The Problem with Pez

Really, it's not as much a problem with Pez as it is a problem with people's finding out I collect Pez.

They think "Oh, here is a neat Pez thingie, I can give it to Rae" or "I want to get Rae a little something, hmmm. Pez? Perfect."

They are extremely sweet. They are extremely considerate. The are extremely well-meaning.

They have gotten me more than a dozen identical Santa pez dispensers.

Much better today, after a brief shopping trip, a brief nap and a very laid-back night of catching-up. Maybe I'll actually get some work done.

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

no motivation today. very sleepy. going home now, methinks. bath and nap sound good, yesssssssssss.

Presents: The True Meaning of Christmas

Though at work, I am intensely enjoying life right this second as I listen to the Indigo Girls' live version of Midnight Train to Georgia. I received 1200 Curfews for Christmas.

I know, I know, it's like, 5 bazillion years old, but I didn't have it yet. Having never ever seen them live, this is a decent substitute. . .or, at least, I've made myself believe that. I convince myself of the same thing about the Barenaked Ladies.

St. Ali Day

Unfortunately I'm at work on this, my favourite obscure (to yanks) holiday.

Fortunately, I have a job to resent being at today.

However, in protest, I'm reluctant to do any actual work. So, I'm sitting here trying to decide what to get myself for Boxing Day, since I didn't get myself anything for Christmas.

Right now it's between 2 DVD box sets: Sports Night or Baz Luhrman. Hmmmmmm.

Wonderful PS2 quote from Bob: "Oddly enough, driving over newspaper boxes with a tractor is a game of finesse."

www.tackychristmaslights.com

The site Bob and I were going to start, if we had the time. Alas, no time 'til now, and it seems too late for a whole site. But our neighborhood and the one right next to it are proving to be fertile grounds for tacky electric displays.

Icicle lights (white and multi-coloured) are being horribly abused, as are small saplings which, bereft of leaves, seem to be sprouting more tiny twinkling bulbs than they can possibly support.

In its second year, the spring-coiled-light "tree" is hitting its stride. Not only is it available in a wider variety of realistic colours (green, white, red, multi), but this year it is apparently a family tree year, as many yards have mama, papa, AND baby trees. Thoughtful tree owners who can't afford several make due by lovingly tucking their glowing slinky tree in with "real" pine trees, where it is sure to blend.

An interesting side effect of having had company over is that the apartment is now clean. Whee.

Hopefully we can keep it this way until after Friday's dinner company (Clue and fondue). Fingers crossed.

There is no snow yet. They are predicting huge (3 inches), massive (6 inches) amounts of snow, starting after midnight. It is now after midnight and there is no snow, y'know? Sheesh.

Ah, it's a fine day for a man and his tractor. . .

Nothing like a lengthy holiday break to bring out the 12 year old in all of us. We just had a friend over for dinner and gift exchange and games. So we played sneak-attack rock 'em sock 'em robots (which was part of the evening's gifting) and PS2 Simpsons Road Rage.

As we started getting competitive, some interesting "names" showed up on the high score board. Names like "ASS" and "BCH". Ah, youth clings eternal, etc.

It's not yet 10 on a morning I miraculously have off from work (not virgin-birth miraculous, but still pretty cool) and I've just been woken by a UPS guy bearing gift. So now I have to decide whether to go back to bed or be responsibile and drop by work briefly to see if my presents have arrived.

Any bets on which will win?

No, Mr. Police Officer, you don't have to stop at the stopsign, 'cause it's not like you're sworn to UPHOLD THE LAW or anything like that.

Meanwhile, in line for LotR: tTT. . .
The giddy teenagers in front of us started an intriguing game, a sort of free-form Seven Degrees of Lord of The Rings. They weren't very good at it.

For instance: It took them 5 minutes to figure the connection with That Thing You Do.

MoonRaker was dismissed as too old.

Strictly Ballroom? "There wasn't anybody in that!"

Why I hate Medleys

Standing in line at Best Buy last night, having just finished expounding on the wonderfulness of The Great Train Robbery, and Bob being tired of serving as a punching bag as we waited for the 12 year old manager to answer the flashing light summons, I tried to entertain myself by singing along with the PA music. Just as I'd start getting into the groove of a song, as it were, it would switch over to a new song.

It was maddening. It was, like, Chinese Carol Torture. "Just finish a damn song!" I screamed. Magically, the manager appeared and the line delay vanished, because they knew they'd won.

Don't even get me started on Manheim Steamroller.

Hey there Mr. Consumer-guy, Merry F#$%ing Christmas!. . .

Tonight, Bob and I will be Christmas shopping. Any spare shopping karma anyone can loan us will be happily accepted.

I don't mind shopping too much, but dislike it quite a lot around the holidays. Everyone loses all sense of the space they occupy and I wind up getting bumped into quite alot, since I often go out in my invisible mode. I could go out visible, but that involves make-up and is really not worth it.

Bob and I have never done any hard-core shopping like this together, and I find myself curious as to how it will go.

Well, that was depressing wasn't it?

Sadly, the attendance didn't much pick up, and many friends did not see it.

I could look at it this way though: All of the important people saw it.

That's better.

Dear Bloggary,

Very depressed today and everyone is at lunch, so I'm blogging. I'm aware that this is a bit pathetic, yes, thank you for asking.

Anyway, I'm in a show (which is why i've not been blogging of late), and it's a good show, and it's getting great response (possibly better than it deserves). But because it's at a small community theatre and it's christmas time and yada yada yada, almost no one in the theatrrr community will have seen it when it closes.

So I find myself wondering how I'm ever, ever going to get anywhere theatrically around here when I get tinsy parts in big, well-attended shows, or don't get cast at all, and when I have a decent -sized part at which I'm rocking, it flitters by unviewed.

I further find myself wondering why I make such a bloody effort to attend everyone else's shows when no one does the same for me. Makes me think I shouldn't bother.

Sorry for the bitter venting. I'm gonna go now.

There is to be snowing here.

Let's build a snowman, we'll make him our best friend.

Wanted: Actually liberal Liberal politician who needs campaign support (speech writers, analysts, etc) and/or a Purpose for my life after the new year.

Shouldn't be too hard to find, right?

Boy, you're really doing nothing there, Rae
It's been a week since I've posted, and i can't even claim that I've been really busy with wild interesting things or even drinking heavily. . .not for more than one day out of the week, anyway.

Nope, I've been bored. Bored, bored, bored with work and myself and life in general. And I passed that bored threshold where you are so bored that all of your energy is taken up with being bored.

I haven't been this level of bored in a long time. Like, not since middle school long.

And I wonder, "What's with the bored all of a sudden?"

And I remember the time, 'bout 13 months ago, when I crossly demanded of the Cosmos that my life be boring for awhile.

The Cosmos, she is not so quick with the commanding responses. But she is damn thorough.

'Scuse me, while I watch paint dry (Hendricks guitar riff as Rae wanders off)

I can't so much recommend Healthy Choice's so-called cherry-apple crisp. I had it yesterday and there was exactly one cherry and far too many apple chunks. Sure, it was in a "cherry" sauce, but that's not the same.

Yes, I choose Healthy Choice dinners based on the dessert. Yes, I'm comfortable with that.

Don't Panic
So I've figured it out: W is Zhaphod Beeblebrox. He bounces about, gathering all media attention and says lots of stupid things, gaining the obsession of those who don't like him as they focus on exactly how much of an idiot he is. . .and it's all a screen so the people who are really ruling can do so without anyone watching them. Ah and ha!

