Meta Merta Meat

Time won't give me time...

2011-12-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about time lately. Time. It's our most precious commodity. It's one of, if not the greatest gift we have to give, and the greatest gift we can get. We always wish we had more of it. We crave time. I'm starting to think if I could hoard anything, it would be time. Time has become my drug. I get all crazy when I don't have it, lash out if I feel it's been wasted, cry when I wish I had more. I'd like to shoot up some time, inject it right into my veins, into my loved ones veins, then we could sit around in a huge, comfy, multi-room house getting high on time with each other. Time. I want more of it.

Time is the best thing anyone could ever give me. I think it's all I really want from anyone. I just want time with you. A cup of coffee. A beer. A walk down the street. I just want time. A laugh or two. A quick hug. An hour if you've got it. Just time. An afternoon at the zoo. A concert. A honk and a wave. Please, sir, can you spare me some time? A shared meal. A sleepover. A lifetime of friendship. Time is all I could ever need, or hope for.

I hope I can stop thinking of time as "wasted". It's not "wasted" if I listen to a new song, or make up a joke, or think about someone I love. It's only "wasted" if I sit in anger with it. I can't begin to express how grateful I am for the time that has been given to me, the time that has been spent with me. I hope that I've given time as greatly as I've gotten it.

Now that you've read this, you've just given me your time, which is all I could ever need, or hope for, from you. And I don't know how to thank you for that.

This has got to stop...

2011-11-04T09:24:00.000-07:00

So last month I saw a movie called "Bullied". It was about a boy who was tormented, tortured, and bullied throughout his junior high and high school career. He was called names like "faggot" and "queer", he was beaten, teased, tortured, all because of the assumption that he was gay. He went to his administrators and was told on both the junior high and high school level that maybe if he didn't act so gay he wouldn't get picked on. He was also told that "boys will be boys".

After the movie, there was a discussion in which I found out that a boy at Julian Jr. High recently was pushed down a flight of stairs by someone who had been bullying him, also under the assumption that he was gay. He was hospitalized for a week. I'm not sure how he is now, his parents were at the screening of the movie, and at the time said he was doing okay, so I hope that still is the case. But this boy, teased and called "faggot" and "queer" and pushed down a flight of stairs because people think he's gay, does not even identify as homosexual. In fact, most people bullied for supposedly being "faggots" or "queers" in junior high and high school don't identify as homosexual later in life. They simply are smaller than the other boys, or they like doing theater, or they might not like wearing dresses like the other girls, or they like playing sports, so the assumption is that they are gay. And the answer to that is to bully them, beat them up, spit on them, call them names, and push them down flights of stairs. What are we teaching our children? Cuz from here, it doesn't look like we're teaching them enough.

These words can be poison, and they are infecting the lives of innocent kids every.single.day. Bullying doesn't "build character", it kills potential, and it kills people. The next time you're at a sporting event, and you feel the urge to call a player, or a ref, or a fan of the opposite team a "faggot", think about your son being called that as he's cornered by a group of kids knocking his books on the floor and kicking him as he goes to get them. The next time you want to call something "gay" because you feel it's stupid, or it didn't work out in your favor, think about your child seeing that written on their locker and all the kids pointing and laughing at them. The next time you feel yourself wanting to kid around with you pals, and call each other "queers", "homos" and "fags", think about your kid being called those same things, but being surrounded by kids who aren't saying it "all in good fun". The next time you want to ask the girl who is wearing a sweater vest in the bathroom of the Cubby Bear if she's a "fucking dyke or something", think about your daughter being asked that while spit on as she walks through the lunchroom.

I'm not innocent in any of this. I've used these words "all in good fun", and even in anger. But it starts with us, it has to, and we have to change this. We have to be aware of what we're saying and how we're acting in front of our kids. Bullying isn't natural, kids learn it from what they see in their adults. If they see you bullying, they will bully. If they see you standing up to bullying, they will stand up. "Monkey see monkey do" is the most true statement of all time.

I hope someday these words can be empowering. I hope one day to take these words back. I hope to be called "gay" because it's related to awesome things, not stupid things. I hope that someday, every one of my queer brothers and sisters will be as proud of being called a "queer" as I am. I hope that your kids don't ever get called these names in any way other than positive. I hope that if they see someone saying these words with venom that they stand up and say "no". I hope that if you see someone saying these words with venom, you will stand up and say "no". We have to be better monkeys to our kids.

I urge you to find out if the schools around you have a bullying policy, and if not, that you force them to come up with one. Tell the kids in your life that there is NOTHING wrong with being gay, that it is just as natural as anything else, if you need help getting the point across, or want to do some dancing while you tell them, put on "Born This Way". And if you believe that there is something wrong with being gay, then get the f*ck off my blog and out of my life.

**I know there are kids who are bullied for other reasons, being gay is just something I happen to know about and therefore something I feel confident speaking about.

Arty, arty, we like to party...

2011-07-31T19:21:00.000-07:00

So I've never really been huge into art. I don't know what to make of some of the things I see, I don't understand what some artists are trying to say with their pieces, I sometimes feel like anything can be art, so therefore I wonder if anything is actually art...or maybe everything is...including me...since I was created...by something other than me. Anyabstract, art is not something I ever really considered. I know when I like a painting, and know when I want that painting on my wall, and that's about as far as art and I have gotten...not even to first base.

For the past 3 years now, my friend Jessica and I have been talking about going to the Art Institute. Yeah, I know that's a long time to discuss something as easy to get to as the Art Institute, but life and boozy good times kept getting in the way of the learning. After 3 years of all talk, no action(gee, that sounds like some high school relationships...HEY OH!!!), today is the day that we finally made that learny-shit happen.

Jess led me through the 'stute, I basically told her I was her bitch and she could just lead me around like a dog. I was surprised at how literally she took this, showing up with a dog collar and a leash, but J is literal like that. She took me from favorite thing to favorite wing, starting with Contemporary, ending with Impressionists. She wanted me to see the things she liked, show me some stuff she thought I would like, and just give me a great taste of the art world. We were getting ready to leave when she remembered there was one more painting she wanted to show me. She couldn't remember exactly where it was, so we were going to skip it when we saw an information desk. PS...the lady at the 2nd floor Information Desk right outside of the area where that park painting made soley of dots is had me wishing that she had been my teacher throughout my life because she taught me the ins and outs of the museum in under 2 minutes. Seriously, I don't think I've learned more so quickly in all my life. So thank you, stranger lady with the mad teaching skillz...thank you.

This right here, this is the painting that Jessica wanted to show me. This painting, upon first glance, gave me the willies. It's big, and tall, and dark, and scary, and there's a woman's withered hand just visible near the side, and it's from your point of view as you look at it, so that's you looking at the door, at the eerie, tall, dark door. While I was creeped out by this, I was also somehow drawn to it...mesmerized...creepmerized, I suppose. As I stared at it, Jessica told me the name of the painting: That Which I Did Not Do I Should Have Done(The Door) by Ivan Albright.

We walked out of the museum through the ancient Buddhist statues, we talked about the painting some more, and she said something like "Yeah bro, it's like, I never want to be an old lady, with that hand, holding that handkerchief thinking about the things I should have done, but didn't. I mean, he could called that painting 'I tried my best', but coming at it from the negative, it's a much different thing"...dag, she's right.

That painting, that's what regret looks like. That's what not sending your resume to the job you've always wanted but been too scared to try looks like. That's what saying "no" to skydiving looks like. That's what deciding not to go to college because you're too old looks like. That's what not enjoying a meal in a restaurant by yourself looks like. That's what not finding something to look forward to every day looks like. That's what deciding not to take the vacation looks like. That's what missing a legendary concert because you don't like crowds looks like. That's what being moved by someone but being embarrassed to tell them looks like. That's what walking by the celebrity without saying "hi" looks like. That's what not giving someone that last hug looks like. That's what living in a constant state of negativity looks like. That's what being scared of holding babies looks like. That's what being scared of rejection looks like. That's what not laughing loudly and raucously looks like. That's what not getting the tattoo because your grandma will hate it looks like. That's what putting off the Second City writing classes looks like. That's what not telling your parents you love them looks like. That's what not telling anyone you love them looks like.

That painting, that is what regret looks like. A stunning, and deeply moving painting of what regret looks like. I highly recommend you check it out next time you're there. And I highly recommend you don't become what that painting looks like. I know I'm going to try my best...

Buck-wild...

2011-06-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

I've never really understood the whole "gonna go to Starbucks, hang out and do...stuff" thing. Mostly because the "stuff" is generally school stuff, studying stuff, alone with your thoughts stuff, writing a novel stuff...the kind of stuff that one might easily be distracted from anytime the blender went off, or the barista shouted out someones order. PS, is that what coffee people like to be called? Baristas? I'm not sure that I've ever used that word until now. Probably because I'm currently sitting in a Starbucks and otherwise wouldn't have occasion to use that word. And do people actually say that? "Pardon me, barista, can you leave room for cream?" That word just smacks of a snotty attitude. *Author's note: my apologies to anyone who uses that word on the regular. Love you guys!* Anylatte, to me, Starbucks as a place to do "stuff" never made sense to me. Until now.

I'm sitting in a Starbucks right now, doing "stuff", that "stuff" being writing this boog and it just....it feels right. There's my pal Jess sitting across from me, people to watch, conversations to listen to, music that's boppin my head, delicious things for my nose to smell(unless a hobo comes in here and sits by me, then all bets are off. But who am I kidding, hobos can't afford Starbucks. Not even a River Forest hobo!) There's a lot of potential material here!

As I look around at my fellow Bucksers, I kind of want to make up scenarios about what their story is. Like the couple right outside the window, who happen to be facing me and who keep catching me staring at them. *Second author's note: In defense of my staring, I need y'all to know I am an out-the-window starer, I'm doglike in that respect. It's not my fault they positioned themselves directly in my line of vision!* But I wonder what their deal is, random shopping trip to the Men's Wearhouse, got thirsty for a Pike's Place Roast? Romantic stroll down Harlem, hey let's pop into Starbucks? Last stop on a first date? Oh shit, they just caught me staring at them kiss. And now they're leaving. I think it's safe to say they're now wondering what my perverted deal is. *Third author's note: I'm not really a pervert, I just play one in the movies.*

Okay, and the young man talking at his laptop...my guess is he's a college student from someplace international, someplace exotic, and he's Skyping with his family, telling them all about the thesis he's writing about something college-y and hard to pronounce. Or he loves "Just My Imagination" and is simply rockin out.

Hmmm...I'm really curious about the new group that just moved in consisting of 2 older couples and a younger gentleman, who have just said a prayer before snacking on bagels and coffee. And now they're talking about camping. The younger guy has pushed his chair away from the table a little, and is not participating in the camping discussion. What is happening? Oh my god, what if he was kidnapped by these people while they were all camping! Don't drink that coffee, fella! I think that you've been kidnapped and they are drugging your coffee! They're going to make you the pool boy in their weird religious summer camp for the elderly!!! Okay, now I'm letting my imagination run wild...

How about the man reading the newspaper with no coffee or any other sort of Starbucks product anywhere near him. I wonder if his power is out because he couldn't afford to pay the bill this month, you know, money has been tight ever since his son Jonesy got out of the slammer, and that no-goodnik hasn't gotten a job on account of his useless hand, thanks to a shiv-fight he got in that jacked up the tendon in his thumb. So this poor shlub has been workin two jobs to support him and his boy Jonesy, only he got laid of from the Port-a-Potty job for showing up drunk last week, but how else was he supposed to get through those long days of cleaning the filthiest of other people's filth? So when he lost the Port-a-Potty job, he had to make some decisions, some hard decisions, lights or booze...booze wins every time. And once the lights were shut off, he was feeling out of the loop, so he headed to a place where he knew there would be lights and an opportunity to catch up current events, so here he is.

Wow, I really got into that last one...I need a minute.

Point is, I get it, I get the whole going to Starbucks to do "stuff" thing. I mean, shit, if I hadn't come, I wouldn't be bopping along to Jackie Wilson, writing about nonsense, and I think I speak for all 2 of you who read this when I say thank you, Starbucks, thank you.

You want a scene? I'll show you a scene...

2011-06-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

I want to throw a tantrum, a balls-to-the-wall, throat shredding, fling-myself-onto-the-floor, scream-till-my-eyes-feel-like-they're-going-to-pop-out tantrum. I want to do this, and I only want to have to sheepishly say "I'm sorry" after I'm through, then fall asleep on my couch, because obviously I'll be plum-tuckered out from my tantrum. I don't want to have to worry about my wife wanting to talk about it, I don't want to worry about my friends defriending me or taking a break from me, I don't want to worry about explaining myself, or being made to feel crazy, or foolish...I just want to throw this tantrum, flip my shit, say sorry, and have that be it.

When you're a kid, you throw the tantrum because you don't understand something, or things haven't gone your way, and you don't get why. Can't that still happen to us as adults? I know for me, sometimes I simply don't know what's wrong. Sometimes what's wrong are feelings I don't understand, or a fear I have about things that can't be changed, or just a general irritation with my inability to not want to throw a tantrum.

Nowadays, us adults, we're expected to talk about it, try and figure out the root of our anger, bring up things from the past to get to bottom of the present. As much as I love that idea in theory, it doesn't always work. Tell me what the eff good talking about some of this stuff will do? Maybe I don't want to just suck it up and be an adult about it, I want to be a child about it. I think we're doing ourselves a disservice if we don't allow ourselves to occasionally experience the pure joy of anger. We allow ourselves to feel the pureness of every other emotion, so why not anger? Tantrums are the most natural and pure reaction to things that upset us, things that we don't understand, and so long as we're not throwing them at a rapid pace, I think tantrums should be considered gifts from God.

I know, I know, they're childish and immature, but you know what? I like being childish and immature. I love to swing, and play with Legos, and tease, and get tucked in, and have a Slurpee, and eat french toast cut into tiny pieces the way my mom used to cut it for me...I like things that remind me of being childish...tantrums included.

If I had an extra closet, I think I would pad it with gym mats and put a bunch of pillows in there, and stuff to kick. Then, whenever I felt like this, I would go into my tantrum closet and just lose my mind. And I know there are plenty of you out there who would be getting in line right behind me...

It's about gayin time...

2011-02-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

So La Ga's new single, "Born This Way" dropped today. As many of you know, I am a HUGE La Ga fan, I'm totally a Little Monster, though I do need to work on putting up my claws and showing my teeth. I look a little silly doing it, probably because I'm not doing it with the reckless abandon that a Little Monster should. Regardless, I worship at the altar of La Ga, her concerts are my church, her message my religion, she is my higher power...I love everything about her.

I've been eagerly awaiting the new single, I've been reading all the articles about it, read the lyrics, read comment boards, read everything I could get my grubby monster claws on in anticipation of today. As I was driving this morning, my nipples pinged as the DJ announced it, and I heard it, I finally heard it...top to bottom heard it. My friends, I was not disappointed. As I listened to the music and the lyrics and bopped my head along, I heard this song, and I felt...validated. I felt so effing validated. At 34 years old and openly gay for 13 of those years, no, I do not NEED a song by the world's biggest pop star to validate me. But at 34 years old, knowing this song was about me and for me and full of love for me, shit, it felt good. And I felt validated. At 34 years old knowing that some of my younger cousins, or children of my friends would have this song as their anthem, have this song validate them, be about them, for them and full of love for them...shit, it felt good. This is the anthem.

Yes, there have been songs before "Born This Way" that have had a similar message, one that embraces everyone and all, recently there was "Firework" by Katy Perry, and "F***in Perfect" by P!nk. Not as recently "Beautiful" by Christina Aguilara, and the song that "Born This Way" is being compared to, "Express Yourself", by Madonna. But they aren't "Born This Way".

Never has the message "we, all of us, are BORN THIS WAY" been more clear. It's for ALL of us, even though described as a "love letter to the gays", it's for ALL of us. Every single person on this planet was born this way, each of us came into the world the way we are. Sure, we can be shaped and molded as we go along, but we are born who we are. And yes, we are all a "Firework", we are all "F***in Perfect", most of us are "Beautiful" and you should absolutely "Express Yourself". But until today, no one but La Ga has ever made it a priority to nail the most important point on the head, that we were all, every one of us, "Born This Way". That is the message, that is the anthem.

For all of you who want to hate, and say it's just a new "Express Yourself", go ahead and hate. You'll hate no matter what I say to you because likely, you were born that way...and isn't that the message? Isn't that the anthem?

The Luck Starts Here...

2010-12-08T08:33:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had a near-death experience? I don't think I have. I mean, I know I've been in situations that could have gone horribly wrong, but I don't consider those "near-death" experiences. I was in a car accident that could have gone wrong. I jaywalk a lot which can always go wrong. I've choked on a piece of steak. I've drunkenly slipped on ice and fallen like a sack 'o flour, which could have gone wrong. You won't hear me say that any of those were "near-death" experiences. But actually, shit, when we're being honest, aren't we all technically "near-death" at every moment? If things like jaywalking can go wrong, aren't we near-death every time we wake up? Anyreaper, though creepy and morbid, that's not what I want to be talking about here.

I've noticed that right after someone talks about their near-death experiences, the next thing out of their mouth is "I'm lucky to be alive". It happened on Oprah this morning, Wynonna was talking about her two near-death experiences and followed them up with "I'm lucky to be alive". Interesting. But not really. I've noticed that people tend to say the right things when faced w/ death and near-death..."This makes me realize how precious life is. I won't take things for granted. I'm so lucky to be alive". Well I don't know about the rest of you, but my luck started November 30th, 1976, when I was born healthy. My luck at being alive is 34 years old. I am lucky every. single. day. And not just on days when I'm jaywalking and cheating death. Luck is something every one of us is born with, simply because we were born.

This also makes me think of all the times in my life when I've wished not to be alive, times as a child or as a teenager when I would say "I didn't ask to be born". What an asshole thing to think and an even more asshole thing to say. No, I didn't ask to be born, but someone sure done asked for me. My parents asked for me, they asked to be blessed(snerk) with a gift that ended up being me, something they may have decided against had they met teenage me first. No wonder they asked for another gift. But regardless, they asked for me. My sister and I, we are the miracles my parents asked for. We are miracles. I am a miracle. Someone asked for me. Someone asked for us all. How lucky I am. How lucky we are.

Luck. We're born with it, it's something we have, it's a part of us, it's ours every day because we're alive. Every day I am alive, I am lucky because I get to walk outside, I get to see a tree, a bird, a dog, I get to read words, be touched, feel my heart beat, pick a booger, smile, listen to a song, have a memory, miss someone, hear a voice, take a shower. Every day I get to be a daughter, a sister, a wife, and know love. Every day I get to be a friend, have a friend, share my life, and laugh like crazy. Every day I am alive, I am lucky.

And yes, every day I pick a booger.

Truths...

2010-12-01T13:59:00.000-08:00

Recently, my friend's mom died. I'm overcome with sadness for her. I'm at a loss, I don't know what to do. I've known her for 21 years, and for the first time I have no idea what to say to her. All I wish I could do is fix her. I want my hug to be as comfortable as a mother's hug, since that's what she's missing now more than ever. I want to sit on the couch with her and rock her as she cries and have that be enough. But it's not.

I want to fix people when they are broken. I thought this was a good thing, a nice thing, but it's an unrealistic thing. I can't fix anyone. Nothing I can say to someone will fix them. Nothing I can do for someone will fix them. No joke I can tell will make someone laugh all their troubles away. I can't fix anyone.

I'm completely and utterly co-dependent in my relationships. I have a desperate need to be needed. It's quite possible that I am only attracted to people who appear to be in a place of need. I've always always thought that I was just a good person, a good friend, and that I had a desire to help people, to try and make their lives better. And I might be, all of that could very well be true...but the real story, the headline to this, is that I need to be needed to feel any sort of self-worth. It all comes from a good place, a good heart...I truly want to be something positive in the lives of the people I care about. I want to bring support, and laughter, and impressive dancing to every life that I'm blessed to be a part of. But I need to be needed. You've never seen someone as happy as I am when The Joyous One is sick, because she needs me. Someone as fiercely independent and responsible as The Joyous One needing someone like me, so irresponsible, so co-dependent...why wouldn't that bring me to happy? I need to be needed.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not implying that I somehow wish for bad things to fall on the people in my life so I can be needed, so I can try to fix them. Like I said before, I can't fix anyone. I want my people to be happy, and I want to be a part of getting them there. I want to be the light that they see when everything is dark. I want to put a smile on their face. I want my invitation to hang out to be the thing that gets them out of the house. I want to be something utterly impossible. The biggest problem? Me saying "I WANT"...because it's not about me. That's selfish, and that's not me.

I need to change this. I need to stop trying so hard, because when I try too hard, I ruin it. When I try too hard, my natural compassion becomes unnatural...forced...not me. I need to flip the script here, and start hoping for things, instead of wanting, desiring. Hope is spiritual. Want is greedy.

I hope that when I hug my friend whose mom just died, she gets some comfort out of that. I hope that when we spend time together, it brings her some relief and takes her mind off things for a moment. I hope I am something positive in the lives of the people I care about. I hope I can bring support, and laughter, and impressive dancing to every life I'm blessed to be a part of. I hope that when The Joyous One is sick, I take care of her well.

I hope for my friends happiness. I hope I can add to that in their life. I hope that I can be something they see as a light, something they can go towards to get out of the dark. I hope I can bring a smile to their face. I hope my invitation to hang out is something they consider. I hope I can be something utterly possible.

Dan Savage Just Keeps Getting Better...

2010-10-21T10:41:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know, Dan Savage is an author, journalist, and writer of an internationally syndicated advice column about sex and relationships. Recently, after the upswing in gay teenage suicides, Dan and his partner started the "It Gets Better Project", in which gay adults tell gay kids that yes, it will get better, just stay alive and you'll see that it does get better. I read Dan's column from time to time, it makes me laugh, makes me think, and every now and again makes me uncomfortable. The following column just made proud. In light of all the bullying that's been taking place which has led to the death of too many kids, I thought Dan's response to L.R. was right on target. He managed to put onto "paper" what a lot of us gays(and gay supporters) would like to say, but usually end up screwing up due to the foaming of the mouth caused by anger and ignorance...at least that's what happens to me. I hope you take the time to read this, and also to visit http://www.itgetsbetterproject.com/. Thank you,

Meta Kroker

Dan-
I heard an interview with you about your It Gets Better campaign. I was saddened and frustrated with your comments regarding people of faith and their perpetuation of bullying. As someone who loves the Lord and does not support gay marriage, I can honestly say I was heartbroken to hear about the young man who took his own life.

If your message is that we should not judge people based on their sexual preference, how do you justify judging entire groups of people for any other reason (including their faith)? There is no part of me that took any pleasure in what happened to that young man.

To that end, to imply that I would somehow encourage my children to mock, hurt, or intimidate another person for any reason is completely unfounded and offensive. Being a follower of Christ is, above all things, a recognition that we are all imperfect, fallible, and in desperate need of a savior. We cannot believe that we are better or more worthy than other people.

Please consider your viewpoint, and please be more careful with your words in the future.
L.R.

Dan's response:

I'm sorry your feelings were hurt by my comments.

No, wait. I'm not. Gay kids are dying. So let's try to keep things in perspective: Fuck your feelings.

A question: Do you "support" atheist marriage? Interfaith marriage? Divorce and remarriage? All are legal, all go against Christian and/or traditional ideas about marriage, and yet there's no "Christian" movement to deny marriage rights to atheists or people marrying outside their respective faiths or people divorcing and remarrying. Why the hell not?

Sorry, L.R., but so long as you support the denial of marriage rights to same-sex couples, it's clear that you do believe that some people—straight people—are "better or more worthy" than others.

And—sorry—but you are partly responsible for the bullying and physical violence being visited on vulnerable LGBT children. The kids of people who see gay people as sinful or damaged or disordered and unworthy of full civil equality—even if those people strive to express their bigotry in the politest possible way (at least when they happen to be addressing a gay person)—learn to see gay people as sinful, damaged, disordered, and unworthy. And while there may not be any gay adults or couples where you live, or at your church, or in your workplace, I promise you that there are gay and lesbian children in your schools. And while you can only attack gays and lesbians at the ballot box, nice and impersonally, your children have the option of attacking actual gays and lesbians, in person, in real time.

Real gay and lesbian children. Not political abstractions, not "sinners." Gay and lesbian children.

Try to keep up: The dehumanizing bigotries that fall from the lips of "faithful Christians," and the lies about us that vomit out from the pulpits of churches that "faithful Christians" drag their kids to on Sundays, give your children license to verbally abuse, humiliate, and condemn the gay children they encounter at school. And many of your children—having listened to Mom and Dad talk about how gay marriage is a threat to family and how gay sex makes their magic sky friend Jesus cry—feel justified in physically abusing the LGBT children they encounter in their schools. You don't have to explicitly "encourage [your] children to mock, hurt, or intimidate" queer kids. Your encouragement—along with your hatred and fear—is implicit.

It's here, it's clear, and we're seeing the fruits of it: dead children.

Oh, and those same dehumanizing bigotries that fill your straight children with hate? They fill your gay children with suicidal despair. And you have the nerve to ask me to be more careful with my words?

Did that hurt to hear? Good. But it couldn't have hurt nearly as much as what was said and done to Asher Brown and Justin Aaberg and Billy Lucas and Cody Barker and Seth Walsh—day in, day out for years—at schools filled with bigoted little monsters created not in the image of a loving God, but in the image of the hateful and false "followers of Christ" they call Mom and Dad.

READ MORE FROM DAN SAVAGE AT: www.TheStranger.com/SavageLove

I just love Dan Savage, and I'm so glad he's on my side...

Huh, maybe it was a hate crime...

2010-07-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday after work, I was making the grocery store rounds to buy up supplies for my famous tuna melts. And no, that's not a euphemism for anything, you pigs, I truly was buying vegetables and tuna and english muffins. You see, my seriously pregnant friend Annie was coming over for dinner, and she loves tuna melts and I make a truly outstanding tuna melt. The more I write "tuna melt", the more disgusting and euphemism-y it starts to sound. Anyfishy, I had just finished hitting the Jewel for the muffins(heh), the cheese, etc and was fixing to hit the Whole Foods for the tuna.

Off topic(and I've already forgotten what the topic is, but I'm sure I'll get back to it in roundabout fashion), as I pulled into the parking lot, there was a couple playing the most vigorous public game of tonsil hockey that I have ever seen, leaned up against a parked car. I think they were playing for the Suckley Cup. Seriously, faces mashing, over-the-clothes fondling, the voyuer/porn director in me wanted to walk right up to them and be like "Now, grab his ass. Caress her boob...circular-like, uh huh. Okay tilt your head to the right a little, let him bite your neck. Yeah, that's nice. Do you mind if I take some snaps?"...but I refrained. I can just imagine my mother reading this last part and saying to my dad "Your daughter's a real pig, you know that right?" Or just going right to the source and calling me..."I read your blog. You're a real pig, you know that?"...this pig's for you, Momma! Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right, Whole Foods...

So, I head into Whole Foods, make a beeline for the tuna, grab what I need and head to the register. I'm standing there, entranced by some new juice they were displaying nearby, my mind roaming with thoughts of reusable grocery bags and should I buy yet another one, when all of the sudden I feel something bang into my rear bumper. No, not of my car dummies, I'm talkin bout my ass. Startled, I looked around to see what has just rammed me in ba-donk-a-donk and I see a cart rolling away from me, looking suspicious. It appeared that my solid rear bumper was no real match for the shopping cart, cuz that sucka was nearly at the entrance of the chip aisle. Big ups to my big butt. Slightly embarrassed, I said "Well alright then. That was...interesting." A lady the next aisle over who saw the whole thing started giggling a little, which only contributed to my embarrassment. Then she told me that some guy had been pushing the cart, let go of it and ran out of the store. She suggested that maybe he had an emergency and didn't realize the cart was still rolling. I jokingly said "Or maybe it's someone who doesn't like me very much and rammed me with their cart...hahahahahahehe..hmmmm" Joking had turned into "what if..", and I started to really think that maybe this was some man who didn't care for me and flung his cart recklessly in my general direction, hoping to clip my Achilles or trip me or something. I racked my brain, thinking of who could it be, wondering who had I wronged in the past, or who might have a vendetta against me. Sure, I'm in the Geh Mafia, married to the Gehdmuddah, but I thought that was joke between me and my gehs.

