the cheese stands alone

Haunted By My Shameful Past

Due to the miracle of finding shit I thought was happily lost archiving, I found proof that my costume mistakes will always rear their ugly heads.

Yes, I once dressed for Halloween as a slutty mime.

Oh, the humanity... the humanity!

Friday the Thirteenth

Just kidding... it's the traditional Friday Five, done up spooky.

1. What was your first Halloween costume?
I was a kangaroo. Look down on the front page of this blog, to the photo gallery bit... see that tattered old black and white pic of an odd child crouched rooishly? That's me. Early cheese.

2. What was your best costume and why?
Back in the day when the thought of me in a supershort sort of hotpants-ish outfit didn't create calls to the EPA, I wore a tiny little fake diaper, carried a baby bottle, a pacifier, a baby blanket, and a pair of devil's horns. I also wore a t-shirt I'd printed with the phrase "My mommy slept with the Prince Of Darkness and all I got was this lousy t-shirt".
I was Rosemary's Baby.

3. Did you ever play a trick on someone who didn't give you a treat?
One Halloween I was working as a secretary for a large corporation, one of the faceless many and happy to be so. The worker bees (never upper management) always dressed up on Halloween and would greet those not dressed up with "trick or treat?" It was pretty much expected, and normally they (the unfrocked) would carry candy with them, just in case.
We had an office Jack O' Scrooge... he refused to play along. Not only did he refuse, he would lecture us on "Satan's ways" and "Jesus's tears" and extended crapola when he'd see us.
So when he went to lunch, we scotchtaped down his phone so it couldn't be answered, swapped his mouse buttons round, and did that thing with the keyboard settings so it used Germanic rules and typed wrongly. (As this was in the days I wasn't too hip to the techno jive, I only know it was funny.)
When he got back, he freaked out and said his computer was possessed by devils, and the tech boys were called in.
They showed up in full Halloween regalia, one as a devil and one as the Grim Reaper.
Sugar rushes are fun.

4. Do you have any Halloween traditions? (ie: Family pumpkin carving, special dinner before trick or treating, etc.)
This is the only year we haven't carved a pumpkin. Usually the GM1 does the actual carving, after I scoop out the pumpkin guts, because it's been scientifically proven I wield a knife as well as I cook.
Don't want the nickname "Stubby", you know.
This year, we didn't carve one because we have nowhere to display it. In our neighborhood, a reachable pumpkin is a pumpkin thrown into the street by local hooligans. We're not handing out candy either, as we're running off to the movies and this is not really a place I feel comfortable opening my door to random knockers.
Random knockers... doesn't that sound so very failed-porno?

5. Share your favorite scary story...real or legend!
Damn. Despite coming from a folktale-filled area, and being incredibly superstitious myself, I have no personal spook tales.
I can report that when I went to see "Blair Witch Project", I slept for three weeks thereafter in the living room, with all the lights on, the TV tuned to Nick At Night.

Happy Halloween!

She Turned Me Into A, Newt!

Ralph Wiggum over at It Tastes Like, Burning! turns out to be more than just a pretty face and gives us a lovely history lesson on Halloween. Much more treat than trick.

Punctuationally Yours

Beth over at She Who Will Be Obeyed has a very good post on that whole hypenated American syndrome that afflicts so many.
Once more, someone else has said what I would have said had I thought at the time to say it.
And she says it very well, too.

Technical Whinings

Piddle. I painted my toenails all Halloweeny, black with little pumpkin faces on them. Then I took some lovely pictures. Then I tried to upload lovely pictures to the computer.
Poop.
See, I have an antique camera, so very old it will only take up to a 12MB memory thingy. And it has to use this Flashcard interface-in-the-A-drive doomawhachee to boot. To top it all off, it hates WinXP, which is what House of Cheese is running, and has to be transfered on the GM1's computer, which is Millenium, then onto a floppy, then onto MY machine. So it appears that the Flashcard thingy's batteries are dead. Not unfixable, but a temporary delay in my rush to show off.
All of which, those of you who have not wandered off to get a snack while I get to the point, is moot... because the main thing is:
My toes look cool and there is no way to share.

Santa, are you listening? A new digital camera would be oh so lovely.
We return to to your regular blogging whilst I go pout.

'Tis The Season To Eat Lollies

You should be a Devil!


What Should Your Halloween Costume Be?
brought to you by Quizilla
via Days Go By

This reminds me of costumes past.....

Gypsy Princess: This was my costume preference all through junior high. Yep, in my neighborhood it was entirely acceptable to trick or treat until you were in high school. Then you just went to parties in semi-revealing costumes donned in the restroom at Burger King so your mom wouldn't know you were out there dressed like Typical Hooker #6, getting sloshed on Purple Jesuses.

Vampire: Before I got my first "real" job, I loved dressing up all vampirey... black dress, fake fangs, ketchup dribbles on my chin. Then I started getting paychecks with huge chunks out of them and dressed as the really scary kind of vampire- an IRS agent.

Tailhook Scandal Victim: The year all the dirt about Tailhook came out, I swiped one of the GM1's old work uniforms, painted big handprints on the boobs and tush area, and wore a nametag that said "Tailhook Attendee".
Not a popular costume with the feminists at the party. That turned out to be the most fun, debating with drunken femmies.

The Loan Arranger: I wore a white suit, a cowboy hat, a star and carried a briefcase that said "Refinance Now! Ask Me How!"

Rosemary's Baby: This was my favorite. I wore a fake diaper, carried a baby blanket and a rattle, and wore devil's horns. My t-shirt said "My mommy slept with the Prince Of Darkness and all I got was this t-shirt."

This year I'm going as Middle-Aged Lady Gorging on Miniature Snickers Bars and Captain Morgan's, Watching Rented Movies and Going To Bed Early.
I think I can find that outfit somewhere real easy.

She Says, He Says

HER STORY:
He was in an odd mood when I got to the bar, I thought it might have been because I was a bit late but he didn't say anything much about it. The conversation was quite slow going so I thought we should go off somewhere more intimate so we could talk more privately. So we went to this restaurant and he's STILL acting a bit funny and I'm trying to cheer him up and start to wonder whether it's me or something else.
I ask him, and he says no. But you know I'm not really sure. So anyway, in the cab back to his house, I say that I love him and he just puts his arm around me. I don't know what the hell this means because you know he doesn't say it back or anything. We finally get back to his place and I'm wondering if he's going to dump me!
So I try to ask him about it but he just switches on the TV. Reluctantly, I say I'm going to go to sleep. Then, after about 10 minutes, he joins me and we have sex. But, he still seemed really distracted, so afterwards I just wanted to leave.
I dunno, I just don't know, what he thinks anymore. I mean, do you think he's met someone else?

HIS STORY:
Lousy day at work. Tired. Got laid though.

Bobo's Choice #90

Size isn't everything.

Bring On The Lollies!

The 500th commentor here was John of Ramblings of Silverblue! In honor of this and before he gets all bigheaded and starts making us kiss his ring, go visit him and tell him how cool he is.
Well, we at The Cheese think so, anyways.

The lovely Miss JaxVenus of Days Go By was caller number 501, which certainly deserves a mention because if it's good enough for Levis, it's good enough for us.

Bobo's Halloween Choice #31

Sittin' By The Side Of The Road, Watchin' The Zeros Tick Over

The very next comment I get will be comment #500. The very next.
You, yes YOU! could be Commentor Number Big 5 Double Ought.
Don't let the pressure bother you, the thought that this comment of all comments is the big one, the illustrious one, the one everyone will be talking about. Don't worry about the fact this comment is THE MOST IMPORTANT THING YOU WILL EVER SAY ON THIS BLOG OR ANY OTHER! EVER! Just remain calm and speak your piece.

Man, I wish I had a lolly or something to give as a prize.

