I am a shameless, self-promoting whore for your attention.

I'm in advertising. I get advertising. I'm all about promoting and displaying and verbalizing and sharing and all of that crap.

But mainly, I like money. And I don't want to have to work very hard for it.

So here's my plan. I'm going to keep doing this writing thing on this blog thing. And you're going to keep reading. But you're going to tell others to read it.

Here's where the marketing comes in. As readership increases, there's documented proof that popularity is on the rise. With popularity comes the potential to sell ad space.

BAM! I continue to share my quirky observations only now I don't have to do it late at night when I'm finally finished with the alleged 9 to 5. And my blog site is full of erectile disfuntion and Target callouts!

Oh, I can see it now!

The one flaw in my plan: Not everyone likes my writing. Like that guy who didn't like my writing. But he was totally jealous of my supreme awesomeness. Or that one professor in college who gave me a B in writing. But I don't count her because she was a freaky German with green teeth. True story. She had green teeth. I'm not even sure how that's possible. And she wasn't a huge fan of freedom of speech. And she was German! She could barely speak English. How in the hell did she know what I was writing in the first place. Anyway, I digress.

So this means that for my plan to work, not only do you have to spread the word, but I have to be a good writer- not great but good. That seems doable. OR I could hypnotize each and every other person I meet and convince them that they adore me.

I can see it now. Me and my swinging pocket watch putting fast food workers and business types to sleep and feeding them fat, juicy suggestions.

"You will read my blog every morning with your coffee. And you will click on the erectile disfunction callout ads. And then you'll get a prescription for the ED drug and fill it at Target."

I'd be known as That Pocket Watch Lady. Or Hypnosia (hip-nos-sia). I'd be a super hero in my own right. Perhaps even a metahuman.

But I think it would just be easier if you turned people on to me. I mean, I'd try to turn them on myself but there's that whole not-wanting-to-be-a-slut-whore thing. Being an attention whore is good enough.

I'm finding hair in the strangest places.

We humans are animals. Mammals to be exact.

One of the traits mammals possess (excluding whales and dolphins) is having hair. This hair sheds.

So if humans are mammals and mammals shed, then humans shed (for you mathmatic folk: a = b and b = c, then a = c which means hairy, shedding humanoids).

Taking all of this into account, it's perfectly natural and normal to find hair on the bathroom floor. All people find hair on their bathroom floors; this is fine. It's also perfectly natural to find hair on your shirts. Hair falls out of your head and lands on your shoulders and it then sticks to your shirt.

Some other normal places you might find hair are on your pillow, in the shower, perhaps the headrest in your car, occasionally on your desk or computer keyboard.

Again, this is all perfectly normal. It happens to everyone. All humans find sloughed off hairs all over the place.

What I'm wondering, though, is how in the hell did hair make it into my refridgerator. Seriously. Hair in the fridge. MY HAIR in the FRIDGE. What?

I wanted a pickle. I ended up with a handfull of my hair. (Okay, it was like two hairs, but the fridge? Really?)

There are only two logical explanations for my finding hair in the fridge. One: Someone put it there to freak me out. They snuck into my apartment and placed two hairs on the shelf beside the pickes. Two: The fridge tried to eat me in my sleep.

I'm thinking two. Here's why.

My apartment hates me. It really does. It plays dirty tricks like moving furniture when it's pitch black. Creeking to wake me up. And resetting all of the clocks. This apartment has it out for me.

Another reason, and I'm relying solely on my honed sleuthing skills picked up from Law & Order reruns, the guy above me keeps getting attacked by his appliances. Seriiously. Several times a week, there are loud bangs during the night that could only be caused by dropping a heavy appliance such as an oven, dryer or fridge. One Saturday morning, there were five bangs within a two-hour period. Before, I just thought my neighbor liked to play Drop the Furniture. But I now believe he's trying to protect himself from his evil fridge.

I bet that fridge is just chalk-full of hair.

So I think that while I'm sleeping, my fridge slides out of its space, makes its way through the living room, turns the corner and perches by my bed. Then it tries to bite me. But I'm such a ninja that I manage to avoid it every time-- even in my slumber. (That or it's just cause I sleep on the side of the bed that's furthest from where ol' Fridgey Boy can stand.)

This would also explain why it looks like my fridge is two inches too far to the right. I swear it wasn't always like that. I tried to move it back to the left but alas-- skinny woman arms.

My condiments also move about. And I'm anal about where things go in my fridge; I can totally tell when things are out of place. I have to be, after all, there's only like five things in there.

