The Wayback Machine - http://web.archive.org/web/20040627215257/http://themonkeyboylovescheese.mu.nu:80/archives/2003_06.html

June 30, 2003

The Anti-Climax

Okay, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come when I must bid you adieu for now. Right after I post this I'm taking down the Cheese machine and getting it ready to be manhandled across the sea to the new homestead. I plan to drink a lot to compensate for the urge to type, and if the urge becomes too strong, to seek relief in odd places.... like internet cafes and the like.

Please don't have the funeral until you see my corpse. I will be back.
Just call me the Bad Penny.

Until next time, might I just say it's been beyond dreamy.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 28, 2003

The Fear Is My Friend

As the move approaches, I have become increasingly fearful of that which we all dread: losing every single stinkin' bit of data on our computers.

Whether it's software deterioration or hardware self-mutilation, it's devastating to realize all the bullshit writing you labored over is gone. I personally have this persistent vision of every scrap of information and text, graphics and pictures, in my computer being of a very liquid state, and running out the side of the case in a small gooey puddle once Mr. Musclebound of Moving Yer Stuff Around gets done juggling it into the truck.

To that end, I have done something this morning I have never ever done before: I backed-up all the things I would die if I lost onto CD. Previously, my old computer had no CD write capabilities, so it was always clean slate time when things went tits-up.

I know you old hands are laughing at my late-to-the-game housekeeping, but it's quite a bit because of you guys that I've gone on this security-blanket protection frenzy. Before I entered the blog universe, I didn't figure I'd lost much if all my computer innards went poof. Now I have scribblings and babbles and lovely comments.... and while I know Blogger and Enetation will do what they can not to misplace my things, I feel a little better if I have a round hard thing to hold in my hand, safe in the knowledge that it's mine all mine to reinsert when I like.

Stop that. You know what I mean.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Make A Wish And Get The Fire Extinguisher

Today is the GM1's birthday, so leave him a Happy Birthday in the comments, whydoncha? We'll be off celebrating his continued survival, despite my lack of cooking skills and accident-prone-ness.
Happy Happy Birthday, GM1!

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June 27, 2003

All A-Blush

How cool is this? Someone I didn't even pay off has placed me in the same category as Dave Barry!
Thank you, Jeff.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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D Minus Three And Counting

In keeping with my theme of Fuss A Lot Now and Panic Less Later, I am adding three lovely blogs to my blogroll, before the movers come to kick my equipment all over the room. This is not as painful as it might sound were I a male.

Ambient Irony, because anyone who likes Weird Al is alright by me.
InkGrrl, because she thinks we are evil twins.
Silflay Hraka, because it's fun to say, and my sister lives in North Carolina too.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Friday Five Time!

1. How are you planning to spend the summer [winter]?
Well, the first third has been taken up with The Move, of which you are all heartily sick of hearing about. The next month will be spent camping out in an empty apartment waiting for the furniture to catch up to us. The third month will be spent arranging said furniture and getting the GM1 settled into his new command.
I have a very calendaric view of the seasons. I think of Summer as strictly June, July, and August. Autumn is September, October, and November, etc. None of this "begins on the 21st" nonsense. I like my seasons clear-cut and well-defined. Just another minor bit for the committment hearing.

2. What was your first summer job?
Other than babysitting, my first receive-a-paycheck-for-wearing-an-unbecoming-polyester-uniform job was one I had at age 15. It was at Burger Chef, the precursor to Burger King. I was fired n my third day for coming up 89 cents short at count-out. I expect my refusal to kiss the manager's son in the walk-in freezer might have accounted for the rapid firing.
My refusals for such things usually included a knee to the balls.

3. If you could go anywhere this summer [winter], where would you go?
I would be ensconced in the Grand Floridian Hotel in Orlando, going to Disneyworld and Epcot and Universal every day, partying every night at Pleasure Island. I don't give one good hang for all the naysayers who decry the commercialism and greed of the megatheme parks. I am happiest knowing I'm three people back in line from shaking Mickey's oversized hand.
And you may call me a rube, but any hotel that provides a fluffy robe and a 24 hour hottub is heaven to me.

4. What was your worst vacation ever?
I was seventeen, just graduated from high school, yet not quite the age when I could assert my independence enough to avoid a car trip to a campground in Florida with my family. That has to be the definition of hell for a teenager: trapped in a car with parents who Just Don't Understand and siblings who are the Bane Of Your Existence for 20 hours. The drive was further enlivened by my brother's chronic carsickness and my dad's monotone humming for the entire way.
I don't really remember much about the actual camping trip itself. Since I hate camping to this day, it must have been traumatizing enough that I've blocked it all out.

5. What was your best vacation ever?
As I mentioned before, a week in Orlando, pampered in the Grand Floridian and dancing every night until I dropped. Lots of adventures. Lots of junk food. Lots of fun. Lots of scandal if the details ever get out. Lots and lots of expense.
I don't care. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Didn't I See This In A Marx Brothers Movie?

Yesterday I went with the GM1 on his rounds at work to fulfill his check-out obligations. He has a form that has to be signed by various people before we can transfer to his next command. Some of the signatures are required from agencies we have had no contact with at all, making them just another useless genuflection to the paperwork gods.
One, however, was a beauty of a Catch-22.

We needed a signature from Housing, clearing us of any malfeasance done to our domicile. This signature is necessary to conclude the GM1's transfer. He cannot transfer, and therefore move out of military housing, before this signature is acquired. Housing, however, will not sign the paper until we have moved out of housing. Our move out date, set BY Housing, is four days after his check-out date when all paperwork must be completed. Housing was aware of this when it set the move-out date.

Let's recap:
Must have signature to check out.
Can't have signature until we move out.
Can't move out until we check out.
Can't check out until we have signature.

I grew weary of this, weary enough to try something a third-grader could see through. I wrote, in pencil, beside the box for the necessary signature "unable to sign until tenant has vacated" and asked the clerk at Housing to sign that statement.
She did.
I then erased the pencilled-in bit.

Yes, I am well aware it wouldn't hold up in court. I'm past worrying about that by now. I just want to get on with this circus, get the show on the road, move along, pull up stakes...
I want a new place to decorate.
And I refuse to festoon my move with a lot of red tape.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 09:40 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

A Rose By Any Other Name Would NOT Smell Like That

Sitting here, blogging away, minding my own business, when suddenly I'm nasally-assaulted. What in the world could smell that bad? Has the toilet exploded? Did a septic truck back up into my house? Have these people moved in next door? What?

I track it down, gagging, to find that the cat has taken the supreme cat dump of all dumps. This doesn't just look like it came from a Great Dane, it looks like the cat ate and expelled a Great Dane. The stench killed my plants... and I have plastic plants! It took an entire can of air freshener to dispel the funk.

I am not saying the cat is in cahoots with Al Qaida, but if that isn't biological terrorism, I don't know what is.
Sheesh.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 09:24 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

June 25, 2003

Seek And Ye Shall Find, But Not Here

To the lovely person seeking information on "pictures of whale feces", rest assured there are none here. Sorry 'bout that. Once the cleaning lady get through it's a wonder I can find my own socks.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 24, 2003

It Would Be A Mercy Killing

I have just spent two hours... repeat-TWO HOURS.... of my life I will never get back on the phone with tech support. When I bought this computer back in March, I was coerced coaxed into purchasing an extended service plan. Fine, I thought, since I am computer-brained just one step less than a garden slug. It wasn't likely to bankrupt me as long as I shun food for a few months very expensive, so as long as it means that figuring out what was wrong when whatever was wrong went wrong was not my responsibility, it was fine.

Until this afternoon, when in a flight of whimsy, I decided to reboot. I don't reboot often, since when I asked my friend Dave who has an old Mac that he uses mainly to download porn I did extensive research which concluded it was pretty much 50/50 as to the benefits of turning it off every night or leaving it on. So I choose to leave it on mainly because I am too ditzy to remember to turn it off at the end of a long day of downloading porn after a long day of writing.

So to cut to the chase: I rebooted. Immediately I got a very forbidding black screen, with a lot of technical gibberish. Okay, actually, it said "WHATCHAMATHINGY NOT FOUND. Hit any key to continue." So I did. And did. And did again. I filled up the screen with the results of hitting any key in vain. Then I cried for a while and drank two beers in ten minutes did the logical thing and called tech support. I paid for it, after all, shouldn't I use it? I thought so too.

Apparently no one told tech support about my receipt-given deity-given right to call them, 24/7, and request assistance. I talked for nearly an hour to awretched example of the public educational system whose uncle must work in HR nice young man obviously working on his marketing degree. He spent most of our call trying to sell me an extension to my extended service plan. I think he's also the kid who emails me all those offers to extend my more personal equipment.
My equipment is fine unextended, by the way, thanks so much for wondering.
After I turned him down several times, he laid the phone down in the bottom drawer while he went to the bathroom put me on hold for fifteen minutes while he pimped me out to someone else who needed a good laugh routing the call to a higher tier of expertise.
In this case, it was BillyBob.

BillyBob had to be the friendliest, most polite, kindest man I have ever talked to who wasn't on the other end of a 976 call. We had fun laughing about how "them durn women" are "always gettin' riled up" when "them silly machines of thars" don't work. BillyBob was of the opinion, I was sure, that if I'd just stick to baking biscuits barefoot and pregnant, this sort of problem would never come up.
But in the end, BillyBob also came up short. Perhaps he was an unsatisfied customer of the first techie. His final advice was that I take it back to the shop I'd purchased it from and "make them fix that thar little bug you've got."
BillyBob should hope I never meet him in person.

