Merry Christmas to all

This is the first Christmas I think I've ever had to recover from. You may think that strange, because from what I hear, most people need about a week of bed rest and warm liquids after the holidays. But all I can say is that I've had a lovely, extended childhood wherein every Christmas has been a magical wonderland of bliss, fun, togetherness, and spoils. Until now. So happy birthday to me, I'm finally a grown-up who can give the holiday season the respectful dread it deserves.

Nevertheless, it was a good Christmas. I'll always look forward to family events because I get to see my out-of-town cousins, who were my best friends growing up and with whom I have miraculously managed to remain very close, despite the fact that until recently, they lived six hours away. We're all a shameless bunch of overachievers and as such, we're always busy. But the one thing there is always time for -- or else -- is a family gathering.

Total Christmas events attended in the span of two days: 7

Total number of iPods distributed: 3

Total number of diamonds I received from my husband who knows I don't like diamonds but somehow knew there was enough of a girl inside me screaming to get out that I'd like these: 7

Total last-minute visits to Walmart: 4 (5 if you count the time we had to go back for something after walking all the way back to the car, which, if you've ever been to the East Gadsden SuperWalmart on Christmas Eve Eve, you'll know is a long walk indeed)

Love Song to a Wage Hour Technician

I don't know why I feel the need to mention this, but I haven't read any blogs in over a week. Know what that means? It means there's enough new blog material out there to last me ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT. It kind of feels like a Christmas gift, and it's sitting there for me to open whenever I want. Or, whenever I have time, which is why I delayed gratification in the first place. I might start doing it on purpose from now on though, just to have something to look forward to all the time.

By the way, I'm still on hold. I think my Wage Hour Technician has taken an early lunch. Thank you, Wage Hour Technician! You're the reason I have time to read blogs today!

I'm on hold...

as we speak.

I'm calling a government agency. This would suck, except for the fact that I keep getting tickled over this one thing. See, everybody at this office does this cute thing where they record their name (or job title, if they're not important enough) in their own voice. I'm sure they thought it was a great way to make their boring beaurocratic phone directory a little more personal. The person I'm trying to reach is someone called the Wage Hour Technician, and when she recorded her job title (because she's not important enough to have a name), she left a big long pause at the end. Now, when you're on hold at this office, they have a recording loop that starts with that little personal recording of the name of the person you're waiting on. It goes on to say that they're busy. Like so:

"[Personal recording] Wage Hour Technician... [/PR] is still busy. You are number 2 in line...

Then they play some music for a while and a calm voice reassures you that they haven't forgotten about you.

Here's what happened when I heard this loop the first couple of times:

Recording: "Wage Hour Technician..."

Me: Hi, I have a question about...

Recording: ...is still busy. You are number 2 in line.

Me: D'oh!

[Music...calm voice...]

Rec: "Wage Hour Technician..."

Me: Hi, I, uh...

Rec: ...is still busy. You are number 2 in line.

Me: Oh for the love.

[Music...calm voice...]

Rec: "Wage Hour Technician..."

Me: ...

Rec: ...is still busy...

Me: HA!

The thing is (and I am still on hold), I have been through this loop now at least twenty times, and each time I hear "Wage Hour Technician", I have to pause and give her a chance to say, "May I help you?" Then, when she doesn't, I feel like an idiot all over again.

This is getting pissy. But at least I'm number 1 in line now. Actually, I've been number 1 in line for the last 10 minutes. I hate the government.

Hear that, Bro? I hate the government. C'mon, bitch, arrest me. ARREST ME!

HOMOCIDAL

YOU HAVE BEEN DULY WARNED. THE NEXT PERSON I SEE WILL BE KILLED. DON'T WIN THAT LOTTERY. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ARE PROBABLY MY GOOD FRIEND THAT I DON'T WANT TO KILL SO PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, VISIT ME, OR DRIVE PAST ME.

ALSO, PRAY FOR MY UNSUSPECTING HUSBAND.

THAT IS ALL.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

RIGHT. THAT IS ALL.

Actually, if I may pass on some wisdom I have garnered by experience: Frustration with electronic equipment and three cups of coffee are unmixy things. Be advised.

That is all. Really.

Performance Anxiety

I was on my way home from work tonight and I remembered I needed to call someone. The someone didn't answer so I had to leave a message. Some people just don't have trouble with this. But we all have different strengths and weaknesses, and one of my weaknesses has always been hyper-awareness of any actions that cannot be undone. Namely, my voice, sounding stupid, recorded for posterity.

This is what got me thinking about all the things we stress out about in life, which for me would be a very long list. I read an article in a trade magazine where a guy said, "Stress is a decision. It's something you can decide not to indulge." Has anyone ever said something like that to you and your gut reaction was, "Well, thank you O Wise One. I am just doing this for my health, of course, but I'll just decide not to anymore and that will be that."? Because that's what I said.

But when I think about it now, I can honestly think of several things I've decided not to stress out about. For instance, how many countless times have I been on a stage in front of lots of people singing and strumming my guitar? Enough times that I am no longer obliged to chew my fingernails off in agonized anticipation. How many business calls have I had to make? Enough to be confident I can achieve professionalism that doesn't sound faked, much as I still feel like it is. How many times have I run a mile? Enough to be sure that I can do it as long as I keep moving and keep breathing. God, what I would give to have known that on Presidential Physical Fitness Week in high school.

So that's where my brain was on my way home tonight. Kind of encouraging, I thought.

Happy Blogidays

Thanksgiving always bears mentioning I suppose.

I've heard so many different accounts of what people did on Thanksgiving, how much they did or did not enjoy it, the gammut of emotional impact it had. Holidays don't always affect people in the way you expect.

Especially upon reading about other people's holidays, it hits me how much I have to appreciate about mine. For starters, it's huge. That's not an inherently good thing, but I'll tell you why it's huge. It's not because we've all had a bunch of kids or made any effort to carry on the family name in spite of the fact that we're notorious for birthing slews of girls. It's because we never leave a man behind. Honestly, I still have cousins that I count among my best friends. Some of them live in other states and they all have boyfriends (or husbands) and jobs and school and completely separate lives. And we all come together anyway, sometimes for family gatherings, sometimes for the hell of it, because not only do we all love each other, we pretty much all like each other. I used to think that that's just how families worked. The more I learn about how the 21st Century family is supposed to function, the more I thank God for mine.

Don't get me wrong. Thanksgiving was exhausting. There were many moments I wanted to be somewhere else. There were people I rolled my eyes at when they said something that was so very much like something they would say. But when I see groups of people all over the place enjoying each others' company just as they would if they weren't required to be there, it takes me down a peg. Who am I to wish for something any better than this?

I guess that's what well-meaning people mean when they try to cheer you up by saying something stupid like, "Count your blessings." Next time one of my aunts pisses me off, I'm going to try to remember what I said here.

The Weekly

Because, maybe I should just call it what it is, right? Then, if I blog more than once a week, it's like this nice surprise. Like, ice cream. Like, cherries. As opposed to the crushing disappointment of coming here daily and seeing nothing new and wondering, "Will she ever come back? Is she dead? SHANE!"

Okay, maybe not crushing disappointment. After all, the rule of thumb is that nobody really cares about what happened to you today except you. However, if you're still reading this self-indulgent tripe, you must care a little bit...which makes you kinda weird.

But enough about you. Guess what I did last week?

First of all, I think I got stopped at that same roadblock that Jaimie did. Was it Sutton Bridge Road on Saturday night? My cop was nice and didn't ask me to step out of the vehicle, like that last time. Of course, this time I'd remembered to put my proof of insurance in my visor, instead of in the same glove box where I keep my .44. That always helps.

But I have another story for you today, an uplifting tale of hope and the domination of the human spirit over the evils of college radio.

You see, I was driving home from a very long day at work a couple of weeks ago. It was approaching 9 p.m. and I was in decent spirits, happy to be headed home. I didn't realize the emotional toll the day had taken on me. I didn't realize how much I needed Warren Haynes at that moment. I had the radio turned to the JSU college station, because I listen to NPR in the mornings, and sometimes they play cool songs in the evening, depending on the DJ. So I'm listening to the radio and this song opens on this funky organ solo. It's slow, it's long, it's patient, it's...familiar. Yes, I have heard this song many times before...what is it?

Then it comes to me. This is Soulshine. It's better than sunshine. It's better than moonshine. It's damn sure better than rain. And it's on the radio. I had no idea how much I needed to hear this song right now. The molasses organ crept up on the end of its run and it was almost time for that bottomless voice to tell me what to do when I can't find the light to guide me through a cloudy day. Then, it just. Stopped. Dead air. A pre-recorded announcer told me what radio station I was listening to, and another song came on, some inane garage band ear-bleeder that it's not safe to listen to while driving. Has that ever happened to you? It's happened to me before, but not like this. I knew I no longer had the number to JSU's radio station programmed into my cellphone, but I checked anyway. DJ, whoever you are, thank whatever god your black pagan heart prays to that my old cellphone died a year ago and that I was too lazy to transfer all the saved numbers over. Because that night, you awakened the slumbering wrath of the Amazon Diva within, and you would've wished for death before the end.

And yes, I have that song on CD. I didn't even try to listen to it when I got home. It wouldn't have been the same.

Now for the happy ending (shut up, Nathan). This past week, out of the blue, Jaimie invites me to a Gov't Mule concert at the Alabama Theatre. She had a last-minute dropout. So we went, and Warren sang that song to me. Just me. It was better than a CD. Better than radio. Damn sure better than rain.

Movie Sign

If you missed the TV movie event of the millenium, it's gone forever. Well, until next weekend probably.