Now we just have to figure out where he keeps his other head....hmmmm....

More linky goodness:
GWBush.com Store
Bushisms
Don't misunderestimate this calendar.

Having no politcal messages today...
I do, however, have a new pair of shoes. They look like this.

Days Stop the War in Iraq flyer remains on the cube: 2 so far.

Don't bother trying to reason with me, Mike
I am politically very sad today. Very, very sad. The Evil ManChild Pretender to the Presidency basically has control over the government entire. This is scary and bad. This makes me want to move to New Zealand.

Being a proactive sort of pookie, I'm wondering if there isn't something I could've done, other than use my vote to attempt to block evil. (Though I had reservations about that; Carnahan was a very conservative democrat for my tastes.)

That store having sailed, I hereby commit myself and my energies to assisting those who would get that idiot out of office before he does any more damage.


For a start, some links to places with a delicious anti-W bias:
The George W Bush Scorecard of Evil
Bush Watch
Citizens for Legitimate Government

I need some low-profile ways to annoy the heck out of your cube neighbors. I already have scaling a fish courtesy of Office Space. Any other suggestions?

Bob had a brilliant idea while we were driving this weekend and discussing the odd rash of plane crashes among Democratic candidates in close races: To get rid of W, all we need to do is vote Texas out of the Union. If W isn't from our country, he absolutely can't be our President, 'cause we don't hold truck with no Forners.

I really don't think Texas would mind. I mean, they started off as their own country and seem to have fond memories of it ("The Lone Star State"). Plus, odds are W could still go to war with Iraq; Texas seems very likely to support that notion on several fronts.

Just to be safe, though, we should probably get rid of Florida, too.

Seen on a bus advertisement: "A dry crack is a happy crack."

And we know it's true, because Mr. Happy Crack himself endorses it.

Recipe for Butternut Squash Soup
Just invented this weekend past to break in my new stockpot. I made it up as I went along, so I'm guessing at some of the quantities.

1 medium butternut squash
1 onion, chopped
10 pieces of bacon
wings, back, gizzards of 1 chicken
4 sections of fresh garlic
3 cups of rum
water
2 cups soy milk
2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 TBL cilantro
1 TBL oragano
2 tsp sage
1/4 cup salt
2 TBL pepper

Toss the garlic, onion and 1 cup of rum into a large pot and simmer over low heat. Chop up and add the bacon. Continue simmering. Cube, peel and remove the seeds from the squash. Add squash and all other ingredients (including enough water to cover squash cubes) except chicken, milk and remaining rum to the pot. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer for 2 hours. Transfer squash mixture into a large mixing bowl (or a food processor, if you have one). Place chicken, milk, rum and enough water to cover chicken into the pot. Bring to a boil. Meanwhile, puree the squash mixture using processor, hand mixer, potato masher, or whatever means you have available. When done, transfer squash mixture back into pot. Stir to combine with chicken and broth. Reduce heat and simmer for another 30 minutes to an hour. Serves 6 or so.

This is possibly the Cutest Thing Ever.

Inspired by the Dread Pirate Adam's appearance at my wedding reception, I've decided to be a Space Pirate for halloween.

It should look something like a cross between this and that.

I'm also trying to talk Bob into being my Giant Mutant Space Parrot, kind of like the Cat on Red Dwarf. We'll see how that goes.

I love the West Wing, but the Author's Message Monologues are getting to be a little too obvious even for me. . .and I usually agree with them.

Aaron Sorkin is obviously reacting to the last presidential election. I wonder if he's going to go so far as to have Bartlett lose. Bets?

So, I went to the Gyn the other day and, along with the "wear cotton panties, don't take baths, blah, blah, blah" speech, she said it was healthier to not wear underwear, or any pant-like items, to sleep in at night.

Aroo?

This is a new one on me and, even though my gyn is a woman, I'm a bit suspicious. How long before "doctors" decide it is healthier for women to go around topless?

I wonder if I could introduce a concern about the health risks of wearing neon spandex, hmmm. . .

Random Hygiene Obsession #67

I am not, in general, a hygiene freak. Really. Ask anyone who's ever roomed with me. I'm not a skanky grrrl, but I've been known to skip a day, shower-wise. . .only floss sporadically. . .don't always rush to wash my hands after petting Mr. Arthur.

So, I'm not obsessed with cleanliness but, for some reason, don't know why, I really like to keep my ears clean. The glee brought on by opening a fresh box of Q-Tips is, well, rather unwarranted, really.

While we were snorkling in Barbados (notice the subtlety with which she works that factoid in), Bob got some water stuck in his ear. Since it hadn't managed to work its way out by the time we got home, he bought one of those ear cleaning kits and, I'm obsessed with it. I can't wait to use it. It's really weird.

But I bet its more fun than he's letting on.

she doesn't write for 3 months, comes back, and this is all she has to say for herself? sheesh

Apology to my longer-standing friend/readers: Sorry I've gone all political on you. My wedding planning blog is a little more in my usual tone (though weddy-centric, be warned).

Apology to any people who've wandered here from the political content: Sorry my rants have been so generic so far. I just woke up. I'll try to make it more interesting from now on.

ARGONNE, Illinois (CNN) -- President Bush on Monday called on Congress to approve quickly his plans for a Homeland Security Department during a visit to the Midwest, where he toured a national research lab developing new anti-terrorism technology.

Yes Americans, Congress must approve this quickly before the fear dies down and we all remember this is supposedly a Democracy.

Actually, what scares me most about this is what can be found in the little box on the right, entitled Department of Homeland Security, last bullet point under Extra Information: Differing Views. If you read them, they are not, in fact, differing. Or, rather, not in essentials; they all think it should be enacted, they just seem to differ in how big it should be, or where the money should come from. Help.

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- In a shift from its position 24 hours earlier, the U.S. Postal Service said Thursday it had decided to meet with the Justice Department to discuss Operation TIPS, a government plan to encourage U.S. postal workers to report suspicious activity as part of the government's war on terrorism.

Is it cynical of me to wonder what exactly happened in those 24 hours?

Getting political (cover the children's ears):

For the record, I am a liberal, with a smattering of conservative views (eg, gun-toting, criminal frying).

For the record, I think the War on Terrorism is ill-advised, too general, and being executed poorly. I expect it to be about as successful as the War on Drugs has been.

For the record, I think John Ashcroft is a racist, fascist, prudish freak. As a citizen of Missouri, who voted for Mel Carnahan in the last election, I can say I believe no man would be better for the job than John Ashcroft.

For the record, I think military tribunals, secret detensions of uncertain length, and phone tapping are things that belong in Nazi Germany, not in Democratic America.

I feel better now. There was an ultra-conservative wench on the Daily Show last night making it sound as if the only liberals left were extremeist freaks and that the opposition to the current "War" was in the minority. Maybe. Or maybe we're just quiet. Too bloody quiet.

Mind numbing work at work. Huge lists of drugs. Many minute changes. Pink pen. Shudder.

This causes me to do fun things in evening conversation, like suggest that $50, 000 is more than $50 million. Not up to my usual standards of wit, that.

I'm neglecting this blog a bit, but posting in the weddy-blog quite regularly. It's just where my brain is right now. Hopefully life will go back to normal after Sept. 22nd.

Had one of those nights where the brain won't turn off. As a result I am to be sluglike this morning.