I was still thinking about who attacked me as I left the Whole Foods, my ears were at full attention, listening for the sound of a revving motor as I crossed the street. My eyes were alert, scanning the people in the parking, hoping to catch some questionable activity. As I scanned, my eyes picked up the Parking Lot Porn stars, still locked in a full embrace. I tilted my head, said "Wow. Good for them" and all hate crime was forgotten as I started to sing "Parking Lot Makeout"

Gaga for La Ga...

2010-05-14T12:57:00.000-07:00

I have not been able to stop picking up my banana and singing the beginning of "Telephone" into it (if you don't know who sings "Telephone", get out of my life). It started at my parents house this morning, when I asked my mom if I could take a banana and she made the mistake of telling me "yes". I immediately grabbed it, put it up to my ear and sang "Hello, hello baby you called I can't hear a thing. I ain't got no service in the club you see...see. Wh-wh-wh-what did you say? Oh you're breakin up on me. Sorry I cannot hear you I'm kinda busy...k-kinda busy. K-kinda busy. Sorry I cannot hear you I'm kinda busy." She stared at me with a blank look, I decided I wanted a different banana, so I chose another and did it again. More blank staring. I decided again that I wanted a different banana (listen, I'm not a fan of banana-bruising, so I'm kinda picky about my bananas. That's probably why I'm off the bananas permanently...HEY OH!!!!), so I selected one more and started the routine again to which I got a prompt "Will you shut up?" from my mother. Cue blank staring from me.

Fast forward to work, I set my banana on my desk, caught a glimpse of it an hour later, picked it up and..."Hello hello baby..." Throughout the morning and early afternoon this happened at least 7 more times until about 15 minutes ago, when I ate the banana. Guess I'll have to move on the the stapler. Or...wait for it...the telephone...

It's natural, baby...

2010-04-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

My friend Jessica wrote a hilarious/disgusting Facebook update today that made me laugh and yet feel sick at the same time. But mostly it made me laugh:

Jessica Aimee Cakuls Yesterday I'm puking and I think how funny it'd be if people tried to eat their puke like dogs. Could u imagine walking down a street in Lincoln Park at 2am & seeing 10 girls on their knees, furiously scooping puke back into their mouths? So I laugh into my toilet and then go back to bed. After 20 seconds, I hear some weird noises. I go back into the bathroom and my dog is trying 2 eat my puke out of the toilet.

This status update also made me think...first, about why Jess wouldn't flush the toilet after horking to avoid Diego munching it up. But then it made me think about other animal habits that would be utterly hilarious if done by humans.

A girl in her early 20's is at a meat-market bar looking to meet someone. She weaves through the crowd, eyeing folks until someone catches that eye. She walks over to them and promptly buries her nose in their butt, sniffing merrily away. She doesn't like their scent, so she moves on, casually sniffing butts as she passes people.

A young child hears the doorbell ring at their parents house. They leap excitedly as a family friend walks through the door. They crouch down on all fours, back end wiggling away, and pee all over the floor. Their parents see the piddle puddle and say "Oh look, he's excited to see you!". Several weeks later, this same family is getting ready to go on vacation. The parents tell their son to go outside and play for a bit before leaving, hoping he will release some energy and sleep in the car. They call him into the house only discover he's rolled around in something that stinks to high heaven, most likely raccoon scat. Trip delayed.

You're at a Cubs/Sox game at Wrigley. A couple guys in front of you get in an argument about spilled beer. Of course, one is a Cubs fan, one is a Sox fan. The argument begins to escalate, each of them puffing up in anger and you fear the fight may start getting physical. The Cubs fan, blowing his top first, poops into his hand and flings it at the Sox fan. The Sox fan retaliates with a poop fling of his own, and before you know it, the sh*t is literally hitting the fan(s). You jump on the back of a large stranger and try to get out of the stadium, much like a bird might hitch a ride on the back of a hippo. As payment, you begin to eat the bugs and other parasites off the large stranger's back. Then you get a tapeworm.

I'm sitting in my living room on my couch and my butt starts to itch. I pull down my pants, get on the floor, and scootch my butt along the carpet to relieve the itch, all the while hearing The Joyous One scream "Bad girl! No! No! Bad girl!". The yelling is ignored, butt-on-carpet-scootching continues until the itch is satisfied, pants then get pulled up and couch sitting resumes.

Yes, I know a lot of these have to do w/ butts and poop, but face it, that's what most animal habits have to do with...butts and poop. And butts and poop are hilarious and you know it...

Here we go again...

2010-03-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

Oh friends and faithful boog readers, all 3 of you, I must apologize yet again for neglecting my boog writing. I know it's not an excuse, but I've been writing March Madness basketball recaps for the NCAA Tournament pool that I run, and have completely abandoned any and all other writing. I'm a bitch like that. But not to worry, the tournament will be over soon, so if you'll have me, I'd like to come back and write about the ridonkulous thoughts that cross my brainscape. I know it's a lot to ask, but please keep coming back to my boog and I promise you that I will have some new stuff soon-ish.

I was going to write something last night, but "The Rock" was on for the second Sunday in a row and god forbid I miss a showing of "The Rock", I mean, I've only seen it 874 times. Seriously, what is it about that movie that hooks me like a meth-head? I used to tell myself it was the hotness of Vanessa Marcil, but let's be serious people, she's in the friggin movie for like 10 minutes. She's sho 'nuff hot though. Dag. Anyhotbod, I hate Nick Cage, and I mean hate him...so I know it's not him. The dude from Candyman scares the sh*t right outta me, and I'm only a semi Ed Harris fan. So it must be Sean Connery. I guess Sean Connery is what keeps me coming back for more "Rock".

Although now that I think of it, I have a similar addiction to "Con Air", which is another Nick Cage joint. I watch it every time it's on, but I've always told myself that I love it despite Nick Cage being in it. Perhaps I'm denying something deep inside me, an undying love for Nick Cage. Oh my. This is not how I wanted my Monday to go at all...

Carrots...

2010-02-12T12:01:00.001-08:00

This poem is dedicated to the pile of carrots I discovered in my street yesterday...

Oh pretty pile of carrots,
How did you end up there?
Perhaps tossed from a car
By a jerk, who did not care

Oh pretty pile of carrots,
Are those peppers among your ranks?
Thank God you're not alone
For that I will give thanks

Oh pretty pile of carrots,
Had I not seen you, I'd have slipped
But I did, so I stepped over
And wondered how you'd be w/ dip

Oh pretty pile of carrots,
You may have tasted nice
Now you're smooshed down flat
Under a sheet of snow and ice

Oh pretty pile of carrots,
Your sad story makes me cry
Soon the street sweeper will come
And we will say "goodbye"

Adios, pile of carrots. You're the most random thing I've ever stepped over.

When in doubt, blame God...

2010-01-07T08:40:00.001-08:00

I was over at my parents house this morning...I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "it's not Friday, what in the hell was Meta doing at her parents house?". Well let me tell ya, if you're thinking that...then you obviously read everything I write and are potentially stalking me if you remember every little detail. And if you're thinking "I already knew that Meta was at her parents house today", then you are absolutely stalking me and you followed me there(One question: why didn't you clean my car off when I was in having coffee?). I'm not complaining, if anyone loves a stalker, it's this girl. Stalk away, my friends, stalk away! Only don't judge me when you're stalking me and you see me pull into the gym parking lot, pretend like the lot is too full and turn right back around and head to Tasty Dog.

Anycreepy, my parents and I got on the subject of concerts this morning, probably because my dad was reading an article in the paper and dared to ask me if Lady Gaga was any good. By the way, it took a full 5 minutes of me sneering at him before I responded with "Are you f*cking kidding me?" After my disgust, I went on a rant about how she writes her own stuff, plays a kick ass piano and actually sings live unlike a lot of today's pop tarts(sorry Brit Brit. I love ya, but ya cain't sing, girl!). My dad then said "It's like that Milli Vanilli thing. Why aren't people more upset about this?"...I explained to him that it's not exactly the same since Milli Vanilli never actually sang on their tracks at all. PS...hearing your dad talk about Milli Vanilli? Is hilarious. Anybraids, my mom then asked me if I still had fun at the Milli Vanilli concert even though they were lip-syncing. I looked around to make sure no cool people were around to hear me admit to going to the Milli Vanilli concert, and once that was confirmed I said that yes, I did have a really good time.

My dad then said "So they weren't the ones that cancelled their concert? There was a band you were going to see, and they cancelled their concert. Who was that? Rose something?". My mom said "Oh, Axl Rose" and I said "Yeah, Guns 'N Roses, I forgot about that. I'm bummed I didn't get to see them!" Then my mom said "Personally, I think God was responsible for cancelling that concert because you were such an asshole, Meta." I busted out laughing, but my dad(bless his heart) said "Why was she an asshole?" and my mom said "Because she was a teenager!" at the same exact time as I said "Because I was a teenager!"

So, what's the point of all this? Well, I'm not sure. I think just to say that teenagers can be assholes. And La Ga is the shit. And that yes, I did go to see Milli Vanilli. And that no, I was not alone, I did have friends with me. They may not admit to it, but they know who they are!

Rock on!

Reason #144...

2009-12-09T10:54:00.000-08:00

...why I love The Joyous One. Last night, we were at a Fenwick alumni fundraiser that our good friend was the ringleader of. A lot of people had name tags on, and on the the name tags, they had their graduating class from Fenwick. Now, The Joyous One and I are not Fenwick alums, but decided to put on name tags anyways. As I finished putting mine on, I looked over at The Joyous One and saw that she did, in fact, include a graduating class..."Joy, Class of Awesome".

Ain't no party like a Kroker party...

2009-12-03T12:00:00.000-08:00

I loved Thanksgiving this year. I mean, I love it every year, but I really loved Thanksgiving this year. I loved the turkey, and the turkey skin. I loved the mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables, and butternut squash soup. I loved the french silk pie, and pumpkin pie, and sweet potato pie, and whip cream. I loved the wine with dinner, and the funny conversations, and being able to burp at the table when I needed to burp. I loved using bad words, and swearing at each other in a hilarious manner.

I loved that my dad started things off by calling one of us a mother
f#%@&!, a phrase that turns me right into a pile of giggles, especially when a grown-up says it.

I loved The Joyous One, who when her coffee cup was filled up too much said "Babe, suck on this so it goes down." I loved the raucous laughter that followed.

I loved my mom, pretending not to know what a dutch oven was. I loved my sister for calling her out on it, saying "Do not act like you don't know what a dutch oven is!" I loved my mom's response, "Well I call that 'Do it again you f#%@!*& son of a bitch, and I'll kill you!". I love that I laughed about that for days after, repeating it to anyone who would listen.

I love that I'm still laughing about all that now.

I loved Thanksgiving.

Funny things seem to happen while having barfmeal...

2009-11-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

So this Friday, like every Friday, I was at my parents house having coffee and barfmeal with my dad. Today, we mixed it up a little though, I had a tomato sandwich ala Harriet The Spy instead of my usual english muffin, and my dad decided to invite Mr. Apple to accompany his barfmeal. This meant there was lots of extra crunching along with the regular barfmeal consumption and I was glad to have eaten my sammie before I lost my appetite...no small feat, let me tell you. But barfmeal is not the point of this story, there was another knee slapping moment this morning, only this time, my mom got involved...my dad was the co-star and villain, and moms was definitely the hero.

My dad and I were sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper...chatting...the ushe, and my mom came into the kitchen to prepare her lunch. As she was prepping, she was telling me how she maybe found a dress for my sister's wedding. So I was asking good daughter questions like "Where did you find it?" and "What color is it?" and "Who's the designer?"(yeah, right...I may watch Project Runway but I don't have a fashionable bone in my body). She was saying how she had been online looking for something and wasn't finding anything good, then by chance was at Carson's the night before, and then right in the middle of the story my mom was telling, I saw my dad lean all the way over and...BRRUUMMmmmbbBOMMMMPPPfffFFTTT...trumpet fart. I immediately began yelling at him, calling him disgusting, asking what was wrong with him. He claimed he didn't know it would be that loud, which...I call bullshit, Phil, a full lean means you know it's gonna be loud and powerful and you want to let it escape so you don't get blown into the air like Old Faithful. Anytoot, after my scolding he put the paper over his face, which at first I thought was him being ashamed. Then, I saw the paper shaking..."Dad, you scum, are you behind the paper laughing at yourself? Of course you are." He said "No, I'm reading the paper!" But he couldn't keep the paper upright, and sure enough, red-faced squinty Phil was there, laughing his head off at his own fart. He tried to cover again, saying he didn't mean to, it was an accident, I kept saying it was on purpose and then my mom chimed in..."Obviously he couldn't stand the fact that he wasn't getting any attention." One look at my mom and I nearly fell on the ground laughing. I actually was bent over double, trying to hold the belly jiggle to a minimum because that's how hard I was laughing. My dad laughed too, even though I had to repeat what my mom said twice, which kind of took away from the hilarity, but still...

Many of you may not think it's funny, laughing about farts. But if you know my family at all, then you know that laughing about farts is what we do...usually at the dinner table...and you love us for doing it. God knows I do.

Table for two...

2009-11-06T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's that age-old question "If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would you pick?". I've heard lots of different answers to this question, but most people will pick someone famous to sit down and break bread with. I've heard people say Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., Bono(that would be The Joyous One's choice), Abraham Lincoln, Oprah(why doesn't anyone ever pick Gayle? She's the funny one! Don't tell Oprah I said that), Mother Teresa, Captain Kangaroo, and on and on and you get my drift. I just do not know what the hell I would say to any of those people..."uh, thanks...for...all that you've done for this world. Could you pass the butter?" Seriously, I would probably just sit there, jaw dropped to double chin level, and say nothing. Or even worse, say horribly dorky things(I do NOT do well with trying to act cool around anyone famous. Just ask...oh nevermind). I mean, I wouldn't even know where to begin with someone like Martin Luther King Jr. And Jesus? I would totally ask for the truth about Mary Magdalene and dinner would take a right turn down Awkward Avenue. But really, who would I want to eat dinner with, dead or alive?

There are 2 people whom I always seem to come back to when I REALLY think about this question. My cousin Sarah died November 22nd, the day before Thanksgiving, right before I turned 2 years old. She was 10, and died of Cystic Fibrosis. I was too young to remember her for myself, but my mom implanted a memory of her which I go back to occasionally. My parents took me to see Sarah at the hospital, but I was too young to go in, so they stood with me outside of her window, so she could see me, so we could wave to each other. I can picture myself doing this, and it makes me deeply sad to think about it. That seems silly to me, since I don't remember her, I feel like maybe I don't get to be sad about her. Not that there are rules to this kind of thing, I just don't want to step on the toes of the people who do remember. Maybe I should just stop trying to be polite and let myself feel however I want. I wish I could meet her again, I'd like to get to know her, I'd like to have dinner with her. She made me a tooth fairy pillow out of washcloths and safety pins when she was in the hospital. I've asked my mom about it several times throughout my life, she's always told me she knew exactly where it was, but she's never given it to me. This weekend I asked for it again, she asked what it was worth to me...without thinking I said "A million dollars. No, it's worth more than that." Looks like I'm finally getting my tooth fairy pillow. And maybe someday, I'll get that dinner with my cousin.

My Grandpa Kroker died before I was born. He was young, 62 I believe. When I look at pictures of him, I can see where I get my penchant for pulling a funny face every time a camera is pointed at me. Stories about my grandpa and his brother Leo are legendary, I could listen to those stories for hours...and I have. He just seemed so so fun, I'd like to get a chance to laugh with him for awhile. I think about how different our childhood trips to Auburn would have been if he were alive. I can see him pretending to sleep in a lawn chair, then jumping up and scaring Emily and I as we crept closer to investigate. I can picture myself trying to impress him from way up in the backyard tree. I see Emily on his shoulders, and me being jealous. I imagine both of us in footie pajamas, curled up on the couch with him, Emily with her cugger and doll, me being pissed that my pj's were pink. I can almost feel the sheer joy of being able to wake up with him and my grandma being in the same house as us. Man, what a strange feeling, missing something I've never had.

Don't get me wrong, I am a very lucky person. I LOVE all of the crazy, hilarious, lovely, talented people I'm blessed to know. I'm not trying to dwell on what I've missed in my life, it's just the last time I was faced with that question, I started to think about what I really want. And as much as I'd love to meet Oprah, I would blow her off in a second if it meant even a moment in time with Sarah, or a splash of a day with my Grandpa Kroker.

Ohhh, only in my dreeaam...as real as it may seem, it was only in my dream...

2009-11-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

So last night, I had a dream that I caught The Joyous One at the Brookfield Zoo with another woman. A blonde haired woman. In the dream, I was totally fine with this indiscretion, I even encouraged it. I can recall saying to The Joyous One upon catching her, "I don't want to hold you back, if you like this girl, go for it. She's cute, and nice!" As the dream progressed, The Joyous One kept seeing this girl, and stayed married to me, and I was completely fine with all of it. Then, my friend Jessica's ex-boyfriend blew up my grade school, and I woke up as we(Jessica, The Joyous One, ol' blondie and I) were escaping...I hope we made it. Anybombsquad, I blinked a few times, remembering the dream...and I was mad. Apparently awake-Meta? Is not so cool w/ The Joyous One having a side of girlfriend.

The more awake I got, the angrier I got, and not just about the fact that The Joyous One had a floozie. I was also mad that she took the floozie to the zoo-zie. The Joyous One never takes me to the zoo and you know who loves the zoo? This girl! Luckily(for her), The Joyous One was caught near the South Entrance of the zoo, and not in the wombat exhibit...that would have been like a Catholic canoodling with another religion in the Vatican! Had she been caught in the wombats, well, I don't want to say what would have happened, but a chokehold may have been involved.

Anyadulterer, I told The Joyous One about the dream, but didn't mention being angry. I brushed it off as funny, because I didn't want her thinking I was mad at her. I know it's not her fault she dream-cheated! To be fair, there was no *cough* physical evidence that cheating was going on, but the implication was definitely there. But it's hard to resist The Joyous One, I KNOW dream-skeeze was was all up on her like peanut butter to jelly.

I had to keep telling myself that this was a dream, it didn't happen, The Joyous One did not have a side-skank, Whittier was not blown to smithereens, it was just a dream. Of course, asking The Joyous One how her girlfriend was when on the phone with her this morning makes it seem like I still don't grasp the whole "just a dream" thing. But I do now, at nearly 2pm I get it. It was just a dream.

I have to say, I was slightly surprised by my reaction to this dream. I'm fairly laid back about most things(yes, super uppity about other things, I know. Shut up, friends of mine). I used to think I would be okay with letting go if whoever I was with found someone they were better suited for. Apparently, dream-Meta is still like that, but after my boiling anger this morning, I think it's safe to say awake-Meta is not going down without a fight. Oh no, hell no.

Not funny, except when it is...

2009-10-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

Every Friday, I go to my parents house to have coffee and barfmeal with my dad. You see, he eats oatmeal for breakfast, oatmeal disgusts me and it has ever since reading "Ramona Quimby, Age 8". You know, the part when they have the jars of oatmeal dyed blue w/ the fly larvae in it? And it makes Ramona sick and she throws up in school? Well, ever since then, oatmeal has made me sick, so I call it "barfmeal". I have had sympathy sickness for Ramona Quimby since the 80's. What the hell? Anybarforama, my dad eats barfmeal, I eat an english muffin, we both drink coffee and we talk. We talk about any and everything from sports to the comics page in the paper, to the serious side of life, like health care, politics, and more recently, his prostate cancer diagnosis.

This morning, he and I got into a discussion about Catholic guilt. I can't remember how or why it came up, but I mentioned that I believe one of the biggest contributors to Catholic guilt is the "no-meat-on-Fridays-during-Lent" thing. I'm sure there's a proper name for the "no-meat-on-Fridays" thing, but don't ask me what it is. The Catholic church doesn't want me and my homosexual brothers and sisters, so I've taken to setting up a grill outside the church on Fridays during Lent and eating meat all over the place with a bunch of homos. Not really, but maybe I'll start! Anymoo, I said the meat rule was a rule that I'm sure every single Catholic has broken sometime in their life, and the guilt is overwhelming since it's such a simple rule to follow. My dad then said, "Well sure, and it should be. I remember one time I went out to lunch with your uncle Gerry. We went to a place known for it's burgers, I think was called Tip Top, they had hand packed burgers, real thick, juicy. Well I ate one...on a Friday...during Lent...and now I have cancer." He and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing. I laughed so hard, I was almost lizzing(laughing and whizzing, courtesy of Liz Lemon and the 30 Rock writers). He laughed so hard, his face got all red and squinty, and had he not been sitting at the table, he would have slapped his knee. Yes, my father is a knee slapper...literally.

Many of you might not think that's funny, laughing about cancer, but if you know my dad at all, then you know that laughing is what he does. And if you know my dad at all, then you love him for saying that and laughing about it. God knows I do...

Why, Brooke, why???

2009-10-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

I have something I need to talk about. The newest Colgate commercial starring Brooke Shields. That's right, I've got a toothpaste ad on the brain, and it's irritating me like a burr under my saddle. That's right, I just implied that I'm a horse. Shut up. Anyflossy, this ad, every time it's on I feel my nostrils flare as if I've smelled feet, I feel my teeth bare in anger, I feel my head shake slowly and I stare in disgust until it's over. After it, I'm fine, right back to normal, back to the cute little furry gremlin before you put water on it. That is, until I think about it again. Why does this ad bother me so much? Why, I thought you'd never ask.

It's the celery, I can't get past the effing celery. Brooke chomps on a full stalk of leaves-and-all celery. No one, and I mean no one, eats celery like that. Especially not a celebrity who can pay to have a personal celery cleaner come and discard the leaves. I can't blame Brooke, she didn't come up with the idea. Mind you, if I find out she did, I'm totes blaming her. I'm guessing that this is how it went down between the commercial-maker-uppers(advertisers, if you're nasty)...

"Okay guys, we have a good start here, I like that Brooke will start the commercial by saying she's a healthy person, but gang, we gotta prove that to the audience! How can we prove that Brooke is healthy? We gotta make believers outta these people...what's that Jiminy? Have her eat celery? I like where you're head is at, guy. Okay, celery...this is good...but can we make the celery seem healthier at all? What if...what if we...have her pick the celery off the tree and bite into it. What? Oh, where does celery grow then? Who cares, we have to figure this out. So, okay...how about...oh, I got it, what's that crap on top of celery? You know, it's... the crap...on the tops...of celery stalks, what is that crap? Leaves? Jiminy, speak up! You are killing me, man! So leaves, what if she bites into a stalk of celery with leaves on the top? That looks healthy! I mean, come on guys, leaves = healthy! What? Listen, I don't care if no one eats celery like that, no one is going to believe that Brooke Shields is healthy unless she bites into celery with leaves on the top! You really think the American public is going to think about the friggin leaves? Get out of my face, Jiminy, you disgust me! We're going leaves...LEAVES ON, PEOPLE!"

How do we know that she didn't just max a plate of chicken wings and she's trying to cool the fi-yah with celery? That's totally feasible. Now, if she were drinking a glass of wheat germ while tricked out in a super sweet yoga pose, then I would be like "Dag, Brooke Shields is healthy as a meyeah feyeah!" But no, they give her celery...with leaves. What's sad is that now I'm all kinds of in a tizzy about Brooke Shields, and I can remember a time not too long ago when Mina, Emily and I were at Bloomingdale's all excited to be getting Brooke's autograph on a poster. My how times have changed.

But really, what it comes down to is that I know Brooke Shields is healthy, not because of a celery stalk with leaves, but because...look at her. She's 44 years old and look at her. That's how I know she's healthy.

So thank you, Colgate advertisers, for pissing me off about Brooke Shields...and celery, one of my favorite ways to get Ranch dressing into my mouth. I'll never forgive you. But I'll keep using your products! Holla! Oh wait, I used Crest...nevermind...

SOGOTP...

2009-10-23T14:40:00.000-07:00

You'd think that while I was benched from life with a knee injury, I would have taken advantage of my down time by writing gobs and gobs of boogs(ew). But no, apparently I was too busy downing Vicodin by the handful, dozing lazily in my recliner while listening to Maury tell Jason that he IS the father. It was chore for me to even write a friggin email. Side note: Does anyone else think Connie Chung is embarrassed by Maury's one-trick-pony show of questionable paternity? I mean, she should be. It's awful. I should know, I watched it for 2 weeks straight!

Anychung, it's now been over a month since I've written anything, over a month since I injured my knee, and 3 weeks since my surgery. It's time to shit or get off the pot...or as writers say, "it's time to scribble or get off your fancy ergonomically correct chair". I totes just made that up, I have no idea what writers might say instead of "shit or get off the pot". Actually, when you think about it, "shit or get off the pot" might possibly be the most perfect way of urging someone to hurry up and do it..."it" being many things like, a shot of tequila, or sticking a sleeping person's hand in warm water, or the act of licking a toad, or...you know...pooping. Wait, what? Um, right, yeah, so it's time for me to shit or get off the pot, and this girl is gonna shit. God, this went downhill in a hurry, didn't it? Not exactly the kind of performance I hoped for after coming off the injured reserved, but what can you do?

So, my faithful readers...all 2 of you...I hope today's crapfest marks my return to the wonderful world of nonsensical randomness that I love to write about.

Live!!! Nude Girls!!!

2009-09-20T17:54:00.001-07:00

Well whaddya know, while standing in front of my bedroom window...totally naked...the bedroom curtains fell down. I knew it was going to happen, I have spent much time laying in bed looking at the left side of the curtain rod hanging precariously just by the tip of a screw, so I knew it was going to happen, I just didn't know when. And obviously I was hoping that it wasn't going to be when I was standing there in my birthday suit. Oh who am I kidding, I knew that's when it would happen, and if I really didn't want the curtain to fall when I was naked, I would have fixed it along time ago. Problem is, the only time I thought "Man, I should fix that so it doesn't fall when I'm naked." was when I was naked.

There I stood, freshly cleaned and scrubbed, still pink from the heat of the shower, naked...wearing only a towel turban on my head. I was facing the bedroom window, which faces the street, by the way, facing the bedroom window, staring at nothing. Something made me look up and to the left, and in slow motion, I saw the screw that was holding the left side of the curtain rod lazily tumble out of the wall, as if it had fallen asleep. And although only one side of the curtains fell, the curtains parted nice and wide, so that anyone who happened to be outside my window got way more than they bargained for when they decided to take their dog on an innocent walk around the block. I frantically grabbed the curtain rod mid somersault, lifted it back up and tried to set it on the hook that helps to hold up the curtain rod. The rod(hee) had not previously been on the hook, which probably contributed to the fall. As I lifted the rod(hee) and tried to set it on the hook, I realized that the gap in the curtains had closed up a little, but my right boob was perfectly placed in the gap. Anyone who was walking past, or driving past, or who had stopped to see the rest of the show, saw only a pale white boob, nipple and all, since I hadn't yet put on my bedazzled nipple pasties. After what seemed like 15 minutes, I finally got the curtain rod onto the hook and ran out of the room. Not sure why I ran out of the room, maybe I was chasing what little dignity I had left. Which, after a bare-assed run visible to anyone on the street, was none.

The Joyous One came to my rescue and closed the rest of the gap, so I could dress without an audience, but by that time it was too late, I'd already given everyone outside a free show, which I felt bad about until I saw lip prints on the window. Just kidding, I didn't really see lip prints, it was actually ralph. So you're welcome, street that I live on, you're welcome.

I wanna hold your ass...

2009-09-15T18:15:00.000-07:00

So last weekend, yours truly and The Joyous One went to Las Vegas, and it was our first time visiting the Gaygas strip. I know, I know, I seem like the type that would thrive in a place where you can booze 24 hours a day, a place that is home to the Pussycat Dolls, and a place that has glittering titties as far as the eye can see, but Vegas was never really a destination that I considered when planning a vacay. However, we had an opportunity to go with The Joyous One's sister and cousins, so we jumped on it like a moonwalk.