So that's it. My fridge has been trying to eat me while I sleep. That or it just wants to stop being a food preserver and start being a beutician. In that case, bring it on, Fridge! Give me some volume and curls!

Just try not to pull so much hair out next time.

My blog and I on the internet.

There is a problem with this post's title. Can you spot it?

I'll give you a moment.

Still giving you a moment.

Stop reading for a second and take the moment.

...

The problem is the word "I." It should be "me."

Most native English speakers misuse "I" and "we" in plural, first-person, descriptionary phrases. And most overcompensate by just inserting "I" instead of "me" because, I don't know, it sounds smarter or something.

It actualallly sounds dipstickish.

So, if you're one of the numbnuts who can't determine which is the proper, singular, first-person pronoun to use in a plural possesive clause, you're in luck. Because I'm going to give you a simple way to sound so much smarter.


The We or Us Test
You are going to take your dog Skippy to a NASCAR* race and you want to tell your whole redneck family . You want to say "Skippy and _ are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!" Oh, shit! What singular, first-person pronoun should I use? (For the sake of learning, pretend that rednecks use proper grammar.)

The simplest way is the We or Us Test. Simply say your sentence two ways:
"We are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!"
or
"Us are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!"

Hopefully, you have enough undamaged-by-alcohol braincells to realize that "we" sounds normal and "us" sounds carnie-ish.
We=I Us=Me
So the proper way to say your sentence is "Skippy and I are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR."

Here's another example.
You have a picture of Skippy and you at NASCAR. You want to label the picture on MySpace as "Skippy and _ at NASCAR." Hmm. Here we run into that little I-Me-I-Me problem again. Let's rewrite the sentence.
"We at NASCAR."
or
"Us at NASCAR."

This time, "us" sounds more natural. Hopefully. (I don't want to really explain why. Your head might explode if I start diagramming a sentence with direct object pronouns and predicates and indirect object pronouns and subjects and lions and tigers and bears.)
So, since "us" sounds better, you'd use the sentence with "me" instead of "I." "Skippy and me at NASCAR."

One last example.
It's another picture of ol' Skippy and you. Since your redneck friends are new to still images, you want to label your picture as "This is a picture of Skippy and _." Oh, fart, the first person pronoun is at the end of the description. Oh, golly gosh!

Don't worry. The test can get us through.

"This is a picture of we."
"This is a picture of us."

If you pick "we," you're telling everyone that this is a picture of urine (weeee weeee). If you pick "us," then you're right! And the proper sentence would use the word "me." Because we = I and us = me. And we can all live together in harmony.

Now go forth into the world a smarter, brighter, shinier person. And good luck to you.



*Nothing is cooler than NASCAR. Unless it's monster trucks. Those friggin' ROCK!

You can do so much better than Catwoman.

Dear Batman,

You don't know me. But I know you.

I've been admiring you for some time now. My entire life, in fact.

I loved you when I was a child and you were a campy, grey and blue clad fellow.

I adored you when you found your black rubber suit, despite your crush on Kim Basinger.

I even put up with you when your suit sprung nipples and you said lame things to a very homo-erotic Robin.

Then I watched you break yourself down and fall only to pick yourself back up.

And now I've been reading about the many different takes on your life, from the grayscale shorts to the technicolor classics.

It's all reaffirmed my undying love for you. Yes. I love you, Batman. And I think we need to be together.

I would move to the perilous Gotham City for you. I could live there if I knew you'd be near to protect me. I could put up with you working nights and being too tired in the morning. Heck, I'd make you omelets at whatever hour if you so desired. And if you needed me to massage your tired, muscular, perfect shoulders, I'd get the oil ready.

I'd worship the night you flew through.

And I would keep your identity secret. Or if you don't want to tell me who you really are, we could work something out. You could keep your mask on, for instance! I really don't mind. In fact, it's kind of hot. Hmm... Just a questions, what all toys do you have?

I digress, my sweet, Dark Knight. How can I prove to you that we'd be great together? Do I need to be stronger and faster? Because I did gymnastics for a while. And yoga, too. I could start that up again if it would please you.

I'd even fight crime. I'd fight crime with gusto. Let me show you how much I hate crime! I would make crime end if it would start our life together.

I'd do anything for you, Batman. Anything (okay, there might be an exception or two; perhaps you should have made your requests while I was in college and more adventurous and drunk).

I beg you, oh masked vigilante, to give me a change. Let's go get a drink sometime, although I know you only drink water and pretend it's alcohol. You have to constantly be ready. See! I get it. This would work so well.

