the cheese stands alone

Talk Amongst Yourselves

The Cheese is on hiatus. More upon the return.

Who Needs A Calendar?

Nothing says Tuesday morning like waking up early to see the sun rise, have some good coffee, and watch a giant snake try to swallow Jennifer Lopez's ass.

Eppie's Fanny

I may have to take another vacation just to catch up on all my blogroll reading.

In the Native Tongue

Two conversations I had while in West Virginia:

Me: "Excuse me, do you have the time?"
Kwiky Stop clerk: "Fer whut?"

while using Mom's I.D. to pay for stamps with a check:
Postal clerk: "This doesn't look like you."
Me: "Ever see that show "Nip/Tuck"? "
Postal clerk: "Oh.... okay."

The Return of the Prodigal Cheese

Well, I survived. And without increasing my police record local reputation, so aren't you all just proud of me?
In ratio terms, it was a good visit.... 3 weeks great to 1 week hell.
Of course I took notes. Just because I'm missing the machinery to post doesn't mean the mental posting ever stops.
Glad to be back home, in my own little fromage.
And yes, I missed you.

Hey, Over Here!

Still visiting here in West Virginia.
Have not worn shoes since I got here.
Also have not married any cousins.
However, have developed close relationship with livestock.
Have been to WalMart over 25 times so far.
This is called "local social life".
Have learned to can beans.
Canned over 163 quarts of beans.
Now hate beans.
Will return to Maison Fromage and usual bloggy ways sometime within 3 weeks.
Mom says hi, y'all.

All Blogged Down

As I said earlier (were you listening or were you just doing that thing where you nod your head and mutter "uh huh" at random while you daydream about what's for lunch or what the hell Courtney Cox was thinking, because David Arquette is about as toxically goofy as Carrottop and how in the name of holy nether bits can you roll over in bed and respond to someone like that? Inquiring minds might want to know.) I shouldn't be blogging, I gots chores, people...especially since I have A Vacation coming up.
Yes, I won't be blogging for a while after a while while I'm gone.
While-ing away the hours....
Sorry.
Now, of course I tangented off and thought "Hmm, I could call it a blogcation."
You can add the word "blog" to any word there is, and create a specific, contextually-useful meaning, infusing it with that whole super-legitimacy that blogging provides.
Blogiverse.
Blogworld.
Blogcation.
Blogaholic.
Blogpanties.
Okay, that one needs some work but it was mainly to see if you're paying attention.
Stop nodding, I'm on to you.

How do you use "blog"?
Discuss until I get back, which should be around the end of August.

And Harvey.... no parties in my comments unless you stand everyone a drink in my absent honor.
I mean, in honor of my absence. My honor, although a bit rumpled, is still around.
Somewhere.... hmm, last time I saw it, it was under the bed with the big box of batteries.....

See y'all later.

Oh NO You Don't!

Let me make this absolutely crystal....
This is not the one true Cheese. In fact, I am planning a class action lawsuit on behalf of all cheeses, for defamation and general icky-feeling inducement by having to think of that steaming pile of cow poop Kerry in the same thought process at the sacred word "Cheese".

Let me also say it's silly to use the phrase "the cheese stands alone" with any connection to John Kerry.
Standing requires a backbone, you know.
(big hugs to John Jack of Random Fate for pointing out this heresy to me.)

Suzanne Is A People Person

Sometimes you look at your cellphone and see the little icon that means "Hey, schmuck, you paid all this moolah and you don't even turn the ringer on? What's up with THAT?", otherwise known as a Missed Call.
Now, if it's your mom or your sister or your friend, you smack your forehead and say "D'oh!" and call them back, apologizing for missing the call but you were busy taking Homer Simpson Elocution Lessons.
If it's work, you change your phone number immediately and claim temporary Van Gogh syndrome ("I was out giving my ear to a prostitute and forgot to listen with the other... sorry.")
And if it's a number unfamiliar to you, and if you're bored, you call back.
I called back.
I spoke to Suzanne.
Suzanne is a People Person.

