I can't stop eating pie.

There's a third of a key lime pie in my fridge.

Yesterday, it was half of a key lime pie.

The day before? Three quarters of a key lime pie.

Where is it all going?

Apparently my ass. Because every spare second I have, I run to the fridge and steal a small sliver. And I know Cooter isn't eating it (or is he?). Because he has far more self control than I do (and he's been working on that bar of bacon chocolate next to our fruit basket).

Yes, you read that right. Bacon chocolate. That's chocolate with chunks of bacon in it. I, a vegetarian, am marrying the most carnivorous man ever to dine on earth.

And I'm okay with that. Because male vegetarians are pussies (except for Paul McCartney and a few others).

Contradictory? Perhaps. Blame it on the sugar crash. Perhaps it's time for more pie.

I'm so glad Christmas is over.

I'm not sure what it is about the holidays that makes people feel entitled.

That makes them sure their actions, no matter how rude and dangerous, are justified.

All of this "Jesus is the reason for the season" spewage as they cut you off in a parking lot shooting the almighty finger--not really church-endorsed, is it?

Last time I checked, there was no mention of Jesus being cool with profanities towards your fellow man in order to save 30% on some sweaters at Target during the month of December.

There's been a rash of people blatantly shirking political correctness, too. Which--okay, I get it. You celebrate a specific religious holiday. And that's great. Many many many people share the same holiday and there's no harm in wishing your holiday upon others--even if they don't celebrate yours.

But for Jesus' sake, don't be a dick about it.

Don't be pissed when the kid working at Dillards--who happens to be Jewish--wishes you a warm holiday. Your snapping back, "It's Christmas," might (and does) come off as hostile.

And would Jesus dig that? I'm pretty sure he wouldn't.

So I hope everyone had a happy holiday, no matter which one(s) you celebrated. And if you don't celebrate a holiday, I hope you had a lovely and safe December.

I already said goodbye.

When I was a little girl, my Daddy Lou had Alzheimer’s. Being five, I misunderstood what my mother and father had told me.

I thought Daddy Lou had Old Timers.

As the years went by and I slowly started to better understand the surrounding world, I realized that it wasn’t normal for someone’s grandfather to forget who she was. And then Daddy Lou died of Old Timers, and I remember being very sad but more so confused.

After all, old people forget stuff. But not like that. A grandpa was supposed to greet you at the door with hugs and candy. Not quietly observe as your father explains that he’s bringing new socks.

So, yeah, Daddy Lou left us. But as far as I could tell, he had left long ago.

In the last handful of years, my step grandpa came down with Old Timers. And it’s been a steady decline through the months. He’d slowly go back through the years, forgetting our faces and relationships. He’d get angry and fussy (which he never was). And finally this weekend, he was freed from the torture of strangers and IVs and immobility and ignorance.

And like I was at the age of ten with Daddy Lou, I am sad. But I am even more relieved. Because I said goodbye to him a long time ago. As soon as I heard he had been diagnosed with Old Timers, I made my peace and watched the man who teased me for so many years (“You know there’s meat in that iced tea!”), who made me laugh and accepted my sister and me as his blood grandchildren, slowly leave us.

I miss Marvin. But I missed him years ago. I am glad he’s finally at peace and no longer afflicted with Old Timers.

That's a crappy offer, AT&T.

I've had a cell phone for 11 years now (almost 12). And I've never once left my provider.

Granted, Southwestern Bell became Cingular which was purchased by AT&T, so I've just traveled along that river to see where it went.

It went to a fancy iPhone two years ago. And today, I'm still talking into the same pre-3G brick and loving every second.

I'm even free from a contract now (ha!) and am grandfathered into a monthly bill that's delightfully $20 or $30 below what everyone else is paying. So I won't be buying the fancy 3GS anytime soon.

The bots over at AT&T  have realized that I'm no longer shackled to their service, and have decided to send me a generic form letter and offer via snail mail.

The offer? "Sign up for another two years and get a free phone."

Okay. I'm slightly intrigued. I keep reading.

"The free phone is valued at $200."

Pretty sure that phone won't be an iPhone (which is also $200 and, in my opinion, the greatest device to ever talk into), but I turn the page.

And I see some horrific blast-from-the-past LG piece of shit without a QUERTY keyboard (imagine) and a dinky little screen (how am I to check Facebook?). It looks like some plastic thing that Marty McFly would have Velcro-ed to his high-top.

And I just stopped looking right there. Then I ripped up the solicitation and ran it down the hall to the garbage chute. I didn't even want it in my trash bin.

Bitch, I'm on an iPhone. And I'm free of a contract! I'm paying less, getting more, and my phone is working better today than it did when I bought it (thanks, apps). How DARE you try to tempt me with some jerkass LG piece of stink bait.

I think AT&T isn't a) aware of how fiercely loyal iPhone users are or b) doesn't have the brains to send iPhone users something in lieu of a shitty downgrade. Having an advertising background and being forced to deal with idiot marketers and their even stupider superiors, I'd bet b.

So here's some advice to AT&T. Don't send shit to your iPhone users. Instead, offer us even a slight discount on a new phone (you can afford it, trust me, I've seen both my fiance and my bills) or send nothing.

Because when you have an iPhone, you don't have to go replacing your phone often. Because they don't crap out like other phones. I should know--I've done my fair share of destroying cell phones over the last decade. The iPhone is the only thing to survive me (yes, it has stayed intact being dropped from great heights).

If you weren't the only provider of this glorious little computer, I'd leave in a heartbeat (but not for Verizon, they're cockeaters, too)

You’re not going to guilt me, stupid frownie hand.

Ever since replacing my Sonicare electric toothbrush (which is a fantastic toothbrush, I must say), I’ve been getting spammed to death by its maker, Philips.

As a consumer, the best thing I can do for the company is to tell the world about my teeth-brushing experience and get my friends to try the product for themselves.

But Philips, like most companies, has decided to torture me with weekly emails about new and impressive products. I'm not buying electronics every sing week--I don’t give a shit.

I get it, though. After all, I’m one of the people who unfortunately has to write asshole emails telling people about sales and new things, etc. (and from the other end, they’re just as annoying). Because no matter how much you like a brand, you don't want to hear from them every day (and any brand who thinks people love them that much is painfully wrong).

So I don’t blame people one second for unsubscribing.

Anyway, my point. I decided to unsubscribe from this email list. Why do I need to know about other products? They’ve already got me for life. Their stuff is good and it works. Every time my toothbrush dies, I will replace it. Guaranteed. And if I'm buying some other hygienic items, I'll consider a Philips based on the awesomeness of my toothbrush.

So I click unsubscribe. And I fill out the reason why (because I’m somewhat sympathetic to the makers of these messages).

And then the screen turns to this.

A frownie hand? Really? What in the fuck is this shit? Philips, a very serious company, is going to guilt me with a frownie hand? A BAD frownie hand?

Fuck that. Now I’m pissed. I'm offended, actually.

Philips, you might have lost yourself a lifetime customer because your client-side marketing manager is a dickhead. Next time my Sonicare’s battery goes, I’m going with a Crest Spinbrush.

Having only four just seems like I don't care.

There are only a few hours left of December 2009, and I figured that I owed the Internet another blog.

Just because four seams extremely half-assed. Five, however, seems significantly less half-assed.

And no one likes to be half-assed. Imagine how strange walking (and sitting!) would be.

When does wedding season stop?

I was AT a wedding on Saturday night (number 2 of 3 for November) and I got a text message from a good friend saying he proposed to his girlfriend and thus was engaged.

I'm going to need to take out a loan.

That’s more fucking like it.

As of late, the office I’ve been doing most of my work at is pretty conservative.

Very conservative, actually. There’s not a whole lot of cussing around. And when there is, it’s censored. As in people literally will say, “What the H?”

Coming from an ad agency background, this blew (and continues to blow) my mind.

We casually damned with divine endorsement, we let shit freely fly from our lips, and hell was almost a way to say hello.

But now, swearing isn’t as universal. It’s pushed under the rug where only a letter or two can escape.

I actually find the abbreviating more offensive. I mean, that poor little thought is just left dangling in the air.

But yesterday, oh glorious yesterday, someone dropped an F-bomb of Hiroshima proportions. And it felt oh-so-good.

That particular “fuck” was more shocking than they usually are. Because it was so out of place. So beautiful. So packed with raw emotion and helplessness and anger, but with a fighting spirit that the letter F on its own just can’t convey.

I felt jazzed. I wanted to reply to the obscenity. “Shit yeah!” But the looks on my surrounding coworkers, the looks of unabashed shock, stalled my verbal celebration.

So I relived the scenario in my head for the rest of the day. Every time, I’d have a more colorful reaction. “Yeah, bitches, let’s do this.” “That’s a good damn point. “I’m right the fuck with you.”