When I was crawling under the desk to disconnect all the cables, I accidentally hit the floppy disk eject button had a sudden stroke of genius and checked the floppy drive. Lo and behold, yep.... I had left a diskette in there.
Well, there you go.

Why my two hours with the experts failed to come up with the simple question "Is there a disc in any of the drives?" is beyond me. Why I never thought to look in the first place.... that's out there too.

I'm going to go take off my shoes and make some biscuits now. See y'all later.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 23, 2003

Oh Sure, You Can Talk To Them, But Do They Ever Answer?

Inkgrrl has some words on the whole gardening thing, with which as a black-thumb person I can sympathize.

But there is still nothing, repeat, nothing like the smell of fresh cut grass. Mmmmmm.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Following The Follow-Up To Six-Degrees-Of-Kevin-Bacon-To-My-Checkered-Past

I have gotten a lot more response to my original challenge that you all come up with career choices for me to relate to my sordid past job history. It might take a while, but I'll get to all of them. In light of that bold statement, let's begin:

Anna commented: "And I'm not afraid. Do lingerie sales. "
(later notes: Anton also requested this. Frilly things are obviously crowd pleasers.)
Okay... but I warn you, the visuals aren't pretty.

About ten years ago, I worked for a bigass corporation as a secretary. (That actually was its name: "BigAss Corp- We Sit More Before Lunch Than Most Companies Do All Day"). It was steady work. It paid relatively well. It wasn't very stressful.
It was boring as hell.

During this same time period, the GM1 discovered a nice strip bar. I know the words "nice" and "strip bar" don't often collide, but let me assure you, it really was nice. The GM1, like most men, likes going to strip bars. The GM1, unlike most men, likes going to strip bars because he likes to talk. In addition, the GM1 likes for me to go to strip bars with him, because he wants me to meet his new friends.

His new friends all have names like Desiree and Taffy and Bubbles. His new friends all have stupendous, awe-inspiring breasts and contortion abilities. His new friends are actually pleasant and easy to talk to. So his new friends became my new friends.

One of the girls discovered I have sewing skills when she asked me to help her reattach a bit of glitter to a stage-bra (which is like a regular bra, but garishly embellished and removeable at one rip via velcro). Easily done, and word spread. I spent a lot of my time at the bar sitting in the dressing room, surrounded by clouds of baby powder and nipples, stitching up this rip or that tear. Eventually some sketching on cocktail napkins led to my first attempt at creating an entire costume for one of the girls who wanted a Strawberry Shortcake theme.

I never asked her for the $75 she gave me for it. I didn't turn it down either.
Business is business, and business soon became pretty good.

I made a costume or two a week and I was spending every other evening at the strip bar, measuring and making sure things fit properly. I believe I've handled more nipples than any mammogram tech.
I was the envy of all my male friends, and some of the women as well.

Then Bubbles made the offer: since I was there all the time, and wasn't too bad looking, why didn't I just take the plunge and become one of the girls?
Me... a stripper. I had to laugh.
I laughed until Bubbles explained how much she made for how much effort.
I stopped laughing and started stripping.

The GM1, surprisingly, had no problem with the idea. He was, in fact, very encouraging. He knew it wasn't the first step on the road to hooking or drugs, it was a new adventure for me. We went costume shopping that weekend, finding me a tiny fishnet skirt, a black vinyl bra top, and some lucite platform heels that put me at almost 5'6". I paraded around the apartment, trying poses and moves, scaring the hell out of the cat. The GM1 said I wasn't too shabby.
The cat hissed and licked her butt.

The next evening, I went down to the club. The ground rules were explained: until I was licensed, I couldn't go topless, and I couldn't go round to the tables after my dance looking for tips as was the usual way. This was my apprenticeship, so to speak. I got together with the d.j. and selected a song (ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long"). Then I sat at the bar to wait my turn, vinyl bra pushing my breasts up so high I could rest my chin on them. The bartender took pity on me and gave me a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.
And another.
And one more for the road.
Three is not my lucky number.

The d.j. announced my stage name (Annabelle) and for a minute I had no idea why all the girls were gesturing at me, having forgotten my new name already. Then I leaped off the barstool with that long leatherette-peeling-off-bare-legs sound that closely resembles a professional fart, and tottered up the stairs to the stage.

I had no idea the lights up there were hot enough to cook a turkey. I began to tan. I immediately broke into a riverous sweat. My nicely-poofed hair fell like a shaken souffle. My palms left huge prints on the slippery pole that I clung to like a life raft.
Mr. Tequila encouraged me to take a few steps out and make vague, shimmy moves. My ankles disagreed and tried to escape in different directions. I overruled all of them and managed to fake a few dance moves, and the weak applause and hoots reassured me.
So I tried to do a swing around the pole, which was a standard move.
The pole would have none of me, became a perfect frictionless surface, and gravity stepped in.

As I sat on my ass in the center of the stage, looking at my traitorous feet and wondering if crawling down the stairs would be a good move at this point, something hit my hair and bounced off. I blinked at it. On the stage between my akimbo'd knees was a ten dollar bill. A steady rain of wadded-up currency began pelting all around me, and when I looked up, I got a wave of applause that swelled as I stuggled to my feet. I waved out into the darkness past the lights, and as the song ended, I carefully made my way around the stage picking up the thrown money. Then I staggered back to the dressing room.
I was a hit. In a little over three minutes, I had made over $100. And all I'd done was fall on my ass.
Imagine the potential for remaining upright.

I changed clothes, thanked the bartender, the d.j., and all the girls and cash-flinging customers.
And I never went back.
It wasn't cowardice, or cold feet, or sudden change of heart.
All they could offer me was daytime hours, which paid minutely compared to nights, and I had to keep my day job at Bigass Corp; it was that simple financial bond that kept me from the beckoning, cash-filled glamour of stage life.

Oh, and I probably have shy nipples... but we'll never know now, will we?
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Gone Buggy

Paul reports the joy of Montreal weather and the little critters who breed in it, but at least he doesn't have these nasties around.

Ewww. Must go buy more Raid.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 22, 2003

Slow Day At The Think Tank

The GM1 and I were watching TV this afternoon when the following conversation took place:
"Hey, look, it's that guy."
"What guy?"
"Oh, you know... the guy from 'The Mummy'... the Egyptian guy."
"Oh, THAT guy."
pause
"You do realize how that so doesn't narrow it down?"
"Oh shut up."

The silly part was, I knew exactly what guy he meant. Marriage is two people with one brain... and oftimes a union of half-wits.
Ah, but it's fun.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 21, 2003

Don't Touch Those Dials!

There will be a follow-up on all the wonderful suggestions for Six-Degrees-Of-Kevin-Bacon-To-My-Checkered-Past. I haven't forgotten.
I've gotten some great suggestions, too...

Opera Singer (I knew Lynn would choose something elegant)
Tea Taster (Lynn again, pinky raised)
Lingerie Sales (oh, Anna, be careful what you wish for)
Alaskan King Crab fisherman (Bigwig, this might take some creative defining)
Private Detective (Loyal Citizen Victor found a toughy)
President of Burundi (Kelley, you have no idea how easy this one is)

Get some popcorn and stay tuned!
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Friends Don't Let Friends Dye Drunk

Let's cut to the chase, because it's early and I had a long, albeit fun, evening.

I woke up a redhead this morning.

I don't mean I rolled over and CarrotTop was between my sheets. I wouldn't be able to type if that were the case because quite frankly, CarrotTop scares the beejeebers out of me. Is he man? Is he Muppet? Science is mum on the subject.

No, Tonya and I volunteered to do the chips and beer run last night and at the mini-mart, we regressed to sixth grade.
"I dare you."
"No, I dare YOU."
"Um... okay, I will if you will."
"I will if you go first."
"Okay then... DEAL"

We brought back to the party two twelve-packs, three bags of Doritos, and one lethal box of Herbal Essence Natural Effects Sunset Red hair color. In a twist we didn't expect, Kelly and Juanita wanted in on it too. Soon we four were in the bathroom, giggling like cherubs on crack and dyeing each other's hair.
All we needed was a pillow fight to break out.

When all is said and done, one box of hair color amongst four heads does not result in the picture-perfect example on the box. We all looked a bit patchy and less-than-vibrant, except for Juanita who (predictably) had no change since she's brunette to start with.

Sunset Red was not a valid color code anymore. We were forced to retitle.
Tonya's hair was Copper-Streaky-Peaky. Kelly's blonde became Intermittent Strawberry. I was deemed Faded Tomato Soup.

We are so lucky there's not an all-night tattoo parlor in our neighborhood.
Or a piercing shop.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 19, 2003

Six Degrees Follow-Up

Earlier I challenged my fine readers (all three of you) to come up with a job I couldn't six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon link to my shady past.
David of Sketches of Strain said: "Okay, I'll bite. Pet groomer. Kevin Bacon it. "
Geez, Dave, I can Bacon that in one.