Suzanne: "Hello, Suzanne Bitchpants, how may I help you?"
Me: "Um... sorry to disturb you, this number was left on my phone and I thought I should return the call...."
Suzanne: *very curt tone* "I didn't leave any number on your phone."
Me: "I have a missed call from this number... 858-658-****. That's this number, right?"
Suzanne: "That's MY number." (and how dare you speak the sacred numerals aloud, heathen scum!)
Me: "So someone at this number called me and it was left on my phone."
Suzanne: "That is MY number, my personal cellphone number, and I NEVER give it out. "
Me: "Then you called me about ten minutes ago."
Suzanne: "No, I certainly did NOT." (I rarely climb down off this pedestal to dial, I have minions and lackeys to do such menial tasks.)
Me: "Okay, then, it was a mistake, never mind."
Suzanne: "I made no such mistake. I have no idea who you are and I never called you."
Me: "Fine. Bye now."
Suzanne: "Do you still have this number in your call log?"
Me: "Uh, yeah, it's logged in."
Suzanne: "You need to erase that number immediately." (Or else I'll release the hounds!)
Me: "Do what?"
Suzanne: "Erase it. Right now. I can't have just anyone having access to my number. "
Me: "Are you a spy?"
Suzanne: "What?"
Me: "Or with the CIA? FBI? Interpol?"
Suzanne: "Um... I'm in real estate." (Although I'm just a receptionist, I plan to take over just as soon as the boss notices my incredibly business acumen, superhuman attention to detail, and professional-quality blowjobs.)
Me: "So this is a secret number, huh?"
Suzanne: "Yes. I mean, no. I mean, it's not secret, it's.... STOP CALLING ME!"
Me: "You called me first."
Suzanne: "I dialed the wrong number, okay!" (There, you made me admit to a mistake. My entire existence is now meaningless. Alas, I die, I die!)
Me: " Okay... talk to you later!"
Suzanne: "No! No! "
Me: "Buh-bye."
*click*

I might have to open an EBay account and auction her number off. It's not every day you have the cellphone number of a spy.

You Can't Win If You Don't Play

Yes, of course, we believe you. When you win the lotto, you're not going to change. You're going to be the same old regular Joe or Jane (or both, but I don't like to pry) you always were. You're going to keep your job, and you're going to put a ton of money in trust funds and savings, and you're going to give a hefty amount to charity, and build that park on the vacant lot where the tweakers shoot up.... because, you know, it's all about the children.

C'mere. Over here, where it's private, just you and me.

Bullshit time over. You've got a ton of money. And I know you've got that secret list.
What are you gonna do with all that moolah?
(leave your list in the comments.... mine is in the extended entry doowally.)

Stuff LeeAnn Is Going To Spend A Pile On, Because I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, the People Like Me.

1. New digital camera, with a bigger memory capacity than 12meg, because that's all this old p.o.s. I got scammed by my own father purchased used from a close family member will bear. It's so freakin' old, the pictures are chisled on tiny peebles by gnomes and excreted through an apeture in the rear.
Heh, she said excreted.
And I want to be able to post entries like this.

2. Yeah, a house. Yeah, a car. Yeah, a vacation home in the tropics with poolboys and faucets that run with icy margaritas 24/7. But what I really want is one of these cuties:

3. And so I have something to use that fancy-schmancy digital camera on,
beside pictures of my new dog Jesus (I have always always wanted a Chinese
Crested puppy named Jesus. Pronounced the non-Mexican way. Humor me.) driving my new car (yes, Jesus will drive my car. My plaid new VW Bug. Again, humor me.) to my tastefully-decorated home out in the hills away from the hoi-polloi, I will have the exclusive services on tap of the best plastic surgeon I can find. I'm not just getting new boobs and a lift kit. Oh no, I'm getting it all. New arse, new eyebrows, new toes. Fluff and fold, baby, fluff and fold.

4. And of course, being the sweetheart I am, I'll get a little something for the GM1.

So, just between me, you, and the gatepost... what's on your list?

It's the American Way

I have approximately a million and twelve things to do today, all of them equal priority and very very time-dependent.... make that a million and thirteen, to include counting all the things I need to do, in the holy name of accuracy.
So, since I am so scheduled-up and penciled-in, I am going to do the proper thing: I'm going to blog about every little passing distraction, every other minute and a half (that's ninety seconds for those of you with that accuracy fetish), and brush aside my legitimate responsibilities with the time-honored cry: "Just one more! Just one more post, I swear!"
Because it's right, and it's proper, and gawdamn it, it's the American way.
And because this coffee is STRONG.

