Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Three Shopping Days Left,
My Mind Is More Beautiful Than Russell Crowe's,
And I'm Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady, I'll Have You Know

1. When I was in fourth grade one of my friend's older brothers liked me. Liked me, liked me. I didn't figure it out until I was at my friend's house hanging out and he asked her to go get something in the other room. He used this opportunity to shut the door, put on a Lionel Richie tape, and make sweet baby Lionel Richie love to me sit next to me on the bed. That's right, Lionel "Say You, Say Me" Richie. Hey boys, I have a few words of advice. If you're creepy as it is, fortheloveofgod do not put on Lionel Richie when you try to make your move. I think I got up and ran out of there as fast as my little pink Reebok-ed feet would take me, but truthfully I've blocked most of The Incident out, so we could have gotten married for all I know, with me walking down the aisle to "Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?" while my parents wept silently for the loss of their only daughter from the front pew of The Church Of Latter Day Lionel Richie Saints. I don't think so though, because when he bagged my groceries while I was home for the holiday he didn't say anything like "Hey, Well I'll be damned, it's my long lost child bride". He didn't say anything at all. Which only leads me to believe Lionel Richie a good marriage base does not make. Say you, say me, say it together, naturally.

2. I'm difficult. I admit this. I can't stop it, and even if I tell you I wish I could, I'm lying. I lie. I like to argue. I think O.J. is innocent. I will never, ever watch A Beautiful Mind, just because. I have a shoe-tying test that I administer to people with out their knowing and if you fail, you're just not worthy of my time, sorry. I have never worn gloves, wait, that's not true, I've worn surgical gloves (Shut up, like you haven't worn surgical gloves!), but I mean winter gloves. I'm a mitten girl. I ask really obvious questions, like "Are you sleeping?" when you're sleeping and "Did that hurt?" when you stab yourself in the leg with a fork after I tell you about how I don't really blame the Menendez Brothers or when I tell you I can't come out to play because Jerry Maguire is on again, and who knows, maybe this time it will end differently, maybe this time Renee Zellweger's bastard son will get eaten by a pack of Wolverines at the zoo, it happens, just ask Boz. Deal with it. Love me; love my high level of difficulty.

3. All I really want for my birthday this year is an ark, Good Luck Bear to admit he is a mockery of a Care Bear, and Ben Folds to perform his rendition of "Tiny Dancer" for me at my surprise birthday party that will be reminiscent of Kelly's surprise birthday party on that episode of Beverly Hills, 90210, you know, the one in which she ended up passing out in the bathroom after downing a package of diet pills, only minus that part, but with the same guest list and add Ben Folds and me as The Tiny Dancer and you've got my party. See you there. Oh, you're not on the guest list? Gee, I'm sorry. But you understand, I have to leave room for Kelly, Brenda, Dylan, Steve, Donna, David, and let's not forget Nat, because Nat makes the pie after all. Maybe you can come next year; I have a sneaking suspicion Kelly will be in rehab for either drugs or burn recovery or struggling with her sexuality then and that will leave an open slot.


Tuesday, December 30, 2003

Why Am I So F@#king Stupid,
And Happy New Year To You, Too, My Little Mad Cows

I was supposed to be a New Year's baby. But I didn't want to come out. I firmly placed my unborn baby feet on either side of my mother's uterus and refused to budge unless certain demands were met. I won't get into those demands here other than to say they involved magic powers, fat crayons, a pony, and an outfit similar to the one Rainbow Brite wore and if anyone ever promises you a pony to do something, I'm sorry, but THEY'RE LYING. Unfortunately, I think my reluctance to come out into this god forsaken world was quite possibly the last sensible, quasi-intelligent thing I did. Where did my Common Sense go? Did it run off hand in hand into the sunset with my Ability To Make Rational Decisions That Aren't Going To Come Back To Kick Me In The Ass? I didn't even get a goodbye, a "Wish you were here! Love, your Common Sense" postcard, or a $50 bill on the nightstand. I just woke up one morning and realized my dear, dear Common Sense had packed its bags and left for greener pastures. Was it something I did? Something I said? Oh please come back, Common Sense, for with out you I have already made several grave errors involving trips and phone calls and things better left unsaid. Not to mention the 15 minutes I spent scribbling "chips and dip, chips and dip, chips and dip" over and over again on a lime green Post-It this morning, but really, it's probably best we don't get into that. It's probably best we don't get into a lot of things since I am unable to function like a normal human being since Common Sense took my Ability To Tell A Good Idea From A Bad Idea with it to the sunny island of HahaHeeheeHoohoo. And here I am. Left to dispose of the evidence of what was once mistaken as a Good Idea, but which I'm pretty sure is considered a Bad Idea in at least 3 states, and no, I'm not talking about eating contaminated beef. I don't think I am, anyway.