My Name Ain't O'Leary and I Don't Have A Cow

It's spooky out there. It's like there's a yellow/orange filter over the light, and the snow comes down pre-dirtied, before it even hits the ground.
The ground itself is a-glow in places.
And this is way down the road from me, at least 10 miles east and no evac going on in my neighborhood. I guess I should be counting myself as lucky.

I tried to sweep off my balcony and sucked up a nice lungful of smoke and ash, so I'm hacking like I'm savoring a hairball. I guess I'll finally get that nice sexy raspy voice I always wanted.
The wages of tidiness are breath.

But in the midst of all this, I feel compelled to say just one thing:
None of this has anything at all to do with any charcoal-production cooking I may or may have not done.
I swear.

Lost in the Wilderness

I'm intimidated. Yep, sorely intimidated and more than a little jealous. Sure, I know it's a bit late in the game for me to start feeling like this. Most people begin blogging because they're envious of all those successful bloggers who get quoted left, right and center and accumulate over 10,000 visitors a day. And here I am, been at it for 5 months now, which makes me a old warhorse by internet standards, and I'm just now getting ambitious.
So, being a big believer in polling, I polled a few of my friends.
(This is not as exciting as it sounds and does not require one to bend over, btw.)

"Write about sports!" they suggested. "Look at the blogworld recently. You can't throw a dead cat without someone stepping up to the plate with a corked bat and knocking it out of the park while they scream "GO YANKEES!" or "GO CONFEDERATES!" and spend the next seven entries beating up an old man and reviling the other team in great, excrutiating mindnumbinglyboring detail."

"No, no!" scoff my governmentally-minded friends. "Write about politics! Take a side! Any side! Pounce on the other side's every move like a cat on crack chasing a cocaine mouse! Fist Fisk every word they say. Talk smack about their momma and throw a few puppies on the barbie."

"Change the name of your blog" whisper my image-conscious friends, who only come over in the dead of night wearing disguises. "Add the word "pundit" to it. Be The Cheese Pundit or Lord High Master of Monkey Punditry. Get a picture of some hot chick holding a banana. In color. With a pop-up feature."

"Post more, post often, post about every tiny little thing that happens!" yammers my ADD crowd. "Did you get up wearing blue poodle jammies? POST IT! Did your dog piddle on the rug and then you stepped in it? POST IT! Did you throw the dog off the balcony? POST IT under an assumed name! Be the Insta-Everything. Do it! NOW NOW NOW!"

"Narrow your focus" hum my musical friends. "Write only about what really absorbs you, food or music or movies or gerbils. Then narrow that focus even further... write only about pudding or Warren Zevon lyrics or the Die Hard series or Richard Gere. Then narrow that even more- post only AS if you ARE a pudding or a werewolf of London or Bruce Willis's hairpiece or... well, not that narrow. "

I thought about all this. I sat and examined the virtues of each and every suggestion, while drinking a fifth of tequila and watching back to back episodes of The Real World for six hours.
And when the headache fades and the double vision stops, I think I will take a big step in the right direction to becoming a megaforce in the blog world-
I shall change my name to InstaPudding.

That sounds so much hotter a half bottle ago.

Bother the Fun, Send the Holy Toast

Gerard, the genius behind The Presurfer, has another nifty blog called "Unusual Churches."

I think The Church Of Kissing Hank's Ass would fit right in.

Bloggy Dodgeball

Now, of course I realize that by the very definition, a "club" is a selective group, exclusive to its members, a group of chosen few.

I am sure I am in a club defined by exclusion; those possibly reviewed, found wanting, and cast aside.
I speak of those of us fine, gentle flowers of femininity not selected to be included in Madfish Willie's "Corner of the Bar Babes".

Goddammit.

But it's okay. Really it is. I'm not upset. I'm not perturbed. I'm not jealous or distressed or envious or crying myself to sleep every night, pounding the pillow and screaming "why, god, why?" until I drop exhausted into soggy slumber, to dream of the day Willie crooks his great bartending finger at me and thunders from atop his barstool "YOU! YES, YOU, O BEAUTIOUS GUZZLER, WOMAN OF WHO NONE CAN SAY SHE DID NOT BELCH AS WELL AS ANY! COME, JOIN MY HAREM AND CAVORT MERRILY! HERE IS YOUR SOUVENIR BUDWEISER T-SHIRT, PRE-WETTED!"
Really, I could care less.

It's not on my own behalf that I now do what must be done. It's on behalf of my also-excluded sisters, those fine females who toil unsung and un-babed.
Those of us who are just as pulchrituded and bloggy and who can drink their own body weight in dirty martinis before most women even get past spiking their morning coffee with Bailey's.

It is on my neglected commradesses's behalf that I must do this:
No more cheeseballs for Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon.
All deliveries will cease until my our demands are met.
And you know, the holidays are almost upon us. What self-respecting saloon would dare open its doors without the confidence of a full stock of cheeseball goodness... sharp cheddar and port wine and mellow muenster, all in their crushed-nuts goodness?

Yes, that's it, Madfish Willie, hear me well and tremble there with your naked crackers. No more cheeseballs. No more cheeseballs.
NO MORE CHEESEBALLS! ***
Not until you admit that we, the Un-Corner-Of-The-Bar-Babes, are just as esteemed in your barkeep's olive-studded heart as your chosen few, as well-deserving as they are. We don't want to crash your club. We just want recognition and free pickled hardboiled eggs.
That's all we want.

We just want a little love, too, you know.
And extended Happy Hour. That would be nice.
Oh, and free buffet between 4 and 7? And would it kill you to get some clean towels in the ladies' room once in a while? How many times can I dry my hands on my t-shirt, fergoshsakes. It's wet enough as it is.

let me just say for the record that I am KIDDING, so you won't send me flaming emails and horsie heads in my bed and all that, you staunch and loyal defenders of the Madfish. Kidding. Joke. Stop calling my mom and complaining I am the bad seed. She already knows that.

***I just like saying "cheeseballs".

The Last Quizzie Thing This Week, I Swear

Square root, huh? This explains all the viagra spam, then.
via Margi

Bobo's Choice #1679

Real Life.

Quickie

Well, that didn't take long.

God Bless Lily St. Cyr

Which Rocky character are you?

A bit of historical shit nobody really cares to know trivia: in 1977, I saw "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" over 300 times in the theater, most times dressed as one of the characters.

quiz via Mamageek's Journal

New Blog Showcase Thingy

I hereby and with all due solemnity cast my vote in the New Blog Showcase with this link for Canadian Woods: "Survivor: Panama-Episode 5" because it is about the only one not boringly political nor nauseatingly religious.
Plus, it's "Survivor". C'mon, now.

Where's my "I voted" sticker?

The Cure (Not the One With The Spooky Pale Guy With the Truly Bizarro Hair)

Okay, I'm settling into this "home from work" routine... decompressing.
I had half a bottle of white zin and a bag of dill pickle-flavored potato chips while watching the behind-the-scenes documentary of the making of "Scary Movie 3".

I read somewhere that's how Alan Greenspan does it.

First Impressions

I made it back from orientation in one piece.
I think I can sum up the experience...

1. It took them four hours and three videos to tell us how to keep people from going all Winona shoplifting. They set aside fifteen minutes at the very end of the day to explain the myriad ways to ring up sales, including check, cash, credit card, cashier's check, traveler's check, gift certificate, and organ donation.

2. Names of my orient-mates included Fajita, Jewy, Areola, and Ninja.
Yes, his mother named him Ninja. He was actually very clumsy.

3. The guy who did the OSHA briefing seemed vaguely inebriated and actually forgot what he was saying three times. We did hear a lot of useful info about his ex-wife, however.

4. It is more complicated to purchase goods from the store as an employee than it is to schedule a space shuttle launch. This is without employee discount... that requires both NASA launch codes and a note from the Pope.

5. If you cry while in line at the next door McDonald's, they automatically know the reason and will give you extra fries.

I officially start tomorrow.
May god have mercy on their souls.