Kris and Laura and Jimmy and Jaimie came over last night to watch Part II of Category 7: The End of the World over beer and Chinese. We laughed at it and had fun times, so thanks for that, CBS. But I have a question. Has there been a sudden upchuck, er, upsurge of silly not-so-small-budget TV movies in the last couple years or am I just now noticing? And also, not to spoil the movie for you or anything, but the world totally didn't end. Yeah, that spoiled it for you, didn't it? Good. I'll only charge you $50 for each hour of your life I just saved you.

I'm wondering if CBS, Sci-Fi, and other perpetrators of the TV movie phenomenon could just take whatever money they had set aside for that next blockbuster and give it to, um, the poor, or something. I mean, it won't turn a profit, but it'll be tax-deductible. And all you rich execs will feel warm fuzzy sensations.

Also, was anybody else horrified by that last scene with Dennis Quaid and Shannon Doherty?

Schoolhouse Suck

Did I mention a while back about how I'm taking classes in marketing? How I'm taking five courses, only two of which actually meet? How they're in the same room, being taught by the same guy? Did I mention having doubts about the quality of these classes?

Over the time I've spent in class, I have virtually eliminated these doubts. I no longer question whether or not I am wasting my time. I know I am.

Let me take you through these "classes". The first one is called Human Relations. Now remember, these are business classes. However, our "teacher" decided to take a broader view of human relations and dispose of the notion that people might actually be taking these classes in order to learn something about business. He's spent the whole time (so far) showing tapes and holding classroom discussions about personal relationships, focused mainly on marriage and parenting. Now, I'm sure that he finds this all very fascinating and frankly, so do I. I love delving; it's one of my absolute favorite things to do. Did I say I didn't enjoy the class? No. I said it was a waste of time. And yes, the knowledge of that fact does tend to cut down on the enjoyment factor. I pay my therapist by the hour to talk with me about relationships. I pay the school by the hour to tell me something I don't know.

Second "class": Consumer Behavior. At least that title's a little more clear. A little less wiggle room, y'know? This has to have something to do with consumers consuming things. Ergo, business. We're getting warmer. Thing is, our business "teacher" doesn't really seem terribly interested in business, so he shows us a bunch of video tapes that profile various successful businesses and what they do that's so great. Do I have a problem with this? Only one. I could've bought that tape series for about $200 less than it costs to take this "class".

Third "class": Physical Supply and Distribution Management. I like that title. Good strong title. Very specific. It's also the name of our textbook, which costs $100 retail at the campus bookstore and is the only thing I would've needed to do absolutely everything which is required for successful completion of the coursework. This class does not meet. We basically pick five random chapters out of the textbook, read them, and answer the questions at the end. I'm really not kidding.

The fourth and fifth "classes" are so similar they're really not worth mentioning separately. One is an independent study and the other is an internship. For the independent study, I have to work somewhere and write a 3-page paper about what I learned. For the internship, I have to work somewhere and write a 3-page paper about what I learned.

Do you guys have any idea how much it costs to go to school? I already put in my four years, okay? I'm doing this to GAIN KNOWLEDGE. What a motherfucking concept.

I recount all this because this week, it came to a head. Last time "class" met, our "instructor" handed out schedules for what would be available next semester. Would you believe that we'll have five classes, three of which will actually meet, all in the same room, all with the same instructor, who incidentally is the same "instructor" I have this semester. Needless to say, that will not be happening. Business for Dummies, here I come.

Officer Doof

Is it illegal to direct a display of road rage toward an agent of the law?

This morning on my way to class, I was in a left turn lane behind a SherrifMobile. We got a turn signal and the guy just sat there. I couldn't tell if he was on the phone or eating breakfast or whatever because his windows were tinted darker than civilian windows are allowed to be tinted. So I started to creep up on him but I was hesitant. What do you do when a law dog is being an idiot driver? I realized I've never confronted that situation before. Usually what I'll do is creep up, just so the person in front of me will register the motion and snap out of it. That's my version of a polite reminder. Then if that doesn't work, I'll flash my lights or honk my horn as a last resort. I hate honking at people in the morning because I know it'll put them in a bad mood. And I don't want that. I just want them to get out of my way.

None of those tactics, however, seemed appropriate in light of the fact that this particular idiot driver could strip search me if he felt so inclined. I decided to go ahead with the creeping but it did no good whatsoever. He sat through the whole damn turn signal. At this point, I was wondering if he was doing something "official", something that simple minds like mine wouldn't understand. But when the next signal rolled around, he turned with the easy confidence of a man who had no clue he'd been blocking traffic for the last ten minutes.

He turned into the grocery store and I glared at him as I passed. Take that!

Daylight savings!

Thank God I have a computer that's smarter than me, so that when I glance down at the bottom of the screen absently wondering if it's 9:00 yet, it can tell me that no, it is in fact almost 8:00. It can also tell me that in good conscience, I should let Chris sleep another hour and not wake him up early just because I was too absent-minded to realize I could've slept another hour as well. And it can lecture me on why the hell is it exactly I carry around a calendar in my purse if I don't write stuff like this in it. It can draw up an example of what my calendar should look like:

Saturday, Oct. 29:
Angel Food pick-up day
Zombie Parade
Daylight Savings begins tomorrow

Sunday, Oct. 30:
Jaimie & Jimmy coming over for Vampire Bats
Daylight Savings begins

Monday, Oct. 31:
Halloween!
Party @ Catoes
Daylight Savings started yesterday

Sunday, Nov. 6:
Play at Morgan Road Vineyard
Daylight Savings has been ongoing for a week so please reset the clocks in your house instead of doing the math in your head. This is what grown-ups do.


Thanks, Computer! Guys, I know HP gets a lot of flack, but it really has come a long way. Bit of a smartass though.

Fall happens

Apparently, Mother Nature's Alabama delegate woke up this morning and realized it was October. I'll be reacquainting myself with my heating bill sometime very soon.

Jaimie's birthday was Friday. She's 28. Or 30 - 2, if your glass is half empty. We had yummy lasagna at her parents' house and she got a new black Jeep. I don't think she's told Red about that yet. But between you and me, the sooner the better. I mean, I like Red, but that relationship was going nowhere fast. Well, it was going nowhere at about 45 mph. Even on the interstate. (I love you Jaimie! No hitting.)

It got me thinking about my next birthday and how far away it is. That's fine, I'm not in any hurry. It's just that it seems like I've been 24 for a really long time. I've been 24 for years. What will happen when I turn 25? I don't know how to be anything but 24. Not to mention that the last time I had to deal with an age that was a squared number, I was 16. 16! That was so long ago. Will I remember how to act?

I must apologize for my silliness. That's what happens when I'm sleepy and bored and have nothing in particular to write about.

Laura brought it to my attention the other day that I never posted a link to my Flickr account, wherein are cute pictures of the kitty cats. So without further ado: http://www.flickr.com/photos/woodlayson

It's on my to-do list to give my Flickr account a little more content diversity, but we know how that can be. Oh yeah, if you want to see the kitten pix in chronological order, start at the bottom of page 2 and work backwards. I don't know why they posted like that and I haven't taken the time to figure out how to switch them up.

They want you!

It's that time again. Pledge week on NPR! Woo-hoo!

www.wbhm.org

That's the Birmingham station. There's also an 800 number that I can't remember. It's one of the worthier causes I can think of and it's $10 a month I think to be a member. Not that you get anything for being a member (except I think maybe a coffee cup). But it's about helping to perpetuate an invaluable social service. And prestige, of course. Maybe they give you a shiny laminated card. I'm gonna ask for one. And if they don't give me one, I'll make my own. I want to be a CARD-CARRYING member.

I'm sure NPR news isn't perfect, but it's the most unbiased, trustworthy source of information out there. That, to me, is worth the price of admission. Had to share.

The Old Man

Have I mentioned that Chris's back has been suffering from The Pinched Nerve of Everlasting Torture? He's been walking around like an 80-year-old man for days. (See Jaimie? I totally bucked the temptation to use the word "octogenarian".) It was sometime last week that he came home from school with a backache and woke up the next day unable to even lift his arms. He went to my chiropractor, who predictably gave him the same doomsday speech she gave me. Only he must be worse off, because she gave him a bunch of cool stuff. He got some little electrode thingies to stick on his back and a neck pillow device that I don't know how to describe other than the fact that it looks like an S&M toy.

He'd been getting better, but when he woke up yesterday morning, the whole thing had started all over. It's like a leg cramp that starts to subside and then you move it the wrong way and that wave of pain rolls back over you again. Only this is taking longer. When I said school was killing him, I wasn't intending to be literal.

Jimmy and Jaimie came over last night and brought us Chinese food, and that was a cheerer-upper. We watched a silly movie on TBS and read our fortune cookie predictions aloud adding the phrase "in bed" at the end, which made us laugh that 12-year-old laugh that's reserved for jokes about bodily functions and unseemly anatomy. It was good times.

Catching the bug

This is my 100th post. Visualize confetti.

By "the bug", I am not referring to the Icky Throat-itch Cough of Doom you've been hearing so much about, although I indeed still have it. I do, however, have to comment that it will be interesting to see how I'm going to pull off leading worship not once, but twice this Sunday. That's like walking a tightrope with vertigo.

No, the bug I'm referring to is far more insidious, with consequences that could last for decades and affect everyone around us. Chris and I have both felt its icy hand on our shoulders and I fear it's too late to escape its evil thrall.

We're looking at real estate.

Everyone is buying houses. Jaimie. Brad and Cindy. Zach and Kristie. Nathan and Alex (well, if they could find a decent realtor and a homeowner who isn't in a coma). It might as well be the flu. And now Chris and I find ourselves asking each other questions we have no right even thinking at this point.

"Buy or build?"

"Urban or rural?"

"Where's the best school system?"

I mean, hold the brakes. School system? SCHOOL SYSTEM?!? I know this is a legitimate concern, but it annoys the piss out of me that these nonexistent children of ours that I don't even want yet are already butting in on our decisions. Shut up, eye-glimmer! You don't get an opinion until you're 20.

