I stick Q-Tips in my ears, even though the packet says specifically not to do so.

I know.

Ganked from il cucchiaio.

Name five people whose autographs you want (alive or dead) and tag five people to do the same.

I'm only tagging two: Katie and Jenn. Anyone else who wants to, go ahead. And if Katie and Jenn don't want to, they don't have to.

Anyway:

1. Abraham Lincoln.
2. Babe Ruth.
3. Jesus.
4. John Lennon.
5. John F. Kennedy.

And as soon as I had them in my hot little hands, I'd sell every last one of them. 'Cos I'm broke and I need the fucking money.

Sorry. I appear to have a March hair across my arse.

drinking: fruit₂o grape
listening to: 9 Black Alps, Cosmopolitan
however: if i got david bowie's autograph, i'd keep it

Mostly Happy News dot Com.

The premise of their website is good, but they had a cash prize essay contest, and I wrote what I thought was a pretty decent essay for it, and didn't even get an honorable mention.

I'll own my jealousy, and yeah, I could definitely have used the money, but I think what bugs me most is that I haven't been able to slog my way through any of the winning essays.

Not to impugn their respective authors, but I feel like they were totally bullshitting their way through the assignment just to get the money, and it worked.  

Ain't nothin' like somethin' like this to make you wish you sucked as bad as them  Which fact galls me no little.

I had issues with the poor punctuation and abysmal writing on the first few I tried to read, as well, but the underlying problem was that they were, for all intents and purposes, insincere baloney, and I was appalled that the judges of the contest rewarded them for it.

As Happy News didn't even bother to thank me for my submission, I believe I may safely assume that they have no interest in publishing it. Rather than have it be lost and unappreciated for all time, I may as well put it here, since I can't very well say, "Click this link to read my winning essay at Happy News dot Com, who do a great job of presenting good news, and also recognize good writing," when it's nowhere to be found over there, now, can I?

When I was nine years old, I used to volunteer at the office where my mother was a paid employee. Amongst my other go-fer dirty-work let-the-kid-do-it tasks was one job I loved: operating the switchboard. This was not a full-time responsibility for me; I would just cover the phones for an hour so the regular operator could have lunch. However, I got to be very proficient at it, and I learned the ins and outs of speaking pleasantly to a customer on the telephone, including how to smooth over relations with an unhappy caller. The most efficient way of doing this, taught to me by my mother and still the way I manage it today, is to smile when answering the phone. Whether or not I'm feeling happy, my voice will reflect the smile, and I've found that the unseen telephone caller is just as responsive to a smile as is a person facing me.

Over the years, I've learned one other lesson: if I'm feeling miserable, and I smile deliberately, as hard as I can, really pushing the muscles, and hold it for thirty seconds, then relax, not only does my face retain the smile, but so does my whole attitude. I'm not sure why this works, but it does.

And thank goodness it does, because sometimes, when I see the news of the world, I feel so very, very, bleak.

I don't want to be some chirpy, Pollyanna-esque, life's so wonderful type of person. I am a realist, not an ostrich with my head in the sand. I see bad things happen, often to good people, and often for no reason, and it upsets me, because I am a human being.

Besides, I find chirpy, Pollyanna-esque, life's so wonderful types of people to be incredibly annoying.

For a long time, especially after September 11th, 2001, I was interpreting any frightening, destructive, or even just wacky news as being another "sign of the Apocalypse." If it wasn't being done by nature, such as the tsunami and the hurricane, we were doing it to ourselves, with war and dishonesty and hate.

I joked about this quite a bit, which is my equivalent to whistling in the dark, but I also genuinely believed that every single incident that had never before occurred was a signal that I had better be prepared for The End. Eventually I realized that I didn't want to live in constant fear, and so I began applying my "smile really hard and fool myself that everything is all right" technique to my life on as regular a basis as I could manage.

It hasn't always been easy to do that. Sometimes, I still feel pretty bleak.

But I've also concluded that, if the world hasn't ended by now, it probably isn't going to do so at all.

Which led to another realization: we are really incredibly resilient.

We fear, and we mourn. Then we take action, and we start over.

We heal.

We do this over and over — not just as individuals, or as communities, or even as nations, but as a species, as a planet, as a microcosm of the universe through which we're spinning.

"This, too, shall pass" isn't just a trite saying. It is truth. Whatever "this" is, it always does "pass." Our reputation for buoyancy precedes us.

The future will take care of itself (another trite-yet-true saying), because that's its very nature. How can you not like a concept that does precisely what it is meant to do?

That, above all else, is what gives me hope. No matter what else happens, the future will take care of itself — and it's hard not to be optimistic, knowing that.

Except, of course, that at this particular moment, I am not at all optimistic, unless the definition of "optimistic" suddenly has changed to mean "very, very bitter."