I have been both a receptionist for a veterinarian and the "animal technician" at not one, but two pet stores. I sucked at the receptionist thing, because I consistently lost my cool with the customers, particularly the old farmer who dropped his half-dead beagle with a maggot-infested wound on my desk and said he'd "be back and pick 'er up later on". I quit the day I was asked to help hold down a large mongrel while the vet stuck his hand up the poor beast's arse to relieve impacted anal glands.
I had to dye my hair to get the smell out.

You'd think that since I was an animal technician twice that it was a sure sign I was good at it.
You obviously thunk wrong.
It was a glorified title meaning "she who swabs the shit and serves the slop". That's all it amounted to, cleaning cages, changing bedding, and feeding the various critters. The first pet shop was small and specialized in kittens and fish, a reasonably uncomplicated routine of letting tiny kittens shred me while I bathed them and going armpit-deep into goldfish tanks to unclog the filter. The second pet store's stock was much more varied.

The Cherry Street Seed And Pet Emporium of Long Beach carried no kittens or puppies, but birds of every kind, a million reptiles, boatloads of fish, guinea pigs, hamsters, and rats.
I used to be an animal lover. I was a pet store's dream, that customer that falls in love with every single creature and wants to take them home as their own. Except the birds. I never cared for birds.
They all had bird status by the time I quit.

I cleaned them; I fed them; I tidied them up.
And I killed them.

Part of my duties as animal tech was to "weed out" the defective beasties from the huge shipments we would get from the breeders. Mostly it was parakeets who got the ax, as the breeder would bring in boxes containing dozens of birds. In all those, there would normally be two or three that had a deformed foot, a twisted wing, something that made them unsellable.
The manager told me, "Don't put the bad birds out, keep track of how many you get rid of."
I asked "Get rid of?"
"Yah" he sighed impatiently. "You gotta kill them."
No instructions. No how to manual of bird snuffage. I was suddenly the designated assassin.
We won't go into the gory details of how I eventually "put down" every species of stock we carried at least once. Suffice it to say I toughened up and did my job. And it was gross.

I finally quit when the manager insisted I come in to work the day after the L.A. riots, although they'd burned down the DMV next door and there were National Guardsmen on the rooftop. I think taking public transportation at that time would have been more adventure than I cared for, and I said as much. It came down to the cliche "you come in now or don't come back at all".
I didn't go back at all.

I never really liked killing them. At first I tried to adopt the doomed, so at one point I had five crippled rats, a rabbit with an eating disorder, a paralyzed guinea pig, three tripod geckos, and a canary with one wing. After a while, the apartment complex got a few too many complaints and I was back in executioner mode. I noticed it became a little easier if I imagined my manager's face on the victim.

So I think that counts as one degree from pet groomer.

I bet you're all afraid to ask if I can six-degree lingerie sales now, huh?
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Tilt-A-Whirl Optional

Social Reject has a little slice of social Darwinism going on in her neighborhood. It sounds so very familiar.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 18, 2003

In Motion

When I want to *ahem* get in the mood, I don't turn to porn. I watch this.

I have always been fascinated by Christopher Walken. I first saw him in "Biloxi Blues", which is the only reason I watched it twice. That air of barely-controlled psychosis grabbed my attention. Everyone always remembers him from "Pulp Fiction" as the man who had the "uncomfortable piece of metal" up his ass for two years. But the one that turned him into a sex symbol for me was "Pennies From Heaven", when he danced a strip-tapdance on the top of a Depression-era bar.

If you want to get the ladies, you have to dance. A guy who can dance, dance pretty well, and most of all, dance like he really enjoys it... that guy can have a dog's tush for a face and the ladies will flock. Tango, waltz, breakdance, freestyle... doesn't matter. If you move it, they will come (my apologies to the "Field of Dreams" guys).

Christopher Walken is an older man, older than what usually flips the switch for me. He's not that attractive. He's schlumpy at times. He's often scary-whacko. Yet I would fall right over if he'd just tap a few steps.

It's all in the rhythm.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Six Degrees

I was idly reading my old resume this morning, thinking about sprucing it up for the day I land back in San Diego and have to begin the Search For Gainful Employment. I was struck more by the things I'd left off than the things I'd put into it. Am I that embarassed about my checkered work history?
Well... yeah, if only because it shows a complete lack of commitment to any job I've had.
Queen of the short attention span here.

I don't mean I've done anything shameful, or illegal. Okay, not really bad illegal. Okay, so I never got caught. But then I started remember all the jobs I had that were closely related to things that are considered borderline. I bet you could name almost any job in the world, and I could six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon-style link to it.

C'mon, what are you waiting for? Give it a shot. I'll post further on my answers if I get any takers.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 17, 2003

Fine Literature

If They'd Only Had This Book Around When I Was A Kid, I'm Sure I'd Be More Interesting Today
I love page seven.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Fish Tales

Both Da Goddess and My Life As A Fischer have tickled my nostalgia bone with posts about their trip to Sea World.

I used to live within walking distance of Sea World there in San Diego. It was the place that I could see from the freeway on the way home from work and know the worst part of the day was over. It was a glow on the skyline at night, reminding me that if I were good and didn't fake any more sick days, I would have enough spare change saved up for a visit there. Once I scraped up the dough and got there, it was the same familiar damp smell, the reassuring worn concrete, the subtle shrubbery that kept you just disoriented and lost enough that whatever you found around the corner was a lovely surprise.

The GM1 used to drag me over to the children's play area, and we'd toss out our adult dignity and climb all over whatever equipment the rules allowed (and sometimes it was damn the rules, full speed ahead, if attendance was sparse). We had water cannon fights and bought silly pirate hats. We'd squish the rest of the day. We recharged the hidden ten year old we'd left in the emotional closet. It was worth the wet shoes.

I had a good friend who work in the Jumbotron, the big screen at the Shamu show. He coaxed and prodded and wheedled me out of the house and down to Sea World the summer I had the bad operation, the GM1 was out on deployment and I wanted nothing more than to stay in the house and hate the world. He fussed over me, bought me sticky treats, silly t-shirts, and arranged for me to be the audience member chosen to "help" the trainers with part of the Shamu show. I did just as they told me, standing on a platform over the huge killer whale tank. I tried not to think about the million and two sharp teeth just inches from my hand as I scooped fish into Shamu's gaping grin. And when I gestured just as the trainers told me to, I was rewarded with a soaking from Shamu.
Nothing consoles like twenty-plus gallons of killer whale spit.
It was the day that made it easier to get up the next day... and the next...and the next.

On most evenings, though, I had to be content with Sea World from afar. I'd hear the first few pops and bangs and run out onto the sidewalk in front of my crappy apartment, and everyone out walking would stand still, watching the fireworks in the sky past the Jack-In-The-Box and Roberto's Taco Shop. For a few minutes, everyone- the panhandlers and the street kids and the skateboard punks, the Jerry Garcia disciples and the old brokedown drunks,- everyone stood with their faces turned up to the sky, quietly ooohing and aaahhing at the faux stars and novas.
Then the fireworks would end, we'd all shake outselves back to present, and maybe smile at someone we normally wouldn't look at.
It was a nice way to end a summer's day.

So thank you, Joanie and Greg, for reminding me how much I miss Sea World and all the flippery, squirmy, wet wonders.
I wonder if the walrus will remember me?
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 16, 2003

Notice No One Ever Says "That Old Time Polka"? It's For A Reason

I got a double CD yesterday called "Mullets Rock". It's full of all the songs I used to listen to in high school, bringing back memories of skipping class, sneaking a joint behind the wood shop class, and bumming rides home with the guy who had the Riviera pick-up. Songs like "Free-For-All" and "Godzilla" and "Surrender". Classics one and all. I was considered a bit of a heretic, though, in that I hated "Freebird."

Kelley at Suburban Blight has a lovely write-up about her days as a Rock Singer. I got a distinct Joan Jett vibe from it. Go check it out.

I'll be in the shower, OD-ing on nostalgia and using the backscrubber as a mike.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 15, 2003

Don't Assume I'm Comfy Just Because I Don't Squirm

I was recently chastised for not "caring". The action that prompted this uninvited evaluation of my character (and its apparent flaws) was my remote-flipping away, in rapid sequence, a documentary on right-to-lifers, a screeching televangelist, a gaspingly overwrought reporter enthralled with some "groundbreaking" trial, footage of some demented loon flinging paint at a fashion model, and a scolding old woman berating the general public for not taking feng shui seriously enough.

I didn't see it as unrealistic. I saw it as a distinct and proper move to save my television screen from having my shoe flung through it.

I'm proud to say I'm as human as the next person, with a healthy temper and the required level of skepticism to get through the day without buying stock in a pyramid scheme. I do not donate to charities I can't track the validity of, and I don't pass along emails of the latest urban legendary disaster. But the media, be it paper, televised, or cybernetic seems determined on testing my limits. I have chosen, like the mighty ostrich, to ignore those ethical SATs.

I know the world is full of people whose entire raison d' etre is to Save The World From Itself. I can only shudder to think of the condition of their kitchens, if they return library books on time, if they obey the jaywalking laws. If their behaviour in the public eye is any indication, they live in a universe of tunnel-visioned good intentions, and heaven help the folk who get in their way.

Me, I just want to find a parking meter with time still on it. I want to get my laundry done in time for work the next day. I want to find a reasonably priced low-fat mayonnaise. I don't have enough time to shop for decent car insurance, let alone to save the whales.