My New Year's Resolutions, In Case You Care

1. Woo my Common Sense back. First buy book on Practice of Wooing, as I don't know a thing about Wooing, or even if Wooing is a real word. Then Woo with all my might so that I may one day again be able to make a single decision that I won't live to regret and will be able to tell that trying to put a Baby Pit Bull on a payment plan is another Bad Idea, no matter how cute it is when it nibbles my toes.

2. Bury the hatchet with Renee Zellweger's bastard son. Bury it IN HIS (8 POUND) HEAD! I can probably do it when he least expects it, too, like when he's on the set of his new movie, Stuart Little 5, or maybe it's Stuart Little 6, who can really keep up, in which Stuart the mouse realizes he's being discriminated against and in a fit of rage kills all the humans. And then after he dies, he'll be to Stuart Little 5 what Brandon Lee was to The Crow. And I'll be free. Free from his pleas of going to the zoo and free from his incessant chatter about the weight of the human head. Free!

3. Steal an innocent person's identity by going through her trash and hacking into her computer and then apply for a job at using this person's name and social security number. Once I'm in the door set forth Operation Burn Amazon To The Ground in motion. In theory, the woman whose identity I stole will rot in jail for life and I will live happily ever after with the goddamn DVD I ordered in September, but in reality this resolution also goes by the name "Become a walking, talking Lifetime Movie in which that girl who played Jo on The Facts of Life plays the part of me".

4. Build my character. Because apparently, if you listen to my parents, which I try not to, but occasionally a word or two does sneak through, I am in desperate need of character building. Things that build character: Having a hole in your living room, developing an eating disorder/drug addiction/gambling problem/learning disability/origami fetish, or living on a mountain top in the wilderness for a month with nothing but a canteen of Ecto Cooler Hi-C, a pair of toe-nail clippers, and Dr. Phil's Life Strategies Workbook. Guess which one I'm going to aim for!

5. Get taken hostage by MaiMai rebels in the Congo, but with out getting killed like that reporter on that episode of The West Wing, because that would be really, really sad. For you, anyway.

6. Have dirty monkey sex with Steve Jobs in order to obtain a smooth, sleek iPod of my very own. Oh wait! Cross that one off! I am now one of the cool kids, I have entered the world known (to me anyway) as Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones And Names May Make Me Cry For My Mommy, But I Have An iPod And You Don't So Stick It Where The Sun Doesn't Shine, and there is no turning back.

There is nothing left for me to do except wait for the New Year's Fairy to come and bestow upon me her Magic New Year's Fairy Dust and enough alcohol to make me think the Old Year was really just a bad acid trip, even though I'm pretty sure the only kind of acid I do is of the citric variety. Pretty sure. But you know what they say. That citric acid will get you every time. Well. I'm sure someone has said that. At some time or another. Whatever. I have an iPod.


Friday, December 12, 2003

Burn In Hell,
And So What If I Am Hot For Josh Lyman

4 Things And Only 4 Things And Then I'll Leave You Alone

1. I think I have reverse carbon monoxide poisoning and one of the symptoms is breaking down in tears while watching every single episode of The West Wing on Bravo and that's a whole lot of West Wing and a whole lot of tears and yes, some of them are tears of joy, but some are also not, and some are also a mixture, like when Josh got Donna that book on skiing for Christmas instead of actual skis, but he wrote that really sweet message inside and please somebody help me, Bravo plays approximately 25 hours of West Wing per day and there has to be a cure for this, there just has to be.