Tangentally

I saw "Shrek 2" this weekend, and while it was extremely good and I am in love with Puss in Boots, it stuck a song in my head. Damn you, Shrek.
I have "I Need A Hero" earwormed and must find a way to purge it. Perhaps if I list my personal heroes list.....

In no particular order (after the first two):
1. The GM1
2. United States military
3. Tyler Durden
4. Chuck Yeager
5. Ellen Ripley
6. Patton
7. Al Swearengen
8. William Gibson
9. Miles Vorkosigan
10. Bobby Shaftoe
11. William the Bloody
12. Henry VIII
13. Leonardo da Vinci

Who are your heroes?

And That's Pork LOIN, By the Way...

Tonya and I have this special greeting that is a bit different.
When we answer phone calls from each other, or meet up somewhere, we roar "Smells lahk AAAASSSSSSSSSSS!"
This has a perfectly rational backstory, if you'll just bear with me.
It really does.
And it doesn't even have anything to do with farts.
Really.

Quite a long time ago, I was shopping in the commissary at Pearl Harbor, and since it was before I had blogging for a creative outlet, I was entertaining Tonya via cellphone about the many oddments I'd seen there. The man in the toga, the lady with the mismatched shoes, the children who climbed completely into the ice cream freezer and stuffed their faces until their very bored mom pulled them out, covered in sticky.
At the meat department, one of the butcheresses butcherettes Lorena Bobbits in training butcher ladies, a tiny little Asian woman, was instructing an obviously new bride in the fine points of meat selection.
"Now, dis, dis is da steak," she explained, holding up a package of meat. "An dis, dis is da stew meat. An dis here, dis is da rump roast..... But doan worry, it doan smell lahk ass."
And thusly, a Phrase Is Born.

Now, the fart story....
Maybe later.

This Explains John Kerry

There's a fungus amongus.

"In other research, scientists have determined that fungi are more closely related to human beings and animals than to other plants."

update

Currently not blogging.
Not sick, just tired.
And no one is off the roll, stop worrying.

Plop

When it comes to my blog, I'm so elementary school I damn near eat paste.
In elementary school (or grade school, as we called it.... that must be a regional thing...anybody?) when someone pisses you off to the point you throw a screaming tantrum at their very existance offends you, they are Banished. They're Dead To You. Cut Out of the Circle.
At least until they bring cookies to class or have a new swingset... then it's all aboard the best friend express again.

Blogging is a lot like elementary grade school. If someone writes a post that makes my eyes cross with annoyance or my gorge rise offends me, I can't remove them from my blogroll fast enough. Then, of course following the formula, if somewhere down the line they write a post that compliments something I've scribbled, or something I was thinking about writing and they saved me the trouble admire, wham bam thank you MT, they're back on the roll.

This, while somewhat satisfying in a visceral way, is very tiring on days when political and belief pollen are floating through the blogworld in a cloud of bold-font sneezery and you can't mop up the blogsnot fast enough.
And as the GM1 pointed out, when I tried to explain it to him in our latest email, "If you delete everyone who pisses you off sometime, you're going to have no blogroll at all. And you'll miss Reno 911 again from being on the damn computer all the time, and when are you sending me those CDs I forgot to pack? Damn, woman, I need my Linkin Park!"
Elementary Grade school doesn't last forever. You grow up, you learn the finer niceties of dealing with conflict (like TP-ing someone's house, or cow-tipping). If you have a connection, it's not an on/off switch.
I'm not doing anything with my blogroll. I'm not trying to make a Big Policy Statement or stir the pot to see what bubbles to the top, because we all know I don't cook. (At least not so there are survivors.)
I'm just doing what I always do here.... I'm just talkin'.
And if you come out someday and your cow is tipped, it wasn't me.
(note to self: no more existential musing until after first cup of plasma coffee.... after, do ya ken wot I mean?)

Recycled

Nostalgia.... it's what makes us call up old friends, linger with blurry photos, and plumb our archives for stuff to re-post because we have zero new content....
From last year, I give you.....

