the cheese stands alone

Marlon Perkins Would Be Proud

I like lemurs. I originally began to like lemurs because I thought they were mutant monkeys. Even after I learned this was sadly untrue, I kept liking them.

I especially love the stuff that my friend Bob, (who invents words in his spare time and writes amazing stories about nearly everything) has written- an entire series of stories based on lemurs.

Okay, not based on lemurs. Lemurs in this case are a nice byproduct. But they are based on the Adventures of Nad, a jungkleboy what was raised by lemurs. (My favorite one is The Toad of Hammerobby.)

An ekserpt from The Toad of Hammerobby
" Instead a voice is stating flatly, though in non-regional Englandish, "THIS IS AN ALERT. THE ENTIRED STATE OF COLLARALLDOUGH IS ON A TORNADO ALERT! BE PREPARED TO BE UNDER IT! A SPECIAL CAUTION IS ADVISED IF YOU LIVE IN A TRAILER! THOSE IN TRAILERS ARE WARNED TOO DISTRIBUTE WIEGHT EVENLY, AND TO BE SURE YOUR FOUNDATIONS ARE SECURELY FASTENED! TORNADOS CAN STRIKE SUDDENLY! YOU SHOULD NOT BE HAVING SEX WHEN THEY DO! WE WILL BROADCAST UPDATES AS THE ACRUE!" Then the song what was playing afore being enderupted, a sexy instrewedmental from the 'Kenny G Blows Michael Bolton' CD, comes back on."

Random lemur factoid: Tribes of lemurs, when at odds with one another, engage in battles known as "stink wars". They spray each other with a nasty musk, rather like skunks, only prettier.

Addition lemur-related factoid: I have a tattoo of a lemur in the center of my back.

One more bit of lemur-based amusement: Lemurama.

I'm about lemur'd out. Go visit Nad and let me nap.

Example

The very reason this was invented

is the very reason I don't even use towels.

I just do the happy dance in front of the electric fan.

Avoiding Being Crushed By The Meme Train

Everyone and their sainted auntie has come up with great vast honking link festivals. Well, not this Cheese.

Audience Participation

Last night, I posted about something that was troubling me, and asked you all what you would do in my shoes. Besides get those insoles, I mean.
I deleted it about five minutes after I published it.
The reason? It suddenly occured to me that the subject of the post might read it and that didn't seem to be a very good thing at the time. I know the chance was small, but the internet isn't as large as we once thought it was. Things that were needles are now pitchforks, no matter how big the haystack.

I found out recently that my dad reads this blog as well. Now, I never intended to write anything I'd be ashamed for my family to know, or worried about getting in trouble for my words. Still, is there a hestitation in my typing, a hitch in my verbal getalong, knowing someone who actually knows me is reading?
I think there is, both for the good and for the bad.

Good because it pushes me to try harder, phrase funnier, quip wittier.
Bad because it makes me self-censor, a skill I've never quite gotten a grasp on, possibly because I was usually busy extracting my foot from my mouth.

Thus, perhaps I should make some general rules for myself:
Never betray a confidence in a blog, no matter how juicy the subject.
Never tattle unless it's to expose a Great Wrong. (It's like art, you know it when you see it.)
Never make mean fun of someone you love and/or respect if you want to keep that love and/or respect.
Never make light of someone's true pain.
Never overuse ... (what is that called, anyway, those three little dots meaning "continued"?)
Never lie about your convictions, even for a laugh. That will make it a cheap laugh, and a cheap conviction.
Never talk down to your readers.
Never lose the ability to laugh at yourself.
Never put yourself or your blog on a preaching pedestal, unless you want the world to see your knickers and giggle.
Never let a list drag on too long.

We Pause For A Word From Our Sponsor

Two commercials have caught my eye today. (The opthamologist says the patch should come off by next week.) One is for the US Postal Service, illustrating the various things that they'll deliver the mail in spite of... sleet, rain, hail, temporary loss of gravity, giant cranky robots made from discarded washing machines, and black holes that suck up the entire universe.

For some reason, this just gives me the willies deluxe. It's gotten so I can't watch the end of the commercial anymore, it creeps me out. I like the giant, cranky robot, though.

The second commercial is for Coors. For some reason the Coors corporate office decided it would enhance their image to be associated with the king of white trash, Kid Rock. Gak.
Coors is the butt of one of the GM1's and my oft-quoted joke. We call Coors sex-in-a-canoe beer.
Why?

Because it's fucking close to water.

As Long As I Don't Say It

Spending a quiet Sunday, digesting a huge brunch and watching the Chargers play Oakland. They're doing so much better than last game, it's 24 to 14 San Diego's favor at the 4th. I credit this to the fact they're wearing the nice away-game uniforms, not that crap they wore last week. Not to mention the Chargers' quarterback, Drew Brees, is much cuter than Rich Gannon.