I wasn't really concerned that this would go anywhere until we started talking about our credit histories and interest rates and the housing bubble. These are all topics that make my head hurt because they are beyond my comprehension, so to voluntarily discuss these things has got to be a sign that we're not going to walk away from this alive. So far, we haven't made any phone calls. I'll hold off for as long as I can.

While I should've been resting

This weekend, when the smart thing to do would've been to lay in bed doped up on Robitussin and Goldenseal, I instead decided to do a bunch of useful, productive things. I know. Stupid. Chris and I have been in Project Mode for the last couple of weeks, but that was not my plan for this weekend. Just some simple cleaning up, starting with the bedroom.

My first order of business was to get rid of unnecessary clutter, like the luggage bags that were still out from our anniversary trip. Right, to the closet with you. If you've ever seen our bedroom closet, you'd be eyeing these bags trying to mentally sum up whether or not they would fit in there. But I knew they would, because that's where they were before we used them. Apparently, Chris had a system for getting them in and out that I was unaware of, because when I tried to shove them in there on a low shelf, something snapped. In the literal, not the figurative. I didn't know what it was until the rod that all our nice clothing hung on (we keep our hundred-dollar suits in there) fell.

Let me try to describe to you how our closet worked. There was this metal rod spanning the width of the closet. On one side of the closet, a foot or so inside the door, was a wooden plank that had been fixed to the wall with dozens of bent, skewed nails. It ran the depth of the closet. On the other side was a similar plank. The metal rod rested balanced on top of these two planks with nothing much to hold it in place, so it just sort of rolled around in there. With clothes on it, it didn't move around much because from shoulder to shoulder, our hangers took up the entire depth of the closet.

We could've fixed it up in a way similar to how it had been jerry-rigged the first time, but I saw in this tragedy an opportunity. We could buy new shelves and a new rod and have a truly functional closet here. So, when Chris got home, we went to Lowe's.

I don't know why we keep going to Lowe's. There has to be some other place that sells shelves and closet bars. But we weren't really sure what we were looking for exactly and we wanted options. We settled on some 20" deep wire shelves, so we buzzed for somebody to come and cut them for us. And this guy...he was a salesman. By the time we checked out, he'd hooked us up with $200 worth of stuff we would absolutely need to outfit THE TINIEST CLOSET YOU'LL EVER SEE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. How? How did he do that?

By the time we got back from the emotionally draining experience that Lowe's always is, we'd decided to take half of the stuff we just bought back, which was too late to do since it was Sunday and they close early. So even though technically we didn't make two trips, it still doesn't count as a win because of the inevitability that we will. When we got home, we realized the cordless drill wasn't charged, so we didn't even get to start on the closet rod. Last night, we slept on the couch because clothes, luggage, and various other homeless sundries were piled on top of the bed.

I remember a time when cleaning one's room was a simple thing with simple objectives and few real obstacles. However, I think that in the future it would behoove me to remember that it is not that way anymore.

3:36 a.m.

May I bitch? Because, not that this is of interest to anyone but me at the moment, but I am awake. Wide awake.

My throat hurts.

Well it doesn't hurt so much as it has that scratchy feeling that I can't really ignore because it makes me want to swallow a lot. How this rendered me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the middle of the damn night I don't know. I just know that I'm waiting patiently for 5 a.m. Nothing will put you to sleep faster than 5 a.m.

I went and bought Pills today (technically yesterday). They went up by $3 from last month. It's gotten to where they go up by a few cents every other damn month, but $3? Now they cost me over $40 a month, and I'm wondering if, in the long run, it wouldn't be cheaper just to have a damn kid. Anyway, I'm wondering what's up with the price hike and when I open the bag, I get my answer.

The box looks different.

For the love, they changed the stupid-ass design and charged me $3 for it. I liked the old box just fine. Can I buy one of those for the old price?

I was on the phone with Jaimie today (technically yesterday) and shared my frustration. She theorized that the right-wing conservative radicals were hiking the price of birth control to prevent people from buying it and thus denying their unborn children the fertilization they deserve. I theorized that the left-wing commie liberals improved the box design to entice more teenagers to enjoy consequence-free premarital sex. Then, we laughed.

I'm going back to bed. Wish me luck.

A Series of Recent Events --or-- Playing Catch-up

I'd hoped to post again before being berated for my blogstapation, but alas, I was a day late and a dollar short. I usually post in my office when work gets slow, and that just hasn't happened in a while. In fact, I haven't been in my office for a while. In fact, when I got back to my office, I found a squatter asleep under the desk. I woke him up and he yelled at me to get out of his house and stop stealing his shoes. Don't worry, I set him up in a phone booth. It's more spacious anyway.

Here's a recap on the last little while. Feel free to read it in several sittings and pretend these entries were written on different days.

Fast Times at Culinard High

Chris started his last semester of culinary school this week. It's the one where the students actually run the real live white-tablecloth restaurant that real live people go to eat a five-course meal. Anyway, the poor guy has to get up at 5:00 a.m. every morning to be there at 7:30. He's already been yelled at by some classically trained British fag who thinks he's Gordon Ramsay. And it looks like he'll have an average of two days a week out of the four he works in the kitchen that he'll have to come home, change clothes, and run to the job he actually gets paid to do to work until 2 a.m. This will go on for ten weeks of his life that he anticipates will knock about five years right off the top of his life expectancy. Pray for the dude.

Do-It-Yourself

This past weekend, I felt myself falling into a funk that I experience on many weekends, especially Saturdays, wherein I have nothing specific to do and am all alone in the wooden box I call home for hours on end. This time, I pledged to not let myself waste any more time on the destructive cycle of getting so bored that I don't feel like doing anything which makes me more bored, etc. I consider this a massive character flaw on my part (although my therapist assures me it's not) and last weekend I decided to challenge it to a duel. I pulled all the living room furniture into the middle of the room, laid down a dropcloth, made the two separate obligatory trips to Lowe's that occur whenever home improvement work is to be undertaken, and got to work painting trim and caulking corners. This is a little chore that was left half-done at the time we moved in and that, predictably, we neglected to finish once we were settled in. It has bugged me every day of my life since then. Why, I ask you, why live with that? So I painted, and I painted, and I painted. Then, when all the world was white with a glorious new coat of paint, I looked overhead and saw that it was not yet good.

No crown moulding.

Okay, I don't know how many of you out there have attempted to install crown moulding, but it's not an intuitive process. Not even for guys. Not even for guys who are very handy and industrious. It is a learned skill, and that's all there is to it. So watching me try to analytically break down the elements of the proper cut was...well, there should've been popcorn. Mom was there trying to help, and she brought Mario with her. For those of you who don't know Mario, he works with our company and he is the handiest guy ever. He's also the coolest. A lot more projects around the duplex would've been left undone had he not been there to help. So the three of us, three reasonably intelligent people, one of whom is a whiz at all things utilitary, none of whom are strangers to "projects", end up sitting there at the end of the day with splinters and shards of improperly cut pieces of $1 a foot pre-finished moulding. Now let me put this in perspective. We all work in a business in which our talents are often underrated, because it's the kind of service people often think they can perform themselves. This is a notion we fight against, because we believe that our talents should be recognized, that our skills should be seen for the societal necessity that they are. At that moment, we looked at each other and saw a room full of hypocrites.

Ultimately, it took four more days and the collaborative power of six individuals to essentially nail some boards to the wall. I will never again think little of a man who is good with a miter saw.

Cat Blog

Our little girl kitten, Peanut, has experienced a rite of passage. No, not like that. She got herself stuck on our roof for the first time. We don't even let them out much since they're not snipped yet, but sometimes when I'm sitting outside, I'll let them go with me and play in the yard. Last time I let them out, Peanut shimmied up the tree that grows right next to our front porch before I could stop her. Do cats just live in the "now" or do they lack any sense of foresight? This happened right before I was about to put them inside and go to class, where I had a test to take. And the only ladder nearby was locked up in the garage that my landlords, who were already gone to work, had the key to. Luckily, she found her way down before she made me late. She didn't stick the landing, but it was her first time.

Symbology

Chris and I got married in a field outside my grandparents' house. We cut down some young sweetgum trees and made a little gazebo type thing out of them. It was one of my favorite makeshift touches we added to the ceremony site. When the big day was over, we left them there and we never really got around to taking them down, mostly 'cause we liked it. Yesterday, I drove by the field on my way home from work and I noticed that one of the trees had started sprouting new growth. I'm not talking about vines growing on it or anything. I mean, there were little branches around the top of it with bright new leaves. I know there are some plants that you can cut off a stem and plant it and Voila! New plant. But a tree? With no root system? Maybe it's the last gasp of a fallen plant with a still semi-functional vascular system, but it was pretty and it made me smile.

Back in my own head

As of this past Saturday, Chris and I have been married for an entire year. Paper, baby! Yeah!

We went to Chattanooga and stayed in a suite and ordered room service and went to a white-table-cloth restaurant (which Chris assures me is a title of distinction). All this splurging might've been kept under tighter control if it hadn't been so damn hard to get there.

I went into work Friday morning hoping to make a few phone calls and be back home in an hour to pack and get out of Dodge. I'll spare you the hair-pulling details, but suffice it to say that at noon when I was finally pulling out of the lot, I had a feeling we would not be leaving on schedule.

I'd asked Chris to pick up the house a little and make babysitting arrangements for the kitties while I was gone to work. When I got home, this had not been done. It was no fault of his; he'd gone outside that morning to find that one of his tires was low and knew he had to do something about it before we left or it would be flat when we got back.

So we're trying to rush to get things cleaned up and Chris is like, "Look, Nibbler's the only cat we have who's even allowed to go out yet. We know how much they eat in a day. Let's just set 'em up and let 'em go."