Alas, I couldn’t. And as long as I’m being aware to other’s (pointless) sensitivities, I’ll never get to express myself in the four-letter way. At least in the office.

Please don’t talk to me right now.

Most would consider me an extrovert. I like to talk. Love to listen. And am usually pretty happy when there are a few people around.

But I’m not always a walkie, talkie, machine of love.

Sometimes, I don’t want to engage in any form or level of communication. This sometimes is when I’m in the bathroom.

Yes. I’m human. I understand everyone else is human and I’m fully aware that other humans know what my human body is doing when I’m being as human as possible behind closed doors.

Even despite all of this understanding, I still consider this super-duper-private time.

So don’t talk to me.

Because I don’t want to talk to you.

It’s bad enough that stuff is coming out of the south end. Don’t make the north end have to do work, too.

Just let me be for a few moments. We can talk while washing hands.

I promise.

This is why I love being an adult is awesome.*

I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast.

And it was delicious.

(Although my sweet fiance tried to talk me out of it because he wanted me to have a healthy breakfast. And I love him for that. But I'm an adult! And I can eat pie for breakfast on a Sunday if I want to!)

*I also had it for dessert. All of this sugar is messing with my sentence-crafting abilities.

I may look silly, but I can run circles around you.

I’m officially one of those people.

You know the type. The freak in the gym who is too good for regular running shoes. The weirdo wearing those newfangled sneakers that look like gloves for feet. The pompous exercising hippy who thinks that aired soles and gelled cushioning do more harm than good.

The fashion victim on the treadmill.

Call me what you will---oddball, sasquatch, nerd. Just know that this tool in her freaky fingered shoes will run circles around you.

I love these damn shoes. Even if they’re ugly. Besides, I’m not really concerned about how I look in the gym. I’m concerned about how I look outside of it. And I don’t plan on wearing my monkey paws to the store.

Yet.

Nevada has a sweet quarter.

I love quarters. Since I was a kid, I collected the bicentennial drummer quarters (I have over thirty, in case you were wondering).

So when the U.S. decided to roll out the every-state-gets-its-own-quarter initiative, I couldn’t be happier.

I love paying with cash for the sole purpose of seeing which quarters I get in change. The problem, though, is that I rarely pay with cash.

So while reaching into my coin purse today for some 25 cent* pieces, I pulled out a quarter and decided to look at the back.

What I saw was a piece of art, as all state quarters are intended to be but rarely accomplish.

Nevada’s beautiful quarter features sinewy horses galloping amidst the mountains. A bright sun with long rays is rising over the scene, adding life and vibrancy. And the whole picture is book ended by luxuriously flowery branches.

It’s gorgeous.

And it’s going into my coin collection.

*Didn’t keyboards used to have the cent symbol over the six?

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The writer gave up. She had written about every subject she could think of. She had typed every word she knew. And now she removed her hands from the keyboard, from her pencil, from her writing.

She left her chair and made her way to the nearest window so she could watch the rain slide down the glass. And she could pretend the drops were alive and she could hear their delightful squeals—much like she used to daydream in the back seat of her mom’s car as a child.

As a particularly swollen drop made it’s way down, gathering other drops during its decent, the writer heard a voice.

“Inspiration comes from odd places sometimes,” said the Muse from the other side of the window.

The writer cast her eyes upwards, matching the gaze of her creativity. “I haven’t seen you in a long while, old friend.” The writer pushed herself away from the window and turned away. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

The Muse had taken a seat at the writer’s chair. Her long legs were crossed and her delicate hands sat upon her knee. “I could never abandon you.” The satin words flowed from her like perfumed oil. “I love you.”

Angry that the Muse had been absent for so long, but fighting with a tinge of delight at seeing her old friend, the writer had to turn away again. Through tight lips she attempted to growl, “Don’t leave me again.”

The writer slowly pivoted to glance at her Muse but her eyes locked on the now empty chair.

Full of ideas for the first time in months, the writer returned to her chair and the words flowed from her. Like perfumed oil.

What year is it?

Apparently in Louisiana, it's 1850.

A judge refuses to marry interracial couples. Really?

And then he claims to not be racist.

Jackass.

Rain, can I ask you something?

Hi, Rain.

I would ask you how you’re doing, but I already know the answer to that. You’re strong and healthy and around. You’re thick and constant and wet.

And you’re making us all tired.

So I’m asking you, Rain, just give it a rest for a day. Let the sun through. Most of us have forgotten what he looks like.

I mean, think about it, Rain, you’re kind of hogging the sky. And the air. And the roads. You’ve been punishing us for who-knows-what for weeks. We’re all Vitamin D deprived because of it. Our hair sucks because of it. Our feet are constantly wet because of it.

So stop already.

Sincerely,

the People of Dallas

Life, you suck.

Just two weeks ago, my friend’s fiancé was telling me how this friend was his soul mate. How he had found the woman he’d be with for the rest of his life. How he could love no one more. How they were perfect together.

And he was true to his word. He spent the rest of his life with her. None of us were expecting that the rest of his life would be two weeks.

I just found out he died in a car wreck last night. And that’s fucked up. That’s really fucked up. That’s blew-a-hole-in-the-dictionary fucked up.

As someone who has found her someone, I can’t even fathom the sadness and depression my friend is going through. Of the life that was mapped out then shredded to bits by a slippery street. Of the bottomless pit that was once her heart.

On behalf of my friend, fuck you, life.

We haven’t evolved THAT much since cavemen. At least where fashion is concerned.

Many many years ago, our ancestors would race through the valleys, over the hills, through the trees in hot pursuit of some meaty animal. Our ancestors would club this beast to death; then use it as food, shelter, and even clothing.

As time progressed and climates changed, humans migrated to areas where new and exciting animals fell victim to arrows and flying stones. These animals were more attractive than the monochromatic beasts of the last habitat.

“This striped animal’s pelt would look great draped over my arms,” one nomad women proclaimed. “I might wear it to that dinner party next week.”

Her partner/husband (whatever you want to call him) was, at first, unclear as to why she cared about her appearance (she had mentioned something about the neighbor woman looking particularly and fashionably plump only the day before). But his interest was piqued when she said something about “having enough left over to make you some wonderful striped boots.”

Over the next week, she stripped the animal. She laid its skin out to dry. She stretched it, cut it, pressed it, and stitched it into something form fitting with a slit up the back and a drop in the front.

“What do you think,” she asked her mate as she sidled out into the other portion of their home structure. The outfit was bold (especially considering she had whittled some wood into strange shoes that elevated her heels above the plane of her toes—very bizarre indeed).

Her mate walked around her. Sized up his partner’s very unique outfit. Then slapped her on the ass with approval and continued watching the kids play some sport through a hold in their house.

The female was elated. She wore her new costume to the dinner party that very night. Two weeks later, all of the nomadic women were sporting outfits of various animal prints in a whole slew of different shapes and styles. Some had bone buttons and detachable belts. Others had matching boots and hats. And some were barely enough to protect them from the cold, but the women didn’t care for they looked hot.

And thus, style rocketed beyond need. And animal prints became all the rage.

And managed to remain in fashion up until today.

How Do You Cure Clumsy?

Over the last two days, I’ve been fixated with looking in the mirror. Particularly with looking at my nose.

My little swollen nose.

My sore swollen nose.

Funny thing is, I don’t know why my nose is sore and why it’s swollen. The easiest conclusion would be that I bumped it. This in itself is a likely possibility because I’m clumsy.

I’m so clumsy that I’ve stopped trying to remember every collision involving my body.

The perpetual bruises on both outer thighs I’ve discovered is the exact height of the edge of my bed’s footboard. Apparently, after over a year with that bed, I’ve yet to adjust my cornering parabola.

The scar by my eye was created in my infancy. When I clawed the crap out of myself with baby-sharp fingernails. My parents have shared this story with me—obviously I wasn’t generating memories yet.

The scars on my knees and elbows, from that time when I was 18 and I flew over my own feet into the gritty ground of the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. I only remember that one since my big cousins laughed at me for years.

So the big ones have stories (or at least deducible outcomes). But this nose thing is really puzzling me.

How does one not remember smacking herself in the nose? I faintly recall something of the sort. Perhaps when I was in the kitchen on Friday? Was I trying to brush hair out of my eye? That sounds likely given my wonky hand-eye coordination (which usually results with a hand to my eye).

All I’m certain about is that the nose knows. And it isn’t telling.

History repeats itself. Especially when it comes to babies.

Everyone is all in a tizzy about these dancing babies on the Internet.

I pose two questions. One, can't we give these babies a better song than the single ladies song by Biance?

Two, haven't we seen dancing babies before?