While in Vegas, I spotted a phenomenon that I just don't understand. I saw men, lots and lots of men, guiding their girlfriends/wives by the ass. Literally, guiding them around by the butt cheek. Hand cupped, placed on the right or left globe, guiding these women through casinos, the Forum shops at Caesar's, down the street, into church...okay, so I didn't go to church in Vegas, I'm just saying. Anygooseme, what happened to the good 'ol hand hold, guys? Too prudish for Vegas? What's wrong with a nice arm around the shoulders? Too hot for that kind of thing in Vegas? Why not go arm in arm? Not romantic enough? How about the arm around the waist? Not sexily possessive enough? Seriously, guiding a woman around by the ass? Is creepy. It made me miss the hand-in-your-partners-back-pocket craze of the 80's and you know something is bad when I miss that craze! I mean, come on guys, we will know just as well that this woman is your girlfriend/wife if you simply hold her hand, no need to cup the buttocks and guide her around the mall. Might as well toss a leash on her and feed her treats when she goes the right direction. Leave the ass grabbing for the bedroom...or the poker tables which was another place where ass grabbing was a fixture, although at the tables it was a little more romantic because there was no guiding, just rubbing and such. See? Romantic.

Maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but whatever, if I saw it once, I would not have cared. But I saw it at least 2 or 3 times a day, in various places, at various times, so of course it is now something I will be constantly looking for so I can complain about it and judge people out loud(but not within earshot of them, I'm a sissy!). Don't get me wrong, I love asses as much as the next guy...if you've seen The Joyous One's rump, you'll know this is true...but to me, the ass-guide is a little much, it's degrading, and unless you won the girl in a poker game, she's not your property. Back up off the ass-guide, fellas. Your jean shorts already inform us that you're a tool, we need no further proof.

That Day...

2009-08-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm 17 years old, a senior in high school, and it's a Saturday in April. I'm in a 4 hour detention in the North Cafeteria, trying desperately to shave off detention hours so I can go to prom. I've just come back from the bathroom where I was smoking w/ my friend. Not 3 minutes after we sit down at our table, one of the security guards calls both my name and my friend's name and tells us to come with him. We look at each other, panicked, sure that we are being busted for smoking in the girls room. He leads us to the hall, I see my parents, I see her parents, I know something is wrong. My first thought is with our sisters...you see, they are friends, our sisters. I'm sure something has happened to them and that's why our parents are here. I search their faces for an answer. Nothing is revealed, I just know something is wrong. I say "what's wrong?"...at least I think I say that. I maybe just think it. My parents can't talk really, my mom hugs me, my dad wraps around us both. Their names escape my mom's lips...they were found in the garage...and they are dead. It's not our sisters, relief floods me for a moment, until I register that it's my friends who have been found. I swear at my parents, call them liars, I say "f*ck you" to them for hurting me. I limp towards the Student Center, a wounded animal, I want to knock things down, I head towards a garbage can...I try to...I can't.

Slowly I see other kids coming out of detention, out of the auditorium, out of the walls it seems. The news is spreading, people are talking about it, I can hear them and I want them to shut up. I know one of my friends is in the small theater, I need to tell her before she hears it from someone else. She's as close to them as I am, closer even. I can't remember if I find her, I think I do, but I can't remember. I know that I call another friend, one who is at work. She works at a deli-type restaurant, I worry she'll cut herself on accident when I tell her, so I ask her to stop what she's doing.

I stand out in the front of the high school, I'm waiting for someone. I'm waiting in the middle of gossip, and assumptions, and predictions. I still want these people to shut up, more now. Their voices are thunder in my ears, it hurts, I want them to shut up. A group of girls I'm friendly with, but not friends with, takes me within their circle, as if to protect me. They say the right things, they tell me that if I need anything, they are there for me. I know that I won't go to them for my needs, but I appreciate the offer. I don't care if they're feeling sorry for me, I don't care if they never speak to me again, I'm happy to be with them in this moment.

The only laughter I can remember that day comes when I'm at my house. I've gotten high with someone, perhaps many people, I'm in a giggly mood. My parents have bought Cheetos among other snack-type foods, figuring my friends will become semi-fixtures at my house in the days to come. I have a bowl of Cheetos on the couch between me and my friend who works at the deli. I'm tossing the Cheetos to my dog Zoey who is sitting in front of me, and they are bouncing off her nose and onto the floor. She can't catch them, and I'm laughing at her. I think she knows it's helping, because she keeps doing it. That's the only laughter I can remember from that day.

Soon after that day is the first and only time in my life I consider suicide as an option. Then I remember suicide is what brought me to that place where suicide became an option, and how dare I think that way. I know better than that, I know how it feels to be left behind, I know how it feels to carry guilt, I know how it feels to think I could have stopped it. I know soon after that moment when I consider it, that I will never consider it again. And I don't.

I'm not sure what brought this to my brain today. It's not the first time I've thought about that day, but it's the first time I've felt compelled to put it in writing. Let's see if I post it.

I see the glass as half-empty because it friggin is...

2009-08-12T18:19:00.000-07:00

You know, I end up drinking like, half of my chocolate milk during the taste-testing process, which leaves me with a lame half a glass of the stuff for enjoyable drinking. Christ, maybe I'll just start making my choco milk in a friggin pitcher so I have a decent amount left to drink once I've got the proper syrup to milk ratio. Of course, I could take the coward's way out and buy pre-mixed chocolate milk, but then what would I have to complain about?

Foam sweet foam...

2009-07-21T11:56:00.000-07:00

So I'm really pleased that foam soap has become more prevalent in today's bathrooms. I find myself becoming a bigger and bigger fan of the foam soap each and every time I use it. I love it so much that I dare say I think foam soap should be mandatory in ALL public bathrooms. Yes, I realize that would be a hard thing to keep up with, going around making sure all bathrooms contained foam soap, but hey, maybe that would create new jobs and in this economy couldn't we use some new jobs? I would be more than happy to have my job title be "Foam Soap Monitor" and I betcha I'm not the only one. Sure, the pay would suck, but I'd get to use foam soap as my job...how tits would that be?

One of my first exposures to foam soap came when The Joyous One purchased her weight in coconut-scented foam hand soap from Bath & Body Works. It smelled so friggin good, I wanted to Pina Colada it w/ some rum and sip it while sitting on my balcony, imagining I was somewhere exotic, like Tahiti, or Des Moines. It smelled so friggin good that I would sometimes use it to wash all the way up my arms, then I would sniff my arms and hands every 10 or 15 minutes. Sure, that looked weird to passers-by, but what did I care when I was in coconut heaven? Sadly, The Joyous One now develops hives when the word "coconut" is uttered within 10 feet of her, so our days of coconut scented foam hand soaps are over. But that's okay, coconut isn't the only delicious foam soap on the market. And delicious scents aren't the only reason to love foam soaps.

This afternoon, as I chewed innocently on a pen at work, I noticed something wet looking and blue all over my right hand. It was blue ink from my pen that I inadvertently exploded whilst chewing on it, and it got all over my hand...plus on my face...not a lot on my face, but noticeable. I pulled off my headset and headed for the bathroom, unfortunately running into my work-building crush on the way. So embarrassing. I walked in, pushed on the dispenser and smiled as a perfect vanilla soft-serve of foam soap swirled into my palm. I stole a look at myself in the mirror and noticed that a piece of my hair was doing a weird sticking-up-woop-woop thing, it kind of looked like the St. Louis Arch. Not wanting anyone else to see the "woop woop"(I can't believe my work-building crush saw not only the ink on my face, but the woop-woop-do. What luck!), I decided to use my non-soaped hand to fix the offensive hairdo...offensive because I hate St. Louis due to the Cardinals. Anyrival, it took a little bit of time to fix because the chunk that was "wooping" was tangled with another chunk, so I had to unwind the chunks, plus I was using one hand which doubled my work, and it was 'ol Lefty that I was using, not my power hand so that slowed me down even more. Anyjericurl, when I finished untangling, I went to finish the wash-job on my hands and saw that the soft-serve coil hadn't moved an inch. I realized at that moment that had I been using a liquid soap, it most definitely would have traveled down the creases in my hand and onto the floor, or the counter, or my flip-flopped-foot. But thanks to the form-keeping bubbles of the foam soap, I didn't have to worry about any messes other than the ink all over me, and my hot-mess hair. And that is something to be thankful for.

Delicious scents, cute soft-serve plops, better washing coverage, these are just some of the things a foam soap brings to the bathroom counter. Add those to the awesome "squeeoush" sound the foam soap makes when being dispensed from it's container and you have not only the best smelling, best washing soap in the biz, but also the most entertaining. Next time you use a foam soap, I want you all to think about how much better you life is because of it, and say "thank you"...to the soap.

99 Luftballons...

2009-07-11T06:22:00.000-07:00

So today while coming home on the Green Line after Jessica's birthday breakfast(Happy Birthday!), I saw a wayward balloon floating around in the neighborhood of the United Center. In the past, that kind of sighting would make me sad, because seeing a balloon all by itself in the air usually meant that some poor kid was standing on the ground, missing their balloon. I would think about the circumstances that led to the loss. Were they horsing around with some other kid and their shenanigans caused the string to slip out of their grasp? Did their parent tie the string too loosely around their wrist, leading to balloon escapage? Did they spot something shiny on the ground, and in their haste to reach for it, let go of the balloon? Was that kid just standing there, staring up at the balloon, tears streaming down their chubby kid cheeks? Those were the things I used to think about when I would spot a rogue balloon bobbing and weaving in the wind. Today though, I thought about something different. I thought about how that balloon was going to have a great adventure, and maybe, just maybe, some little kid on the ground had wished it well, unclenched their tiny fist, and let their balloon go, smiling and waving until it was out of sight.

My only mention of MJ's Memorial...

2009-07-08T11:35:00.001-07:00

At first, I wasn't sure how I felt about John Mayer playing an instrumental version of "Human Nature", but then I was happy about it...because that meant I could sing it myself without John steppin all over my vocals.

Rest well, Michael. May you have the peace in death that no one would give you in life.

Wherefore art thou, caterpillar?

2009-07-06T18:25:00.000-07:00

So yesterday morning, after parking my car Reggie in his usual spot, I started walking into work, like I do every morning Monday through Friday. Something made me turn to take one last look at Reg, and as I looked at him, I noticed something on the passenger door frame that was fairly large, and seemed a little furry. I thought that it was just a hugeungous drop of bird scat, which Reg and I are both used to since he gets parked under trees a lot. I decided to investigate(yeah, I'm not sure why one would head towards something that they thought was poop, but that's me...I'm disgusting) and as I got closer, I saw that it wasn't the mark of a bird defacing Reg w/ it's defecation, it was a huge, furry caterpillar. I had forgotten all about caterpillars until I spotted that car-crawlin monster.

I decided to get closer, I noticed it's coloring, I noticed how soft it looked, I got even closer so I could find it's eyes and, in the words of the immortal Kylie Minogue, it was love at first sight. This was no monster, this was a beautifully cute caterpillar, with strangely long fur, and a mustache of sorts, with deep black eyes and movements reminiscent of the way a puddle ripples when you touch it. This was no monster, this was my new friend. After staring at it for awhile, I realized I was several minutes late for work, so I broke my stare and hustled into the building. While flip-flopping down the hall, I thought about my caterpillar, baking in the warm sun on the frame of Reggie's door. I got nervous, so I told my boss about the caterpillar and told her I was going to go get him out of the sun so he didn't die. As I approached Reg, there was no sign of the 'pillar. A wave of fear started at my butt and made it up to my stomach before I realized that the 'pillar had already traveled down the passenger door, and was near the bottom of Reggie's body. Apparently Mr. Pillar felt the need to get out of the heat as well. I grabbed a stick and kind of shoved it under the caterpillar like I used to do with my bird Marcus, to see if it would latch on so I could move it to a safer, more lush and shady area. Sure enough, the little bugger jumped right on, clinging to it with it's whole body. I walked over to a patch of bushes and gently placed my caterpillar into the center of it and headed back into work, hoping I would see it again someday.

I thought about the caterpillar for most of the day, I forwarded the picture I took of it to my friends, I wondered what it was doing, I even named it. I named it Buff, because my friend Ellen has this daughter who was a butterfly for Halloween last year, and when asked what she was being for Halloween, she would say "Buhffly" and that just cracked me up. Ellen even made her leave me the cutest voicemail ever..."Ha-ween...I'ma be a buhffly". So as I thought of this caterpillar turning into a butterfly, all I could think of was little Evelyn and her cute little voice saying "buhffly"...so Buff seemed like a good name. Beautiful Buff.

Fast forward to 5pm, quittin time, I headed out to the bushes where I'd left Buff. I saw a bird kind of hanging around, so I ran at it and screamed "Get away from my caterpillar, you bird!". Yeah, I'm real good with the insults. The bird, either scared of me or just wanting to get away from the crazy person, flew away, and I said "that's what I thought"...as the words escaped my lips I saw a woman on the other side of the parking lot staring at me, no doubt wondering who the deuce I was talking to. Anysybil, I peered into the bushes and there was Buff, looking restless as he climbed through the branches. He seemed to be looking for something, food, a place to cocoon, his family, I'm not sure, but it made me nervous. I went back inside to get some caterpillar advice from my co-workers. Not that they're caterpillar experts, they just seem to be more into nature than I am and might know about caterpillars. I asked them if they thought I should try to take Buff back to my house, and maybe put him on the tree that Reg had been parked under. I voiced my worries about Buff, that maybe he wasn't finding the right kind of food, or was looking for his family since he was in a whole new town and didn't know it. They kind of looked at me like I was weird, which is the norm, and said they thought he would be fine. I said "So, I shouldn't put him in a cup, take him to Jewel and Whole Foods with me, then take him back to my house? I should stop worrying?". They said yes, stop worrying, it's a caterpillar. I hung my head, cued up that Charlie Brown tune in my head(you know the one), and shuffled slowly out of the office.

I couldn't find Buff when I left the second time. And he couldn't be found this morning either, although I didn't have a lot of time to spend looking. I might go out in a bit to see if I can find him, but I fear that I've seen the last of Buff. That realization makes me sad, I became fairly attached to that stupid caterpillar in just a day. I thought about him the whole day, I talked about him, I worried about him, I sent proud mama pictures of him, and now that he might be gone, I'm missing him. See, that kind of reaction is why I don't want kids. If I can't handle my emotions regarding a caterpillar, how can I possibly handle the weighty responsibility of a child? No thanks...I'll stick to unnatural attachments to caterpillars, thankyouverymuch.

Boat-tastic...

2009-07-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

You know, I really love being on boats. This is something I always know in the back of my mind, but the front of my mind is a bully, and it pushes my nautical love into a corner that I can't always see. But I do, I love being on boats. Anyone with a boat out there, keep this Boaty Boaterson in mind if you need a first mate who doesn't know the first thing about boats, but loves them, and is always good for a humorous quip and a high-five.

Memory...All Alone In The Moonlight...

2009-06-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of pissed at some of the things my brain has chosen to remember. Or maybe I'm pissed about the things my brain has decided to forget. There are huge chunks of my past, years of my past, that have just fluttered out of my head and fallen somewhere. It's like every time a strong wind hits my ear, a Meta-memory gets blown out the other side. I'm beginning to wonder if the memories I do have are actually remembered by me, or if they are only memories because I remember being told about them. And how will I ever really know?

I was at a RibBQ at my sister's house tonight and we were talking about our grade school, Whittier, and all the various teachers we had. My mom told a story about me in second grade, one I'd never heard before. It wasn't really a story as much as something I did. My teacher, Ms. Griffith(big ups to Ms. Griffith, who was hands down my favorite teacher in grade school) gave us spelling words every week. We had to not only spell these words correctly, but we had to use the words in sentences. I believe the general idea was to use 1 word in each sentence, but I fancied myself a clever girl, and decided to use as many words as I could in one sentence. Apparently, this was how I rolled in second grade, because the incident my mom told me about tonight was not the first, nor the last time I did that. Anyspellingbee, my mom told me that one time, my second-grade self took two of the words, "giraffe" and "reddish" and formed this gem of a sentence: "A giraffe is a big animal with a long neck and it might eat a reddish." No wonder I didn't graduate high school on time, I thought "reddish" was the same thing as a "radish". And I also believed for some reason that giraffes might eat radishes. I'm not sure which is more disturbing. Needless to say, this momma-memory is exactly the kind of memory that I wish I'd had, instead of heard about.

The memories I seem to have always kind of suck. For example, I've been haunted by a Jewel memory ever since writing that boog about Preferred Cards. I'm at Jewel with my mom, and I'm sitting in the bottom of the cart, you know, under the body of the cart where people usually stack a couple of cases of beer. I'm not sure how old I am during this memory, but I've got to be fairly young since I can fit under the cart. So I'm under there and my mom parks the cart near the deli department and takes a number, only the deli is closed and my mom doesn't know. She stands there for awhile, waiting, not knowing the it's closed, but I realize it and I start to cry, because I'm sad for my mom. The memory stops there, so I don't know why I was so sad for my mom, and I can't recall what happened after that. I imagine we left the deli and continued shopping because that's what people do at the grocery store. This memory still makes me sad though, and I still don't know why. My mom clearly got over it, she has not shown any anger towards deli departments since then and has purchased tons of sliced meat in the years that have past. But that suck of a memory is the kind of memory I get instead of remembering a hilarious sentence I wrote about a giraffe and a reddish.

The manufactured "giraffe eating a radish" memory will now become part of my memory repertoire, and I'm sure I'll retell it 1,000 before my life is said and done. Along with my favorite manufactured memory about the time I peed all over my parents floor in front of the mirror, but that's a boog for another time. Anypisser, while the manufactured giraffe memory has made it into the "memories I didn't have but tell repeatedly" file, no feelings accompany it. I think that's what gets me so mad about my selective memory. In what was a mostly happy childhood, I've chosen to remember things that reignite feelings of sadness, or feelings of nothing, which is equally sad. And I have enough sad memories from teenage years and adulthood, I'm not diggin these sad childhood memories close location to my surface. Now don't get me wrong, I do have actual childhood memories that make me fizz with happy, kind of like Pop Rocks when they first hit your tongue. But for someone who appears to be so happy, I sure do like to keep the sad nearby.

Perfect Ham-ony...

2009-06-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

I don't even like ham but I love ham, and I know that makes no sense, but ham is one of those things that I love when I'm eating it, but never go out of my way to have...sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.

Groce-ual Preference...

2009-06-08T19:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday while at the Jewel, I decided to lie about my Preferred Card status. Not only did I lie about my Preferred Card status, I went so far as to act out a scenario when presented with the "Do you have a Preferred Card?" question. As the cashier asked me, I pulled my carabiner off my belt loop(reason #75 why I know I'm a lesbian), and pretended like my Preferred Card had fallen off my key ring. I even said "Oh no! I think it fell off my key ring! Would you take my gym membership?" then I laughed, then she laughed, and then she told me that they do take the Dominick's card, to which I responded "Well I don't have one of those, how about a Piggly Wiggly card?" to which both of us laughed again. Then she waved her magic wand of preferred savings and before I knew it I was reaping discounts left and right.

I was curious about why I felt the need to make up a scene this time through the line at Jewel when every other time, I've openly admitted to not having a Preferred Card. Plus, the whole time I was waiting in line, I was inventing what I was going to do, so it wasn't like it was a game- time decision either, it was totally premeditated. What was it that prompted me to make up such a weird lie and then act it out? I think the Preferred Card pressure just finally got to me, and I cracked. That's right, the Preferred Card pressure...it got to me. Preferred Card pressure is what happens to me every time I go to Jewel sans Preferred Card. No one has ever made me feel guilty about this, or denied me savings, but somehow I feel less than Preferred since I don't have a PC to prove that the folks at Jewel prefer me. And this, my friends, is my big honking problem with Jewel...if you're going to give everyone the preferred savings, why the eff are you wasting time marking things as "Preferred Card" specials? Just mark that sh*t down and offer it to EVERYONE.

I guess I don't understand why stores like Jewel have things like the Preferred Card..."Here, fill out this form, waste some time and some paper, we'll waste some plastic and send you 1 credit card-type card for your wallet, and 87 thing-a-ma-bobs for your key chain, and if you lose them or forget them, don't worry because we will just give you the savings anyway, without any proof that you are in fact a Preferred Customer." At least at Dominick's you have to give them your phone number. I'm such an idiot, I always blank on my parents phone number and use The Joyous One's parents number, which is odd because I never remember that phone number any other time in my life, only at Dominick's when I'm proving that I have Fresh Values privileges. The other weird part about that is The Joyous One has a Fresh Values card registered to our house...where I live...and yet still I use her parent's phone number every time I'm at Dominick's...go figure. I also don't know her parent's address, but don't tell The Joyous One, we've been together for almost 10 years, these numbers are numbers I should know. And not just when I'm at Dominick's.

AnyA.D.D, Preferred Cards and Fresh Values cards are the reasons you will usually find me at Whole Foods, where they don't distinguish between preferred and non-preferred because everyone is treated equally, and being treated equally is important to this little lesbian. Anytime I feel low about not having the same rights as the straights in this country, I'll just head to the nearest Whole Foods and roam the aisles looking at all of the specials being offered to every single customer that enters the door. I'll feel no Preferred Card pressure as I grab up discounts and head to the cash register, equal in the eyes of the Whole Foods Gods. But of course, if I'm craving processed foods, or red dye 40, then I'll have to suck it up, go to the Jewel, break out into a cold sweat as I shuffle toward the register without my Preferred Card, and decide which story I'll tell this time.

I Know I Just Did, But How Dare You...

2009-06-05T13:44:00.000-07:00

My previous post got me thinking about how annoying I can be about things(it also got me thinking about "The Choice Is Yours" by The Black Sheep). For example, getting mad at a car for going too slow, then getting mad at a car for going fast when I know full well that I have driven down many a street going too slow, and many a street going too fast. Plus, I'm the person who would get in-the-car mad at anyone who honked at me for going too slow, or shook their fist at me for going too fast. I say "in-the-car mad" because I get totally furious inside my car, screaming and swearing up a storm, banging on the wheel, but I'm scared to take it out of the car with yelling or honking for fear of a road-raged individual punching or shooting me...it happens. And it did happen to The Joyous One and I once in Forest Park...only we didn't get punched or shot, just yelled at by a woman who called us dyke-ass mother effers and told us what we needed was a man...and you know, if we'd thought of that "man" thing in the first place, The Joyous One and I could have saved ourselves a lot of grief, and pain, and a lot of same-sexin, so really I should find that woman and thank her. Anysybil, reactions like that from people are what stop me from honking, yelling out windows, etc. But road rage and honking and dyke-a** mother effers is not what I meant to write about. What I meant to write about is...

Things that are okay if I do them, but not okay if you do them...

Don't we all have these things? You cannot deny that you have roamed aimlessly through the produce section, carelessly blocking access to the potatoes, even though a week before, you in-your-head swore at someone for doing the exact same thing with the apples. Don't pretend like you've never been walking through the concourse at Wrigley, and stopped to look for your friends behind you, even though last time you were at a game, you pushed past someone who was doing the exact same thing, saying "Excuse you!" as you went by. We ALL do things that really piss us off when other people do them and we all know that we do. Perhaps if we just get some of these things out in the open, we can all stop doing them(listen, I know this is impossible, I just want to get them out in the open as my way of venting). Here are some of my favorite things that I do, that really piss me off when other people do them...

Take right turns slowly

Swear in public

Call the waiter or waitress by name(not sure why this pisses me off when other people do it, it just does...shut up)

Bang into people w/o saying "excuse me" when in a large crowd

Sit like a dude at concerts and sporting events(legs splayed as wide open as possible. I think men sit this way so they don't sit on their junk. I sit this way because I like having space)

Interrupt

Cough or sniffle when a cold is present

Chew and crack gum

Clap in the movie theater

Dance to "Single Ladies"

This list could go on and on and on and on, so I think I should just cut if off now, before I realize how hypocritical and annoying I am. I'd love to hear what some of you all do that really cheeses you off when other people do the same...you know you've got some good ones! Oh, and not commenting on other people's blogs? Another thing that I do, yet it pisses me off when other people do it...don't piss me off!

This or That...

2009-06-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

As I got out of my car in front of my house yesterday, there was a car heading south on my street. It was close enough where I didn't want to cross in front of it, so I waited for it to pass. Of course, the moment I decided to let it pass was the exact moment the car decided to slow down. I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was really about 12 seconds, and as the car passed me, I rolled my eyes and said "Why don't you slow the f*ck down...friggin idiot." About 23 minutes later, I left my house to head to my sister's house. As I approached the street, I saw that a car was coming, again, close enough where I didn't want to cross in front of it, so I waited for it to pass. The moment I decided to let it pass, the car decided to rev it's engine and fly past my house, much faster than I'm used to cars going on my street. As it whizzed by, I furrowed my brow and said "Why don't you slow the f*ck down...friggin idiot." Is it me, or am I impossible to please?

Simply The Breast...

2009-05-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

Summer, and everything it brings along with it, will soon be upon us. I'm talking music festivals, BBQ's, swimming, fireworks, backyard hanging out, but also some obnoxious things like mosquitos, sunburns, humidity and my #1 summer pet peeve...naked shirtless men. Listen, it's not for the the reason you think...that reason being that I'm a lesbian and prefer the naked chest of a woman...that's not it at all, although that statement is true...I do prefer the naked chest of a woman, but I can appreciate the naked chest of man as well. Anychesty, that's not the reason. I feel this way about naked chests of men because I think it's unfair on many levels, that they get to be shirtless whenever they please. Those levels include the fact that men are the only ones who get to experience an even tan from the waist up without needing to pay for the tanning salon, and also the fact that we're forced to look at naked man-chest all summer, even if that chest is attractive(although nothing is attractive about the matted pit hair of a man, no one can deny that!). But what truly bugs is that if we women decided to go out topless, we'd get in trouble...steaming piles of trouble...

Picture this: a braless but shirt-wearing Me, and my friend, we'll call him Chuck, decide to take a walk to the local park to play frisbee. We both leave with shirts on, but as soon as we're outside, we realize it's super hot. The only solution to our hot problem is to remove our shirts. Chuck and I both whip em off, tuck them into our back pockets, high five over our cleverness, and continue to stroll. Enter neighborhood law enforcement officer...he pulls his car over, hops out, and says "Ma'am, you can't be walking around town without your shirt on, even though you have a nice pair. I'm going to have to write you a ticket for Indecent Exposure"...me, in my naivete assumes he will also write Chuck a ticket for the same thing since he also has his breasts exposed, but he doesn't...so I ask him why a woman's chest is indecent while a man's chest is not. He can't answer and just hands me the ticket...

Now, this did not happen to me or anyone I know. I don't have any friends named Chuck(if I do and I just forgot, I'm sorry Chuck!), I'm rarely without a bra, and I don't ever walk around town with my top off...I want to, but I don't...I'm too jiggly, which also explains why I'm never without a bra. Now, I don't know for sure if men can get tickets or arrested or whatever for Indecent Exposure. I mean, maybe they can and I'm just assuming they don't, since I see shirtless men prancing about all summer long, hairy shirtless men...and no shirtless women...because they would get in trouble...for being shirtless...and not hairy. Anybackhair, that is what chafes me and my unexposed nipples. What is it about the woman's breast that is so "indecent", so "offensive? When Janet Jackson had her boob exposed on TV, what was so bad about that?

Is it the nipples? It can't be, everyone has had at least 1 at some point in their life, hell some people have 3. Is it the curvature of the breast itself? A lot of men have a curve to their breasts and sure, a lot of the time it's a muscle-y curve, but it's a curve nonetheless! My guess is that it's because women's chests are seen as sex objects, and men's aren't. But I'm having a hard time believing that too, since I've seen plenty of man chests being ogled and fondled by women and men alike. But that's all I can figure in this breasnundrum...women's chests are more often seen as sexual things, sexual objects, and therefore are deemed "indecent" when exposed.

