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There is flour covering every possible space in the kitchen and mayonnaise in my hair. I need to stop watching "Iron Chef."

I live no more than 100 yards away from the biggest DVD collection ever. While the clerks at 20/20 Video don't really recognize me by name, and they show no interest in getting to know me personally, they do remember my face. (And hopefully, my impeccable home video choices! No rentals of "Folks!" for me!)

Also, did you know that "Burbank" is actually the Spanish word for "Sauna"?

What does your landlord do when you don't pay the rent? I imagine some sort of torture is involved.

Yesterday I asked my boyfriend what he wanted out of life.

He replied: "I'd like an egg salad sandwich. Two, actually."

You other bitches wish you had it this easy.

give joe pot

the potent aroma

is vital for life

and strong morning love

I thought a good idea today, to carry out in practice from here on in, is to make all responses to my mother/father's questioning be: "Bible study." Anything, pretty much, can be answered with "Bible Study!".

"Where are you going?" "Oh, I'm just going to bible study." "What are you going to be doing?" "Studying God's Word." "When will you be back?" "After I study the bible."

"What do you want on your pizza?"

Bible study. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Earlier today, I heard an ice cream truck driving around the neighborhood.

Today it was 40 degrees outside and we had torrential rain for most of the afternoon.

I think Mr. Ice Cream is selling crack.

"I'm making cheesy beer marinated bratwurst for dinner. So I smell like beer, onions, cheese, and sausage."

"Wow, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Hey. Where were you all night?"

"SECRET SOCIETY MEETING!"

"What? On a Monday Night?"

"SECRET SOCIETY NIGHT!"

"Well... Why are you wearing a suit?"

"SECRET SOCIETY DRESS CODE!"

What's that saying? Something something, hell fury, blah blah, woman scorned, fuck me in the goat ass?

Yeah, I think that's it.

1. Drink off face.

2. Find face.

3. BBQ.

You don't realize how convenient having heating implements is until you have nothing but a George Foreman grill and a crockpot.

All my new friends in town want me to go to this pseudo-goth bar. If I go I will be making fun of the young children in facepaint who sulk and smoke their cigarettes in a disaffected way.

I just realized tonight that I think I may be a curse on Lynnda.

I moved here, and,

• Her favorite bar announces they'll be closing, indefinitely, and moving to an undisclosed location in a few weeks -- but then there's a homicide on their front porch, so perhaps they won't be announcing where it is they're moving to.

• Club Nastyrack burns to the ground before we have a chance to get drunk and go get Nasty Lap Dances.

• One of her favorite homosexuals announces he'll be moving to Florida.
  

Do you have any more dreams you would like me to crush, Lynnda? Perhaps I can arrange to hasten the death of joy.

"Please put away the Brita pitcher."

"Okay. Where does it go?"

"You've lived here how long?"

"Let's pretend I already know where it goes, and I'm testing you."

"Okay. It goes on the top shelf, the one I can't reach. The box is already up there."

"Why are we putting the Brita pitcher back in its box? It takes up more room that way."

"BECAUSE I'M STUPID AND DON'T KNOW HOW TO USE A CABINET, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR? FINE! PUT IT BACK WITHOUT THE BOX! SEE IF I CARE!"

"Okay. Where'd you say the box was, again?"

Weather Forecast: Between two and twelve inches of snow for today, with freezing rain on and off until Thursday.

Him: "Two or twelve? What the hell?"

Me: "That's just the difference between 'Goddamnit!' and 'HOLY SHIT!'. Welcome to Ohio."

HEY! GUESS WHAT!

Guess what it's really hard to do without electricity?

EAT! And WATCH TV! And CHECK YOUR EMAIL! And SLEEP (to some extent,)! BECAUSE THERE'S NO HEAT! OR LIGHT! AND I CAN'T GET MY FUCKING CAR OUT OF THE GARAGE!

Because garage doors need ELECTRICITY to work! HOORAY FOR SCIENCE!

I thank God that we still have hot water, and took a very very long shower to compensate for having no heat for over 14 hours. And, actually, I still have no heat.

But the good news is -- WE PROBABLY WON'T HAVE POWER FOR ANOTHER THREE DAYS! AND ALL MY FOOD FOR CHRISTMAS IS GOING TO SPOIL! AND THE FIREPLACE DOESN'T GET CLEANED FOR ANOTHER TWO WEEKS SO I'M GOING TO FREEZE TO DEATH! ALSO, HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE FOR PIPES TO BURST? BECAUSE MINE ARE PROBABLY GOING TO!

The super good news is, this hasn't stopped me from going in to work! Someone picked me up in a news car. Yay for someone, because now I get to freeze and starve and GET PAID FOR IT! BECAUSE IT IS SO COLD IN THIS EDIT BAY I FEEL LIKE I'M AT HOME!

HOORAY!

...i'm going to go scavenge the vending machines for sustinence.

OH MY GOD THE POWER IS BACK ON!!! I THINK I JUST HAD A HERNIA FROM SHOCK AND HAPPINESS!!!

In other news, Dan is home, so now I have someone to snuggle.

Also, one of the photogs here brought in a bag full of wrapped toys for all of us adult types to appreciate in a mature manner.

Which means I was screaming "NO FAIR! SCOTT'S PADDLE BALL IS SPARKLY AND LIGHTS UP!" while others where throwing Super Bounce Balls at one another and putting together glider airplanes and sticking Silly Putty to the wall.

I have become the nerdiest nerd who ever nerded on the face of the Earth.