My brain was zipping because I just closed a play that went very well. Naturally, I'm jumping ahead to the next thing (well, the next thing thrice-removed, as I have another show and a wedding to take care of first). I was blocking. . .without cast, space, or performance dates. . .very weird.

I love drivers who ride my bumper when I'm in the slow lane going 5 miles over the speed limit. No, really. They bring me joy.

Randomized for your protection

Am listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. It, put quite simply, rocks. Baz Luhrman also rocks.

At the Oak of Carrie last Wednesday night we had one of those devine moments. And no, it was most definitely NOT at the point, right after midnight, where a drunken hoosier sang an uninspired rendition of Neil Diamond's "America". It came, unexpectedly, when the opening strains of "Loving You" began sounding in the hazy bar. Collectively, we groan with an "Oh, good god" subtext, and look over to the stage to see which of the scantily-clad, over made-up barflies has chosen it. Instead, we see a mountain of a drunk man. We speculate as to the quality of his falsetto. Again, we are deceived. He does the song in a deep, booming voice, complete with alien-like screeches during the "ahhhhhhhhhhh" chorus. It was beautiful.

Advice: When offered the magic brownie, take it. Really, it is very nice, really. Also, it makes people around you argue about god in an amusing manner.

So I had to run to the mall to pay a bill and thought, for old times sake and expediencey, I'd hit the food court for lunch. My choice: Panda Express, which claims to be gourmet Chinese food. News for them: The words "gourmet" and "steamtray", besides rhyming rather well, do not usually belong in the same foodservice location.

But they do have pithy little subtitles for several of their entrees. "Veggie Springrolls. Prosperity you can hold in your hand." Really.

Overheard in the Ted Drewes Frozen Custard parking lot last night:

Girl: Yeah, I wanna be, like, in way better shape when I'm older than I am now.
Boy: Well, you have to start on that sort of thing now.
Girl: Well, yeah, that's what I'm doing.

Which is why she's at Ted Drewes, right?

With me silver-buckled slippers and me tight shiny pants. . .Ok, I cant resist:
TOP 10 PIRATE PICK-UP LINES:

Is there an "X" on the seat of your pants? Because it appears that there's wond'rous booty buried underneath!

Hey, sexy---how about Jolly Rogering?

Yo, Ho! Bottle of Rum?

Do you have the latest copy of Windows XP with cracked product activation? (software pirates only)

Do ya mind if the parrot watches?

WOW! I bet we could fit sixteen men on that chest!

See this hook? Variable speed with five alternate attatchments, baby.

Ya certainly put the shiver in me timber

Arrrrrrrrre you free Saturday?

I must be huntin' treasure, cause I'm diggin' yer chest!

Where I found it.

Five miles out of the city limits, we're singin' and your hand's upon my knee. . .Long road trip this weekend, and it was lovely. The weather was warm, but not insanely so, sky was blue, clouds were scarce, etc, etc. I reassure everyone that I'm not marrying for the miata, but that's sure not gonna keep me from enjoying it.

Towns in Iowa seem into subtitling themselves: Charles City - America's Hometown; Cedar Rapids - City of 5 Seasons (Which is, we are informed by my friend Chris who lives there, the Season of Enjoyment. He suggests this encompasses about 12 hours of the year and, after 4 years of residence, he has yet to figure out when it occurs.). . .and somewhere was Looking to the Future, but I can't remember quite which where it was.

It was a very nice excursion, all in all, I must say, and there were no scary run-ins with trucks for a change.

After the sun went down last night was almost better than the day cruising. The moon was fullish, the fields were misty and full of fireflies, and it was very lovely until we got too tired to enjoy anything, 'round bout midnight. . .or, I should say, 'til I got too tired and dropped off to sleep. Bob didn't have to carry me into the house, but it was a near thing.

It's a strange way to show it as distant as last night's dream unravels. . .So I'm chilling at work (or working frantically, as the case may be), listening to my new Indigo Girls cd. And, magically, I've found the trigger song.

To 'splain: I generally listen to cds at work when I need to focus, when I expect to be at my desk for a long stretch of time, when I really would prefer not to be interrupted.

And it works pretty well. It works way better than pretending to be on the phone. But there is one hitch, typically, in the getalong. Almost every cd seems to have one song that triggers interruptions. The song, and it's usually one of my favourites, plays and suddenly the phone rings, or my boss drops by, or I run out of water, or I have to go to the bathroom, or Shontell comes by to discuss lunch-ordering. I can't decide whether this is the cosmos messing with me or giving me a nice break.

But, the weirdness compounds if I was actually enjoying the song and try restarting the track so i can listen to the whole thing. Then the cosmos pulls out the big metaphysical guns. Today? The song plays and my phone rings. I start it over and barely overhear an overhead page. I start it over and my cube neighbor (not the stupid one, thank goodness, the other one) has a question. I start the track over and for a grand finale, some of the ladies discover an injured mouse by the back-file shelves. I let the song go.

Cosmos 1, Rachel 0

They thought he was a goner, but the cat came back. . .Sometimes, when I look over at my cat (Arthur, King of the Kittons), I wonder if he's a real cat. Most of the time, he seems very much like a cat, startling at nothing, stepping on my jugular, licking his various nether regions in the middle of the living room floor. . .you know, cat things. But then, every once in a while, i'll look over at him and he just looks fake. He's sitting too perfectly, his head is moving too humanly, his eyes have expression. I suspect he is actually a muppet. I expect to look under the bed and find Frank Oz there.

Then again, maybe I just need to get more sleep.

We wouldn't have to eat Kraft dinners. . .Chocolate chip bagels are back at the Bread Co.! Huzzah! I just hope they keep them well segregated from those nasty peanut butter banana crunch bagels. Ick.

Also at the Bread Co: A box on the counter with a label that proclaimed "Purity Wrap!" I think it is actually a saran-wrap-like substance, but I couldn't help hearing an ad campaign for "The lightweight, form-fitting chastity belt for a new millenium!"

It's the getting to the point that is the hardest part. . .I've been CVing for hours! I'm not done yet! The type is very, very small. The text is very, very dry. I am getting verrrrrrrrryyyyy sleeeeeeeppyyyyyyyyyyyyy. . .zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (Hmmm, her eyes are closed.)

AUGH! I'm awake, I'm awake! (Notice how ol' buddy Rachel's arm is all floppy and soggy-like.)

Won't let self go home 'til CVing is finished. (Ol' buddy Rachel's arm is usually floppy and soggy-like, only when she is asleep)

Must finish and get home before West Wing finale. (But I will check, just to make sure.)

(Poke poke poke poke poke) Now cut that out!

And your smi-ooh-eye-ile, is a thin disguise. . .Where, exactly, is the cheatin' part of town? And what about it makes it the cheatin' part of town? Why do some towns only get a cheatin' part, while others have a whole cheatin' side? How do you find the cheatin' part of town, if you don't know where it is?

And, most importantly, if you were headin' for some cheatin', why would you go to the cheatin' part of town, anyway? Wouldn't you go someplace else, not known for cheatin'?

He walks like me, he talks like me, he even has a twin like me. . .To console me for my recent rehearsement-unhappyness/bribe me into staying in the show, my friendly neighborhood giraffe (aka Bob) was to be bringing me gourmet cookies from his place-of-working cafeteria. He brought the first cookie last night. Then, this morning, I saw this on-line.

This sort of thing happens to us a lot. Our relationship is very scary.