It's a shame really that breasts, whose purpose are to nourish the young, are seen this way. It's a shame that men's chests aren't seen this way, not as young-nourishers, but as sex things. And I'm not innocent in this, I've ogled and fondled chests of both sexes...I'm an equal opportunity ogler/fondler. But I do that with butts too, and legs, hands, wrists, backs, necks...hell I'm just an all-around perv, I guess. Right now, right in this moment, I've got an "all or nothing" attitude about the whole chestate(chest debate): if one of the sexes can't expose their chests, then the other sex should be forbidden to as well. And I'm all for it if someone decides to change the rules to allow both sexes to prance topless...and if they do, imagine the chestacle(chest spectacle).

**Author's Note: even if the rules changed and I could prance topless, I would not. I don't think anyone would benefit from my top half being exposed, least of all my top half, which would no doubt turn the color of a cherub tomato and cause me great pain and peeling with possible skin cancer ramifications. But also, my top half, aside from my rack, ain't that great and the only place it should be exposed is in the comfort of my own home. I would hope that some of the shirtless men of this world would heed my advice and realize that maybe the best place for your chest and man-boobs to be exposed, is in private.**

This way...

2009-05-27T11:14:00.000-07:00

I miss Kathy. I do. I miss her so much, in the pit of my stomach, in the nooks of my heart, I miss her more than I imagined I could or would. It's funny, I find myself wondering what right do I have missing her this way? I didn't know her favorite color, or band, or food, or movie, I really only knew her birthday because of her death, I missed her going away party when she left for Alaska, so what right do I have missing her this way? What right do I have writing about missing her this way? She was such an epic figure, full of life, and hilarity, and just all good things, how can I help but to miss her this way? Part of her beauty was making everyone she met feel special, feel connected...we are all missing her this way.

And now, in the sadness of missing her, I'm remembering her, I'm feeling the sheer luck of knowing her, I'm recalling the happiness of being her friend, a smile is spreading across my face, one that cannot be helped, and I'm beaming. No one else's memory can make me smile this way.

I could use a good groping...

2009-05-20T20:11:00.000-07:00

So I just saw the most hilarious headline ever..."Woman Says 'Chuck E Cheese' Groped Her". I mean, who files a complaint when they get groped by Chuck? Wouldn't you just laugh? Sure, maybe we should worry that a grown-up in a mouse suit is groping women in an establishment for kids, but still...being fondled by Chuck E Cheese...hilarious...

I'm not KIDding...

2009-05-19T21:29:00.000-07:00

Not to sound cold, but I don't think I'm going to have children. Not that I don't like children, I actually really do...in fact, it wouldn't be wrong to say that I borderline love them. They can be cute, and funny, and just melt your heart with their inability to pronounce the letter "r". But bottom line is...they're children. They cry, they whine, they scream, they tantrum, they can't wipe themselves until they are like, 5, and they're yours...forever.

Where is all this coming from? Well, while walking to my car after work today, I passed a woman walking with 2 kids holding on to each hand. The boy was holding her left hand and he was pitching an absolute fit. He was maybe too old to be carrying on the way he was, but I can never gauge how old kids are, he just seemed to be awfully tall to be going bonzai like that. The girl was holding onto the woman's right hand, and she was just smiling at everyone she passed, seemingly oblivious to the shenanigans happening just on the other side of her. I passed this trio at virtually the same time as Jose, from the bank. When we were far enough away from them, he looked at me and said "THAT is why I'm not going to have any." I responded with "You ain't lyin!". We probably would have high-fived had we been standing closer together...or knew each other better. Anydiaper, then Jose said that maybe he would adopt a 17 or 18 year old, one that was already grown. I agreed, we shared a smirk at the expense of the screaming banshee wearing kids clothes, and went our separate ways.

As I walked the rest of the way to my car, I started thinking about what Jose said...but I thought, if you're going to adopt an adult-sized someone, why not adopt an actual adult? Why can't we adopt adults? Who cares if they're...well, adults, I think I should be able to adopt an adult if I want to. And not to get all picky about the age of my adult-child, but I think I'd prefer a 22 year old. So many benefits to adopting someone this age. Don't get me wrong, I'd take any adult between 21 and 35, but 22 is my preference...cmon 22! Anyagist, think about it...if they were a turdburger of a 22 year old, it wouldn't really be your fault, would it? And they'd already be out of college, so you wouldn't have to pay for it, would you? Of course, you'd have to pay if they were all ambitious n' shit and were heading to law school or...doctor school...but so long as you picked a hard working school slacker, like myself, you'd be in the clear as far as paying for stuff goes(Author's Note: I don't want to hear any wisecracks from my mother, father or sister. I realize that my car insurance isn't exactly being paid by me and that my health insurance is only being paid because of The Joyous One's company, and that until very recently my car wasn't in my name, but that doesn't give you the right to make any cracks about my assessment that you wouldn't have to pay for anything were you to adopt an adult...so shut up). And let's not forget the most important part: built-in drinking buddy. Isn't that why people have kids in the first place? I mean, besides the obvious reasons like lawn mowing, and having someone to force childhood dreams and expectations on...but right after that comes drinking buddy, right...right?

I'm sure that having kids is very fulfilling, I'm sure people get a lot more out of it than "drinking buddy" and "lawn mower". And while I just LOVE spending time with other people's kids, my favorite part about them is being able to give them back when I'm done.

A tribute to my dogs...

2009-05-18T13:03:00.000-07:00

This is an old boog I pulled from Myspace that I wrote right after my dogs were put to sleep in May of 2006. I didn't post it on the exact 3 year anniversary because well, that was Annie's wedding day and a day of glad, not sad. But I still think about them a lot, especially since my mom gave me and Emily a throw blanket with a (giant) picture of them on it for Christmas. So since I'm still thinking about them a lot now, I figured I should resurrect the boog I wrote about them back then.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

R.I.P Frannie and Zoey
Okay, this is not a funny blog, so if that's what you're hoping for, read the one about the drag queen....

Monday, May 15th might go down as one of the worst days I've ever had. Monday, May 15th, signaled the end of an era. Monday, May 15th the dog world lost 2 of it's most devoted, hilarious, loving, goofy, and cuddly ambassadors. Monday, May 15th I said goodbye to the 2 best dogs a girl could ever dream of. My dear, sweet puppies Frannie and Zoey went to heaven. I loved them like sisters, like litter-mates, like friends.

Zoey was the best friend I've ever had. No offense to my current friends, but she was a much better listener and her cuddling was aces! She was the princess to end all princess's, she wouldn't even go off the deck to go to the bathroom if it was raining. She'd just squat right there and delicately trot back into the house when she was finished. God forbid her precious paws got muddy or wet. Zoey chose the more leisurely path through life, just like me. She preferred laying to playing. She was the snack chip/phone/remote control transporter for my sister and I when we were too lazy to get off the couches. Just tuck the object in Zoey's collar and send her over to the opposing couch. She was there for me through all of my terrible high-school tradgedies. She knew when I was sad. She knew when I needed a kiss. She knew when I needed a hug. She knew that even if I wanted to be alone, that didn't apply to her. She knew. She was a good dog. I will miss her more than I can even say.

Frannie was the anti-Zoey. Not that she didn't love her, they were extrodinarily close. It's just that everything about Frannie was...well...frantic. Her Garbage Pail Kid name would totally have been "Frantic Frannie". Frannie provided hours of entertainment. Why, just a couple of weeks ago she put on my mom's Croc and walked around with it for a good while until she finally jarred it loose and it fell off. Her middle-of-the-night phone call to the police is a story that I'll never be able to tell with a straight face. Maybe I'll write a seperate blog about it. It's friggin hilarious. But Frannie also knew when to turn off the comedy and snuggle her head onto your lap or jump up to kiss away your tears. I'm so happy she came into my life.

More times than not, I ended up with both of them in my twin bed when it was time to go to sleep. And more times than not, I would wake up on the floor next to my twin bed in the morning while they lay comfortably stretched out on my pillow. They were true companions, to my family and to each other.

But now they are gone, and I'm terribly sad but I'm coping. I'm happy that they went together. And I'm happy that they are in heaven with their old pal Gracie, their mothers and father(yes they had the same father, totally inbred), their brothers and sisters, their new rodent friends Choco, Stormy, and Coco, their new snake pals Cleo, Adolf, Handel and Chiva, their new bird buddies Marcus and Bluey, and their new fish friends including Fernando and all the Peteys , and...um, I think that's it.

I know I'm a softie, I cried the whole time I was writing this. But those 2 dogs deserved this blog. They deserve more than this blog, but this is the best I can do since I'm not on the radio or on the televsion...yet. I wish all of you who read this could have met them and for those of you who did, you're better for it. Rest in Peace, ladies, and know that you've changed my life.

Hair Raising...

2009-05-11T13:59:00.000-07:00

It seems that every time I get my eyebrows waxed, my waxing lady(what is the proper term for "hair waxer" anyways?) seems to wax higher and higher up onto my forehead. What am I turning into, Teen Wolf? I guess technically I should ask "What am I turning into, Nearly Middle Aged Wolf?"

Back up off my girl...

2009-04-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

Listen, I love Britney Spears. I know that she does not sing at her concerts, but I don't care. I love her. I know that she consistently gets skewered by reviewers(heh), but I don't care. I love her. I know that her songs are cheesed-out electronically modified pop jams, but I don't care. I love her. I LOVE HER. I guess this is coming out because I got pretty defensive when I read the Sun Times review in which the reviewer totally whack-a-moled her show. I went last night, and I cannot argue with one thing he panned her for, everything he said was true...I guess I just don't care. Because I love her.

Oh no, not Dorothy Zbornak!!!!

2009-04-26T09:16:00.000-07:00

It is with a heavy, heavy heart that I write this boog today. As many of you might already know, yesterday marked the death of Bea Arthur. Bea was one of our most beloved television actresses, entering our hearts first as Maude in "Maude" and then earning a place there forever playing the quick witted Dorothy Zbornak in "The Golden Girls". If you were to say I was obsessed with the Golden Girls, well you wouldn't be wrong. I stay up until 1am many nights during the week watching episode after episode after episode. They are half the reason I wanted to get a DVR. I credit Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo with showing me how to smack people with a quick comeback. Mind you, my comebacks are a little less TV friendly, riddled with swears and all, but still, Dorothy and Sophia helped mold me into the sarcastic ass that I am today.

Where were you when you heard about Bea Arthur? Well, I was at the Big City Tap with The Joyous One watching the depressing mess that was the Cubs game when my phone buzzed. I picked up my phone, it was a text from my sister Emily. I opened the text and gasped louder than I've ever gasped before. I may have actually said the word "GASP". The Joyous One immediately knew something was wrong and when I showed her the text, she put her arm around me and said "Oh no babe!". I put my head down, looked at the text again, and started crying. Through my tears I was able to respond to my sister with a "You're lying..." text, to which she responded that no, she was not lying and that she tried to call to tell me in person. I was startled by my reaction to hearing that Bea Arthur was dead, although my being startled shouldn't be that startling because I startle easily, as some of you know. If you didn't know that, well now you know that I'm an easy startler. I startled myself just the other day at Whole Foods, and I startle myself every time I open my garbage can at home. Startlability...it's a gift. Anyjumpy, back to Bea...the news of her passing invaded the rest of my evening. We were at an enGAYgement party and it was all I could talk about. When my friend Bundy got there, she said "Hi Merta" and I responded, not with a hello, but with "BEA ARTHUR DIED!!!!"...like, way to kill the celebratory mood, Merta. And instead of toasting the happy couple, I continually toasted to Bea Arthur. Even when we did a big "To Jason and Ryan" toast, I was in my head going "And to Bea Arthur"...don't tell Jason and Ryan though. Boy, I sure hope they don't read this, I really want to be invited to that wedding! Anygaywedding, my heart is truly saddened by the death of Bea Arthur, and to celebrate my sarcasm mentor, I've included some of my favorite Dorothy Zbornak quotes. Man, I don't even want to think about what I'm going to do when Betty White dies...

"Rose: I had the strangest dream last night. I was at a baseball game. Charlie Brown was pitching, Shroeder was behind the plate, Lucy and Snoopy were in center field, and they wouldn't let me play. When I woke up, I was crying. What do you think it is?
Dorothy: Peanuts envy?"

"Dorothy: So you're five years older. So am I, so is Blanche. All right, so you have a few more wrinkles. So do I, so does Blanche. OK, so you're a little thicker around the middle. So is Blanche."

"Dorothy: [to Sophia] You're a furry little gnome and we feed you too much. "

"Rose: Can I ask a dumb question?
Dorothy: Better than anyone I know..."

"Blanche: Rose! You were in a love triangle and never told me!
Rose: I never thought you'd be interested!
Dorothy: Oh really? But you thought we WOULD be interested in the story about little Yiminee, the boy who was raised by a wild moose?"

"Sophia: Was that a plumber?
Dorothy: No, that was a girl scout, selling girl scout toilets."

"Rose: Why are you both wearing black? Did you just get back from a funeral?
Dorothy: No Rose, we were singing back-up for Johnny Cash."

"Dorothy: Oh come on, Ma, that's superstitious nonsense. You know, step on a crack, break your mother's back, it doesn't work. — I know."

"Dorothy: Rose, I hope you don't mind, but I'm borrowing your golf gloves.
Rose: Oh, you have a date?
Dorothy: Yes.
Blanche: With a man?
Dorothy: No, Blanche! With a Venus Flytrap!!!! Of course with a man!"

"Dorothy: You'll have to excuse my mother; she suffered a slight stroke a few years ago, which rendered her totally annoying."

And to cap it off, here is my all-time favorite Golden Girls exchange...

"Rose: This is exactly what happened during the Great Herring War.
Blanche: The Great Herring War?
Rose: Yes, between the Lindstroms and the Johanssons.
Dorothy: Oh, THAT Great Herring War.
Rose: The two families controlled the most fertile herring waters off the coast of Norway, so naturally, it seemed like it would be in their best interest to band together. Oh, boy, was that a mistake. You see, they couldn't agree on what to do with the herring
Dorothy: Oh, well that's understandable. I mean, the possibilities are overwhelming.
Rose: Exactly. The Johanssons wanted to pickle the herring, and the Lindstroms wanted to train them for the circus.
Blanche: Weren't they kind of hard to see riding on the elephants?
Rose: Oh, not that kind of circus. A herring circus. Sort of like Sea World, only smaller. Much, much smaller. But bigger than a flea circus.
Dorothy: Uh, tell me, Rose, um... Ah-ha ha ha!... Did they ever shoot a herring out of a cannon? Rose: Only once. But they shot him into a tree. After that no other herring would do it."

Rest in peace, Bea Arthur, and thanks for the laughs!

Take my kid to work? I don't even want to go myself...

2009-04-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

In my 32 years on this planet, I have never participated in "Take Your Child To Work Day". I always wanted to, well, mostly I always wanted to go with my mom to work, since when I was a kid she was a stay at home mom. Shockingly, that didn't fly. But even after she went back to work she never took me, so neither parent ever offered to take me to their job on "Take Your Child To Work Day". Not that I can talk, I've never offered to take my children to work, and I don't think I will this year either...probably because I don't have children...or a puppy...or a hamster even...I have no kin. Anylonely, since I've never participated in "Take Your Child To Work Day"(because I've NEVER BEEN ASKED TO), I spent several years pushing away the hurt and the painful reminders of this day in which children are taken to work by their loving parents. At 32 years old, I thought I was over it. I pretty much thought I'd forgotten all about it...until today when I received this from my mother:

Dear Children,

As you know, or don't know, tomorrow is "Take Your Child to Work Day' and there is nothing I would rather do except not go to work and that is exactly what I am going to do, so either go to your own job or talk your Father into taking you to his.
Love,
Mom

So that got me thinking that there should be a new day called "Take Your Grown-Up-Children-With-Their-Own-Jobs To Work Day". This would be a way for those of us who were deprived of this privilege to finally see "where daddy hangs his coat" or "where mommy eats her lunch", or "where daddy reads the paper", or "where mommy plays solitaire", or "where daddy keeps his flask" or "mommy fired Johnson for being a dbag" or "where daddy got written up for sending an email that was deemed 'inappropriate for work' regarding a bull who has his way with a cow whose head is stuck between fence posts"...sorry...I got lost there for a bit. Anybovine, I guess I missed being taken to work more than I knew. And I think it would be hilarious, at 32, to have my lifelong dream finally come true...participating in "Take Your Child To Work Day". Maybe next year...

That's not rain...

2009-03-31T10:41:00.001-07:00

Every time it rains, I can't help but think about my favorite Deep Thought, by Jack Handy. It goes a little something like this:

If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is, "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did."

This ALWAYS makes me laugh...out loud...while walking in the rain...in public...alone. Sure I might look crazy, because who laughs when it's raining? But I'd rather laugh and look crazy then be sad all day because of some sky spit. The cloudy, rainy days really seem to depress people. Perhaps if those people would think about the Deep Thought, they would laugh, then the laughing would automatically raise their spirits, then they wouldn't end up eggrolled in a blanket on their couch every time it rained. Of course it could go the other way too. They could think of the Deep Thought, laugh at first, then think about what they did that made God cry...not paying parking tickets on time, excessively using the "F" word, laughing at the little kid who had his head down and walked into the sign in the hallway, not waiting until the kid got down the hall to start laughing...great...I made God cry. Now I'm depressed.

Love.

2009-03-30T16:56:00.000-07:00

I really love pizza. I don't think I would ever turn down a piece of pizza. I also feel this way about bacon. And peanut butter and jelly. And certain types of cupcakes. I am starving.

Is that? No, it's just Meta...

2009-03-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

While perusing the internet this week, I was smacked with the realization that if my hair were a little bit more blonde, and a little bit more tightly curled, I would look a lot like David Bryan, keyboardist for the popular rock band Bon Jovi, a band that I don't even really like, except for "Living on a Prayer" so I'm not really sure why I was looking at images of Bon Jovi. Random. But anyway, yeah, I think I would kind of look like him.

This led me to think about the other people I look like, resemble, remind people of etc. One of the most popular opinions is that I look like Darlene, from popular 90's sitcom Roseanne. I kind of see that, but mostly I think it's an attitude thing. Although I think I wasn't as bitchy as Darlene when I was a teenager, though my parents would probably disagree.

Back when I was a teenager and hanging out at the Vivian's every...single...day...I was told by Mrs. Vivian that I looked like the model for the Mona Lisa. She told me this all the time, I loved hearing it. That is maybe is the most random/awesome person I have been compared to. I mean, the Mona Lisa is a beautiful painting, so my guess is that the model was beautiful. Unless the model was goat-smackin ugly and the Mona Lisa is actually an abstract painting. Now, please don't go writing to me telling me that I'm an idiot for saying the Mona Lisa is an abstract painting...I know that it is not. I was just saying...

Another Meta-like that has recently come to my attention, unfortunately for me, is Weird Al Yankovic. Before you protest, think about it. We both have the long, curly hair, we both have odd faces which allow for odd facial expressions. Actually, odd facial expressions have become the norm for me.

Just look at some of my pics on Facebook. Anyweirdal, I think when you weigh the facts you will agree that I bear a strong resemblance to Weird Al, but without the money, the parody, the accordion, the Grammy, the mustache...that is if I've waxed mine.

Many of you might wonder why wombats hold such a special place in my heart. I've been told that this nickname "wombat" came about when I was a wee baby. Apparently, my uncle Joe said that I looked like a wombat. Now, I'm no baby expert, but I think the only thing that was even remotely similar about baby Meta and a baby wombat, is the fact that we were both pink...and naked. But the similarity ends there, in my opinion. If I were to go several weeks sans shower, I may begin to smell like a wombat, but that's not looking like a wombat, that's smelling like a wombat. Big difference people...big difference. Don't get me wrong, I would love to look like a wombat, because I think they are super cute. I'm not sure if that's a popular opinion, or if I'm biased because wombats have been a major part of my life. I don't really care either. Wombats...are cute. So there.

There is one comparison that has been made that I really miss. To bring this look back, it would require that I resurrect my delicious fade, but I don't think I'm prepared for that. Growing it out took too long. And I wish that when I looked like this, I had been brave enough to be my lez self because I could have pulled chicks like crazy looking like Joey McIntyre. I was maybe the poor-woman's Joey McIntyre, but still.

I realize that most people I think I look like are men, which may seem weird...al. Don't get me wrong, I think I def look like a woman. I mean, I am all t*ts and hair and hips. I'm just saying that I have similar features to some men. Heck, my cousin Mina, who is like the least manly person I know and is absolutely beautiful, thinks she has, on occasion, looked like Buddy Lembeck from "Charles In Charge" and in one photo, she declared she looked like Ben Stiller. Neither of which are true...but both are hilarious.

So, who do you like? Who are some of the folks you've reminded people of? What are some of your most hilarious celebrity comparisons? Bring em, people...

Poof this...

2009-03-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

So the word prediction setting on my phone? Is dumb. Why? Oh, I'll tell ya why. Every single time I type "some", the predicted word it gives me is "poof". I don't use the word "poof"...ever...for anything. I seriously never use the word "poof". I shouldn't say never, because I do use "poof" when I'm singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo"...which I do more often than a 32 year old with no kids should...wait, no I don't...I'm lying...the word "poof" isn't even in that song(yes I did just sing it in my office to check, and yes out loud)...so I'll go back to my original statement, which is I seriously never use the word "poof". I certainly don't type the word "poof" into my phone, so why the word prediction thinks "poof" is what I'm trying to type instead of "some", is beyond me. I use the word "some"...all the flappin time. You would have thought by now that C3PO(I call my cell phone that because it's cell phone number 3 for me, cell phones are like androids, and I like C3PO the android because he has a snappy English accent and worries all the time) would have figured out the word "some" is a part of my everyday vocabulary and not "poof" and it would have adjusted to accommodate it. But no...I'm still getting "poof" all the time. Maybe C3PO knows I'm a big poof. I mean, I cry at everything that's even remotely sentitendermental, I cry at everything that's even remotely sad, I cry at everything that's even remotely happy. I cry...a lot. So maybe 3PO is just calling me a "poof" all the time...because 3PO is a little bit of an ahole. Anyandroid, it's so annoying that I've decided to stop using the word "some" and just settle for "poof". So you may get a text message from me that makes no sense...one that says, for example, "Hey, will you bring me poof Advil?" or "Can I use poof of your lip balm?" or "How would you like it if I made you poof tacos?"...hehe..."poof tacos" is really making me laugh right now. Anypooftacos, if you receive a text like that from me, making no sense and involving the word "poof", you'll know I mean "some"...and you can figure it out. Now, will one of you seriously bring me poof Advil?

And hey, read this: http://www.whywhatwereyouthinking.blogspot.com/
It's one of my new favs and should be one of yours too!

TAPS...

2009-03-13T15:13:00.000-07:00

I would like to take a moment to share with you that my digital pet crab Ike has pooped for the last time. Sadly, this world lost it's greatest digital crab, ironically, during last night's episode of ER. He was in good spirits, I had just fed him pizza and was getting ready to play with him, but I got no response from him when I pressed the "Play" button. I tried pressing other buttons, first with purpose, then frantically when I realized Ike wasn't making any noise. I then placed him on the table, pushed a few rounds of EPI, attempted CPR, but to no avail. Finally, Joy came over, gave me the Brandon Walsh Neck-Hold and said "You gotta let him go, Meta. You just gotta let him go". Then, wearing my snug fitting flight suit, I held Ike's dog tags for the last time, rubbed my thumb over them, and chucked them meaningfully into the ocean. Oh wait, that was Cruise in Top Gun. I actually just left Ike on the coffee table and pondered whether or not I should change his battery.

So goodbye for now, my crabby friend. You were at times annoying, at times amusing, at times full of crap...literally...but at all times, you were my friend.

Name Game...

2009-03-11T13:51:00.000-07:00

At the request of my homie G, I pulled this boog from Meta's Myspace page. It's an oldie from last summer regarding how my alter ego "Merta" got her last name...and that reminds me that I ought to write about why my alter ego is named "Merta"...maybe later...

Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I’m changing my name...

So one week after Cyndi Lauper called me "Neta" and I did not correct her, I discovered yet another play on my name, this time on my last name. I came into my office this morning after missing work yesterday(I was on my way home from a smashing trip to San Francisco) and I saw a piece of mail on my keyboard...addressed to "Meta Kufle". After I calmed down from my hysterical laughter(Kufle is hilarious, especially if you say it out loud...try it), I tried to figure out how this chick came up with Kufle as my last name. We spoke on the phone, and I gave her my name and she sends the mail to "Meta Kufle". I could understand if she sent it to "Meta Kroger", or "Meta Crocker" or "Meta Kruncher", but Kufle is nowhere near the same as Kroker, it's not even close! Was she sitting there like "Well I'll be, I can't remember that Meta girl's last name. I know it had a 'K' sound at the beginning...Kufle...that sounds right". There is a very bright side to this name kerfuffle. As some of you know, my alter-ego who does stupid shit and says embarrassing things is named "Merta"...well people, now Merta has a last name. So when I act a fool, please use my proper name when addressing me...Merta Kufle.
Sincerely,
Meta aka "Merta Kufle"

No more mourning...plus, people are annoying...

2009-03-04T10:36:00.000-08:00

My friends, my friends, it is with a giddy heart and hand that I write this boog to you today. After spending yesterday being alternately sad...then mad...then sad...then mad about The Golden Girls, I'm happy to report that they were not permanently removed from the television orbit as I was led to believe. Turns out, the young whippersnappers over at the Hallmark Network decided to buy the rights to the Fabulous Foursome, adding them to their hip new lineup. They will be keeping company with the likes of the Camdens, the Ricardos and the sly-like-a-fox Jessica Fletcher. Methinks the gals will have no problem fitting in. The only down side to this channel switch is that now there are 2 hours of The Golden Girls every night, and like crack, once I take my first hit I can't stop until it's all gone. Do not be surprised if my future boogs have an incoherent nature due to sleep deprivation.

On a more annoying note, people...are annoying. This morning while getting my morning cup of Premium House Blend 7-11 coffee, I was annoyed...by a person. I'm sure many of you are familiar with the coffee corral layout at 7-11's...but for those of you who are not, I'll do my best to take you there...using my words as a vehicle...but a more clean vehicle than Reggie...who could use a good cleaning...and some interior detailing as well...and probably some dental work. AnyKwik-E-Mart, so the coffee corral is made up of a long island which is accessible on both sides. There are 4 cupots(cup depots), 2 on either side of the island, at opposite ends. There is a filling station at each end of the island and each station contains, oh, 37 pots of different coffees. In the middle of the island is a tower containing various coffdiments(coffee condiments), lids, and stirrers. During coffeesh hour(coffee rush hour), I think the corral could hold 6 people comfortably...1 person at each of the 4 cupots, and one person on either side of the island utilizing the coffdiments. This morning, I approached the coffee corral and saw that I was the only person there. Naturally, I went to the closest cupot to grab a cup. I mean, the coffee corral isn't a gas station...there's no unspoken rule about pulling up to the furthest pump when the station is empty so that someone can pull in behind you. And you certainly won't get berated in the coffee corral for that offense like you might at a gas station...by a crazy old man in a jalopy...with only 1 square foot of his windsheild cleaned off in the middle of a frozen blizzard...who is also smoking while walking past your car and saying "Jeez Louise, common sense tells you to pull all the way forward to the first pump". Anycuckoo, as I started to fill my cup w/ coffee, a man in a suit entered the corral...and stood right behind me. Like, all up on me. Seriously, he was so close that if I turned around too quickly, I would've gotten pregnant. I couldn't figure out why this dude just HAD to be in the only spot in the whole corral that was actually occupied. My eyes darted around to see if maybe the coffees were different at the 2 filling stations and that's why he wanted my spot. But no, it was the same coffee and all the pots were full. I quickly looked at the other cupot on my side of the island to see if perhaps it was empty. But no, the cups were plentiful. Finally, my cup was full so I was able to try and get out of the uber uncomfortable "might as well just hop on my back for a piggy-back ride" situation. However, the Space Invader was still standing pregnant close to me, so I couldn't turn and walk the 2 steps to coffdiment tower, I had to actually shuffle sideways to get there. As I was shuffling awkwardly(is there ever a shuffle that isn't awkward? There's like nothing natural about shuffling...unless you're Truffle Shuffling. That's a totally natural shuffle), it occurred to me that maybe this gent wanted to use the machine that offers specialty items like lattes and cappuccinos and other foamy delights, which is located on the other side of the filling station that I had been using. So I stopped my coffaration(coffee preparation) and stared at him waiting to see what he would do. Imagine my anger when I saw him grab a cup, fill it with standard Premium House Blend Coffee, toss a lid on that sucker and head for the register. What...the...eff...rude man in suit? There were 3 other empty spots you could have used and yet you had to wait for the one I was filling? I had half a mind to walk up right behind him at the register and just kind of, lean into him and look off in the opposite direction. But we all know I'm too much of a wimp to actually do that, so I just chuckled at the mental image and finished adding my 82 Land 'O Lakes Mini Moos.