For Christmas, Dan bought me Zelda: Wind Waker (or Wind Wanker, as GW likes to read it.) I promptly went online, printed out an 80 page walkthrough manual, complete with ASCII version of the Zelda graphic on green card stock (for a cover), three hole punched it, and put it in a hard cover binder.

Because, what is the work, if not a place for stealing office supplies?

I'd like to thank everyone who emailed and left comments hoping I got power and wishing me a Merry Christmas. I love ya. Thanks for helping me hang in there during the freeze-your-ass-off burn-things-to-survive phase of my life. It was a lot like Survivor, only instead of getting a million dollars at the end, I got my period.

Since everything in the fridge had spoiled, we found the only place that was open for groceries... Walgreens. After getting milk and eggs and tampons at the drug store (what the fuck? Bacon and frozen pizzas? Shouldn't you guys just have painkillers and shampoo?), we headed for the China Buffet. We opted to not join in the buffet, and instead brought home more take-out than two people should be allowed to. I think my stomach is still very angry at me for how much orange chicken I stuffed in it. But it was delicious, no matter how un-Christmas-y it felt.

Plus, a new tradition was born in our house. It will now be customary to substitute midnight Christmas Eve Mass ("service", for us Protestant types,) with a viewing of "The Princess Bride." Hopefully a DVD copy is purchased before next year's showing, because the VHS is starting to wear a little thin at the "Let me `splain. No... there is too much. Let me sum up," part.

Remember how I said I'd have electricity? And time off?

Well. I'm at work today. And guess where the power is.

Answer: It's not at my house.

FUCK FUCK FUCK!

So, instead of doing a year-end recap like the rest of the blogging community, just know this:

Pretty much everything that happened in 2004, SUCKED MY ASS.

Christmas presents: Resounding success.

Ballerina Barbie was a hit with the oldest. The youngest, who shares a birthday with me, enjoys her talking baby doll, and named it "Drop-Off."

DROP-OFF. That is the coolest doll name ever.

I just looked around the house and realized we're missing something.

We don't really have any good porn.

We've got weed, which I guess is something. Anyone who's never smoked weed is probably thinking "Great! Pot! You can imagineer the porn!"

But not really, no. Marijuana doesn't work that way. I'll just become too lazy to want to watch pornography, let alone use my imagination to conjure some up.

And, I'll really want some M&M's.

I just realized we don't have any M&M's in the house, either.

Okay, so I didn't really gush about my Christmas gifts, because I didn't want you to get jealous. I got a Black & Decker cyclonic Dustbuster. Dust bunnies cower in fear of my TORNADO POWER! MUAH HA HA!

Seriously, look how square I am. I'm geeked about housecleaning.

* "'I want to help you, George Washington'? Pffft. Even your dreams are square."

Last night we were watching a DVD, which Dan paused so he could run downstairs to the bathroom (for the 400th time.) He asked me if I wanted anything from the kitchen while he was down there.

"Yeah. I'd like a glass of water. I'd ask for some of your Kool-Aid, but that stuff tastes weird."

"What Kool-Aid?"

"The pink stuff in the pitcher."

"....that's not Kool-Aid."

Turns out it was melted margarita mix. See, I'd drunkenly made a pitcher of strawberry margaritas, which melted. Then I put it in the freezer to re-freeze. Then I took it out of the freezer to un-freeze. Each time I forgot it existed until I moved it to another location.

Last night I came home and looked in the fridge, and saw this jug of pink stuff, and thought: "Sweet! Dan made Kool-Aid!."

I proceeded to pour a big glass full of it, expecting the cool refreshing taste of Fruit Punch or Strawberry Blast or Sugar Flavored Water to rush through me. Instead, it tasted bitter and spoiled, like medicine, and I spit a mouthful out in the sink. Even then, I didn't think "Oh my god, this is melted margarita mix."

I thought: "Hmm. This must be some sort of prescription Kool-Aid."

Is there even an end to how dumb I am?

I think I may have developed a wicked case of the stomach flu, and I'm sure Intense Barre Chord Training is to blame. One can only contort their arm and strain their elbow into so many painful positions before the rest of the body strikes back. It's kind of like a Star Wars movie, only my thumb is Darth Vader, ready to dampen the E string at any given moment. I suppose that would make my stomach the Millenium Falcon, ready to give back its contents -- pretty much on command, as I've discovered -- at light speed.

Last night we watched the documentary Gigantic, about uber cool band They Might Be Giants. It was good, but not in the way you'd expect from a band like They Might Be Giants.

After it was over, I told Dan: "You're my favorite rock star that I have sex with."

I couldn't hear what he mumbled back, but it sounded like "Thank you." (It better have been "Thank you.") (Maybe I should say these things when he's awake.)

The most awesome part of buying a new washer and dryer is where we got it from.

We bought it from a guy who looked like a car mechanic, and was smoking in the store. (That is, he was smoking a cigarette, he was not literally on fire.) Can I remind you that there are now stringent non-smoking laws in Columbus? And that just yesterday a pub was fined a large amount for ignoring the law and continuing to let their patrons smoke indoors?

This used appliance dude was a rebel. He knocked $50 off the price of our washer/dryer set, and offered us free delivery, and he smoked in the middle of the freaking store. Did I mention the glass eye? HE HAD ONE EYE!

We bought our washer and dryer from a pirate. How fucking cool is that?

I'm delighted to tell you that I am still testing the limits of cellular phones and their resistance to water.

First attempt: Dropping phone in toilet. Resistance: low.