Doggy In The Window

*ring ring*
LeeAnn: Hello? *long pause* Hello? Hellooooo?
Male: Uh, yeah? Is this the people what's gots the dog for sale?
L: Sorry, you have the wrong number.
M: Huh?
L: We don't have a dog.
M: Your dog no for sale?
L: No, we don't even HAVE a dog.
M: Did you sell him already?
L: No, we didn't sell a dog.
M: So you still gots the dog, huh?
L: Do we "gots" the dog? Uh...*muffled laughter*
M: How much are you asking?
L: For what?
M: The dog, man. How much's the dog?
L: *sigh* Okay. Okay. How much is the dog? There is no dog. We don't have a dog.
M: So he's got sold already? Damn.
L: *giving up* Yeah. No dog. Dog gone. Bye bye dog.
M: What kinda dog was he?
L: A dead dog. He died.
M: Man, you sold a dead dog? Are you shittin' me?
L: No, it just died. Recently. Like just before you called recently.
M: Man. *stunned silence*
M: So.... what kinda dog was he, anyway?
L: Tasty, really tasty.
M: Tasty? Is that like one of them little Shit Zoo things?
L: Yeah. Oops, gotta go, something's burning on the stove. Bye!
*click*

I need caller I.D. I really do.

Fritos Would Do, In a Pinch

Last night's dream consisted mainly of attempts to escape an exit-blocked military hospital full of zombies. I forced myself awake when I was faced with a charming blonde little girl in full curls and Alice-in-Wonderland garb, munching on her own ripped-from-the-shoulder arm and smiling at me with bloody teeth.
And as I sprang up in bed, successfully nightmare-free, I remember wondering aloud "Do we have any Cheetos?"

White Out

Your attention please.
For those of you who keep an address book and have room to alter the C page, let's have a little announcement:
The Cheese Stands Alone's email address will no longer be the hotmail one, but will be as follows:
cheesemistress at cox dot net
Those of you with important missives regarding financial woes in Nigeria, exotic computer virii, and annoying spammish advertising should send all mail to the following:
MichaelMoore@impotentfatassgasbag.com

That is all.

Marlon Perkins Would've Been Proud

I'm all nostalgic, in a very beastial way.
This post over at Publius & Co. got me thinking about my own pet rats from the past, and then I went wandering down memory lane and all my pets popped into my mind. And much in the way the cure for an earworm is to sing the entire song, the only way I can get my furry babies to rest and let me get some mental peace and quiet is to make a list...

1. My first pet was a dachshund named Alvin. No, that's not exactly true. I had some goldfish for nearly a week before my brother decided they needed to take a walk with him.
2. We had more cats than I can remember the names of when I was a child. Every time one of us would bring home a kitten, in all fairness the rest of us would get a kitten. Invariably every kitten we brought home was already pregnant. Some kind of spontaneous kitty mitosis or something.
3. We did have memorable dogs.... we had MickeyMichael (my mother had to double-name all our dogs), who'd had a high fever as a puppy and consequently was never a day over 3 months in his addled little dogbrain. There was MabelMichelle, who we adopted at a campsite as a ragged bag o'bones and who died so incredibly fat she could not lie on her side without the upper legs being unable to touch the ground, and who smelled like the diaper pile at the baby farm. (Yes, there is such a place as a baby farm, it's where babies come from, go ask my mom if you don't believe me. And if you kiss boys, you get warts. Everyone knows this.)
ToyToy was all boyboy and never stopped licking it. PepperPrettyPrincess was a butt-ugly semi-poodle who freaked out and PromptlyPiddled whenever you called her name.
4. I had a sweet cairn terrier named Conan, who my ex-may-she-rot-in-hell-mother-in-law promptly absconded with and refused to give back on the grounds she'd had him baptised and I was an atheist and unfit to raise him.
5. Then there was Caviar, the meanest ferret known to man. He'd take a finger off if you gave him lunging room. I gave him to my ex-may-she-rot-in-hell -mother-in-law with instructions that he liked to be petted.
6. I had a paraplegic guinea pig named Quatro, rescued from the pet shop where cruel previous owners had returned him damaged. He only lived another week, but he was a sweetheart, which led to my acquiring Stewart, an atypically anti-social guinea pig. He'd scream like a... well, like a pig, whenever you'd try to pet him. He lived for over 6 years, like a car alarm on a Ferrari in South Central.
7. Carlyle was my ball python, bought as a six week old bit of wiggly string and with me for over 12 years, when he retired to a career with a traveling animal show upon our disastrous move to Hawaii, whose short-sighted morons-in-charge would not allow him to come with us. Damn you, you spam-eating, hula-hula fascists! And your little poi too!
8. My rats started as rejected dinners for Carlyle (sorry, Victor!) and wound up as pets. Alan grew to the size of a soccer ball. Mr. Potatohead and Dionysus refused to be separated. Vlad bit everyone. Lump rarely moved.
9. However, in Hawaii, in addition to Squeeks, the neurotic cat who came to us from the inHumane Society, we cared for (in a three year period) over 55 stray cats. By the time we moved, we were going through 40 pounds of cat food a week.
10. Currently, I make do with my goldfish (Tallulah, Tammyfay, Leslie, Manny, and Bruce) and my betta (Carson). They're under the illusion that they're starving to death and beat themselves senseless on the front of the aquarium, begging to be fed five minutes after I've done just that.