And because I have to narrow my sphere of influence, being a person with at least a marginal soul, I have to feel guilty for time not spent Bettering The Planet. I'm happy if my niece doesn't flunk gym, you think the rainforest can hold a candle to that worry? But because I am made to constantly feel guilty by every Tom, Dick, and PETA that comes down the pike, that guilt eventually turns sour and rancid and becomes resentment, which in turn grows a thick fur of moldy anger, and so when some other More Mouth Than Sense Yabbo gets on the tube or in my ear or pushes a clipboard in front of my face, I have to rein in that feeling. Otherwise, I'll be worrying about clean socks and report cards from a cell, facing assault charges.

Because I'm human, not a baby buggy, therefore not meant for pushing.

This doesn't mean I don't care. I do, I do, I cry when I think of little baby seals being clubbed and I am outraged at the latest statistics on thirdworld childlabor sweatshops, and don't even get me started on the ozone layer. But then I miss my bus, and break a heel running for the next one, and get slowed down by some nutcase wanting me to sign a petition to stop testing cancer treatments on plankton... there aren't enough cuss words to cover it when it happens.

So all you people who think you can save the world, be you sincere saviors or sillyass shouters, go right ahead. Just remember, though, while you make your noisy way through life, that some of us are trying to get some sleep, and can get mighty cranky when you suggest our weariness is our own damn fault. After all, there are a lot more of us than there are of you.

And someday, we'll be rested up, and ready for a vacation, so don't go spending all our frequent flier miles on some guilt trip. Real life has a way of minimizing the big picture. It's a cold hard fact, but true nevertheless. I'm going to leave the campaigning and complaining to the little college kids who have the time and (daddy's) money to spend on it. Me, I'll be happy if I find a dentist on my insurance plan and the cat doesn't have worms.

Life's too short.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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The Ur-Blogger, Samuel Pepys

Get on over to The Pepys Project and register your blog. It's good, and good for you.
I did, and now men, women, and children the world over adore me unreservedly.
Cats remain indifferent, and dogs just keep sticking their nose in my lap. Do I look like I'm smuggling sirloin in there or what?
Don't answer that.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 13, 2003

This Too Shall Pass

It's like the motto says...."smells like ass, let it pass." And right now no one knows that like Anton over at LastManDancing.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 12, 2003

Stepping Out Of Line

If you've read my blog long enough, you realize I am the light, trivial, chipper side of the blogosphere. Blogs like Little Green Footballs and Command Post have the more relevant issues well in hand, and like the man said, write about what you know. (Don't ask me what man, I forgot to get his name while I was whoopie-cushioning him.) So I feel a little out of my depth here, commenting on a serious subject.
But nevertheless....

I read this post about the KKK, led there by this heartfelt article by Paul at All Agitprop. I don't know if I'm the best person to be objective about the subject. I'm not black, and until I was 30 years old, I had never met a black person socially. I was raised in West Virginia, and quite a few of the boys I went to high school with were involved in the KKK, albeit not openly. (It was one of those secrets everyone knew.) The KKK boys scared the hell out of me. I saw the damage they could, and did, do.

The Klan is not a group of guys commiserating with each other about how outside the power structure they are. It's a group of xenophobes joined together in distrust and hatred of anyone who isn't them.
They're thugs. You can dress them up in social rhetoric and dissect their behavior until the cows come home. But they're still violent thugs with no redeeming value.

Just go read. I'm done.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 11, 2003

Doggy In The Window

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

I need caller I.D. I really do.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Are You Still Here?

Go here. Go right now. Go if you want to see the cutest thing ever ever.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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A Pose By Any Other Name

This has got to be one of the most amusing feuds I've read about all day.
Isn't the blog universe big enough for similar names? And, if someone has the ability to use a search engine to find whatever it is they seek, shouldn't they also be credited with similar sense to continue looking if the first site chosen isn't the correct one? So does the issue of depriving someone's allegedly income-producing site by misdirection hold water?
Think not. But I do like this girl, she's the one with real Moxie.
(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 10, 2003

Peek And Boo

I've never understood the paradox allegedly created by celebrityhood. People strive to become stars and remain in the forefront of the public consciousness, yet scream bloody blue murder when the public notices them outside the celebrity setting. Look! It's Lindsay Wagner washing her car! Look! It's Colin Farrell having a pint! Look! It's Barbra Streisand's house from a seagull's point of view!

Now Ms. Nose wants to sue the owner of the website californiacoastline.org for doing just that, in the name of researching coastline erosion and environmental impact studies. Loyal Citizen Victor tells it much better than I could (it's the entry for Tuesday, June 10, 2003- no permalink), but one bit got me thinking:

"But so what? Ms. Streisand is not suing the publishers of the numerous, "Maps of the Stars," for sale darn near everywhere in California, or available for free on the Internet. Aerial photographs are available on Mapquest; simply punch in an address and click on the AERIAL PHOTO tab on the resulting map (for example, here is a satellite photo of the White House) (Call me a wimp, but I'm not plugging in Ms. Streisand's address--I haven't sold any companies for over $400 million lately). If Ms. Streisand is seriously concerned about her privacy, she has a lot more to worry about than Mr. Adelman's photographs."

If such photography is an invasion of privacy, and thereby grounds for a lawsuit, why can't I sue Safeway for having a security camera on me while I fondle melons? Why can I take legal action against the traffic camera that catches me picking my nose at a red light? Why can't I get litigious on my second cousin Dougie for taking that horrid picture of me stuffing my face with a double helping of stuffing, extra gravy, at last year's Thanksgiving dinner?

I guess I could. But doesn't such a reaction call far more attention to the very act I want to conceal? It just seems self-defeating.

It was lowfat gravy, by the way. And I'd taken a big walk earlier, really fast. I was sweating. Must have worked up an appetite, that's all I can say.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Seven Candles

I know I've fussed and railed and whined about Blogger and the limitations thereon before, but dammit, it's never really frustrated me so much as it does right now. I have the best picture to post, and no way to show it off. And it's all because of Grant.

Grant is my nephew, my only brother's second child, and a movie waiting to happen. Grant likes to call me at any time, day or night, and pick up the conversation that began hours ago in his head- "So when the lava comes down, Aunt LeeAnn, they can put the concrete in front of it like a waterslide, only hot? You know? And then the town will be SAVED! So go tell the Post Office to get to work, because this can do it, I know it will and I can have the being famous part and can you make me a Spiderman suit?"

Grant has only met me twice in his life, once when he was a little toddler and once last year when I finally got back home to visit. According to his dad, he talks about me daily. He thinks I invented the moon and can walk on Kool-Aid. He sends me snake sheddings and carpet samples in the mail because they "feel cool". Grant has no fear of heights, speed, or things unseen. In fact, things unseen usually fear Grant.

While I was visiting last summer, Grant and I went to a thrift store and he found an old faux key, the kind used for decoration. He had to have it, so of course I got it for him, and the search began. He was not satisfied until he tried to stuff that key into every single lock he saw. At one time or another throughout the following week, one of the adults would try to explain to him it was just a pretend key, not a real key. And each time he'd listen, sigh the sigh of weariness born from dealing with the lesser-brained, and go back to trying locks. Finally I asked him why he was so intent on finding THE lock. Again the sigh.

"Well, Aunt LeeAnn" he said, after making me sit down to reinforce the importance of the answer, "this is a key. It's a gory big key. So it's gonna be a gory big lock. And a gory big lock.... it could be locking up almost ANYTHING! A key has to have a lock. It's the nature of bein' a key. And it's my key. So the treasure is mine! I just have to find it."

Happy birthday, Grant. I hope all your locks have gory big keys.

(Plans are in the works to get a real blog host after the move, for those of you who keep advising me of this and shaking your heads in dismay when I howl yet again about my current blogplace. See? I listen, I really do.)

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Tuesday

This or That Tuesday

1. "The Munsters" or "The Addams Family"? "The Addams Family", of course. I've always had a thing for Christina Ricci. Yes, I know they also had the old TV series but it never hooked my interest the way the movies did. And didn't she grow up.... nice?

2. "The Sopranos" or the "Godfather" movies? "The Sopranos", because, worrisome as it is for my therapist, I can relate to them. Kiss him or shoot him? Hug him or shove him off a boat wearing concrete galoshes? Everyday problems, you know?

3. "The Jetsons" or "Lost in Space"? "The Jetsons". They had fun, they went shopping, they played with the dog.... all the Robinson family ever did was get chased by monsters and remain curiously hygenic.

4. "Superman" or "Batman" (either the TV shows or the movies)? "Batman". I never watched the TV versions very much. Superman always seemed constricted by this rigid code of behavior, whereas you just knew Batman knew how to have a little fun. And every girl wants her own Alfred.

5. "Sex & The City" or "Friends"? "Sex & The City". I have trouble humanizing either group, but I felt closer to the Sex girls, except Carrie. Poor child must have been raised by colorblind squirrels, because she dressed like her wardrobe was designed by a blender.

6. "The Wizard of Oz" or the "Harry Potter" movies? Sorry, J.K., but it has to be "The Wizard of Oz" because it was the first movie I got addicted to as a child. It was a full-blown ritual by the time I was six to go to my Papaw's and watch it in color (a novelty back then, in the olden days.)

7. "The Simpsons" or "King of the Hill"? "Simpsons" Most of the time I want to smack Peggy Hill in the back of the head, she's so.... fixed.