And I said, "Doesn't that make us negligent parents?" And he said, "Not if we don't tell anyone."

Oops. Hee.

I went for it because that would mean we wouldn't have to clean the house up if we weren't expecting anybody to be there, and I tried to brush away the thought that most of the time people are at our house while we're on vacation, they're not expected. But I mean, come on, am I really going to clean my house so that when my friends come by to tie all the knick-knacks together with yarn, they won't think less of me?

So we left the kitties with plenty of food and water and cardboard boxes to discover, and we trucked it. Everything went smoothly until we were about 20 or 25 miles outside of Chattanooga. I started noticing a shimmy to the car that I've noticed before and idly mentioned to Chris that that's probably not a good sign. But it's an old car and I've had lots of old cars and they all shake. So mostly I ignore stuff like that, which is not a good habit, but what're you gonna do? They all shake.

Then the scary noises started, and about the time I got through saying, "That does not sound good," the car suddenly and violently dropped lower on one side and I cringed at the tell-tale thwapthwapthwapthwapthwap. Did I check before we left to see if the car had a spare? No. But Chris didn't either and isn't it the guy's job to think of shit like that? Anyway, we had one. One of those cute little toy ones, underinflated. Eh, it got us to the nearest gas station.

Long story short (don't say it), we got there and had a great time and we got to relax in a hot tub the size of our bedroom. I suppose it was worth the trouble, if you don't count the two hours we had to wait at the WalMart tire center on the way back. Have you ever tried to kill two hours at WalMart without buying something? We managed to spend less than $10.

Vengeance is a dish best served cold

Mom and Dad went to Chattanooga this weekend for their anniversary. Hey guys, which one by the way? Was it the big 2-5? Because I thought you were supposed to have a big blowout with other people for that one. Or maybe that's just if you're not having sex anymore. Hee. Don't hurt me.

Anyway, I find it mildly amusing that I seem to talk to my parents more when they're on vacation than I do when they're in town. Every half-hour or so I'll get a call from one of them which I can only assume serves to rub in my face how great a time they're having. How they manage to always catch me in the middle of doing laudry or watching a really bad SciFi movie because it's the only thing on or some other mundane thing that makes me wish I too was on vacation is a gift I shall never comprehend.

So intermittently over the weekend I'm getting calls saying various things like:

"This is a great hotel! If you can afford it, you should totally stay here sometime."

"Man, there's this great rib place you should really check out."

"We caught this live show on the riverfront. Boy did we pick a good weekend!"

I'm used to this. I just dream that one day, they'll be old and decrepid and Chris and I will be jetsetting and calling them in the middle of the latest episode of The Price is Right (which will still be featuring Bob Barker although perhaps without eyeballs or skin) and letting them know how great Venice is in the spring. Wish you were here! Kisskiss.

But this time? This time, they went too far. Perhaps had I been there to handle it myself, I could've maintained a semblance of control over the situation, but alas, I was working (working on a Saturday...brilliant...HOW DO THEY KNOW?) and Chris answered the phone. He called me at work and said simply, "I hate your parents."

"You hate my parents?"

"I hate your parents."

"What did they do?"

"They invited us to Chattanooga, to a brewer's festival."

"What?!"

"They said they'd pay for the hotel."

"WHAT?!?"

"...If we drop everything and come right now."

"But...you have to work today."

"I know."

"And I have to work today."

"I know."

"And you have to work tomorrow."

"I know."

"I hate my parents."

You guys just give us a few decades. Someday, one of you is going to break a hip and it will be on that day that we invite you to go hiking with us in Colorado.

In their defense, they brought us home some delicious dark brew, the kind that's so fresh and untainted by preservative that it has to be consumed within three days or it just won't be the same. Which was probably a selfish gesture, seeing as it was the only factor which saved them from the involvement of a lead pipe.

Damn

I want a dog. Jaimie gets a dog. Why can't I have a dog?

Well, you might say, because Liz darling, you don't have a yard.

Well then, I would respond, I want a yard too. And a fence.

But Liz, you would say, first you need a house.

Okay, fine, I reply, I want a house.

I want a house so that I can have a dog. Is that a bad reason to take out a loan?

Times of Crisis

I didn't realize it had been so long. It's been a hard, sad week for a lot of people. My husband is dealing directly with a lot of them who have filtered in this far north. He says it's heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. They're so appreciative of every little thing we do to help.

I haven't been watching the news a lot in the last few days, mostly because I never do. NPR is my source of choice, but I've even been laying off of that. I don't know why. Maybe because it seems to be getting to that point where all our feathers have started to go down and the truth of what's happened has done all the sinking in it's going to do and now...now it's time to get angry. It's time to point fingers and lay blame. Some people are mad at the federal government for not acting quickly or forcefully enough. Some people are mad at those who stayed in the city. Some people are mad at their neighbors who aren't doing enough to help. There's reason enough to be mad at all of them. I myself am liking being angry at the thugs who took advantage of the darkness of the ruined streets of New Orleans by robbing, raping, and murdering fellow human beings who were just looking for a way out and thwarting the efforts of rescue workers who were trying to help. But even with the righteous and rather uncontroversial flavor of anger I've chosen, I still find myself exhausted, frustrated, and discouraged by the adolescent bickering we always seem to go back to in the face of tragedy and devestation.

A hurricane happened. Did everyone do all they could? Did anyone? No. We don't live in a perfect world. We live in a world where people in crisis succomb to their basest instincts, where governments are cumbersome and slow-witted, where friends and neighbors shut their eyes and ignore the pain and suffering of others. We live in a world where hurricanes happen.

Some things are gonna change around here

You will now refer to me as Princess Liz, and you will do so in such a way as to convince onlookers that you have always called me thus. Those who know me personally (excluding family) will organize yourselves into three categories: Friend, Enemy, or Both. There is no category for those of you who sort of like me or have no opinion of me. You will have to choose a side, although you may feel free to switch from Friend to Enemy four times before automatically falling into the Both column. I now have diva priveleges such as bitch-on-demand, bling, and discounts at over 30 retail clothing stores.

Yesterday, to kick off my new diva status, Mom and I went shopping. Guess where we went.

SAKS.

A lady followed us around and suggested clothing. They're fitting room was bigger (and better furnished) than our bedroom. Nothing was on sale. Well, the bathing suits were on sale for the amazing low price of whatever you would pay for them first-run at any other department store. But y'know what? The feel of the place was so much warmer and nicer than the Parisian we'd just been to. Parisian's stuff was still shamelessly overpriced, but also, the whole place made us feel little and uncomfortable. Saks, which I'd never been inside before for fear of that very same thing, was even more expensive, but we bought stuff there because it didn't have an atmosphere that made us feel like bugs. Was there buyer's remorse? Of course. But while I will probably avoid Parisian like the plague from now on, I might just go back to Saks. When I make $50,000 more a year.

Phlegmatic

We took an indicator test in class today to determine our temperaments along the venerable guidelines of which of our bodily fluids most controls our thoughts and behaviors. Apparently, the compelling voice of that stuff that gets stuck in the back of my throat is the one I listen to most.

This is a pretty different result from the one I got many moons ago when we took a very similar test in high school. I tested melancholy by a nose, one point higher than choleric. Sanguine was dead last. Today, it was the choleric type that got left in the dust with a close cluster of the other three.

I can see clearly that I'm more outgoing than I was back in the day, but apparently I am also more moody, more worrisome, more negative, and less decisive. How can you be easygoing and a worrier at the same time, by the way?

I also defied the norm by marrying someone of similar temperament. Most, I hear, marry their opposite.

No, I can't fit you in at 6.

Yesterday was one of those days that seemed like more than one. I started class yesterday and today, when I think about it, I want to say that happened sometime last week. Because that's the first thing I did yesterday and three days' worth of stuff has gone on since then. So here's my yesterday:

Day 1

I went to my first classes. They're on a different campus which is actually closer to my house (yay!) but also in a scary part of town (boo!). I found the building pretty easily but I thought I was in the wrong place because there were a lot of people around and not one of them was white. I thought, "Well, I guess it could be that all my classmates just happen to be black. More improbable things have occured in the universe." Then a bell rang across the parking lot and they all went into another building. Oh. Right. High school. Just when I was getting all psyched up for cultural illumination. Maybe next time.

So I found the right room and settled in for what I was sure to be a literal pain in the ass. You see, all my classes are in the same room, being taught by the same teacher, so I get to stare at the same walls and listen to the same voice for six hours. My ass would indeed hurt. But as it happened, teacher dude covered the syllabi of all five classes in about 40 minutes. Score. Turns out that three out of these five classes aren't even going to meet on any regular basis. On the one hand, this works very well with my work schedule. On the other hand, what is it exactly about these classess that's worth $1,350?

Day 2

This day started when I got to work. I got a few things done before I accumulated several errands and ended up spending most of the rest of the workday on the road. I planned to visit my grandmother, drop off a bill, go to the bank, and pick something up from WalMart for work. My plan was going smoothly until I got to the bank. Jaimie was two rows down from me at the drive-thru and she didn't see me. How could I pass that up? I had to call her.

Jaimie: Hello?

Me: Hey, it's me. What's up?

J: Hey! I haven't talked to you in forever!

M: I know. I was wondering if you were headed to the grocery store, maybe you could pick some stuff up for me.

J: Oh yeah right. Ice cream and milk, right? How did you know? (At this point, Ms. P is under the impression I'm teasing her about something Crazy Margaret did that I don't even know about.)

M: Well, I figured you had the cash since you've just been to the bank and all.

J: What?! Where are you, you spying whore?

M: Waving from the second row.

J: Yeah, well I'm giving you the finger. You see that?

She didn't really call me a spying whore, but she did really give me the finger. Then we made up and went to the bookstore together where she asked my permission to read a Steinbeck novel and I wouldn't let her. A promise is a promise.