Oh, we are going to be wonderful together. I just know it. You can't wait to meet me.

I look forward to seeing you. Perhaps I'll leave the patio door unlocked tonight...

Oh, and just an FYI, I look really good in black leather. Catwoman has nothing on me.

I think they miss me.

A few times in my life, I've been the one that got away.

And it sucks.

Because months after a breakup, after moving on, after making drastic changes and getting settled, an ex's parents always contact me. ALWAYS. The wonderful parents that were so hard to say goodbye to (sometimes harder than saying goodbye to the ex).

It happened tonight. I get some casual what's-up type of email from my favorite ex boyfriend's-dad. It's really sweet and I'm so flattered. But I wonder, is this communication appropriate? Probably. But I can't help but feel kinda bad. I mean, I HAVE moved on.

Does the parent really not know anything about what I'm doing? Surely the ex has said SOMETHING about my current situation. Or does the ex hate me that much? Think I'm not worth mentioning?

This is the worst timing possible. I JUST got off of a girly phone call where the main topic was how exes have screwed us up. And then BAM, a letter from an ex's parent.

A parent that I absolutely adored.

Perhaps I'm on the verge of how to discard an ex but keep his parents. What a wonderful thing that would be.

It's safe here in this closet.

We all live in a closet.

Every last one of us.

Our closets are filled with skeletons and secrets and other things that the world can never know. Because the world we know isn't ready to know the real us.

I envy those who can come out of their closets. The brave people who can tell their peers of their true sexuality, their true religion or their true pasts.

Luckily, though, I've managed to peek out of my closet just as like-minded people did the same. And now I've got other closets I can visit without fear of persecution. Other closets that are safe for people like me.

And for the time being, I'm fine living in my little closet. But I yearn for the day to be truly free.

Another death?

The following story contains material that may be unsuitable for young eyes and sensitive hearts.

The following story takes place in a land of mystical danger. Where even the most twisted creatures fear to tread.

The following story is very real. All events have indeed taken place.

If you're too brave for your own good, read on. If not, hit your back button before it's too late.

You've been warned.

...

My apartment is a place of death. That's right. A death has recently taken place in my apartment.

I came home yesterday night and found a body on my floor. The body was twisted, rigid and deformed. It was maimed, misssing parts and scattered. It was frightening and horrid and ubelievable.

The body belonged to my houseplant. While I was out of town for the weekend, my houseplant took its own life.

Seriously. My houseplant decapitated itself.

This is no laughing matter. It chose a violent, chlorophylly* death over existing under a single roof with me.

There it was. Well, there half of it was. Lying on the floor in a dirty heap. Broken leaves (still so green), severed stem (which previously had shown NO signs of weakness), and the hopeless air of suicide. I never saw this coming.

Why did plant off itself? WHY! Is it because I killed the bamboo**? Cause that was a total accident. That bamboo had to be defective. I mean, really! Bamboo is impossible to kill.

But this plant, this mighty Yucca fell on its own sword sometime between Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon. And it left itself right where I'd find it. Right in the path to my bed.

I just stood there over plant in disbelief. This was my fault. I managed to not only kill this plant, but make it kill itself.

I waited for the sirens and the plant paremedics to come crashing into my apartment. The plant CSI team to draw a leafy chalk outline on my floor and take forensic photos. For a brutish daisy to slap me in cuffs and hall me off to some forrest prison where I'd find some new religion and vow to never eat ruffage again.

I'd face a jury of seaweed, tomatoes and cacti. They'd discover that in my past I've taken the lives of sprouts, a Chia Herb Garden (eaten by a cat, not entirely my fault), a vegetable garden, violets, the pre-mentioned bamboo, a daisy bush, a giant sunflower, countless bean plants ...

The live oak of a judge would proclaim me guilty and I'd be sentenced to death by lethal pollen injection or a hayfever firing squad.

When I came to my senses, I realized none of this would ever happen. Afterall, after being in a room with me for a few hours, the entire law-and-order-flora community would perish. I'm poisen to to anything with a cell wall.

If a tree falls in the forrest, bet that I'll be skipping out the other side with a watering can.

I shrugged my shoulders and picked up plant's lifeless body. I had an unexceptional funeral for it at the apartment dumpster.

Maybe the bean plant I have at work will live ...





*Plants don't have blood, you know.
**Yes, I managed to kill a bamboo. Somehow, in opposition of science and a bamboo's inability to oversaturate itself, I overwatered it. Mind you, bamboo is an aquatic plant.