All of these YouTube babies are copycats. There. Someone had to say it.

I don't like the term ex-boyfriend.

Addressing wedding stuff has got me thinking.

There are some ex-boyfriends on the guest list. It doesn't seem fair to call them exes, though. Especially MY exes. After all, I don't have them anymore. How can they be mine?

And I can't be the only ex of theirs, either. It just seems unfair to be the current ex of several people.

Plus, their status has changed to friend. I don't see why pointing out a past variation of our friendship is even necessary (especially since I'm engaged, right?).

And there's this negative connotation associated with the terms ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend. It implies anger and angst that might no longer exist. Sure, when the breakup is fresh and neither party has moved on, saying "my ex" seems appropriate. But once the wounds have healed or someone has dated a few people since the broken relationship, shouldn't the label of ex be removed?

"My ex-boyfriend from high school" just seems crazy. If you've been out of high school for over a decade, it should simply be "the guy I dated when we were kids" or something just as innocent.

Saying "two ex-boyfriends ago" sounds like you're a collector.

I'm going to drop "ex-boyfriend" from my vocabulary. I think the guys who I dated once upon a time deserve it--they've proven themselves to be noble friends (or not worthy of recognition at all).

The lugubrious Queen begrudgingly types out another insipid blog while …

If the Queen wrote like Dan brown, her blog would sound something like this:

“I should be making millions of dollars,” the Queen thinks to herself as she files down her ever-growing fingernails with a dull emery board as corpulent raindrops pelted the window pane. The sound brings her back to a time she’d rather forget. How could that day have happened!

In a state of resurfaced ancient angst, the Queen stands on her feet and deposits the emery board onto a nearby table—one purchased some time ago from a stylish yet conveniently inexpensive build-it-yourself surplus store.

And so on.

…

Dan Brown sucks and we all know it.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/6194031/The-Lost-Symbol-and-The-Da-Vinci-Code-author-Dan-Browns-20-worst-sentences.html

Admittedly, I am jealous. There’s no sense in hiding it. I could pen something like "the Da Vinci Code" in a day. If only I weren't so damn lazy.

Did you just do that?

About every thirty minutes, I hear someone shriek the words “swine flu.” Sometimes it’s in jest. Sometimes it’s paired with fear. And sometimes, the shrieker actually knows someone afflicted with the virus.

Coincidentally, the news is constantly telling people to wash their hands. Because hands spread germs. Especially sickness germs that leak from noses and eyes and mouths.

At the grocery store, there are posters reminding shoppers to keep their hands clean. Fancier stores even have shopping cart wipes.

At work, there are signs about removing germs effectively with soap and water. You’ll usually see these along with all of the HR materials.

Most people have a bottle of hand sanitizer prominently displayed on their desk. They go through the full amount every two weeks because everyone else clamors to use it hourly.

Yet these same people while engaged in conversation, these germaphobes with their hysterical natures, these holier-than-thou clean freaks will (in mid-syllable) put the underside of their middle finger up to the tip of their nose and move the hand upward, using the entire length of their hand to wipe their nose.

While talking. While looking you in the eye.

EWWW. They don’t even realize they’re doing it. They don’t realize they just used their HAND to spread SNOT up to their FOREHEAD.

I see this daily. DAILY. Usually right outside the perimeter of my personal space.

Don’t wipe your snot on your hand while you’re talking to me about your dinner from last night! Have some decency. Use a tissue! Or at least use the BACK of your hand.

Ugh, and some people … snort as they engage in this behavior. SNORT! These are classy white-collar people. People that wear designer clothes and have expensive haircuts.

People with degrees—BAs in sciences and business. People who count calories and do situps.

In other words, people who SHOULD know better. Right?

I guess it’s true—money can’t buy class. But it can sure buy some soap and water.

Hey there, September, slow down.

August slid a helmet atop his head and mounted his bike. With one quick downward motion, he made the engine roar into the warm night sky.

He gunned it.

Flying down the highway at a million miles an hour, August blew past the setting sun. Moments later, the moon rose. And it wasn’t long after that when the sun and moon swapped positions yet again.

As August flew through the days and the nights with legs wrapped tightly around a screaming engine, the weather grew uncomfortably hot. Then it cooled for a few seconds. Then the concrete nearly melted the rocketing tires.

In the distance, a green sign appeared.

“Welcome, September,” it said.

And as August slid past marker 31, he was September.

The orbs in the sky continued their cycles. The month continued its journey through 2009.

And now the rest of us are left on the side of the highway wondering where the time is going. And why is it going so quickly?

I think I over hug now.

In an attempt to not appear super awkward, I’ve tried to be more huggy (which goes against everything my fight-or-flight responses tell me to do).

And I think I’m over compensating. Now I find myself sandwiching my body against others (and this might be my paranoia arising) but they seem to struggle as if trying to free themselves from my vice-like embrace.

Like a Sesame Street Muppet, I come charging at the other person with flailing arms wide and mouth happily agape. “Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaa!” I joyously scream as I bound towards the other hugger. They lean in with the upper-body-only stance, but they’re quickly rearranged into a leg on leg, tummy on tummy, chest on chest experience of arm squeezing fury.

And after practicing my zealous new approach to the hug, I fear I appear even more awkward than before. Because now I’m some kind of pervert. Like the guy who holds your hand three seconds too long during a shake. Or the non-European who kisses everyone on both cheeks.

There’s no happy medium. I either run to the opposite side of the crowd with frightened Bambie eyes and stiffen when arms go around my torso, or I trap my acquaintances in a death squeeze of is-she-trying-to-figure-out-my-bra-size confusion.

Maybe I’ll just have to pretend I always have a cold so I’ll always have a valid excuse to keep my body away from other bodies.

Will someone explain insurance to me?

I live in an apartment.

Like a responsible renter, I have renter's insurance. It covers my property in the even that the guy below me falls asleep smoking and my TV gets melted.

It covers my computer if it drowns in the unfortunate event of my upstairs neighbor forgetting to turn off the bath water.

It protects the value of my stereo and CDs (yes, I still have CDs) if some yahoo crashes his car through my exterior wall.

Without divulging just how many electronics and valuable items my fiance and I have stuffed into our apartment, I'm going to say that the total value of said items and the actual apartment itself is significantly more than my engagement ring.

Then why does my engagement ring cost one and a half times more money to insure? Especially since it lives in this apartment?

My bike got stolen once. It was chained outside and someone hacksawed the lock and took it. It was paid for in full by my renters insurance. The damn thing lived outside and they replaced it with no questions.

My engagement ring is on my finger. And no women in her right mind would let some crazy mugger get it from her. (Just you try, dude. You've never seen crazy. Believe me.)

Yet this teeny tiny item is worth more to ensure than EVERY SINGLE THING IN OUR APARTMENT COMBINED. Not to mention our neighbors' possessions in the event that I leave the bathtub running and flood someone else's apartment.

So I'm paying 50% more for a piece of jewelry (albeit, very sentimental jewelry, but only for a few people) than I am for multiple apartments full of stuff in the event that I forget to blow out a candle while I'm at the grocery.

That's a whole carat of crazy.

I complained about having too many weddings to go to, and then the universe tortures me with even more.

They just keep piling up. And now, being engaged, I worry that I’m soon going to be part of the problem for someone else.

There’s a lot of financial pressure for being the friend of someone getting married. In addition to travel costs for the wedding (gas or plane ticket, car rentals, hotel rooms, on-the-road meals) there’s a shower to shell out cash for. There’s a bachelorette party with it’s own set of travel costs, hotel rooms, party favors. What ever happened to going to a bar and getting shots? And then hope some dopey guy pays for them before slinking away?

If you’re in the wedding, you probably have some (god-awful) outfit to pay for. And no matter how hard the bride “tries” to make it somewhat reusable, you’ll never wear it again. Because you didn’t pick it out yourself (the exception being the bride that says, “Get a black dress. Whatever you want.”) I don't care how cute the to-the-floor, iridescent purple dress is--re-hemming it does not make it socially acceptable. Then there are uncomfortable shoe requirements. (I read in my how-to-be-a-bride guide that bridesmaid shoes are supposed to hurt because you want your friend to prove themselves. True story.) Some brides insist you pay to get your hair styled or your nails done. Oh, and there used to be a bridal luncheon as a thank-you, but that seems to have fallen by the wayside. Heaven forbid you thank your party with a simple cucumber sandwich and glass of iced tea.

Then there are gifts. Not just a single gift. Multiple gifts. There’s a gift form the hostess(es) of the shower to the bride (as if the party isn’t gift enough?). There are gifts given at the bachelorette party (again, isn’t the bride getting a free night/weekend out?). Then there’s a wedding gift. If the couple is having a couple’s shower, there’s also a shower gift.