Fresh Meat

Today I am attending orientation for my new part-time, seasonal, temporary job. In retail. During Christmas.
Could I be any more masochistic?

I took this job for several reasons: A chance to meet a wide variety of people and blog about them. A chance to experience an old job (retail) in a new department (jewelry and cosmetics) and blog about it. A chance to get some of my debt load.
Oh, and they said they'd pay me. This is always a big plus when job hunting.

Unlike some people I know who have had their careers threatened or taken away entirely because they blogged about them, I have no such worries. I doubt many of my customers are bloggers or blog readers, since most customers to the store I'm going to be working at are little old ladies of doubtful English skills. And oddities, bizarre behaviour, and fools are the backbone of retail, so I shouldn't have to ever get specific.

Wish me well, kind readers, as I go forth to a morning sure to be filled with paperwork and an afternoon of watching films from the 1970s about how to lift a box. "Use your knees. Always use your knees."
I was once told that was the path to a raise.

While you're celebrating the fact that you aren't me my new employment, go on over to My Life As A Fischer and give Greg some congrats on his new job. Well done, Greg!

Reinforcements

I seriously devoutly believe in movies.
And movies, bless their little celluloid hearts, are constantly reinforcing my beliefs as well.

Today I saw "Kill Bill".

Movie ------------------------------------ Belief
Close Encounters of the Third Kind --- potential
Aliens ------------------------------------ bravery
Fifth Element ---------------------------- purpose
Chicago --------------------------------- nothing so bad a little song and dance won't help
Pulp Fiction------------------------------ synchronicity
Fight Club ------------------------------- standing up for yourself
Kill Bill ---------------------------------- vengeance

"Kill Bill" was one of the best movies I've ever seen. I'll probably go back and see it again tomorrow. And maybe the day after that.
I don't believe in a god. But if there is a god of cinema for this time and place, in my life at least, it's Quentin Tarantino.

Cheesy Joke #875

A woman takes a lover during the day, while her husband is at work. Her nine-year-old son comes home unexpectedly, so she puts him in the closet and shuts the door.

Almost immediately after that, her husband also comes home, so she puts her lover in the closet with the little boy.
The little boy says "Dark in here.
The lover says "Yes, it is."
Boy- "I have a baseball."
Man- "That's nice."
Boy- "Want to buy it?"
Man- "No thanks."
Boy- "My dad's outside."
Man- "Okay, how much?
Boy- "$25."

A couple of weeks later, as no one learns from history, the man winds up in the closet with the boy, under the same circumstances.
Boy- "Dark in here."
Man- "Yes, it is."
Boy- "I have a baseball mitt."
The man remembers the last time this happened and cuts to the chase- "How much?"
Boy- "$75"
Man- "Fine."

A few days later, the father says to the boy, "Grab your ball and glove. Let's go outside and play some catch."
The boy says, "I can't, I sold them."
The father asks, "How much did you sell them for?"
The boy replies, "$100."
The father exclaims, "That's terrible to overcharge your friends like that! That's way more than those two things cost. I'm going to take you to church, you need to go to confession."

They go to the church and the father takes the little boy to the confessional booth and closes the door.

Boy- "Dark in here."
Priest- "Don't start that shit again."

I was saving this for later, but Silverblue preempted another joke I'd had saved up... he's on a roll and I'd best jump in while the water's fine and the metaphors are properly mixed.

Bring Tubs of Lipgloss

DaGoddess has been sick for many moons now, with something I can't spell without a dictionary and three weeks tutoring. Pee-numonia, as my papaw used to say.
It sounds unpleasant in the least, and the cure might be the kill as well:

"Oh! That's the other fun thing. Apparently, I'm having a mild reaction to one of the meds. My lips are a little poofy (think Barbara Hershey after the injections but short of Melanie Griffith's massive implants.) I'm itchy. Blotchy. Very attractive. Uh huh. I'm the poster girl for side effects - "Unpleasant, but not totally unexpected potential side effects include - - - - - " but not quite ready for a trip to the doctor."

So go on over there (hurry, hurry! we don't know how much time is left!) and give Joanie a big, warm, get-well hug handshake wave from across the street.

Hope you feel 100% better soonest, sweetie!

Just A Thought

Sometimes, were it not for quizzes, polls, and random neighborhood idiots, I wouldn't have thing one to post.
Just something I thought of.

Tell Me You Can't Hear That Song

Congratulations!! You're a shot of some good old
hard liquor!


What Drink Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
via It Tastes Like, Burning

What I Wanna Be When I Grow Fur

Rob over at CrabApple Lane Blog has the required make-you-so-envious-you'd-eat-a-mouse-and-lick-your-parts-if-you-could-just-have-this-life picture.

Today's Episode Is Brought To You By Gravity

I don't know why I have cable, when the weirdest show is outside my window. It's called "Freakish Neighborhood Tales."

Today's episode starred the horny little junior high boy across the street. Word is amongst the neighbors that he's been busted twice for peeping, and that the family is one short step away from eviction due to this and other things, like vandalizing the dumpsters and public indecency. (His version of giving the finger is apparently to flash.)

So, about 8 this morning, after the school bus has picked him up, Horndog Jr. comes trotting back down the sidewalk, little Tart-in-Training in tow. Off they go to his door... where he discovers Mom has gotten wise and not left the key hidden where he expected it to be.
No matter. He and T-in-T decide to make use of the great outdoors and perch together on top of the electrical junction box next to the sidewalk. A little tonsil hockey, a little groping, a little teenybopper passion....
A little gravity.
They tumbled off the box, down the hill, rolling all the way to the parking lot, shrieking and cussing. T-in-T got back to the sidewalk first and went stomping off in a dusty, scratched up cloud of mad-as-hell. Horndog Jr. caught up to her, and her backpack caught up to his head.

And there he sat in the middle of the sidewalk, watching his afternoon delight storm away.

If I wanted to be guilty of excessive punnage, I could say they fell for each other.
So I won't.
But they did.

Never Too Early For A Quiz

Brrr! You're a WINTER STORM.
You get very quiet when you're angry.
Most people would call you heartless and cold,
but that's only because you don't tell them what's
really on your mind.


What DIRE WEATHER FORECAST do you turn into when you're angry?
brought to you by Quizilla
via About D@mn Time

Satorial

I don't give a trampled fig for religion, but I have to give credit where credit is due.
These cardinal guys have very stylish hats.
Paul over at All Agitprop has the scoop on it.
The guys, not the hats.

Selective Tastes

Pixy Misa has a plan to get us through what appears to be a dangerous dietary shortfall.... a distinct lack of anchovies.

He might have met this woman in his quest for replacement disgusting tasty treats. She was busted for smuggling pudding.
Yep, pudding. Apparently this pudding is so incredibly yummy she tried to sneak 2kg past sniffer dogs and security guards.

I think this must be the secret to its appeal:
"He said the woman had appeared in court last Friday and was fined $6600 after a magistrate noted that attempting to smuggle black and white pudding – which contains pork –..."

Pork. Pudding that contains pork.
Next thing you know she'll get an itch for spam jello.

This Test Makes Me Sick

*sniffle* Don't worry. It's only borderline.
I know, because I took the

You have completed the test!
Your score is 13!

11-15: You're a borderline hypochondriac. It hasn't really interfered with your life in major ways--yet. But spending 10 or more days in bed a year is excessive. Take some time to listen to what others say about your health. They're not as wrong as you think.

Cue the Cellos

Halloween is not just a candy corn holiday, it's full of ear-candy as well.
Lynn at Reflections in D Minor, being the music expert, knows this.

The 5

It's not Friday without the Five.

Lists are good for you.