Second attempt: Sent cel phone through washing machine cycle. Ran two whole loads through the wash before I noticed new camera phone sitting at bottom of washing machine basin. Resistance: dwindling. Still makes noises and flashes lights occasionally.

Neither attempt has been fruitful. A new phone is on its way to me as we speak. I don't believe there is a swear yet invented to convey my frustration at destroying yet another piece of expensive technology due to my stupidity.

Scoreboard of Destruction:

Televisions: 3
MP3 Players: 1
Cell Phones: 2

The only thing I can remember happening last night was me yelling at Bruce Willis. I believe he was dressed like a road cone, and I was telling him how he could totally do a Moonlighting reunion, if it were a murder mystery, and the mystery was Cybill Shepard's murder, and he and the kid from Revenge of the Nerds were in charge of investigating, and he never had to be in the same room with Cybill because her scenes are all flashbacks.

That'd work for me. Cybill Shepard is fucking crazy.

"What do you think of 'Merci Boutique' as a store name?"

"It sounds just like an online store full of girl crap."

"That's perfect! Just what we're going for!"

"Yeah. What's that saying about the 'B-Sharps'? 'A name that's witty at first, but that seems less funny each time you hear it.' That's you."

"Uhm, okay. Thanks."

"Did you use my camera?"

"No."

"Did you touch it at all today?"

"No."

"Then why is there a picture of the lens cap from an hour ago?"

"Oh yeah. I was zooming in and out on it."

"Yeah? Did you drop it?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"YES. I didn't do anything to it."

"Well, that's funny, because it was working perfectly fine the last time *I* used it, and now, since YOU'VE used it, it's broken."

"It can't be broken."

"IT'S BROKEN. THE SHUTTER MIRROR IS OBVIOUSLY BROKEN."

"Is that bad?"

"YES. THAT IS BAD."

"Well, I didn't do it."

::::head explodes::::

I went and played poker with BOYS last night, BOYS I DIDN'T KNOW, and beat them in two out of four rounds. Let me tell you, they were SO PISSED that Jeff brought me, "the ringer", to poker night. They kept threatening to stab him. I asked if I could get a punch in to the head for $1.

New music.

Dear Brenda.

Fuck off!

That song was tits. Not only are you using my BR-8, which I miss and will let you have for another year, but you covered a super Nuetral Milk Hotel song and did it justice. Very good. And your vocals don't suck. Quite awesome. Who did the music on it?

Missing making music,

David

Did you hear that? We get the BR-8 for another year! Ha ha ha! Suck it, South Korea! You get Dave for another year!

The other night I dreamt I was a glass of orange juice.

This is where, if we were talking in person, I would throw up my hands in utter bewilderment, and probably shrug and give you a "DON'T ASK ME, I DON'T KNOW!" look.

GEOGRAPHY:

"Ooh, what's that state? I recognize the shape, but what is it?"
"What, you mean Kentucky? The state right below us?"
"That's Kentucky? Wait, this is Ohio? I thought Kentucky was like... farther south."
"We ARE south. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE KENTUCKY IS!"
"Shut up."

"What state is Pittsburgh in? Pennsylvania? That doesn't sound right."
[Incredulous look.]
"Shut up."

SCIENCE

"Dude, I loaded this glass with ice cubes before I poured my soda in, but now the ice is melted and it hasn't spilled over the sides yet. What is up with that?"
"What is up with what?"
"Why didn't the melted ice overflow the glass?"
"You can't be serious."
"What? There was a LOT of ice in there!"
"It's called displacement. Look it up in a highschool textbook some time."
"... Shut up."

POP CULTURE

"Hey! I just realized that the 'Ed' character from Northern Exposure sort of looks like Johnny Ramone! You think that was intentional? I mean, the hair, the leather jacket--"
"The way he always wore a Ramones t-shirt..."
"........"
"Yeah, I know. 'Shut up.'"

NATURE

"Look! I bought organic lettuce!"
"This isn't lettuce. This is cabbage."
"No way! It's really pretty, ruffly, green, green, lettuce... Or... wait."
"Trust me. We're not going to put this on our B.L.T's."
"Shut up."

I truly need to get out more, before I start collecting stray kittens and stockpiling back issues of People magazine -- towers of gossip which will undoubtedly collapse under their own weight and bury me alive in my own living room.

I am collecting magazines, VHS tapes full of "really good episodes" of ER and CSI that I cannot dispose of, candy wrappers, empty cigarette boxes, and spoons. Everywhere, spoons. My god, the spoons.

How did I get this many stray spoons? I don't even have that many bowls! The ratio of dirty cereal bowls to crusty spoons is astoundingly lopsided.

As we are returning from the store, putting away groceries:

Him: I have your deodorant here. Where should I put it?

Me: Upstairs, where I put on my deodorant.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:

Him: You put on deodorant?!?

You know how in "Gift of the Magi," the wife sells her hair to buy her husband a new watch band, and the husband sells his watch to buy his wife a new set of hair combs? (Or, something?) Dan and I kind of had that sort of situation, only in reverse, I guess.

Unbeknownst to me, he sold the bulk of his CD collection to help save money to move out to Los Angeles. I was at a CD store in Chicago and saw 4 Nights At The Palais Royale and bought it for him to listen to on the trip out west, thinking he didn't have the album already. When I surprised him with it, he laughed for about five minutes. Apparently as soon as he sold his copy, he regretted it -- and not two days later I presented him with a new one.

Maybe that's not like "Gift of the Magi." Just ignore me.

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"The... thing."

"A frog? You're scared of a frog?"

"I'm not scared... I'm... confused."