However, I'm not doing the happy dance just yet. I've seen games do a flip and run the other way in less time than is on the clock now. Also, the football gods detest hubris and will fetch me a bitch-slap by way of a nasty SD loss, and I don't need the guilt.

Update: final score Oakland 34, San Diego 31.
See what I mean? Damn you, football gods.
And a pox on Janokowski.

Pinch Hitter

The Friday Five took the day off, so Kelley took her hands off her celebrated sac and stepped up to the plate with her own version.

1) What is your earliest memory? Be specific.
When I was four years old, my birthday party was held in my grandparents' back yard, complete with balloons, streamers, hordes of screaming neighborhood children, and a cake in honor of my then-obsession- elephants.
I had a blue elephant cake. It was gorgeous.
This was in the era of the Betty Crocker/Donna Reed housewife, where cake decorating was a sign of ultimate housewifely perfection. My mom, never to be bested by some pearl-wearing twit on television, had been baking for two days, getting this cake of all cakes juuuuuuuust right.
She carried it proudly out and placed it on the center table, carefully centering it so as to best present her talents to the neighbors. As she stepped back to call everyone round to come see the cake and sing Happy Birthday, I noticed a fly land on Mr. Elephant Cake.
I swatted the fly.
Hard.
For years after that, we had plain, sheet cakes from the grocery store.

2) What is the strangest dream that you can ever remember having?
A long time ago, I dreamed that Ted Kennedy was scolding me for not having varnished a bookshelf properly. I remember little more than a vast assortment of chins.

3) Where is your favorite place in the world to be, and why?
When someone says "Go to your happy place", I imagine a tasteful hotel room, up around the fifteenth floor, with a huge bed mounded with soft pillows, balcony doors open and soft warm breezes blowing the curtains... remote in one hand, perfect dirty vodka martini in the other, and room service at my beck and call.

4) What would be the most horrible sort of death to suffer, and why?
Being buried alive.
Or no room service. Ever.

5) If you found a bottle with a Genie in it, what would your three wishes be? (Three only. None of this "Three more wishes!" crap).
To blog like Allah, to look like Anna, and to dance like this guy.

Just Like Flies

Warren Zevon, Johnny Cash, John Ritter, Gordon Jump, George Plimpton and now Robert Palmer.

I'm afraid to go out for fear someone will drop dead right in front of me.
Obviously September is not turning out as well as some would hope.

Bobo's Choice #693

Nobody Here.
Yes, there is.

Paging Mr. Goldberg

You know how on cash registers, if the register tape is about to run out, it has a pink line down the middle, as a warning?
Toilet paper should have that. Possibly a line that glows in the dark. And beeps.
Damn it, I wasn't done with that article yet.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

I thought it's been quiet the past few days. I found out why: The TJ Underground Railroad moved out over the weekend.

I live in an outwardly nice, normal sort of neighborhood. Reasonably clean buildings, no chain link fences or pit bulls straining at the leash.

But live here a while and you get to see the John Waters side of life.

The Skank and The Tank: They live in the building across the way. The frame suits the name- one is an extremely skinny, one-shot-from-the-Keith-Richards-Hall-Of-Fame androgynoid and the other is an immensely obese, slightly bald woman in a terminally stained caftan. They have screaming fights in the parking lot on a regular basis. Lots of arm waving, nose to nose ranting, stomping and wailing.
I have no idea what they fight about. I can't speak Tagalog.

Kappa Kappa Hoochie: Downstairs and over used to house a couple with an increasing (on a rabbit-like basis) brood. They finally moved out and in moved the sorority girls. I think only two of the women actually are on the lease, but apparently word got around campus that there was a terminal case of keggeritis and everyone showed up... and stayed.
They are the most popular Britney/Christina/Lil Kim fashion clones, dressing for suckcess. One weekday evening, I counted over 25 young men in various stages of shitfacedness stumble in. Only 12 stumbled out.
Perhaps it's like a Horny Guy version of the roach motel: frat boys check in but they don't check out.

Dainbramage: This is my downstairs neighbor, the one with more stereo than sense. After trying several methods of dealing with her noise (talking to her, reasoning with her, standing on a table and dropping a five pound mallet on the floor above her), I got tired of rehanging my pictures shaken off the walls by the megabass of her musical passion and narc'd her out to management. Her response to them was that she didn't think it was that loud and didn't have to turn it down. Their response was that's not how it works, and you are one complaint away from eviction.
It worked. Lovely quiet.
Ah, the power of rent paid promptly.

Last but not least, the TJ Underground Railroad: TJ, as in Tiajuana, as it just down the jump-the-fence road. Originally, there were three guys living across the hall. Then there were five. Then eight, four with wives and at least three kids each. I found out when I took them some misdelivered mail that none of them spoke any English and opened the door only after everyone in the apartment had peeked at me through the blinds and approved me as non-federale.
The cast rotated constantly. Fat lady with two screaming toddlers moved out, skinny boy with three shaven-headed friends moved in. Stir, rinse, repeat.
Last weekend, under cover of night, everyone and everything in the apartment disappeared.
I guess their drivers' licenses finally arrived.