1. Name five things in your refrigerator.
diet gingerale
cheese
Slimfast
more cheese
diet Pepsi

2. Name five things in your freezer.
Grey Goose vodka
rubber ice trays that make ice in the shapes of stars, hearts, and penquins.
meat log
butter pecan ice cream
my credit cards

3. Name five things under your kitchen sink.
dish soap
Comet
extra sponges
a drippy spot where the pipe leaks a bit
a toothbrush

4. Name five things around your computer.
dictionary
printer
my gargoyle statue, Fifi
Sim City 4, which I still cannot get the hang of
a statue of Ganesh

5. Name five things in your medicine cabinet.
ibuprofen
tiny little scissors
migraine medicine
some very old valium I can't bear to part with
vitamin C

Bobo's Choice #56

Tarot Settani.

The Template Is Always Greener On the Other Side of the Blog

So, like I said (or was that one of those internal conversations I have that don't come out and then later when I pick them up in the middle like they've been outwardly ongoing the GM1 says "What the hell are you talking about? What giant sheep?"), I am getting fidgetty with the blog. I have the insane urge to tweak and twist and twiddle all the twaddle that's on it.

I know a template is like a newborn puppy. If you mess with it too much, it loses all its fur and piddles all over you. I don't know if I have the appropriate cleaning supplies, what with the stupid supermarket strikes, and damn you for a bunch of selfish cows anyway, supermarket workers, you make damn near as much per hour as teachers, yes, teachers, and you are screaming because you have to pay for most of your own health insurance because you have the supreme talent of yelping "Price check on jumbo Trojan Party Pack!" over the loudspeaker and I got news for you, bunny, most of us have jobs that pay a lot less and we still have to pay our own insurance to boot, or just go about with runny noses all winter from lack of doctorial care and what business is it of yours if I want the Party Pack instead of two of the Weekend Whoopie size boxes?

So anyways, the template is calling to me. "Change me!" it cries. "Recolor me!" it moans. "Spank me like the naughty template I am and call me Shirley!" I do feel, though, that I've jerked off given enough time to blog prettification, what with changing the little art gallery down at the bottom of the sidebar on a semi-regular basis, and revamping the banner once in a bit, and redoing the photo up near the top off and on.... but is it enough?
Probably not, to judge from past experience. (Remember the big blackout a few months back? That was me, dissatisfied with the way the lights were connected in that mini-space the property manager calls the dining area, only who can "dine" in three square feet unless you stand up and hold the plate by its hot edges and gobble real fast and I ask you, is that just an invitation for heartburn not to mention a newly-made op to clean the freakin' rug? And where the hell am I going to get cleaning supplies?)

Then I figured, what better lends itself to revampage than the blogroll? Aren't entire posts devoted solely to the angst of linking, delinking, relinking, unkinking, not thinking, more drinking, I'm sinking......
Where was I?
Oh yeah... blogroll. I don't really know if I'm legally entitled to call it a blogroll, seeing as how I don't use Blogrolling, since I'm an old-fashioned girl with old-fashioned ways and I add my links in one by one by one by hand, mainly because I just cannot face the prospect of yet another password to remember. So I guess I could shuffle up the links, maybe take out a few I don't read very often for one reason or another. I know I'm not LGF or Instapudding or whatever, a link from me don't mean squat in this mean old world, Tilly, and a delink is unlikely to set off a flamewar or trigger self-destructive psychosis, unless of course you get off on that kind of thing and far be it from me to pass judgement on whatever flips your switch, I mean, I remember back in the day when I was a hormone-fueled love machine and oh the tales I could tell but can't really because when the hormone fuel ran out so did the brain cells and what were we talking about?
Oh yeah.... unlinking.

Well, point of the matter is, if there is one, is that I'm wondering... is there a set etiquette for linking? Is it necessary to have some kind of public blog-breakdown and disown everyone, delete the whole list, repent, recant, and relink, lather rinse repeat? Is an explanation necessary? ("I delinked Fred today because I discovered he was a sheep buggerer, and only tips 10%.") Is it required to email the potential unlinkee to give them time to plead their case, send me money, or kiss my ass?
Or can I just willy-nilly cut and unpaste to my little heart's content? And what the hell is a nilly anyway? Why do willies have them? Is the nilly that little veiny bit at the end, near the mushroomy part? Why do I care, as long as I have batteries?

And do I need more coffee?

Holiday Spirit

It's a pretty sure bet that Big Arm Woman over at Tightly Wound won't be wearing one of these for Halloween.

Which Annoying Internet Entity Are You?

I actually thought I was "Trivial Bullshit Entity" but it turns out that I'm really:

Goodbye, Cool World

I discovered Cold Stone Creamery last night.

It's quite possible you will never hear from me again, as fitting into the desk chair will soon become impossible.

*tonguegasms*

No Special Reason

I have decided I'm not going to post anything today.

oops

A Pubic Service Announcement

Ladies, if in pursuit of that all-day-fresh feeling, you decide to wear a panty liner, please make sure the sticky bits are completely in contact with the fabric, not accidentally turned up on the edges so they stick to your personage.

When you have cause later to pull down said panties, you will sincerely thank me.

Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.
Ouch.

Froodian Lingerie

I didn't sleep well last night. I had one of those dreams where you're trying every which way to get a particular task done. Everyone in the dream is simulataneously trying to get in the way and make it as difficult as possible.
I tried one way... didn't work. Tried another... no joy. Attempt three.... failure. Eventually I just worked myself into REM hysteria (not a wet one about Michael Stipe, we're not talking about that dream. Focus, why doncha?)

I was dreaming about blogging.

I'm not calling this a bad dream. They say when you're learning a second language, once you dream in it, the hard part is over. Is that what this means, the tricky part is past? Worrying about the template is gone? Double-checking my end tags a bit of history? Searching for another clever way to say my neighborhood is the ballsack of Satan's pet goat will just trip off the keyboard/tongue?

Will I move on to heavier subjects, like war and global hunger and Sally Struthers? Will I devote myself to detailed, insightful commentary of military actions? Will I fisk like nobody's ever fisked before?

Am I going to become introspective, seeking the hidden truth? Am I going to meditate on my inner lama? Am I going to question our basic spiritual tenets while suggesting seventeen new ways to polish your aura?

Shall I devote my writing to good causes, higher purposes, charitable notions? Shall I soapbox post after post on the proper way to feel/be/think/eat? Shall I mention only happy thoughts and up-with-people topics?

Is this going to be my goal? Seriousness? Meaningfulness? Good works and altruismness?

Nah.

I find it particulary funny that it took me seven freekin' tries to get the picture to come up.... because I'd forgotten an end tag.

Schmo Job

I am a serious devotee of reality shows. I would sell my mother to a Chinese brothel if I thought it would get me onto "Big Brother" or "Survivor". I watch these shows religiously... the only religion I have is worshipping Rupert from the Drake tribe.
I also watch "Joe Schmo", for which I started out having zero expectations. I mean, it's a fake reality show. Everyone is an actor except the titular Joe, a genuinely nice guy named Matt.
Most everyone I know cannot begin to fathom why I am so fixated and are seeking professional mental help for me. So, after tonight's near-climactic episode, I was going to write up a complete explanation of just what fascinates me so about this faux-truth program.

Goddamn Slate beat me to it. Damn those professional writers.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

In all honesty, what do you do when you hear a car alarm? Do you run to the window to see if a thief is about? Do you dial 911 to report a car vandalization in progress?
Or do you cuss a bloody blue streak at the stupid bonehead who thought a car alarm with the sensitivity of a newly-sunburnt nipple was a good idea?

Me too. I didn't even realize I knew words like that.

Take this afternoon, for instance:
It was a chain reaction of the kind that Rube Goldberg might have designed were he a crackhead.
First, a huge SUV decided to stop dead in the middle of our little street so the driver could get out, heedless of traffic backing up behind him, to survey the dinky little parking space he hoped to parallel into. So Ms. VolvoSoccerMom in queue behind him leans on her horn. Big Daddy SUV takes umbrage at this, and typical driver negotiations begin: He flips her the bird, she honks again louder and longer, he flips a two-handed bird and calls her a bitch, upon with she gets out of her car and kicks his beloved monster car in the bumper.