I've left out the gerbils that my mother thought would be a good lesson in responsibility for us and which we all ignored, the five minute parakeet ("don't take it out of the cage, not with the cats in here... no, I said DON'T take... oh hell."), and the dog we fed for five years only to discover it belonged to the neighbor down the block who thought it was anorexic because she couldn't get it to eat.
I miss each and every (almost) every one of them, too.

Early Thematics

It ain't even 6 bloody AM and I sense a trend....
The first two songs on my randomized playlist were "Song of the Viking" by Todd Rundgren and "Birdhouse In My Soul" by They Might Be Giants (my favorite line in that one is the one that says:
"There’s a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
I’d be fired if that were my job
After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts"....)
Which, after reinspection, I realize isn't about Vikings at all, but for some reason I always imagined it was so it stands.
BUT!
Then the first email I opened this morning had a link from my sister-in-law to the Viking kitten movie.
Thus I can safely say we have a Viking theme going on today, and it's only right and proper that I dig up my old helmet hat with the Viking horns on it to wear to work today.
Because their opinion of me just isn't high enough, really now.

Two For One Deal

Gentlemen, start your engines.

Yesterday Mary Kate and Ashley turned 18.

Wet

Yesterday the GM1 and I went to Seaworld, because I got free tickets, which is always cool. I'd go to a dogfight in a garbage scow if I had free tickets, it's just the cheapass way I am. Which is, of course, not to say that Seaworld is anything like a dogfight, nor a garbage scow.
Unless you could the plethora of discarded baby diapers in the ladies' room or the two Asian women arguing loudly all through the Clyde and Seamore Sea Lion Show.
But wait... there's MORE!
The rapidly decaying piece of pseudo-technology shit trusty Cheesecam managed to work at least 1/5 of the time, and so I have pictures for a change!

This is the GM1 with his newfound friends from the show "Cirque de la Mer", which means "guys in tights doing amazing stuff without a visible package anywhere".



A swarm of jellyfish, with attractive lighting. No peanutbutter fish to be found.



My toes enjoyed the clean bathroom floors over next to the snowcone stand, just left of the shark exhibit. Now with improved toilet paper supplyage.



A starfish, from the tidal pool where they actually let you pick stuff up. Unless they don't, in which case I was never there and you can't prove a thing.



Your Cheesemistress, risking life and limb to show you her amazing sea creature rapport. And a wee bit of cleavage.

"Deadwood" Notes

Offhand, I'd say that as soon as the first season is out on DVD, it's mine.
Other thoughts:
1. As Bullock beat the so-very-deserved-everloving-daylights out of Alma Garret's daughter-extorting dad, I made the mental note to buy a Father's Day card.
2. The GM1, upon Alma's disrobing: "My, Alma's rather.... pert."
3. Best line: Doc to God, upon hearing Al Swearengen at his door, - "That'll be your competition."
4. Second best line, by Al of course: "Saying your plans out loud is a good way to make God laugh."
5. The Reverend, a.k.a. the retarded stork, finally was mercifully ended in his suffering. I cried like someone had barbequed my puppy.
6. Everyone needs a Dan Dority from time to time.