So great news on The Golden Girls front, but even that great news doesn't stop annoying people from being...annoying.

Mourning in the morning...

2009-03-03T10:20:00.000-08:00

My faithful boog readers, it is with a heavy hand and heart that I am writing this boog. I'm sad to tell you that something has been taken from my life that has been the source of great laughter and happiness and I'm not really sure how to go on.

Yesterday morning, at about 8:30am, I flicked on the telly in my bedroom as I do every morning. I changed the channel to 45, Lifetime Television For Women, for my morning dose of The Golden Girls. Instead of being greeted by a sarcastic quip from one of my gals of a golden hue, I was greeted by the southern twang of fiery red-head Reba McIntyre. What was going on? How could I have a good morning without my favorite Miami biddies? I figured that it must be some sort of programming error and I would just have to wait until midnight to watch my ladies. Fast forward to midnight, I turn on the television, and instead of hearing a St. Olaf story thanks to Rose Nylund, I hear the voice of Doug Savant in the role of Felicity Huffman's hubby on Desperate Housewives. I was gobsmacked. Where the hell were my friggin Golden Girls? Was this some sort of not-even-a-little-funny joke? I decided to give it one more try this morning.

As 8:30am rolled around, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my remote, crossed my fingers, closed my eyes and turned on channel 45...I listened closely, hoping to hear a delicious insult courtesy of Sophia Petrillo, but for the second time in as many days I was instead twanged by Reba. I stood in front of the television, mouth turned upside down, my right hand clenched around the remote as if squeezing it to death would make The Golden Girls appear. Furious, I screamed "Eff you Lifetime! Indian Giver!" and flipped to "It's Me Or The Dog".

Today when I got to work, I decided to explore the Lifetime website to check the schedule. I mean, this couldn't be a forever thing, at least not in my mind. Who on earth would prefer Reba, or Desperate Housewives to the hilarity of The Golden Girls? You're not gonna hear Reba utter "Picture it...Sicily...1924..." and certainly no Desperate Houswives character can give you quick-comeback whiplash the way Dorothy Zbornak can. Sure, sure, DH does have plenty of Blanche-like sluttiness, but that's not enough to make up for what I was losing...which right now feels like 4 close friends...and grandmas...funny grandmas who love cheesecake the way I love cheeseburgers...and joke about sex like high schoolers...which maybe isn't that funny if it's your real grandma joking about sex...or maybe it is. Anygeriatric, I went to Lifetime's website, and with a shaky hand clicked on the "Schedule" section...I scrolled...and scrolled...and scrolled...no Golden Girls. I checked the next day, I scrolled...and scrolled...and scrolled...no luck. I checked the day after that, I scrolled...and scrolled...and scrolled...and when I saw no Golden Girls for the 3rd day in a row...I cried...a single fat tear which rolled down my chubby cheek and saturated my sweater. More tears followed, but I'd rather not talk that because it's slightly embarrassing to cry over The Golden Girls in your office...even if nobody noticed...because you jumped up and went to the bathroom right away...and your head was down so no one could see you crying...plus you're 32 years old and a little old to be crying about a TV show...especially one that has been off the air for years...and one that is available on DVD. Anycrybaby, there will definetely be a void in my life since this show has been ripped from me without warning. I will do my best to make it through this difficult time by recalling my favorite moments and replaying my favorite scenes on the internal television of my mind, so don't be surprised if the next time you see me, I look off to the distance, chuckle to myself and utter "Oh Sophia"...

One second is enough time to kick your a**...

2009-02-25T14:45:00.000-08:00

I do not like it when people take things literally that aren't meant to be taken literally. I shouldn't say that, because sometimes I wish that certain statements that aren't meant to be taken literally, were actually taken literally...like "running to the bathroom"...part of me(any by "part", I mean "all") wishes that every time people said they were "running to the bathroom" they actually did. I mean, I think I would just crack up if I saw people whizzing by me(not literally whizzing, but whizzing) every time they had to go. Gosh, I really talk about bathroom stuff a lot...more than the average 32 year old I'm sure...and more than the average 10 year old. Anydoodoobrown, that's not the point. The point of this boog is to complain about people taking things I say literally, which happened to me this morning. I answered a call at work and it was a client of one of my co-workers who had a question. Instead of asking for my co-worker, he said he would just ask me the question. Fine, no problem, I don't mind answering questions, it makes me feel like I have some value...I feel proud of myself when I answer correctly...not unlike people on game shows...or on the witness stand. Anypolygraph, he asked me how long the flight was for the flight that he is on in April. See, he had been trying to figure it out for himself since he's so familiar w/ the time change between here and Germany(he goes every year), but he was coming up with a time that was an hour faster than what the flight time had been every other time he's gone, so he was questioning his math. So I tell him that I can certainly look up the duration for that flight, just give me one second...and he goes "One second, wow you must be fast! Seconds up!"...then he starts laughing...hysterically...like he's the only a**hole that's ever said that in reaction to "one second, please". I mean I could have said "one minute" to avoid potential "seconds up" annoyance, but I find that saying "give me one minute" is far more rude sounding than "give me one second". Sure, you could say "give me one moment(in time...when I'm racing with destiny...then in that one moment of time, I will feel, I will feel...eternity. Sorry, I love Whitney)", but "one moment" is pretty much "one second" and I'd still get it from that clever little a**hole. I mean, come on dude, I'm totally doing you a solid and you d-bag me? Wow, I just slipped into some alternate language for a minute there...I never talk like that...I just watched "Juno"...that's what happened. So yeah, that's the first call I took this morning.

The second call was a heavy nose-breather, which is like my number 1 work pet peeve. Cannot stand the heavy nose-breathing RIGHT INTO MY EAR. Like what are you doing that is causing you to breath that heavily through your nose? And how close to the mouthpiece of your phone is your nostril? Because it's got to be pretty effing close to deafen me like that! It's not a panting noise either, that'd actually be preferable to the heavy nose-breathing. And what makes it worse is when they have a whistling booger while they are heavy nose-breathing. Like nails on a chalkboard...or a fork scratching on a porcelain plate...or Miley Cyrus singing live. Actually, heavy-nose breathing w/ a whistling booger is the worst sound ever, so I'm benching "like nails on a chalkboard" in favor of "like heavy nose-breathing w/ a whistling booger". Sure, it's more words and syllables, but I'm willing to take on the extra work just to get my point across.

So yeah, that was pretty much my day in a nutshell. Oh, one other bad thing happened...my friend BZ couldn't remember the cartoon "Top Cat", and therefore couldn't remember the theme song and therefore my "Top Cat/Top Chef" reference was completely lost on her. Boo. Hoo.

Coming to a Starbucks near you...

2009-02-23T15:44:00.000-08:00

So yesterday afternoon, The Joyous One and I went to our 4th movie in a week in our attempt at squeezing in several flicks before the 2008 Academy Awards. It was unprecedented people, The Joyous One and I haven't been to the movie theater together in, oh...our entire relationship. That can't be true, we must have gone to the movie theater together once in our almost 10 years of togetherness, but I cannot for the life of me think what it was that we saw...oh wait, we went to see "Sex And The City" together last year, but we saw it at Hollywood Blvd so there was food and booze and it wasn't your typical movie theater setting, plus it was kind of a "no-brainer" if you watched the show, which we did. You see, the reason we don't see movies in theaters isn't because we don't like movies, oh no. It's because my dear, sweet Joyous One can barely make it through a friggin TV commercial without asking questions, and it's nearly impossible for her to make it through a 2 hour movie. You know her type, asking who this guy is, why that guy said that, what is that girl doing, what's going to happen after this thing happens, is that guy that girl's brother...and on and on and on. I'm to the point now where I just look at her blankly and say "First time for me too, Joyous One." This tactic doesn't usually work, and I have to resort to the more forceful "Why don't you try being quiet for 5 minutes and see if you can figure it out" or the always rude "Please shut up". I know that's mean, but I'm not perfect people, I can't help my "shut up" ways just like she can't help her "Who, what, when, where, why" ways. But that's my point, this is why we don't go to the movies...or to plays...or to musicals...or to interpretive dance performances...or to Oprah.

Anyloudmouth, The Joyous One and I were gearing up for movie # 4, "Doubt", out at a lovely theater in Glen Ellyn where we had seen movie # 2(The Reader) and movie # 3(Milk) two days before. We got there at 1:30pm for a 2:00pm show but the theater was closed until 1:45pm. We decided to scoot over to the Starbucks to grab some Signature Hot Chocolate and take a load off before the flick. The *Bucks was crowded, so we grabbed 2 seats at the counter facing out onto the street. This was fine with me as I like to stare at people...which I realize is almost as rude as telling people to shut up...but like I said, I'm not perfect...I'm a people-staring-shutter-upper...what a combo! Anynomanners, as we sat w/ our chocolate, The Joyous One told me to non-chalantly look to my 4 o'clock(PS...this is the worst way to get me to look at something as it takes me SO long to figure out clocks. It's why I don't wear a watch...and why I didn't go to college). I sat there for awhile trying to figure out where my 4 o'clock was and The Joyous One finally told me "behind you and to the right and please look soon". She should have just said that in the first place and we could've avoided her frustration and also avoided me attempting to draw the face of a clock on the counter with my finger. So I casually turn, slowly, to my right, pretending to look at the various posters and *Bucks decor. As I get to what I assume is 4 o'clock, I'm confronted with the glaring buttcrack of a blonde-haired woman who was being in-the-faced by a large bald man who clearly was her boyfriend, and clearly a Newport smoker coming off a rough night because he sounded like Froggy from Our Gang(PS...he was the second person in a week who I heard talking like Froggy. Time to reconsider the smokes, I think). I turn back to face the window so I can make wide-eyed funny faces about their very loud, very public argument w/o them seeing me make fun, because although I like making fun, I'm a scaredy cat who doesn't like confrontation...I won't even honk at people. Anyawkward, The Joyous One must have thought that my turning away from the PFC(Publicly Fighting Couple) rendered me unable to hear them and started giving me the play-by-play..."Ooh, they are really fighting...he's yelling at her about something...oh, now he's yelling at her about sex...he said she had sex with one guy, then another guy, then with him and he doesn't want to be with her anymore...he's seems mad...she's trying to talk to him...he's yelling again...oh, they're leaving". I looked over and yes, Cue-Ball and Sally Buttcrack were indeed leaving, much to the relief of every *Bucks patron within earshot...which was pretty much everyone in *Bucks. They exited, started walking and...stopped right in front of the window I was staring out of. There was more yelling, Cue-Ball was all in Sally Buttcrack's face, she was crying and yelling, she tried walking away, he wasn't having it, he lit up a smoke, they kept yelling, then all of the sudden...they were hugging and kissing all pressed up against the glass...right in front of where I was sitting. There was a couple behind me and the girl said "Aw, they're making up"...this, of course, caused me to burst out laughing, which was nearly impossible to hide from the turbulent lovebirds because they were pretty much face to face with me...or should I say tongue to face...ew. I attempted to pretend like The Joyous One said something funny, and turned away from the window. They finally walked away, The Joyous One and I finished up our hot chocolate and headed out. And while "Doubt" was an excellent movie, the first half of our double feature provided us w/ just as much drama, mystery, and intrigue as "Doubt" did...plus a little something extra...buttcrack...

**Author's Note: I would like to mention that The Joyous One was 100 kinds of awesome in each of the 4 movies we saw leading up to the Oscars. Not one question during "Slumdog Millionaire", only 1 or 2 during "The Reader", just a comment or 2 during "Milk", and the only question during "Doubt" was "Do you want more popcorn?". This just might mean that our non-movie going days are behind us, and we can join the rest of the world in celebrating movies within months of their release instead of years.

To VD or not VD...

2009-02-18T10:14:00.000-08:00

So last Saturday was VD, a made-up holiday that I'm not all that interested in. This stems(snerk) from my mother being a florist and hating any and all made-up holidays. However, I think she's changed her mind about certain made-up holidays since attending Comb Day and Balls Out, so let's just say she hates any and all made-up holidays that involve flowers. I can't say I blame her, I can't imagine a place that would be worse to work in than a flower shop on VD...except maybe Hallmark...or Sybaris...but I don't think I'd ever want to work at Sybaris...its seems...sticky...to me...and def a place where you could get a VD on VD which is no kind of VD gift...now I don't feel good. Anyfauxmance, while I'm not a fan of VD(or the other VD), I have a wife who is fond of it(VD, but not that VD), so we tend to celebrate it every year. This year, we VD'd at home w/ delicious and a movie...no, not a romance...not a comedy, guess again...nope, horror movie wasn't it...we watched "Prayers For Bobby", a Lifetime movie starring Sigourney Weaver as the uber religious mother of a gay man who ends up killing himself. Not exactly the feel-good movie of the year. This movie totally pantsed me, I was a puddle of sadness throughout, tears streaming down my face, sobs catching in my chest, snot seeping from my nose, The Joyous One asking me every 10 minutes if I was okay, me answering "yes" just by nodding for fear that if I spoke I would lose my sh*t. Don't get me wrong, PFB had it's positive moments and by the end I was perched on the edge of my couch, waving my rainbow flag emphatically...for real. But it did get me thinking about something that is long overdue...

...a thank you. I have been dizzyingly lucky in my life, especially my gay life...which I guess is just my regular life now...and actually always was my regular life. Anyqueereye, I don't really know anyone who has gotten the type of support that I've gotten from my friends and family, whom I affectionately call my "18 Hour Playtex Posse"...only they don't know I call them that...except now they do. I hear horror stories about friends de-friending, families disowning, gay people everywhere being abandoned by the people they thought loved them. And that's what they are to me, horror stories, because I have never, ever known that kind of pain thanks to the utterly amazing people that surround me. My COP(coming out process) is a testament to that. Everyone reacted as if they were waiting for me to realize what they already knew, and waiting for me to love myself as I was, because they already did, and when I said those words, "I'm gay", I was being hugged before the word "gay" even escaped my lips. As I've collected more friends along the way, and continued my COP(it never ends people, for as long as I'm alive I'll be coming out), my new friends have met that same high standard that my old friends set, without me even hinting that they had a lot to live up to. My friends continue to amaze me every day and I am thankful for them every day and I wish I remembered to tell them that every day. If only I could have all of you stand up and take a bow, I would...I mean sure, I'd be the only one clapping, but I'm a loud clapper...it would seem like more.

I have to do a special "thank you" section for my parents...but how do I even begin to thank them? They were the perfect couple to have a gay kid, they've done everything right and every reaction to my homosexuality has been heartwarmingly startling. Pretty sure "heartwarmingly" is not a word, but when has that stopped me? AnyPFLAG, back to my parents. I don't know if there was ever any disappointment about me being gay, because they have never voiced that to me. I don't know if they ever felt sad about what "could have been", they were too busy telling me they loved me because of who I was. I don't know if they ever felt ashamed, because when I attended my first Pride Parade, PFLAG came strolling down Broadway and there were my parents, giving me the surprise of my life by celebrating how proud they were. They have marched in pretty much every parade since. Not only that, but they are deeply entrenched in the fight for equality, they take it as a personal attack on them because I don't have any rights. And to top it off, my mom is president of the local PFLAG chapter, and my dad attends every meeting by her side. They are much better activists than I could ever imagine being. They are what every gay child, gay teen, and gay adult hopes for in a set of parents. And they are all mine.

So thank you, thank you, thank you...all of you...for making my story one of the happy ones and not one of the horror ones.

A letter to Yoplait...

2009-02-11T13:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Yoplait Yogurt Executive,

I am writing you this letter to lodge a (small) complaint. Every time, and I mean every...do not take me for one of those exaggerating types, because while I do exaggerate about some things, I am very non-exagerratish when it comes to other things...like my awesomeness...and yogurt. Anyfruitonthebottom, every time I attempt to open a container of delicious Yoplait yogurt, a mighty struggle ensues caused by the vacuum seal on the rim of the container. When I finally get the aluminum top to open a little, the release of air inside the container causes a "smloop" of yogurt to project onto my shirt, usually in the chestal region. I am then forced to spend the rest of my day being "the kid who smells like sour strawberry yogurt", which is worse than "the kid who smells like syrup" and I really thought that the only thing worse than being "the kid who smells like syrup" was being "the kid who smells like poo"(or dirt, or B.O. those 3 are interchangeable in my eyes).

Don't get me wrong, Yoplait Yogurt Executive, I appreciate the freshness that your vacuum seal provides, but I don't think it's too much to ask those down in the vacuum sealing department if they could take it a little easy on the suction...at least for the strawberry yogurt products. That way, I can avoid any future yogsmloops, and you can avoid any future letters from me complaining about this very small(but VERY important) little matter.

Thank you for your time, Yoplait Yogurt Executive.

Sincerely,

Merta Kufle

Stranger danger...

2009-02-06T14:58:00.000-08:00

In an earlier boog that I wrote today, I made a reference to making strangers uncomfortable, so I thought I should elaborate for those of you who might have said, to no one in particular, "Huh, I wonder what Meta meant when she said she's been making strangers uncomfortable? I sure hope she boogs about it!"...well, those of you talking to no one in particular, today is your lucky day! And for those of you who already know the 2 recent incidents in which I made strangers uncomfortable, it's not your lucky day. Or maybe it is if you've found yourself craving a re-telling of those 2 stories, or also if you've been hit on the head recently and find that you've forgotten the stories. Lucky day, my friends...lucky day. Oh, and sorry that I use the "..." so much...it's like my favorite way to express myself...ever...most favorite...of all time.

Last week, after weeks of procrastinating, I finally called the plumber to come fix our toilet. It wasn't a major problem, a small leak at the base of le toilet would occur occasionally when we el flusher'ood. Gosh, how gross would we be if our toilet was overflowing all over the bathroom every single time we flushed? Sick. Anypuddle, I called the plumber who made a date to come and reset le toilet. We have had this plumber 3 times now(does that mean we officially "know a guy"?). He's very nice, young, and kind of cute if you like men...which I don't...not in that way...but you knew that...at least you should know that...I practically wear it on my sleeve...in the form of a rainbow flag. Anylezzie, nice, young, kind of cute plumber guy was doing his thing, I was doing mine(Golden Girls) so we had limited interaction. He finished up, came in and said "Okay, the toilet's reset, you guys should be good for awhile." to which I said "I'll try to sit lightly", to which nice, young, kind of cute plumber guy said "Oooookay..." and handed me the bill.

Fast forward to yesterday evening. I was paying a visit to the meat department at my favorite organic grocery store, Whole Foods Market. I was getting veal scaloppine for a dinner than I'm co-hosting on Saturday night(please don't PETA me for the veal. The Joyous One loves veal, and I love The Joyous One, so I thought I'd do right by her and add veal to the menu. Plus, she paid for the veal...holla!). Anyringworm, I was window shopping the meat when a very nice young butcheress asked me if I needed any help, so I gave her my order and we shared pleasantries while she weighed and wrapped my veal. She told me a story about a guy who comes in every week and spends $300 on meat for his dog, london broil, filet Mignon, sirloin, I mean expensive meat. My reaction to this? Was to say "That dog better crap money". This left my butcheress slightly speechless, she laughed a little(definetely a chuckle of the 'awkward' variety), handed me my meat and said "Alright, thanks!".

Let this be a lesson, kids: Don't talk to strangers...especially if you're going to say cracked-out nonsense like Auntie Merta does...now...go get me my scotch...

That smelled chunky...

2009-02-06T08:54:00.001-08:00

This morning when The Joyous One entered the bedroom to grace me w/ a goodbye kiss, she also asked me if I would like to wish her tooth "good luck". You see, she chipped her tooth eating a carrot the other day, and it's been bothering her so she's going to the dentist today to have it fixed. It's not like I'm everyday wishing one of her teeth "good luck", although maybe I'll start to. That could be a new, weird thing that I do. And maybe I'll start doing it to strangers too, since lately I'm all about making strangers uncomfortable...but that's a story for another time. Anydenture, I leaned in real close to The Joyous One's mouth and said "Good luck, tooth", and she promptly burped as I pulled my face away. I said "Ew, you smell like oatmeal"(PS...oatmeal...makes me sick...sick sick sick) to which she replied "Hey, I just lowered your cholesterol, you should be thanking me!". See, my wife always has my best interest at heart...even when she's burping in my face. Who says romance is dead?

Snug it ain't so...

2009-01-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

After weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks(technically I should just say 'months') of wanting to write a boog making fun of the Snuggie, I find that I'm just unable to do so. The first 500 times I saw this commercial, I guffawed loudly at it, said things like "Oh sure, like taking your arm out of the blanket to change the channel is such a chore" and "Whatever lady, you're not gonna freeze to death by removing your hand from the warmth to answer the phone." and "Give me a break, blankets are just as good as this stupid Snuggie thing. You don't need special blanket arms to read a book. Just throw a sweatshirt on if you get cold." Well my friends, I am eating my words, let me tell you.

Last night, while comfortably ensconced under a blanket on the Lay-Z-Boy(The Joyous One was out boozin, that's why I got the Lay-Z-Boy. It's not a permanent thing), I was faced with many situations in which I really was wishing I had a Snuggie. First, there was Ike. Yes, my digital crab Ike is still alive, he's 53 and a huge pain in the ass. Why haven't I just let him die? Well, I've come to have fairly strong feelings for this piece of plastic w/ a digital crab dancing on it and I would feel so bad if I just stopped caring for him. Plus, I have an irrational fear of PETA. Although they are some crazy effers, so maybe my fear isn't all that irrational. Basically, I'm in it for the long haul w/ Ike, so until his battery dies, I'm bound to him like Polident to granny's teeth. Anysnuggie, Ike requires a fair amount of attention, pressing a button to clean his poop, pressing a button to play with him, pressing a button to train him, and all the button pressing requires fingers. And I don't know about you all, but my fingers are attached to hands(lovely hands, if I may say so) which are then attached to arms, and last night, those arms were toasty under a blanket and totally pissed when they had to be removed from their toastyness to care for Ike. You know what would have come in handy? A Snuggie, that's what.

Remember when I made fun of the person who acted like removing their arm from a blanket to change the channel was the worst thing ever? Well guess what...it is. Especially when all of your favorite shows are reruns, which you still want to watch, but the rerunnyness of them is allowing you to do major flipping, which is great because there are "Friends" reruns on, and "Celebrity Rehab: Sober House"...PS, is it just me, or is Steven Adler nearly as hot-messy as Jeff Conaway? Anydruggie, there were plenty of quality television shows on, and I was cuddled up like a wombat in it's mother's pouch, and having to remove my arm to flip channels was in fact, the worst thing ever(please don't respond to me with actual things that are worse, like yellow fever, or homelessness, or even more serious, an allergy to bacon). You know what would have been really tits in that tituation? I think you know...

And you know what else? All of my anger and annoyance at having to remove my arms to flip channels and care for Ike caused me to remove them only when I absolutely had to, and I didn't take full advantage of the arm removal. I failed to take sips of water, or eat, or apply Burt's Beeswax and the personal neglect caused intermittent dozing throughout the evening so I missed lots of tv, plus I had to keep licking my lips. When Joy got home, I must've looked like death with my cracked, dry lips, sunken hunger cheeks, a Sahara desert rasp to my voice, pale clammy skin, the sluggish lolling about of my head, hair falling out due to dehydration...okay, it wasn't that serious and I totally jumped out of my seat and ran to The Joyous One as soon she walked through the door. Don't get the wrong idea, she had tacos for me. I mean, I love her like crazy, but she had tacos...TACOS!!!!

I guess the moral of this story is...buy me a Snuggie. And don't let anything stand in the way of you and your tacos.

West Side is the best side...

2009-01-09T14:46:00.001-08:00

So today, I was chatting w/ my friend BZ and out of nowhere, I asked BZ if she could forgive someone for killing her brother, if she was in love with the person who killed her brother. She answered that it would depend on the circumstance and also it would depend on what kind of person her brother was. Like, if he was a serial killer, fair game, but if he was just a regular guy, then she probably couldn't forgive the killer. I then told her that I was specifically thinking about the scenario from West Side Story. BZ promptly replied w/ "no way, I would not forgive him". I agreed by saying "absolutely not. at least not right away, and I def wouldn't eff the guy right after". This statement led to some confusion for both BZ and I, we couldn't remember if Maria and Tony had the S-E-X before or after he killed Bernardo. We knew we had to find out...enter ED...I called ED, told her the scenario, she too thought that Maria and Tony did have the S-E-X after Maria knew that Tony killed Nardo. After we discussed it a little, she asked why this was a topic of discussion for BZ and I...and I couldn't remember. Why did I start it up in the first place? At what point did West Side Story infiltrate my brain, and why the brother-killer part? It was time to do my favorite thing...time to Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon myself...

Technically, I shouldn't call it SDOKB because it doesn't involve linking celebrities to Kevin Bacon. It does involve linking the words coming out of my mouth to the initial thought that led to the words coming out of my mouth, so basically me linking my random thoughts...which occasionally contain celebrities so it's ALMOST the same thing as SDOKB. Here is what I came up with, buckle up it's gonna be a random ride:

What was I thinking about right before Tony, dead Nardo and slutty Maria entered my head...I had just finished a disgusting sniffle due to my nasal congestion, so I was thinking about my nasal congestion, and my open-mouth breathing caused by my nasal congestion and thinking about how disgusting I must look and sound...this led me to start singing "I Feel Pretty". A few verses later, the "I Feel Pretty" singing led me to think about how bad of a dancer Natalie Wood was in West Side Story...this led me to the scene in the gym and my favorite song "Mambo"...which led me to do a little chair dance to "Mambo" as it played in my head...this led me to think about Anita(played by Rita Moreno), and how beautiful she is, and what a great dancer...at this point my brain took a little excursion to "The Electric Company" because, if I'm not mistaken, Rita Moreno at some point in her career could be heard saying "Hey You Guys" on The Electric Company...the excursion continued to The Goonies and Sloth saying that same line as he slid down the sail of One Eyed Willie's ship...not wanting this image in my head for the rest of the day, I quickly went back to Rita Moreno...after a brief hum of "Puerto Rico", a new image entered...Anita singing "A boy like that, who killed your brother...forget that boy and find another" popped into my head... and this finally led me to think about Maria pounding Tony on the chest going "Killer, killer, killer" then collapsing in his arms and then giving him her V card...and this, my friends, is when I started the brother-killing conversation w/ BZ. After all this, I also realized that I pretty much hate Tony for killing Bernardo and CANNOT BELIEVE Maria would eff him right after...sorry, "make love" to him right after...gag.

Have a good weekend, everyone!

Please accept my apology...

2008-12-19T12:02:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry, faithful boog readers, I just cannot get myself into a writing mood these days. Usually, my creative juices get flowing when my life is fun, and exciting, and right now, my life is blah...busy, but blah.(PS...I just read that as "busty, but blah", which also true.) And it's busy with things that I find totally boring when people talk to me about them...like Christmas shopping...and the weather. Those are two things that I loathe hearing about, yet find myself talking about constantly. As is the case right now...dammit. So in an effort to try to keep myself from boring you, I've decided against posting a stream of boogs that talk about Christmas...and the weather...hoping that if I don't bore you, you'll come back for more. But I realize that my plan has a major flaw. If I don't post anything new, people will eventually get tired of checking my boog and it'll dry up like cheese on a carpet and no one will read it ever again. This, my friends, is what we call a conundrum, which also happens to be the name of one of my favorite white wines...or maybe it's a quandary...which no wine is named after...maybe I'll say it's a conundary and I'll invent a wine...that also has vodka and Squirt in it. Gross. Okay, sorry, back to the conundary. So yeah, what is a girl to do when she doesn't want to write about the obvious things such as Christmas and the weather? As you can see, writing a nonsensical boog is the answer. A rambling, rant of a boog taken to dizzying heights of ridiculascity, filled with made up words and frequent mentions of the obvious things, such as Christmas and the weather, so she can talk about those obvious things without really talking about them. Let's see how she does.

