my last quarter at Miami Ad School, and they were going for drunken debauchery.

They were scheduled to pick me up at 8 a.m., and for the first time in the recorded history of Travis giving me rides he was on time. Instead I was the one running late, and oh, I still had some packing to do. So there I was running around, apologizing profusely for my lack of preparedness, when I look down and see a dead bird on my porch. I was MORT. TIFIED. This was the first time anyone had seen my parents' house, and now the impression they were going to walk away was that we were the kind of people who just left dead animals to rot on our porch. Shocked and deeply embarrassed, I blamed the cat. I was nearing the end of my Oh-My-Goodness-My-Cat-Must-Like-You-Guys-Because-He-Gave-You-A-Dead-Animal Speech, when I glanced at Nikki to see that she was giving me the ol' shifty eye that says dude, look all around you.

Then in one of those slow-mo pans that only happen in movies, I looked out across my yard and saw it. The carnage! I counted about six dead birds in my front yard. SIX! My cat is good at catching live things, but he ain't that good. At this point I did what anyone would do – I went straight into denial. I was like, Okay, nothing to see here, ready to go to Minneapolis? Whoo hoo!

Along the 10 hour car ride when anyone brought up the fact that there were SIX! dead birds in my yard, I was immediately "TURN UP THE RADIO! Alright, I'm sorry I can't hear what you're speaking of."

Somewhere in Iowa, I alerted my mother to the ungodliness that awaited her in our yard. She called me the next morning and told me that they had found over 17 dead birds in the yard. AND ONLY OUR YARD HAD DEAD BIRDS IN IT.

Did you read that? Seventeen dead birds. My mom saved them and took them to the health department for inspection. The health department said nothing was wrong with them, oh and not to worry. Easy for them to say because they didn't have SEVENTEEN dead birds in THEIR yard. (Right then I swear I saw Robert Stack doing a story about me and the dead birds)

And now they're back. Following me. I've moved about 5 times since the initial dead bird bonanza, and clearly the dead birds have had to follow a few change of address forms to find me, but THEY HAVE.

Is it a plague or pox (singular pock?) or whatever that man upstairs can put on people? Is he up there right now going, "Yea, and I shall rain down on thee a plague/pox of thine winged fowl whom have touched death's door. And lo it will be weird?"

Or is it a string of unrelated causes like bird flu and a serial-killer-in-training (albeit hungry) homeless man?

Which begs the question, which is worse?

The Guessing Game

Guess what I got this weekend?

*



(Bonus: Guess how many minutes I wasted taking these pictures when I should have been rushing back to work?)

*who says being a cheerleader doesn't pay off later in life?


Guess what happens when it doesn't rain in your state for something like eleventy hundred days and then it suddenly does perhaps overwhelming your apartment complex's shoddy drainage system?



(Bonus: Guess who's glad she lives on the second floor?)


Guess who likey the red wine?



(the same answer works for guess who likes to drink while she posts?)

That Guy.

So recently I started a MySpace.com page, and yes I know. I am so very. very late to the game. Whatever. MySpace.com is basically a big ol' networking thing – essentially a place to find people you have long since forgotten. And as always it's a contest to see who has the most friends.

It's like Google for friends. So you search. Every name you can think of. Yes, it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure because you’re secretly hoping that all the mean girls you knew in high school have been married seven times with 8 kids, an arrest record and of course you hope they're 72 pounds heavier.

And then the inevitable happens, you don’t want to do it, but you do.

You search for an old flame.

And up pops his profile.

There he is smiling back at you, That Guy.

That Guy you dated for five months what seems like a million years ago. That Guy who made you swear off the entire male species. That Guy who broke your heart into a million pieces. That Guy who left crumpled up on your dorm floor in the fetal position bawling because he just didn’t have the time for you. Left you to be picked up, snot in all, by your best friend, who had to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that you deserved better because That Guy convinced you that you didn’t.

That Guy that made you doubt yourself. That Guy forced you to look at yourself at little deeper. That Guy kept you withdrawn and quiet.

That Guy probably wouldn’t even know how to spell your name; you were just a blip on his radar. But every time you begin a clean sweep of the proverbial baggage you carry there is That Guy.

That Guy who used you for what he wanted, and never took time to see what you needed. That Guy who turned into a needy shell of your former self. That Guy who offered you only scraps of respect and love, and yet you clung to them as proof that he cared, right?