Call me nuts, but it hit overkill about two showers ago. And six weddings ago. And literally thousands of dollars ago.

I love my friends. But I’m reaching the point where I can’t afford them. And it really sucks because now the bar has been set and I’m left wondering—do they feel all of this stuff is necessary for my guy and me? Because I think I speak for both of us when I say that we don’t need it.

I just want my family and friends to come to the wedding and drink the booze, eat the food, dance to the music, sweat and have a good time. If we don’t get a new toaster out of the deal, it’s not the end of the world. We’ve survived thus far with the old one.

Big-eyed people, we must band together.

“I love how you blink.”

Once upon a time (or a few years ago), I was told that very thing. And once upon a time, I was very confused about that thought.

How do you love the act of blinking, I asked. Especially one person’s blink over the next?

My reaction to this strange compliment only resulted in a small gathering of people staring at my eyes and waiting for the next time my lids dropped. Someone responded that my blink was very deliberate. Very slow.

Of course it is. My eyes are big. It’s only natural that it takes longer to blink, right? The lids have a longer distance to travel. If I blinked quicker, I don’t know, I’d end up sanding my pupils or something. Right? RIGHT?

The whole on-display situation brought back horrible memories of middle school where similar events were all too common.

“She does weird things with her eyes,” one girl delightedly squealed to her friends. Before I knew it, an anxious crowd of way-more-popular-than-me preteens were ogling my poor eyes, waiting for them to do “that weird thing.”

That weird thing? A nervous twitch. Which was exaggerated by my oversized orbs of eyes. On anyone else, the motion would probably have gone unnoticed.

I’ve conversed with other big-eyed females. And I’ve discovered that my bizarre stories are (bizarrely) not that unique.

My sister, who has the exact same eyes that I do (thanks, Mom), is told that she has salamander blinks. My friend (also named Veronica, oddly enough) has also been told that she’s a slow winker and blinker—which gets her confused for a slow thinker.

All three of us are proud of our large, brown doe eyes. They’re sparkly and beautiful and many women would kill for them. But all three of us have to sporadically put up with awkward conversations about our unusual eye habits. Or how when we glance to the side, our eyes seemingly go completely white and we look dead. Or how with the wrong makeup, we look almost alien because or eyes take up two-thirds of our faces.

It doesn’t take much to accidentally convey the wrong emotion when you have large eyes, either. Surprise easily looks like shock. Happiness can appear demented. Anger just looks hilarious. And a little sadness looks like suicidal depression. Sometimes, I really wish I could constantly wear sunglasses at work because when you have two round billboards on your forehead, a poker face just isn’t possible.

I wouldn’t change my big eyes, though. They’re uniquely me and I adore them. Even if they occasionally attract uncouth reactions from time to time.

It's 2:10.

Once upon a time (quite literally a time), I saw on VH1’s Pop Up Video that all clocks and watches in magazines and in stores are set to 10:10.

The reason being that 10:10 makes the clock smile and look happy.

Over the years, I’ve always made sure to take notice of the watches and clocks I see. And sure enough, they’re always at 10:10. (The question remains as to whether it’s AM or PM, but I digress.)

What I want to know is, what’s wrong with 2:50? I mean, it’s the same look---slightly upturned hands that mimic a smile. A warm feeling at knowing what the time is. A cheeky intended-to-be-subliminal message to get you to buy buy BUY!

So I’m stating here and now that if for any reason I ever get to photograph a watch, I’m moving the hands to the 10 and the two, as most art directors would, only with my timepiece the little hand will be at the two and the big hand will be at the 10 and no one will argue.

Even as a vegetarian, I find this awesome.

I can't explain it. But upon hearing about the McGangBang--a McDonald's McChicken sandwich inside of a McDonald's double cheeseburger--I laughed until my stomach hurt.

It's been twenty minutes and I'm still laughing.

Apparently, it's become such a phenomenon, that if you order it at McDonald's, the employees know what you're talking about.

As the Queen of all that is Awesome, I dub this super-extremely-turbo awesome.

Please, meateaters, for vegetarians everywhere, go order a McGangBang and eat the McFuck* out of it.

*Adding the Mc to my favorite F word is compliments of my lovely McFiance.

When I actually get my mail, it's pretty entertaining.

Anyone who lives in my building will tell you that's it's a rare day when we actually get all of our mail.

The this-isn't-mine table is constantly overflowing. And it's pretty often that I get a phone call from a friend or relative saying, "Isn't this your address? Because the invitation I sent two months ago was sent back to me."

So it's been proven that the important stuff (wedding invitations, insurance papers, time-sensitive tax information, checks, etc.) won't usually make it to our box.

But we do get some interesting items on a daily basis. Especially now since we're engaged.

The best one? A solicitation for a Medieval wedding complete with King's Court and, I believe, maidens. (If you knew the yuppie, uptown building Cooter Brown and I live in, you'd laugh too. The thought of that particular piece of mail even making it into this zip code is pretty funny. Not that there's anything bad about a Medieval wedding--we're just not the types.)

I've received mail about garters, really bad photographers, somethings blue, and various other venues.

I'd be upset except that most of them are ridiculously funny. They obviously don't know that my fiance and I are in advertising as well as up to our necks in wedding planning.

Oh well. Into the trash can they go. Now where was that Save-the-Date card from my cousin I've been looking out for?

Having babies is scary, but not for the reasons you might think.

Today, I read an article about a woman in New Jersey who refused a c-section in 2006, and the hospital took her baby.

Higher courts have ruled in favor of the hospital's decision. A (very biased) version of the story can be found at http://mountainsageblog.com/2009/07/25/are-women-vessels-with-no-civil-rights/.

Now, I'm not a mom (yet). And like most not-yet-moms, the thought of childbirth is terrifying, but not because of the pain or the hours of nothing happening. Because of all of the unnecessary stuff that doctors do.

Call me a hippy, but unless it's a life or death situation (like broken bones or insane blood pressure, etc.), natural just seems like the way to go.

Where did that K come from?

For the record, there is no K in Veronica.

At least in my version of Veronica.

Because Veronika looks stupid. My spell check even pinged it right now. Because it's wrong in so many ways.

Veronica = Queen of Awesome

Veronika = Russian Stripper

Stop putting a K in my name.

Everyone should read the Harry Potter series.

I saw the latest Harry Potter movie last night, and it reminded me of how good this series is.

So let's get right down to it.

J.K. Rowling wrote one of the greatest stories ever told. Period.

Not because it's about wizards and magic. That fact becomes secondary if not tertiary by the time you're even one page into the first book.

It's about good verses evil and how evil has many many victories before good can celebrate its bittersweet triumph--a fact of life many of us are unwilling to accept.

It's about love and how it's always the little beacon of light to keep you going, keeping your heart beating.

It teaches many valuable lessons: Parents are humans and flawed like everyone else. Even the most powerful people have feelings--and weaknesses. And it's so important to be good to those around you, no matter how cruelly they've treated you in the past or how they publicly despised you before.

There's no blatant agenda hiding in the pages--many have claimed there to be, but there's not. Unless you count the aforementioned be-kind-to-others. It's simply a beautifully told story.

When the saga begins, Harry Potter is only ten. Every year, every book he grows. Coincidentally, the story telling grows with him, matures, enters puberty and then adulthood.

Yes, it was written for children. But it seamlessly transforms into a story about becoming an adult at a young age.

I beg you to read the Harry Potter series. Share it. I promise you both laughter and tears.

If it takes you fifteen years to finish, it's worth it.

You can borrow my copies if you need to.

Please don’t butter my vegetables.

I like my corn naked. My broccoli is perfectly fine without a yellowish film. And my carrots don’t need any miscellaneous additions.

So please, I beg of you, don’t butter my vegetables. I want them to be pure and natural and untainted.

And while you’re at it, leave my pancakes and waffles alone, too. If I feel the need to dress them, I prefer to dip as opposed to drench.

That is all.

I need to go to a meeting.

Hi. I’m Veronica and I’m a nail biter. I’ve been sober for 547 days, but …

… but today … [sigh] … today I cracked.

After carrying files around with me, being strong when a nail has torn, ignoring a peel until I was near a pair of clippers and an emery board, keeping my digits as far away from my teeth as possible … I …

I threw it all away! I had been good. I saw the tear and went for the file. I thought I had fixed it. An hour later, my thumb brushed my jeans and I felt the teeniest of snags. Sure enough, the nail still had damn near invisible tear.

I was on my way back to my desk. So it could have gone untreated for the next 30 seconds.

But I caved. I bit. I bit the nail and tore it with my teeth. It was quick and dirty.

And I needed more.

I ducked into a stairwell and ran to the corner where I continued to bite the entire width of the nail down to just above the quick.