Today there was a big red frog sitting on our porch, staring up at our front door. I've never thought of myself as a city girl, really, but my first thought was: "Hey, who left this big ceramic frog on the porch?" And then I asked aloud: "How'd this frog get here?"

Apparently it was a real frog, though I never saw him move, and apparently he hopped to our front porch from the river down the street. I'm guessing. I mean, he could have flown in on a tiny helicopter, but the real question there is how'd he get a pilot's license? Where is his tiny crash helmet?

If he's still there tonight when we get home, I'm feeding him the dead bugs I found in the corner of our downstairs bedroom. Unless, of course, he dropped in from another planet and would prefer instead to eat my brains. In that case, I'm spraying him with the hose.

I thought I was going fucking crazy yesterday. I couldn't sleep all morning because I heard bad drumming, and screaming. Turns out a band was practicing somewhere. What band practices at 6AM on a Saturday morning, I have no idea. They are obviously lame just by the determination in their rehearsal schedule, and will be shunned by me, should they ever Hit It Big.

After the drumming had stopped my head continued to pound, so I came home from work during lunch hour to try and fit in a nap. My brain was killing me. Unfortunately, I was unable to doze, due to someone else nearby practicing their bagpipes. Badly. And loudly.

BAGPIPERS. For God's sake, BAGPIPERS ARE RUNNING AMOK THROUGH MY NEIGHBORHOOD.

"Wow, I didn't realize that hot pink actually looks good on me," said I.

"Yes, it really brings out your freckles," he responded, as he pointed towards my shoulders.

I enjoy living with a tall man. He can reach the top shelves of our cupboards, making him handy when putting away groceries. Changing light bulbs, hanging curtains, seeing over other people's heads in a crowd... all much more convenient with a tall guy.

This entry was brought to you by the movie Wedding Crashers. If you want a preview of what all my wedding photos are going to look like, just check out Vince Vaughn with EVERY WOMAN IN THE FILM.

Occasionally, often with more and more frequency, I hate this town.

The slightest breeze blows up, power goes out to 30,000 customers city-wide.

A water main in front of our house has been gushing for over a month now. The street is starting to break up near the leak. No one seems to care. Yet, if ten black kids open a fire hydrant to cool off from the thousand plus degree heat, it's an environmental fucking crisis.

I must be having a mid life crisis or something. I am just entirely MEH about the whole world right now. I do nothing and care even less. What I most aspire to do is sit at home all day, listen to Guero, and pretend I'm Wonder Woman.

Help me, Internets. Is there some sort of pill I can take to become a productive member of society again? It has to be a pill that's easy to obtain. Because I only have effort to do one or two steps. If the instructions for care are any more complex than that, I'm not having any of it.

This is my impression of our vacation to Washington D.C.:

Walking, walking, walking. Lots of walking. Sweating. Walking. Walking. Still walking. Walking, more walking. Walking. Feet hurt. Swearing. Walking. Sweat-soaked t-shirts and sloppy sweaty ponytails. WALKING. WALKING. WALKING. SWEET LORD, the walking never ended.

Then we walked some more.

"Do you see that?"

"No. What?"

"That. Right there."

"I don't see it."

"Right there."

"Where?"

"RIGHT THERE. God, what are you, blind?"

"I can't see where you're pointing."

"I'm pointing directly in front of you. How can you miss it?"

"....I just don't see it."

"IT'S RIGHT THERE!"

"WHERE?"

"I can't believe it. You're totally blind."

"OH! Over THERE! I was looking somewhere else."

"[audible sigh.]"

For the past month, I have been told that my birthday gift has "totally" already been picked out. This got me all excited. Presents! Actual things!

However, starting last night, he began bothering me for gift ideas. "What is this?" I said. "For the past three weeks, you've been refusing to tell me what you've got planned, but now you want gift ideas? Are you a liar? Are your pants on fire?"

He asked: "What do you really want? Something other than a dog. OR A PONY," he quickly added, before I could say: "A PONY!"

He knows me so well.

Today I got locked out of the house and kicked my own door in. I'm like Wonder Woman!

...except, now my front door doesn't lock.

"Why are they running away, again?"

"They're not running away, they're trying to get to a party."

"So what's Jerry Reed doing with the semi truck? Is he with them?"

"Yes. The truck is full of beer."

"Full of beer? Did they steal it? Is that why they're trying to outrun the Smokeys?"

"Yes. No. I don't know if they stole it. And don't use the term 'smokeys'."

"Why don't they want anyone looking at the beer?"

"Because it's Coors."

"Is Coors a magical beer?"

"No, Coors can't be transported east of the Mississippi."

"...because it's magical?"

"What? NO. Because when this movie was shot, Coors wasn't allowed to be sold in the... you know what? Just be quiet."

"I still don't understand about the beer. Why do they need Coors? What's wrong with Budweiser? And how come they have to bring the beer to the party?"

"There's nothing wrong with Budweiser, they just wanted to steal the Coors."

"So they DID steal it!"

"Look, I don't know. All I know is, they want to drink Coors at a party in Georgia or somewhere, and so they have to smuggle the beer. Because it's Coors."

"Because it's magical."

"Yes, because it's magical."

"....where is the ambulance? And Dom DeLuise?"

"The... Oh my God. You're retarded."

"No I'm not! Where's Sammy Davis, Jr.?"

"That's CANNONBALL RUN!"

"Isn't that what we're watching?"

"Next time we rent a movie, you have to watch it by yourself first."

GolfTV Host: We're here at the Golfsmith headquarters! Today we're going to talk about why you might want to upgrade your shaft! Ken, what can you tell us about obtaining a better shaft?