I'm so going to miss that show. Even the return of "Six Feet Under", while a mild consolation, isn't going to do it.
At least I've still got "Reno 911".

She Couldn't Sing Without Moving Her Lips

I discovered, to my vast increasing minute by minute wish that I would suffer a seizure, a complete blackout, or that the roof would cave in agony disappointment that "An Entertaining and Enlightening Evening of Original Tunes By The Area's Most Celebrated Feminist" means two hours of song in three varying chords, all about the overwhelmingly detailed and graphically described joys of her all in her head kinky sex life.
Oh, and the also described to within an inch of its wrinkled, "glowing sunset vibrant rose petalled" self glories of her vagina. You can't forget that.
I mean it, you really really can't. She handed out business cards afterward with a full color photographic close-up of it.
First impressions are still important, obviously.

Some Of You Will Understand This

Regarding tonight's season's finale of "Deadwood", specifically Al Swearengen's soliloquy on love, betrayal, and commerce vis a vis his childhood:
Shakespeare, you scribbling cocksucker, bow down.
Al is in the fucking house.

Damn, I love that show.

Consolation

Well, I just found out yesterday what everyone else who watches "Oz" on HBO knows... that the last show was the end of the series. I had to call my mom and tell her, since she is a serious "Oz" fan.
That in itself gives me pause, imagining my very proper mother enthralled by shankings, prison rape, and the Aryan brotherhood vs. the black drug dealers political machinations that "Oz" is famous for. Oh, and full-frontal male nudity.
She was such a fierce proponent of the show she got me hooked on it.
So when I called her, my poor little mommy actually got weepy. And I can understand it... she's retired, she got no one but my monosyllabic-grunt-as-conversation dad for company, and she can only potter about in the garden so long, you know. She needs the vicarious thrills that a manipulative hot murderer can give.
God knows I do.
And therein lies my errand goal for the day.... go out and get my mom all the seasons of "Oz" that are available on DVD. Because her birthday is on Saturday, and what's a birthday without a little tattoo'd criminal tushie?

An Emaily Explanation

Dear Goddess,
I am sneak-emailing. Don't tell the GM1, cos I'm not supposed to be up, let alone mucking about on the computer.
I think you gave me your sinus thingy. The doctors pulled it out of your dainty schnozz and using stealth alien abduction technology, implanted it in my head and made me dream I was having probe sex with an alien who looked a lot like Colin Farrell. Or the Farrelly brothers. I get confused.
Point is, I've been laid low (was that a pun? Must check rules...) by a "serious" sinus infection. My doc likes to say "serious" a lot, in case I think she means "comedic" sinus infection.
It probably does not help that I had a sinus headache for three weeks before it blossomed into screaming adulthood, so I guess I can be booked for negligence.
In any case, when my right maxilliary sinus exploded, it kicked off a migraine chain. Kind of like a daisy chain without all that gang-bangy goodness. But the meds I was on for the sinus disaster precluded the migraine meds. Ergo, I spent three days pogo-ing between "please, for the love of god, shoot me" to "give me the fucking gun, I'll do it myself."
I was, at one point, awake for 29 hours as the pain just wanted me to stay up and listen to bad late night television. At hour 27, the hallucinations kicked in and I was sure Suzanne Somers was at my thighs begging me to be the master. Or something like that.
At hour 29, the GM1 got a bit miffed that no one at the doctor's office had returned my calls and he proceeded to storm the Bastille. He called them three times then stomped down there in person to get answers as to What Can Be Done Until These Stupid So Far Non-Effective Antibiotics Kick In?
Finally they told him to have me take the Tylenol 3 they'd given me (so far useless in the fight against crime) two at a time instead of one. Now, before you write me off as all tits and no brain, let me assure you I'd thought of this many many times but had been lectured "seriously" on the dangers of doing such a thing. So I didn't.
I am such a good patient. Might die of the goodness, but I'm good nonetheless.
In the meanstwhile, during the worst of it, my eye swelled shut and my ear went dead and my jaw refused to let me talk or eat. It was just before the migraine grabbed me by the balls for a second attack that I had the GM1 post the notice, as I suspected I would be outta commission for a bit and didn't want a "she's run off to SF to do drugs with Courtney" scandal on the blog.
Cos I know that's what you all think when I don't post.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the T3 times two did the trick and I fell asleep like a great huge falling asleep thing. I slept for almost 14 hours, got up to look at dinner and retch, and slept again.
The GM1 tippy-toed off to work this morning, with strict instructions regarding my behaviour, including "no drinky, no dancey, no bloggy". Apparently my one-eyed squinting at the monitor (and it would be my one good eye that goes astray, leaving the 20/150 one to carry the load) disturbs him, as does the subsequent gagging that follows once the nausea kicks in.
I am just one fucking barrel of fun lately.
So that's where I's been, missy and keep it on the QT, because the GM1 reads your blog and I don't need a spanking on top of everything else. I prefer to save that for when I can savor it.
And as I check this over for spelling flaws, ever perfectionist even on my deathbed, I realize it might make a sufficient post to explain Where The Hell I've been.
Forgive me if I pimp out our correspondence for my blog. :)
Yours in snot-hood,
LeeAnn