Day 3

This was the day that, after we were done at the bookstore, I hung out at Jaimie's house a while, then I picked up car-less Laura from work and hung out at her house a while, then Jaimie and Jimmy came over with Chinese food and we all hung out together for a while. We tried to play guitars, with some success, but the Cute Kittie Puffball of Distraction marred our efforts. Laura's new kitty is a music lover, as evidenced by the fact that he alternately kept trying to strum, sit on, and crawl into my guitar as I played it. He also fell asleep on my shoulder, which made it difficult to play, but I'd like to see you try to move him. His stare of cuteness is paralyzing.

Day 4

Day 4 started around 9:30 or 10:00 when I finally got around to going to WalMart. At 10:30ish, when I arrived home for the day, I helped Chris design a menu and put together a presentation folder for one of his school projects. Peaceful oblivion came sometime around 1 a.m. I guess there really should be another hour in every day.

Jubilation

Before I get to the meat, I have to tell you what just happened. I already wrote this post once before and I lost it. That's not funny, but how I lost it is a little funny. See, I got this new mouse that's wireless and has the cool red light under it and it's ball-less. Completely emasculated. I call it my fe-mouse. Anyway. It has this neat feature where on the side where your thumb goes, there's two more buttons. You can program them to do pretty much anything (like function keys, right?) but as a default, they serve as Forward and Back browser buttons. So earlier, I was typing out my little blog entry of glee and I pressed the "Publish" button. And while it was thinking about whether or not it would do what I told it to, I was remembering that I'd forgotten to copy my entry to clipboard so that, in case Blogger decided in its infinite wisdom to trash my post rather than publish it, I'd have a backup. So I was highlighting my whole post and getting ready to click Ctrl+C when I bumped my mouse hand on the side of the keyboard and accidentally pressed the back button.

DOH!

Isn't it just like us self-destructive humans to cause ourselves precisely the kind of pain we are trying to avoid?

Following is Attempt #2 to convey the good news I so wanted you all to know hours ago:

My husband is now what we in the Mafia like to call a "made man". Is he untouchable on the hard streets of downtown Gadsdonia? Well, no. But he now has a thing that we in the Mafia like to call "job security". He now has access to Mafia priveleges like "health insurance" and a "cafeteria plan".

That's right, ladies and gents, the boy is full-time. There should be a parade. Really. Set that up. DON'T STAND THERE AND LOOK AT ME LIKE A DUMBASS. GET IT DONE! I'll cut you.

He was up for this very job about a month ago, but he got passed over initially for reasons we could only guess. They were pretty good guesses, but guesses nonetheless. Now, as the result of an unpredictable chain of events (and what must've been some damn fine prayin'), that door was reopened and credit given where it was due. Chris was officially congratulated this morning and, after filling out some paperwork, he'll step into his new position on Friday. The only downside is the four-month overlap after his 40-hour weeks kick in and before he graduates from culinary school. That should be interesting, in a mortalizing, ass-kicking kind of way. So thank you all who knew about this situation and prayed for us, or who didn't know and prayed for us. I'll return the favor.

Sidebar

What is it exactly about the content of my blog that entices spam of the cartoon animal variety? Or at all?

NOTICE TO SPAMMERS: YOU ARE REACHING A GRAND TOTAL OF ABOUT FIVE PEOPLE HERE. I DON'T REALLY MIND THE INTRUSION (YET), BUT YOUR TIME AND ENERGY COULD BE BETTER SPENT ELSEWHERE. END OF LINE.

Know Thyself. Check. Then what?

The Cakeholes are having their first meeting thingy tonight (it is tonight, isn't it?). I think I'll go. I'm feeling all sorry for myself today because I've got 48 things to do at work and I haven't seen my friends all week. It's no way to live.

School starts back on Tuesday. At varying intervals, I am either excited about starting back (oh how I love the schooling), freaked out about it (more exhaustion, less free time, if that's possible), or both. I'm sittin' on "both" at the moment.

You'll be happy to know that the chiropractor said I could go back to the gym. You'll be sad to know that I haven't actually been back yet (except for yoga class...you'd think that as semi-diligent I am about going, I'd be able to stand on one foot for any meaningful length of time by now). I told her she was screwing with my life. I told her that if I got out of the habit, it would be like falling halfway down Kilaminjaro and having to decide whether to start back up or just slide the rest of the way down. I never choose the path of least resistance. But if I stand there thinking long enough, it will generally choose me. Did she listen? No.

I know these things about myself. I consider it a personality flaw, one that comes with a package that also contains some very good traits I wouldn't exchange for the world. But at this stage in life, when I long to be proactive and have many things to be proactive about, I can't seem to force this out of myself. Are some people engineered or predisposed to be along for the ride? I'd refuse to accept that if I were more assertive. Hee. Get it? Oh, nevermind.

Boy are my arms tired

I just got back from a trade show in Atlanta. It was fun. I am ex-to-the-nth-hausted. Highlights of the trip included:

1. Riding the MARTA. If you really want to know a city, you must first become acquainted with its public transportation. I'd give this a rating of 3.5 on a scale of 5 for a nominal degree of friendliness and cooperation, a pretty smooth ride, and an eye-catching color scheme. Points were deducted for unpersonable gate attendants and for the unintuitive nature of the token machines (And what's up with charging $1.75 for a token? I'd rather it be $2.00 so I could do the math in my head while five people waited in line behind me.). Points were added for the wisecracking late-night subway operator who encouraged community and group participation.

2. The Braves game. I call this a highlight mainly because it was so memorable. I've never physically witnessed a team losing that badly. I'm sure a professional baseball team has lost a game 8-0 many times before, but I wasn't there to be embarrassed by it. Now, I don't know much about baseball. If I were Jaimie, I could give you a play by play and tell you who was hot and who was not and what the Braves did wrong. What I can tell you is that a guy named Johnson made some impressive catches in what I'm pretty sure was the outfield, and a guy named Franco (who everyone was very excited to see at bat) was the only Braves player who managed to run two bases in one play the whole game. Also, I had to walk half the circumfrence of the stadium to find the nearest funnel cake and I'd missed seeing Arizona make three more runs by the time I got back.

3. The Irish pub at Underground Atlanta. I specify because Underground Atlanta itself wasn't all that great. It was cool and all, but it was very mall-like; it wasn't the hip, scary, subcultural breeding ground it used to be. It's sad to see cheap, cardboard commercialism seeping right under the skin of the city. Anyway, the pub was still great. They played U2 the whole time, and it made Mom and I giggle that there was not a single employee of the pub who even remotely looked Irish...or even caucasian. I had Guinness on tap for the first time, and it didn't taste different at all. So kudos to the widget people. It works.

That's the nutshell version. I need sleep. And probably a shower.

Take two and call me in the morning

My chiropractic experience to date, aside from the awkward timing of appointments, has not been unpleasant. I have only one complaint, and I'm not sure who to direct it toward.

If my chiropractor is to be believed, here are a few things we should be doing in order to take care of our spines:
1. When getting into vehicles, we should sit on the edge of the seat, swing both legs together, and pivot on an axis. We should not ever get in one leg at a time or sit down heavily.
2. We should not hold a telephone for too long in one hand. We should switch hands often, and if we spend a lot of time on the phone, we should buy a light headset.
3. We should walk with our heads level or slightly raised, never lowered or looking toward the floor.
4. When getting out of bed, we should keep the torso straight and gently bring the feet over the side of the bed, legs and ankles together.
5. We should throw out our La-Z-Boy chairs and replace them with rockers.
6. When working at a desk, we should elevate materials we are reading or working on.
7. We should avoid reaching or anything that involves working overhead. We should be especially careful when combing or shampooing our hair.
8. When bathing, we should sit straight rather than reclining against the back. By leaning back in the tub, we could cause a vertebra to slip out of place.

That's just excerpts from the hand-out she gave me. She also instructed me to stop going to the gym for the time being (even for my precious evil yoga) and to get rid of my brand new Fossil over-she-shoulder messenger bag. I'd like to emphasize brand new if only because she didn't seem concerned about this fact. Does she know how long it takes me to work up the mental fortitude to spend $10 on something as frivolous as a bag? Does she have any idea how long it will take to prepare for that again? Or does she just not care?

If this instruction is in any way inaccurate or excessive, my complaint is to my chiropractor: I wish you would stop scaring people. I understand that the spine is important, but so is the muscle tissue that will go into entropy if I follow your instructions to the letter.

If her instructions are indeed necessary, my complaint must go to God: I know You have an explanation for the fact that You apparently made our skeletons out of bone china. I just wish You would share it with the rest of the class. In my limited understanding, I would've gone with something like stoneware. It's cheaper, more durable, good for any occasion, and microwave safe. In case You wanted my opinion, which I'm sure You'd ask for if You did.

Snip snip

Nibbler came home from the vet yesterday with fewer internal organs. We've been trying to keep her indoors for the past few weeks until we could get her to the vet, but she's crafty. I half-expected to get a call from the vet saying "We're sorry, we can't do the surgery. Your ho-cat is pregnant again."

Then I started wondering, if Nibbler was pregnant, would they tell me? Or would they just...fix it? In their minds I guess it would be safe to assume that if we're having our cat spayed, we don't want any kittens. But surely they would ask. Right?

I think all this guilt over a situation that probably didn't even occur is partly due to the fact that I was guilty about forcing her to be spayed in the first place. Even though I know she can't really decide for herself. Even though if she could decide, she'd probably tell me to let her have all the cat-sex she wants without fear of gestation. Even though millions of cats are starving and homeless due to overpopulation. I know it defies logic and reason and even compassion. I still feel bad that I took something from her without asking. Lame, huh?

Later on I'm going to educate you guys on what you should and shouldn't be doing for the health of your spine. You might be surprised. Tune in to Nightly News at 10!

Zombie Doctor

Hear ye all, and cringe.