Ken: Well, first of all, you might want to consider this kind of shaft.

GolfTV Host: What makes this shaft better?

Ken: This is a considerably stiff shaft.

GolfTV Host: That's a high performance shaft!

"Could you run upstairs and grab me a clean pair of underwear? It's a girl emergency!"

"Okay!"

"Preferably something dark-colored, please!"

"Okay! ......Uh, where might I find something like that?"

"Top left dresser drawer."

"Okay! ....Here you go!"

"This is a pair of black thong underwear with little rhinestones across the front."

"Yeah!"

"I didn't even know I owned such an atrocity."

"It was in that one drawer!"

"These are no good."

"You said something dark! These are dark! They're black!"

"Okay, thanks. Now try something with an ass on it."

Today I smacked my head on the bottom of the bathroom cabinet. Then I would walk up to someone and say "I bumped my head," and point at my cracked skull. Their reaction was usually something like: "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"

I'm paraphrasing because I can't quite remember what was really said. Or, much of anything at all. What was I saying? Pantyhose. I hate them.

"Can I make out with Dave Grohl?"

"No."

"Just hypothetically."

"No."

"Can I make out with Jimmy Carter?"

"Yes."

"Awesome. I'm signing up for Habitat for Humanity right now."

Why is the television still on? Why am I being forced to understand the complexities of "curling"? What the hell is "curling"?

This is a defense for murder if I've ever heard one. "Your honor, he forced me to watch curling. I just wanted to go to bed."

"Look at what I bought for the new baby! This cute little track suit with matching sneakers! TEE HEE!"

"Track suit? Sneakers? Why did you buy a baby sneakers? He can't walk!"

"They're for his feet, stupid."

"HE CAN'T EVEN WALK, TARDFACE!!"

"HE HAS TO HAVE SHOES FOR WHEN IT'S COLD OUTSIDE, MORON!"

"THAT'S WHAT SOCKS ARE FOR, TURDBREATH!"

"Oh my God. Sour milk smells awful."

"AUGH! SPOILED CREAM! EVEN WORSE!"

"What is this? What is this? WHAT IS THIS?"

"Rancid.. spaghetti sauce.... is... BLARGGGGHBARFVOMIT..."

"When was the last time I made stew? Is this stew?"

"Jello can MOLD?"

"Brownies can MOLD?"

"Oh, hey! There's my gravy boat! When did--OH DEAR GOD."

We're out of vodka and there's a pile of laundry to do. Guess what I've been up to this weekend?

(Hint: NOT LAUNDRY!)

The purchase of yet another Batman novel was met with barely any mockery. Apparently my dragging home the comic books and the graphic novels and the novelizations based on comic books and DVR'ing the Justice League & old episodes of Batman: The Animated Series and talking on message boards and drawing a satirical cartoon about Smallville have finally made their way into the mainstream in our household.

we have a new fireplace. instead of kindling and logs and hardwood coals, it uses sand and some sort of weird fiberglass looking substance and gas.

yeah, it's magic.

I got my W-2 forms in the mail this morning and my tax return is already done and filed.

I swear to God, I'm not some ubernerd, I just really like money. The faster I can get extra money, the better.

(And since I don't make much in the first place, I never ever owe the government! HAHAHA! TAKE THAT, HIGHER TAX BRACKET!)

Television: Donde esta la biblioteca? Rapido! Muy! Verdad!

Him: What are they saying? Hey! Hey! Tell me what they're saying.

Me: Uh.... "Fast.... Something about donuts.... Saturday... Saturday donuts? Birthday... dollar."

Even since I was two years old.

I light the filter end accidentally even to this day. Stupidity is like, so cool.

Today I had to admit that I post on a message board that's designed to make fun of a message board that makes fun of a different message board.

And then I hung my geek head in shame and cried tears full of dork.

Yesterday we got a new treadmill. You can turn it on, and it makes a grinding noise, and the display lights up with lots of different pretty red lights, and sometimes it'll beep at you, but the actual "treading along in a mill-type motion" thing doesn't really happen so much.

Today we called the manufacturer and they informed us that it was probably a "short" in the Emergency Oh My God You Fell Off Let Me Just Stop Moving Now button. They're sending a "technician" out to fix it next week, but to correct it for now, we had to put some electrical tape over the button. Which means that it won't suddenly turn off if one of us falls off while treading.

Which means that I've completely spun a theory in my head about brand new out-of-the-box home gym equipment suddenly gaining self-aware intelligence and plotting to kill whatever poor fat soul purchased it. I fully expect to get on this thing later tonight and be thrown backwards into the couch in its attempt to take over the living room. And since I'm a complete doormat, I will let the treadmill conquer the first floor of the house if it means I don't have to hurtle the coffee table every time I want to sweat for fun.

If Stephen King is reading this, don't even think about doing Christine 2: The Treadenning. I have to have something to work on for NaNoWriMo.

Last night I was complaining about how PMS makes my back hurt and makes me crave things that are sweet, yet crunchy.

Him: Don't talk to me about back aches! My back always aches!

Me: Bring me something sweet! And crunchy!

Him: I don't think we have anything like that in the house.

Me: GRANOLA BARS MAKE IT HAPPEN!

And so he brought me a bag of stale brown sugar from the pantry. Technically it was both sweet and crunchy. To be fair, this conversation took place at 4am. Also, I ended up satisfied with stale caramel corn. But still. Granola. It needed to happen.

Brain to Self: These are just to complete your Wonder Woman Halloween outfit. You won't wear them for any other reason.