Aftershocks

I just watched "The E True Hollywood Story: Jaws". I love those behind the scenes, tell-all things, particularly when it's about something that scared the purpleptic crap out of me.
"Jaws" remains to this day the most frightening movie I've ever seen.

I've lived within a spit and a holler of the ocean for the past seventeen years and I've never been in over my ankles.
That's how much "Jaws" scared me.

What movie scares the beejeebers out of you?

I Want Better Odds Than 9 To 5

I'm still the resume queen. I've sent out over 21 resumes in response to various want ads. Some of them were intriguingly vague ("office halp"- spelled just like that, so they obviously need spellchecker 'halp' if nothing else). Some were frighteningly explicit ("Applicant must have a B.S. in computational psychosis mathematics, a Masters degree in nuclear tactical overclocking, and be able to lift 50 pounds and work weekends.") Some were just silly ("You have a distinguished career waiting for you at Wal-Mart!")

I've had one interview which came to naught, and no other replies. It would probably help if I actually had any legally marketable skills.

So when I saw this over at DaGoddess's place, I figured I could just go down the checklist and find out what I've been doing wrong......

TEN TIPS ON GETTING MORE EFFICIENCY OUT OF WOMEN EMPLOYEES
From the July 1943 issue of Transportation Magazine

1.) Pick young, married women. They usually have more of a sense of responsibility than their unmarried sisters, they're less likely to be flirtatious, they need the work or they wouldn't be doing it, they still have the pep and interest to work hard and to deal with the public efficiently.
By this criteria, I'm already ahead of the game, since I'm a serial offender. I take umbrage with the less-likely-to-be-flirtatious part, since most women my age seem to flirt much more aggressively, like they can hear the time swelling between husbands. As to pep and interest... oh please, I lost my pep years ago in the war.

2.) When you have to use older women, try to get ones who have worked outside the home at some time in their lives. Older women who have never contacted the public have a hard time adapting themselves and are inclined to be cantankerous and fussy. It's always well to impress upon older women the importance of friendliness and courtesy.
Sorry, but I've worked outside the home all my life, and that's exactly what made me cantakerous and fussy.

3.) General experience indicates that "husky" girls- those who are just a little on the heavy side- are more even tempered and efficient than their underweight sisters.
Uh huh. The way Roseanne is always easier to get along with than Jennifer Aniston?

4.) Retain a physician to give each woman you hire a special physical examination- one covering female conditions. This step not only protects the property against the possibilities of lawsuit, but reveals whether the employee-to-be has any female weaknesses which would make her mentally or physically unfit for the job.
Nothing says "desirable job candidate" like a rubber-gloved hand up the wahzoo.

5.) Give the female employee a definite day-long schedule of duties so that they'll keep busy without bothering the management for instructions every few minutes. Women make excellent workers when they have their jobs cut out for them, but they lack initiative in finding work themselves.
It's not that we lack initiative, it's that we excel in finding a male colleague with the inability to look at a woman above chest level to do it for us. Cleavage is a marvelous tool when used properly.

6.) Whenever possible, let the female employee change from one job to another at some time during the day. Women are inclined to be less nervous and happier with change.
Yes, it's finally out- women are poodles in constant search of a new tree.

7.) Give every girl an adequate number of rest periods during the day. You have to make for some allowances for feminine psychology. A girl has more confidence and is more efficient if she can keep her hair tidied, apply fresh lipstick and wash her hands several times a day.
I heard a comedienne once complain that her manager was always fussing at her to wear more lipstick, bright happy lipstick. "Yeah" she said. "But what if I'm not funny? Then all the not-funny is coming out of these big red lips."

8.) Be tactful when issuing instructions or in making criticisms. Women are often sensitive; they can't shrug off harsh words the way men do. Never ridicule a woman- it breaks her spirit and cuts off her efficiency.
That's right, we cry at the drop of a hat. We cry at everything and anything. We cry until you give up and do it for us.
Then we stop and smile.

9.) Be reasonably considerate about using strong language around women. Even though a girl's husband or father may swear vociferously, she'll grow to dislike a place of business where she hears too much of this.
Bad words like "unpaid overtime" and "no daycare" and "gender-based salary levels".

10.) Get enough size variety in operator's uniforms so that each girl can have a proper fit. This point can't be stressed too much in keeping women happy.
Men have no such requirement, thus the proliferation of plumber's crack.

I'd look good in a blue vest, I bet.

Plummet

There are two on-screen moments that I can rely on to make me pee my pants laughing and now one of those moments is sadly dead.
Well, the man of the moment, anyway.
Gordon Jump has died of pulmonary fibrosis and not loneliness as a Maytag repairman as he predicted. The highlight of his career was when, as Mr. Carlson, he led WKRP in a publicity stunt that threw dozens of turkeys from helicopters.

"As god is my witness, I swear I thought turkeys could fly."