I wasn’t satisfied when I had finished—when the nail was just about nub length. If anything, it made me want to work on the other nine nails. I had to dash back to my desk and douse my fingertips with oils and creams to make them, the nails, as unappealing as possible.

But as I admit all of this to you, all I can think about is chewing on that thumbnail. Finishing it off completely and then biting it until it’s painful.

I feel like a failure. I’ve quit so many times. This was the longest I’ve made it—a year and a half!

I’m going to be strong. I’m not going to chew on the other nails. I’m going to ignore them and let them grow strong. I’m going to take vitamins and file them down if I have to.

I will do anything I can to prevent myself from biting them all off in another moment of weakness.

I’m Veronica. I’m a nail biter. And I’ve been sober for three hours.

How bizarre is this quiz?

What Sex and the City character are you?

See which country in South America best represents your shoe size.

How backwoods redneck is your third cousin (who happens to be your sister)?

I know they might be fun. I know they might insight laughter in the slushy brained. I understand they are addicting.

But they're still stupid.

Pointless internet quizzes are popping up left and right and have exceeded the bounds of being ignorable. They weren't so annoying when it was easy to click away or close a window. But now I can't even turn my head away because they literally jump out of the computer screen and onto my literal desktop. In fact, one just landed on my foot right now. Get off!

I closed my laptop the other night and 17 quizzes about the Jonas Brothers and beef jerky fell out. (Apparently, I should date Nick Jonas and eat knock-yo-mama-out-hot jerky, by the way.)

I hate these quizzes. I really do. Maybe I'm a snob. Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe I'm on a one-way trip to being a crotchety old lady. Whatever.

It was fun in high school when we'd email around silly "surveys" (no one kept tabs so they weren't really surveys, hence the quote marks) where we'd try to one-up each other. I probably did it in college, too. Every now and again, my mom or someone who's just getting into the internet will send one and I might humor them.

So I'm not entirely guilt-free on this one. But I'm no where near the legally guilty level either.

What's the point of these quizzes?

Which Sex and the City Character Are You?

I'm not a Sex and the City character and I never will be. I can't dumb myself down long enough to even pretend I'm one. Plus they're all insipid twits and I wouldn't want to be slutty Samantha, crazy Carrie or moo moo Miranda anymore than I'd want my ass tarred shut.

How Redneck Are You?

If there's any chance that I'm redneck, I don't want to know. Sure, I grew up in one of Dallas' less-than-posh 'burbs. And I'm spending the majority of my adulthood trying to rectify that very fact. I'm not going to be outed by some internet/Facebook quiz for the seven seconds it makes me teeheehe.

How White Are You?

I'm still not quite sure what that means, but holding my arm up to a Pantone chip, I fall somewhere near R: 192 G:171 B:108, but it's dark in here and hard to really compare. I didn't need some half-twit quiz to tell me that. Oh, and I'm not racist.

Maybe I'm just too interested in work. Maybe I'm not bored enough. Maybe I spend too much time reading news stories and makeup tips. Who knows? What everyone does know, however, is what type of mystical creature I'd be.

Spider, you’re really screwing up my Zen.

It’s a well-known fact that I am afraid of spiders.

And by “afraid,” I mean frozen-in-terror, gasoline-powered heart, I’m-3-years-old-and-staring-into-the-soulless-black-pits-of-the-boogey-man’s-eyes terrified.

It makes no sense, but it’s a phobia and that’s just how they are.

Anyway, while at yoga the other day, I’m pretzyled into some insane posture when I see a tiny gold something float near my head (near meaning like 3 feet).

Please don’t be a spider, I think. So I squinted and tried to see more clearly.

It was a spider. Naturally.

He swung from an invisible thread and threatened me with his little 8-legged body. I tried to breath more deeply in that yoga way, but I feared inhaling would only swing Mr. Spider in my direction.

And possibly on my face.

So I half-heartedly listened to the instructor and just watched the arachnid taunt me from his invisible wire.

Then the yogi told us to face the opposite direction.

Oh, hell no. I could keep my cool as long as I could see the spider. But there was no way I was going to turn my back on it. Absolutely not.

So I scooted a foot over in what I thought was a subtle manner. But I just couldn’t make myself turn around knowing what lurked to my right.

“Is there a problem,” the yogi asked. That’s when I noticed that I was up off of my mat, on my feet and slowly crossing the room.

A normal person would have answered with, “Yes. I’m just going to the restroom,” then returned and repositioned a different spot closer to the air conditioner. Something clever.

But no. I stare with wide open eyes and meekly whisper, “There’s a spider…,” and point to the empty air like a murder witness.

So class halted. Completely stopped. I tried to tell them that I’d just move my mat. Or go to my car and go home and scrub myself with brillo pads and bleach. But all of a sudden, the yogi and a bunch of guys are combing through the air for a spider smaller than a pencil eraser.

“Where is it?” someone asked. I uselessly pointed from 5 feet away. Eventually, Mr. Spider was captured (in someone’s hands!) and released out of a window. After all, you can’t kill something in a yoga class held above a vegetarian restaurant.

So I reluctantly returned to my space and we all did some calm-down breathing exercises on my behalf.

And now I can never show my face at yoga again.

Cars can think? This is bad.

I love cars. I've always loved cars because my daddy loves cars.

As a little kid, I'd perch somewhere in the garage and watch him remove carburetors, clean out fuel lines and adjust the gaps in spark plugs.

Every now and again, I'd be rewarded with a screwdriver. I'd get to help put the car back together.

Into my teens, I'd help Dad change oil. I'd help my stepdad take my 240 SX's door apart and rewire stuff. I'd impress the boys of my knowledge of what a Hemi engine is.

So I know a thing or two. No mechanic is going to pull one over on me.

So when I suspected that my car needed a new battery, I went to get one.

"I need a new battery," I told the guy at Auto Zone.

"Let me test it first," he responded. We went out into the sun, the hood was popped, cables were attached, and the battery tested well.

The battery tester lied. And I suspected as much.

A month later, my car wouldn't start. I checked the cables, the terminals were a bit dirty, but not dirty enough to keep Baby Car from starting. So I removed one anyway, brushed it out, reattached it. 

Dead. As. A. Corpse.

Chased down a woman with three kids for a jump. Taught her how to use the cables (not a bad payment, right?) and was on my way. 

Having to shut my car off, I worried it wouldn't start again.

It didn't.

After another jump  I went to O'Reiley's.

At the counter, I smiled real big. "I have a Mustang out there that needs a new battery."

"Let me test it," the man told me.

"I don't need it to be tested, I need a new battery. Preferably a charged one since my car is out there dead in your parking lot."

And since no man yielding jumper cables and a battery tester will listen to a woman in designer jeans and heels, I followed him to Baby Car.

"Wow, this battery is dead."

Duh.

Well, turns out it was more than just dead. Since I had unhooked the battery earlier to clean the terminals, the car decided that I was a thief. So there was this devilish red icon on my instrument panel of (I kid you  not) a person breaking into the car with an exclamation point.

My car, my baby, thought I was stealing it. So at this point, a fresh from the factory battery wouldn't even start the car because some hidden kill switch kept the engine from turning over.

Not from blasting my stereo, though. At least a thief would get to listen to Ratatat.

But I can't help but wonder why cars need to think. I got a manuel transmission because I specifically didn't want the car thinking.

I didn't want anti-lock breaks. I didn't want the traction control. I don't like that my car (which, as far as I know, doesn't have eyes) can control shit when it has no idea what's next to, beside, under and above it.

So my car thinks. And it thinks a lot. 

Since when did cars become self-aware? When is Ford changing their name to Sky Net? Why did this have to happen on the hottest day (so far) of the year when I had a contract job interview?

Anyway, Baby Car has since been towed, garaged, reprogrammed, rebatteried, and I've got new keys. And the car only killed 5 of the mechanics at the dealership.

I'll be picking up my Ford Mustang T800 around six o'clock. I'm a little worried cause (I shit you not) I have a friend named Sara Connor.

We're all doomed.

Go read a Stephen King book right now.

It's been far too long since I've picked up a Stephen King book.

So after I finished Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," I decided it was time to reunite with my old friend.

So I plucked "It" off of the bookshelf, started reading page one (of 1,093), and it was like being reunited with a long, lost lover.

That man can string words together like pearls. I don't care if he's writing about scabby aliens drinking milkshakes---it's beautiful. 

He knows just what to elaborate on and just what to leave to the imagination.

One of my favorite books of all time is "The Stand." In fact, that's the first King book I read. I followed the characters across the U.S from my bed. While on an airplane over the Pacific, my throat clogged and I choked with Captain Trips as everyone's fathers and babies did the same. I built my army against Randall Flag from a beach chair in Hawaii. I even used the book in my senior writing class as a literary reference.