Self to Brain: PFFF! Bitch, I'm wearing this shit to clean the house! Hi-YA!!!

Remember when I was so stoked to be getting Wonder Woman boots?

Well, they arrived. And in a shocking turn of events, they don't mother fucking fit.

And in an even more shocking (and angering!) turn of events: The company I bought them from won't exchange them for the next bigger size.

See, this was why I needed the boots... was to give ass whoopings at the drop of a hat. (Or a tiara.) Now I'm left with boots that pinch and don't quite zip up all the way over my giant leg muscles.

(By the way, I have plenty of pairs of knee-high boots, and all of them zip up just fine. So, what's up, makers of the Wonder Woman boot? You'd think "big calf muscles" would be something you'd be wary of when making boots that are similar to Wonder fucking Woman's, you know, she's that tall chick with the big leg muscles and the spangled underpants?)

The boy person has evacuated our abode for over 96 hours in an attempt to play as much golf and burn as much exposed skin as possible.

I have become unbelieveably bored in this time, as I've done everything there is to do: Laundry, dishes, reorganization of the cd rack. I wrote a book. I stared forlornly out the window. I rented bad Jason Statham movies. I read a bunch of old books (then I reorganized them.)

I seriously considered baking something. Then I seriously considered writing a screenplay about a dude. I sent approximately ten bajillion text messages. I got interviewed for this thing.

Anyone have any suggestions?

Him: "What do you want for lunch?"

Me: "Something squishy, I have a sore throat."

"What's a 'squishy' food?"

"You know -- mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese... squishy!"

"Okay, so you want KFC side items."

"I didn't say I wanted macaroni and cheese."

"You just did!"

"I didn't. I was giving you examples of squishy sorts of foods. It doesn't mean I want those two specific types of foods."

"Then what do you want?"

"Actually, I could go for some mashed potatoes."

"Right, so we're going to KFC."

"Basically."

A co-worker then observed that we could be a sitcom. A really annoying sitcom. (Although not as annoying as anything with David Spade.)

I'm not lying when I tell you that my mother had a strict rule about hanging things on her refrigerator. The rule went like this:

DO NOT PUT THINGS ON MY REFRIGERATOR.

In a completely Freudian response to this, I literally have boxes upon boxes of magnets, doo-dads, clips, postcards, pictures, post-its, handy reminder dry erase board things, and other assorted fridge paraphernalia. These used to be rotated around as frequently as a set of word magnets (most likely similar to one that I once had in my possession, but cannot currently locate at the time of this posting.)

Upon our last move to Ohio, the "set list," if you will, has remained pitifully unchanged. Make no mistake: my fridge is still covered head to toe, on all three visible sides, with an assemblage of Stuff I Once Thought Would Be Cool Or Funny To Display In My Kitchen. As always, we rented a place with appliances furnished, so the refrigerator is not literally mine, but I like to create the illusion of ownership with my prized collection of Magnets I Have Purchased In Various Places I Have Vacationed. It's just that I haven't touched any of it, or moved it around, in over three years.

Until today.

Yes, today, I thought I'd perfect the alignment of a Han Solo magnet (holding a Rolling Stone clipping) (about a Ween song) (that was being rejected for a Pizza Hut advertisement) (put it in the "Or Funny" column) while I was waiting for the oven to preheat. It was during this period of adjustment that I realized someone had taken a permanent marker and scrawled onto the face of the refrigerator, behind the clipping. It was a not-so-polite statement about how much someone likes a certain part of the male anatomy.

The person slandered lives in this house.

It is not me.

I will let you do the math.

In addition to this little ditty, behind several other large pieces of paper -- paper that may or may not contain delightful artwork by a few young artists that are, in fact, my nieces, and has been, in fact, spoiled forever by the mental image of what lay beneath -- lots of other clever pieces of information involving the residents of this house and what we may or may not do with our genitalia, in addition to renditions of said genitalia, and perhaps what looks like an elephant.

And since this person took the time to sign his name to his Sharpie declarations, I now have an exact timeframe for how long they have been "on loan" in our little "gallery." The only time he's ever visited was almost exactly two years ago... when, I must admit, a large quantity of alcohol was joyfully consumed by all. He may have been making some sort of protest against the covering of our refrigerator (possibly on reconnaissance for my mother?); he may have been mocking our quaintness; he may have been incredibly wasted and in the possession of a permanent marker.

The point is: we are now forever tied to the copy of "Handprint Turkey, Finger Paint on Parchment, 8.5x11, 2001" my youngest niece so lovingly provided for us. I had no intentions of throwing this piece out, as it rounds out our collection nicely. However, we will have to wait until she provides us with a copy of her second grade report card, or her first learner's permit, or her highschool graduation photo, and then swap them out to cover the horrors beneath.

In other words, the drunken graffiti artist has just bought us a refrigerator. (Or, rather, he bought it two years ago and we're just now getting around to noticing.) This would also be the guy that screwed us out of some bit of money over a utility bill that he had not paid in six months, but had cleverly left our names on, and then failed to mention to us for several years.

I am going to find a way to pay this fucker back and rest assured it will involve some sort of insoluble paint and possibly one of his toes.

Him: "I'm going to the horse track on my day off."
Me: "Really? I've never been to a horse track."
Him: "Here's a list of the races."
Me: "There's a horse named GORDIE HOW! Ha ha! Put $10 on Gordie How to win for me."
Him: "Okay."