There are rumors Loni Anderson is going to wear her Sunday-go-to-meetin' breasts for the funeral.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Carlson.

Bobo's Choice #42

If you like Asian guys in figleaf tighty-whiteys, you're gonna love this.
It so easy, happy go rucky.
Sing "YATTA!"

Beneath It All

Very observant visitor triticale has found the source of the site that made me sniffle. He comments: "View source. Extract URL. Peel back to main page. Check out the rest of it.
http://www.newrafael.com/"

Hypnotic.

That Part Of Me I Don't Think About Much

Until I registered to vote last month, it never worried me what political genre I fall into. Normally when I fall into things, I'm concerned about not drowning or how I'm going to explain that odd stain on the seat of my pants.
This article completely sums up my party affiliation: I'm a South Park Republican and damn proud of it.
I can't remember from whence I found this, but if it was on your blog, please let me know so I can attribute it properly. Bobo is all about proper attribution. And cheese.

Don't Drink The Water

Bill at Bloviating Inanities has made some serious decisions about his post-Isabel dietary choices. I personally think he's absolutely correct.

Dirty Question

Watching football at the moment, second game of the day and recovering from the sorrow of watching the Jets get their heinies whopped again. Although I live in the same area as the Chargers, I hadn't watched any of their games until now.
I wish I hadn't today either.
First of all, who in the hell's idea was it to dress them up in shiny, trailer-trash-baby-blue-bridesmaid-reject uniforms? And helmets that look like they were painted with leftover housepaint? Incredibly ugly.
But here's the real question: What is up with the huge swatch of bare dirt in the middle of the field? Did San Diego have to make budget cuts and decided they could let the groundskeepers go?
Inquiring minds (who hate unfashionable uniforms) want to know.
By the way, I should point out that I always evaluate football teams by how nice the uniforms are, how cute the quarterback is, and if the coach looks like an unmitigated dick (Pittsburg).
And I have won at least 4 office football pools using just those criteria.
Neener neener.

Bobo's Choice

From the "Freaks" file:
Ladies and gentlemen, Eugene Mirman.

As Long As I'm Up, Can I Get You Anything?

I have this insane notion that inanimate objects can have their feelings hurt. I know the very idea of things like toasters and bath sponges having feelings is rather mad, nevermind the concept of hurting them. But haven't children always attributed emotions to stuffed animals? So it has a grand tradition, right? I'm not just ready for a tinfoil hat, right?
Right?
Bueller? Bueller?

This explains why I have such an extensive bookmarks list. Favorites, as IE likes to call them. Some of them have been on my computer since it was made of stone and powered by hamsters. Sure, as they become dead links, going no where but the vast gobbling void of the net, I delete them.
After a proper funeral, of course. We're not all barbarians here.

Why all this babble about inanimates' emotions and Favorites frenzy?
Too damn much coffee first thing in the morning.
No, I've just decided to institute a new thingy (geez, techno speak makes me hot... thingy thingy thingy), to be entitled later, that will release upon you all My Favorites, one by one.

A twofold purpose: To share them with all visitors to the house that Cheese built, and to give "them" more ammo for the commitment hearing.

Now I have to go off and think of a clever name for it all.

Sniffle

This is one of the saddest little things I've ever been so hypnotized by that I sat motionless for half an hour watching it despite the fact I had to pee seen.
by way of Presurfer

More Personal Info Than You Ever Needed

What Kind Of a Rubber Duck Am I?

All this introspection must be good for something. I think I'll put my DuckType on my resume and see what it gets me.
by way of Carol's Chaotic Collection of Curiousities

Yo Ho Yo Ho

I had to pick GM1 up from work yesterday, and I was 10 minutes late. Sure, I could have taken the better exit off the freeway and stealthed in through the less-travelled streets. But then I couldn't have gone down the back-of-the-base access road, the road dotted with triple-X movie theaters, the street decorated in obscene gang graffiti, the lane lined with lacivious ladies.

Yep, I took the long way round so I could see the hookers.

It's not that I'm shopping for the proverbial pound of flesh. Seeing these girls in all their spandex finery, flashing like neon parrots at 4 in the afternoon, it's a mini-carnival.
GM1 calls them Pay Per Do.

There are, at last count, three regulars in the space of as many blocks. One has an ass the size of Canada and a wardrobe entirely of tube tops and two-inch long miniskirts. Another has no ass but the most astounding rack ever implanted, usually in naught but a lacy suspension-bridge-ish wonderbra. The third has very little in the physical attributes, but she more than makes up for it in attitude, as she is prone to flinging herself into traffic and pressing her bare breasts on car windows.

And the hair.... the color, towering heights, and Eischer convolutions of the hair. I know why none of them carry purses- they could keep keys, spare change, and a set of handcuffs in most of those hairdos.
I can't wait for Christmas, because I know it will be time to trim those wigs like a department store tree.