In college, my apartment was visited by the Tommyknockers. I visited the Pet Semetary* from my dorm. And I went on countless other adventures with King while I visited my parents.

Every tale is flawless. Perfectly constructed carefully and deliberately. A King book's thickness isn't as intimidating as it is attractive---the longer the book, the longer I can live in this fantasy world.

Now by night, I find myself watching the lives of frightened adults keeping a promise to return to the terror of their childhood town. Where Tim Curry waits in full makeup and floppy shoes. Where IT lives.

And as freaked as I am of clowns and spiders, I'll read until the very last punctuation mark. Because although I might have to turn on every light in the apartment in order to feel safe, I won't be able to put this book down. It's just too pretty.

*The last paragraph of this book is the absolute, living END.

You are my darlin', Clementine.

I awoke this morning to the delightful smell of citrus.

I inhaled deeply and rolled onto my back. The sheets had gotten all twisted underneath my body, so I readjusted. Wait a minute. Sheets don't feel like--

I sat up and looked down. There were peels everywhere. Tiny peels from tiny little oranges.

I threw my feet over the side of the bed and got out. A sad trail of torn citrus skins was leading out the door. I followed with a watery mouth.

Into the kitchen they led, all the way to an empty little crate. Dejected, I went to the pantry to eat some cereal. But there, hiding within the shadows of the pantry, were five more frightened little clementines.

I reached towards them and heard a shrill little cry.

"Please, don't eat us," one of the tiny fruits begged. It tried to say something else, but I was too busy peeling its friend.

"What did we ever do to you?"

Through the juice and torn meat of the chubbiest clementine, I simply answered, "You tempted me with your deliciousness." I chewed and swallowed, looked around and observed. Took another bite.

The four remaining clementines became three as I plucked another one from behind the potato chips.

"Why are you doing this!" they cried. 

I pulled a bit of peel from the bottom of my foot. Maybe I shouldn't leave peels around the apartment.

"You're a barbarian!"

After devouring another clementine, I picked up the remaining fruits as they attempted a roll to safety, not that hiding behind soup cans made them any safer.

As I finished the last one, I became a little sad. The next box of clementines is all the way at the grocery store. Perhaps I should buy two.

I might get monogram crazy.

My fiance and I came up with the best idea ever.

We're getting all of our everyday stuff monogrammed. But since we're not typical follow-the-rules types, we're not using the standard his initial, our last initial, my initial nonsense.

We're going to monogram our stuff with something better.

FTW and WTF.

Just imagine. You're staying with us for the weekend and you're getting out of the shower. You reach for our soft, puffy wedding towels and see a vivid white WTF sewn into the cotton.

You'd die laughing, right? I mean, what the ... ? It makes total sense in a really WTF kind of way.

You're sitting at our dinner table drinking a glass of wine, scotch, champagne, whatever. Just as my dear husband says something hilarious (and he will because he is hilarious) you see FTW frosted onto your glass. Perfect timing, perfect comment. We all pause and then errupt into laughter.

I usually don't use these silly little abbreviations when I type and write. But putting them out into the world always cracks me up a bit. Makes me want to put LOL on the wash rags.

So, when do we get to register?

I'm tempted to get a potato sack.

I've tried on like 30 wedding gowns, and every time one touched my body, someone would say, "Well, it doesn't matter what dress you pick; you'd look great in a potato sack."

This is people's way of supporting a bride's ultimate decision, because they might actually hate her dress. But rule number one is "don't tell the bride you hate her dress." It's better to hate the groom than the dress. Seriously.

Anyway, the prankster in me is very very tempted to get a potato sack. And why not? After bleaching it white, cinching the waste with a rope, maybe sewing on some other sacks for ruffles, it could be quite pretty. I watch Project Runway. I've seen what a gay man can do with some red thread and a trash bag. If that concoction is acceptable for a cocktail party, my potato sack dress will be a wedding celebration sensation!

Not to mention how cheap a potato sack is. I mean, gowns are hundreds if not thousands of dollars. How much are potato sacks? Free? Maybe ten cents? Thread is less than a dollar. I've already got some needles. This could be a fun craft project.

The only problem is the scratchy material of a potato sack. It wouldn't be attractive for the bride to break out in hives as she's walking down the aisle. So I guess I'd have to line it with something like an old T-shirt. I've got a few of those. Heck, it could be my something blue.

My fiance and I are already going to honeymoon in Ireland to celebrate our drunken heritage. So a potato sack would fit in nicely with out under-stated theme. Hell, it'd go great with the mashed potato bar. We could even sack race to the limo when we leave.

I'm going to have the best wedding ever.

You know what, Weather? You can suck it.

Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to work from home (or just be home during the day on those days when I'm a jobless bum).

For the last two weeks, I've been banging keys in my own apartment. Sometimes I'd leave to run an errand or just to escape electronics for a bit.

But for the last two weeks, it's been lugubrious outside. The clouds hung like socks on a clothesline. The rain has pelted the ground like stones. The ground swelled and became soft.

On the few dry days we had, it was too hot to really enjoy anything. Skin cancer and sweat aren't a fun combination.

So I didn't mind that I'd be in an office all this week, absorbing whatever it is you absorb from fluorescent lights.

Until today.

Because today, it's fucking gorgeous outside.

Today is the day I should be walking around downtown. Today is a great day for poolside reading. Today is the day I shouldn't be "working."

I'm sure the clouds are getting a good laugh at all of us schmucks today. And next week when we all have the day off on Monday, just you watch. It'll rain.

The problem is that I'm too happy.

For whatever reason, creativity seems to flow in times of struggle.

When the painter is sad, she paints canvas after canvas of angry reds, weepy blues and bleak blacks.

When the song writer is frustrated, he pounds on the piano, he fills his notebook with new phrases and he pours his soul into a song.

When the writer is lonely, her pen moves swiftly and a never-ceasing string of the most beautifully combined words flows from her like ...

And then the writer gets stuck. Because she isn't lonely. She's actually quite the opposite.

She's very happy. Her life is happy. Everything around her is happy.

Love does wonderful things to a person. And horrible things to that person's writing time!

But this writer is fine with that. Maybe I'll stub my toe this week and come up with something witty.

I like my Coke with a capital C.

I knew better.

I knew that if I had the Coke*, then I wouldn't sleep for hours. It would get in my veins, my heart, my head and keep me frantically searching for something to do all night.

And that's exactly what it did.

I don't have Coke that often. Probably only once a month or so. But last night, I needed it. I needed it badly.

Around 8:30 PM, a waiter gave me my fix (waiters always have Coke, don't they?). About ten minutes later, he gave me some more. I didn't really want more, but how could I say no to more Coke?

So I made quick work of it. And it was so good.

Around midnight, I tried to go to sleep. But the Coke wouldn't let me.

I tossed. I turned. I stole the covers. I returned them.

Hours passed. Sleep couldn't fight with the chemicals in my system.

I rolled over and watched my fiance sleep. His eyes opened and he met my gaze for a few seconds. Then he continued sleeping. I bet he wasn't even awake. I recently wrote an article about the stages of sleep and it's not uncommon for people to open their eyes, speak, or even get up while in stage 2.

I rewrote the article in my head as I watched him sleep. While I was buzzing off of Coke.

At around 3:30, the boredom finally got to me. So I played mahjong. I watched infomercials. I sat through half of a movie.

I started to crash around 4:30. Finally, after around 7 hours, the Coke was finally wearing off.

I crept back into the bedroom and covered myself with the sheets. Sometime around 8:45, my fiance kissed me goodbye as he left for work.

I woke up embarrassingly late and mucked about all day. Maybe tomorrow I'll get some work done.

As long as I stay away from Coke tonight.

*Pepsi is for chumps. It's all about the Coca Cola.

They are invading my space. Again.

MySpace was the cool thing a few years back.

Then it was invaded with creepy, saggy old dudes who wanted to get nasty with young, tight chicks.

So we all fled to FaceBook. After all, you had to have a dot-edu email address to join.

Then they opened it up to corporations. Then they released the flood gates and everyone could join.

No biggie.

And now everyone's sixty-something year old babysitter from the seventies has joined. And we're all censoring our pages like crazy (which we should have done in the beginning).

Oh well. At least they aren't trying to sleep with the youngins. Yet.

Apparently, I'm old.

I have a spam problem.

I get the usual senseless spam--Viagra trials (I'm a chick), make-him-last-longer messages, clear-your-debt offers, and the list goes on.

But tonight I received a spam message that, well, freaked me out a little.

It's for the Hoveround (however it's spelled). You know, a motorized scooter for the elderly.