Later:

Him: "Hey, I put $3 on Gordie to win, place, or show. And he won!"
Me: "But you only bet $3."
Him: "Yes."
Me: "And I told you to bet $10. Just on him placing first."
Him: "Right. I bet $3 he'd win, place, or show."
Me: "Right. So you screwed up my money."
Him: "No! Also, his odds had gone all weird. He was like, one to nine odds."
Me: "So, you screwed up my money."
Him: "No!"
Me: "So I won a dollar?"
Him: "No, three cents."
Me: "On account of you not betting $10 on him to win, like I asked."
Him: "Right."
Me: "So, you screwed up my money?"
Him: "A little bit."

Firstly, the title of this entry would make a great porno name, as would "Cylon Sluts from Sagitarion City." Think about it.

Secondly, in reference to the [new-ish] Battlestar Galactica tv series: I have decided that when the Cylons programmed 12 "models" of robots (that look like people... PEOPLE!), they made sure all the guys were assholes and all the chicks were superwhorey. The girls spend most of season one humping various dudes and asking "Do you love me? Do you love me?" ad nauseam. Which leads me to my new name for them: Slutbots. (Or, Slutbot McNeedy-tron 5000, if you're not in to the whole brevity thing.)

My husband is neither amused nor happy with this clever idea of mine. He is especially annoyed and disturbed when I try to initiate foreplay by intoning: "COMMENCING SLUTBOT SEQUENCE NUMBER SIX NINE... ABORT TELEVISION VIEWING."

me: i seriously cannot wait to go home. we have more BSG today and i'm gonna exploded
     explod
     explo
     blow up
bitca: hahahahahaha!

Yeah, so, the mister and I are still winging our way through Battlestar Galactica on DVD, and last night we hit a snag. We were on the last disc of the Season 2.0 box set. (For some reason [more money] the producers or whomever decided to split Season 2 into two box sets [to get more money] so you have to get Season 2 in two parts [bastards.])

I was upset to discover that Season 2, Disc 3 only contains two episodes, and spent the better part of a minute cussing out the DVD player. (After which my diagnosis of "retardedly angry" was reconfirmed.) Then we watched both episodes, the last of which ends on a MAJOR CLIFFHANGER. And we weren't going to be getting a new disc from Netflix for OMG TWO DAYS.

Okay, the point of the story is this, so I'll just get to it: I'm a geek who had to get her Battlestar Galactica fix and went out at two in the morning to Meijer just to buy the next box set in the season because I HAD TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH THAT SUPERBITCH ADMIRAL CAIN and Oh My God, can't you just see how this science fiction stuff is like crack to me?

I've had sex twice in the past week and that's like some sort of record.

Personally I think it's because we've moved the giant screen tv and the Playstation up to the bedroom, and seeing me blow shit up and run people over and shoot things at 4AM somehow turns him on.

I'm married. In the actual married sense.

I'm also apparently some sort of delicious pastry.

More photos available at my photo site thingy, if you're totally in to other people's vacation photos.

Sample conversation during trip in Vegas:

Me: "Look how clean this neighborhood is! Everything here is quaint! And so clean!"

Him: "Clean?"

Me: "Yes! Tidy! Clean! Don't you think so?"

Him: "If by clean you mean sterile, then yeah."

Me: "It's not sterile! It's just new. Everything is new and shiny."

Him: "It's just dirt. And rock. Call me silly, but I prefer grass. And actual leafy trees."

Me: "Well, yeah, if you want to surround yourself with nature, pff."

This weekend our three nieces came to visit. They are all under the age of 7. They are cute and not too obnoxious. And still, I felt like I needed a nap after about three hours with them.

By the third day of running around with small children, my sister-in-law asked: "So, are you two planning on having children?"

I think some people would be offended by how quickly we both shouted "NO!," but she has to live with these kids every day, so she just nodded her head as if we were the wisest people she'd ever met.

...to be fair, she could have said other stuff, too, but I don't remember because I was already napping by that time.

I honestly only need a house in order to store the stuff I might someday use for something other than sleeping and watching tv.

The Time: 10am
The Location: The Comfort Of My Own Bed

Him: "HEY! REMEMBER WHEN YOU SAID THE NEXT TIME I GOT UP EARLY ON A SATURDAY I SHOULD GET YOU HOTCAKES AND SAUSAGE? GUESS WHAT! I GOT YOU HOTCAKES! AND SAUSAGE!"

Me: "I said that six months ago. And I didn't mean wake me up. And it's Tuesday."

Him: Pouty face.

Me: "Seriously, I was totally asleep just now. What the hell time is it? ACK! I'm going back to sleep." *

Him: "FINE! GO TO SLEEP! I SHOULDN'T HAVE WASTED MY TIME WITH HOTCAKES!"

Me: Eats hotcakes. Tries not to fall face first into syrup.

*Pretty sure none of this was actually intelligible.

I can't find my winning lottery ticket. And when I say "winning" I mean it in the loosest sense, as in, it won me some money. "Winning" doesn't always denote a hundred million dollars in my world -- in fact, it never denotes that. In this case, it means the ticket won me seven dollars.

The ticket has more than likely fallen victim to a little game we like to play in our house called "I Don't Know What This Is But I'm Throwing It Away." How the game goes is, someone shouts "I don't know what this is, but I'm throwing it away!", and then the other person has two minutes to decipher what it is, and whether or not it deserves to be thrown away. Then a decision is made in the throw-away process, and the game can begin again anew on some other thing.

The problem in this case is that I frequently play this game alone.

The Throw Away Game has spawned several other variations, including the "Hey Did You Throw My Thing Away?" game, and "I Know You Like This Tupperware But There Is No Way To Save It" game.