2. has spoken. And not to say, hey, we finally mailed that DVD you ordered in September, the one that said "Usually ships in 2-4 days" next to it, oh no. It was more like "Stop writing about us in your rinky dink blog little girl, oh, and gee, it doesn't look like we'll ever be able to send you that movie. Yes, we know that you could have went and bought it ten thousand times already at Wal-mart since it's not by any means a rare movie, but we just can't seem to get our hands on it, maybe it has something to do with the fact that we are robots and robots have no hands and can only do robot functions and going to get your movie from the shelf over there and mailing it to you is not a robot function, it's a MONKEY function, but who can really say, not us robots. Anyway, cheerio now, and as for a refund, well sure, we'll get right on that. 2-4 days. Robot's honor."

3. I have to go to a holiday party this weekend and I would rather be forced to watch the Paris Hilton sex video, I mean her new show, whatever it's called, something about Being Rich and Trashy In Iowa, yeah that's it, well I'd rather have to watch that over and over again and I swear my not wanting to go has nothing to do with missing The West Wing, really. Well, I guess there's always fun to be had in getting drunk and telling people I work for the President, yeah that's right, President Bartlet, and he wishes them a Merry Christmas OR maybe I can just get Martin Sheen to call and say I can't make it because there is a Crisis in The White House.

4. Will you still love me tomorrow?


Thursday, December 11, 2003

Bobby Hit Whitney Again And I Don't Like Peaches

I have a problem. I know, you're probably thinking no f@#king kidding crazy girl, but this is a different kind of problem. And I swear there will be no mention here of that movie with that actress and her kid who knows how much that body part on top of your shoulders weighs and likes going to that place you go to see the animals in cages.

My problem is with Christmas cards. I wish my problem was that I simply hated sending them, but no, god hates me (maybe it has something to do with stealing the Baby Jesus out of the manger, if so all I have to say is god, don't you have more important things to do than hold grudges, and hey, he must get his good looks from you), so of course it's more complex than that. The problem is, for reasons completely beyond me (and my therapist), I feel the need to send a Christmas card to everyone I know, and by know I mean people I actually know, plus people I pretend to know, and people I wish I knew, and this doesn't exclude FICTIONAL CHARACTERS from books or Television. You think I'm joking, but I swear on The Devil's Dictionary, which is about as close to a bible as it gets for me, last year I sent a Christmas card to Ramona Quimby from those Beverly Cleary books in which I told her I had always wanted to squeeze out a full tube of toothpaste, too, but never had the courage, and I hoped she would have a wonderful holiday. Yeah. Do you see now what I'm talking about? I need help.
It gets worse, too. I don't know if it's the bottle of wine I drink while making out the cards, or the glow of the lights on the tree, or the second bottle of wine, or the stockings hung by the chimney with care, or the third bottle of wine, or the chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but I tend to get a bit sentimental (translation: drunk). Not only do I send cards to everyone I've ever met in my life, but I use this time to be "open and honest" with everyone I've ever met in my life. I couldn't be one of those people who just writes "Happy Holidays, Love, Me", oh no. It's more like this :

Dear So-and-So (This could be you this year, who the hell knows, it's out of my hands),
'Tis the season! The season of love and warmth and pine cones or pine something anyway because boy it smells piney in here and mistletoe and the truth is I have always been in love with you and I know you're married and you have 9 children and you're my mailman, but you're so gentle when you put my magazines in my mailbox, making sure not to tear a single page, and I suspect you have always loved me, too, so let's not fight it any longer, let's be together, today, now, I want to rip your mailman uniform off you and have hot mailman sex with you in your mail truck and if I can't have you I see no reason to continue this charade of a life I am living. Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Love, The Girl From 4G.

Only I don't live in 4G. You didn't really think I would give you my address, did you? You would be on my doorstep by the time I woke up tomorrow with a suitcase, an angry monkey (monkeys are not big on traveling), and a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups to win me over and then I would feel compelled to have sex with you invite you in and then you would hack me into little pieces just so you'd have something to write about in your next novel. I'm so on to you guys. But back to me. Me, me, me. The only solution I see to this card thing is one of you writing them out for me. Thanks, you're a peach. Hope you don't get any paper cuts from licking the envelopes and bleed to death, because I hear most of your blood is stored in your tongue. Yay, Holidays! Yay, You for writing my cards! I feel the love tonight, I am totally Elton John or maybe I'm Simba from The Lion King, but either way, I feel the love!


Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Choose Your My Own Adventure

I realized coming out of Wal-Mart tonight that I have a deep-rooted paranoia that somebody is going to abduct me. You see, I believe it all started when I was a wee lass, when mommy and daddy used to drive me to a populated area and then take off. They said it was to "hone my survival skills", but doctor, and you'd better be my doctor because if you're not why am I paying you $250 an hour, I think they may have been trying to get rid of me, and I can't help but wonder if it was because I was always begging to go to the zoo burning things down telling mommy about seeing daddy kissing Santa Claus asking to eat with the monkeys.
Anyway, enough of this psychobabble about why, the fact is I was always petrified that I would be kidnapped when I was younger. I'm not sure why I was upset at the thought when really I should have just embraced it. I should have ran around begging people to kidnap me instead of screaming in terror anytime I saw a White Van (Cue scary music, and no, for the life of me I can't remember why only people in White Vans were out to get me, but I'm sure there was an explanation, like maybe someone I knew was kidnapped by people in a White Van, but it's more likely something that I saw on TV. Hey, what color was the A-Team van?). Anyway, I thought that I had outgrown this fear. But apparently not, because two things happened when I was leaving Wal-Mart on this dark and stormy night (So what if it wasn't stormy! It was dark! Bad things happen in the dark!).
First there was a man walking ahead of me who suddenly stopped and started fidgeting with his pockets, like he was looking for something (A knife! I know it!). If I had continued walking he would have been behind me, and there was no way I wanted to turn my back on this guy so he could hold a knife to my throat and throw me in his White Van and speed away with me, possibly bringing me to The NeverLand Ranch or worse, the home of Renee Zellweger's bastard son. No way. So I stopped, too, which caused the person behind me to bump into me (yeah, there were other people around, but still, do you think serious kidnappers let a little thing like witnesses stop them?), but too bad for that person. I was saving the world here (Because I am the world, I am the children, I am the one who makes a brighter day, so let's start giving! And that concludes the musical portion of today's post, now back to your regularly scheduled blog). So yeah, a few moments later the man stopped fidgeting with his pockets (going for his knife!), continued on, and then so did I. Crisis averted.
But THEN. Then. What do I see parked on the driver's side of my car? A White Van. I think at this point I let out a little cry, but I can't be sure because all I could hear was the voice in my head (Charlie Dynamite Brown) screaming "White Van! White Van! White Van! Run! Run! Run!". And while I'm crazy enough to be paranoid about stuff like this I'm also worried about people thinking I'm completely off my rocker, so I didn't think dropping my bags, running, and screaming "The White Van is going to kidnap me! Help, Help! I don't want Michael Jackson to touch me in that special place!" was such a good idea. I instructed my brain to hatch some other escape plan all the while chastising myself for never finishing Gavin DeBecker's The Gift of Fear (The last chapter was probably the chapter on How To Not Get Kidnapped By A White Van) and promising to read it when I got home, if I got home.

Did I escape? Or am I writing this from a tiny cream colored room inside Renee Zellweger's satanic son's home?

If you think I escaped by pretending to call someone on my cell phone (what kidnapper wants to abduct someone while they are on the phone? No kidnapper, that's who!) and am writing this from the confines of my home where I am listening to Radiohead's cover of Carly Simon's "Nobody Does It Better", flip ahead to page 568.

If you think the White Van spirited me away to Zoo Boy's compound while I was attempting to put my purchases in the car and am now writing this from a 2x4 padded room with nothing but a monkey, a banana, and a TV that plays Jerry Maguire 24/7, flip ahead to page 641.

If you don't really give a damn what happened to me, flip ahead to page 666, where you will be tied up and forced to watch reruns of The Nanny for all eternity! With Fran Drescher sitting right beside you! Spoon feeding you! Spoon feeding you liver! HUMAN liver! YOUR human liver!


Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Any Resemblance To Renee Zellweger's Son,
Living Or Dead,
Is Unintentional And Purely Coincidental

I know, I know, you were hoping I wouldn't update for like another 10 years so as to give you time to absorb the full flavor of my last post and maybe, I don't know, seek some therapy to help you deal with what you read, but sorry! I had to do it. I've made a potentially life altering decision. And no, it doesn't involve fewer clients, less money or starting my own Sports Management Firm. I've decided I would be a great Real World/Road Rules Challenge team member/contestant/whatever they're called. Ok, so I've only seen two episodes of the show, and it was one hour of my life I'll never get back (I know, I tried, I tried so hard. I called my friend at the Time Travel Agency and asked if there were any flights going back to an hour ago, Pre-Real World/Road Rules Challenge, but she said all those flights were booked due to a sudden influx of Real World/Road Rules Challenge Marathon viewers who couldn't take another second) and I'm kind of bitter, but I'm on a new "There Is Something To Be Learned From Everything" kick, and I figure what I didn't actually learn I can make up. So...yeah. I think this could be my destiny. And I think I could kick destiny's ass, with both hands tied behind my back, while climbing a spinning ladder to rescue a stuffed cat.

The Requirements To Being On The Show,
As Told By A Disgruntled Ex-Cast Member Me

1. You must have been on either The Real World or Road Rules. Ok, this one might be kind of hard to get around. But maybe not. The Real World has been on for years, they can't possibly keep track of all the old cast members. I could kill one of the originals and assume her identity. Maybe I'll be Julie The Virgin from the very first Real World. And not just because she's the only one I remember, and not just because I want to kill her. Wait, maybe I won't have to kill anyone. I could just make up a fictitious cast member, and act offended that they don't remember me. In fact I'll make up a whole season. I'll be all "Yeah, I was on The Real World Luxembourg" and flip out when they question me, yelling something vague and Real World-ish like "You're not really hearing me, and did you eat my f@#king lunch meat?". I think I might be able to pull it off if I keep saying things like "Seven strangers, Yep, I'm one of the seven strangers, picked to live in a house, uh huh, start getting REAL!!". You think?

2. You have to have been abused as a child. Possibly by Michael Jackson, before he became a woman, but that's alleged, I mean negotiable. This is the only explanation I can come up with as to why these people cry over every goddamn little thing. Transference. Because really, Weird Hair Girl can't be that upset with Bandana Boy simply because he voted for Elk girl instead of Playboy Bunny Girl, who he's developing feelings for (I'm trying really hard to take this seriously, I am, when every fiber of my being is screaming out WHO THE HELL CARES?? But I guess the answer to that, my friends, is Weird Hair Girl). I mean, any back alley psychologist can see that Weird Hair Girl was abused as a child and sees the same homoerotic testosterone filled traits in Bandana Boy as she saw in Michael Jackson (like I said, before he became a woman) her dad/brother/uncle/school janitor/dog/school janitor's dog. Now, I am fully prepared to say that I have been abused as a child by the little man who lives in my head and answers to the name Charlie Dynamite Brown, and I think the added trauma of my abuser being imaginary will give me the extra edge I need to win, win, win.

3. You must not be able to get along with anyone, except for that one person you will fall in Deep Real World/Road Rules Challenge Love with, but don't worry, that won't last because whoever the hell said All Is Fair In Love And War wasn't faced with going to The Gauntlet. I know there are a lot of people in the world (Or so I'm told, I don't really know this for a fact, I haven't seen them all with my own eyes, and they do say seeing is believing). But how do they manage to get 28 Antichrists together in Colorado to Roll Logs? Of course, being an Antichrist myself, I shouldn't talk. This is the easiest requirement they have. Why couldn't college admissions use these requirements? I would so have been Little Miss Ivy League, and instead of reading this blog right now you'd be, well, you'd be...reading this blog except I'd use bigger words and write about important things like world hunger and the stock market and the penguins dying in Alaska (Are penguins dying in Alaska? I think I made that up, but I'm sure some penguins are dying). So cry a tear for me and my non-Ivy League education, ok?