There was a bit of a fight the other day as I drove by the nothing says tetanus shot like 4 for $1 mystery meat tacos taco shop the ladies frequent. Two of them were in a slap-battle, and during it all, no one dropped one crumb of the gigantic burritos they both held.
You have to admire technique.

I'm not crazy. I keep my windows rolled up in that part of town, and I lock all my doors. I sneak my peeks and don't make eye contact. I know the rules.
But I'd surely like to ask Miss Ass-The-Size-Of-Canada where she got those pink spike heels.
I mean... damn, those were some nice shoes.

That Thousand Words You Asked For

Both Steve and Greg understood my post about GM1's gallantry in the face of alleged spideration to mean I was secretly shaving a little more than met the eye.

Steve commented "Admit it. It was really debris from a bikini wax, and he mistook it for a groundhog."
While Greg said "Bangs. SSSSurrrre. I bet your ears and upper lip are all nice and smooth now, huh? Erm I mean, "Arrr, matey!"

I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I must disabuse you of your mistaken notion of my natural hirsuteness. I am quite taken aback by your harsh rush to judge my physicality and feel no need to continue to discuss this, other than to sadly point out the error of your ways.

And now, I must be going....

Avast, Me Hearties! To Your Chum Buckets!

As everyone knows, today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

I haven't had much practice talking like a pirate. When I was little, we mainly played "The Monkees", which basically meant arguing over who was going to be Michael.... I mean, nobody wanted to wear that dorky stocking cap all day.

I would make a lousy pirate, because I hate parrots. Hate them. Nasty, squawking, feathery beasts of hell. When I lived in Ocean Beach, there was a flock of wild ones lived thereabouts that used to congregate outside my bedroom window and hold group meetings. Most of the meetings were at 6 in the bloody AM.
I hate parrots.

Monkeys, on the other hand.... okay, which one of you doesn't know I prefer monkeys to any other creature? You? You there in the back, with your hand up and an ashamed look.... walk this plank.
Yes, I liked "Pirates of the Caribbean" in part because it had a monkey as the captain's pet instead of the traditional feathered bag of filth parrot. I also greatly admired Jack Sparrow's flair for colorful speech and eyeliner.
Personal dental hygiene, that lost them all some points. In all those pieces of eight, could no one find a nice toothbrush?

So, let's see. No parrots, good teeth, clear diction, and the tendency to puke every time I set foot on a boat- hmm, pretty much rules out piracy as a career choice.
But I've got that eyeliner thing down.

Now get out there and drive everyone mad saying "Arrr!" all day.
I started last week... my mom won't even answer the phone any more.

A Case Of Mistaken Identity

GM1 just beat the hell out of what he claims is the biggest spider he's ever seen in the bathroom sink. He's very Big Brave Hunter proud of himself.

I don't have the heart to tell him I trimmed my bangs this morning and just didn't tidy up.

Chicago Style

Daniel has a post in the New Blog Showcase, all about Moral Relativism, which I must admit I knew nothing about until I read it.
I've never really been all that big on morals, as such. Probably because I dislike being told my behavior is "good" or "bad" by the group mindset. I do understand how in the bigger sense morals are necessary. I guess I just object to them at the point they try to tell me how to think or feel.
I'm a big Situational Ethics girl... but don't tell Daniel. I have a feeling he could debate my sorry ass into the ground.

Classics

My little friend Maddy called me up last night to tell me the latest hot joke running round fourth grade....

"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"Marvin the interrupting cow."

"Marvin the inter..."
"MOO!"

I'm still giggling. I lead such a simple life.

You Say Tomato

GM1 and I were watching "West Wing" reruns yesterday, and we began to discuss the usefulness of vice-presidents.
It was a short discussion.

I mentioned that VPs were so non-entities, a normal person would be hard-pressed to name more than a few. We came up with LBJ, of course, and Quayle, and Gore. GM1 said "And what's the current one's name again?"

We were stumped. It was right-on-the-tip-of-an-intern's-tongue time. After a few false starts, I blurted out "Peter... Peter Something!"

Okay, so it's Dick. I wasn't that far off.

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls

Today is looking like Sit By The Phone day. I'm waiting for a few phone calls, such as:
1. The car repair place to let me know if they can fix my poor broken-down baby and how much blood they want out of my turnip.
2. The insurance moron to return my call about why he can't seem to get my policy written correctly, even though he's had four chances so far.
3. Anyone to whom I sent my fiction resume last week, so I can pay for the car repairs and a new insurance policy.
4. My asthmatic secret admirerer, who is very fashion oriented ("what are you wearing?").
5. The California State Lottery, to admit they've been wrong and should have just given me the money.
6. My mom, with the news that they've lied to me all these years and that I really am 30 like I keep insisting.
7. The doctor, to explain why, if I'm 30, I feel like I'm 46.
8. George Clooney, begging for a second chance.
9 Angelina Jolie, begging for a second chance.
10. My psychiatrist, begging for a second chance.