Only Mostly Dead

Put away those mourning rags and dust off the happy feet.... The Cheesemistress is back, evicted from the sickbed by her own ennui and resurrected as the New, Improved, 50% Less Bacterical Secretions Cheesemistress!
Okay, only the 50% less thing is actually true. Nope, there is no truth in advertising, Virginia.
I will be trying to catch up and resume my bloggy duties, particularly since I am on house arrest for almost another week. I bet the tourists are crying for their fairy floss even as we speak. Weep, tourists, weep, for the fairy floss floozie is fled the fair!
Yes, alliterative abuse is a side effect of the meds.
To all those who left me kind and thoughtful get-well comments, I gotta say I was pleasantly shocked that so many of you miss me and it was wonderful to read. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Like the GM1 says, "Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snot up a lung and it's a comment bonanza."
I loves ya all like you were my very own.

Confession Is Good For the Soul

I have to admit this: sometimes I post just to see the little numbers on the calendar change color.
Oh sure, like you never did, huh?

Perhaps Sleep Is Unnecessary

But what I really hate is when I'm lying in bed, in that hazy fog between dozing and totally awake, waiting for the energy to hit me so I can plummet to the floor get up, and I get the most wonderful, completely coherent vision of the Perfect Post, so I stumble partially-upright, stagger to the computer, and then realize I can't sit down because I have lost my pajama bottoms and everyone knows what happens to Good Girls who lounge about bare-assed, and by the time I've convinced myself it's okay because I'm the only one who sits in this chair and therefore it's only my own tush germs that would be moved from point A to point B, the muse has flown, possibly to some magic place where people don't stand around with full moon arguing with themselves about seat hygiene loud enough to wake up their spouse.
Or so the GM1 says.
So whatever really entertaining thing I was going to say here, fuhgeddaabodit.

I Sense A Distrubing Congruence In the Force

I'm sure this is a vas deferens vast relief to those of you who like to keep a tidy pantry.

And Speaking of Mind Games

A nifty word association game.
My only fear is they'll save these and use them for my commitment hearing.

Today's Riddle

Q: What's a Yankee?

A: The same as a quickie, only you have to do it by yourself.

A Moment UnCheeselike

Yes, we're supposed to be above all that. We're supposed to be the Good Example, the Right Way, the Caesar's Wife. And yet there we are on film, making fun of prisoners and allegedly tormenting them.
No, it wasn't right, nor proper, nor acceptable. Yes, the wrongdoers should be censured.
But this apology business....
No, we should NOT have apologized. Have any of the Iraqi or Arab world apologized for capering in the streets when US military were killed? Has anyone come forth and apologized for Jessica Lynch? Thomas Hamilll? Pat Tillman?
For 9/11?
I'm sure we were listening, and not one word arrived.

I don't care if we're supposed to be Better Than That.
We shouldn't have apologized.