If I ever sell tickets to my balcony, I could make a fortune.

Big Daddy SUV initiates launch codes and throws his Starbucks cup at Ms. VSM. He throws like a little girl. The cup takes a bad wind spin and bounces off a 1985 p.o.s. Nissan Sentra.
And the alarm chain begins.

Apparently there is something in the sonic range of a screeching alarm such as the Nissan sports that sets off the hair-trigger alarm in the nearly Toyota, that bellowing whoop whoop kicking off the nasal "neep neep neep" of the Volkswagen Jetta, which woke up the baby across the street who shrieks like a cat being barbeque'd, that aural holocaust tripping the circuits on the rusted-out Jeep, which Jeepishly whimpers in a variation of dog-whistle tones, making the poodle the next building over have some kind of psychotic break.

I was the only person who took any notice of any of this. A UFO-load of bug-eyed aliens from Planet Moomba could zoom up and down our street, randomly loading up beeping, squawking vehicles left, right and center, and not one person would take notice.

So tell me, Mr. and Mrs. Paranoid Auto Owner and all the ships at sea: why in the name of all that's unholy do you even HAVE a car alarm? Was there a sale at Annoyances R Us? Did the alarm salesperson tell you the fable about the cow, the magic beans, and the increased value of an armed car? Or do you just hate me?
I know you do.

In the meanwhile, in the midst of all the honk und drang, Big Daddy SUV and Ms. VolvoSoccerMom settled their differences in the standard way, by screaming insults about each other's dubious parentage and peeling rubber off on their disrespective ways.
I love a happy ending.

Where's My Twelve-Step Program, Eh?

Hello, my name is LeeAnn, and I'm a quizaholic.

You are the Black Knight!
Determined and stubborn, you stand at your little bridge and demand that "NONE shall pass!" This makes it very hard to keep friends around you. One day this damned king comes by and chops off all your limbs. Now you'll never be able to take up a hobby, other than leg biting.
Stupid bastard.

What Monty Python Holy Grail Quest Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Actually, I wanted to be Zoot, who is naughty with the grail-shaped beacon.

via David at Sketches of Strain

The 8th Wonder of the (bunny) World

Looks like Roxette Bunny has some globe-trotting competition for world's cutest rabbit.
via the Presurfer

Which Movement Are You?

which art movement are you?
this quiz was made by Caitlin
"Baroque Art emerged in Europe around 1600 as an reaction against the intricate and formulaic Mannerist style which dominated the Late Renaissance." (artcyclopedia.com.) Baroque Art is fairly realistic but is often willing to smudge the realism in favor of theatricality and the emotional pull that is its trademark. You're most likely a creative, talented emotional person who likes attention. Although it could all just be a show.
Famous Baroquers (there are lots): Rembrandt, Rubens, Caravaggio, and You.

via Absinthe and Cookies, which was via Da Goddess

Olden Days

I found this article on the "history" of blogging kind of interesting.

I particularly like the way he takes the opportunity to invoke the classic "This is the last entry for this blog" exit....
"Just as I was taking on a new endeavor then, I am now moving on to other new challenges, so this will be the last Blogspotting entry,..."

This made me wonder: is blogging just a sort of jumping off point for everyone, an entry-level endeavor? Or is just good old blogging satisfaction enough?
Sound off, people. The Cheese wants to know.

Post It Note Time

From my back-home newspaper:

"MEMORY WALK: The West Virginia Alzheimer’s Association sponsors a Memory Walk Saturday, Oct. 18, at Marshall University. Registration begins at 9 a.m. behind the Memorial Student Center, and the walk starts at 10 a.m."

Alphabet Souprize

Because it's Sunday and there's nothing good on TV. Because I like filling out forms. Because I missed the Friday Five. Because structure is gooooood. Because I'm all wound up from my shopping spree. Because I'm bored and the GM1 isn't around to entertain me.
Just because.

A-ACT YOUR AGE: 46.
B-BOYFRIEND: Since George Clooney never answers my letters, I guess I have to say the GM1, even though I ruined his amateur status when I married him.
C-CHORE YOU HATE: Vacuuming. I either suck the fringe on the rugs up the machine and kill the fan belt, or I wrap the cord around some table leg and crash a breakable to the floor. And it's noisy. It sucks.
D-DAD'S NAME: Ron or Robert, depending on if you mean sperm donor or step-
E-ESSENTIAL MAKE UP ITEM: Mascara. Otherwise I have tiny little chihuahua eyes.
F-FAVE ACTRESS: Kristen Dunst
G-GOLD OR SILVER: Gold. Silver. Both. Just gimme.
H-HOMETOWN: Barboursville, WV
I-INSTRUMENTS YOU PLAY: Men
J-JOB TITLE: Empress of the Known Universe. Or part time seasonal sales clerk. Don't nitpick.
K-KIDS: Two- or four-legged? Narrow the focus, people.
L-LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: An apartment known as The Vast Misrepresentation. They showed the model to the GM1 when he was renting and bait-and-switched him when it came time to move in. At least I have ongoing entertainment.
M-MOM'S NAME: Judy.
N-# OF WIMMEN YOU'VE SLEPT WITH: 3
O-OVERNIGHT HOSPITAL STAYS: Five, with uncountable ER visits as a sideline.
P-PHOBIA: Bugs. Swimming in opaque water. The Snuggles fabric softener bear.
Q-QUOTE YOU LIKE: "The Fear had two parts. Number one, that you have lost control absolutely. Number two, that, having done so, the real you emerges and you won't like it." Tom Maddox, "Snake Eyes".
R-RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION: Agnostic
S-SIBLINGS: A brother, younger and more talented.
T-TIME YOU WAKE UP: Disgustingly and against my will, at 4:30AM. It's the time the GM1 has to rise to get off to work, and now so ingrained in my internal clockwork that I get up the same time even on weekends. By about 3PM, I am a cranky, nap-desiring bitch.
U-UNIQUE HABIT: I am unique in my sheep-like mediocrity.
V-VEGETABLE YOU REFUSE TO EAT: Beets. Ewww.
W-WORST HABIT: Stubbornness.
X-X-RAYS YOU'VE HAD: I am a radiologist's dream, because I've had so many I know just how to place whatever injured bit it is on the table all by myself.
Y-YUMMY FOOD YOU MAKE: Oh, puh-leeze!
Z-ZODIAC SIGN: Virgo- perfectionist, yet. Virgin? Uh huh... and I have a lovely bridge for sale.

via Across the Atlantic

Peevish

While amazingly today's trip out into shoppingland had no bizarre encounters, it did reawaken in me a list of stray peeves. *

1. Dark lipliner with pale lipstick. This produces a look my grandfather used to call "sucking hind tit." He's quite accurate.
2. If you aren't crippled but are merely Shamu-size obese, you don't belong in those little scooter-in-the-store things. If anyone needs to walk, it's you.
3. This isn't the third world, people. In America, there is a personal space of at least eighteen inches. Back off and quit wheezing down my neck. And when I move my purse around to the front of my body away from you, don't give me that injured/pissed off glare. It didn't work when I stepped back onto your instep, so why would it now?
4. Stalking me by following me to my car so you can have my parking space is one sure way of guaranteeing I am going to put my stuff in the car and walk back toward the store, just long enough for you to drive on past. Lady, there are at least 3 other spaces within a car-length. God forbid you might have to walk a parking space or two farther to get to your lazy, fat-ass-enabling scooter, right?
5. If I am in the right lane but not turning right on red, don't you dare honk at me from behind. I will dump the clutch and forget how to restart the car for at least two lights worth.
6. And finally, if you must have a screaming fit at your kids, please do it once you're past my driveway, not in the bloody middle of it.

That is all. Thank you.
I think Chez Cheese is due a little early Happy Hour.
* I don't like them enough to make them "pet" peeves.