If I believe in karma, then perhaps, someday, those judges will be reincarnated as Broadway producers, and I will be given the opportunity to John Simonize them to DEATH.

But for right now, I still hate everything. Everything.

And March sucks. Already.

So there let us leave the art critic to strangle his wife and move on to pastures new.

Speaking of art critics ...

I'm so glad I don't have children.

When I was twelve, I was damned well old enough to know that I shouldn't even be chewing gum in a gallery or museum, let alone taking it out of my mouth (except to dispose of it in the proper receptacle), let alone sticking it to a $1.5 million painting.

If that were my child, I'd die of embarrassment just on the basis of not having emphasized to my offspring that defacing someone else's work, whether worth $1.50 or $1.5 million, is completely unacceptable.

So it's good I don't have children, 'cos I know someone is going to tell me that I'm wrong, and that that rotten little bratfink wasn't misbehaving, and that I am supressing his creativity.

Why is it okay to pick on reality television but not the Olympics? Is it because one is really real but the other one is only fakey real? And, if so, which is which?

I saw the documentary about the Edmund Fitzgerald on the History Channel again last night and, again, it was very moving, informative, and interesting.

And it's sad that there will never be a conclusive explanation as to why it sank, but I'm glad the families got the closure they themselves were looking for.

And I still think Gordon Lightfoot should be shot for "As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most." Your heart was in the right place, Gordon, but your lyrics are for shit.

I'm not going to get more specific than this, 'cos it's worky, but I have this person asking me for changes to this project every damned day, instead of specifying what he wants to begin with.

Including his asking me to replace correctly spelled words with incorrectly spelled ones, adding apostrophes where none are required, and inserting images that he could have requested at the start of the project but chose not to, for whatever reason.

I feel as though he is saying to me, "I cannot make up my mind, yet women will continue to retain their reputation for indecisiveness. And I love my penis."

drinking: strawberry fruit₂o
listening to: STP, Plush
optimism: my arse

"So what, your kid is only six months old? What better time to introduce him to the keyboard?"
— Cosmic, pimping votes for her Everyday Hogwash entry

Go vote. When voting for this week opens, I mean. And submit your own Hogwash, too. Perhaps, if we nip it in the bud, we can find a cure once and for all.

I am nobody's shopaholic. I have Self-Control, and thank heavens, because That Man of Mine has none.

At all.

He is intensely shoppy, and I hate it, because the shoppiness is expensive as hell, and we will come home with things we do not need, and also with things I do not want.

Even worse, he is not about the browsiness. He likes to be done with the Buying of the Not Needed Things as quickly as possible, because of the Boy Factor.

Which was the cue for our local mall to say, "On March 10th, we shall put in a Border's, so you will have a place where That Man of Yours can become thoroughly annoyed with you, because you will spend hours in there trying to decide between two books, both of which you will wind up leaving behind, as you will ultimately decide that you can live without them and you need the money for more important items, such as his own more expensive, annoying, shoppy habits."

I must be strong. It may become necessary for me to blow a wad on books such that he will have nothing left for himself, just so he can see how it feels.

That is not my nature, as you know. But I can dream.

Here is your Blingo public service announcement, from their blog:

February 27, 2006 • Blingo Frenzy

Starting on March 1st, we're adding more prizes to Blingo and launching a new feature we call the Blingo Frenzy, a short period of time where Blingo gives away prizes like crazy. We might suddenly give away a bunch of iPod Nanos in one hour, or we might give away movie tickets or iTunes every few minutes! You never know what and you never know when....

Enroll, people. Or not. You can win even if you don't enroll. But either way, use the Blingo for searching. Get the swag. Obviously, they want you to have it.

I've done lists of things I like and don't like before.

This particular one seems to be in sevens: seven things you don't like, seven things you do like, and seven tags.

So how does one make it more interesting and original?

How about seven syllables each?

(Bitch, please. I did thirty haiku for an ungrateful wretch of a prettyboy last year. This is a stroll in the park, compared to that.)

Seven Things I Don't Like, Seven Syllables Each:

1. Writing haiku for nothing.
2. I have no money for fun.
3. Arthritis in both my hands.
4. Skin dry and irritated.
5. Must drink so much water. Gag.
6. I totally miss Yvonne.
7. Want to start smoking again.

And now ...

Seven Things I Like, Seven Syllables Each:

1. The smell of coffee, first thing.
2. The word "prosh," meaning "precious."
3. Wrigley's Orbit, peppermint.
4. Ex-Leper (Life of Brian).
5. Reading Scary Personals.
6. Alive, warm, happy, and loved.
7. Hall and Oates, She's Gone. (Shut up.)

Tags? I'll tag Miss Katie, 'cos she  is weird  seems to like being tagged, but other than that, do not feel obligated. (In fact, KD, if you don't want to, you don't have to, either.) I will retrotag you if you decide you want to play.

Well, no one's ever going to mistake me for British, at any rate.