My Calendar Is Slow

Having a mild case of the beal, I went in search of the Friday Five so I could write a post without actually having to come up with original content or clever opinions.
Except.... no Friday Five. They said "back in May", and it's May, and where the bloody hell is my Friday Five?
When I slammed the refridgerator door in a fit of pique, it knocked off a few of the little magnets and my calendar came fluttering down. It was then I realized it's only Thursday.
Could be worse. Could be Saturday, in which case I am going to get severely bitched at for missing work Friday. Which I didn't, because it's not.
Friday, I mean. Not Saturday.
Which, by the way, it isn't either.
But it IS Thursday.
I'm pretty sure, anyways, that it's Thursday.
Ah hell.... no I'm not.

Terms, Defining of:

I don't want to rule the world. I just want things the way I want them, when I want them. What's so difficult about that?

Another Reason I Need To Move To UK

Win your weight in cheese.
Pardon me whilst I go have some private fantasy time....

In Case Anyone Has A Spare Genie In A Bottle Or Something

Speaking of looks (well, weren't we?), I have a confession to make....
I'd give 3 years off the backend of my life to look like Meg Ryan in "Addicted To Love".

Fixer-Upper

I've been trying to catch up on my backblog (get it? back log... back blog? Too early yet? Alrighty.) and I am sensing a trend here....
I've read one screed against women who wear makeup and get their hair done, one denouncing of cosmetic surgery, one hissy fit against body piercing, and one self-righteous fuss against fashionable shoes.
Let me say here and now, so it goes on my Permanent Record, the Cheese is FOR all these things. If I'd had the better end of the genetic lollipop, maybe I wouldn't have to wish for all the time and money it would take to retailor myself into a gorgeous hunk of sizzling womanhood. As it stands, I will die before I give up my good mascara and my yummy shoes that make my legs look all modelish-chiseled.
Unreal body images forced on us by magazines and fashion empires? Balls.
Ancient Egyptians used cosmetics way before Vogue was published.
Beauty is only skin deep? Balls again. It's a 50/50 shot that the troll on the bus is a true Mother Teresa, just like it's even odds that supermodel is a puppy-kicking sociopath.
It comes down to the right to choose. I am very very much for the right to choose. I am the Pro-Choice queen, baby. And if I want to spent my time at the Lancome counter and worship Nordstrom's shoe sales, then it's my choice.
You want to go out in the world baldfaced as a newborn baby? Your choice.
But keep your judgemental paws off my belly ring.

Invisible

Can anybody see this or has my blog eloped with the bunny?
I'm seeing naught but albino penguins in a blizzard.
Damn.

PS... nevermind, seems to have just been a computer burp.

Easter Greetings

In case anyone has forgotten, here's the real reason for the season.....

Dibs on the ears.
Happy hoppy Easter, everybody! from all of us here at The Cheese.

Waiting

I have the word "DUCK" stuck in my head.
I don't know if it's an omen or an oncoming stroke, but I'm not leaving the house for a while, just in case.

Ready, Aim... WAAAHHH!

"Marines' weapon loaded with 'scream' "

"Anyone hit with a full blast would suffer excruciating pain, permanent deafness and some form of cellular damage. A prolonged blast could kill.......The actual sound used is a recording of a baby's scream played backwards."

Mr. Spontaneity Makes His Move

You know, I thought the GM1 was being a little too anal when he had me bookmark Mapquest.
He's got nothing on this guy.

FUNDAMENTAL FACTOR: 1 - 7 women to have 1 - 20 children by me.
A major weakness in my plan at present is that I am very poor. In plunging into putting forth the ideas that appear on this website, I simply figured that I would cross the financial bridge when I came to it. The fact is that I have almost nothing. I apologize for this difficulty. My interests don't lie in the practical arena.

The reason that I mow lawns for a living is so that I'll have time to pursue my interests. The income is minimal. Also, I don't know to what degree I'm willing to compromise my interests. But not much.

Now, I will say that I might have income potential. For example, if a book sold. But this is not a sure thing.

Just One Sledgehammer Closer To Heaven

My friend Tonya, who is wise and good and the evil instigator of the infamous "let's all get tipsy and dye our hair red" incident, sends me this prayer:

A Woman's Prayer
Dear Lord, I pray for:
Wisdom: To understand a man
Love: To forgive him and
Patience: For his moods
Because: Lord, if I pray for Strength
I'll just beat him to death.