But if those crumbs are all you want, don't come to my restaurant. . .We have a restaurant chain in the St. Louis Metro area called Tippin's (formerly Pippin's of Tulsa, Oklahoma). The important thing about Tippin's: They have pie. Lots of pie. Really good pie.

This past weekend in Minneapolis, I was introduced to a Baker's Square. A Baker's Square is, essentially, a Tippin's. They have pie.

I'm going to digress for a moment and grouse about the genericization of America via chain restaurants and retail stores. Driving through Minneapolis's suburbs was very much like driving through any other suburbs. I mean, we might as well have been in St. Paul for Pete's sake.

Anyway, back to the pie. Like many other family-oriented restaurants, they have things for the kiddies. Special Menu. Crayons. And a cup. A cup with a cartoon character on it. The cartoon character was a hugely smiling slice of pie with 2 big eyeballs perched on top of him where the whipped cream would normally go.

His name? Crusto.

Slaggin' her for breakin' up the Beatles. . .So I witnessed, firsthand, this morning, a phenomena that I only vaguely credit, most of the time. I saw a traffic-misfortune voyeur.

I'm heading into work, in my little, new, black, shiny, new Saturn Coupe (did I mention it was new?). I'm a little earlier than usual, so I'm expecting the traffic to be different. Worse, basically. And I'm toolon' up Hampton, and we've broken out of a heavy stretch. It's clear until the highway entrance now. Suddenly, the large SUV-thingie in front of me slows down to a, as they say, crawl.

Not because someone has suddenly cut in front of them, not because they need to be in a different lane, but because there are two cop cars with lights aflashin' pulled off onto a little side street. They slow down and turn to look. They keep going slowly, and looking, until they've finally gotten too far to see, and then gun the engine. I was appalled. And pretty pissed. I have no idea WHAT they saw, since I tend to turn away from traffic situations out of fear and general squeemishness, but I suspect it wasn't worth making me late to work.

Can't you just rent Faces of Death at Blockbuster, SUB driver? Leave your ghoulish side out of the car, please? Grrrrrrrrrr.

I don't belong here, 'cause I'm a creep. . .So, when the director introduces a _Charlie's Angels_ sketch into the show 2 weeks out from opening, and there are 6 women in the cast already, and all 5 of them are tapped for this new thing except you, even though you're the only petite blond, show up to rehearsals prepared and consistantly on time, and act better than at least 2 of the others, what do you conclude? That the director either hates you or doesn't give a flying @#$% about you. Either way, it makes rehearsal every night for 3 hours a really not-nice place to be. Just needed to vent. Thanks.

So let's just keep on dancin'. . .Ok, finally broke down and bought the No Doubt cd, a shamefully mainstream purchase, which I am now guiltily enjoying in my cube. Not guiltily because it is forbidden at work or anything like that. . .it's just that I keep catching myself dancing in my seat, with no idea of how long I've been doing it, wondering whether anyone saw me. They think I'm weird enough as is. . .

You take the time to give me a clueless stare. . .The debate at hand: Are stupid people as stupid as they seem? Personally, I tend to think not. This is due to a sort of projected intellectual snobbery; I'm smart, so I assume everyone else must be as well. I interpret apparent stupidity as laziness or faking. I realize this is a flawed position, but, nevertheless, it's how I feel and thus it effects my behavior and judgements.

Last night at rehearsement: We're going over our dance - on a tangent: What do you call a dance without choereographer or dance captain, being rehearsed by people who aren't dancers? A mess. - and it's not going well, big surprise (besides our other major handicaps, we're in a brand-new space). So, the stage manager has decided we need to just mark through it, slowly, which means without the music.

Enter the stupidity. Apparently the "without the music" concept confused one of the dancers. She simply refused to process it, asking questions like "Oh, they're going to slow down the cd?" and "Now, what are we doing?" over and overandoverandover. Until, lo and behold, the SM decided to just do it with the music.

The theory? Stupid girl doesn't know the counts, only where certain moves happen in the lyrics. Thus, without the music, she's lost. She played dumb to get the music back. . .and it worked. What a neat survival tactic. I've used the same trick to get out of various office tasks - "Fed-Ex? No, I don't know about those. The labels are awfully complicated." - but I always feel a bit unclean afterward.

Right, so I've decided it would be unfair to turn this blog of randomness into a wedding gripeexpofestarama. So, I've created a whole new blog for that purpose. And they say no one accomplishes anything on Fridays. . .Ta da!

'Cause it's bugger all down here on Earth. . .Apparently I must actually post to check the new comment-feature, which is good, because twill force me to write, and bad, because it is a sloooooooow Friday here in Editoria and there's not much to talk about. Except my Opportune Lunch.

I walked in at 11:30 today (morning appointment. time is flexible here, but not _that_ flexible), without food or money for lunch to find that one of our reviewers had catered a few Tubs O' Italian into the office. Yummm, toasted ravioli. . . . .

trying to add comments back to the blog. we'll see how this goes. . .

dum, DUM dum-dum. . .Bob has pointed out to me a startling first usage of his name on Ye Olde Bloggy Blog. I guess, since we're getting married in the fall, it's alright to have him named now.

I think that was my subtle way of announcing the wedding.

That done, you, poor readers, will probably be subjected to some closer-to-daily belly-aching about the weirdness of Planet Nuptuals.

In the meantime, I've got my tickets to SpiderMan on Friday. Do you?

The record company's gonna give me lots of money and every little things gonna be alright. . .At Chris's diner this weekend: There was a notice in the vestibule from someone who had lost 2 German Shepards and I couldn't help but wonder, How? I mean, one I could see, but 2? Those are big dogs.

The toliet paper dispenser in the bathroom's brand name appeared to be Evr-Full. Really. Can't tell you how tempted I was to just sit there and keep pulling out the end of the toliet roll to see if it would run out.

The light above our table was flickering. Through the whole meal. Added a sort-of unloooked-for film noir feel to our 3pm breakfast.

I'm feeling lazy today, so I'm just gonna include the transcript of a long disscussion-group e-mail I typed today:

OK, I'm going to attack this backwards, 1) cause that's like me and 2)
because I like to get the short points out of the way first and sneak the
long Brecht digression in at the end.

Me Earlier-On the other, other hand (just call me Shiva) I'm not sure anyone on this list can be accurately called an "average" theatregoer.
Scott- Actually this list includes many people who love theatre but participate in it only by being enthusiastic audience members. (What would we do without
them?)

I made my comment with the full knowledge that there are people on this list
who attend theatrrr and don't act/direct/tech, etc. I don't believe that
"enthusiastic audience member" is synonymous with "average theatregoer." I
would contend that the members of this list are far too well-informed about
theatrrr to qualify as average; the mere fact that they know and care enough
to be subscribed to the list is evidence in favour of that.

******UNRELATED NOTE: after the 'theater' vs 'theatre' discussion, I've
decided my preferred spelling is 'theatrrr'. END NOTE**************

Scott Earlier-No, Ed, most of the theatre artists I know find or create material that they love deeply, then do their best to communicate it as fully and clearly as possible to an audience. It's not about "MAKING" anyone do anything. It's about CONNECTING, one person to another. THAT'S the magic of theatre.

Me- Actually, there are styles of theatre which are about making the audience do things (eg, Theatre of Cruelty) and _not_ connecting with the audience (eg, Epic Theatre, Brecht, Absurdism); not every production has the goal of telling a good story that people care about (borrowed from Jerry R.'s e-mail).