4. You must like to hang upside down from your legs over a pool. A pool of Human Blood! Ok, not really, but that is a show I could really see myself on. Only not really, because I hate blood! Unless it's the blood of a certain blonde haired, glasses wearing, zoo going, mutant kid, and then I love blood. Anyway. You have to like to do stupid things, all in the name of 50 Billion Dollars. Maybe not 50 Billion Dollars, but you would think it was 50 Billion Dollars by the level of seriousness these freaks people take. But hey, I do stupid things for 0 Billion Dollars. What's wrong with this picture?

You would cast me in YOUR Challenge, wouldn't you? If not, just lie and say yes, because otherwise I might break down and sob hysterically and/or fill your pool with blood and hang over it until you say yes. The choice is yours.


Monday, December 08, 2003

Of Course When I Say You, I Mean Me
(Except For When I Mean You)

Snow makes you do funny things. Especially when you eat it and it's yellow and then you realize Hey! That's not snow, it's Renee Zellweger's son's little, blonde, dead head! No, I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm hours away from going Kathy Bates In Misery crazy, and I blame it all on the snow. Well, the snow and my parents. And the government. And Cameron Crowe. And that old show Out Of This World with Evie who could freeze time by touching her two index fingers together. Just because.

As I was saying, the snow, it's a wacky thing. It makes you write poems entitled "Ode To Cameron Crowe", but that should really be titled "Oh My God I Am Touched In The Head"/Rearrange your kitchen knives according to the perceived depth of a stab wound when stabbing a Garden Gnome or Live Toaster/Lie on your bedroom floor making Carpet Angels (and damn fine Carpet Angels)/Write all your Christmas cards as if you are that girl from Swimfan ("Dear Uncle Dick, Do you have my panties, my panties, I think I left them in your car...Happy Holidays" or "Dear Mailman, You love me, I know it!! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, From That Girl Who Gets All Those Magazines")/Wonder how old Alvin, Simon, and Theodore would be today if they were still alive and recording Christmas carols (they are dead, aren't they? What's the average life expectancy of an animated chipmunk these days anyway?)/Build a cabin (A cabin is still a cabin, even when it's made out of Legos) and induce a (Saturday Night) fever so you can tell everyone you have Cabin Fever and really mean it/Try to convince others (and by others I mean your cats) that since you have these slippers that look like Ballet Slippers you are A World Renowned Ballerina With The New York City Ballet Company and perform your rendition of The Nutcracker, which frankly they are not impressed with, and anyway they think this is a little too much like that time you tried to convince them that you were Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing because sometimes people called you "Baby", too, and one time you carried a watermelon.

It's not my fault; it's the snow's fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

2 Things I Tried To Blame On The Snow,
But Didn't Get Away With

1. Stealing the Baby Jesus out of the manger from the town's Nativity Set. I can sense your disappointment in me (Please note that I didn't say I cared, just that I sensed it). In my defense though, he was so cute and I was sure they had a back-up, and I've just always wanted a Baby Jesus of my very own. Unfortunately I left a tiny piece of evidence behind at the scene of the crime and my town's Police Force went all CSI and tracked me down (ok, it was my drivers license, and even then it took them 2 days to figure it out) and there was a hostage situation and someone got shot (good thing I bought Baby Jesus that bulletproof vest as an early Christmas present) and when I went before the judge I tried to say "It was the snow, cabin fever, the snow made me do it", but I had never been in front of a judge before and was nervous so I think what I really ended up saying was "But I like Baby Jesus, and he likes me, too" because the judge threw the book at me. Or would have if not for the surprise character witness...Cameron Crowe! *Gasp* I think you can guess what happened next. Yep. We went to the zoo watched Jerry Maguire.

2. The purchasing of one of those bags of Oreos with the red creme in the middle. You know, the ones that look like they might be The Devil's Oreos, but are marketed as Winter Oreos. The cashier gave me The Raised Eyebrow when ringing them up for me so I felt the need to explain myself. "I've been feeling kind of weird since it started snowing like this. I don't know why I bought these. I don't even like the normal Oreos... Oh your dad works for Oreo? I didn't mean that these weren't normal. I meant, ummm, have you seen the snow?" And then I realized she hadn't been raising her eyebrow at me, her eyebrow was stuck that way and I had entered the Twilight Oreo Zone and I ran, ran, ran, as fast as my little Moon Boots would take me.