Now, I know I probably complained and talked about my ol' knee more than anyone cared to hear about. But does that really warrant a Hoveround? I'm walking quite well now.

My biggest question, though, is what website did I go to in order to land upon such a wrongly-targeted mailing list?

The sex aids make sense, I guess, cause I read Cosmo-esque articles online. I'm not ashamed of that. Every now and again, I'll read a celeb blog that'll say, "Hey, look at so-in-so's boobs!" And you know what? I'm going to be honest--I click. Because I want to compare those store bought boobs to mine. So ads that target nudity and stuff make sense.

The credit ads? I imagine everyone gets those. We all have bank accounts and credit cards.

The mortgage ads? Not that I own any property, but I'll chalk those up to doing credit checks and the like.

But a scooter for lame old people? That's pushing my buttons. I've spent too many thousands of dollars not to be lame (in the mobility sense). I would appreciate very much not to get ads reminding me of how much it blows being crippled.

How did I get on that list? Is it because I like to eat figs? I google "kittens?" My desktop is a bunch of flowers? I enjoy the smell of Bengay?

Oh, crap. It's because I watch the Golden Girls, isn't it?

I'm doomed.

My nose is broken.

I seriously think I've got some seriously messed up piping in my head.

Seriously.

I've got allergies that confuse doctors and snot that comes out of places it shouldn't (like my eyes, seriously, if that's too much for you to handle, you're obviously new to my crazy blog).

So I decided to give nasal lavage a try. What could it hurt? Worst case scenario, salt water would leak out of my eyes. Which it does naturally. Whatever.

I didn't go to the store and buy a netty pot. I actually received a free trial of Afrin Pure Sea nasal rinsing yadda yadda yadda. (I belong to this thing called Bzz Agent where you/I/we get free samples of new products. You/I/we are supposed to test them out and talk about them to friends, etc. You/I/we also get coupons to share. If you want to be a BzzAgent, let me know.)

So I read the instructions. I google "nasal rinsing" and watch videos. This sound easy! So I get the little bottle, lean over the sink, tilt my head and pour water into my nose.

What's supposed to happen is that the water will fill your nostril and then go through some tube in your nose and leave out the other nostril. If you do it improperly, water'll go down your throat and you'll hack a bit.

Well, the water went up my nostril and then ... I have no idea. I never swallowed it. It never came out my eyes. It never came back out my nose.

I think it's in my brain.

Confused, I pumped the little bottle of water into the sink. It worked. So I tried the other nostril. Again I assumed the position (ha) and sprayed water into my nose. I felt it collect into a little pool and then slowly overflow out the same nostril.

Perhaps I wasn't leaning enough? So I tilted my head more to the side and more forward. I'm now climbing onto the bathroom counter and damn near doing a handstand over the sink.

The water just sat there. Not going into the other nostril. Not going down my throat. Not cleaning anything.

This is physically impossible. So I right myself and the water just follows gravity.

I attempted to use this thing twice a day for two weeks. On the last day, I finally accidentally swallowed some water. But it never traveled to the other nostril.

So it's official. My nasal tubes are tied. Next time I go in for my quarterly nose/asthma check, I'll have my doctor take a look and make sure stuff's "normal." Cause if it ain't, well, what can I do?

Obviously not irrigate my nose.

If anyone wants a coupon for this thing, let me know. They're of no use to me.

I have not forsaken you, oh sweet blog!

Dear, sweet blog.

I know how you must feel.

Abandoned. Unloved. Forgotten.

This just isn't the case. I think about you constantly. I dream of you at night. I relive our fond times as I stare out of the window on a stormy day. I quietly laugh about your antics when I'm sipping my morning cup of coffee.

I miss you, blog. More than you could ever fathom.

I just haven't been worthy of you lately. I've needed a creative hiatus. Time to recharge. So I could come back strong and give you the full attention you deserve.

So wipe those teary eyes, blog. Because mama's coming home.

Peas are gross.

I hate peas.

Hate. Despise. Loathe.

I wish all of the pea pods on earth would get some sort of fungus that vaporizes them and removes them from existence.

Because peas are disgusting, horrid little things that taste like stomach bile.

I've tried so hard, several times to eat peas. I try to be a grown up. I put some on my fork or in my spoon, raise them to my lips, choke back need to retch, and I try to eat them.

And I always end up nearly running towards the nearest bathroom to rid myself of the peas as quickly as I can.

Take today's lunch, for example. It was an Indian dish (mattar paneer) consisting of rice, chickpeas, and curried peas.

I figured that being covered in curry would make the peas bearable.

I sadly figured wrong.

I mixed them with the rice and nearly spit them out. I upped the curry to pea ratio leaving myself one pea in a spoonful of curry. No dice. It still tasted like Satan's toe jam.

So I ate around them. At the end of my meal, I was left with a plate full of nasty, little green balls of ewww.

So I dumped them down the sink and ground them up into a gooey oblivion.

And now I'm left with a stomach ache. I can't help but wonder if it's the 3 peas I ingested reeking havoc on my innards.

Is this considered ironic?

It's just funny to me that an insurance company is begging for money for a change.

I just hope they had to endure phone calls with hours of canned music and helpless customer reps before getting anything. After all, haven't we had to do that for everything concerning insurance companies and money?

Of course, we usually get turned down.

Crap.

Anyway, you can't help but appreciate the irony.

I've been talking about marriage quite a bit.

But I'M ENGAGED so it's okay!

March 3rd, 2009 (otherwise known as 3.6.9) is the day this guy asked me to be his wife.

Details to come as soon as the buzz wears off. If that ever happens.

Morals aside, here is why the definition of a marriage being only between a man and a woman is total shit.

Plain and simple, if any constitution is going to dictate that marriage is only allowed between a man and a woman, then it must define the words “man” and “woman.”

Seriously. Because if they are the only two types of humans who can marry, we'd better sure as heck legally know what they are. And despite what you may think, gender identity can be a very gray area.

So for starters, let’s look at the physical aspects of what makes a man a man and what makes a woman a woman.

Men have penises. Fair enough. But if a man were to lose his in some sort of unfortunate accident (a la John Bobbie pre-reconstruction), he technically doesn’t have one anymore. Therefore, if gender definition is based on possession, he would (at that time) have no longer been a man. (He wouldn’t be a woman either since lack of a penis doesn’t equal a vagina.)

So then one can claim that he still has testes and a prostate and other organs that females don’t possess. Fine. He’s still a dude if the law defines a man as “someone with testes” or something similar.

But what about someone born with both? Since hermaphroditic people can possess ovaries and testes (male and female reproductive parts) within one human body, are they only allowed to marry other hemaphrodites?

It’s a valid question. Otherwise, you could possibly have a woman, another half of a woman and a man in one marriage. And that would legally not be allowed if the definitions of “man” and “woman” included reproductive organs.

But hermaphrodites can identify with one gender more than another and have “corrective” surgery to become “strictly” male or female. But there’s a chance that their chosen gender may not match their particular genetic gender assignment.

So let’s take a look at that.

So if the definition of “man” is a human possessing an XY combination and “woman” is a human possessing an XX combination, what about those in the population who aren’t XX or XY?

Surprise! Not everyone is an XX (female) or XY (male).

Females with one X chromosome and nothing else (X0) have what’s known as Turner’s syndrome. We still consider them human although they’re a chromosome short of the standard, but could they legally not be female?

Some men have two Y chromosomes (XYY). And others have two X chromosomes (XXY). So it presents the same problem as those with Turners—can they legally be considered of one gender when they don’t match the legal definition?

And if they can’t be legally gender assigned, they can’t marry anyone.

So, as I hope you can sort of see, defining “man” and “woman” will, like most legal things, take millions of dollars worth of finessing and arguing and it’s just not worth it to spread religious propaganda.

Which brings me to who should decide who is or isn’t allowed to wed.

If permitting people to marry is a moral decision, let the individual churches and religions deal with their own people.

If bigoted religions are not going to allow two men or two women who are in love join their lives in a ceremony, fine. Whatever. LGBTs deserve better than that asshole god anyway.

If a religion is alright with anyone loving anyone, fantastic! LGBTs can have a religious, god-approved union if they so desire.

This is why we have separation of church and state. It’s not to keep god out of schools or whatever. It’s to keep government out of churches.

Think about it next time you have a few seconds. Think about the whole reason people fled Europe and set up colonies in the states. You’ll start to see.

Anyway, I hope Prop 8 gets revoked. I hope it gets revoked in the Supreme Court and the whole country allows people to legally love who they love. I hope all of my gay friends get to marry if they want to. And I hope I’m invited to their weddings.

He hasn't found me yet.

Online social networking is all fun and good.

Until you see your Dad is on the same site you are.

Luckily he hasn't seen me. Yet.

But the twin brother has already spotted me.