Oh, I have something to talk about...the pedestrian crossings on Madison Street in Forest Park. I'm obsessed with them. I love nothing more than stopping for pedestrians at the legal crossings. My best days are days when there are pedestrians at each crosswalk that I can stop for. I find myself Lego-mad at peds who don't use the designated crossing area and it wouldn't surprise me to one day find myself shouting "Use the crosswalk, you ahole!" while shaking my fist at them. This brings me to an incident that happened this morning. I was driving at a slow pace down Madison, maybe I was window shopping and that's why I was going slow, I'm sure it had nothing to do with any horrible driving conditions caused by weather. Anysanta, I approached a ped Xing and noticed a mother and child waiting patiently at the crosswalk, so I pulled gently on Reggie's reigns. It took a little while, but he slowed down to a stop, and we waved the peds across the street. As they passed in front of me, I looked into my rear-view mirror and was greeted with the side view of a turquoise car, sliding merrily towards Reggie's rump. Old Turquiose eventually spun all the way around, and was facing the opposite direction on the other side of the street. The person was able to turn their car around without incident, and when I saw that all was well, I hightailed it out of there so they couldn't road-rage me. I'm not sure why this person couldn't control their car, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with any horrible driving conditions caused by weather, and their decision to drive too fast for any horrible driving conditions caused by weather. I mean, I was sitting at a dead stop for quite a spell, backwards-facing friend should have had no problem stopping in a timely fashion.

Speaking of fashion, I was at Dress Barn last night(first of all, change your name, Dress Barn, especially if half your store is for ladies of the curvy variety. How cute can a curvy lady sound if she tells people she shops at a dress barn? Where the moo-cows live? Also, Dress Barn, after you're done changing your name, call Lane Bryant and tell them to change their name as well. This curvy lady enjoys acronyms, and saying I purchased my pants at LB's is just no good.)...now where was I? Right, I was at Dress Barn last night and it was not crowded at all! Granted, I'm not sure why this surprises me, I mean, there could have been a crowd if say, horrible weather was being forecast and people needed to get major shopping done for, say, Christmas or something, but whatever. So I'm at Dress Barn noticing the non-crowd and I started wishing that if I were to be purchasing gifts for a major holiday, say, Christmas, that all of my purchases could have been made at Dress Barn(this became an even bigger wish when Emily and I went to Target, which was described so eloquently by Emily as a "clusterf*ck"). And I would have purchased everything if I were shopping for a major holiday from the Barn, except that I don't know how much my dad or Mike would enjoy a blouse from Dress Barn if they were to receive a blouse on a major holiday, like, Christmas, or something. Now that I think of it, I bet my dad wouldn't mind a dress, or a skirt...he likes clothes that "breathe".

Speaking of breathing, inhaling through your nose can really hurt if you do it in cold weather...and I'm not saying that it's brutally cold right now, I'm just saying that you need to know your environment, you need to be careful when you inhale sharply, especially if it's cold out. Sure, being careful when you inhale sharply through your nose is always a good idea, as you never know when a bee or a pigeon could be perched under your nose and that could really do some damage if you were to inhale sharply, but you really should be careful if it's cold...and I'm not saying it is...cold...right now...and snowy...I'm not saying that. Also, if you have a minty gum in your mouth and it's effing freezing...again, I'm not saying that it is, I'm just saying that in the event that you happen to be enveloped by some coldness, you should be careful when you're chewing a minty gum if you decide to inhale through your mouth. Maybe arctic temperatures are a time for bubble gum...or fruity gum(oh, stop!)...or a plain gum...is there a plain gum? And I'm in no way implying that arctic temperatures are present in the Chicagoland area right now along w/ a foot of snow less than a week before Christmas, I'm not implying that at all, I'm just saying. I mean, summer is also a good time for bubble gum, and fruity gum...and chewing tobacco. Sure, I prefer gum, but chewing tobacco is fine if you're into that kind of thing, which I'm not, but some people are and I'm not saying it's wrong. I guess what I really think I'm saying is...that...I like gum.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

Can you get arrested for boog neglect?

2008-12-04T15:23:00.000-08:00

I mean, I suppose if you neglect nose boogs long enough to where they become weapons due to hard sharpness, then you probably could get arrested. But not for boog neglect as much as something to do with illegal weapons. However, I'm not in the law enforcement game, so I have no idea if nose boog weapons are illegal. Wait, what the hell am I going on about? Sorry, that was a nasty tangent...and nastgent, if you will. The point is, I've totally neglected my boog(not nose) for like, 3 weeks. Here my boog(not nose) sits, alone, lonely, covered in it's own filth, starving for food and attention while I'm off gallivanting w/ turkey and having a birthday and other such nonsense(I did not invite my boog to my birthday celly...please don't mention it). I'm very ashamed...

So much has happened since my last boog(not nose) entry. There was the best protest ever, which I will write about in full detail very soon. Then there was TGivs, which I was also pay more attention to in a boog(not nose) to follow. And then my birthday...which leads me to what I wanted to quickly talk about today.

My friend Anne gave me a Digi-pet for my birthday. Many of you have probably already heard me talk about this pet and are probably already sick of it. Too bad...I'm talking some more. So, at first when I opened the hermetically sealed plastic package, I was sceptical. I figured I was too old for a Digi-pet and those types of things were for kids. In fact, it said "Kids Only" on the package but I figured that I'm so immature that whoever it is that goes around enforcing that "Kids Only" rule would figure I was no more than 12 yrs old...and a boy...obsessed w/ farts. Anypopper, I started flipping through the pets to decide which one would be mine. It was a close race between a dinosaur and a crab, but the crab won out mostly because dinosaurs are so unpredictable and hard to control. I named my crab Ike, and started to care for him. First, I went to the "Feed" button to choose some food. There was pizza and milk...and pizza...and that was it. Apparently, Ike was going to be forced to have only pizza and milk, which is my dream diet but if I have too much dairy I get rumble-guts. Then I decided to try and "Train" Ike...he didn't like this idea, he made a weird noise and a frowny face. So, then I tried "Play"...Ike didn't like that either and made the same face. I figured he must be sick, so I tried "Dr." and had the same results. Three minutes into crab-ownership and I was failing! Frantic that Ike was going to die, I gave him more pizza. He smiled and jumped up and down, so I gave him some milk, which he also smiled about. I figured that if these eating habits kept up, I was going to have a 327 pound digital crab on my hands. This worried me, but then I realized that a 327 pound crab was a lock to get on Biggest Loser and then my dream of meeting Jillian, having her beat me up into a svelte yet strong 125 pounds then fall madly in love with me and marry me, would come true. Wait, where was this going? Oh yeah, Ike. So Ike ate some more food, but still showed no interest in other activities so I just kept feeding him. Finally I stopped feeding him when he reached 7 pounds. I let him sit for awhile and then Ike made a noise, unprompted. I looked at the screen...what is this...mashed potatoes? Ice cream? OMG it was poop! Ike had taken a mashed potato-looking poop! I cleaned it up and of course laughed. Fast forward a half hour, another poop. Again, I cleaned and laughed. FF another half hour, another poop. This was getting ridiculous. While jealous of his metabolism, I started thinking that his BM's were gonna keep me up all night. I decided to "Train" him again. This time, he took to it, jumping through a hoop. I figured all work and no play makes Ike a mad-crab, so we "Play"ed with a kite, did some more training, some more playing, you get the picture. At about 1130pm, Ike, all tuckered and "pooped" out, fell asleep all on his own. I shut off his light, and my light and we both slept through the night.

Since that first day, Ike and I have gotten closer than I thought any Digi-pet and human could get. I find myself talking to him, asking if he wants play, scolding him if he doesn't read, asking him if his tummy hurts when he's not eating, and saying "Did you make stinky, Ike?" every time he poops. I'm so nervous about what I'll do when Ike digi-dies, cuz I mean, what's the average life-span of a digital crab? It can't be that long, but I already know I want Ike to live forever. I can tell you for sure that when he does digi-die, I won't have another Ike, like I did w/ the 9 consecutive Petey the Goldfish I won at various fun fairs when I was a kid. Ike, unlike Petey, is irreplaceable...

I have to talk about Proposition 8

2008-11-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

I hate to get all serious on you guys, I know it freaks people out when I'm serious, so I'll be as brief as possible, but I have to talk about this. The same day we showed amazing progress as a nation by electing Barack Obama as our next president, we took a huge step back with the passing of Proposition 8 in California. Proposition 8 is something very close to my heart as a gay woman in this country who is unable to legally marry the person she loves. When I saw that 52% of Cali voters said "Yes" to Prop 8, I was gobsmacked. How could this happen, and in California of all places? It felt like just yesterday gay marriages were legalized...and kind of it was just yesterday, since it was this past May. I hear all the religious talk about the Bible and it being wrong in the Bible...well the Bible isn't the law, and not everyone believes in the Bible, or God for that matter. That's what religious freedom is all about in this country, they don't have to if they don't want to. Plus, if the Bible was the law, some of you would be getting creamed for suckin on that crab leg you've got in your mouth right now, so aren't we all pretty glad it's not? This isn't a religious matter, it is a matter of civil rights, of human rights. I am a citizen of this country, I pay taxes in this country, yet I am not given the same rights as my fellow straight man because God, yes God, decided I was strong enough to be gay in this country. And it takes alot of strength, it is not an easy road to walk, which is why I don't understand anyone who thinks this is a choice to be made. I would hope that as human beings, those people could strip away their religion for a second and see the utter disgrace that is discrimination and the hate that it fuels. I know that's wishful thinking, and I can't do much more than support my fellow gays, support the cause, and support those who support us. I will keep living my life out and in the open, with the hope that will help people see this is a "normal" way of life. I will keep calling The Joyous One my "wife", because that's what she is to me and to the people who know us. I will keep fighting for rights that I shouldn't have to fight for. Love knows no color, loves knows no gender, love is love is love is love.

Thanks for taking the time to read this. If you're near one of the 80 cities hosting a protest this Saturday Nov 15th, please consider joining in my fight. It would mean more than you'll ever know.

Meta
http://jointheimpact.com/

Having cake and wanting to eat it? Absurd...

2008-11-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

I don't think I understand the saying "have your cake and eat it too". I mean, I understand it because I understand English, I guess I don't understand why wanting to eat a cake that you have is a bad thing. That saying is usually tossed around as a bad thing. Like, "Yeah the bastard won't say we're exclusive, he just wants to have his cake and eat it too." Well, duh, who has a cake, and doesn't want to eat it? Isn't that why you bought the cake, to eat it? Isn't the ultimate goal of a newborn cake to be eaten? I would be so depressed if I was a cake and no one wanted to eat me. Plus, people don't buy a cake and get in trouble for eating it. Unless of course, they are forbidden from cake eating by their doctor, or religion, or spouse, or the law(I bet some small towns have a cake law, like the law about no dancing in the movie "Footloose"). But could you imagine if that was illegal? You'd have to eat your cake in secret because having a cake is fine, but you cannot have a cake if you intend to eat it. The police bust into your house on a cake-raid, cuffing you, and forcing you outside wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underpants, frosting smeared all over your face, crumbs adorning your t-shirt, your neighbors come out and say things like, "Gosh, she seemed so normal" and "It's always the quiet ones", all because you were eating the cake you had. I'm thinking that wordage needs to be changed, because to me, there is nothing wrong with having a cake and wanting to eat it.

Fingerish, ish-ish...

2008-11-03T13:31:00.000-08:00

If it weren't for my fingers, I wouldn't know anything. Why? Well I'll tell you why. Let's say someone approaches me on the street and says "Angelina Jolie is walking up on your left." If it weren't for my left index finger and thumb forming an "L", I would not know my left from right, and therefore would not know which direction to turn in order to greet Ms. Jolie. I would hastily turn to my right, since that's my power side, and I would miss the chance to impress Angie(I'm sure upon meeting me that is what she would ask me to call her) with a witty statement and an adorable smile. And yes, I always make the "L" when confronted w/ something being to my left or my right because you never can be too sure.

Now let's say you're at a gala, a fancy gala, although aren't all galas fancy? Maybe not like, a gala celebrating Comb Day, but maybe that would be fancy too. I think once you throw "gala" into the blender it's gotta be a fancy event. Okay, so, you're at a fancy gala...no, a regular gala because I've just established that all galas are fancy and the term "fancy gala" is redundant. You're at a regular gala and you're sitting with several dignitaries...don't ask me how you got the invitation, maybe you won it in a poker game. So, the dignitaries are not yet impressed with you because you're drinking Coors Light from the bottle and you told a blonde joke right when you sat down in an attempt to break the ice, not realizing that all of the dignitaries at your table were blonde, galas are usually pretty dark, so that could happen. And then saying that you "thought y'all were albinos or just really old" did not help your cause. In your defense, it was a good joke that had gone over well in the past when you told it. Sure, you told it to a group of douchebags, but whatever. So, you want to try your darndest to impress the offended dignitaries when the bread gets set down right in front of you. One of the dignitaries asks you politely to please pass the bread, but you want bread before you pass it. However, you've got a bread plate on both sides of you. You put your bread on the wrong plate and you can bet your a** those albino dignitaries are gonna rough you up gala-style. You start to sweat, you're throat becomes dry and you frantically search for water. Now you're faced w/ another dilemma as there is a water glass on either side of you. Rather than embarrass yourself by choosing wrong, you throw a piece of bread to the dignitary, excuse yourself and high-tail it outta there. Gala-failure. If only you knew the simple trick I learned from The Joyous One's cousin...all you have to do is make a circle with your forefinger and thumb on both hands. Put your other fingers straight up, and on your left hand you will have made a "b" for "bread" and on your right a "d" for "drink". Sure, you may look a little silly doing that in front of dignitaries, but some dignitaries have been known to find that kind of thing charming. At least the dignitaries I run around with.

Um, so I guess I just wanted to say that we should all thank our fingers because not only do they help with things like writing and eating and typing and snapping, they also help us at fancy galas...sorry, regular galas...and when needing to distinguish left and right. Yay fingers!

November's gonna suck...

2008-10-29T13:46:00.000-07:00

October 2008 was like, the most concertdiculous month for me of all time. Seriously, I'm in a concert coma, I've got jam-band gingivitis, arena-anephylactic-shock, I need rock-n-roll rehab...okay, that's getting annoying. But for real tho, my October was straight up rockdiculous**note: if any of you hear me complaining about not having a New Year's resolution, tell me to quit making up words as my resolution, mkay?**
Here's a titty bitty rundown of who I saw, what I thought, and why you're stupid if you didn't come with me:

October 4th -- United Center, Tina Turner...you read me, TINA TURNER. I could go on and on about her gorgeous legs, but that's SO 1996 Hanes Wildest Dreams Tour when Tina and Oprah became Tinprah. Speaking of, she was totally at the show with a pocket-size Tom Cruise and of course the crowd went all apesh*t crazy when they came in. I was hoping that some of them would go really apesh*t crazy and fling poop at them...not that I don't like Oprah, it's just that poop flinging is funny no matter what, so long as it doesn't hit Gayle. Anysnapple, Tina was amazing. I found myself in awe of the fact that, at 70, she looks better than I ever will, sings better than I ever will, dances better than I ever will, and wears heels better than I ever will. I've seen her 4 times now, and she has never been this good...or had hotter dancers. I'd like to shake the hand of whoever it was that decided the dancers should wear nothing more than underwear and short skirts for the whole show. I'm hoping it was Tina, because then I would be able to shake the hand of a true living legend. Highlight of the show: at one point, Tina came over to the corner of the stage, and I sh*t you not, looked right at me and pointed as she sang "Nutbush City Limits". If you get a chance to see her, do not be stupid, drop everything and go. You'll thank me for it.

October 9th -- The Riviera, Tegan & Sara. Like a bad little lesbian, I tried forever to avoid this duo because I didn't want to look like one of those people who only likes a band because one or many of it's members go to homo church. Little did I know that Tegan & Sara were so crazy awesome. It wasn't long before I had all of their albums playing on a continuous iPod loop. I still do, actually. It's nuts, I'm addicted to them like crack...but good crack, not the kind that renders you toothless and butter-mouthed. Luckily, my friend Dan is also an addict, so I always will have a Tegan & Sara pal to go to the show with. Unfort for Dan and I, we also enjoy the booze a little, and this caused our judgement to be clouded when deciding the time we should leave for their Oct 9th show. The Joyous One warned us, but we were determined to miss the opening band, so we kept putting off the departure. That, and a slow cab driver caused us to miss the first 20 minutes, and I felt a little like crying, but then I got to hear so many songs that I loved that I recovered quickly. Their onstage banter had me green w/ envy, wishing I were clever, wishing I had a twin, wishing I could write a song. I often describe their voices as haunting, they stay with you like a ghost...a good ghost...a Casper...or a Small Wonder...wait, she's a robot...and she sucks...scratch the Small Wonder reference.

October 18th -- Heartland Cafe, Cathy Richardson Band...acoustic. If you know me at all, you know that Cathy Richardson Band is one of my favorite bands, and CR one of my favorite singers. I'm mildly obsessed...and by mildly I mean totally. The Heartland Cafe is a neat venue, small, intimate, but it's hotter than Satan's armpit in there, let me tell you. It was the perfect setting for the perfect CRB show, all requests, all the time. I'll have to ask my CRB rookie, Jessica, what she thought, since she was a first-timer. Of course The Joyous One, being the loudest in the room, pretty much ran things in terms of requests. She had good choices, so really I can't complain and CR must've liked them because she played every one. Anne Harris was of course by CR's side, jamming away on her fiddle. I'll tell ya, I didn't know I could be jealous of a fiddle until I became aware of Anne Harris. And while Tegan & Sara have that witty twin thing onstage, they don't have the market cornered on hilariousness. CR can not only sing the pants of you, she'll crack your sh*t up while she's doing it, and there you'll be, pantsless and laughing...and under arrest for indecent exposure.

October 21st -- Heartland Cafe, Jefferson Starship featuring Cathy Richardson. Yeah, so one night of CR was not enough for me, so I was off to the Heartland cafe for another taste, this time with Jefferson Starship. I was thrilled to hear 2 songs from The Weavers, including "Kisses Sweeter Than Wine", which quite possibly is my favorite song...ever. My dad raised me on a steady diet of The Weavers, so this show felt like home to me, except for the fact that I was practically sitting in a potted plant and it constantly felt like someone was fondling my hair, which doesn't happen at home, but whatever. They closed the show with the most awesome thing ever, a song from their new album which is a mix of "Imagine" and "Redemption Song"...I was blown away. My friend Annie declared that that song alone made the trip to Rogers Park totally worth it. I concur, Annie, I concur.

October 24th -- Allstate Arena, New Kids On The Block...yes those New Kids. You know what's more embarrassing than going to a NKOTB show at the age of 31? Enjoying it, that's what. It was my first ever NKOTB show, I wasn't all that into them way back when and because of that, I thought it would be a giggle to go to the show. Me and 4 others(who will remain nameless, but know who they are, Emily, Dawn, Molly, Nikki...woops) hopped in a limo like the cool kids we are and headed to the Allstate Arena. Little did we know, traffic wouldn't be bad and we would get there WELL before showtime, forcing us into Chili's to drink Mai Tai's with the other 30-something-chicks sporting NKOTB regalia and crimped hair. I found myself way more into the show than I thought I would be, almost buying a novelty "Donnie" button...but I refrained, unlike 2 people who will remain nameless, Emily and Nikki...woops. I sang along way more than I wanted to, smiled way more than I wanted to, and did a fair amount of laughing at myself for geeking out so hardcore. The only way to describe the show is horribly awesome. Oh, and for you Tila Tequila fans, last year's finalist Bo was at NKOTB...he and I had a cheers...to dorkhood apparently.

October 26th AND October 27th -- United Center, Ma-f*cking-donna. I really don't have to say much more than "Ma-f*cking-donna", but I will. I'm so spoiled rotten, I got to see Madonna 2 days in a row, and I will say that I'm a better person for it. The first night, we had awesome seats, so close to Madonna at times that I could see the veins in her awesomely muscular arms. I think the only time we sat down was during "You Must Love Me" and that was only because we were tired from dancing...at least I was. She busted out several songs off her new album, tons of old stuff including a punked-out "Borderline", a free-for-all "La Isla Bonita", and the song that brought The Joyous One to her knees...literally..."Like A Prayer". She played for 2 hours, no encore, which pissed me off initially, but then I realized I just watched Madonna and her muscles for 2 hours...what the eff was there to complain about? Actually, I did find 1 thing to complain about the first night...during the request portion, she played "Beautiful Stranger"...does anyone actually like that song? Enough to request it? Night 2 brought seats on the opposite side of where we were sitting the night before, and a little further from the stage so it was like a whole new show! Even though we weren't as close to Madonna, we saw more of her, if that makes sense. Night 2 also brought a far better request..."Dress You Up"...one of my favs. I left loving her more than I did when I got there, and I really didn't think that was possible. The Joyous One was hilarious/brilliant in her assessment of the Madge concerts, "Madonna never disappoints...the Cubs always do". Not sure what one has to do with the other, but hey, that's how The Joyous One sees it...

And so ends my Roctober wrap up(seriously, I need to quit that sh*t). I'd like to thank everyone that attended any of the shows with me, as their attendance was a big part of why it was so much fun... so thanks to The Joyous One, my mom, Monica, Dan, Jay, Annie, Jessica, Mike, Sean, Emily D, Dawn, Molly, and Nikki. Special extra thanks to Emily D, Dawn and Molly...y'all know what you did...

I suppose that is a full-time job...

2008-10-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

Gosh, it's been a couple of weeks filled w/ depressing finds for me. Last night, I found out that I make less money than the homeless panhandling crack-addict I saw on Intervention. The Joyous One looked at me immediately and said "Get panhandlin! But don't smoke crack."...done and done...

1, 2 Freddy's comin for you...

2008-10-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all, in honor of Halloween knocking at our door, and also in honor of the fact that I just finished a scary book called "The People In The Attic", I thought I would dust off a myspace Halloween boog from 2006. At the bottom I've added some of my scariest movie-watching moments, so please, if you've got any good ones that you want to get off your chest, feel free to scare the crap outta me...and others.

Friday, October 27, 2006
Scary Movies...MWAH-HA-HA
So I'm an idiot because I decided to watch the "100 Scariest Movie Moments" right before bed last night. That sh*t had me skerred y'all, let me tell you. I came to the conclusion that I might be too old for scary movies. Not because they are childish, but because the fear that comes with them is no longer exhilarating like it was when I was younger, now it's just straight fear. I don't laugh anymore after a tumble through a haunted house, I cry. I don't peek through my fingers, screeching w/ girlish glee while watching a scary movie, now I cover my eyes completely throughout or just don't watch it all all. Here's the problem, I have a tendency to watch scary movies and believe that some of those things could happen. Not with all of them, but any that touch on psychotic killers and devil stuff make me think that that type of heebie jeebie crap could possibly happen to me. I could be babysitting on Halloween, minding my business, and get terrorized by a slow-walking maniac wearing a crazy William Shatner mask and who JUST WON'T DIE...that's a possibility. I could go to a summer camp and have it be stalked by a machete-wielding nut job in a hockey mask...that could happen. Me and my family(including my son who has a gift called the shining) could be winter caretakers of a large hotel and it could cause my spouse to hallucinate and imagine sex with a corpse of some sort, then turn into a crazy psycho killer and then freeze to death in a hedge maze...I'm not ruling that out. I could be the daughter of a famous actress and get possessed by the devil, crab-walk down the stairs backwards, pee on the floor in front of my mother's party guests, jam a crucifix into my lady bits, turn my head all the way around, shoot vomit out onto a priest who is performing my exorcism and then finally be cured of my demons only after the priest chucks himself out of a window, plunging to his death...I've seen things like that before. I could be Jennifer Aniston and be chased around by a psychotic, perverted leprechaun...stranger things have happened. Okay, maybe psychotic, perverted leprechauns is stretching it a little...but I could be Jennifer Aniston!

This backtrack to 2006 has made me think of some of my scariest movie moments:

"To Kill A Mockingbird" when Jem is on the Radley's back porch and that shadow is reaching at him. I was only scared because the lights were out and my father decided that would be the perfect time to jump up from behind the couch screaming. Jerk.

"Scream" the first 5 minutes of the movie=poop-inducing and the whole friggin theater was literally screaming.

"Pet Semetary" when Gage is back from the dead and he's under Herman Munster's bed and he slashes at his exposed ankles w/ a scalpel...shudder...

"It"...the entire effing movie. Even though the movie was of the "made for tv" variety, it still makes my skin crawl, creepy predatory sewer clown, children being killed, something so scary it makes a boy's hair turn white, and the mole on the side of Richard Thomas's face...all enough to terrify a 13 year old girl.

And my number one scariest movie moment ever...

"Carrie"- the shower scene where her Aunt Flo visits her for the first time and she starts screaming for help and all the mean high school girls start throwing tampons and pads at her and she crouches down crying...we had JUST learned about the female business, so it was not a good time for me to be seeing that. Plus her Jesus-freak mother scared the love right out of me. If memory serves, I spent the next 2 weeks sleeping in my mom and dad's bed. I have not watched "Carrie" in it's entirety since, something that truly bugs The Joyous One because I won the movie in a costume contest 5 years ago for my Fat Elvis, but I refuse to watch it. Maybe I'll try again this year...

Sniffity sniff sniff...

2008-10-21T09:26:00.002-07:00

I realized something this weekend while I was using the ladies room at the Heartland Cafe. I was in the bathroom alone, in the stall, someone came in and as soon as I heard the door open, I sniffed. I sniffed long and I sniffed loud. As I was mid-sniff, I thought back to all my recent public restroom visits and recall sniffing anytime I was in there alone and someone came in. I can only assume this is some sort of defense mechanism to prevent the intruder from attempting to open my stall door, an act that causes immediate panic for me. I worry that if someone gives a good enough yank, the door will fly open and they will see me in all of my bathroom glory, struggling with undergarments, or my belt, or worse yet they'll see me in mid-hover, which leaves nothing to the imagination. That's apparently why I subconsciously created the sniff defense, and so far it has worked. Of course, as a friend of mine pointed out, the people walking in could hear the sniff and think I was snorting drugs off the toilet tank, but I think having people steer clear of my stall cuz they think I'm riding the white pony is preferable to having them bust in on me in an undesireable position...and all bathroom positions are undesireable in my opinon. And if it happens to be the fuzz coming into the bathroom, they hear the sniff, think it's drugs and break into my stall, all they'll see is a panic-stricken Merta, pants at half mast, no sign of drugs anywhere. They won't be able to make those charges stick...I dare you to try, copper! So yeah, apparently I'm a sniffer, if you come into a bathroom and hear a loud sniff, don't be shy, give me a hearty "Hey there" and "Hello", but if you pull on the stall door, I will hunt you down and kick your ass...once I stop hyperventilating.

So sad...

2008-10-20T12:52:00.000-07:00

I don't think there's anything sadder than adults with their faces painted at sporting events. I lied, adults getting excited for the YMCA at sporting events...that might be sadder.

I'll comb your back if you comb mine...

2008-10-17T10:29:00.001-07:00

So I've been getting a lot of questions about Comb Day and it's origins. It seems that several people don't just jump on board the made-up holiday train willy-nilly, they need some explanations before they give their ticket to the conductor. I'm here to provide those to you folks who aren't comfortable embracing Comb Day just yet. Hopefully, this little tale will change your mind.