The Friday Five

1. Is the name you have now the same name that's on your birth certificate? If not, what's changed?

My name is not the same by a factor of four. Yep. Four. I've been married four times. I have the marital sensibilities of an impulse shopper. I am a sucker for a fixer upper.
To be fair, I can't say that about the GM1. He was a keeper as is the moment I met him. All right, yes, some minor template tweaks.....

2. If you could change your name (first, middle and/or last), what would it be?
I'd change my first name, which is actually my first and middle name run together. I'd like to have an androgynous name like Cooper, or an exotic name like Princess Hummingbird On Toast.
In high school, my name was apparently "hey bitch". Now it's not a name, it's a title.

3. Why were you named what you were? (Is there a story behind it? Who specifically was responsible for naming you?)
My birth father's name was Lee, and my aunt's name is Ann, thus... LeeAnn. My mom wanted to name me Samantha Josephine, mainly because she had idealistic visions of herself in pearls and an apron, leaning decorously from the kitchen door, calling "Sammy Jo! Your apple pie is ready!"
In actuality, we were called to dinner by my mom throwing dirt clods at us to get our attention while we hid in the bushes and ignored her demands to "come eat this broccoli and leeks casserole RIGHT NOW! NOW! NOOOOOOOW!"

4. Are there any names you really hate or love? What are they and why?
I love the names Emily and MaryMargaret. I loathe the name Danny. No reason for the first, and all the nasty memories in the world reason for the latter.

5. Is the analysis of your name at kabalarians.com / triggur.org / astroexpert accurate? How or how isn't it?
The Kabalarian analysis says this:
" Your name of Leeann gives you the desire to understand and to help others but, at the same time you can become too involved in their problems and, as a result, worry too much. You desire a home and family of your own and have the ability to create understanding and harmony in family association as you are pliable, forgiving, and tactful. You love children and would not hesitate to care for any children who might need you. Whenever possible, you avoid argument and turmoil because you prefer not to face an issue if it means hurting anyone's feelings. You shrink from sordidness and poverty because you feel very deeply for anyone in unfortunate circumstances. Though you recognize your responsibilities, you are inclined to put things off until you are forced to take action. If given the opportunity, you could develop musical and artistic abilities. "
I ought to just line by line destroy this analysis, but let me sum up: I become too involved because I am a nosy, controlling brat. I love children mainly with some fava beans and a nice chianti. I avoid turmoil face to face but I write an excellent scolding letter if needs be. I can't carry a tune in a bucket.

Triggur.org did a bit better:
LeeAnn: From the Italian root meaning "Licker of Toads"
LeeAnn is a stinking kleptomaniac.
LeeAnn would not be a good candidate to babysit your children.
LeeAnn is a genetic freak of nature.
LeeAnn is deceptively warm and endearing.
LeeAnn will turn on you in an instant.
LeeAnn could use some penicillin.
LeeAnn can be apathetic to a fault.
LeeAnn hates dealing with the details.
This made me homesick as it's all family reunion talk.

And the AstroExpert got way too moonbat and I ceased to maintain interest.

Off The Hook

I have officially reached the point of being an Old Fart. One of the characteristics of Old Farts is the inability to keep up with slang. I realized this when I was channel-surfing and landed on one of those teen-based shows on the WB. Might as well have been in Turkish.

I don't know what the hell they were talking about. Someone was overweight and had done something that left the phone disconnected, perhaps?

Slang is a slippery critter. Terms that were in play when I was in high school have shed their skins and assumed other meanings. Remember "ball"? Not the toy, but in reference to the sexual act? And "petting", that's strictly for the kiddie corral at the zoo these days. "Far out" is a place it takes longer to arrive at. "Uptight" is where thongs go.

The GM1 has lost weight and I know he's only done it to annoy me, damn his skinny butt. His shorts, as he stood brushing his teeth, hung down on his hips like one of those skateboard kids with the terminally droopy drawers.
"You look like some little rapper freak" I teased him. "All Kid Rocky M&M or something."
I tried to follow it up with some rapper lingo and that's when I hit the slang wall.

So I told him he was a shazbat funk-knuckle.
Works for me.

Once A Year For The Rest Of Our Lives

Yes, of course I know what today is.
No, I don't plan to write a post about it, other than this.
There are much more eloquent, elegant, heartfelt memorials out there that do incredible and deserved homage to that terrible day.

Please, go read as many of them as you can. Not just today, but every time you start to feel safe or immune or comfortable. Every time you stop feeling anguish and rage at terrorist activities, go back and look at some of the photos or read a post about the bravery of random Americans.
Read one of the posts every time you forget to feel proud to be a random American.

Now go hug someone you love, right now, and be damn glad you can.

From The Email From Mom Files

"....so your aunt, who never could get the hang of .... honey? I have to go, the phone is making a noise like it wants to ring."
Mom never has made the jump to cable. Dial-up is enough techno wizardry for her.