Scott- Careful, there, Rachel. Brecht's Epic Theatre VERY MUCH connected to the audience. Brecht's ideal was to connect to them on a wholly intellectual level rather than on an emotional level, but it was still a connection in a very real sense. And most commentators and even Brecht himself admitted most of his plays in this genre still connected to the audience emotionally, despite his best efforts... :)

Me Now-
"Careful there"? Hmm, vaguely patronizing. Hopefully not intended...?

The Brecht thing is really a digression from my main point which was: In
responding to Ed's e-mails, people were throwing down a very narrow idea of
What The Goals Of All Theatrrr Are, and I had to object.

Scott, I'll observe that between your first and second emails, you seem to
have broadened your definition of the word "connecting" a bit. In your
reply to Ed, you indicate that "making" people do things with theatrrr is
completely different and separate from "connecting" with them through
theatrrr. Then, speaking to me, you say that Brecht, who was about "making"
the audience think, is _thereby_ connecting with them.

I could blather quite awhile about Brecht and what he wanted to "make" the
audience do, but if the definition of the goal we're disputing has shifted,
that might be a waste of time. So, instead, I'll respond briefly that _I_
personally don't feel a theatrrr style based on alienation (Verfremdung, auf
deutsch) has a goal of connecting with its audience (the two concepts seem
incompatible, if not downright opposite), and wait for further
clarification.

As for Brecht's theatrrr managing to move his audience emotionally in the
face of all his labour against it, when so many others would love to do just
that with their theatrrr and fail, I chalk that up to the gentle irony of
the theatrrr gods.

Respectfully submitted,
RrraeJ

A beautiful day for a neighbor, would you be mine?. . .The woman in the cube next to me is an idiot. I have suspected this for some time as I've listened to her - NOT intending to eavesdrop btw, it's just very hard not to overhear her loud nasal whine through my accoustically wafer thin cube wall:

I've heard her complain about how her computer is out to get her because it won't accept her log-in password and then, in the middle of the call up to IT, discover that her CAPS lock is on. Granted, this can happen to anyone, once, or even twice.

She found out I like _West Wing_, and has taken to asking me to explain confusing points to her on Thursday mornings. . .which I can do even when she has seen the show and I have not, but am merely going on the episode description from my favorite website. Granted, it is a complex and densely-written show.

Today, though. Oh, today. She takes a customer servicey-type call. Then she puts the person on hold, and yells over to ask me if my team works on DIAM (it's an acronym for a book). At this point, I would like to mention that this woman has been working for the company for ten years AND she used to be on my team. But, anyway, she asks her other cube-neighbor which team works on DIAM, and the other, longer-suffering neighbor answers with the first name of one of the editors. This seems to concern Idiot Woman, and she starts muttering, trying to figure out the first name of this person, saying "Gosh, I've called her by her last name for so long, I don't think I know her first name."

Not trusting myself to speak, I remain silent.

Other Neighbor speaks up and asks who Idiot is talking about, informing her that that IS the editor's first name. . .which is why we all call her that. Idiot is completely blown away by this information. Somehow, in the 3 years this editor has been here, with a nameplate outside her office, an e-mail address patterned first initial/last name (like the rest of us), and her full name on the phone list, Idiot has managed to miss the tiny detail of which name is which.

I just noticed the last post says it posted at 7:58 pm on April 17th. Since it is currently 2:11pm, I obviously conclude my post has been sent into the future by the magic of blogging. Blogger: weblog-builder, communication tool, time machine.

The two worst things. . .So, we have the read-thru for the new show I'm in last night. Sigh. I don't generally count lines, or stage time, or anything like that, because I've played some very interesting parts that had very few lines. But it does bug me to play a character who is completely expendable, who doesn't further the plot or the subplots, who doesn't do anything funny, and who doesn't do anything other actors aren't also doing. I'm finding myself seriously considering dropping out, which I've done all of once in my entire life. Bother.

You got me rollin' around. Frog on my hands. Holy shezow. . .Obligatory first sentence about not blogging much lately due to work. Right. Note the time of the blog. See how early I am in the place of the working? This is because I have an audition later today. It does not often happen that I wander into the office before 10. Flex time is a beautiful thing. My cube neighbor just got in, and shot me a hello and a very startled look. I bet he thinks his clock is broken.

West Wing was a repeat last night, but Bob hadn't seen it, so we watched it anyway. Damn, that's a good show. The episode was "Gone Quiet," and I'll hazard the opinion that it's one of the best. Ever. Followed by watching a tape of last week's, which whining cube neighbor taped for me. . .this leaves me wondering what she wants. She can't have it.

Let it float, it floats back to you. . .Suspense aside, I get to be Vicki, the captain's daughter, in The Love Boat, LIVE!. . .I also play a misc "babe" which part I assume will have my pasty white self on the stage in a bikini. . .oh joy, oh rapture.

And tonight I get to learn how to drive a manual automobile. I am not so much happily excited about this as I am nervous and jumpy. I don't like driving anyway. Seriously considering moving someplace with mass-transit. Now. Well, tonight, anyway.

Hey! Wait just a...! Yesterday's blog didn't post! Grrrrrrrr!

The way-ay-ayting is the hardest part. . .Right, so I auditioned for a show on Tuesday, and now I wait. I'm waiting to not be called. It might be easier if I could say I was waiting to be called. There would be a specified, positive end to the antici (say it! say it!) pation. Instead, I'm fretting in a nebulous limbo, asking friends if they've heard yet, cringing against they time I'll hear "Yeah, I'm gonna be Charo! What about you?" with nothing to say in return but "Congratulations". Shudder.

I'm not abusive, you're just a. . .My friends write interesting songs, then tell about them over basketball games. Since I don't want to jinx anything, I'll blog no more on that subject.

But I did want to share this. It's my contribution to the Fan Art Month at G&ErF, while their illustrator is away in France.

Did I have anything else to say today? No, I don't think so. Have a good weekend, if you wanna.

Or I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do. . .I'm not making this up. I thought I was wrong, 2 days ago, when I saw what I thought I saw, but told myself I couldn't be seeing. Today I saw it again, and was passing at slow enough speed in my crappy Ford Focus rental car that I could take a good, long look. I was right in the first place and wrong about being wrong.

I'll back up. They're doing some street retarring in my neighborhood, along some very odd lines, I might point out, but won't. Because that would be digressing. And heaven knows I wouldn't want to do that. Anyway, they are putting down tar, and behind the tarrers are some gentlemen with rolley things on the end of long poles. They are rolling something down over the freshly laid tar. Extra rolls of this something are stacked the length of the poles. This something is toliet paper.

They are, essentially, TPing the street. I wonder if their mothers know?

I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing. . .Deep breath of a weekend after a much-too eventful week. Work was crowded and insane Monday and Tuesday. Deadlines loomed. Some loomed on the horizon just behind, which was worse.

Plus, Monday night was the first stumble-thru of a ten-minute-play-fest I'm in. Phew. Not good. Granted, we've 3 weeks to fix things, but, well. . .when a script isn't good, there's not very far you can go.

And then my car got squished. My poor little Saturn, which I'd had for all of 4 months, got squished between 2 tractor-trailers. While I was in it. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Unfortunately, I am now in the market for a new (well, new/used) car.