Sum Of Her Parts

Everyone seems to be doing those "100 Things About Me" lists. I'd like to get onboard, but I just can't find the time. Okay, yeah, totally lying.... I have time out the yinyang, I just can't think of 100 things.
So here is my abbreviated list, to sooth the meme gods:

1. Everything you've heard about me is true.
2. Except for all the things you heard that were lies.
3. I am very bad at lists.

Do you all have anything you want to add? Now taking applications for an autobiographer.

Emeril Schmemeril

Today's cooking tip:
If you are boiling noodles to make lasagna, and decide to pass the time waiting for said boiling to be finished by rollicking through your blogroll and get all caught up in following link to link to link until suddenly you hear an odd crackling noise and notice the air is full of stinky smoke because all the water has boiled away and the noodles are black ribbons on the bottom of the pan that you will never in your wildest efforts remove.... they're done.

Bloody hell.

"Brevity is the soul of wit"- Willy S.

So this is pretty damn witty.
via Across The Atlantic

Bobo's Choice #26A

Everybody needs a little Red Meat in their diet.

Encounters With A Deity

I been scooped! Okay, yeah, I know it's not the first time. I'm usually the last one to find things out. (That Galileo guy, with his whole "the sun goes in the center"... could someone have just sent me a memo? Geez.)
So when I posted yesterday that I'd voted, I intended to follow up with an explanation of why I was happy Arnold won. (By the way, he's going to be Governor Arnold until he gets a last name that's a durn sight easier to spell. )
But another episode of "Joe Schmo" other important stuff happened, and I didn't get around to it.

Da Goddess did.
Damn her.
And she said exactly what I was thinking, only in a much more literate and bloggable way.
Double damn her.
To top it all off, it turns out she's not only younger than me, but less gravity-cursed and a fantastic conversationalist who knows the cool places to shop and where the best hot dogs are.
A mighty pox on her and her hot dogs too.

I know all this because I finally met Joanie, live and in person, the other day.

I live only a spit and a holler down the interstate from Joanie. Since I moved here back in July, we'd planned to meet up, if only to see if it triggers the Apocalypse, but one thing or another kept us cancelling plans.

We finally, day before yesterday, managed to escape our various obligations and find clean shirts and arrange a rendevous at IKEA.
I've never been to IKEA.
Now I might just move in there.

It's huge. It's the size of Disneyland with the instincts of CostCo and the design tastes of Swedish men with rippling biceps, washboard abs, and just a touch of gayness.
If "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" were on a serious budget, they'd be at IKEA.

So Joanie and I bonded during the shopping experience. She got a few nice things to trick out her son's room, which sounds like an undersea-themed bit of kid heaven.
I got a rubber ice tray that produces heart-shaped ice cubes.

After we calmed down from bargain-adrenaline, we found the world's fattest hot dogs and lunched while we talked. And talked. And yapped. And conversed. And swapped stories. And yammered on until before we knew it, two hours had passed.
Joanie, as it turns out, is not just the phrase-turner online. She's more fun to listen to than a Stephen King audio book, without the gore and mutated prom queens.
We'd most likely be there still, shooting the proverbial shit, if my bladder were bigger.

So now a blogbuddy is a flesh and blood friend.
I might even have to forgive her for being younger. And cuter. And having a bigger rack.
Maybe. We'll see.

Yay Me!

All Shook Up

Did anybody else down here feel that?

That's just down the road about 4 miles from my apartment. Kind of wobbled me around jello-ish, but no damage. It was a 3.9. Not quite Northridge, but still...

It made me a bit quivery. See the big red square? That's just a dead-cat-throw from Chez Cheese.
Okay, Happy Hour starts now, far as I'm concerned.

The Fourth Bus of the Apocalypse

I have a little friend named Rachel, who's eight years old and writes the most tremendous stories. She has a great control of the language, creative spelling, and long, tangled storylines that all come to one singular resolution: Whenever Rachel runs out of plot, she simply kills off everyone in the story.
Abruptly.
"So... then Timmy and Bart and their dog ran into a rock and died. The End."

In our last couple of days in Hawaii before the move back to California, the GM1 and I thought we should take a bus tour, since we'd never bothered before.
Our driver, Jerry, was channeling Rachel that day.

We took the tour that went to the Arizona Memorial, up to Punchbowl Cemetery, and then circled back down to downtown Waikiki through some of the scenic neighborhoods. Jerry warned us when we started out that he wasn't going to follow the usual script, but that he wanted to "just talk" to us.
Not really enough warning, as it turned out.

Jerry had a little decision-making disorder. He couldn't decide if he were one of god's chosen people by virtue of being Hawaiian, or if he were one of the saddest, most underprivileged of all people, being Hawaiian. His spiel throughout the day swerved from pinnacle to ditch... he was overjoyed to be a native, a special person blessed with that most perfect life- living Hawaiian, which as far as he was concerned was a group superior to all other life forms. Ditchwise, he was a poverty-stricken, economically disadvantaged wretch, barely scrapping by on the mere pittance he grovelled from his humble life as a native Hawaiian.
He'd driven heads of state and descendents of royalty, who had chosen him because he was 100% pure blood Hawaiian native. He'd sucked the eyeballs from octopii he'd caught while fishing to make ends meet.
We got the feeling it was all at the same time.
Jerry had a dangerous superiority complex coupled with an overwhelming desire to guilt all the tips he could out of his captive audience.
Jerry also refused to stop for bathroom breaks.

As we drove from landmark to landmark, Jerry told us of how Governor So-and-So built this mansion for his lovely bride and their son, ending it "and then he died." So Widow Governor raised her son to become Territorial Attorney, but "then she died." Sonny inherited, but "then, suddenly, he died" as did the priest who built the biggest church downtown but on the eve of its first service "he all at once died." And that monument over there, the big golden warrior? The sculptor never saw it in place because "then he died."
By the time we hit Chinatown, the entire bus was chanting in unison at the end of every Jerry sentence "then he died. Then he died. THEN HE DIED!"
Yep, the tour bus of death.

As luck would have it, the GM1 and I were the first ones off the bus, and we tipped Jerry nicely, considering. The last we saw of Jerry, he was swerving out into traffic, crying over his gratuity.

And then he died.
just kidding

DIY

So I'd set out some hamburger to thaw in anticipation of dinner. For some reason, the market sells their burger in a sort of tube... like sausage.
The GM1 was heading to the kitchen, and I asked him to see how far the thaw was.
"Squeeze the meat log" is unfortunately how I put it.
"Squeeze the meat log? You want ME to squeeze the meat log?" he gasped. "Why the hell did I get married, then?"

You Want Fried With That?

This week's Friday Five has stirred up a car memory.
Settle down, children, and I'll tell you the story about how Auntie LeeAnn almost killed a man.

A long long time ago, in a place called Appalachia, there lived a lady who was at the end of her rope, having just divorced her second loser husband, an impulse buy who turned out to be a violent alcoholic with a psychotic family.
The lady needed a job. And the lady, being the idiot she was, thought she needed a boyfriend.
In a series of negotiations that are too lenghty to go into now, let's just cut to the chase and say the lady found a boyfriend, married him, went into business with him, and discovered that he too was a raving alky.
Obviously, that idiot lady grew up to be me.

I decided a few years into things to leave the business and go back to college. One of the few benefits of being married to a black-out drunk is a lot of promises get made in the heat of babble. Most often, I could get Artie to make good on whatever he'd promised.
This time, it was the promise to get me a car.

After a few shopping trips, he found a nearly-new Renault Fuego. At the time, it was the hottest car I'd ever had. It was turbo! I didn't have a clue at the time as to what "turbo" meant, but it sounded good. It also had the best sound system I'd had in a car. My previous way was to jury-rig a boombox to the car speakers. I was more in love with the car than I was with Artie.