Belated Math

I just realized that "The Simpsons" is the same age as my marriage.
I don't know if this is an omen, an undiscovered connection, or a desperately nutcase need to find meaning in every little bit of cultural trivia I come across.

Still, I do remember saying "D'oh!" a lot on my honeymoon.

Evil Twin

I am rapidly, through the miracle of syndicated reruns, becoming addicted to "Will and Grace". I've watched it on and off in the past, and recently I've had a goal reinforced:
I want to be Karen.

C'mon, the woman has it all. Good looks, wonderful wardrobe, rich out the wazoo, and a voice like a leaky helium tank. I learned to shimmy from watching Karen, and it got me some nice plastic beads at Mardi Gras parties, let me tell you. And "kiss, kiss, spank"? I defy Emily Post to come up with a better greeting.

Best of all, she has a very nifty pseudonym for when she's planning to misbehave: Anastacia Beaverhausen.
I'm changing my name right now to Anastacia Beaverhausen.

Oh, and another fun thing about "Will and Grace... if you give the GM1 a couple of rum and cokes and set him to watching it, he begins to talk like Jack.

Who said there's nothing good on TV?

In The Eye Of The Beholder

Mark Ryden makes some of the most disturbing, creepy-beautiful art I've seen since I first discovered Hieronymus Bosch.

And for some reason, most of the girls in the paintings look like Christina Ricci.

All of these are good things in my book.

found via Metafilter

A Matter of Taste

According to an article in Slate, the American Cheese Society held its 20th annual conference in San Francisco this past August.

My first question is: how could they? Without me? With nary a single, solitary acknowledgement of me, the Cheese Queen of Western Everywhere? Is this a sign of apocalypse around the corner? And do I have the shoes for it?
*note to self* buy apocalyptic shoes

After I got over my shock, I got hungry. It's difficult to read about mellow camembert and silky brie and not get peckish.
Then I got to this passage:

"In a presentation at the cheese conference, Sister Noëlla Marcellino, a cheese-making nun with a doctorate in microbiology, explained how bacteria and fungi in her abbey's raw-milk cheeses helped not only to develop the flavor of the cheese but also to inhibit the growth of pathogens. "

While I'm certain the inhibitions of pathogens is a good thing, it doesn't look too tasty on a menu.

Let's not even discuss my other food love- sushi.
May I be excused?

Wow, That's A Big Sac

Kelley at Suburban Blight has gone mad and cul-de-sac'd herself into a frenzy.
Set aside a couple of days and check it out.

A Discerning Palate

Last night the GM1 and I were channel-surfing and wound up watching an HBO documentary "Showgirls: Glitz and Angst." It followed the progress of a pack of dancers in preparation for a new Las Vegas show. It featured lots of backstage drama, enormous feather headpieces, and a multitude of bare breasts.

The GM1 watched it like he was a high school senior and the answers to the SATs were imprinted on each nipple.

"If all that reality stuff, you know, that "Big Brother" and "Survivor" shit, if it were like this," he commented thoughtfully, "I bet a lot more people would watch it.
I sure would."

Look out, Ebert and Roeper.

Gak

Want to know a secret? Come closer.... closer. Bend down here and let me whisper:
I have a phobia.

I know, I know, it's hard to believe anything could get to me enough to even ruffle my feathers, let alone become something as official as a Phobia. Mine has the grandious title "Entomophobia". Fear of bugs.

I can't remember when I wasn't afraid of bugs. Oh, it's not all bugs. I can't quite commit to that. I like butterflies, and ladybugs (fly away home) and spiders creep me out a bit but don't make me shriek like a little girl and run away. I save that special honor for grasshoppers, crickets, praying mantises, katydids, things like that.
I had a cricket land on my face and bound away. I cried for two hours and nearly scrubbed the skin off my nose.

Everyone who really knows me, knows about this phobia. Some, like my dad, brusquely dismiss it as being all in my head and ignore my terror when one of the Damned Things comes anywhere near me. Others, like the GM1, humor my fears and help me tear the pages out of the new issue of National Geographic featured famous bugs of the Congo. A few think it's funny enough that they sneakily place a grasshopper on my shoulder and gleefully wait for the fireworks.
They're all dead now.

Never has my phobia been made so public as when I visited Parrot Jungle in Miami.

I'd gone to Florida to visit my friend Bob, and in a quest to keep me amused, he decided we should go to Parrot Jungle.
I've never really considered birds a big attraction. Maybe it's jealousy, because they can fly and I can't. Maybe it's the proliferation, because most of them look just like the other most of them. Maybe it's all the poop on my car.

To my happy surprise, I really enjoyed Parrot Jungle. I fed huge squawking parrots little bits of treat and wasn't chomped on once. I held a giant macaw like a baby, cradled in my arms. I "talked" to a Mardi Gras-colored thing that mocked my accent.
Then we went to The Show.