I'm seeing a chiropractor. I know. Shut up. I hurt.

I went to one way back when (I think I was still in high school) and she took all these X-rays and showed me my spine and how if I didn't get chiropractic care RIGHT NOW AND FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE my back was going to snap like a twig and leave me quadriplegic. She didn't say that, but she did say a lot of scary things and shine a bright light in my face and make me sign a confession...er, a contract. She was always smiling bigger than her mouth looked like it was supposed to stretch and saying that pills are evil. She was really nice, but in that unnerving way that makes you suspect she's a cult member. Or a coke head.

There was no way I was going back to that particular chiropractor, but Mom (who still goes diligently) hooked me up with a different one. This one seems more normal, for a chiropractor, and her plan involves three months of treatment as opposed to FOREVER. But I've been to her office three days in a row, and I'm supposed to go back Monday. Who has time for this shit?

Ooh ooh, and guess what? She called me last night at home, a little after 9 pm...get this...to make sure I was putting ice on my back.

I'm going to be a good girl for this next three months and do everything I'm supposed to. I'll be chronicling my experiences here, along with my findings. Pray I'm not discovered, but if the police tell you I died accidentally from a snapped neck, DON'T BELIEVE THEM.

No I Don't

Um. Yes I do.

Bad Day

Every day that I have to deal with a customer complaint in person is a bad day. The LizBot is not properly wired for confrontation.

You would think people would be meaner on the phone than they are in person, what with the whole you-can't-hit-me-because-I'm-20-miles-away factor. I've found the opposite to be true. They act all nice and understanding to lure you to their property, where they can spew curses at you and threaten to cancel their service, which you secretly REALLY want them to do.

Sometimes, of course, they're justified in being unhappy. But apparently today was National Irrational Behavior Day, or maybe Bitch At The Hired Help Day, or Confuse The Nice Innocent Service Provider With Baseless Complaints When She Can See Perfectly Well That Nothing Is Wrong Day. Whatever. Footwear gets a holiday. I wouldn't be surprised. I just wish it were like April Fools or Candid Camera, where they tell you at the end that it's all a big fat joke and we can be happy again.

I hate people. No I don't. Yes I do.

Diversionary Tactics

Reading: A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis
I know the title sounds like oodles of fun, but don't be deceived. This is not the kind of book that you just pick up and read because you're bored...like I did. I found this one during a routine raid of my dad's bookcase. I thought it was just one of Lewis's essays, but it turned out to be his published journals from the days and weeks immediately following his wife's death. It's a characteristically insightful read, but I recommend mental preparation.

Listening to: Garden State soundtrack
I think I'll submit a suggestion to Merriam-Webster that they redefine mellow as "an adjective describing the experience of listening to Coldplay, Colin Hay, Nick Drake, and Simon & Garfunkel in rapid succession". I go from the Black Eyed Peas straight to this. My musical tastes strike me as not so much well-rounded as schizophrenic.

Watching: Firefly
It's coming on Sci-Fi now and I'm trying to resist the temptation to rent the whole season. I'm doing my penance for not being a faithful enough Whedon fan by resolving to watch them one at a time, on television, with commercials, one week apart. That way I get to share in some of the experience of those who were there for it the first time around. I'll probably break down and rent it in September when the movie comes out, but just because I'll have to have seen all the episodes before I watch the movie.

workplay

I spent the better part of the day yesterday refilling ink cartridges that I probably just ended up breaking somehow so that they won't work and I'll have to buy new ones anyway. I felt like I was performing surgery, only I still just had that one degree in Communications. I think my patient died on the table, only I'm not sure because I didn't know how to check the pulse.

The thing is, that was ridiculously hard. The HP cartridges are not so bad, other than the fact that there were three colors and I only had one syringe so I had to keep washing it out and that's a P-A-I-N. But the Canon cartridge. Damn you, Canon. Damn you to hell. At first glance, it looked like it would be easier. That's before I knew I had to make my own hole in the ink well with a thumb screw. And then I had to plug it back up and BY GOD IT BETTER BE AIR TIGHT OR YOU'LL DIE IN YOUR SLEEP! That's what the directions said. Almost.

Anyway, long story short (and the story could never live up to you being there to see me ridiculously fumbling with dozens of ink-soaked paper towels), I now know why most people just bend over and buy the damn cartridges. Yeah, I thought I was being the savvy consumer. The lesson I learned yesterday is this: you're gonna take it in the ass from someone; at least take it from a gentleman.

That was not fun, but what was fun was Kris's birthday party this past weekend. I had a monster headache the whole time which the sangria didn't help one bit, but I still had a good time and that is the mark of a great party.

The highlight of the evening was the impromptu hiphop performance. We had three children in attendance, one girl and two boys, who danced the night away to the Black Eyed Peas. Now, I've already commented on the hilarity of the hump song. But you'd have to multiply that by I don't know what to achieve the hilarity of watching that song being roleplayed by three adorable little white kids. They weren't intentionally roleplaying, or else I think I would've been more disturbed, but it was just so perfect. At one point when the lyrics went "you can look but you can't touch", I swear that little Ivy put her hand all up in Jesse's face as if to tell him he could just talk to it.

While we're all on the subject

Following are the top ten movies I'm ashamed to love, in no particular order:

Clueless (probably just the Rudd factor)

Tremors

Clash of the Titans (actually, I make no apologies for this one)

Speed

The Abyss (at least I'm told I should be ashamed)

Stargate (I think I'm really only ashamed of how much I love this movie)

The Fifth Element (Yes, I saw the parts with Gary Oldman in them. No, I don't care.)

Dirty Dancing

Dune (the Kyle McLachlan version, not the interminable miniseries)

Any Jane Austen adaptation (even Emma)

While I'm at it, my apologies for not liking the following:

Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (many have tried and failed to correct this greivous error in judgment)

2001: A Space Odyssey (suck it, Kubrick)

Dances With Wolves (ironically, I liked Waterworld)

Time Bandits (I tried. I really did.)

The Breakfast Club (Dear Chris, please don't divorce me. Love, Liz)

You don't want no drama

Oh. My. God. The laughing.

Laura copied me the new Black Eyed Peas CD, so I popped it in on my way home. I'm all rockin' out to these songs, and it gets to this one called "My Humps".

"Whatcha gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk?"

Snkkt.

"I'm gonna get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump."

Bah! Bahahaha!

But then THEN she keeps saying the word hump OVER AND OVER AND OVER and I'm all, "Please stop saying 'hump'" and then she finally stops. And then she says "my lovely lady lumps" and that's it. I'm in tears and I can't breathe and that's just it.

Laura, was that the song you were talking about? Because so help me God if I start absent-mindedly singing about my hump in the line at the bank I'm blaming you.

Get Involved

If you're a blogger, you should go do your part to demystify the art. And hurry, I think they're almost done compiling.

Take a pill, Jaimes

Hey, all you Northeast Alabamians, how 'bout that big scary hurricane yesterday. Whoo! Cancel school! Close the roads! Call in the Red Cross! We're all gonna DIHEEEEEE!

Performance anxiety, maybe?

This has been a landmark week. The landmark is a sun-baked pile of shit, but I guess you don't really get to choose.

My rantings today (and they would be rantings) would tend to focus on a turn of events that I'm not sure how much liberty I have to discuss. Since this particular development is the only damn thing I can think about at the moment (and ooooh if you knew you would be SO MAD), I continue to be at a loss for words. Just pray I don't go renegade and assassinate a public figure. While you're at it, pray that somebody else does. Hee.

The Power of Song

I was getting waxy-eyed at work, so sometimes when that happens I pull out a CD to help me snap out of it. Today, I looked through everything I had and didn't want to listen to any of it. Then I found this Lori Chaffer CD that I haven't listened to in at least a year.

For those of you who don't know, Lori Chaffer and her husband Don front the band Waterdeep, which is my favorite band in such the way that I didn't know what a "favorite band" was before I heard them. For this reason, I consider it mildly dangerous to listen to their music (including solo albums). Almost every song they've ever produced has integrated itself into my DNA and has the ability to recall specific moments, emotions, thoughts, or events. Most of these life snippets, oddly enough, are painful. That's part of what made them my favorite band. They console the inconsolable. And that's part of what makes me afraid to put them in the disc changer. I never know what I'll remember.

Today, I remembered my contemplative commutes to school to the tune of "Make No Protest", and "You Can Sing" almost brought me to tears like it used to at a time when I was worried about some people I loved. All in all, it could've been worse. God forbid, it could've been Sink or Swim.

The old man can NOT be sleeping through this.

Chris had to work yesterday during our Wet'n'Wild Independence Day extravaganza over at Jaimie's parents' house. So we decided to celebrate the 5th of July today. Naturally, today is the day Tropical Storm YourNameHere decided to catch up with us. West is walking in now with a bag of fireworks. Lose some, lose some.

Damn you, weather! If you don't think I'm going to enjoy our pattie melts ALL THE MORE, you've got another thing coming.

No hair-pulling on the playground!

I'm so glad I got a good long weekend before having to face this morning. I hate hate HATE it when people get pissed off for being asked a question that legitimately pertains to THEIR JOB. I do my job, and I answer questions about it all damn day, and I do it with a smile on my face because that's just part of it. Somebody's getting a Valium and Ecstacy cocktail for lunch. My treat.

Really, though, this is nothing compared to the frustration I experienced last week in the process of trying to get a car title transferred. It went a little something like this.

Day 1 - Went to courthouse toting title. Waited in line. Lady examined my title and showed me that the date of sale on the back had been "written over in error". This is a term I would later become very familiar with. Lady filled out an affadavit for me to get signed and notarized.

Day 2 - Went to seller's home to get his signature. He wasn't home. Left affadavit for him to sign.

Day 3 - Went to seller's home to pick up signed affadavit attesting to date of sale. Resident notary was already gone for the day.