28% Dixie — I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy

drinking: no fear energy beverage fizzy-lifting drink
listening to: Lloyd Robinson, Too Late
regrets: if i liked shoes and purses better, maybe i could keep himself from thinking i'm as weird a woman as he does

I'm extremely sad about Barney Fife, but more so about Ralphie Parker's Old Man. Bleh.

I read somewhere that the reason blogging is so hard is that it's not always possible to be entertaining and topical every day.

That might be why I don't let it restrict me to that extent. Much as I'd love to entertain and educate the masses on a regular basis, sometimes all I can muster up is a snorted "heh" out of myself. If that's the best I have, I settle for it. There's a whole Internet out there for the days I can't bring it for everyone else. Deal.

By the way, this is probably one of those days, but for your entertainment and education, I nevertheless submit the following heh.

That Man of Mine: Whatcha doing?
Me: Reading the comics.
Him (looking over my shoulder): Those aren't our comics. What paper did those come from?
Me: I dunno. The Chicago Tribune, I guess.
Him: You guess? Where'd you get 'em?
Me: Andy sent 'em.
Him: He sent you comics?
Me: Not as such. He sent all this swag, though (indicating penguins, CDs, promos, and mustard catalog). He used these (indicating comics) in between.
Him: You're reading the packing paper?
Me: It's comics.
Him: You are such a geek.
Me: Shut up.

Sometimes I hate boys.

Animusic is so bloody quool. I am having those DVDs no matter what I have to do to get them.

(Actually, all I have to do to get them is to buy them, which I am doing. I just felt like getting my dramatic on.)

O History Channel and Discovery Channel ... where were you guys when I had to learn this shit for school and was Totally Bored? You're so great. I heart you. I hope all kids watch you and then go to school and kick book-l'arnin's arse.

drinking: grape soda. you have to, sometimes
listening to: Animusic, Pipe Dreams
good cry: uconn senior night

"The happiest events in my life occurred when I followed my heart."
— Kidneygurl

Kidneygurl's husband, Richard, recently passed on. For her even to be able to express a memory of happiness at this difficult time must be so wrenching for her, considering that it brought tears to my own eyes, and I have never met her or her husband.

What a courageous lady. I hope I can be a fraction of the person she is, someday.

In other, less depressing, news:

It costs MONEY to join John Cleese's fan club.

Doesn't he realize I'm poor?

Wait. I did say "less" depressing, didn't I?

Sorry, I'll come in again.

Speaking of clubs ...

Dear Man of Mine ...

This Post Secret was not sent in by me, I swear.

Love ...

Golf "Which Means There's Another One Out There Like You" Widow

And now ...

Brain Confetti

Dick Cheney and the Holey Quail

Key quotation:

"It's just a flesh wound."
— Katharine Armstrong

Try not to lose your balance from the massive tectonic plate shift caused by the waves of my genius washing over your current-events-addled senses.

On my last entry, someone entered a comment beginning with claiming "First!"

This is the first time, to my memory, at least, that someone has ever cared about his or her firstiness on my comments. I feel very Dave Barry.

So thank you.

I have said this before, in a much longer and more lectur-y blog entry some years ago, but I will repeat it here.

I learned, and continue to learn, more from life and from the people I encounter than I ever took from any classroom, but the fact remains that People Who Sign Paychecks don't give a good fuck about what you know, they only care about documentation.

So if you don't have a degree, you need to look into getting one at your earliest convenience.

Although, a word to the wise might be not to get one from any spammer who spells the name of his or her wares "deplomas."

Ganked from hubbabub, who is locked, but she is such my pretend girlfriend.

What Would Be on Your Embarrassing Mix Tape?

You know. The songs that you listened to when you were in high school.

The songs you cried to during breakups.

The songs you wished someone would sing to you.

The songs you dubbed from your existing cassettes, or taped off the radio (or by holding the cassette recorder up to the television speaker while MTV was on).

You know. The songs you liked so much you taped them twice, because Only Pussies Use the Rewind Button to Listen to the Song Again.

(This really is quite embarrassing, because not only are all of these songs currently on my iPod, but they are there by my choice, and I still listen to them.)

1. Linda Ronstadt, Long Long Time. Shut up.
2. Chicago, If You Leave Me Now. Shut up.
3. Asia, The Smile Has Left Your Eyes. Shut up.
4. Depeche Mode, Enjoy the Silence. It's all right; I'll own that one.
5. Sheriff, When I'm With You. Shut up.
6. Rainbow, Street of Dreams. Okay, I don't think that one is too bad.
7. Sarah Brightman, Ship of Fools. Shut up.
8. Dio, Mystery. That one's bad, but in my defense, I also have The Last in Line, so, as you may have surmised, shut up.
9. April Wine, Just Between You and Me. Shut up.
10. The Eagles, Take It to the Limit. Okay, I don't think this one is as bad as it could be.
11. Boston, Can'tcha Say. Shut up.
12. The Bangles, Eternal Flame. Shut up.
13. Journey, Winds of March. Guess what? Right. Shut up.
14. Missing Persons, Destination Unknown. Shut up.
15. Bread, Diary. Shut up.
16. Flock of Seagulls, Space Age Love Song. Shut up.