One evening, I went on a Girls Night Out with some friends. When they dropped me off, it was late and I was tired and I went straight up to bed. I dragged myself out of the sack the next morning, planning to load up darling Fuego with the laundry and hit the washateria.
When I went out to the curb, I noticed Fuego was sitting kind of funny. I tiptoed with dread around to the driver's side and discovered why. The entire side, from front bumper to rear, was indented about a foot and a half. The tires were gone- shredded completely off. The rims were sitting bent on the ground.
It was an ex-parrot.

After I picked up the laundry off the street, I stormed back into the house.
Artie was lying in the bathtub, washcloth over his eyes, soaking away his hangover.
"Art?" I said calmly. "Did you have any...uh, car trouble last night?"
"Mmm" he grunted. "Running a little rough. You might wanna get that checked."
"I did check" I said through gritted teeth. "You killed my car."
"Mmm?"
I picked up the hairdryer from the vanity and turned it on. I dangled it by one finger over the tub and Artie's bald spot.
"You.... killed..... my.... CAR!!" I howled.
Art peeked out from under the washcloth.
"Hey, you pissed?"
I waggled the hair dryer. "You killed my car. And now I'm going to kill you."
I've never seen testicles retract so fast. It was like a pair of wet groundhogs diving into a burrow.
I stood there for half an hour, wailing and detailing the damage to the car and the damage I was going to do to him. Finally I wound down, turned off the hairdryer, and stomped off. We never metioned the incident again, but I noticed he began locking the door when he'd bathe.

Eventually the Fuego was repossessed, because Artie had the notion that if you couldn't drive it, you didn't have to pay for it. I was young and dumb and didn't know any better.
I learned fast.

Artie's gone now. I heard after we split up that he lost his driver's license and had to hitchhike everywhere.
Carma.

Hail To The Chief

The GM1 has a buddy named Jake. Jake has a distinct preference for dining at Chili's. Jake likes Chili's because Chili's makes a particular drink, a mega-margarita called El Presidente. Jake makes it a point to have several El Presidentes whenever we dine at Chili's.

Did I mention Jake is such a lightweight when it comes to drinking?

After the first, Jake begins to smile wider and talk slower. After the second, Jake's eyes droop and he sits rather crookedly. Following the third, Jake is upright by virtue of being propped in the corner of the booth. After drink number four, while Jake alternates between mutters and shouts of "El PresiDENT-ay!", Jake will begin to slide under the table, at which point we take Jake home.

Then we take terrible pictures of him, sprawled in a happy drunken state, where he will lie until morning when the cat will awaken him by sitting on his face.

So, anybody know any good hangover remedies?

(thanks to Ted for awakening a memory)

I Sense A Trend

Everything seems to go in threes. If someone famous dies, you automatically wait for the other two shoes to drop.
But I've never seen news stories go all three-by before.

"High Rise Drama In Harlem As Police Subdue Tiger"
comes on the heels rear paws of:
"Tiger Attacks Roy Onstage".
And local boy makes good to complete the news trifecta:
Tiger has his six month blogiversary!

Bobo's Choice #901

The art of Philip M. Jackson.
This one is my personal favorite, because I always suspected as much.

Inexplicable

I just got called "just another big machine". I've got no clue what is meant by that.
(it's blogsplat, gotta scroll down)

Would It Still Be Friday Without The Five?

Time to answer stuff. Today's theme seems to be What Drives You?

1. What vehicle do you drive?
I have a four door green Saturn, not new and not pristine. I call him Bobo, which is short not for bobothemonkeyboylovescheese, but short for Buddha Rex. Buddha because he is a very quiet, calm, mundane car, and Rex because he's green like a T. Rex.
The dinosaur, not the band.
Did I mention I name most everything I have?

2. How long have you had it?
We've had Bobo for three and a half years now. He was actually an emergency purchase. In the midst of all the flurry and madness of preparing to move to Hawaii back in 2000, our then-car, Eric, irreparably broke. Eric had a full-blown collapse.... the tranny fell completely out at the same time that the block cracked. To top it off, it happened on the way back from the Renaissance Faire. The GM1 and I stood on the side of the highway, two hundred miles from home, dressed in Ren Faire outfits, with dead cell phone batteries and blisters in our shoes. Fortunately, when we finally located the emergency call box, the operator knew a tow company that could get us back down to San Diego.
It cost us over $350. I could have flown to Vegas for $350. And had free shrimp cocktail besides.
So after Eric was examined by several experts (the GM1's only automotively-knowledgeable friend and a Mexican guy from the gas station down the street) and pronounced dead, we went shopping.
Okay, so we didn't go shopping. We saw an ad, took two buses and a trolley ride, went to the dealership, bought Bobo used in the traditional "bend over and take it like a man at the end of his rope" ceremony.
Doesn't make me love Bobo any less.

3. What is the coolest feature on your vehicle?
The ceiling. Apparently the previous owner got a little crazy with a can of soda. There were spots and stains all over the ceiling.
Yes, I said soda. I'm sticking to soda. It's the only way I can get in the car without a full-body condom.
Anyway, to cover these SODA spots that refuse to come off, I glued rhinestones over them. All over the ceiling. At first it was just going to be over the spots (soda spots, I said). Then I had grandiose plans to form them into the constellations. But I got distracted and eventually the ceiling became a free-form sparkliness. It's a work in progress.

4. What is the most annoying thing about your vehicle?
It has a big ding in the door, where the GM1, in his quest to put me in the looney bin, had an encounter with a HUGE pickup truck on the freeway to Honolulu. The truck, needless to say, escaped unscathed. Bobo did not, nor did the GM1 once he fessed up to me.
It's not that it's so hideously ugly that's annoying, it's that the scrape attracts those repair-remora, the ones who cruise around looking for cars with body problems and then pull up to you at the stop light....
"Hey, momma, you got bad damage to your vehicle! You wan I should fix it? I very good."
"Uh, no, it's okay."
"Oh no no, momma, you don wan be driving roun wit dat on your car, it could make bad accident."
"It's just the door. I think it's okay."
"Ooooh, momma, I think you wan me come your house and fix. I can come right now. I follow you, 'k?"
"Uh, no, don't do that. Don't need it fixed. Buh-bye."
"No, no problem, momma, I follow. I fix it up real fine. I can be right wit you all way home... momma, who you callin'? Momma, you don need be call no one. Uh... okay, we go. Geez, bitch."
I love my cell phone.

5. If money were no object, what vehicle would you be driving right now?
This has always been my dream car: a white, convertible, old-style VW bug, painted plaid, with floral interior and a CD player.
Mmmmmm.
Excuse me, I need some private time.

Still Waters- John's Second Cousin

I took another quizzy thing.

The Big Five Personality Test

Extroverted	||||||||||	40%
Introverted	||||||||||||||	60%
Friendly	||||||||||||	44%
Aggressive	||||||||||||||	56%
Orderly	||||||||||||||||||	72%
Disorderly	||||||	28%
Relaxed	||||	18%
Emotional	||||||||||||||||||||	82%
Intellectual	||||||||||||||||	62%
Practical	||||||||||	38%

Take Free Big 5 Personality Test

For The Record

What's up with all the cheese? you ask. Am I "cheesy"?
I have been to Wisconsin only once, in the dead of night, driving through.
I am not a cheesehead.
I am not a big Green Bay Packer fan.
Nor am I cheap, common, mean, rubbishy, shoddy, sleazy, tatty, or trashy.
I admit to ornery and poor, however.
But thank you, astute reader Jimbo, for inquiring.

LeeAnn's Day Out, Part Three

I'm usually a kind and generous person. I bet most of you are. I feel sorry for those less fortunate than I am. If a homeless person approaches me and doesn't smell like he's been bathing in Jack Daniels, I most likely will give him my spare change.

Unless I try to run him over with my car.

