I need help.

I watched a cell-phone-camera video the other day of me dancing with a friend at Cooter and my wedding.

Well, it's wasn't so much us dancing as it was my friend slinging me around. And me awkwardly trying to keep up.

Even a wedding dress can't make a marionette look graceful. In fact, referring to myself as a marionette is insulting to puppets.

You know what I looked like? One of those children's toys that collapses when a button is pushed. Because it loosens the taut strings that keeps it rigid.

I'm all elbows and chin when I try to groove.

It doesn't help that I'm tall, either. So these long limbs just flail with the grace of a falling egg.

It brings back painful memories of when I was in high school gymnastics. When I would dance on the beam.

"Perhaps we should just focus on the skills and tumbling," my coach said when I attempted a graceful arm movement. Woman fail.

I even took a pole dancing class the other day. Seriously. Seeing myself in the mirror got me so nervous that my hands kept sweating. Which made it even harder to dance. Which made me stiffer and ... The instructor was very kind. Perhaps I'll go back?

Or perhaps I'll just get so drunk the next time I have to dance, that I won't care.

As long as no one takes any video.

I'm two people.

I faintly recall changing my name around three months ago.

It wasn't that hard of a process. Stand in this line. Show this form of ID. Show this sheet of paper. Sign this other sheet of paper. Get a photo taken.

Boom. Sweet new name.

Well, apparently, that made me a whole new person.

Because as a humble freelancer, I now have to re-fillout all of the wonderful W documents that I've already so bitterly filled out.

Not that it's a huge deal. It's just that lately, they keep pouring in. From various clients.

"Oh, well, we thought everything would be fine with your old stuff, but we really need to fill everything out again."

Because for some reason, when they see my new name on my invoice, my old name appears on my check.

And then the bank looks at me cross-eyed.

"But this isn't you," they say.

First name. New last name.  "Who the fuck is that?" I ask.

Middle name. New last name. "Who the fuck is that?" the bank asks.

You see, my parents decided to call me by my middle name and I dropped my maiden name entirely, so the bank is basically looking for a person who (to me and my husband) doesn't exist.

But to my point, shouldn't they have a record of who I used to be?

Perhaps I should carry two drivers licenses around with me (which is illegal).

Dude, I just wanted a cooler name and health insurance. Geez.

Perhaps you shouldn't stalk your potential customers.

I am a home renter. I've been a home renter for the last eight years (holy crap, really?).

More specifically, I've been an apartment renter. And I like it.

But the American Dream includes owning a small piece of land. And my husband and I will be pursuing this dream in 2011. So I joined one of those harmless real estate websites where we can innocently browse neighborhoods.

You know, do some research in advance.

Only, it's become creepy.

Yesterday morning, for example, I received a phone call around four in the afternoon.

"I noticed you were looking for homes on our website earlier today ..." said the voice.

Um, what?

I know a freaky amount about Internet analytics. I worked at a company that created websites, for crying out loud. And I still freelance for websites.

I know about analytics.

I know that companies will track web users to understand their habits (the average amount of time people spend on Website X is twenty-four seconds).

So I'm not at all surprised that the website a) knew I was there and b) logged in.

What surprised me is that only hours later, a human called me and then called me out on it.

"You seem to be interested in the ___ area."

Creepy. Very creepy. You know, my computer has a webcam, too. Did that freaky ass monger hack it? Because now I'm paranoid as shit.

What else does that guy know? Does he know that my hair was in curlers and I was wearing a robe? That I was drinking a lukewarm green tea? That Bridezillas or some equally embarrassing show was on in the background?

Don't call me saying you know where I've been. I'm pretty sure that's legally stalking. And if not, it's damn close.

I'm so excited, I can't sleep.

The queen will be blogging from a shiny new iMac very very soon.

Not that I'm going to abandon my faithful PowerBook G4. We've had some crazy times together over the last five years.

We've been to New York a few times. LA a few times. We've consumed countless cups of tea in coffee shops across the DFW. 

My PowerBook lived beside me as I recovered from surgery. And then I fretfully paced as it went to the hospital itself.

It's been my faithful companion on nights when sleep couldn't be found. And it's also kept me up way too late despite being completely tired.

We've laughed. We've cried. We've worked. We've played.

And although my devoted PowerBook G4 is going to be used less now that the big iMac is moving in, it always will be important to me. 

No woman ever forgets her first true love. 

Cheers to Stone Fox, my first Macintosh.

I am appalled, channel guide summary writer."

"Batman battles a vicious criminal known as the Joker."

That's the summary for "The Dark Knight." Perhaps the greatest movie ever to be filmed, scored, edited, and created.

Perhaps the shittiest summary I've ever laid eyes on, too.

Excuse me, but saying, "Batman battles a vicious criminal known as the Joker," is like saying, "World War II was a skirmish between Germany's friends and the U.S. just so happened to get involved."

"The Dark Knight" is so much more complex than Batman vs. the Joker. At least give the movie another sentence.

Or just describe it like I would:

Watch this movie now. Even if you've seen it a hundred times, you haven't watched it enough.

Thanks, chicky movie, for making me stupider.

I love action movies. I love comedic movies. And if there's a movie that has both explosions and laughter, I'm all over it.

I'm also a female. Which means that I should like chick flicks.

Should.

I admit, there are a few that I'll consider good. But my all-time list of favorites doesn't contain a single chick movie.

Because most of them suck balls. Big, sweaty, buffalo balls.

The characters are weak and predictable. The story lines are weak and predictable. The endings are weak and predictable.

Seeing the pattern?

But they're tricky, too, these shitty feel-good, girly movies. A preview will show some powerful NY woman laughing with her friends, or getting into a funny brawl. And they make me think, "Hey, I would enjoy that."

But I know better. I will save my money. And then DVR the movie when my husband isn't home (since we already pay for satellite).

Then, I will watch the offending movie. And I'll get mad at the end. Because the movie is always bad, will always be bad. It's always lackluster and will always be lackluster. It's always a horrible (suicidal) way to kill ninety minutes (and myself).

Call me crazy, but I want to think.  I should refuse to watch anything from now on unless Chris Nolan is working on it.

Anyway, I haven't learned my lesson. I will continue to watch the chicky dicky sticky movies when no one's around.

Maybe I should wait until it's lady time. Perhaps I'll like them more.

Chicken breasts save human breasts?

As a vegetarian, this may come as a bit of a shock. But I'm not grossed out by the KFC Double Down.

I think tomatoes and lettuce sandwiched between two pieces of fried chicken isn't a bad idea. Because most people would eat two or three pieces of fried chicken without the added nutrition of sandwich fillings. So what's the harm of deleting buttery slices of bread (which, if you have read Chick-Fil-A's health info, is actually worse than the chicken).

But one thing KFC advertises that raises my eyebrow is their "Buckets for the Cure" campaign. Something like fifty cents goes to Susan G. Komen for the Cure for every greasy, most-likely-cancer-causing bucket of kentucky-fried chicken you purchase.

So you buy fried breasts, and then you theoretically save some breasts.

But eating fried chicken isn't healthy. So you must eat something bad to do something good?

Not that I'm anti breast cancer prevention and research, but perhaps KFC should focus on, I don't know, heart health? And perhaps stop selling chicken by the bucket?

Just a thought.