Roy Orbison, Crying. I fucking dare you. I'm not at all ashamed of it. In fact, strike Roy Orbison off this list.

17. Nazareth, Love Hurts. Shut up, because they're totally on your mix too, and don't deny it.
18. Restless Heart, I'll Still Be Loving You. Shut up.
19. The Cure, Boys Don't Cry. Shut up.
20. J.D. Souther, When You're Only Lonely. Shut up.
21. R.E.M., Everybody Hurts, and you may completely shut the fuck up right now, because I've been listening to R.E.M. since Michael Stipe had hair.
22. Basia, Time and Tide. Shut up.
23. The Motels, Take the L. Shut up.
24. Don McLean, Vincent. Shut. UP.

When it comes to the happy, I make no guarantees. But, come on now. Really.

Bucky: This hat is magical. It allows me to see into the future.
Rob: Are you seeing a bunch of people making fun of your hat? 'Cause that doesn't take magic.

— from Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley

I mean, what more do you want from me? I'm only one woman. (Whatever that means.)

drinking: diet cherry citrus fresca
listening to: Men At Work, Overkill
when rachael ray uses nutmeg: she will say, "it's what makes them go 'hmm, what is that?'"

But it's more than I loved yesterday, so perhaps you may find me pathetic, but I actually think I'm taking steps in the right direction, and you may therefore help yourself to a nice glass of shut up.

You know how sometimes you feel like everything and everyone in the world is wrong, except you, and then suddenly you realize that you're, actually, the problem?

Or is that just me?

Well, I did, yesterday.

I was going to post a big Poor Me, Come Lurve on Me and Make Me Feel Better, and I decided that if I didn't have anything nice to say, I could certainly shut the fuck up instead. If nothing else, I could feel smug for not propulgating my megrims around the 'Net.

Megrim is one of those words we don't use nearly often enough, and we should, 'cos all you have to do is turn on Fox News or CNN most mornings and ooh, look, megrims.

So anyway, I've seen this everywhere, which is no reason for me to do it, except that, who knows, maybe it will make me feel better without a whole lot of effort on anyone else's part. I don't want to be a bother.

Johari Window

There exists, I'm told, a negative version of the same window, but I'm way too chickenshit to try that. On the bright side, at least I have the bottles to admit that I'm chickenshit, and that ought to count for something.

drinking: water
listening to: Dream Theater, 6 O'Clock
current addiction: pickled garlic. go make some. it is so easy.

I'm sorry you felt that you felt you had to sacrifice the most helpful mental therapy you've ever found for yourself, and I hope you care enough about yourself to come back someday.

Ganked with absolutely no malice aforethought from The Cranky One:

My Favorite Comic Strips, in No Particular Order, And Why:

Well, hers might not have been in a particular order, but mine are alphabetical, 'cos that's how I have my bookmarks and feeds sorted.

• Dog Eat Doug: 'Cos Dog (Sophie) and Doug (Doug) are adorable, is why.
• For Better or For Worse: I have been reading this strip since Michael was a baby and Farley was the resident dog.
• Foxtrot: I discovered Foxtrot in a comics anthology. The particular comic went as follows:
    Panel 1 ...
      Jason: Dad, how do you spell "Ferrari?"
    Panel 2 ...
      Mr. Fox: F-E-R-R-A-R-I. Why?
      Jason: I'm making my Christmas list.
    Panel 3 ...
      Mr. Fox: Aren't you a little young for a Ferrari?
      Jason: I thought maybe you could drive it till I turn sixteen.
    Panel 4 ...
      Mrs. Fox: ARE YOU INSANE?
      Mr. Fox: But he's been so good this year.
  Color me hooked.
• Get Fuzzy: I am Satchel's bitch. Heh.
• Kevin and Kell: One of the best-kept secrets of the comics world. It's a crime, how comparatively few people know about this gem.
• Kit and Carlyle: One day, Marn, Eh wrote about having made really horrible meatloaf, that she wound up feeding to her cats. That very same day, Kit served Carlyle a failed meatloaf, and I noticed how much Kit looks like Marn, Eh — so much so, in fact, that I wondered if the cartoonist knows her.
• Off the Mark: 'Cos The Far Side is gone.
• Peanuts: Snoopy rocks my world.
• Reality Check: Sick, demented, and twisted. My kind of humor.
• Speed Bump: It is what it is. You're cruising through the carpark of thought and you need to take a second to figure out what you just hit.