I can't be held responsible for this post. The snow made me do it, and just be glad I didn't AudioPost myself singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame It On The Rain" except replacing "rain" with "snow", because the thought crossed my mind.


Friday, December 05, 2003

Things Have Changed, Morals Have Been Sacrificed,
And Almost Still Doesn't Count

I made this list a long time ago. The thing about lists like this is the whole "Never Say Never" thing. Excuses get made, lines get blurred, and the next thing you know you're Sleeping with your Biopsychology Professor to get a better grade/Selling your brother's baby on the black market/Splicing into your neighbor's cable/Almost jailed for starting a revolution against your native country and defecting to your own made-up country where monkeys roam free and you are the Princess.

10 Things I'll Never Do

1. Shave someone's eyebrows off while they are passed out drunk. Hair anywhere else is fair game though (This is probably why people shy away from me at bars, isn't it? Isn't it?).

2. Sing "Love Shack" at karaoke. I don't care if it's a little old place where we can get together, I'm not doing it, you can't make me, and if you try I will get in my Chrysler, it seats about 20, and RUN YOU DOWN, and it will be reminiscent of when that poor kid that liked Felicity got mowed down by a bus (it was a fate better than life with Felicity if you ask me, although technically he didn't die, but he's dead to me! And so is she! And so are you! Dead, dead, dead!).

3. Sleep with Robert Redford for a million dollars. Wait. Unless I need the million dollars to post my bail for running someone down for making me sing "Love Shack" at a karaoke bar or Felicity files a civil lawsuit against me for trying to run her down stalking her cutting her hair saying she is dead to me, because I know she reads this, and no, she's not a fictional TV character, haven't we been through this already? Have you not learned anything?

4. Own any garden gnomes. There is nothing more to be said about this. Except maybe that when I think of garden gnomes I imagine them coming to life and digging up my toaster out back and plugging it in and assisting in TOASTING ME TO DEATH, and then going back to being non-live garden gnomes and never having to pay for their crime. Or crimes, as it may be, because really, what's to stop them from toasting everyone to death?

5. Drive a station wagon. Especially a wooden one. Especially to the Grand Canyon where no doubt Bobby and Cindy will get lost and Cindy will cry and I will have to beat her senseless, but not to "Hungry Like THE Wolf" like you might think, but instead to "My Name is Luka", except I will replace "Luka" with "Cindy", and if you think Cindy was crying before...

6. Relate to any Mariah Carey song. I can't get into this because that would mean listing Mariah Carey songs and I don't know any Mariah Carey songs unless you count that "Hero" one, which I don't because that was a really moving song. Only not really. Hold on, I have to go strip on MTV be sick.

7. Relate to Mariah Carey. This is the most I've ever said Mariah Carey's name. Except for that time I wrote her that hate fan letter. I'm pained. But if I don't list it I might fall and smack my head on a rock sometime and wake up from a coma thinking it's ok to relate to her. It's not ok.

8. Pop out of a cake for someone's bachelor party/bachelorette party/53rd anniversary party/wedding/bar mitzvah.
Birthday parties are negotiable, but if you want me to pop out of your cake you better bring your Def Leppard CD...And bring your Visa Card, because I don't wear frosting for free...And I don't accept American Express (Visa! It's Everywhere You Want To Be).
Damn, that whole Visa thing cancels out the "Sell my soul to Visa" I was originally going to use as the #9 Thing I'll Never Do. Now I have to think of something else. I hate it when I subconsciously become Visa's whore.

9. Own more than one cat. I will not become That Crazy Cat Woman in your neighborhood. The one that smells like cat litter and spends all of her Social Security check on cat food for Fluffy, Muffy, Buffy, Kitty, Smitty, Smokey, Pokey, Mr. Whiskers, and Snowball. You know, like my Aunt Genna (If you're reading this, Aunt Genna, I mean the other Aunt Genna).