8. "Grease" or "Saturday Night Fever"? "Grease" is my official secret guilty pleasure. I have both DVD and video, and I watch them constantly. I can recite all the lines along with the movie. My husband leaves the house on the days I need to watch.

9. Old prime-time soaps: "Dallas" or "Dynasty"? I never really watched either, but I'd have to choose "Dallas" becaus J.R. used to be an astronaut and have a genie of his own.

10. Not very thought-provoking this week...do you prefer TV shows or movies? Movies on TV.

I know it's not a very interesting or challenging post, but cut me some slack... it's only 5:30AM and I haven't had coffee yet.
I have my physical limits, you know.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 08, 2003

She's The Dangerous Kind

Wow, 131 years. I had no idea I've led such a criminal life. Naughty, naughty me. (via A Small Victory)

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 07, 2003

From Point A To Point B

I can breathe again! The GM1 came through (I never doubted he would) and found us what sounds like a lovely apartment in the San Diego area. I found the apartment complex's website, and though the pictures were just clear and detailed enough only to tease, it looks like a nice place. It's very handy to public transportation and his job, and best of all, it has a very strict noise policy.

I have a thing about noise. It could probably classify as a phobia if all it did was give me an anxiety attack. But sometimes, instead of fleeing into a quiet spot and wishing I would just die, the right type of noise makes me furiously angry. Classic flight or fight, I guess. I grab my baseball bat and stomp around, trying to work up the nerve to go out there and club into jelly whatever fool it is who equates bass decibels with manliness. That huge, booming, thumping bass, pulsating through the walls, rattling the windows, making sonic assualt in my internals... it drives me truly insane.

I know exactly where this came from. A long long time ago (doesn't this just sound so Story Lady?) we lived in a.... hmm, how to put it nicely? slum colorful neighborhood down San Diego way. Still, it was close to the beach, so I managed to dismiss the complete degeneration sketchy quality of our neighbors. So what if the girl upstairs turned tricks outside the local bar in her van and had an evil son named Benny, whose main joy in life was banging on the windows until they broke or dropping ten pound bags of potting soils on the heads of passers-by? So what if at least once a day I could step outside, breathe deeply of the salty tangy breeze, and watch a live episode of "Cops" on my block? So what if the carpet was brown but had started cream and no amount of scrubbing ever removed the suspicious red-brown stains that the landlord refused to talk about? At the time, we were between the bankruptcy rock and a financial hard place and didn't have a choice.

I survived the summer the upstairs Hussylady (that was our name for her) began to bring clients back to her place. We survived the waterpipe breaks that flooded out our apartment and ruined several pieces of scavenged from Goodwill antique furniture. We even survived the month we were overrun by iguanas, apparently set loose by pet owners and nesting in a shrubs outside our garbage bin, turning cranky if you woke them up to toss in a bag.

Then The Straw moved in next door. He had a tone-deaf girlfriend, a huge church organ he said he'd "found" in an "abandoned" church, and the stereo system of Thor. Within three minutes of his arrival, my wall began to shake so hard all my pictures fell off. I tucked up my courage and went next door to ask him to turn it down. He responded by informing me how "sweet" it was going to be when he got the other four speakers hooked up, called me a bitch, and slammed the door in my face.

It was like being a hamster in a coffee can, with malicious brats pounding on it with big sticks and unceasing energy. To make it even more lovely, Hussylady got a live-in pimp boyfriend who brought his Playstation set-up, complete with huge (you guessed it) speakers he sat directly on the floor. I guess one of the side-effects of meth is staying up all night playing video games.

I was rapidly going mad. (let me add that the GM1 was out at sea and thus is was all my baby).

I called the landlord, who apparently called The Straw and tried to lay down some law. The Straw calmly and rationally responded by beating on my door screaming about what a fucking bitch I was and I could just move my ass out if I didn't like it. I called the cops. They said they couldn't hear it over the phone so it must not be that bad. I called the landlord again. They said they'd informed him of my complaint and therefore their involvement was at an end. I went upstairs to Hussylady's and was told by pimpdaddy her boyfriend that he was great at video games because he practiced ALL the time, and by the way, he has a lot of "friends" who are always on the lookout for "employees" and maybe he should send them to my place.

It went on like this for three weeks, at the end of which I was nothing more than an exposed nerve waiting to be trod upon for the final time.

The GM1 returned from his time at sea, and immediately took matters in hand and found us a place farther north, in a nice complex, that actually had civilized people and rules. Why, you might ask, didn't I do this myself? Because we'd neglected to get a little thing called Power Of Attorney, without which no apartment manager would even discuss the subject of moving in with me.

The fear of being trapped, invaded by noise stayed with me. It's still wormed in, deep under my bones and quivering in the base of my skull. I resent it deeply.
I can go to concerts. I can enjoy music. I love going to clubs. None of those sounds bother me.

But if it becomes invasive, if I'm forced to listen to the vibration thump thump THUMP inside my own safe space, my home, forced by trash with no respect for anyone's rights, I lose it.

I know, I know, I'd never cut it in a big city, where the sounds are in your home 7/24 and you have to yell to have a conversation. I was raised with the debilitatingly naive belief that if you're decent to people, people will return the favor. And I'll never live in an urban center for that very reason. I've found ways to deal with my aversion. I go to the most quiet place in the house. I breathe deep. I turn on a fan and focus on the white-noise quality. I remind myself it will pass.

And I still have my good friend, Mr. Baseball Bat. He speaks for me in trying times like those.
I don't cork, either.

Posted by LeeAnn at 10:42 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

June 06, 2003

Better Late Than Never Movie Review

If you want a movie that's based on blind superstition, saw-it-coming slapstick, meaningless platitudes, and formula 7th Heaven Meets Touched By Morgan Freeman.... then "Bruce Almighty" is the film for you.
There's $6 (matinee price) and two hours of my life I'll never get back.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Friday Five

The Friday Five

1. How many times have you truly been in love?
There's a good example of an impossible question. "In love" is completely subjective, highly-self-interpretive, and hopeless to realize unless you truly believe it's happening to you right that minute. Hindsight, of course, after the "in" has fallen off, is much more accurate. After the "love" drops away, then you have love-eyes like a hawk and can pinpoint the exact moment when you lost your judgement, your mind, and most of your bank account.

2. What was/is so great about the person you love(d) the most?
That person would be the GM1, and outside of the absolutely open, accepting-of-me-nasty-aspects-and-all glorious person he is, I'd have to say he's the most honorable man I know of. That includes the Pope, whom I've never met but I understand him to be a really nice guy and a hell of a shuffleboard player.

3. What qualities should a significant other have?
Adaptability, to the changes that the both of you will go through. And pockets full of cheese.

4. Have you ever broken someone's heart?
Oh god, I hope so. I hope he suffered and writhed in the agony of loneliness and never ever found fulfillment or true love again and had a lot of flat tires on deserted highways on rainy nights. You know who you are. You prick.
5. If there was one thing you could teach people about love, what would it be?
Be patient, never settle for less than you really feel right about, and never impulse buy a fixer-upper (I have mentioned my three exes, have I not? Bleh.)

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 05, 2003

Missing Link

I've been following all the hoo-hah running the rounds lately about linking, de-linking, quitting entirely because of dislike for the linking/delinking shenanigans.

All I can say is, I think I came into blogging at just the right time. I started this blog after all the big names became... well, big names. I started this blog actually before I even read many of the big names. So I didn't really have many preconceived notions of how it should be done, what I should say, how to get in with the hip crowd.
I just do what I do best, rattle on about stuff in my life and the odd shit I seem to find/attract/marry.
If I link to someone, it's because I like them, because I go see what's up on their page once or twice or (in the case of michele, since she's so damn prolific) twenty times a day. Some of my links I go to once in a while just to see what the buzz is among the gamers or the animation creators or the bizarre news wizards. Some links lie fallow until I get the unbidden urge to desk-chair dance again. Some I get bored with and delete.
I have never linked to anyone because I wanted to curry their favor, kiss their ass, pay their rent, or shave their Shetland pony. (I'm sure there's an obscure sexual euphemism like that somewhere). I link because I like.
I'm still learning to crawl, as evidenced by the fact I'm on Blogger and not a higher-up-the-evolutionary chain thing like MT or my own domain. I have to learn what the hell RSS is, and blogrolling, and trackback. I just learned tables from a book I found in a yard sale. I'm crawling, but my knees won't hold out forever and someday I'll stand up and wobble and decide to move up a rung.
Perhaps after that day, I'll take notice of who to butter up and who to cut the crust off. Until then, I link like I fall in love... madly and indiscriminately and full of hope that I won't be let down.
Kiss me, you fools!

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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June 04, 2003

Deflation

Cactus Joe came and went and nary a yelp or holler in the process. First thing he did was ask for a place to sit and write. He then proceeded to read to me, verbatum, from the "Official Cleaning Instructions" handout, checking off each item as he finished it. He didn't look at a single thing. I could have painted satanic symbols all over the ceiling and he'd never have known. Sad to think I missed on a decorating opportunity.
One interesting item: he was under the impression the new management would do our final Check-Out. They told me he was the one who'd be doing it. Another bloody "who's on first?" red tape routine. I'm getting quite used to that.
So there's one more item off the dreaded To-Do list, and adios, Cactus Joe.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

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Cactus Joe and Other Prick-ly Things

Today sucks and it's not even 6:00AM here. I call that efficient.
It sucks for two reasons.