Totally won more Blingo bling just by being fucked up on pretty white pills asleep whilst MG was surfing the 'net.

A few people have replied to me when I announce such things by saying, "Well, I never use the Blingo because I never win." Fine with me. I'm more than happy to collect all y'all's prizes.

So I have had no energy for cooking, and have also been loathe to prep food when I'm not totally convinced I'm not contagious, which means we have, for the past couple of days, either been fending for our individual selves, or eating fast food.

I think I'm done with that, though, because I got the oddest Chinese food ever, the night before last: ordered hot and sour soup and lo mein; got home, opened the bag, and found a container of plain beef broth (not on their menu) and another container of mixed vegetables with neither noodles nor rice.

Then, last night, we went to Duchess and I ordered a steak wrap. I shall just say that, what Duchess does well (hot dogs with the works, and deli turkey sandwiches on whole wheat) they do very well, and what they do badly (chili, and steak wraps) makes you projectile hurl they do very badly indeed.

I can't decide whether these establishments were in a rush and forgot crucial ingredients, or whether they were just fucking with my head. Either way, I'm cooking for myself tonight.

I know this says "Vote for me," but it's not me this time, it's Nrem.

Vote for la Booberella!

Go to the Everyday Hogwash website and vote for Nrem's Can You Hear Me NOW? blog entry of January 21st as Hogwash of the Week . Voting is open from now through midnight tonight. .

If you missed the original entry, you can read it here.

drinking: iron energy beverage fizzy-lifting drink
listening to: Grateful Dead, Smoking
disliking: grateful dead

"Being an asshole who makes jokes only makes you an asshole who makes jokes."
— Annie Sertich

Jeez, honey, you say "asshole who makes jokes" like it's bad or something.

Another Quotation of the Week, 'Cos I Can Have Two If I Want, So There:

"My wife’s new power supply came in the mail today. The dimensions of the box look small enough to fit in her computer."
— Lewis Moten

The above line, which was written in all seriousness, made me do the snorty-laughing, because I am not just your garden-variety, everyday geekazoid; I am, it would seem, a twelve year-old boy with a raging case of Beavishead.

That Man of Mine better never discuss my box dimensions in public.

Just in case you were in any further doubts about my geekitude, I am currently cross with Google™ over the fact that their logo picture for today is everything to do with the Olympics and nothing to do with Galileo's 442nd birthday, an occasion far more important in my world.

It's also Miss Fairweather's birthday, and if you're new here, you don't know who Miss Fairweather is.

She's one of my best fairweather friends, is who.

I am always there for her when she needs me; she is never here for me when I need her. Hence the name. Tcha.

So I didn't hear from her on my own personal birthday last year, nor did I receive so much as a card from her, last Holiday of Which We Will Not Speak for Fear of Arousing the Wrath of Those Whose Holiday it Is, One of Which I Am Not, And Isn't This Way Too Long of a Name for an Occasion That is Meant to Be a Celebration.

But, yeah, I called today to wish her a happy birthday, because I am Just That Maso.

And I invited her to dinner, for which she declined, but has penciled me in for March 4th, calloo callay o frabjous day.

And people wonder why I heart my Internet Peeps so damned much.

I know this says "Vote for me," but it's not me this time, it's Nrem.

Vote for la Booberella!

Go to the Everyday Hogwash website and vote for Nrem's Can You Hear Me NOW? blog entry of January 21st as Hogwash of the Week . Voting is open from now through the 17th .

If you missed the original entry, you can read it here.

drinking: lemon fruit₂o
listening to: nothing. head still hurts
want: popcorn

Okay, I don't. But if I can lie to my husband, my doctor, my boss, and My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of, I can lie to you.

No need to feel bad about not believing me. They don't either.

Anyway.

I still have the bubbles popping in my head. They're not as loud, so I would say that constitutes better. Or, pretend-better, which is almost as good.

Today is Valentine's Day, about which no one is up in arms, oddly, since St. Valentine is a saint and St. Nicholas was a saint and people sure got their no-you-may-not on as regards That Other Holiday, didn't they?

Jenn wrote about How She Met HB.

I would do that, but I think by now everyone knows about That Man of Mine, and how his then-employer's archaic computer system would need to be fully upgraded and online before the company could even think about preparing for Y2K, and how the company itself was comprised entirely of Computer Illiterates, such that any time a technician from my company had to speak to a representative of his company, we learned very quickly that That Man was our first, last, and only line of defense against the Stupid.

On my initial conversation with the man who would later become That Man, he mentioned in passing that he liked golf, and I told him a golf joke (that I had read in a Lewis Grizzard book), and he claims now to have fallen in love with me over the phone.

Had I but known.

This Golf Widow stuff is not always all it's cracked up to be, is what I'm saying.

I'm not against romance as such. Or, even, at all.