A few times a day, the Parrot Jungle staff trots out a few of its creatures that don't have feathers, like frogs and snakes. They invite members of the audience up front to hold some of these beasties.
I love snakes, did I mention this?
I had, up until we moved to Hawaii, a ball python named Carlyle, who I'd raised from a baby. When we parted ways, Carlyle was twelve years old and four feet long. I adored him and he returned the sentiment. I could tell because he never tried to strangle me. Unlike some exes I could mention.
But I digress.
So when I saw they were going to show off a huge python at the Parrot Jungle show, I wanted to be the one to hold it. It was a giant, squirmy, mega-Carlyle. It brought out the Sigfried and Roy side of me. When they asked for volunteers from the audience, I was on my feet.

They chose four of us and lined us up. We were told to hold out both our hands and close our eyes. I waited for my share of about one hundred pounds of snake.
I waited.
I waited.
I felt something considerably less weighty land in my hands as the trainer said "Now, open your eyes."
It wasn't anything like a snake.
It was a Madasgascar Hissing Cockroach.

I was told later they heard me scream clear out in the parking lot. I take great pride in the fact that I didn't fling the nasty thing to the ground and
stomp it to bits. (Mainly because I was wearing sandals and didn't want squishage on my toes.) I stopped screaming when they took the cockroach,
all three inches of it, out of my hand.
"Not quite what you expected, huh?" laughed the trainer.
I puked on him.

I've never been back to Parrot Jungle. And I buy a lot of Raid.

Cheesy thanks to Anna for jogging my memory.

Another Day, Another Color

I've been playing around...

with the colors, among other things, and for now we shall have all things green here at Chez Cheese. The moon is made of green cheese. Cheese will turn green all by itself if you leave it out long enough. Money, needless to say, is green. The grass on the other side of the fence... well, you know all about that.

I'll be piddling around with the archives and fine-tuning the rest for... oh, let's say the next two or three decades. But rest assured I will be blogging in between happy techno discoveries and cussing fits.

If Each Journey Begins With One Step, Why Do I Feel Like A Spazzy Octopus?

Ladies and gentlemen, for your giggling pleasure, I give you.... The Cheese Stands Alone at mu.nu! Notice at no time do my hands leave my arms.

Truly, I feel like the puppy what just discovered his weener, as my grandfather used to say. About a gazillion and ten things to look at and set up and click on and decide, and I am hummingbirding all over the place.
I can't wait to get in there and fubar the templates.

Then there are the archives from the Blogger to be moved, and new colors, and category titles, and how does THIS work and if I press THAT what will happen, and if I do THIS will Santa bring me a pony?

Only if I'm a very good girl... and I think you all know the answer to that.

Well, let's get started building an empire... er, blog.

Unitasking

For the last hour I've been so proud of myself. I was a Modern Woman. I was bloggin' it up on the internet and cookin' it up in the kitchen. I was keepin' track of what happened two seasons ago on "Friends" (I love reruns) and yappin' along to my friend on IM. I was abusing the use of the ' key. I had it all under control.

Until I found the little post-it note I was using to remind myself of stuff I needed to post about mixed in with the mashed potatoes.
I've always been told someday I'll have to eat my words. I just didn't expect them to be so fluffy.

Hide and Seek

I didn't know there was a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode called "The Cheese Stands Alone" until I'd backcheck a referral and there it was, Googled above me.

There are a lot of other sites named the same as mine, such as a blog hosted on geocities, an entry on a detective website, and something about Magic: The Gathering, a game in which The Cheese Stands Alone is a card. It also notes "The meat, on the other hand, has frequent visitors."

I chose the name of this blog, by the way, not from any deep urge to cleverly yet subtly reveal the true me, but because a phrase got stuck in my head for three damn days and I could NOT stop working it into whatever conversation I was having. It's happened before. Remember "corndogs and accordians"?

But The Cheese comes up on some pretty weird searches (yeah, like Magic: The Geekening wasn't weird enough?).
"aunt nephew nipples zoo trip"
"waterslide wedgie pics"
"Britney Spears getting an over the knee spanking"
"big fat ass & tits girls"
"clever locking catches pictures door mechanism"
and of course, my first bizarro search referral:
"pictures of whale feces"

It's nice to know someone out there is thinking of me.

Emily Post Would Be Proud

I thought I ought to start the month off with a few thank you notes to some people who were kind enough recently to speak kindly of me or blogroll me:

OLDCATMAN'S BLOG has a look about it that just grabs you by the eyeballs and will not let go until you see all the tidbits he has to offer. Yellow is also a popular color for cheese... not that I let that influence me. Really.

Mamageek's Journal, where I meant to just take a peek at and found myself still peeking forty-five minutes later.

Ramblings Of Silverblue has tentative plans to blogroll me if I don't turn out to be part of the Axis. I think if I don't know what it is, most likely I ain't in it.

Roscoe Ellis: Online Journal, where I found (again) this nifty little toy that's been all over the place:

To all of you, thank you oodles and may you have nothing but ungreened cheese in your fridge.