Comb Day started 3 years ago on November 9th, and by total accident, as all of the great holidays do. It was cold that night, I know because I remember declaring "I'm cold" while heading out for drinks and hanging out...and more drinks. Meeting me for drinks and hanging out...and more drinks were Mina, Drew, Drew's pal Christyn, Emily and The Joyous One. When Mina arrived, she announced that she had presents for all of us, but she had to wait until The Joyous One arrived before she could hand them out. As Mina had just returned from Ireland, we got excited for the Irish gag gifts we were sure to receive. The anticipation built as we waited for The Joyous One and several times, we begged Mina to please just give us the presents. She stayed strong, and did not waver from her plan to wait. The Joyous One finally got to the bar, and before she could even order a drink, we were clamoring for the gifts that been kept from us. Mina beamed at us with one of her infectious smiles, the rest of us could not help but smile back and wiggle excitedly in our chairs as she counted down...three...two...one...she reached in her bag and pulled out...a 20 pack of combs...what the? As she graced the table with combs she shouted "Combs for everyone!". The rest of us just looked at her, devoid of emotion, until her laughter took over and we all began cracking up and "what the f*ck"ing all over the place. Turns out, Mina needed a specific comb, which by itself cost $3.00 or something, I'm sure she'll correct me if I'm wrong. She spotted the same kind of comb in a pack of 20 that only cost like, $1.00, so the 20 pack was a screaming deal. Mina, in her infinite wisdom, realized this and without hesitation bought the bigger pack of combs. But what to do with the extra combs? Why, grace her friends with the gift of combs, that's what! We decided to turn this odd and unexpected gift exchange into a full-blown celebration, evidenced by the raging hangover we all carried the next day. Poor Christyn, we discovered that her birthday was on Comb Day Eve, and after initially hounding her with questions about being born so close to Comb Day, we pretty much forgot about her birthday, which often happens to people born close to holidays. Comb Day proved to be no different. We celebrated Comb Day with unabashed glee, decorating our hair with combs, trading combs back and forth, breaking combs then realizing that was like killing Santa on Christmas so we cut that out, and shouting "Happy Comb Day!!" to everyone we passed as our boisterous group made our way to another bar. At the next bar, we ran into another group of friends, who we quickly filled in by thrusting combs at them, and hugging them, all the while wishing them...you guessed it...a Happy Comb Day. After their initial shock, they got right on board and Comb Day became a holiday to remember.

The following day, Drew composed a wonderful story which I will share with you know. It's about the true(made up) origins of Comb Day, and this is the story we think about whenever we swear at our combs, or knock them off the dresser, or see one broken in the street:
Comb Day 2006! What are you doing for comb day? What you have never heard of comb day? Well let me give you a little history of comb day. It is an ancient holiday that was celebrated in a small part of the world where peoples' hair grows like the grass. It all started when a women with beautiful long hair got shocked by a lightening bolt and fried her hair. All of her friends felt so bad that this women lost her beautiful hair and was left with a knotted mess. So they all came together and gave her combs. Well this beautiful women was so touched by this out poor of giving, that she vowed that no one, will ever again go with out a comb in their pocket. she decided that one day a year she would fill little kids shoes with combs, and would spread the warmth of combs to the entire world. These were marvelous combs, different colors and shapes and styles. Each of beautiful in their own way. This went of for generations to generations. In the 50's and 60's you could always find a comb in the back pocket of a "Greaser" and never to far away from a "squares" hand either. It is still practiced today in elementary schools during picture day. The photographer would pass out combs to the children before their school picture.
We have all heard of the most popular bar nights of the year, thanksgiving eve, new years eve, christmas, as well as halloween. Comb day is becoming one of the fastest growing bar nights around. People go to the bar for a drink and bring each other combs. As the night goes on, you can tell the most celebrated person by the number of combs in their hair. This person is normally the considered the most holiest person of the group and is sought out for their ability to make a normal night into a absolute drunken mess.
Please pass on this growing tradition to your friends and family. Grab a friend, grab a drink and dont forget your combs! Comb on brothers and Sisters, Comb On!

I hope this answers some of your questions. If it's raised more, I'm hoping you're smart enough to just forget your friggin questions and go with ridiculous flow that is Comb Day.

Random...

2008-10-10T11:36:00.000-07:00

So, the other day when I wrote my AirWick boog it got me thinking about commercials and the various ones I like. I swear, you've never seen someone laugh as hard as I laugh every time that Bud Light commercial is on where the dog is screaming "Sausages!". Hahahaha...eh, that's my favorite. You know who has a weird favorite? The Joyous One...she loves any and all commercials that involve The Slowsky's...you know, those turtles that Comcast uses? This surprises me, because if you know The Joyous One at all, you know there is nothing...and I mean nothing slow about her. She talks fast, eats fast, runs fast, walks fast, she even relaxes fast. I would go so far as to say she hates slowness. So why all the mad love for The Slowsky's? My God, first tuna salad...now this, I've reached a new level of boring.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UHKB6nQrzM

Get me a Zoloft...

2008-10-10T11:29:00.000-07:00

I got slapped with something very depressing this morning while having coffee with my fathah. We were just chatting along, and I found myself excited to tell him how I made my last tasty batch of tuna salad. That's not the depressing part. The depressing part is that it was the third time since I made it on Wednesday that I told someone about it in an excited manner. I realized this depressing fact as I said it, but that didn't stop me from getting all excited to tell it again when my mom came downstairs. I used to be so much fun, crazy even. Now, here I sit, a shell of my former fun self, getting all geeked to talk about tuna salad and the ins and outs of a good batch. If this is what it means to be almost 32, you can shove it where the tuna don't shine!

What would their kids be...elephedes? Centiphants?

2008-10-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

As a regular watcher of TV and reader of trashy magazines, I have seen some odd pairings, Jim Belushi and Courtney Thorne Smith, Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovitt, Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thorton, Detective Sipowitz and that chick that played Eve on Days Of Our Lives. But never have I seen one less believable than the one I've seen recently in the AirWick commercials. I mean, I'm just not buying that relationship. A female elephant married to a centipede...and the elephant is British. What kind of idiots do the folks at AirWick take us for? Elephants don't come from Great Britain! Unless perhaps she's an escapee from a zoo, which is totally possible. But still, I don't think that this seemingly smart elephant would escape from a British zoo and marry the first insect she ran into. It's just not practical. And I know the point of the commercial is to show us that AirWick is powerful enough to cover the stench of one hundred shoes...but come on, AirWick, you're talking about 100 centipede shoes! There ain't no way that 100 centipede shoes smell worse than an elephant's ass. I've been to the zoo, I've ridden on an elephant, I know their scent. Even if I had 100 centipedes jammed in my nose and they all had stinky shoes it wouldn't smell as bas as an elephant. Hell, even if they all farted at once while wearing their stinky shoes, it wouldn't smell as bad as an elephant. Do centipedes even have butts with which to fart? Yeah, I have no idea. And the thought of 100 centipedes in my nose has just freaked me the eff out. But that's not the point, the point is that if AirWick wants us to buy their product, then they should have the centipede telling us how AirWick is powerful enough to cover the assy stink of their elephant spouse. An air freshener that can cover that smell is an air freshener I can really get behind.

The cough that killed me...

2008-09-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

Every now and again, I take what I learned in journal writing(basically, you know, how to write in a journal) and I chronicle important events in my life. Here's an excerpt taken from my journal that I wrote the last couple of weeks. Enjoy!

Journal Entry #1:
I've been noticing a little tickle in my throat today. It's not too bad, probably nothing to worry about. Maybe I should double up on my Vitamin C intake...which basically means I should actually intake some Vitamin C. That will surely nip it in the bud.

Journal Entry #2:
It's 2 days before Amber's wedding, the tickle is nowhere to be found. I nailed that throat ticklin little effer...sayanora, sweetheart! PS...my rack looks great in the bridesmaid's dress.

Journal Entry #3:
Amber's big day...felt a little tickle this morning, maybe I celebrated prematurely. I'm gonna drink lots of fluids(and eat a Choco Taco) before the wedding. Due to the slightness of the throat tickle, I'm really not that worried. I'll be sure to suck on some Ricola's, it's probably just dry because of all the talking I've been doing...and the screaming and celebrating and drinking I did when the Cubs clinched last night, but seriously...not that worried.

Journal Entry #4:
Okay, so the tickle brought his stupid, ugly, big-brother Hacker yesterday...and right in the middle of Amber's wedding! So embarrassed, right when we were having a moment of silence for the loved ones we've lost, and then again during the vows! I could just kill that jackass Hacker! I'm hoping no one but me noticed, but I bet you can hear it on the video. Of course, once the ceremony was over, Hacker was nowhere to be found(probably gorged himself on the delicious buffet, abused the open bar and went home, asshole), and the tickle made itself scarce as well. Oh well, everyone seemed to have fun, and no one said anything about me ruining the wedding, with my coughing, so I guess I'm in the clear. Haven't heard from the tickle or Hacker in hours, but I'm taking some cold precautions, just in case...Emergen-C, Airborne, Ricola, I'm well equipped...

Journal Entry #5:
I spoke too soon. The tickle came for an extended visit last night, along with Hacker, and they were here this morning when I woke up. They actually woke me up. I'm starting to get nervous. They might be stronger than I thought. More of the same today with the cold precautions, but I'm losing my confidence in them.

Journal Entry #7:
It has been days since my last journal entry. I have been unable to write due to the throat shredding coughs that have been racking my body and clouding my vision. They come quickly, right on top of one another, like waves in a typhoon. The coughs have been unproductive, no mucus to speak of, they just rip at my throat and make my eyes water. My chest has weakened, it strains with every choking cough, the muscles are pulling and causing my shoulders to cave in. I look years older than I did just days ago. Sleep has been sparse, I'm up every hour for 10 rounds with Hacker. By the time my eyes begin to close, he pummels me again. I've resorted to sleeping with a medicated Halls tucked into my cheek, and Robitussin next to the bed. I have slathered every inch of my chest, throat and nose with Vick's Vapo Rub, staining my pajamas and sheets. I have been consuming gallons of water a day, still I'm dehydrated, still my throat is dry, and still the coughs are producing nothing but misery. Do not take the tickle and Hacker lightly, they mean business.

Journal Entry #8:
This may be the last journal entry I write in this lifetime. I'm not sure if I'll ever see any of you again, and if I don't, well...we've had a good run. The devil has invaded my chest cavity with his demon spawn. With each cough, he punches at my sternum, hoping to break free and unleash hell on earth. I'm not sure how much longer my ribs and collarbone can withstand the pressure of the internal earthquake he is producing. I've tried to fight it, but the muscles in my entire body have now weakened, my spine is beginning to curl into itself due to my inability to stand straight, and energy is something I no longer possess. My head sits at an awkward angle, as I am too weak to hold it up. I can't remember the last time I uttered words aloud, or walked in a straight line. Sleep deprivation has caused hallucinations, bloodshot eyes, and blinding headaches. The previously unproductive coughs have now begun to produce a mucus the color of Ecto-cooler, but not nearly as sweet. I worry that I will no longer be able to control bodily function when my body gets taken over by a bone-rattling cough, and I will be found face first on the bathroom floor in my own filth. I cannot keep living like this. I fear that exorcism might be the only way to rid my body of this demon, as modern medicine is clearly no match for the ancient evil that invades my chest and threatens to destroy me. If my time has indeed come, then I hope that my journal entries will save some other poor soul from suffering a similar fate. As I write this line, I can feel the demon gathering strength for another attempt at freedom. He's laughing...I'm not sure I can hold him down this time...I'm too weak. He has made his way to my throat...the gurgling has started to creep from my lips...he is unleashing a cough from the bowels of my soul that might have the power to destroy a small village...good bye, my friends...I will miss you...think of me as I was in my youth, and not as this battered, beaten, bronchial mess I've become...

Journal Entry #9:
I write to you from beyond the grave. Well, not really, I'm writing from Milwaukee, and feeling much better. Turns out, it was nothing a little Jim Beam and NyQuil couldn't fix...cures what ails ya!

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet...

2008-09-17T10:19:00.000-07:00

I often wonder why disgusting things were given disgusting names. It makes having those disgusting things all the more disgusting, and when you're battling a bout of diarrhea, you really don't need to feel any more disgusting, but you do because when someone asks you "what's wrong, why aren't you coming to the bar?" you have to utter the word "diarrhea" which makes you feel...disgusting. I mean, if diarrhea were called "flower water", would we feel as gross telling people we had it? I think not..."Sorry, old chum, I won't be able to join you at the pub for a pint this fine evening. I'm battling some flower water. Cheerio!"(for some reason, I feel like that sentence would be uttered w/ a British accent. Not sure why) And I know that people have tried to come up with funny/less disgusting words for diarrhea, Green Apple Two Step, the Trots(always enters my mind when I'm riding a horse and it begins to trot, which is not that often but still), Hershey Squirts, Bud Mud...but none of them are pretty phrases. The best of the bunch is Green Apple Two Step, but I'm not sure I know what that even means. I bet it has something to do with what happens if you eat too many green apples. But then, at least in my case, you could also call it "Green Salad Two Step"...or "Leafy Green Lambada"...okay, I've said too much.

Anypickle, there are so many things that, if called by a different name, wouldn't make us feel so oogy. Like if "warts" and "boils" were called "mulberries" and "drum rolls", " toe fungus" was called "lace undergarments", "scabies" was called "caramel", "cellulite" was called "leiderhosen", "bacterial vaginosis" was called "lavender mist"...okay, I've said too much again...I apologize.

I, my friends, am going to start to calling these things by their prettier names. And if you've read this boog, you'll know what I'm talking about. Oh, and a bit of advice, if you hear me utter the phrase "flower water", get out of my way...

What are some disgusting words you wish had a different name? Feel free to weigh in...

Going "post"al...

2008-09-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

Listen up, people, I have something I need to get off my chest...and no it's not my bra, scumbags...I effing hate Post-It Notes. That's right, I hate Post-It Notes and I'm not ashamed to admit it! Sure, they come off all innocent and cute with their pinks and blues and yellows. Hell, they even make you think they're helpful, they have a compact shape and a gummy residue that's good for stickin, but that's a bunch of malarkey, if you ask me. Let me break it down for you...

Okay, so the Post-It seems like a good idea at first...you answer the telly in your office, it's for a co-worker who happens to be tied up(not literally unless you work for an S and M mag), you offer voicemail, the person on the phone is suspicious of voicemail(this happens to me every day and will probably soon be the subject of a boog), you offer to take the message manually, you dig up a Post-It pad, scribble down the info, pull the note off the pad and stick it somewhere so that you'll be sure to see it, therefore remembering to tell your tied-up co-worker. And no, smart asses, you don't bring it over to the other person's desk, you are in the middle of something...and yes, checking Facebook is something! Plus, it's their message, they can haul their cookies the 27 steps over to your desk and retrieve it themselves. You might be a message service, but you sure as shit ain't no delivery service...oh snap! Anycheeto, 15 minutes go by(it takes that long to untie someone usually) and your co-worker is no longer tied up...and you no longer remember that you took a message. Your memory is jogged 20 minutes later, when you decide to "post" a boog...you say to your co-worker "Oh crap, I have a message for you...it's from...shit...crap...it's from...shit...no, not really, stop making me laugh I'm trying to find your message! Dammit, it was, oh jeez that lady, with the talking, you know, she says words...and talks...come on, you know who I'm talking about!" and while your bumbling your way through your self-induced office charades, you're frantically searching for the Post-It that you put in a place where you'd be sure to see it. Only by this time, the first layer of gummy has faded enough for it to fall, and in all your desk rustling, the Post-It has affixed itself to bottom of your keyboard somehow, only you don't know it because how the eff would a Post-It get under your keyboard, right? So there you sit, scurrying around your desk like Choco the hamster(R.I.P. buddy!), clawing at papers, inadvertently shredding them into a desk-nest while in search of the rogue Post-It. Your co-worker, no longer amused since this has been going on for a half hour, is now standing over you and she starts naming people it could have been. This only causes more panic, you start opening drawers, flinging files about, you rip through your garbage can as if you accidentally chucked your grillz in there(what, grillz aren't appropriate work-wear? well no one told me!), you stand up, hoping the birds-eye view will help you spot the Post-It, but no...it's nowhere to be found. Your co-worker has now resigned herself to the fact that you may never find it and is hoping the person will call back. Defeated, you sit down, wipe the sweat from your brow, put your shirt back on, take a drink of water, grab a couple Advil with shaky hands, but you drop the Advil...one rolls under your keyboard and...eureka...the Post-It has been spotted! You yelp with glee to your co-worker, waving the Post-It about and in your exuberance, you knock the other Advil to the floor. You push back your chair to get it, it's too far underneath the desk, you have to Army crawl, you come up triumphant with the Advil...but where the f*ck is the Post-It now? Somehow, it's on your back, only you don't know it because who can see their own back? No one, that's who! And you don't know that it's on your back until you leave to go to the bathroom 2 hours later and someone goes "What's on your back? Hey, that looks like a Post-It Note!", but you're not happy about it because by this time your co-worker has already missed the chance to go see a free showing of "The Women" because that's what the call was about and no matter how many times you tell her that you heard that movie sucks she doesn't care, because free is free.

Okay, so that last part about "The Women" didn't really happen, and I might be exaggerating a smidge, but you get the idea. Those friggin Post-Its get stuck in the damndest places, onto papers, the front of my desk, onto my Binaca, in Whitey's butt, and wouldn't you know I almost faceplanted into the printer when one latched onto the bottom of my flip flop. And, no lie, I have had Post-It Notes stuck on almost every part of my body, my hair, my back, my elbows, my leg...hell, if I were ever inclined to sit at work nakey, I would have really had Post-Its stuck on every part of my body...hey oh!

Maybe it's just me who has these troubles with Post-Its...maybe I'm the only one with a stack of Post-Its thick enough to hold a window up...or prop a door open...or be used a booster seat for a wee child in place of a phone book...okay, that's probably stretching it. But if it is just me, then maybe it's time to go back to my old high-school note taking standard...on my hands...in ink or permanent marker...how very professional of me!

Hold me, Heidi...

2008-09-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

I don't know about the rest of you, but I woke up pissed this morning after witnessing the terrible decision made by certain judging members of a certain television program of which I am highly in love with, even though I question judging decisions on said television program quite frequently. I normally justify my differing opinion with one simple phrase said out loud to myself, and it comforts me when I feel a designer has been wrongly booted..."Meta, you know shit about fashion, so shut your face hole". This time, that justification ain't chicken-noodle-souping me at all.

The "auf weidersehen-ing" of Terri from last night's Project Runway has got me fit to be tied. There is no way in hell that Suede's "Genie-in-a-bottle-butterfly-in-desperate-need-of-an-iron" pajama suit was better than Terri's "costume-y" design. And how dare Michael "Hi guys" Kors say that Terri has questionable taste? Has Micheal seen Suede? His designs? Heard him speak in the 3rd person? Talk about questionable taste, Sue-dud has none. And don't even get me started on Kenley's hein-as-hell-who-knows-what. Based on that piece alone, she should have been the one giving Heidi a kiss on each cheek as she tried to thank them for the opportunity without losing her shit in a sobfest.

And the worst part about all of this? The fact that my obsessive over-thinking about PR spilled into my dream, causing me to be hanging out with Michael Kors and a bunch of models(not cute ones though) in a bar at a museum behind a Liberace display...don't ask. You know what that ass said to me in my dream(Michael Kors, not Liberace)? He said that of all the plus-size models, I had the nicest hair because it wasn't crunchy like the other big girls. In the dream I was flattered that Michael Kors wanted to be fondling my non-crunchy hair(not to mention happy that I was a plus-size model who clearly was in some sort of model competition, perhaps a carry over from my other obsession, America's Next Top Model), but when I woke up, I remembered that I was mad at him, and any nice feelings from my dream went the way of the dodo bird.

So wait, what was I talking about? Sorry, I got off on that tangent and now I'll have to find my way back. Okay, let me reverse...beep...beep...beep...plus-size Meta model, Liberace, mad at Michael Kors, hate Suede...here we go, so yeah, I'm pissed about Terri getting Das Boot from Pwoject Wunway. If it wasn't for hottie Heidi Klum, I would stage a protest...which would consist of me sitting, arms crossed, brow furrowed, television tuned to some other channel between 8pm and 9pm on Wednesday night...take that PR!!!!

I'd take that out of there if I was you...

2008-09-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

So I have this plastic polar bear on my desk that sh*ts jelly beans when you press his butt...or he sh*ts M&M's if that's what you choose to reload him with once you've eaten all the jelly beans...which I have. He came to me courtesy of my friend Gail, who knows that I'm an immature fool who gets a kick out of poop and things that poop and farts and things that fart etc. No one can tell me I don't play to the highest level of intelligence when it comes to laughter! Anynipple, I was playing with my polar bear(we'll call him Whitey) the other day while on hold with a computer, oddly enough, trying to fix my computer. Initially, I was seeing how fast I could make him poop M&M's, and of course I would giggle every time a blue one came out, cuz who poops blue? Ooh, maybe polar bears do and that's why their swimming water at the zoo is so blue...eh, whatever. So the rapid-fire poop kept me entertained for a wee while. Then I was seeing what other objects Whitey would deuce...paper clips, a penny, a wrapped Ricola...slightly boring because Whitey is kind of stubborn and wouldn't poop them as easily. Maybe they were rough on his bowels, but I doubt it, he's plastic. After that I was just kind of fiddling around, not paying attention to what I was doing, I looked down and there was my index finger...right up Whitey's butt. This caused hilarious laughter by me, because really, what's funnier than having your finger in a polar bear's butt, right? I can tell you what's not funnier...your finger in an actual living breathing polar bear's butt. You would not get away without a few scratches. In fact, if you walked up to Joe Polar Bear and shoved your digit up there, you can bet your finger-in-his-a** that he would eat you and your butt-probing self for dinner. A little advice: if your going to stick your finger in a bear's butt, make sure he's plastic...or Whitey...cuz Whitey likes it.

Come on in! I'm naked, but I don't care if you don't...

2008-09-04T08:01:00.000-07:00

This morning, as I stood in my bathroom wearing only a birthday suit(unfort it was my birthday suit and not Heidi Klum's), I was faced with one of my worst fears. I had just hung my towel up behind the door when I heard a key rattling around my front door. There I was, in all of my naked glory, bathroom door wide open, and someone was coming into my house...**GASP**... the cleaning lady! I had been living with a fear of her busting in while I was traipsing around nakey for like 2 months, because for some reason, she was no longer telling us when she was coming or what time. Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and I scooted quickly into my bedroom before she could see me. I was moving so fast that if she caught a glimpse, she would have just thought it was a speedy albino manatee...okay so those don't exist, but I'm sure that's what I looked like as I sprinted the 4 feet from my bathroom to my bedroom. As I wiggled and jiggled my way into safety, I screamed "Hi Mariya, I'm just getting dressed" to which she replied "Hello, I come early"...yeah, no sh*t, Mariya...you come WAY early...you should count your blessings that you didn't make the mistake of coming even earlier, although that's a mistake you wouldn't make twice.

For those of you who have seen my condo, you're probably wondering why we have a cleaning lady, and after my naked encounter today, I'm wondering myself. But I know I'll get home tonight, smell the Mr. Clean, run my hands along my sparkling counters, eat a gummy bear off my shiny floor, lick the bottom of my uber-spotless tub, and realize that being naked in front of a Russian woman is a small price to pay for a clean condo...

What makes you think I'm in drag?

2008-08-28T08:42:00.000-07:00

Looking down at my outfit today, I'm smacked with the realization that I am a borderline drag king. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to put on fake facial hair and sideburns, bind my boobs down, cut my hair short(been there, done that), start working on cars and acting like a dude. But most of my clothes, besides my unmentionables('cept a few pairs of boxer briefs), were purchased in the men's department...of Old Navy. Is it a comfort thing? Perhaps. Maybe I like looking frumpy. Or maybe I just like looking like a chick(all tits and curly hair) in men's clothes. I don't know what it is, and maybe I never will. But it reminded me of a boog I wrote back in April of 2006 after attending my friend Nora's bachelorette party. In honor of my drag-ish appearance, here is that boog detailing the first time I fell in love with a drag queen...queen...not king...QUEEN!!!

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I'm in love with a drag queen...

How did this happen? Let me lay the foundation for you....
Last Saturday I was attending a bachelorette party for a dear, dear friend of mine. The evening was chock-full of fantabulous bachelorette-ish activities, including a stripper or 2, some pretty raunchy and serious dancing, a party bus, and topped off with a nice helping of the Baton Club.

The night was going well for me, not too drunk, not too sober...I was juuuuuuuuuust right. We arrived at the Baton at midnight and waited patiently for the 12:30am show to start. When it did, I was pleased to discover that 4 lovely ladies were popping the night off with "Free Your Mind" by En Vogue. One of them caught my eye, and I said, to no on in particular, "I like the one on the right." After their performance, there was some filler, the obligatory "I Touch Myself" routine filled with self-touching, then....it happened. My "one on the right" was up and decked out in full Janet Jackson attire. Then she started to do her thang, and to my delight, she performed "If" to near perfection. Now, for those of you who know me, you know why this is a big deal. "If" is my jam, and I spent months attempting to perfect the moves in high-school. I still have the friggin VHS tape and, if not for my creaky knees, I might still be dancing along with it in my living room 7 days a week for hours at a time. I pretty much consider myself an "If" connoisseur, and kind of a huge loser, but whatever. That alone was enough to make me love her, but she wasn't done...

A couple of numbers later, my girl was up again, this time...Beyonce..."Bootylicious". I was beside myself and wriggling in my chair like a puppy who had to piddle...in fact I think I did have to piddle, but that's a tale for another time. Anyflipper, it was as if she was performing just for me, even though she didn't even know I was there or who I was. By the time she came on for her third song(something by Paula Abdul, all those songs sound the same to me...but don't think for one minute that I don't love me some Paula!) I was blinded...by love, by Captain Morgan, perhaps a mixture of two. It didn't matter, she had me. I love-drunked my way to the side of the stage so I could be closer. I had a vision of me suavely handing her a $20 bill and tossing her a wink, her tossing one back and blowing me a kiss. It didn't go like that. I drunkenly thrust the bill at her and she smiled and walked away. I scrounged in my pocket for more money, I had to try again, I had to do better. All I came up with was a wadded-up dollar and hoped that would be good enough. I stood by the side of the stage, leaning toward her, she came over, I froze, mouth agape complete with a drool accessory, I meekly handed her my lame dollar and as she turned to walk away, I blurted out " I love you!" like the Queen of Dorks that I am.

After the show, a nice man who saw my desperation introduced me to my love. I don't remember what come out of my mouth, probably something resembling the noise Chewbacca might make if he were drunk. Someone took our picture, but who knows if I'll ever see it. And so ends the sad tale of my love for a drag queen...sigh...

What's in a name...

2008-08-27T15:08:00.000-07:00

I just found out that my name, Meta, is the 2,397th most popular name in the country and that there are 6,100 other people with the first name Meta. WTF?!? That's 6,000 more people than I want having the name "Meta". Nice job on the rare name, Kate and Phil. How rare can a name be if 6,100 other people have it? So much for my theory that I don't need a last name, like Madonna or Cher, clearly I do so I'm not mistaken for the other 6,099 people named "Meta". I mean, who is gonna confuse Madonna Jones for Madonna who sings dances and is bendable? No one, that's who! Unless they are the spitting image of one another and Madonna Jones is also a singer...and also is bendable. I shouldn't be talking about Madonna Jones, I don't even know her.

My point is, I can't just use "Meta" as my only name because what if, just what if I leave an important message for someone and say "Call me back, I have free Madonna tickets...actual Madonna, not Madonna Jones...oh yeah, it's Meta" and the person CALLS THE WRONG META! I mean, the poor person will miss out and call some other Meta because I didn't have enough sense to use my last name. Or what if, just what if, I get picked for Jeopardy!(I'm very smart, this boog proves it) and I just give my first name on the application thinking "no one can mistake me for anyone, I'm Meta, bitch" and Alex Trebek gets on the phone and calls Meta Larsen from Shreveport. And I know that Alex would be the one making that call! It would be a tragedy.

I guess I should count my blessings that I found this out before I got all Meta-cocky and dropped "Kroker" from my name. And I guess I should also count my blessings that my name isn't Elizabeth, then there would be about 1.5 million people I could get mistaken for if I didn't have a last name. And now that I know there 304, 976,555 people in the US(I don't know if they count homeless people) and only 6,100 have my first name and only 1 with my exact name, I realize I should just shut the hell up.

http://howmanyofme.com/

Goose me...