Reason one: It's our anniversary, the GM1 and I. Fifteen years together in a state of matrimonial splendor, as they say on the Lifetime channel. We also have another anniversary, in November, commemorating the day we met, which is coming up on seventeen years ago. And today the GM1 is all the way over in San Diego. The only one who will benefit from this will be the phone company.
We'll celebrate when he gets back, but for now it sucks.

Reason two: Today is our Pre-Inspection prior to moving out. Pre-Inspection is the torture routine where Housing sends the Physical Housing Manager (wonder if there's a Metaphysical one? A guy that come to inspect your aura before you leave, perhaps?) to tell you all the little nitpicky things you have to fix up before the military will "release" you from your assigned Housing. I always get this image of being handcuffed to a mop, with a prison matron standing over me barking orders to swab the deck or NOBODY'S GOIN' NOWHERE.

Our PHM is Cactus Joe. Joe has the reputation of being the biggest jerk anyone has dealt with. Joe is such a royal pain in the ass that the other people in Housing are actively campaigning for him to take early retirement. Everyone I've talked to despises Cactus Joe.

He's called Cactus Joe because he hates "unauthorized" plants or shrubbery in the yards. During one family's check-in, he discovered the previous tenants had left a cactus growing in a corner of the back yard, a nice large one. He went berserk, shrieking about "dirty trash left behind" and ripped it out of the ground with his bare hands and flung it over the fence. Then he danced around screaming at the family to "get the goddamn pricks out" of his hands.

I've had my run-ins with Cactus Joe before. There is a young tree growing just past our fence that developed a severe break in the trunk, from the neighborhood hellions climbing on it. I called Housing to say it needed cut back or whatever tree guys do when trees go bad. They transfered me to Cactus Joe, who stopped me in mid-sentence to snap "I know all about it. It's taken care of." Then he hung up in my ear.

That was in December. The tree droops in three pieces just past the fence. I have several bets out that he'll try to tell me it's my responsibility to take care of it. Sorry, Joe, I have the official word from Housing... it's your baby.

Today is also Kitten Camouflage Day. It's part of CJ's rep that he also hates cats and will try to push through paperwork to make cat owners pay for an exterminator to come dust the house for fleas, even though there are only tile floors and the cat is perfectly clean. He also allegedly rounds up any friendly strays and takes them to the "Humane" Society... which in this area is a strict "kill everything stray" facility. So before he shows up, I have to try to round up all the strays I can and hide them in my neighbor's garage, along with my indoor cat, Squeeks. As far as Cactus Joe knows, there hasn't been a cat in any of his realm since 1976. This is because everyone is in on the concealment procedure.

There are rules that have purpose, there are rules that were made to be broken, and then there's Joe.

He's so lucky it's not a pms day.

And just for fun, I have three friends lined up to come back to my ex-back yard once we move... and plant a huge, nasty cactus. Have fun, Joe.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 05:55 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

June 03, 2003

Fan Mail From Some Flounder

I just got my first piece of mail fussing at me. (I won't post the email or the sender's name here because I'm not entirely clear on the etiquette of such... maybe one of you blog vets can help me out on that?) The writer seemed to be perturbed that I "waste time and the time of people who go to read your crap" with trivial little posts like the Ten Layers of Me vanity quiz, or the Friday Five... or even updates on my cats.

While I do admit that perhaps the quizzes (What Kind of Hello Kitty Accessory Are You?, perhaps?) might be a little more juvenile and silly than befits the blog of a middle-aged woman, let me state that nowhere on my page does it say "This is an ultra-serious journal of an intelligent person with important things with which to raise conciousness and educate the masses". If I recall, my deepest philosophy of "smells like feet, good to eat" is right there on top. That should be warning and a half for your intellectually-questing ass that I'm not Instapundit or The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler.** I'm a woman with half a brain, a fascination for the bizarre and entertaining, and my lovely computer.
Might I mention, if you didn't catch that... MY lovely computer. My blog. My right to say what I want. My choice of what I post.
Where do the rights of the reader come in, you ask?
You have the right to click or not click on any link I furnish.
You have to right to read my babble, misspelled and ungrammatical as it might become at times.
You have the right to email me with any and all feelings, opinions, or comments of your own.
And most importantly, you have the right to use any and all means at your disposal to leave my blog and never come back if it offends, upsets, or disappoints you in any way.
I don't mean I want everyone to be a good little cheese lover and nod and say "ooooh, yes, LeeAnn, we love everything you say. Tell us more, oh please, more more more!" I won't turn you away if you do. But if you disagree or have something to tell me, don't assume just because I'm new to all this that I'm going to fall over and confess my bloggy sins and vow to do just as you say. I'm willing to learn. I welcome the chance to talk to you about your views. But be damned if I'll roll over and change my ways just because you have a Dave Winer complex.
That's my side of the story, and I'm sticking to it.
Hope I didn't piss you off.
**
No disrepect to either of these fine blogs intended, by the way. I admire them both, even when they're over my head.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 05:24 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Onion

It's all about me, baby.

Ten Layers Of Me
LAYER ONE
-- Name: LeeAnn
-- Birth date: September 6
-- Birthplace: West Virginia
-- Current Location: Pearl Harbor, Hawaii San Diego, California
-- Eye Color: green
-- Hair Color: light brown
-- Height: 5'2"
-- Righty or Lefty: lefty
-- Zodiac Sign: Virgo
LAYER TWO:
-- Your heritage: Irishy, with a splash of Dutch/German. This explains the beer fixation and the anal-retentiveness.
-- The shoes you wore today: ancient black Converse high-tops.
-- Your weakness: cheese, cheese, sushi, cheese. Possibly cheese sushi.
-- Your fears: too damn many to list, but a sampling would include swimming in opaque water, bugs, crowds, boredom......
-- Your perfect pizza: thin crust with mushrooms and jalapenos
-- Goal you'd like to achieve: transform my pudgy self back into the nice size 6 I used to be (and world domination, of course)
LAYER THREE:
-- Your most overused phrase on IM: I don't have IM. I get enough randomization in my social life just living in military housing.
-- Your thoughts first waking up: "What, again?"
-- Your best physical feature: nice chewy bottom lip, and my lovely tattoos.
-- Your most missed memory: If it's a memory, then that means I remember it, right? So if I miss it, that means it's gone so I don't remember it, so it can't be a memory.... Do not fuck me around with this Catch-22 bullshit.
LAYER FOUR:
-- Pepsi or Coke: diet Pepsi, with a shot of citron vodka.
-- McDonald's or Burger King: mmmm, McDonald's, and screw the bad press they've been getting.
-- Single or group dates: neither. The GM1 prefers that I don't date. He's funny that way.
-- Adidas or Nike: Nike for serious workouts, Addidas for retro-style.
-- Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Lipton iced tea, but I make it myself. Canned tea tastes oddly metallic, which I prefer to taste only after blowing robots (just checking to see if anyone's read this far.)
-- Chocolate or vanilla: vanilla, because you can tart it up with chocolate or caramel sauce.
-- Cappuccino or coffee: coffee. Lots and lots of coffee if I'm expected to function and not immediately slaughter innocents when I wake up.
LAYER FIVE:
-- Smoke: Never have. Well, except the illegal kind in high school.
-- Cuss: all the fucking time, you great wanking dickface.
-- Sing: in the car or in the shower, but never where anyone can hear me and report animal cruelty.
-- Take a shower everyday: sometimes twice. Sometimes three times. If I'm short on laundry, I showered fully-dressed. Hooray for efficiency!
-- Do you think you've been in love: many more times than was good for me, except this last one, which is still ongoing.
-- Want to go to college: have gone, on and off. I might like to continue just to finish my degree, but from what I read lately, college professors tend to be overly-liberal, PC nazis who I'd most likely walk out on. Plus, what does it say about the worth of a college diploma if you need one to be a bloody receptionist? What's next, requiring a Ph.D to deliver a pizza? Kind of cheapens it, to make it needed to get a basic entry-level minimum wage job. /rant
-- Like(d) high school: Oh hell no! I was a geek, and worse, a girl geek, which was like having two heads in the 70s. Some of my fondest fantasies are going back to a reunion and doing a Carrie to them.
-- Want to get married: I've done it four times, and only this last time was worth a shit. The first three were complete wastes of skin. I think I fancied myself a matrimonial Mother Theresa.
-- Believe in yourself: see-saw on that one. It often depends on if the day is a good hair day.
-- Get motion sickness: only on boats.
-- Think you're attractive: I don't scare small children (too bad) but I don't make grown men trip over their hard-ons either.
-- Think you're a health freak: I drink light beer, does that count? Oh, and I put the calcium-enriched orange juice in my screwdrivers.
-- Get along with your parent(s): I adore my mother.
-- Like thunderstorms: as long as I don't have to drive in them, yes.
-- Play an instrument: I'd love to play the piano. (I was very tempted to insert a low, gutter-mouthed "skin flute" joke here, but I didn't. Classy points for me!)
LAYER SIX:
In the past month...
-- Drank alcohol: Who do you think you're talking to? Have you never read my blog before?
-- Smoked: no.
-- Done a drug: I went to high school in the 70s. If you didn't partake of something at least once, you were obviously not human. That was pretty much the last time *nostalgic sigh*
-- Made Out: yepper. The GM1 is a great kisser.
-- Gone on a date: We don't have dates. We have "episodes of social wandering".
-- Gone to the mall?: yes
-- Eaten an entire box of Oreos?: no, but I did hoover down an entire container of Pringles.
-- Eaten sushi: as much as I can get.
-- Been on stage: no
-- Been dumped: only by the deity of Common Sense. Don't get me started.
-- Gone skating: I wish.
-- Made homemade cookies: no. I don't cook/bake/prepare if I can avoid it.
-- Gone skinny dipping: does the bathtub count?
-- Dyed your hair: just a tiny bit
-- Stolen anything: I confess... the bank is less a pen because of me. Damn my thieving ways!
-- You sound boring: I prefer "stable". Okay, boring is accurate too.
LAYER SEVEN
Ever...
-- Played a game that required removal of clothing: back in the olden days when removal of my knee socks didn't expose my nipples.
-- If so, was it mixed company: yes, but they were not only mixed, they were mixed up, confused about their sexuality, and decided halfway into the game to go out for pizza and not return. Except for the one who passed out under the beanbag chair.
-- Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: see beanbag chair entry above.
-- Been caught "doing something": amazingly, never. Quite a few near-misses, though.
-- Been called a tease: yes, and damn proud of it.
-- Gotten beaten up: yep. Told you some of my ex-husbands were bastards, didn't I? There you go.
-- Shoplifted: junior high was like a Winona Ryder training film.
-- Changed who you were to fit in: yes, but was aware of it, like putting on a costume and giggling under the mask.
LAYER EIGHT:--
--Age you hope to be married: Oh, for the love of... catch up, people!
-- Numbers and Names of Children: I have had a cat. I have had a lot of cats. Too numerous and flaky to name or number. Now I have goldfish. Frigging pet deposit nazis.
-- Describe your Dream Wedding: any one that didn't involve the first three losers. If I could re-wedding the one I had with the GM1, I'd change quite a few things (venue, reception, guest list, dress) but leave the best part alone (the GM1).
-- How do you want to die: painlessly, in my sleep, after making the Guiness Book of Records for Oldest Person Ever Ever That Wasn't Monkey-butt Senile.
-- Where you want to go to college: somewhere without political correctness or liberal bullshit.
-- What do you want to be when you grow up: day late and a dollar short on that question.
-- What country would you most like to visit: Austrailia.
Layer Nine -
--Opposite sex (or the same?) both. I'm greedy.
-- Best eye color? brown
-- Best hair color? brown
-- Short or long hair: doesn't matter as long as it's nice and clean.
-- Best Height? medium or shortish
-- Best weight: for me 110 lbs., for a man 160ish
-- Best articles of clothing: jeans. Gotta go with the classics
-- Best first date location: zoo.
-- Best first kiss location: at the front door, after the goodbye and before the "what would you like for breakfast?"
LAYER TEN:
-- Number of drugs taken illegally: I grew up in the 70s. I stopped counting during freshman year.
-- Number of people I could trust with my life: two- the GM1 and my mom.
-- Number of CDs that I own: without an accurate count, about 200.
-- Number of piercings: twelve. (eleven in the ears and one lovely bellybutton ring.)
-- Number of tattoos: ten currently, two more planned.
-- Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?: a couple of community theater reviews.
-- Number of scars on my body: tons. But as the old saying goes, "Pain heals. Chicks dig scars Glory is forever."
-- Number of things in my past that I regret: did I mention my exes? Let's just say the first 28 years of my life. But oh, the revenge is sweet.