That Guy, he sucks.

But That Guy made it possible to find You.

Post in which I Make No Attempt to Masquerade a Pile of Randomness into an Entry.

Sometimes when my brain hears, read, or sees something unusual it thinks that would make a totally fucking awesome band name. Today's totally fucking awesome band name: Wishful Psychosis. How hard do you think that band would rock? Twice as hard as Static Portal that's for sure.

*************

This weekend I am going to be getting a bed. A REAL. BED. The one I currently own was one of those I'm-in-college-I-am going-to find-the-cheapest-bed-I-can-find specials. And let's just say, you get what you pay for. It kinda sags in the middle so when more than one person is sleeping on it, both parties end up rolling towards each other throughout the night. If you're not dating it can end up pretty awkward in the morning. Anyways, I can't tell you how excited I am to be getting a new bed. It makes me feel like a real live ADULT. Because this is what adults do, right? We get excited about purchases like beds, cars, couches and loveseats. These kinda purchases serve as my trips to Disney World now. I hope I'm tall enough for the "Locked in 4.9% APR Financing," if not I'll just take a ride on the "30 Days Same As Cash!"

***************

This past weekend I became aware of a phenomenon I like to The Cross-Introduction of Friends. It occurs when you try to introduce two different groups of friends to each other. We all have our different groups of friends like your bestest group of friends, your drinking buddies, work friends, or the random group which could be folks you met in a yoga class/Tupperware party/blogosphere. In my case, my random group is people I know from the dog park. The Cross-Introduction of Friends can go either two ways: introducing a random friend to your close friends, or a close friend to a group of random people.

Random friend meeting your close group of friends goes a little like this:
"Hey everybody meet Random Friend. Random Friend this is Everybody, we are going to sit here and drink while laughing hysterically at inside jokes that we will not bother to explain to you because you won't get it. Random Friend, I hope you enjoy drinking by yourself."

Introducing a close friend to a group of random friends works a little different. There's this added pressure because you fear your good friend will take one look at your random friends and think to herself, good gawd your friend-making skills suck. Or that she will come up to you and say something like, "Hey, did you know Random Friend had a pot farm in his backyard/collects ceramic dolls/invited me to a swingers party?"

*************

Lately I've been getting in the elevator and forgetting to press the Lobby floor button. Sometimes I just sit there for like five minutes before I realize that, FUCK! I'm not moving. Other times the elevator starts to go down, but stops at a lower floor. When that person gets on the elevator and sees that the lobby button isn't pressed they look at me like, what a idiot. And then they sigh and make an exaggerated motion out of pushing the button. Like oh no, you had to expend an extra calorie to push the button, I should forever be in your debt. Please.

***************

While searching my work computer – I was making sure all the porn was gone, you know, just in case – I came across some random pictures that I thought I would share with you:

These are some of my Work Friends. Their Cross-Introduction is equally hard because there's all that venting and bitching about people that no one outside of the office cares about.

I never got around to doing a proper Halloween post, but I found these pictures that I was going to use. Nikki and I had the best costumes ever for the second year running - Mall Walkers.

Here's Nikki and I doing one of our many victory laps, the key was to not get the pace up too fast - you would hate to pull a muscle or something. Charlie went as Ernie, of Bert and Ernie fame. He shaved half his head, and died his hair black - that's dedication folks. And there might have been someone who ended up with orange paint all over her face because she could resist how cute Ernie looked.

For those of you who didn't believe this story. Here's some proof. Judging by the picture's shakiness,I would say this is one of the later ones.

Recently I have developed a bad habit of taking artsy fartsy photos while I'm out hanging with my friends. Because apparently I think I am just that cool.

Chuck sent me some pictures of My First Baby cathing some dog biscuits in mid air. And guess who taught him that trick? His momma, of course!

Okay, girls. Let's stop wearing gaucho pants. Now. The reason? They ride up your ASS! And me and the rest of the world have to sit there and stare at it. YOUR FUCKIN' ASS CRACK!

This picture is why I love Texas. I consider this woman a walking mullet. I;m sure from the front she's quite nice looking, but then you get to the back and it's like AAAAAAAH, Slut City. Tramp stamp? Check. Way too low rise pants? Check. Muffin top? Check. Hideous red thong "peeking" out? Check. Although, I'll give her credit for bringing the Gucci purse, you know, to class it up a bit.