I have always found the giant trucks to be scary. Always. Even before I read the Stephen King story "Trucks." Even before I went to college 2 hours away from St. Louis on a heavily truck-infested stretch of highway (late-night you can see the wheeled cargo dragons sleeping orangely along the exit ramps).

So, imagine my fear as I sit in my little green coupe, as a truck, not moving very fast at all, scrunches me into the truck in front of me, and Bob and I watch the hood fold up.

"Did you scream?" asked my mom. . ."Yeah, I beat y'all were hollarin'," said the tow-truck driver who took us back to Saint Louis.

Actually, we were pretty damn quiet. Really couldn't believe what was happening. Later worried about how/if we would've gotten out of the car if the truck hadn't stopped. Fortunately, it did.

Oh. God. Is it the weather?. . .Or perhaps it's the WeatherMen. I spose now they'd have to be the WeatherPersons? Anyway. . .

Listening to Tori. Tori is so angry. And she plays a lovely piano. My friend Wendy does a rockin' rendition of "Precious Things" at karaoke; I'm inspired to look for "Leather" next time I go. It has actually been many weeks since I went to the Oke of Kara (which seperation makes it easier to grasp what I'm told is the correct pronounciation by a girl who grew up in Japan), and I think I'm up for a return. It was a refreshing interlude of sickness, then business, then uberresponsibility, then alternate venue, then roadtripage, but now I wish to resume. I wonder if this is a vanity thing or just an enjoyable activity which amuses me-thing. I wonder how I tell the difference?

You got a brand-new key. . .Roller skates are back. Halleighlooyah and finally, they have returned. Nevermind that these people are referring to them as "4-Wheelers," as if it's some new, extreme, trendy thing they invented. . .you and I know the difference. And, boy oh boy, do I want a pair.

See, I never got in with the whole roller blading trend. Yeah, I thought it was cool. Yes, I even owned a pair for 4 years (black and teal and lost in a messy relationship break-up. . .at least I got to keep my cat). But I never, ever, quite got the hang of them.

Maybe this is because I am still a klutz at heart. Perhaps it's because I grew up in a temperate zone where the ponds and such don't tend to freeze over enough to skate on. It could be because I was disheartened by injuries and just didn't use them often enough. Who knows? All I know is I was very bad at taking corners and I had to hug trees to cease my forward motion.

But I like skating, and I've been half-heartedly questing for some actual, 4 on the floor, structurally friendly, wheeled shoes for many a moon now. They will be mine, oh yes, they will be mine.

On a slow boat to China. . .My friend Brian is moving to the Ukrane! I bet I spelled that wrong! He's going to teach Theatre and English in Kiev! There's a small english-speaking expatriot theatre, too! How jealous am I? Oh, sooo jealous. . .

We've finally replaced a missing team member here at place-of-editing. This means I should be able to return to Blogging with something resembling regularity. Yea for me! More to the point, yea for you!

Bitchin' Camero, bitchin' camero, Tony Orlando and Dawn. . .Can't have another blogless day, can't. Do. It. Have been slacking far too much of late, and not for any cool reason. Will blog now, though I've nothing to blog about, blog as though my life depended on it!

Actually, there's been rather a lot going on but either I can't talk about it yet (those blood oaths are tricky to break) or it would just be incredibly boring written down. . .I mean, would anyone really want to read the searing details of my latest quilt-block completion? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Had a read-through for my next theatrical project last night; this was a good thing, and I got some sewing done (guess I'll be working that in anyway, won't I?). It's an evening of 10-minute plays, which happens to be a favorite format of mine. So, I'm mostly optimistic about the whole thing, despite some misgivings along the lines of its taking itself too seriously.

Days may be cloudy or sunny. . .Yesterday it was 60 degrees outside and sunny; today it snows. Missouri: The Schizophrenic Weather State. Who this is good for: metereologists.

I was walking through the company lobby (my former at-work home), in search of the vending machine and a PopTart or 2 (which always come in strawberry. . .apparently this is an ordinance of some kind), when I saw the cover of last week's issue of Time. It features a topless woman in profile with one arm covering her breasts. No, not Rolling Stone, Time. Really. Now, the cover story _was_ about detecting breast cancer and stuff, so I thought this blatent use of the "sex sells" maxim in a scientific context was quite wiley, in a completely non-subtle way, of the folk at Time-Warner. I'm still trying to decide whether I'm disappointed in them, disgusted with them, or flabbergasted with admiration at their sneakyness.

My hair hurts. . .This has been the Week For Being Painfully Aware of Usually Ignored Bodily Functions. Yesterday being Oxygen Processing Day, led us to the very important question "Is it supposed to hurt when I breathe?" which was followed quickly by the astute "Does this mean something's really wrong?"

Today seems so far to be Liquid Intake Day, as every single swallow (whether of saliva or lemon tea or, um, well whatever) brings intense agony to the throat. Twenty minutes to my doctor appt, which I'm hoping might provide some identification for all of this. . .or maybe just some medicine for fixing it. . .or, at the very least, some drugs for masking the symptoms.

Perpetual anticipation is good for the soul, but it's bad for the heart. . .I haven't blogged all week. I suck! Well, actually, I've been busy and out of the office and away from my desk a lot, but its much more fun to berate myself for my lack of bloggy attention. I shall now attempt to play catch-up:

Monday Saw Brotherhood of the Wolf last night. Wow. Even though I had no idea what to expect going into the movie, it was yet completely not what I was not-expecting. . .wait, that makes it sound like it was what I was expecting. . .hmmm. . .it was perdindicular to my non-expectations. Yes, that's better.

Tuesday Aaahhhhh. Figure skating. Chinese food. Snuggly giraffe. Happinessssss. . .

Wednesday I don't really have to make up for Wed, since I wasn't in the office anyway. Instead, I was in the fair and small berg of De Soto, performing a 45 minute Twelth Night for some high school students. . .and having lunch at the same Pizza Hut where I had lunch during my first gig with the same touring group. I feel as though some cosmic cycle has been completed.

Thursday Was in an absolutely atrocious mood, as I recall, which accounts for my non-blogging. Oh yeah, and it was the aniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. I don't celebrate the other holiday, because I think it is a bad, bad idea. People who do not have sweethearts are made to feel bad about this. People who do are put under huge amounts of pressure to make it the Perfect Romantic Night. Bleagh and no thank you.

And then we're back to today, wherein nothing of interest is happening. The receptionist was pestering me, I had work to do, I'm going home soon. Tra la. Obviously the writing lobe of brain is just understimulated this week. Bu. Mer.

The little one stops to suck his thumb. . .There appears to be a proportional relationship between the number of authors of an article in a medical journal and the number of words in that article's title. This leads me to wonder exactly how that works. Do they each get to pick 3 words or something like that? And can they use those words to bargain for a better position in the author listing?

There's more than one answer to these questions. . .So, in the pursuit of learning something new every day, the karaoke bar proves, once again, to be invaluable. Last night I learned how to call a person a wussy in sign language. Now, I will share: you point at the person, then put your right hand parallel to the table (palm up), then you cup your left hand over your right (palms facing each other) so that your left fingers are in the middle of the right palm, collapse your left hand onto your right, then extend both hands, fingers pointing at the other person, perpendicular to the table, palms facing each other and shake them up and down once. You have technically called them a "weak person", but our instructor opined that this was the same basic concept. We concured. Cheers!

I also learned that the song "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life" is basically about blow jobs and drug use; what a relief. Adjacent to this, I now know the word "doo" counts as a lyric.