It's only a matter of time now.

Gotta run. Must start deleting incriminating stuff. Including the link to this blog. Unless he already know it exists.

...

Aw, crap. What if he finds out I'm liberal? I'm so dead.

Forget being on a wall. Humpty Dumpty was on the lamb.

Part of my new project "The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty."

Humpty Dumpty smoked a cigarette as the beam of passing headlights cast eerie shadows in the parking garage. He checked his watch. Nine P.M. His boss’s client should be arriving any minute now.

Humpty carelessly let his cigarette butt fall to the ground. Then he ground it into the slick pavement with his left foot. More headlights appeared from the level below. This would be the man he was meeting.

A large, black sedan pulled into the spot opposite of Humpty’s large, black SUV. “He’s here?” a voice coming from the other side of the vehicle said. Humpty had forgotten for a second that he wasn’t doing this job alone.

“He’s here,” he confirmed. “Get the case.”

High heels clicked as Humpty’s companion appeared at his side with a briefcase. Together, they opened up the back of the SUV and set the case down for the client’s ease of inspection.

“Mr. Dumpty,” a gold-suited man smoking a cigar sneered. “We meet again.”

“Mr. Stiltskin,” Humpty greeted in reply. “So you have the money?”

“Only if you have my product. Ah, is this it?” the man put a hand to either side of the briefcase.

“The combination,” Humpty’s female companion said, “is all sevens.” She brushed her ebony hair behind an ear.

The greedy little man opened the case with ease and removed one of many white bricks encased in plastic. He held out a hand in his companion placed a small, metal file.

Mr. Stiltskin then stabbed the brick with the file and removed a tiny amount of powder. He then rubbed this powder into his palms.

“You disappoint me, egg,” he said quietly. “This is of very poor quality.” He dipped his finger into the substance and signaled his subservient closer. “What do you think?” he asked as he rubbed it on the man’s gums.

“Nothing boss. Tastes like cooking flour.”

Mr. Stiltskin’s eyes grew wide as his face brightened to a red similar to brake lights. “Flour! This isn’t for cooking. What do you take me for! WHERE’S MY PRODUCT!”

As he and his man went to pull out their firearms, Humpty Dumpty and the woman each put a gun to Mr. Stiltskin’s head. The subservient raised his arm and the woman shot him dead without flinching.

“Keep the money. Just let me …” Mr. Stiltskin never finished his sentence.

“Snow,” Humpty said, “the money is probably in the sedan’s trunk.”

Humpty’s partner, Snow White casually walked to the sedan to retrieve the money as Humpty climbed into the back of the SUV.

Ten minutes later, they were driving down the highway.

“If the Wicked Queen finds out what we did tonight …” Snow White began.

“She won’t. You’re going to disappear.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to die tonight.” Humpty Dumpty pulled a blanket off of an object in the back of their vehicle. It was a very large egg.

Snow White quickly put two and two together. “Oh, Humpty! You’ve thought of everything!”

“The Wicked Queen can’t hunt a dead man. Now pull over on this overpass.”

The two criminals quickly rolled the large egg out of the SUV and over the guard rail. They watched as it exploded on the highway below. Cars immediately swerved to avoid the mess. Other cars slipped in the slimy yolk.

And Humpty Dumpty and Snow White drove away and lived happily ever after.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Part of my new project: The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty.*


Humpty Dumpty stared at the morning paper in horror.

“Ova-Cidal Maniac Strikes Again!” the front page proclaimed.

Before reading further, humpty ran to his window and threw the curtains closed. He didn’t want some ova-phobe watching him as he ate his cereal.

He returned to the paper and read further.

“The King’s Men claim to be closer to cracking this case,” the paper said. “However, given the delicacy of this situation, all egg-nic citizens are advised to use the buddy system and remain in constant contact with loved ones.”

Just then, a loud noise sent Humpty diving under his table armed with only his cereal spoon. It took three more knocks before he realized it was someone at his front door.

He slowly opened it. Standing on his stoop was a King’s Man.

“Mr. Humpty Dumpty?” the officer asked. “I’m here to see if you’re safe. In case you aren’t aware, there’s a dangerous criminal targeting …”

“I’m aware. Believe me, I’m aware.” Humpty opened the door further to allow the officer to enter.

“Have you had any threats made on your life recently?” The King’s Man pulled out a small tablet and quill from his breast pocket.

“No more than usual,” Humpty informed him. The officer gave him a puzzled look. “I’m a political blogger,” Humpty continued. “Death threats are part of the job.”

“I see. You’re a well-known advocate for Egg Rights.” Notes were scribbled down. A business card was passed. And the King’s Man left.”

Humpty went to his cushy couch and plopped down. It was only a matter of time before the serial killer would make an attempt on his, Humpty’s life.

He rolled to his side and heard the sloshing of his delicate innards.

So delicate. If only there were a way to toughen up. But not having muscles made it hard.

Then he had an epiphany!

Humpty Dumpty ran to the bathroom. Good thing he hadn’t gotten rid of the bathtub like he had initially wanted to. (Eggs don’t sweat, so they don’t really need to bathe.) He climbed into the empty tub and opened the hot water valve all the way.

As the temperature climbed and steam filled the room, Humpty screamed. It wasn’t pain he was feeling as his yolk hardened, but it wasn’t egg-stacy either.

Twenty minutes later, he was a new man. Sort of.

“Now if I crack, I’ll have a chance!” he proclaimed to the mirror.

***

A week later, Humpty was lunching with a fellow Egg Rights advocate. He bought a coffee and a sandwich at a café and went to the park to wait for his companion.

He chose to sit on a wall facing the street so he could see his friend coming.

But that didn’t turn out the way he had planned.

Just as Humpty was taking the first sip of his coffee, he was thrust forward off of the wall. Granted, the fall was only about four feet, but to an egg it might as well be 100.

He hit the ground with a thud and a crack. Stunned, he realized he was still in one piece.

That’s when he heard hoofs. The King’s Men and their horses had been watching from a distance. “Mr. Dumpty,” the officer from a week ago shouted, “Mr. Dumpty, are you okay?”

The egg managed to sit up. A mighty crack ran from the top of what could be considered his head to where a belly button would go.

A team of medics swooped in and hauled Humpty away in a horse-drawn ambulance.

*He doesn't always have to die. He's not Kenny from South Park.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

Part of my new project: The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty.

As the young Humpty Dumpty pulled clothes from his locker, a spit wad stuck to the back of his shell.

Humpty didn’t feel it. That’s one of the perks and pains of not having skin.

He slammed the door shut and made his way to gym class. As the boys all changed into their shorts and T-shirts, Humpty carefully wrapped himself in bubble wrap. After all, when one is an egg, one must be extremely careful while playing basketball or dodge ball or with any ball.

As he entered the gym, a foot came out of nowhere to trip him. Poor round Humpty rolled all the way to midcourt, his protective wrap popping and snapping the entire way.

“Egg!” the coach shouted, “Quit screwing around and get up. This isn’t an omelet pan!”

All of the boys erupted in laughter. Humpty rocked himself up and got in line with the rest of his class—all human boys.

“Today, men,” the coach shouted for no reason, “we climb the rope!”

Half of the boys seemed really excited. The other half seemed nervous. Humpty went into hysterics.

“Sir,” he whimpered. “Coach!” he said a little louder. “Hey!” He was unable to raise his voice above the sound of sliding mats and feet on floor.

Boy after boy climbed the rope. One even hit the bell at the top. Humpty was next. He approached the rope.

“Sir,” he said to the coach.

“What is it, egg?”

“It isn’t safe. I can’t climb the rope.”

“Sure you can.”

“But sir, I am brittle and round. My shape isn’t ideal for climbing anything—ladders, walls, and especially ropes.”

“The coach looked down his crooked nose at the young Humpty Dumpty. “You will climb this rope,” he sneered, “or you will die trying.”

“But I have a note. I’m not supposed to engage in any kind of …”

The coach cut Humpty off by shoving the rope in his face. Humpty looked into his coach's eyes one more time. Coach simply mouthed go.

So Humpty climbed. He pulled with his little stick arms and pushed with is little stick legs. The rope hissed against his calcified exterior.

But near the top, Humpty’s grip slipped.

He let out a shriek before he plummeted to the floor.

There was a horrific crack. A terrible splat. And the entire class of boys along with the coach were spattered with albumen and yolk.

“Oh,” the coach mumbled. “This is bad. Quick, boys, we need to put him back together.”

So they tried. They called in the art teacher. Her glue wouldn’t hold. They called in the science teacher, but his suggestion of solidifying the liquid parts with heat didn’t help with the shell. The school nurse was at a total loss for she had not enough bandages.

They just simply couldn’t put Humpty together again.