In addition....
FIRSTS:

* FIRST JOB: I babysat the most horrid children in the world, Todd and his baby brother, at age 13.
* FIRST SCREEN NAME: molly
* FIRST SELF-PURCHASED CD: It was actually an album... Goodbye Yellowbrick Road by Elton John.
* FIRST PIERCING/TATTOO: I got my ears pierced when I was 15.
* FIRST ENEMY: Mom's first boyfriend after she got divorced.

LASTS:

* LAST KISS: The GM1, as often as possible.
* LAST LIBRARY BOOK: "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix", last week.
* LAST MOVIE SEEN: "Big Fish"
* LAST BEVERAGE DRANK: Water.
* LAST FOOD CONSUMED: potato bread
* LAST PHONE CALL: My mom called to ask what I thought of the latest episode of "Oz"
* LAST CD PLAYED:"Genius", Warren Zevon
* LAST ANNOYANCE: my stupid printer mangled 4 sheets of the good paper before I could stop it.
* LAST SODA DRINK: Diet Pepsi
* LAST ICE CREAM EATEN: this yummy stuff from Coldstone, all vanilla and honey and cinnamon and caramel.... oh so wonderful.
* LAST TIME SCOLDED: The GM1 scolded me for getting so drunk and taking a walk alone on St. Patrick's Day.
* LAST SHIRT WORN: ancient white sweatshirt

I:

* I AM: a 46 year old woman still growing up.
* I WANT: to lose weight.
* I HAVE: the best husband in existance.
* I WISH: we owned our own home.
* I HATE: most people
* I FEAR: bugs
* I HEAR: traffic on the freeway
* I SEARCH: for reasons
* I WONDER: why religious nuts even bother
* I REGRET: many asskickings I never applied when needed
* I LOVE: the GM1 and my mom.
* I ALWAYS: hate my jobs
* I AM NOT: pretty
* I DANCE: in history
* I SING: in the car
* I CRY: privately

YES OR NO:

* YOU KEEP A DIARY: do blogs count?
* YOU LIKE TO COOK: Sometimes.
* YOU HAVE A SECRET NOT SHARED WITH ANYONE: Yes.

DO YOU:

* HAVE A CRUSH: on the GM1, catch up already.
* WANT TO GET MARRIED: I'm already married.
* GET MOTION SICKNESS: on boats
* THINK YOU'RE A HEALTH FREAK: not a chance
* CURRENT HAIR COLOR: dead mouse brown
* EYE COLOR: Green.
* BIRTHPLACE: Huntington WV

FAVORITES:

* NUMBER: 11
* COLOR: green
* DAY: Thursday (because that's when "Survivor" is on
* MONTH: June
* SONG(S): "Army Song" by Ben Folds Five
* SEASON: Spring
* DRINK: beer

PREFERENCES:

* CUDDLE OR MAKE OUT: both at once
* CHOCOLATE MILK OR HOT CHOCOLATE: chocolate milk
* MILK, DARK, OR WHITE CHOCOLATE: white chocolate.
* VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE: vanilla.

IN THE LAST 24 HOURS, HAVE YOU:

* CRIED: almost, at the sad part of "Tombstone"
* HELPED SOMEONE: helped the GM1 with his resume
* BOUGHT SOMETHING: yep, got some lovely London broil for tomorrow
* GOTTEN SICK: no.
* GONE TO THE MOVIES: no.
* SAID, "I LOVE YOU.": yes.
* WRITTEN A REAL LETTER: yes
* TALKED TO AN EX?: I'd just as soon pull out my tongue than speak to those bastards
* MISSED AN EX?: Not a chance. I have great aim.
* WRITTEN IN A JOURNAL: blog blog bloggity blog
* HAD A SERIOUS TALK: Balls. No way.
* MISSED SOMEONE?: Yes.
* HUGGED SOMEONE?: Yes.
* MADE SOMEONE MOAN: only at a bad joke.

1. What year was the best year of your life?
1988

2. One animal or insect that Noah should have left off the ark?
Every single insect except for ladybugs.

3. Do you make a wish before blowing out your birthday candles?
I wish on everything.

4. Do you generally open your bills on the day that you receive them?
Yeah, just so I can see what I'm throwing away.

5. How many pillows are on your bed?
12, if you count the decorative ones too.

6. Favorite ice cream flavor?
Strawberry.

7. What is the most dominate color in your wardrobe?
White, mostly t-shirts.

8. Have you ever seen a ghost?
No.

9. Would you rather go to a carnival or circus?
Circus. One big travel goal: go see Cirque du Soliel.

10. Favorite meal: breakfast, lunch, or dinner?
Dinner, in a nice restaurant.

11. Your favorite fictional animal?
Flying kittens.

12. Have you ever flown first-class?
No.

13. Would you go on a reality show?
In a heartbeat.

14. Are you more optimistic or pessimistic about the future?
What future?

15. Pancakes or waffles?
Pancakes.

16. If you could own a home anywhere in the world, where would it be?
In a temperate clime, as far away from people as possible.

17. Your favorite Soup of the Day?
French onion or clam chowder.

18. What site is a must see for all visitors to your city?
The Wild Animal Park

19. Can you recommend a good restaurant in your city?
Cheesecake Factory or O-Nami Sushi.

20. You go to the zoo; what is the one animal that you want to see?
Hippos.

21. Potatoes, rice, or pasta: which is your favorite?
Pasta

22. What is the best movie that you've seen this year?
Kill Bill.

23. One of your favorite books when you were a child?
Valley of the Dolls.

24. What in your life are you most grateful for?
My husband.

25. You are home alone and use the bathroom; do you close the door?
No.

26. What is your favorite small appliance?
My coffee machine.

27. Salty snacks or sweet treats?
Salty.

28. Are you usually a little early, a little late, or right on time?
Early.

29. What is the most daring thing that you have ever done?
Drove across country by myself.

30. Have you ever met someone famous?
Yes, I met the lead singer of Dr. Hook, and Shelby, an actor with Sound and Fury.

31. What was one of your favorite games as a child?
Hide and Fuck Off.

32. At what age have you looked your best?
31.

33. One person that never fails to make you laugh?
Dave Barry.

34. What was the first music that you ever bought?
"Goodbye Yellow Brick Road".

35. If you could change one thing about your family life when you were a child, what would it be?
I wish my natural father had died a painful death and left my mom a fortune so she wouldn't have to remarry if she didn't want to.