10. Burn down my house/restaurant/friendly neighborhood grocer/children for the insurance money. Unless I needed the money for any of the reasons listed in #3 or Unless my house/restaurant/friendly neighborhood grocer/children were possessed or haunted. Then all bets would be off. Because seriously, I don't have time for bathtubs filled with blood, Casper The Friendly Maitre D', talking produce, or spinning heads.

Did I say Never? Because I've actually already done three of these (well four if you count the one not on the actual list, but hidden secretly in the post. Ok, not-so-secretly. Whatever). In one day. With Mariah Carey's help. Just kidding. About the Mariah Carey part anyway.


Thursday, December 04, 2003

Do You Want This Jacket? I Don't Need It. I'm Cloaked In Failure!
(Alternatively Titled: I Promise Never To Watch It Again)

Well you see, it's like this. Everything was going along just fine; Hellvember was becoming a distant memory, December was living up to the promise of being The December Movies Are Made Of (And by movies I mean Lesbian Anime Porn with a Heterosexual Non-Anime Twist and a Dash of Sweet Love thrown in for audience approval). Two nights later at a conference in Miami I had a breakdown. Breakdown? Breakthrough. I couldn't escape one single thought: I hated Jerry Maguire. No, no, here's what it was: I hated Renee Zellweger's son. And don't try telling me it's not really her son, that it's just a movie. Because I know better. You're all her sons! You're all wearing glasses and thinking about how much the human head weighs and getting plane-sick and wishing you were at the zoo right now, aren't you? Next you'll be telling me I really didn't go to a conference in Miami and Cuba Gooding Jr. is not my friend and client. I know a cover-up conspiracy when I see one.

Anyway. After I got fired for hanging my (non-existent) balls out there, I became preoccupied with Staking vampires to death in my living room/Fighting off End Stage Monkey Pox which I contracted while on safari in Zimbabwe/Staring intensely and quite alarmingly at a Care Bear Bobble Head Pen for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours on end/Watching non-sad episodes of The West Wing and sobbing hysterically because damn, why did they have to go and get rid of Rob Lowe?/Writing my new country's Mission Statement Declaration of Independence, or would it be a Constitution, or would it be The Frantic Scribblings of A Maniacal Girl About A Mythological Country?/Or is the answer D., All of the above? Yeah. I've been a little busy.

I'm not sure if it was The Breakdown or not, but suddenly things became clearer.

What I Saw When Renee Zellweger's Son Windex-ed My Soul

1. The best all purpose reply/excuse for anything and everything is "I don't drink enough water". If your lawyer says "I'm really beginning to question your sanity", you say "I don't drink enough water". If that State Trooper asks "Why were you speeding?", you say "I don't drink enough water". If your accountant says "I loved your memo, by the way", you say "Actually, it was a mission statement, and don't you have a son to take to the zoo?" "I don't drink enough water". You see? Fits in any situation. Try it, you might like it.

2. That new Snapple Go Bananas drink tastes like baby food. The good baby food, not the strained peas (not that I have tasted baby food recently, because that would be crazy and I'm not crazy anymore, that was just a temporary thing). This is like what they feed baby monkeys who can't eat actual bananas because their baby monkey teeth have not grown in yet.

3. Men know when you are about to give up on them and their entire gender. You don't even have to tell them. They sense it. And this is when they do/say/touch just the right thing, causing you to come crashing back to Worship The Ground He Walks On Land, not to be confused with NeverLand, because that would just be creepy. Unfortunately right after just the right thing, it's back to nothing but the wrong thing and a vicious cycle ensues, until Spike Lee comes to you in your sleep and says Do The Right Thing and the next day you go Farrah Fawcett-in-that-Lifetime-movie crazy and murder everyone while rocking out to "Hungry Like A Wolf".

4. My cats have more self restraint than I do. Except when under the influence of Cat Nip. Them, not me, I mean. I'm trying to cut back on that myself. I can't deal with the blackouts and flashbacks.

5. All I really need is someone to fill my ice cube trays for me. Preferably with water, not bull semen, but pudding would be ok.

You can learn a lot from a dummy little boy with a zoo fetish.