When I was nineteen, I was in my third month of dating a boy and thinking I was finally going to have a nice Valentine's Day, for the first time in my life, and sure enough, a letter arrived for me in the mail that day.

In which he broke up with me.

Yeah.

Anyway, I was just the other day saying to Nrem that I don't dislike stuffed animals and I love all the ones I already have, but I certainly don't need any more, which was the cue for That Man of Mine to lug home a frighteningly large, understuffed, glaringly blatantly cheerily red, droopy-faced dog home from the store last night, when I thought he was just going to pick up soda and milk.

Of course I adore it. It's so soft. And that was awfully cute of him.

The gift horse's mouth is closed, for all I know or care, because I'm not looking in it.

The boy who was too much of a coward to break up with me face to face had had the gall to say that his reasoning was that I, at nineteen, was too immature for him at twenty-two.

Perhaps I was.

Perhaps I still am, considering that I have been rendered fairly shmoopy by a stuffed animal I didn't really want or need.

At any rate, if I were truly immature, I would certainly hope and pray that that boy is currently alone, but I shan't bother.

Someone like him is pretty much bound to be alone.

If it's immature of me to be satisfied, believing that, then smack my arse and call me baby.

(Not saying you can't do that anyway, if you really feel you must. Heh.)

drinking: hot water, no caffeine, thank you
listening to: The Beatles, Because
hating on: villanova

I don't think I'm, like, at Death's door or anything, and I rather hope I'm not, because I'm not dressed to meet Death, and my hair looks like crap.

But I woke up with my head full of bubbles that keep popping, and they're fucking loud.

So I asked That Man of Mine to put on the television for me, and he did, and there was a woman on some exercise machine commercial, and she was coming out of her pool but her hair was dry, so I started crying because people don't go in the pool and come out with dry hair, so she is possessed, and That Man of Mine is, understandably, somewhat concerned about me.

My bad. I didn't mean to scare him.

Also, I didn't mean to say "my bad."

He made me to call work and tell them I'm sick, and I did.

Boy, does my head hurt. Bubbles. Ouch, muthafucka.

I had the fuckingest dream. It was a full-blown sketch with no beginning or end, and it was worse than a nightmare, because at least when one wakes from a nightmare, one says, "Well, that was only a dream."

Not this. I'm so bloody frustrated I want to complain to someone, and so I shall complain to you, although I know full well this never happened in real life.

Go on and tell me how lucky I am. When I feel better, I'll be happy to agree. Right now? Still pissed.

On the bright side, if I'm going to feel this fucking sick, I'm grateful that it writes itself into something entertaining in my achy bubble-filled brain.

And now: my dream, or the sketch; however you want to refer to it.

Scene: bakery/coffee shop, interior, day.

Me: I would like to register a complaint.
Barista 1: Sorry, this isn't my Starbucks. (Leaves)
Me (to fourth wall): I'm so not surprised, are you?
Barista 2 (disinterestedly): Welcometostarbucksmayihelpyou.
Me: I would like to register a complaint.
Barista 2: Sorrythisismylunchbreak.
Me: Mine, too, coincidentally enough. Hence, I have come here for lunch. Hence, my complaint. Oh, no you don't. I'm telling someone about this.
Barista 2: (not terribly interested) Iamterriblyinterested.
Me: I walked in here for a venti valencia skim and a cinnamon bun. I was given no coffee whatsoever and some peanut butter thing. No glaze. No cinnamon. No raisins. No redeeming qualities whatsoever, actually.
John Cleese: Sucks being you, dunnit?
Me: You're very tall, aren't you.
John Cleese: They say.
Me: You should stoop to my level. I can hardly hear you.
John Cleese: Nerve of you, telling me to get bent. (Leaves).
Me: (to fourth wall): You have just all been witness to my having blown my chances for Monty Python, The Next Generation. (to barista). I just want to speak to the person who has deprived me of venti valencia skim goodness and cinnamon happiness.
Barista 2 (bored beyond description): Isthataband?
Me: Not in the slightest.
Barista 2: Youshouldprobablyjustgo.
Me: Peanut butter. I fucking ordered cinnamon.
Barista 3: Can I help you?
Me: I hope someone can. I ordered coffee, which was never dispensed, and a cinnamon bun, which turned out to be peanut butter.
Barista 3: The peanut butter is healthier.
Me: First of all, it's not healthy, it is dead. It could be construed as more healthful, devised to make me healthier, but that is hardly my point, since it was, second of all, not what I ordered, and third of all, not what I wanted. Had I wanted something healthful for lunch, I'd hardly have come to a coffee shop. I'd have got a bleeding salad. I wanted twenty ounces of caffeinated beverage and a pile of yeast and starch, preferably adorned with white goo. I am, essentially gooless. And my lunch break has been nearly exhausted. I must back to my office, without lunch of any sort, because I cannot get satisfaction from the likes of this establishment. Aren't you ashamed of yourselves?
Barista 3 (not terribly sorry): I'm terribly sorry.
Me: You're not as sorry as I am. Do you know how I know this?
Barista 3 (finally interested): No, how?
Me: Because no one is as sorry as I am.
John Cleese: Next time you'll brownbag it, you silly little bitch.