In much less interesting, Where Are They Now sort of news, I had some tuna for breakfast and threw the can in my cube trash receptical. This was a mistake, as it now smells rather bad. Ew and, might I add, gross.

and now I'm interested in what I'm calling MetaBlogging (blogging about blogging)-

from Jonno, day b4 yesterday:
I didn't think there was such a thing as being a purist as far as weblogs were concerned: it's still a new medium, and we're all in the process of figuring out for ourselves what the "rules" are. Part of the attraction of weblogs for me is that they function as performance, or works in progress. Isn't that what the "edit this post" button is for?
That was my opinion. In fact, today's blog in particular is being pieced together between goes at a rather large referencing project at work. Although I can see the attraction of purity if the blog is supposed to be a slice -of-life and all that. Hmmm. . .

The Monday entry from If attacks the "why do we blog" question, linking to a lengthier piece on the topic. As I do enough reading to find a cohesive argument, I'll cut and paste some back and forth. This could actually hold my attention long enough to be on about it. Neato. Nice change of pace.

24. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I
hate quotations. Tell me what you know.". . .Nevertheless, it seems popular in the blogging community to quote each other. In the interest of having enough material to blog more than once today and out of curiousity to see what it might do to my blogdex standing, this morning it's Float'n'Quote time:

"A mystic is someone who wants to understand the universe, but is too lazy to study physics."
- anonymous, as published on whiskeyriver.

Sorcery involves the manipulation of symbols (which are also things) & of people (who are also symbolic) -- the archetypes supply a vocabulary for this process & therefore are treated as if they were both real & unreal, like words.
-Hakim Bey, from KMO, who went to the same college I did, oddly enough. I seem to be in the mood for magical topics today.

I just want to bang on the drum all day. . .I'm worried about me. Today, at work, I actually volunteered to DO EXTRA WORK. Splaining: I'm an actor. Technically, I'm a professional actor because I only take paying gigs. "Paying" is a loosely used term in this case which indicates any amount of money from $60/45 minute show to price of extra value meal/2 weekend run. Because I'd rather be acting than having a day job, I generally pursue office work which involves having as little responsibility as possible. Until now.

Not only did I offer to "take up the slack" created by a former team-member's quitting, but I'm staying late to get it done. Help.

And today they told me I was going to get business cards. . .and I felt excited. Oh, I really hope this doesn't mean I'm becoming a grown-up. I'm just going to tell myself it doesn't. It's just because I know I won't be here the rest of my life. Yessss, that feels better. . .nice warm sand covering head. . .aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.

I'll leave you with your misery, a friend who won't betray. . .People who don't take responsibility for themselves scare me. (On a side thought, that's probably why I'm a bit nervous around most children, albeit recognizing that they are generally too young to be taking responsibility of any kind.) In university, this behavior generally had to do with drinking, which apparently excused you from any culpability involved with threatening to throw yourself off the roof of the theatre. You could verbally abuse people and remain blameless. After joining in a 3-way, you could acuse the other participants. It wasn't you, it was the alcohol. I learned to get away from these people, quickly, quietly and to never, ever buy them drinks.

Out in the real world, however, I've been recently startled to discover there are other more devious ways of chucking off the responsibility burden. The unexpected attacking remains the same, however. The same backing-off seems called for. . .no, no, don't get up, just, keep playing with your baseball cards, maybe have another martini or some kool-aid, i'm, just, i'm gonna, y'know, uh, bye. (door slams. feet are heard running downstairs.)

Hmmm, sounds like making light and overintellectualizing to disguise some deeper hurt. Excellent, mission accomplished then.

Never been frightened of being enlightened, but some people go too far. . .I thought getting a free hashbrown with breakfast yesterday was a sign of a bright shiny Thursday. Instead, it seems to have been a bottom-shelf prize from the cosmos. Or it was just a simple mistake by an underpayed, apathetic fast-food worker. You decide.

C is for cookie, that's good enough for me. . .Today's blog is dedicated to that yummy taste sensation, the Cookie, known to our friends in the UK (and their former colonies who aren't the US) as a biscuit (this led to many instances of confusion in the younger Rachel, believe you me!) (And, now I wonder, do they have Seasame Street in the UK? And if so, would the song go "B is for biscuit, that's good enough for me"? Would it be sung by the Biscuit Monster? Doesn't that have disturbing connotations? Couldn't we call him The Jammy Dodger instead?) (but I digress).

It's Girl Scout cookie time which, as usual, slams several dilemmapodimi in my face. For instance, I live in an apartment in the city; no little Girl Scouts come a knockin' at my door. Heck, even if they did, I would probably be taking a nap and not answer. Fortunately, working in an office permanently (their word, not mine) takes care of this problem and another former problem which involved being a temp and not planning on still being in the same place several months later when the cookies were being delivered.

Then there is, of course, the difficulty of deciding what to order. Do you stick with the old stand-by Thin Mints or take a chance on the new-fangled dubiously-nomered Ole Oles? Get the delicious, but under supplied Tagalongs or go for value with the Trefoils? And how am I supposed to afford any of it anyway? I'm poor!

Perhaps I should not bother ordering at all, since another editor just dropped by randomly and gave me a cookie. The scheme, it's working already. . .

With the focus I gave to my birthday candles. . .OK, I'm officially maxing out my tolerance for doing the same task over and over again. I've had to renumber a 300-entry reference list 3 times. . .although only 2 of those times are valid for complaining, because the first time was my fault. . .I have absolutely nothing clever or amusing to say about this.

I assume this activity is probably amusing my computer, and I haven't even the respite of blaming it on It. Maybe I should throw It out the window anyway. You hear that? I can hear that chuckling! Knock it off!

I'm sure that was productive. . .pardon me while I go stick a banana in my ear to keep the alligators away.

Will you still feed me when I'm 64?. . .Better blog now, while I have a second, or I'll never get to it. Yesterday I got to feel old, which is a rare enough occurrance so far in my life (all 25 and a half years of it) to be amusing:

Yesterday was a balmy mid-January surprise, so I took my giraffe for a walk in the local sculpture park. One of the niftyest features of said park is a rambling wood-trail. So, we amble along, chatting and enjoying the respite from winter gloom, and we keep coming upon teenage couples. Of course these couples are "making out" and when they hear/sense us coming, they stop abruptly. As we walk by, you can almost feel the "Cheese it! It's the cops!" attitude rolling off them. . .not to mention embaressment, poor little lambs. Wish there had been some way to convey an "It's all good" vibe to them without unsettling them further, but, alas, there we were on the other side of the wide Grown-ups Canyon. . .at least as far as they were concerned.

Perhaps if I had had some condoms along to toss to them or something. . .

With me silver buckled slippers and me tight shiny pants. . .

With me silver buckled slippers and me tight shiny pants. . .

Avast me harties! Busy weekend dead ahead! Yar!

Tonight there is dinner and a movie and a gig of a friends band, each activity with a different person. 

Tomorrow I must into the office, then lunch with a friend, then back to the office, then off to the symphony. Sunday may be devoted entirely to the beddy bye and the napping.

And now I get to go take my cat to the vet. Arthur, King of the Kitons, is likely to be displeased by this abuse of his pers-, I mean kittenage, but 'tis his own fault for not keeping his bodily fluids to himself. And if he doesn't knock it off, I'll have him keelhauled! Yarrrr!!!!!!!