36. What is the one thing that you cook that always receives compliments?
Spaghetti.

37. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news?
Internet.

38. In the last calendar year, how many people have you told that you love them?
Two.

39. Who received your first kiss?
Some kid in second grade named Blacky, who promptly punched me in the face.

40. The single most important quality in a mate?
Loyalty.

41. What do you value most in a relationship?
Security.

42. Do you believe that you have a soulmate? If yes, have you already met?
Yep, married to him right now.

43. Do you consider yourself well organized?
Overly.

44. On average, how many times a day do you look at yourself in the mirror?
Maybe four.

45. Did you ever make a prank phone call?
Oh yeah.

46. What one quality do you seek in a friend?
Ability to respect borders.

47. Have you ever killed an animal?
Yes.

48. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up?
A stewardess.

49. Do you believe in an afterlife?
Of course not.

50. What would you like to accomplish with the remaining years of your life?
Immortality.

And here are 15 more questions:

1. What is the "theme" on your calendar this year?
Random pictures, since I print my own on a weekly basis.

2. Do you read the newspaper every day?
No.

3. What kind of shoes are you wearing right now?
Barefoot.

4. What magazines do you subscribe to?
Entertainment Weekly, Dragon, Allure.

5. What is your favorite condiment?
Mustard.

6. What was the first occupation you remember wanting to have?
I said stewardess, weren't you listening?

7. Do you have a green thumb?
I kill plants with a mere thought.

8. Did you have an imaginary friend when you were little?
Yes.

9. Do you floss regularly?
No, it gags me.

10. If you could still hang posters of celebrities on your walls and get away with it like when you were 12, who would be on your walls right now?
Tom Hanks and Angelina Jolie

11. Do you keep shoe boxes or throw them away?
Throw them away.

12. Would you be embarrassed if someone looked under your bed?
No. All they'd find is my gun.

13. If you could be one character in a book, who would you be?
Molly from "Neuromancer" by William Gibson.

14. What do you sleep in?
Victoria's Secret pajamas

15. What is your favourite word?
Fuck, or bugger.

The ABC List
A - Act your age? I wouldn't begin to know how. Women my age are a mystery and bewilderment to me. I don't think we have much mutual context.

B - Born on what day of the week? I think it was a Friday, September 6, 1957.
On a tangent, I hesitated to put the facts here, and then realized if someone really wants to go to the trouble to find out who The Cheesemistress is, there were plenty of clues. Not like I'm worth the security seal on my FBI file, you know?

C - Chore you hate? Stupidly, it's emptying the dishwasher and putting the dishes away, knowing that in less than a day it will have to happen all over again.

D - Dad's name? Ronald Lee L*****, may he rot in hell.

E- Essential makeup item? Mascara. Oh, and eye shadow. And liner. Don't forget a nice tinted moisturizer. And some pretty lip gloss. Oh, must powder down a bit too.
I love Sepphora, I truly do.

F - Favorite actor? My idol is Tom Hanks, but right now I love watching Brad Pitt.

G - Gold or silver? Must I choose?

H – Hometown? Well, born in Huntington, West Virginia, grew up in nearby Ceredo and Barboursville, but home is where the heart is, which means home is where the GM1 is, which right now means San Diego.
I fucking hate small towns.

I - Instruments you play? Not a damn one. I'm too uncoordinated.

J - Job title? Food Service Clerk, a.k.a. the Betrayer of Rules, the Fairy Floss Floozie, and She-Who-Loathes-Tourists.

K - Kids? A gorgeous daughter, Kelly, age 28.

L - Living arrangements? A reasonably nice two bedroom apartment in southern San Diego, in a neighborhood full of idiots, assholes, and lunatics, all of whom have car alarms from hell and no idea of the concept of "turn it the fuck DOWN!"
Yeah, I hate it here.

M - Mom's name? Judith.

N - Need... To get over the urge to kill my neighbors and coworkers, as it's not only time-consuming to do so but the subsequent paperwork might just be the death of me too.

O - Overnight hospital stays? Tons. I am a professional klutz.

P - Phobias? Bugs. The best way, btw, to alienate yourself in my affections is to not take this seriously and try to "have fun" by putting bugs near or on me.
I will kill you.

Q - Quote you like? "The Fear had two parts. Number one, you have lost control absolutely. Number two, having done so, the real you emerges, and you won't like it." - Tom Maddox, "Snake Eyes"

R - Religious affiliation? Atheist. Seriously anti-religion. Nothing fucks up the world worse than actions stemming from a belief in some imaginary power figure.

S - Siblings? One sister, one stepsister, one brother, one sister-in-law.

T - Time you wake up? 4 bloody goddamn 30 in the cocksucking AM. Can you tell I just love it?

U - Unique talent? Finding the funny in almost everything.

V - Vegetable you refuse to eat? Kale. Oh my dog, nasty nasty nasty.

W - Worst habit? Not being able to tell anyone off unless I am nearly uncontrollably angry, when coherence is unfortunately at the low point.
I have constant wit of the staircase syndrome.

X - X-rays you've had? Gallons. I glow in the dark now.

Y - Yummy food you make? Lasagna. And appletinis.

Z - Zodiac Sign? Virgo. Pure as the driven slush.

(1. previously posted on Blogspot)(2. updated March 2004) (3 and 4 added May 2004)(ABC List added June 2004)

Posted by LeeAnn at 02:16 PM | Comments (1)

June 02, 2003

Keeping History From Repeating

The GM1 got on his flight this morning and flapped away off to San Diego, to find us somewhere to roost when we move next month. He was all excited about going back, because he gets to see all his old pals, and nervous, because our entire existance hinges on his finding a suitable, affordable, not-in-some-scummy-neighborhood abode. See how I day by day subtly reinforced the concept of a proper living environment, until it took root in his mind and became the main priority of his life... to find a place that won't make me go psycho and cut Little GM1 off in his sleep.

Not really. I'm not that manipulative unless it involves birthdays and jewelry. Or cheese.

But he is concerned about the search, since this is his first solo as we've always found our previous homes together. But after all this time together, he knows what I like and what will drive me over the edge, and how to combine both our needs successfully. (He wants a reasonable commute to work, I want to stay as far away from frat boy stereos as possible.)

He can't possibly do any worse than Husband #1, at any rate.
Husband #1 was my high school sweetheart, and that right there should tell you why it went to hell in the proverbial handbasket. If you fixate on someone when you're 15 years old, and one of the things you love about him is that he never changes, chances are that will drive you mad by the time you realize you're 21, married 3 years to for-all-intents-and-purposes a man who is still 15. After discovering his work ethic was about equal to his budget skills (we had everything we owned repossessed twice, including the car), I decided to take my chances and strike out in the big world on my own. To be fair, I was just as incredibly stupid as he was, and the financial crap was just as much my fault.

But I'm not the one who dangled the prospect of a new home in front of me to get me to come back.
I'm just the dummy who took the bait.

Let me tell you how "new house on a hillside, with nice furniture" translates into reality: It was a condemned two room house on his father's property, the hillside was the result of erosion that was two feet from the back door, and the nice furniture was a folding table from his sister and a leaky waterbed his stepbrother had pilfered from his last delivery job. Water was supplied via a hose run from his dad's house next door, as was electricity from a questionable extension cord. It came with its own version of Animal Planet.... spiders the size of mice, mice in herds, and birds that shit on everything and that entered through the hole in the roof.

As I had had a huge fight with my parents about returning to Husband #1, I could hardly leave again, tail between my legs and humbled by my mistakes. So I stayed... through the winter when the water hose froze solid and we melted snow for our needs, through the electrical fire from the tiny space heater that destroyed my book collection, through the spider bites and the pneumonia. I stayed just long enough for him to decide he was better off without me and went next door to live with his mother. I finally left when she told me I would have to start paying rent to stay in Chez Slum, since her darling boy had come to his senses and dumped me. She also made the mistake of shaking her finger in my face.

I bite, by the way, and have excellent teeth.

So you can see why I have misgivings about letting housing decisions out of my hands, even though GM1 is so much farther up the evolutionary ladder than Husband #1. Shit, Husband #1 isn't even the same species, if memory serves.

Memory is a wonderful thing. It teaches us not to repeat our mistakes. It leaves marks on the instinctive level. It strengthens the spine and stiffens the resolve.
It makes it a lot tougher on apartment managers.

Good hunting, GM1. I trust you. I'm ready to go.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 06:22 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

June 01, 2003

Jerk

I never liked Sean Penn, even before he exposed himself as a singular asshat of our times. Thus, I truly loved this well-written fisking by Lee at Right-Thinking From The Left Coast of Penn's latest full-page mastrubatory ego-fest.
He should have stopped at Spicoli while he was still ahead.

(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 04:26 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

30 Minutes

I've been hypnotized for the past half hour. (via Blort)

(previously posted on Blogspot)

Posted by LeeAnn at 01:28 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
all hail sitemeter!