This was when I woke up, and I am so fucking frustrated and pissed I can't convey it.

Now is when Terry Gilliam would put in a cartoon, but I will have to settle for pain killers. Bubbles, you know. Fucking loud and things.

drinking: nothing
listening to: are you not fucking paying attention? fucking bubbles. loud.
that lady: dry hair. i'm telling you, she's possessed, and i'm ascairt. i want my mother.

If you've been hanging round here since 2002, you'll know that I have always pretty much thought The Games are a big fat fix, and more than once in the past four years I've been proven right.

I have to put up with rigged games in the presidency because I live in America and the end results affect my life on a grand scale, but the Olympics have nothing to do with me and nothing gives me greater pleasure than to ignore the outcome of the fix.

(Except, possibly, watching skaters fall on their butts. I feel somewhat better when a supposedly coordinated athlete winds up looking as goofy as an everyday klutz such as myself.)

Anyway, I won't be watching the Olympics. If you're going to wig about my planetary citizenship, just pay for my rocketfare out of here and I'll be happy to leave quietly.

drinking: ice water
listening to: Tool, The Patient
ready for snow: just need diet coke

So here, instead, is Stuff I Don't Get Nearly Enough Of:

• Free food.
• Makeout sessions with younger men.
• Toys.
• Movie dates. I so want to see Snow Cake, and I so bet I won't get to.
• Jelly beans. Which could go under "free food," except that, when I said "free food," I was thinking more in terms of, like, pizza and things.
• Things that glow in the dark.

But tonight Nrem and I will be IMing whilst watching CSI.

Snark will be flung tonight, and into the faces of some of your favorites.

I would like not to have to resort to the snarkitude, but I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter, as tonight's programming is alleged to include some hot Freaky-Deaky-Bug-Man™-on-Lady-Heather action, and that is bound to irritate the blue fuck out of me, because, hello, that is MY Freaky-Deaky-Bug-Man™, thank you, Lady-I-Left-the-Bug-Man™-for-the-O.C.-and-Now-I'm-Crawling-Back-Heather.

(I just realized that having a woman crawl back to him, like, well, a Bug, would probably make the Freaky-Deaky-Bug-Man™ really happy. In the immortal words of, well, no one, really, shitfire and save matches.)

But anyway.

I am making wings with honey-teriyaki-hotcherrypepper-barbecue sauce for dinner, because That Man of Mine gets so aggravated by the ratio of deliciousity to messiness (off the charts, people).

Yes, he will bitch, "These are good, but I need, like, a bath now," and yes, I will then walk up to him and say, "I'm so glad you liked them," and kiss him with my sticky honey-teriyaki-hotcherrypepper-barbecue mouth, because I have ulterior motives for winging it: he can go shower whilst I get my chat on with Nrem and drool over my Bug Man™, which will keep him out of my hair.

drinking: peach fruit₂o
listening to: Zack Hexum, How Many Times
loving on: http://www-personal.umich.edu/~stujc/PM/index.html

On to part 2:

Write about a creative person you admire but don't know personally, such as a famous painter or musician or writer, living or dead. As in the previous prompt, explain why you feel this person is or was so creative. If necessary, do a little research to find out more about this person's creative gifts and habits. When you finish this piece, compare the people you wrote about in these two prompts. What qualities do they share? What qualities do you most admire in them?

— The Writer's Idea Book, © 2000 Jack Heffron

Mr. O, the best English teacher I ever had, turned me onto Dave Barry's column when I was a high school senior. Almost every Monday, the O would get all up in our faces with the Sunday New Haven Register and read the whole thousand words to us. "You see what I mean?" he'd say, and we would, indeed, see.

Mr. O didn't expect us to be as good as Dave Barry, and he didn't expect us to write in the same style as Dave Barry, but he did expect us to hold ourselves and our work to the same standards that Dave Barry aspired to, week after week, and I have tried to do so.

I don't always succeed, but then, Dave Barry doesn't always make me laugh, either.

And he's got a Pulitzer Prize and things.

Dave Barry still works for the Miami Herald. He's not, I guess, a columnist for them anymore, since he took a sabbatical last year and doesn't seem to have any foreseeable plans for returning to that forum. But his blog is hosted by them, and they are understandably proud to have him associated with them, even if all he currently does is to watch and report on the television show 24, or to let us, his alert readers, send him odd news links, on which he comments in single-sentence blurbs.

Which are still funnier than any thousand words than I have ever generated at any given time.