'Cause I've done what I could for you, and I do know what's good for me. . .I'd been bruising my head against your wall for so long, you'd forgotten I was any other wayand you felt responsible and so you laid down the law: You had your own wall, and I couldn't put my hand before your head, and I couldn't watch you striking it against the bricks and I couldn't play too. I was free, if I liked, which I didn't, to go get my own. Dismissed, forcibly, cruelly from your private prison yard, eight again and sent home from dad's hospital room to go out and play in the sun.

So I blinked in the sudden light, which made my eyes water, as everything did then: a song, my pajamas, Monty Python sketches. And I hid behind my wall, scrawled with your name to make it seem like home, and remembered that breathing is a good thing, between blows as I broke in my cell, and it slowly dawned at me that sunlight was a healthier place to play.

Call it compulsive, call it impulsive, call it insane. . .If I wait until I have something cohesive to write and time to compose it, I will blog no more forever. So, here's what's on my mind today, in no particular order:

I wasn't looking for enlightenment, just Jesus. Not too surprisingly, he can be found and purchased on-line.

Did you know Kalanchoe is toxic to cats? Neither did I, but, fortunately, I found out the on-line research way instead of the need to get a new kitty way.

Right, so the guy who hits Stephen King with his car is dead a little over a year later. Am I the only one who finds this to be a singularly freaky coincidence?

And, on the geek front, I am trying to make some friends for my little Sim to advance her in her political career. Fortunately, this being The Sims, I can do that literally. Aaaah, playing god.

It's black, it's boxy, it's a black box. . .which quote will probably only make sense to you if you've seen a movie in Columbia, Missouri. To anyone else, it was funny at the time. Really.

Nothing gets me going in the morning like a good dose of annoyance. Knowing this, I tend to start my day by tuning in to the Today show.

Tangentally, yes, I'll agree that being happy and peppy and bursting with love also bounces one right out of bed. However, when you're not already happy to be getting up ungodessly early and going to work, it's really hard to get there. Annoyance, on the other hand, is easily achieved. . .

. . .especially while watching the Today show ("from NBC, this IS TOday!" God-complex much?) This morning, Matty Lauer, in what he seems to think is hard-edged journalism work, was interviewing members from both of the majorist parties. His questions seemed mostly aimed at letting them gush about what a great job el presidente is doing. . .and they did.

Sometimes I crave inertia. . .ugh, lots of editing, 170 pages, little details, 120 pages to go and three other projects, all due by Friday morn, i think my eyes are bleeding, must rest now, no, must work more, brain fried, blogging later now.

My tea's gone cold I'm wondering why got out of bed at all. . .Something about Mondays. There's never a deadline. I'm coming off 2.5 days spent on my optimal 3am to noon sleep schedule. Nobody drops by to bother me. As a result I just generally don't get any work done. Come in at 10, go home between 3 and 4. This often leaves me stuck here rather late on Fridays, but I mind it less then.

Due to some racist behavior on the part of my regular Chinese place's delivery driver, we're exploring new Asian lunch options. Zang Chi is promising so far: They give sides of crab rangoon instead of egg rolls, they deliver quickly, and they put the sauces on the side, rather than drowning the entree.

And, in other fasinating (and misspelled) news, Voices In Your Head may finally be back from the dead. huzzah.

Oh, it's Thursday, I think I'll have a drink, drink, drink. . .Actually, I did my drinking last night. Perhaps some of it lapsed over into Thursday, though. . .I do not recall, not because of severe drunkenness, but rather from lack of watch. . .now Thursday feels like it ought to be Friday. Poor Thursday, Bastard Child of the WorkWeek.

Before the drinking and karaokeing and (horrible) dart playing and (decent, for me) pool shooting festivities began, I got to watch the new episode of The West Wing. Ah, television happiness which turns on snappy dialogue and engaging characters and story lines which do not insult my intelligence! Now, I just need to find my TV/VCR manual so I'm not actually chained to my set every Wednesday night at 8. . .

. . .though just that one scant hour of televisioning was more than enough to make me thoroughly sick of the upcoming olympics. Hallmark, Micky Dees, FedEx. . .the commercial onslaught is worse than around election-time; a similar feeling to that which tempts me to cast my ballot for anyone I've never heard of is urging me toward the olympic boycott. This urge might win out if it were not for the figure skating; it's been four years since my last fix. Can't. Resist.

Right now, time is having it's way with you. . .Having worked all I intend to today, this is how I'm killing my last hour at work:

I've finally won a game of the medium level of snood. This took me far too long, by my mutant super ego's estimation, which doesn't like to take into account the damage caused to my snood skills by actually having to work in-between games. "I'm not unreasonable, world, it's my SuperEgo," I say.

And I'm listening to Starlight Mints, a band I discovered at a club in Columbia while there to see the band of a math-teacher friend of a friend of mine. OK, not "discovered" so much as "became aware of the existance of," but I don't know a handy one-word for that. Sorry. Anyway, I highly recommend their cd and catching a live show if you can when and if they resume touring.

I'm going over to my Mom's after work to cook for her (because she doesn't like to and I do) and chat and basically make up for neglecting her all last week. In the meantime, I'm trying to decide what to make, which involves the fun of trying to guess what she may actually have in her kitchen. Apparently I'm keen to guess today: part of a rotessarie chicken, some sliced lunchmeat, frozen broccoli, apple rings, pre-cooked bacon, some potatoes which have begun to sprout and various Campbell's soups.

Tomorrow we'll see just how right I was.

We now return to our regularly scheduled program. . .I think I should apologize for last Thursday's blog. Yes. It was a song from Fraggle Rock and it was stuck in my head. See, Boober and Wembly were hanging out amoungst these flowers that made you forget everything (not poppies, though similar now that I think about it) and decided they would sing a remembering song to help them remember everything, but of course they started to forget the words. . .I don't know, it was funny at the time. . .

Reality is often inaccurrate. . .I miss the spellchecking option. Despite being employed as an editor, my personal spelling is atrocious. I actually worked all day while at work today. Wow. Really kills the ol' apitite there. Now I am done, however, I am quite hungry. Thus, I am devouring the giant cookie I baked last night. The original idea was to be sharing the giant cookie, but, well, I don't see that happening now.

What an insipid blog is mine today. Forgive, mind is shot. Just won a couple games o' snood. Yea for me. Now I am to be thinking of dinner. I am thinking fried chicken. I _was_ thinking baked chicken, but that takes a lot longer so screw that I think now.

Ten minutes to home. I shall blog first tomorrow, before working, and then deliver the promised Saga of Fleur de Lis. . .for all, what, 5 of my regular readers, this should be a. . .relief or time for rejoicing or something something.

I remember, something. Something something-ag. Something something Gobo, something something bag. Something I remember, something I forget. Memories are something. Something something yet.

If you meet somebody that don't like soul food, they still got a soul. . .There are many things I could be writing about, and I was even planning on being sort of witty about them, or trying to. Oddly, though, post-lunch I've become all introspective. I've noticed on other blogs that this can become an opportunity to wax philosophical. Unfortunately, my ruminations have not jello-ed enough yet to be verbalized. Bummer. . .for me, anyway. . .In stead, I'll share some stuff I learned this morning:

"Dressed to the 9s" seems to have no really clear origin. There are many theories, including something about the Nine Muses, but the experts suggest you pick your favorite. . .or make up your own, I guess.

Hush puppies are fried cornmeal. They do not include any bits of actual puppy. Talk about false advertising. . .