2008-08-26T14:08:00.000-07:00

So this morning, like every morning Monday through Friday, I found myself driving to work. Today I took the Madison street route, and as I crossed Des Plaines, I looked up in the sky and saw several geese in a weak "V" formation, heading south. I stared up at at them for a bit, nearly missing my right hand turn onto Lathrop. I turned, looked up at them one more time and thought "F*cking geese, they don't have to go to work. I have to go to work. Why can't I be a f*cking goose?"

Pass Me My Olympicrack Pipe...

2008-08-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a big day for Olympicrack, but sadly I missed most of it because I was sleeping. Thanks to the headlines on Yahoo though, I wasn't in the dark for long. I got ambushed while trying to sign into my mail, although it wasn't the first time I was ambushed by a results headline, so I don't know why I was surprised. Methinks my Olympicrack-addicted mind needed a fix and it forced my eyes downward, causing me to see what had taken place while I was in my Olympicrack-induced coma. Then, like a fiend, once I knew what I happened I scoured the internet for information, lapping up every word and picture I could find until I was sated.

Let's start with the bad news, and the sporting event I can barely think about because I'm so devasted by the result. The US Women's softball team lost the gold medal game to Japan and are the 2008 silver medalists. Oh my god, I just got a lump in my throat as I wrote that. The US hitters were no match for Japan's Yukiko Ueno, who after pitching 715 innings the day before, probably felt like 7 more against the US was a piece of cake. The US made two uncharacteristic errors, allowing Japan to get some State Farm. But they didn't need it, the US couldn't push more than 1 run across the plate. That run came courtesy of Marla Hooch, aka Crystl Boustos...what a hitter. Ms. Boustos also won the sportsmanship award for being the first US player to pick her jaw up off the ground and congratulate Japan on their big win. I can't blame the US for being shocked though, they haven't lost since 2000. See, that's why I prefer being a huge loser, that way I'm never disappointed! But it's the end of an era for US Softball, 5 of their top players officially retired from international competition by placing their cleats at home plate after the game. I sure hope those cleats went to some needy softball players. Farewell to Boustos, Laura Berg, Kelly Kretchman, Tairia Flowers, and 1 of my top 5 softball hotties, Lovieanne Jung. Also farewell to softball as an Olympic sport, at least for the London games. Hopefully the Japanese win will make the IOC open their stupid friggin eyes and see that softball is a global sport. By pulling it from the Olympics, they are destroying the dreams of hundreds of women and girls across the world, plus they are eliminating some 200 female athletes from Olympic competition. Just when teams other than the US start getting their talent together and solidifying their programs, the friggin IOC pulls the sport. As if softball is the only sport dominated by 1 country...hello table tennis? Badminton? Diving? As you can see, this is a sore subject with me, so I'll move on before the IOC comes a' knockin at my door. Yes it was a sad day for US softball, and softball in general and if you didn't feel like jumping into your tv a giving #1 softball hottie Jenny Finch a big hug as she wiped a tear from her eye, well then you're just not human...or you're a gay man...or a straight woman...

In other depressing Olympicrack news, the US relay teams really screwed the pooch, both teams dropping their shafts in the preliminary round. I mean, those things are hollow, so they are shafts, right? I think the official term is "baton", but those don't look like batons, they look like shafts. Shafts it is! Both teams were favored to compete for gold, both failed...wah wah. In other track and field news: racewalking is the most hilarious thing I've ever watched.

Now for the good news. I was a Negative Nelly about the US Women's soccer team as soon as my #1 soccer hottie Abby Wambach, went down with a broken leg before the Olympics. I said they didn't stand a chance for the gold without her, especially against Brazil. Boy am I eating my words...and they taste like delicious gold. Never have I been happier to be wrong about something. Well, except for one time when I thought I dislocated my shoulder but really my bra strap was too tight, but whatever. Anypiddle, in a match against Brazil in which they were basically chasing Marta and Christiane all over the field, the US came up with 1 goal in extra time and that's all they needed. Well, that and #2 soccer hottie and Olympic bad-a**, Hope Solo. For those of you who don't know, at the last Women's World Cup,Hope Solo was pulled from the match against Brazil in favor of veteran goalkeeper Briana Scurry and the US got shredded in that game. Brazil made them look as bad as my old soccer team, the Typhoons, which I played on when I was 7. They lost 4 to nothing and after the game Hope Solo ripped her coach for benching her(he is now the ex-coach) and was banished from the bronze medal game. How do you spell "redemption", Ms. Solo? How about by making 6 ridonkulous saves against one of the best teams in the world on arguably the biggest stage in the world. Yeah, I think that spells "redemption" just fine. Big ups to Carli Lloyd(#3 soccer hottie) for scoring the lone goal in the 6th minute of overtime. Also, big ups to Natasha Kai(#4 soccer hottie and she goes to my church!) for taking her top off in celebration.

In other gold medal news, the US Men's beach volleyball completed the "Sand Sweep" by taking the gold against Brazil. The US Men and Women's indoor volleyball teams both advanced to the gold medal game and the US will be looking for a complete volleyball sweep in the days to come.
Lastly, who doesn't love that whack-a-mole Usain Bolt? What a trip...

**For those of you who don't think I'm writing enough about the men, I say 'shut it'. This boog is written by a lady lover so you best believe I'm all about focusing on the womens and their *cough* athletic prowess. You want a boog about men, write it yourself**

I've Got Your Evil Right Here...

2008-08-20T13:18:00.000-07:00

Do you guys remember "The Secret of Nimh"? It came up in a conversation I was having the other day, and I had this uncomfortable/sad memory flash that involved a rat and some underground thing, perhaps a tunnel. I remember watching the movie at my cousin's house, and maybe I also read the comic-type book that was the movie in a nutshell. I must have enjoyed it on some level, because I think I saw it more than once. But I definetely get a sweeping sadness when I try to remember what it's about. I did some research on it, and when I read the synopsis, I thought "Well no wonder that memory made you sad, that movie sounds sad as hell!"...A widowed field mouse(Mrs. Bisby) w/ a sick son trying to escape from a farmer's plow and having to go to the creepy owl for help(you know that owls eat mice!), and then having to deal w/ some uber intelligent rats, one that wants to kill the rat leader Nicodemus and Mrs. Bisby's kids, and she has a rat named Justin trying to help her(I have no problem with the name Justin, I just think it's a lame name for a mystical rat is all). I mean, that's an intense plot for the 6-year-old set, doncha think? I don't remember how the movie ends, I feel like Nicodemus gets killed, the plow wins and Mrs Bisby is forced into an arranged marriage w/ the evil rat Jenner. I'm sure that's not really how it goes down, but whatever, I clearly have a sour taste in my mouth from that movie. And it's not the only one from my shorty-hood, let me tell you. Don't even get me started on E.T. or Dumbo, those 2 movies jacked me up when I was a kid. What? You want to get me started on those? Oh alright, twist my arm...

Dumbo, a little movie brought to us by Disney about a circus elephant with his big ears and his ability to fly. Cute movie, right? WRONG!!! I watched this movie for the first time on ABC, which was showing it over 2 nights. I sat in front of the boob-tube wriggling with childhood glee, up until the part where they cut the movie off for the first night...rriiiigghht as Dumbo's mother gets taken from him. What? What is wrong with you, ABC? A child's number 1 fear is losing his or her mother! As a wee child, I'm supposed to go to sleep knowing that Dumbo's mom has been stolen from him and he's all alone? As a wee child, I'm supposed to go through the next day acting normal, as if nothing has happened, when for all I know, Dumbo's mom is dead? Seriously...what...the...f*ck. And Disney, you're just as much to blame for the horrible way you wrench children away from their parents in your movies, going so far as to kill some of them off. For shame, Disney, for shame. Mind you for the right amount of money, I would write a script killing off every cartoon parent from here to Timbuktu, so who am I to judge, right? But still, the little kid inside of me is totally pissed at you because you wrecked Dumbo for her, and she blames you and ABC for her abandonment issues.

E.T: The Extra Terrestrial -- like any good L.I.T.(Lesbian In Training), I was a sucker for dinosaurs, G.I. Joe's, and anything and everything outer space, sci-fi, etc. So naturally I was delighted when I heard about E.T. I went to see it at the Lake Theater, I think I was with my parents, some cousins, some aunts and uncles. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Then the movie started and the first friggin thing you see is poor little E.T. getting left behind on Earth. What is a little kid's number 2 fear behind losing his or her mother? Getting left the eff behind! My lip started to tremble and I was nearly lost in sadness. I held on for awhile, with the help of Drew Barrymore, and E.T.'s cuteness(although now that I think of it, he's not that cute). Then, things went south in a hurry. E.T. gets sick which, because of his connection to Ell-i-ott, also gets Ell-i-ott sick. They both turn a deathly shade of white, the house is quarantined, there's crazy men in horrible white suits freaking everyone out, there's screaming and running and E.T. is dying and no one around me seemed to care. I was beside myself, sobbing with such force my collarbone started to hurt. And then, E.T. has to leave Ell-i-ott and go back with his other E.T.'s, and this should have made me happy, but that music was playing, and Ell-i-ott was sobbing, and I was borderline about to throw up because I was so upset...so I left. Walked right out of the theater into the lobby and sat there and cried. Cried for the alien friend that Ell-i-ott had lost, cried for the alien friend I would never have, cried for every creature that just wanted to phone home. I was inconsolable. I vowed to never see that movie again, and I haven't. If it comes on I fly into a rage, launch a swear-ridden tirade about the evils of E.T., which has pretty much wrecked me for life.

There are other movies I'm sure(hello? The Neverending Story when the horse gets sad? Okay, now I'm crying). I know these movies supposedly have happy endings, and they are meant to teach a lesson about life, blah blah blah. But all they really taught me was how to fast forward through the sad parts, and how does that help me in real life when there's no fast forward?

Feel free to weigh in people. Which "children's movies" made you pee from fear, barf from crying, had you laid up in bed unable to eat or drink anything for days?

Myspace Throwback...

2008-08-15T13:12:00.001-07:00

So today I wore a dirty shirt to work. This is something I do often, and it's not that hard since a lot of my shirts have stains across the Twin Peaks. But in honor of my disgustingness, here's a boog I pulled from myspace. Enjoy!

I’m a scum...

So last night, I was sitting on my couch flipping between D.E.B.S(yes, I've seen that movie and I watch it every time it's on. It's not my fault Jordanna Brewster is hot) and Pwoject Wunway, chowing down on a piece of Louisiana Crunch Cake. I dropped a piece of crunch cake icing onto the floor and for some reason decided to blindly reach down to get the hunk of icing. God forbid deliciousness goes to waste is what I say. So I feel around on the carpet for it, and my fingers brush an object closely resembling the fallen icing. Fatty McSits-A-Lot grab its and quickly shoves it into her mouth, not wanting to miss a second of the tv program. Turns out, it wasn't the hunk of icing, it was a hunk of cheese that I must've dropped during some other couch binge. I did not realize it was cheese until I had chewed it thouroughly, at which point I looked at The Joyous One and said "That wasn't the icing, that was cheese." and she goes "Well you like cheese, what's the problem?"...she's got a point. This is why I love my wife...

The Beauty Is In The Person, Not The Unitard...

2008-08-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

The Joyous One has been buggin me for quite some time to write a boog about her hatred for a certain word in the English language. To which I kept saying "write your own damn boog about it". To which she kept saying "no". And I kept putting it off, hoping she would forget about it. However, The Joyous One has the mind of an elephant, so no chance she'll forget. Since I'm still riding the high of the Nastia/Shawn Smackdown last night, I'm in a pleasant mood, and have decided to write a boog about this word that The Joyous One hates.

Unitard...she hates it...more than she hates anything. Including this bitchy security guard who yelled at us for being on a "forbidden floor" at the Cubs Convention 3 years ago. It's so bad, that now when I hear the word "unitard", I look around nervously, on pins and needles, hoping The Joyous One didn't hear it, but knowing that when that word is uttered she's like a dog and a high-pitched whistle...she can hear it from miles away. I wait for her to come crashing into the room, enraged, foaming at the mouth screaming "I HATE THAT WORD!!". It's so bad that anytime anyone casually mentions the word "hate", she goes "You know what I hate? The word 'unitard'. I hate it more than I hate that security guard from the Cubs Convention"(That's how she gauges all things she hates) . It's so bad, that anytime anyone says the word "word", she goes "You know what word I hate...", you get the picture.

But last night, I got to thinkin(because of gymnastics and The Joyous One mentioned her unitard hatred for the 12,444th time this year)...what the hell is the difference between a leotard and a unitard? Does The Joyous One hate "leotard" as well? What part of "unitard" does she hate, the "uni" or the "tard"? If it's the "tard", then she should also hate "leotard". If it's the "uni", she should also hate "unicycle" and "unibrow"(which I do hate, mostly because I picture one at the mere mention of the word...ew). Is the "leotard" the pretty older sister of the "unitard", or are they the same thing and "leotard" is just a word made up by pretty people who thought uttering "unitard" made them ugly? So many questions...

I decided I needed answers. The "unitard" is indeed different from a "leotard". A uni goes all the way down to the ankle, according to the pictures on http://www.leotards.ca/ (they have the best selection of leotards, unitards, leggings and tights...check it out if you want a laugh) and the leotard stops at the crotch...can I say 'crotch' on tv? I'm sure most of you knew that already, so sorry for being a dumba**...that's Merta for ya! As for The Joyous One, I don't know if she hates "leotard" and "unitard" equally, and I'm not sure what part of "unitard" she hates...those are questions that may never be answered...mostly because I will forget to ask her due to my raging A.D.D. All I do know is that while unitards and leotards may be different, they are both equally hideous looking.

USA...USA...USA

2008-08-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

Last night was my favorite night of Olympicrack ever...EVER!!! Unless you live under a rock, or are a communist, then you know that the USA went 1 and 2 in the women's gymnastics all around final. Nastia "The Blond Swan" Liukin took the gold and Shawn "Pocket Pistol" Johnson took the silver. It didn't start well, after Nastia's nearly perfect vault received a mark of 15.025(that's low for what she did y'all, just watch the tape) I thought judging was gonna be Nasti...and it was for awhile. I'm not sure what the judges were watching on their monitors, but I'm guessing it was "Lost" because that's what they seemed to be. Drawn-out delays between gymnasts, arguing, phone chatter, an angry woman in a red blazer storming all over the place, plus Elfie, Tim and Al talking sh*t about the scoring in the background made me suspicious. At one point, I'm sure I saw one of the judges on the phone say "I really don't know what I'm doing, I just needed the money".

After vault was the uneven bars. The Blond Swan was beyond beautiful w/ her graceful lines, challenging pirouettes and big air release moves. On her dismount, she stepped forward a bit, but Tim assured us it was only a .10 deduction. She scored pretty high on bars as we've come to expect from Nastia. Then came China's Yilin Yang who did a routine nearly identical to The Nasty One(I mean that as a total compliment), took the same step on the dismount and...scored higher. I know, I know, it makes no sense. And then, the icing on the shitcake, Shawn got the shaft on her near-perfect bars routine. Trust me, I was conspiracy theory-ing and "what the f*cking" all over my living room. I left quite a mess.

The "judges" finally got it together on the last 2 apparatuses(apparati?), balance beam and floor(those are also my least favorite apparati because I just picture someone smacking their face on the 4-inch beam, or building up too much steam on the floor and ending up on the judges table). Nastia and Shawn would have to be practically perfect...and they were, beating Yilin Yang to take silver and gold, breaking her heart and the hearts of 45 kajillion Chinese people. Their last two routines left no doubt who the best all around gymnasts were...USA...USA...USA.

What they really wanted to say...

2008-08-12T14:51:00.000-07:00

As I feeding my Olympic addiction last night, I noticed during the Men's Team Gymnastic Final that the cameraman was all about getting in Team USA's huddle. I felt bad for them, because you know they felt like they had to say all this inspiring sh*t about how they are a team, they did their best no matter what the outcome, USA rules, blah blah blah, when what they really wanted to say was "Swear to god if any of you m*ther f*ckers f*ck up on pommel horse the rest of us will break your f*cking noses!"...

Market Gays

2008-08-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all, so this weekend was the Northalsted Street Market Days festival(read:an 8 block gay club w/ fried food). It's one of my favorite weekends of the year, and this year did not disappoint. There was hanging out, cruising the streets, judging of people from windows high above the crowd, laughing, jello shots, being mistaken for a worker at Yoshi's Cafe, cheeseburger eating, Expose watching, slipping on a pickle or something resembling a pickle, using of the men's room at Roscoe's, ordering and consumption of 2 breakfasts(you know who you are!), hysterical belly laughter causing toast to go in my lung, a girlfight(you know who you are!), the pulling of pancakes out of a purse, ridiculous tee-shirt purchasing, more laughing, interaction w/ an annoying stranger at Buck's, and finally watching the Cubbies win at The North End. And did I mention the laughing? Seriously, I love my friends, everyone was on fire this weekend! Thanks guys, y'all be crackin me up!

I did notice that there were an inordinate amount of purses at Market Gays. Now, I'm not a purse hater, my friends carry purses, my wife carries a purse. But there are some very irresponsible purse carriers out there, and I think most of them were at Market Gays. They swing their purses about as if unaware of their extra appendage. How am I supposed to watch Expose if I'm being shoved off the curb by a Dooney & Bourke(raise your hand if you're surprised that I busted that out)? That's right, I can't, it's distracting. And a little painful it you catch the corner of someone's purse in your ribcage. Not to mention the unfair space advantage it gives to the lady(or fashion forward man) carrying the purse. You're talking about an extra foot of space in some cases. Maybe I need to fight back, engage in some elbow-purse combat. If I stand with both hands on my hips, elbows pointed, and turn side to side, I'll create some extra room that a purse can't penetrate. Sure I'll look like an a**, but at least I'll avoid getting pursed. So if you're reading this, and you're a purse owner, please think of us wallet carrying lesbians and men, who don't have any defense against your purses. We know you don't mean it when you turn quickly and cold cock us in the chin, but it stings nonetheless. Please try and purse responsibly. This message was brought to you by LAMPPS(Lesbians And Men Protesting Purse Swinging)

Myspace boog from April 10th, 2008

2008-08-08T12:43:00.000-07:00

Today marks the start of the 3 game weekend series at Wrigley, Cubs v. Cards. To commemorate this occassion, I've decided to repost a classic boog from my myspace page that I wrote back in April. It's about about a hot dog. If you've read it before, I hope you enjoy it again. If you're reading it for the first time, hopefully you can learn something from it.

Is that a hot dog in yer pocky, or are you just happy to see me?

So last Saturday, I went to my first Cubs game of the season. I was geeked y'all, geeked for peanuts, geeked for beer, geeked for long bathroom lines, and most of all, geeked for the grilled hot dogs with the grilled onions(I like to call them 'grillies'), and they are my friggin favorite single food item of all time.

I didn't get the grilly right away, because I feel like if I get one prematurely, it ruins the entire weiner experience. So I sat in my seat and bided my time. Around the fith inning, I felt a slight rumble in my food catcher...it was time. The Joyous One and I made a run for the grilly stand as soon as the Cubs finished up on offense. There was a line, naturally, but it was moving quick, unlike the Mai Tai line which was filled w/ over-groomed 20-somethings who probably think of Wrigley as some sort of dayclub to be used as their place to prelim before the ba-dunk-a-dunk nightclubs...to those idiots I say, whatever. But I digress...

We placed our order, picked up our grillies and the nachos w/ jalapanos and extra cup-o-cheese product(my boo loves her some nachos and processed cheese), and went over to douche our dogs w/ condiments...glorious condiments. I spied some Gulden's Spicy Brown while I was in the line, and knew immediately what route I was gonna take. We headed back to the seats with our haul, and this girl could not wait to chow down. I was bouncing around in my seat like a 3 year old hopped up on cotton candy, which was no good because then there was a delay in eating while The Joyous One distributed nachos, and moved beers into cupholders. Needless to say, I was cheesed off about the hold up. Finally it was time to become one with the grilly.

My first bite might have been the biggest bite of something that I've ever taken, and I didn't even bother to finish chewing before I went for another. I had to tell myself this was no way to enjoy a grilly, and I slowed it down, deciding to chew and cherish every bite. This worked for 1 more bite, then I was back to my old ways. In my haste to get as much grilly into my mouth as possible, a long piece of sticking-up onion went very deep into my right nostril, my power nostril. It was startling to say the least. Now, normally, an onion going in yer nose isn't a problem...unless the onion is covered in Gulden's Spicy Brown Mustard. I didn't realize that the devil's mustard was on that onion until my eyes started watering profusely, my nose started running, and then the real cause for panic, the nostril started closing up. I'm sure this was a defensive measure to stop the mustard from traveling north, thus protecting my brain from any mustard damage. Being that it was my power nostril, 'ol lefty wasn't prepared to take on the bulk of the nose-breathing, which left me with no choice but to open-mouth breath, my least favorite way of breathing. I frantically grabbed a napkin and tried to slyly get the mustard of death out of my nose. There was a lot in there, y'all. Finally, my napkin was coming out clear, so it was time to try and settle down. I sat there for what felt like 10 minutes but was probably only 3, open-mouth breathing, calming myself down, making sure no one saw what happened. Then....I resumed the chow down.

My nose wasn't the same for the rest of the evening, it felt like I had a cold, I would sporadically sneeze, plus I think that the mustard actually caused me to get much drunker than I normally would, but that's a tale for another time.

Moral of the story: demostrate caution when allowing things to go in your nose

It's not a choice...

2008-08-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

For years and years I've felt different. As if I were born with this thing that seperated me from a large part of the population, and it wasn't my fault, or my parents fault, or my grandparents fault, it was no one's fault and no one could change it. It was hard growing up like this. I had to come to grips with the fact that there were people who thought I wasn't "normal" and disagreed with the way I drove down this particular avenue of my life, even though I had no choice in the matter. And I've tried to be "normal", believe me I've tried. After some research, I've come to find out that in fact I was born with this, it's not a choice, and before I even entered this crazy world, this path had been laid out by my genetics. I was destined to hate cilantro.

According to studies, there is actually a genetic polymorhism for a receptor that influences the way a person senses the taste of cilantro. They don't know for sure, but it most likely is a codominant trait. People with one or more copies of one variant tend to taste it as "soapy" or "like licking a battery" in my case. You have no idea how relieved I was to find this information out. Many times people have yelled hurtful things due to my dislike of cilantro. Calling me "crazy", or telling me I don't know what I'm missing. I'll tell ya what I'd like to be missing...the cilantro in my tacos, thankyouverymuch!

I'm curious as to how many of my fellow gays are cilantro-haters. Wouldn't it be crazy if the 2 went hand in hand. Like at a young age, you could give a kid some cilantro and if they hated it, you'd know you had a big 'ol lez on your hands and you could send her away to some farm where she had room to run and play. The cilantro test would save everyone lots of trouble, years of heartache, and boatloads of questions. Like wondering why your pretty little girl refuses to wear a dress, or why your handsome young boy refuses to not wear a dress(I know I'm making sweeping generalizations here, but sometimes I feel like it) Ooh, and then those of us who "hate cilantro" could use it as a code..."Yeah, I'd like a taco, hold the cilantro"...wink. But I digress...

Hating cilantro, as well as being a big mo, are just 2 of the many things that us humans have no control over. So don't hate me because I don't like cilantro, I can't help it!

An oldie but a goodie, in honor of Bundy...

2008-08-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all. So yesterday my friend Bundy punched herself in the nose while adjusting her bra strap...hmmm...she might not haven't wanted me to share that little nugget of the story, but oh well. Anynoodle, in honor of Bundy's self beating, I decided to post an old boog(hee) pulled from my myspace page in which I chronicle my own nose-punching. Here's to you, Bund!

So yesterday I was on a Southwest flight back from Buffalo, and was sitting in quite possibly the worst seat ever, the window seat in the very last row, seat 24A. The plane starts to narrow at that point, so the window seat there is quite a bit tinier than the other seats on the plane. Now, for any of you who have seen my badunk-a-dunk, you know that one thing this girl does not need is a smaller seat. Anydoodle, I couldn't switch seats because there were no empty seats on the flight. I mean, I could have switched w/ Joy but I don't like the middle, nor did I want to be all up on the stranger who had the aisle. I would rather be all up on the window.

Another thing I noticed about this row of seats was the the space between the seat in front of us was considerably smaller than the space in any of the other rows, so when the gentleman in front of me put his seat back, I could kiss him on the forehead without moving forward, which I did several times, just to make him feel good. The flight wasn't too miserable, until we actually landed and the rear door was opened in order for the garbage to be removed. The artic wind came rushing into the rear of the cabin, and then sucked back out again, taking anything that wasn't nailed down. We sat huddled together for warmth with the stranger that I previously hadn't wanted to bother. Our coats were several rows in front of us, shoved into some overhead bin, so all we had was our sweatshirts and our body warmth. When it was finally time for us to deplane an hour later, (seriously people, what the eff are you doing up there that causes you to take such a long friggin time to gather your belongings and get the eff off the plane? grab your sh*t and go. there are people FREEZING TO DEATH in the back of the plane. lickety split, beeyotches!), I grabbed my back pack from underneath my seat and pulled it out as fast as I could. Because my fingers were a wee bit frostbitten, I lost my grip on my pack and promptly...punched myself in the nose. I was stunned, kind of like I would be if someone just walked up to me and, well, punched me in the nose. I regained my composure, felt for blood, grabbed the pack and...did it again. Not as hard the second time, but still hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. After 2 punches from Meta Tyson, I decided enough was enough and pulled the pack out with my feet, shoved it into the aisle, and picked it up. As I was walking through the jetway, I started cracking up, and Joy was all "what's so funny?". So I told her I punched myself in the nose while trying to get my backpack. She was sympathetic, she did ask if I was okay after she calmed down from her hysterical laughter. What a sweetie...

Pass me the shitcake...

2008-08-07T11:03:00.001-07:00

Every time I see the word "shitake", I read it as "shitcake". Does this mean I'm dyslexic? Illiterate? Obsessed w/ shitcake?

Something to be thankful for...

2008-07-31T10:24:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty glad that my nose has not been bitten off in a fight. Although I guess if I was fighting a lion, or a shark, or a kimodo dragon, or a regular dragon, I would be pleased if the only part of my body that was bitten off was my nose. I mean, a regular dragon would only bite your nose off to tease you before gulping you down in one bite, so if I managed to get away from a dragon w/ just a missing nose, I'm a happy camper. Obviously, I'd rather surrender a body part not so noticeable, like one of my pinkies(toe or finger), or my appendix, but I'll take no nose over death any day.

Is that a blog? No, it's a boog!

2008-07-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all...so I guess this will be the new place that I will do my"official" blogging. I'll still post major blogs on myspace, where my interest in blogging started. But along w/ my major blogs, any mini blogs or small pats on the back blogs that I might write will be posted here. Okay, after repeatedly typing the word "blog" in it's various forms, I'm sick of the word. That word is no longer allowed here. I think I like "boog"...it's like that word, but not exactly that word, and it makes me giggle because I think of boogers. So, from now on, my posts are called "boogs", and I will be "booging", not the other thing. Welcome to my boog!

You may wonder about the title of my boog, Meta Merta Meat. Meta is my actual name, Merta is my alter-ego, and Meat is what I accidently type when I'm in a hurry signing my name on emails. You have no idea how many of my clients have received emails from "Meat Kroker", and then that probably made them hungry and wishing I was a meat delivery person instead of a travel consultant. Little did they know that for the right amount of money, I would have totally brought them some meat...and maybe even cooked it for them if they sweetened the pot, you know what I'm saying? But I digress...

Many of you have met Merta, and if you haven't, you will in the pages of this boog. Can they be called pages when they are online? I mean, I guess they are pages, I've heard the term "web page" before. Sorry, that was Merta talking. She's an idiot. See, I told you that you'd meat Merta! I mean meet Merta, jeez. Meet-meat, Meta-Merta, Meat-Meta...this boog is already giving me kittens!

So yeah, the boog is Meta Merta Meat, and I am Meta Merta Meat, but you can call me Wombat...pleased to meet you!