When I was first exposed to Barry's work, he was still churning out a column every single damned week for the Herald's Tropic Magazine, syndicated nationwide (including, thank heavens, in the Register), and his creativity was boundless. He could crank out a full column and sidebar about toenail maintenance or weasel poop that would leave me in pain from having snorted an entire glass of orange juice out of my nose.

Part of it was his delivery, of course. Dave Barry was, and is, tremendously fond of the English language, and makes full use of its vocabulary and tricks of phrase to create visuals with which one can easily identify: "He approached it with all the enthusiasm of a person being strapped down for brain surgery via ice pick." In a single, fluid sentence, we are as connected to his brain as if he were telepathically plugging into our synapses. One doesn't have to find the previous thought humorous in order to be able to visualize the subject's reaction to whatever the situation was (I don't remember it off the top of my head, but I believe it was a massage).

Dave's work was not limited to newspaper columns, though that was where most of his bread got buttered, as it were. He had, at the time I started reading him, several collections of his columns published in book form, but he had also written quite a few complete books on humorous subjects and "information" that were just as amusing and interesting as were his weekly observations.

Writer's block was not an acceptable excuse for Dave not to write. If inspiration didn't strike him immediately, he'd bloody well find some, whether it meant venturing out into the big, bad world and playing the role of a corpse in an opera, venturing into a cafeteria to see what flavor of frozen yogurt was currently being featured, or venturing into his home office, stupid dogs under his desk (emitting stupid dog fumes from their respective stupid dog butts), and eating Cheese Nips.

Dave Barry's home life was as much fodder for his column as was any other topic. We knew about his wife, Beth, and his son, Rob (whose birthday is October 8th, and I will never forget that date, because in the book Dave Barry Slept Here: A Sort of History of the United States, Dave used that date for everything, so you'd only have one date to remember), and the dogs: his main stupid dog, Earnest, and Zippy, who was the auxiliary backup stupid dog. Later, there would be his new wife, Michelle, and their daughter Sophie, though not as much; I believe he had chosen to be a bit more private by that point.

Whatever else one could say about Dave Barry, fact and fiction were very well-delineated. Gray areas did not exist in Dave's work — when he was satirizing or embellishing, he came right out (whether via footnotes or parenthetical remarks) and announced it proudly, with the comedic timing for which his writing was lauded regularly. By the same token, when reporting on the ridiculous but true, Dave would immediately declare, "I am not making this up," and we could rely on him.

I refer to Mr. O as the best English teacher I ever had, and here's why: he hammered home that I must always tighten my work, to get the unnecessary words out of there, to substitute synonyms for the words "nice" or "thing" (too wishy-washy) whenever possible, and to ensure that my writing reflected my voice. But he also introduced me to Dave Barry's work, and this was just as important a lesson — that one can write truth even when one is "making it up."

Dave Barry was able to present reality in a creative manner and to present creativity in a real manner. Unlike the writer to whom I referred in the previous exercise, Dave Barry's writing, whether fact or satire, has always been truthful, whereas her writing, even when it was about something real, was always pretty much lies. That is why I can and do admire Dave Barry, even if he no longer writes a thousand words every week, and cannot and do not admire the other writer.

drinking: peach fruit₂o
listening to: Broooce, Rosalita
head: aching, actually

Oh, come on, now — did you really expect me to post something insightful about anything?

In here?

Here is for burbles and brain confetti. If you want insightful, you're more apt to find it within yourself, and it'll be worth your while to seek it there.

Really. All I have is how preoccupied I am by other people's food wrappers.

I hear crackling sounds and I am such your puppy.

"Whattayagot? Got candy? Gotta candy bar? Can I have some? Is it cookies? Got cookies? Can I have a cookie?"

My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of, who has been moved up by me, into the world's teensiest cubicle (besides mine, but I'm not housing as much design and computing equipment as he is, either), is probably wishing he was back downstairs this minute, where he can unwrap a cable or a receptacle in peace and not have me going, "Pretzels? You got pretzels? Is that chips? Are they salt and vinegar?"

These insights have been brought to you by The Commission for Not Very Insightful, But Desperately Craving Snacks.

Dear Diarylanders:

Instead of unreliable service for free, or paying a Gold or Supergold membership to get, well, still unreliable service, how's about moving to Blogcharm and getting paid to write stuff?

They're brand-new; I've started cross-posting there to see how it works. They're not going to start payouts for at least another month. But so far I don't have a problem with it.

I imagine, even when they start paying, it isn't going to pay much. Pennies, at most. But some is better than none, and getting paid is certainly better than paying.

I'm not being compensated in any way for this endorsement, except that I heard somewhere that, in life and things, you get stuff back when you give for nothing, and I wouldn't mind cashing in on that concept if it's true.

Besides, I heart you guys. And that's for real.

drinking: full throttle fury energy beverage fizzy-lifting drink
listening to: d-man, These Days
whattayagot: is that popcorn? can i have some?