I was sitting in my car preparing to leave the mall, when my mother called me on the cell, needing my advice on birthday gifts for an uncle. One thing led to another and we were off on a yap fest.

Tap tap tap on my car window.
It was a woman, all layered up in multitudes of clothing. I ventured a guess that she was homeless by the shopping cart full of cardboard and scraps she was tugging on.

I rolled down the window.
"Do you have a dollar?" she asked.
I immediately got tipsy just from being downwind.
"Uh, no." I replied, and rolled the window back up.
Tap tap tap.
I rolled the window down.
"Gimme a dollar!"
"No, I don't HAVE a dollar!" and rolled the window back up.
Pause.
Tap tap TAP TAP TAPTAPTAPTAP!
"I KNOW you gots a dollar, you bin shoppin', now you GIMME A DOLLAR NOW!"
"NO! Go away!" I yelled and rolled the window up again.

By now my mom was peeing herself laughing. We went back to our conversation and by the time we hung up, I'd pretty much put Miss Gimme out of my mind.
Until I tried to back out of my parking space.

Miss Gimme was leaning on the trunk of my car. I politely beeped the horn to let her know I was backing out. She politely turned around and gave me the finger.
I rolled down my window.
"Get out of the way!"
"FUCK YOU, BITCH, GIMME MY DOLLAR!"
I could see our relationship was swiftly going downhill.
So I put the car in reverse and edged back just a tad.
Miss Gimme shrieked like I'd driven over her with a Humvee.
"YOU!" she screamed. "YER TRYIN' TO KIIIIIIIILLLL ME!"
When she started pounding on my trunk with her fists, I revv'd the motor and back up another half inch.
It was like someone had put a helium tank up Fran Drescher's butt and beat her with a scalded cat.
"YER RUNNIN' ME OVER! YOU JUST WAIT! I'M GONNA GET THE SECURITY GUARD TO COME SHOOOOOOOT YER ASS!"

I am an inconsiderate bitch, because I didn't wait for her to come back with Barney Fife to shoot my ass.
I rolled up my window and drove home.
And when I got there, I found a dollar in the driveway.

Postscript: I think Bill picked up Miss Gimme's granny.

Q: Favorite Input Device? A: Sausage of Power

Which OS are You?

via Tobacco Road Fogey

LeeAnn's Day Out, Part Two

Starbucks has just too damn many things on the menu board.
Especially if you're Ruby.

I stood behind Ruby for over 15 minutes today. Ruby could not quite wrap her mind around the plethora of items with which Starbucks wanted to caffinate her.
Ruby was about 600 years old. She leaned her tiny little old head back so far to puzzle out the difference between a grande and a venti that I fully expected her tiny little old neck to snap and her blue-rinsed noggin to go rolling out into the mall proper.
Then Ruby met up with Zoom.
Yes, his name tag said Zoom.
Don't ask me.

Apparently Zoom was new to Starbucks employment, because when Ruby would ask for a clarification of a beverage, Zoom would excuse himself to have an urgent, whispered consultation with the other Starbucks employees. He'd then come back and explain the selection to Ruby.
Unfortunately, Zoom had a very impressive desire to learn every possible detail, and Ruby had the attention span of a hummingbird. He was explaining mocha latte and she had moved on to frappachino.

At last Ruby decided what she wanted.
Coffee.
That was all she would say. "I want a coffee!" she'd squeak out, and Zoom would say "Yes, but what KIND of coffee?"
"HOT coffee!" she'd announce, stomping her tiny little old foot.
Finally someone in the back persuaded Zoom to ring up her coffee and move on before the rest of the waiting customers rioted.
"What is your name?" he asked, preparing to write it on her cup.
"My name" she said after a quick shuffle through her purse to confirm, "is Ruby Delilah Montgomery. I live at 17564 Delano Street, San Diego, California. My zip code is 91207. My telephone number is...."
Zoom looked like he was having an aneurysm.

Ruby was coaxed down to the receiving end of the line to await her coffee.
I don't know if she ever got it.
When Zoom looked at me, pale and shivering, he begged "Please, tell me you know what you want" in such a pitiful moan that I started giggling so hard I swallowed my altoid and had to go outside.

I hope your coffee was yum, Ruby.

LeeAnn's Day Out, Part One

I went to the mall today, for no real reason.
This, in and of itself, is no great cause for alarm. People go to malls all across the country, with little or no damage.
But it's a different story with me.
If I go anywhere, I am bound to have Encounters.

It's true. Every time I venture out of my little cheesy burrow, I have An Encounter. Remember when I first moved here and met the Jesusfinger Man on the bus? It was a harbinger... a harbinger of Things To Come.

Sometimes Encounters aren't mutant-based. Often it's just me, being myself and finding that somewhat askew of what's normal.
(I blame the cheese. Cheese doesn't care if you blame it, by the way. It's just happy to be a part of life, liberty, and the pursuit of crackers.)

Take, for example, Encounter Number One of the day....
I went to the prettiest store in the mall, Sephora. For those of you who missed the memo, Sephora is the be-all, end-all of makeup shops. I have very little resistance to the lure of eyeshadows in 73 shades of green and mascara guaranteed to give you lashes that create a personal tornado when you bat your eyes.

And perfume... smells and scents and colognes in every sniff of the rainbow. Now, since Sephora is a rather upscale joint, they have those wee bits of cardboard you (ideally) spray a splash to see what it smells like.
Then there are the folk like me, who spray the tester directly on their wrist... and when there's no more space left on the wrists, they move up the arms. Eventually there isn't a square inch of exposed skin that isn't innundated with aroma, and that's when you know it's time to leave.
In a cloud of your own making.

As I paid for my purchases, the salesgirl sniffed. And sniffed. She stood stock still and sniffed a third time, finally identifying the source. It was me.
I shrugged and explained how I just couldn't resist all the lovely perfumes, and she agreed, yes, it was nose-numbingly evident I had no will power.
"That's how I know it's time to go" I continued. "When I finally smell like a French whorehouse."
You know how sometimes the words come out before the brain kicks it? I bet you do.
"But" I hastened to add, "it smells like a very classy whorehouse."

And I took my stinky self and left.
In a cloud.

These Are Definitely Not My Underwear

I have six goldfish and one catfish.

The goldfish are named:
Tallulah
Manny
Peddy
PingPong
Lesley
Bruce

The catfish is named Infomercial.

The GM1 says posts like this make me sound like Rainman.

Tis The Season

Kevin at Wizbang has something to say about the whole FCUK pseudo-scandal.
This seems to be an annual thing....

as evidenced by last year's offering from Neiman Marcus.

Annoying The People In The Car Next To Me Since 1975

I sing in the car.
Loud.
Enthusiastically.
With feeling.
I can't carry a tune in a bucket, by the way.

This doesn't stop me from letting go and wailing along with whatever song has caught my fancy. When "Chicago" (the movie, not the band), I immediately got the soundtrack and wore it out. I did the same with "Grease".
"My Fair Lady" never really caught on, nor did "Oklahoma."

There is nothing, repeat, nothing to equal the looks you get from a car full of hausfrau on their way to the mall when you serenade them at the stop light with "Ballad of Chasey Lane" by Bloodhound Gang.
I know. Trust me.

Currently I'm working my way through the soundtrack to "Not Another Teen Movie". It has a lot of remade 80s stuff, like a Marilyn Manson version of "Tainted Love" and Goldfinger's "99 Red Balloons."
I'm a big 80s new wave fan. All my best scandalous moments happened with a new wave soundtrack.

Yesterday, despite the fact that dogs drop comatose when I sing, I was applauded by the guy who stands on the median bumming for change, as I belted out "Dead Flowers" along with the Rolling Stones. It has such great lyrics...
Take me down little Susie, take me down
I know you think you're the Queen of the Underground
And you can send me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave

What do you sing in the car? Or in the shower? What are you singing right now?

Bobo's Choice #67.9

Happy October! Isn't it time to learn to speak English?