Day 4 - Asked notary to please work her mojo on the magic paper. Affadavit was returned with the date of notarization "written over in error". Yeah, that's right. Called courthouse to confirm my suspicion that no, that would not fly.

Day 5 - Returned to courthouse for a new magic paper. Waited in line. Took paper back to seller's home, where he of course, was not. Waited around for him to get back from playing golf and got him to sign again. Got it notarized again, noting to please be careful about the date.

Day 6 - Returned to courthouse. Waited in line. Magic paper was examined and I was told that the notary notarized the wrong signature. Ha. Hahaha. Lady gave me a new paper, laughed, and commented that the third time's a charm. Indeed. Got seller to meet me and the notary so this could all get taken care of at once. Returned to courthouse later the same day. Waited in line. Lady examined magic paper, heaved a sigh of relief, and asked for $18.

Just after that, I got to wait in an even longer line to get my tag. It looked like a roller coaster line, except without the TVs that play cartoons and Six Flags commercials on a loop. That was just one of those things that wasn't really anyone's fault...well, actually it was about three people's fault, including mine. But it just makes you sit back and wonder when life got so amazingly more complicated than it was ever supposed to be.

Monkey Day

I have a new toy. It is a mouse that has no wire, and it has a pretty red light on the bottom that you're not suppposed to look directly at, but you do anyway because it's so pretty. I am having fun with my new toy.

But that's neither here nor there. I have an occupational time management technique I'd like to try out. Maybe some of you will find it helpful as well. I call it Monkey Day.

Okay, you know that client you have to call sometime in the next few days and he's a jerk and you're dreading it? He's a monkey. And you need to vacuum the floor of your office but you'll have to change the filter on the vacuum and you've got more important things to do but you can't stop thinking about your floor and how it needs to be vacuumed? Monkey. Those scenarios are office-oriented, because I work in an office, but most everybody has monkeys. They're not urgent, but they do have to be done eventually, and you feel a little queasy every time you think about it. Maybe for a painter it would be ceilings. I don't know. Jaimie, is it ceilings?

Anyway, today I got tired of feeling sick about the things I didn't want to do. So I did them. All of them, all at once. And now I feel so much better. So I think that once a week, I'll have a Monkey Day. I'm thinking of making mine Friday, because Fridays are a little more relaxed and I'm usually in a better mood, and because that'll give me a fresh start the next week so maybe Monday won't suck so much ass. No Monkey Mondays! Yay!

I hypothesize that two good things will come of this:
1. My backlogged projects won't pile up so high, so that even on the days that I have to deal with unpleasant tasks, there won't be so many of them.
2. I'll spend far less time worrying about things that aren't getting done, because I know exactly when they will get done. As a result, I'm not constantly beating myself up about getting them done now.

I hope this experiment works out to my benefit, but I'd also be curious as to whether it has broader applications. So if you're having monkey trouble, try it out and let me know how it goes. If it works well, I'll write a book and give you all a cut of the profits.

Goof

I just got completely derailed in the middle of leaving a phone message. I was midway through my message when somebody picked up the phone on the other end. I expected to hear a "hello" and then to have to repeat what I'd just said, so I quit talking and waited. No hello. They just hung up. Then I wasn't sure if the tape was still rolling, because they picked up and then hung up again and does that stop the tape? I don't know. I'd feel like a doofus just talking to air, but I'd feel like more of a doofus just dropping out in the middle of a phone message for no apparent reason. And that's when I realized that that's exactly what I was doing by sitting there like an idiot and not talking. By that time, I'd forgotten the last thing I'd said and took another few seconds to recover and stutter myself up to date. I quickly finished relaying my information, hung up, and spent the next few minutes wondering how much dead air I'd left on their machine. It felt like an eternity.

Does anyone else panic when their impromptu ramblings are being recorded for posterity? Does anyone else occasionally feel like most of their job consists of concealing the fact that they're a great big goof?

Goof. That's a funny word. And I'm a funny me. I'm such a goof. Goof. Goofgoofgoofgoofgoofgoof!

As promised

I remember this one great big huge margarita the size of my head that I drank one time and it was strong and salty and it punched me in the gut. That's the first and last margarita that ever affected my state of mind. Tonight was no exception.

I had four or five of those things. They were good, but they were too sugary. The sugar made me feel hyper and the alcohol made me sleepy. Does it not buck conventional wisdom to mix uppers and downers?

In the end, it wasn't the margaritas but the female kinship that made the evening. We acted like such girls, and I can't speak for anyone else at the table, but that's a rare pleasure for me. I hung out with people I so rarely get to spend quality time with, one of which lives about ten feet away. We talked about guys and sex and marriage and divorce and had a grand time, even without the benefit of margaritas you can actually taste the tequila in.

Marrrrrrrrrrrgaritas

I'm about to go have some. In about 30 minutes. I'm not driving.

This has been the week that wouldn't die. Jaimie and I were talking last night about how monstrous work has become for us lately and how I marvel at her ability to maintain her website, teach an art class, and take on creative projects in her spare time. I think my problem is my utter inability to multitask. One week, I'll eat, think, and breathe nothing but work. The next, I'll resolve not to work so hard and end up pissing away entire days. If you happen to run into Happy Medium, tell him to start returning my phone calls.

I'll get back with you later tonight and report on the margaritas. And I won't use the backspace key. Well, maybe just a little.

Celestine prophecies

We now interrupt Liz's VITALLY IMPORTANT WORK DAY FULL OF VITALLY IMPORTANT TASKS to bring you this message. And, incidentally, to preserve Liz's sanity for at least 24 more hours.

It's bad enough having 30 small things to get done in a day. At least then, I can make a big long list and feel really good every time I cross off an item. What's far worse, in my opinion, is having three things huge things to do for which you a) are solely responsible and b) receive not even a reasonable amount of cooperation.

So I quit. For like, 30 minutes. Nyeh.

In that 30 minutes, I will read and write blog entries, for that is what I wish to do with this time that is mine. Nyeh.

I read Laura's blog today and she was talking about fireworks and how that was a theme for her and Kris when they were dating. It reminded me that Chris and I had a theme, too. I have never before, and never since, stumbled upon as many freak meteor showers as Chris and I did when we were dating. It got to the point where sometimes we would go sit outside at night and make shooting stars appear. I considered it a public service.

I wonder if it would still work. Not that we would be able to see a damn thing in our downtown duplex with that security light sitting ten feet from the front porch. The country has its advantages.

Another thing that struck me about the fireworks/meteors thing is how strangely appropriate it seems. Chris and I are meteor shower people. Kris and Laura are fireworks people. I don't know why, but to me it makes perfect sense in a way that only random celestial events can.

Shut up, spider senses.

Twice this week, I have found myself amazed by two things:
1. How much you don't know about a person
2. How accurately you can guess about what you don't know, even if you'd rather not

My lesson of the week is to trust my instincts about people a tad more. In both cases, I sensed big trouble and haggled it down in my head until it amounted to no big deal. As it turns out, I grossly underestimated the circumstances.

I know I do this because I hate to think bad things about people without some kind of supporting evidence. And actually, I had supporting evidence. I just wanted to believe that people can change. And I do believe that, but also, when a person changes, you'll know it. A leopard doesn't just go around parading new spots without being noticed.

I'm a Super Geek! Super Geek! I'm super geeky!

I'm about to put on my Dungeon Mistress hat again (why does that title sound so...dirty?). To answer your question, no, I don't really have a hat. But if I did, I wouldn't be ashamed of it. It would probably be a crown. Maybe even a tiara, as a reverent nod to that rare bird, geeky femininity. But I don't like hats, so there ya go.

I honestly think that more women should take roleplaying for a test drive. It's imaginative and cerebral and intellectually stimulating. It's a workout for your brain that involves problem-solving, morality issues, identity exploration, and all sorts of other cool stuff us girls like to throw around recreationally anyway. I think we could lend some depth to the game that the boys, with all their talk about whose composite bow is bigger, are sorely lacking.

In other news, Chris will be working all weekend long. So in typical grieving widow fashion, I think I'll go to a concert. David Wilcox and his Amazing Magical Capos are playing at the WorkPlay Theatre in Birmingham, which is a venue I've been wanting to check out anyway. I'm going to invite some far-flung cousins I haven't seen in a while. It's been a while since I've had time to do anything spontaneous or social or...at all. So I'm hoping I can seize the carp and do something fun with people I love.

Things That Shall Come to Pass Because I Will It So

1. I will continue to go to the Y at least three times a week.

2. Chris and I will finish Laura's birthday CD, regardless of the fact that her birthday was two months ago and counting.

3. Duplex renovations will be completed.

4. We will purchase a brand new car which will get excellent gas mileage and last for 20 years with minimal upset.

5. I will be as funny as Cookie when I talk about my awful neighbors (not you, Kelly).

6. I will someday not have crackhead neighbors (not you, Kelly).

7. When I think about going to the afternoon service next Sunday, I will not be contentedly curled up in blankets on the couch in the middle of a SciFi original movie.

8. I will stop rotting my brain by watching SciFi original movies (but they're so funny).

9. I will remember to take the suit Nibbler peed on to the dry cleaner.

10. I will make time to visit my grandparents more often, while I still can.

The first step to recovery

I've just been talking to Jaimie, who called from Tennessee after a hard day's work and one too many margaritas. She was telling me I don't blog enough.

This, after an e-mail from Laura saying something to the effect that she was getting ready to bitch me out for not updating when she caught my post on Thursday.

Well guys, I'm sorry I can't be a perfect poster like you. No, really, I am truly envious of your clockworkesque updates. I'm grateful to have something new to read every day and I wish I could do the same for you. But the thing is, I don't have the time. It's not that I don't have the time to sit down, type something out, and click on "Publish". It's that I don't have the time to have a life that's interesting enough to write about.

Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm a workaholic.

Maybe it hasn't gone that far, but it's definitely in the genes. So you guys, continue to be my accountability partners. If I'm not posting enough, it's because I'm working too hard, and you have my permission to yell at me about it.

You're THIS close to being off my reading list, buddy.

Dear Mr. Salvatore,

If I may offer a small critique, please stop making the endings of your books so dismally depressing. It's affecting my work.

Let's look at Sea of Swords with some objectivity, okay? You went to great lengths to concoct some half-plausible reason why Catti-Brie would happen to have a healing potion on her person when she found Drizzt. How hard would it have been for her to have two? Let's give ol' Drizzt something else to feel guilty about why don't we?

Jerk.

Love,
Liz

Okay, thanks. You can go now.

I remember way back a couple of weeks ago when I thought, "It sure hasn't rained very much lately. I wish it would." Because I like the rain. I like it so much that when it began to fall again, I was happy about it for the first three days or so.

But now it's getting old.

What is this? Day 5? And no end in sight, apparently. I think it's starting to wear on me. It's just dark all the time, even when it's not pouring. And people change in the dark. They get moody and reclusive and depressed. Not that I'm particularly moody or depressed, but I have noticed that I really don't want to be bothered and when the phone rings, I take it as a personal affront.

On the dreary, rainy day that was yesterday, a nurse came and stuck me with needles. Twice. It hurt a little, but I was a big girl. She stuck Chris too, but only once. She took two vials each of our blood, and then she just walked off, like she wasn't going to give it back. "Hey!" I said. "I thought you just wanted to look at it!" And she cackled and sped off and probably found a dark alley to park in while she did shots with MY blood. Damn vampire nurses. They normally only come out at night, but she could come out in the daytime because of the stupid clouds.

That didn't really happen. But a nurse really did come and steal blood. And pee. And she really did have to stick me twice. So really it's just the second part that I made up. And the part about her being a vampire I can neither confirm nor deny, but I always thought vampires would be mean, and she was pretty nice.

She was really there to make sure Chris and I were healthy because we're taking out life insurance policies on each other. So as soon as that stuff gets processed, we will officially be worth way more to each other dead than alive.

Cheers and Jeers

Everybody's talking about entertainment so I thought I'd chime in.

For the record, I loved, loved, loved Revenge of the Sith. Also, I agree with pretty much everything she had to say. (That link was stolen from Laura's blog, so go there too.) I saw the flaws, every last one of them. The story left more thirsty after it was over than I was before I saw it. It was like really craving water and getting coffee instead. I think what I loved what that for the first time since that bratty kid walked onscreen, I found Anakin to be a sympathetic character. Many people will disagree with me there, but my heart went out to him, and that's all there is to it.

Cookie talked about her newfound love for House, and can I just chime in that I'm right there with you? I've seen bits of episodes this season, but for the last three weeks, I haven't missed one. The characters are interesting and well-developed, not to mention portrayed by decent actors (even the young ones...GASP!). And Dr. House is so so funny, even though I wouldn't in a million years want him to be my doctor. I also like it because deep down, it amuses me that Chris can't stand it. It really bothers him that the main character is such an incredible ass. He just can't get past it, and he can't understand how I can.

"If I said that to you, you'd slap me."

"Heh. If you said that to me, I'd leave you."

"So why is it funny when he says it?"

"Um. He's on TV."

But the winner for Best New Drama in my book is Medium. Again, I lean toward mature, experienced actors whom I can trust to deliver the lines they're given responsibly. After watching Patricia Arquette and Jake Weber banter about who's taking the kids to school, I find Smallville and One Tree Hill unwatchable.

I guess I don't have any jeers to speak of, at least not out of the shows I watch regularly. But then, if I didn't like them, I guess I wouldn't watch them. Does it count that Law & Order isn't the same without Jerry Orbach? Maybe it counts if I throw in that I don't like the new lady ADA. But I didn't like Elizabeth Rohm at first either (even though she did time on Angel), so I'll give her a shot and try to come to terms with the fact that Angie Harmon is gone and no one will ever take her place.

Requiem for a Kitten

Sneezy is in a better place. I sometimes wonder if it's better to let nature take its course. He probably wouldn't have lived as long if we hadn't tried to save him, and maybe it would've been easier that way. I know kittens die all the time, but I didn't think Sneezy would. I thought we could fix it. One of these days, I'll learn the valuable lesson that when grief is imminent, it helps to prepare yourself for it.

On a happier note, we have a new neighbor who's super fly. And she's going to adopt a kitten, so it can stay close to home.

Also, Cookie has a blog! Welcome to the fold. The grass really is greener on this side.

Catching Up

As always.

In tonight's episode:
Why Kids Can Wait
Chris and Liz's Day o' Honda
Gearing Up for the Move
A Question for Jaimie

I. Why Kids Can Wait

Chris and I have slept head-to-head on our L-shaped couch for three out of the last four nights. I've felt compelled to stay near our kittens, because one of them is sick. It's a cute little orange kitty which we temporarily named Sneezy after the tell-tale signs of upper respiratory infection it so cutely exhibited. We have since renamed it Banshee, or Screaming Banshee, or S.B., because it has been wailing for a straight week. I thought it was having a hard time breathing and maybe it was frustrated about all the sneezing and the snot. But then, one day, I realized that the little guy was about half the size of his brothers and sisters (honestly, I think it really happened overnight). So I guess he's been crying because he's been hungry, constantly, for the last week. I didn't suspect that because he wasn't being shunned or anything. He just suddenly lost all natural instinct and could for the life of him not remember where the teet is and what it is for.

I swear, we've spent so much time coaching this kitten to suckle, which he could do just fine before, but he just doesn't get it. Half the time I'll catch him looking for somewhere to feed, facing the wrong way. So the last few days, we've been bottle-feeding him at all hours of the day and night. I'll wake up all bleary-eyed at 5 a.m. and hear him screaming, and I'll get up and grab his bottle out of the fridge. I'll hold it under hot water until it warms to room temperature, and I'll squirt some on my finger to make sure it's not too hot. It's about that time, every day, that it occurs to me I shouldn't have to be doing this yet. I'm intentionally avoiding this very thing. But I guess it's good practice, and hey, no diapers.

II. Chris and Liz's Day o' Honda

Chris and I test-drove Hondas yesterday. We want a hybrid, and all they had in a hybrid was an Accord. But we were really interested in the Civic, so we drove the hybrid Accord and the regular Civic EX, to get a feel for the difference.

Laura, Kristie, you were right.

After riding around in the Accord, the Civic felt like being locked in a closet with airbags. The Accord had XM and separate passenger temperature controls and cool stuff like that. But what difference took the biggest toll on me? The fact that the Accord had one of those awesome retracting change holders in the compartment between the seats, and the Civic didn't. It wouldn't have felt like so much of a compromise for me if not for that.

We told them we couldn't buy the damn thing that day, but they convinced us to see what financing would be like anyway. Sure, satisfy my curiosity. Why not? It took them three hours to let us know we couldn't afford it, at least not with their financing options. And there goes the afternoon we'd set aside to get our personal business done. Live and learn.

III. Gearing Up for the Move

Why is that title a shameless pun? I'll tell you why.

Jaimie's moving into her very own house later this week (w00t!), so Chris and I went over to her place last night where we celebrated by drinking wine and cutting styrofoam into the shape of gears. I cut out the biggest one and I got styro-shrapnel all over me. It was a winter wonderland in Jaimie's kitchen floor (I hope the term "winter wonderland" hasn't been distorted into some disturbing sexual idiom yet, because Laura could already make that last sentence sound trashy).

While we were cutting gears (great, now everything sounds dirty...Laura, somehow this is your fault), Jaimie gave me the honor of previewing her next Weekly, under the condition that I read it aloud. So now Chris and I have read the Weekly. And so has Jose Conseco. But you haven't. Neener.

IV. A Question for Jaimie

You know how there is no #6? Is that a reference to Season 6 of Xena, which the fans wish did not exist? Because I always just thought that was random, but if that's the case, it's really funny.

Lord's Gym

I just saw this commercial, twenty seconds ago. My first response, my only possible response, was to rush to my computer like it was the first toilet I'd seen for 20 miles on the interstate after a Sonic chili dog.

The commercial announced the grand opening of Lord's Gym, a place where you can go to enrich your body and your spirit at the same time. At first, I just assumed it was somebody's last name or something. That's what I wanted to believe. But the mural of Almighty God on the wall next to the indoor running track with a bubble next to his head saying, "You can run a 10-minute mile, thus sayeth the Lord!" convinced me otherwise. (Okay, I made up the head bubble, but not the mural. And the head bubble would come as no surprise.)

And I was worried about being judged at a normal gym.

I was trying to get Chris's attention to show him God's Chosen Gymnasium when the logo popped up at the tail end of the commercial. You guys, it was a drawing of Jesus, with the cross on his back, and it looked like he was doing a push-up. With the cross on his back. I think...I'm going to be sick. I paused it on that logo and rewound it so Chris could hear the peppy synth music behind it and get the full effect.

"Chris, look at this. It's called Lord's Gym."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, and they're really talking about the Lord."

"Oh, that's just..."

"Yeah, and look at this..."

"Oh Lord."

I honestly tried for a good 10 seconds to think the best of the situation. Maybe their hearts are in the right place. Maybe they're not just trying to shamelessly capitalize on something the majority of the population holds sacred for a buck. Maybe the point of the Jesus logo...wait, I just said "Jesus logo". No. Uh-uh. Not today.

The only thing I can figure is that they're counting on a big audience of people who think of religion and exercise exactly the same way: something they participate in occasionally to make them feel better about themselves without actually having to change.

This is both funny and sad to me, but I think if the two conflicting emotions settled their differences mano y mano, sad would win.