Anyhow. I'm out $7. Phooey.

The top dog is maybe mine. I want her. I also want to name her something like Professor Von Awesomepants.

We'll call her "Pantsy V" for short.

Me: "My mosquito bite itches!"

Him: "The other day I saw some mosquito soap."

Me: "I don't want to bathe them, I want them to stop biting me."

Our realtor just sent us a link to this house listing. We think someone just died there. OR, there's a time machine. Because check out this living room.

People often say things to me like: "Hey, I have a 60" plasma tv!", and I usually respond with something like "Wow, that's awesome!", having no idea just how big a 60" tv is.

Well, today we brought home (to the new home) our new 55" tv. (We had a coupon.) For those of you that still have normal sized televisions, let me frame some reference for you.

55" is 5" short of five feet.

This tv is slightly wider than your average fifth grader is tall.

That's right, my tv is Bigger Than A Fifth Grader.

For those who need more of a visual representation, I've gone and got a union member (he represents the Lollipop Guild. The Lollipop Guild. The Lollipop Guild) to compare to our new LG tv.

I think it really says something about our relationship, and perhaps our maturity level, that my husband and I:

• keep our important documents in a cardboard box marked "Super Important Documents"
• the same box also contains our porno collection.

I like the deus ex machina of someone getting important plot-related information from a sleep talker. The only useful things my husband ever says when he's unconscious are how to remove the air conditioner from the window properly, and how best I can fuck right off.

"The Larry Sanders Show is still funny, but kind of dated."

"You mean like in this episode we're watching where the guest stars are Gene Siskel, Warren Zevon, and John Ritter?"

"Yeah."

"Why are green grapes a D+ on the Nutrition Meter?"

"Well... fruit has a lot of sugar in it."

"You can't get diabetes from eating too many bananas. If that were true, there'd be more one-legged chimps."

When we moved to this neighborhood, our home was inundated with restaurants that canvassed the area all summer, stuffing flyers in doors. Their full color brochures would have a menu, and a map illustrating where exactly they were located. This, I assumed, was so I could know how long it would take them to get to my house.

You see, a lot of the time during the week I don't have a car, and am stuck at home. So I was annoyed to discover that not one of these places delivered.

I found this all out the hard way -- by spending precious time picking out what it was I wanted to eat, calling up and ordering, and then hearing "That will be ready in ten minutes."

"Great," I'd say. "I'll just turn the porch light on."

"Oh, we don't deliver," they'd say. "Pickup only."

You know, maybe they should change their advertising strategy, then. Instead of a full menu, they can just put a photo of one of their more delicious dishes on a flyer, and underneath write: "Please see us."

I didn't think you could work out to the languid sounds of Stevie Nicks, but I sure gave it my best today. Apparently trotting along on the treadmill at a leisurely pace while punching the nothing in front of you is a good interpretive movement for "Dreams."

Suggested Items To Have In The Event Of Killer Snow Storm

• flashlights and batteries
  
• candles and matches
  
• extra blankets
  
• battery powered radio
  
• canned or dry foods

Items We Actually Purchased In The Event Of Killer Snow Storm

• beer
  
• pizza rolls
  
• beer
  
• wine
  
• beer

I don't like to stock up on non-perishable food items for a snow storm. I prefer to cook everything in the fridge, all at once. In the fireplace. Together. Even the fruit.

For more on how I deal with power outages due to icepocalypse, pretty much all of December '04 covers it.

"Hey. Hey! Come play this game, it's fun!"

"What game?"

"This game where I click things!"

"You mean... rating movies on Netflix?"

"It's so fun!"

"This doesn't even make any sense."

"It doesn't have to, it's a Michael Bay movie."

"They didn't go to the dark side of the moon on Apollo 11."

"I know, but it's a Michael Bay movie."

"But it doesn't make any sense!"

"THE LAST ONE HAD ROBOT JESUSES IN IT, OKAY?"

"I need to take a picture of myself."
"Oh! I can do that for you."
"No offense, but you're not that great at taking pictures of me."
"But my camera is eight megapixels!"
"....Eight megapixels of terrible."

You want to know why married people or couples who live together end up texting each other when they're both in the house? Because one of them's in the bathroom with the fan on, and the other has a question but can't leave the couch. That's why.

"Do we have a capo? Where is the capo?"

"Look in the thing. Or the box."

"I looked there! I can't find it!"

"Maybe the dog carried it off. To start a band. Called The Squirrelchasers."

For the first year we had our dog, we weren't even sure she had a bark. She has now discovered her voice, and has several different barks. All of which translate to FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUCK YOU FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU FUCK FUCK FUCK

"See, I liked Green Day during this period. I liked them before they were all popular."
"Okay.... hipster."
"What? Green Day couldn't be farther from being a hipster band."
"I didn't say the band was hipster. I said YOU were a hipster."
"Green Day is a grunge punk band! The people that listened to them before they were popular were not hipsters!"

Song playing at the time: When I Come Around
From Wikipedia: "When I Come Around" was Green Day's most popular radio single in their early career, peaking at number 6 on the Billboard Hot 100 Airplay.

So, #1, he wasn't listening to them before they were popular, at least not in the "When I Come Around" "Period", and #2, I married a hipster.

I can't figure out which bulb it is that's causing a strand of the net lights on the hedges to stay dark and I just snapped both thumbnails trying to get the slippery little bastards out and test them with the tester and may have broke a couple bulbs because ITS RAINING IN DECEMBER and anyway I hope everyone's having a great day, because I'm gonna start drinking now.