The Trouble With Having To Push Buttons and Stuff

Hi! Hello. Yes, remember me? I used to post, like, all the time and stuff? And if you think really hard, you might recall I used to do shit like comment on YOUR blog. I promise that even though I haven't been marking my cyber territory much lately, I'm still reading one of your posts every week. Honest!

I'm loving the Google Reader, except for the fact that I still have to click through to another page if I want to leave a comment on your blog, and frankly, I'm getting so spoiled by this laptop that I'm only a few months away from expecting everything to happen for me automatically, without any type of physical or mental exertion.

Gotta pee. Done!
Want some bacon. Mmmmm!
Leave a comment on the post about fisting. Didn't have to click through to another page!

I know it's asking a lot, but I'm kind of a whiny bitch like that.

Gray took me out to dinner and a movie tonight. We saw The Wrestler and it was awesome. Seriously. Go see this movie. And if it turns out that you hate it, blame Obama.

Afterwards, we stopped into the bookstore. I wanted to buy everything on the damn tables because I'm a total sucker for book covers. You can go ahead and add "totally judges books by their covers" to my list of reasons I'm going to hell.

Bright and shiny yellow with an embossed ducky? SOLD!
Foggy looking landscape with scraggly trees and drippy font? Hook me up, yo!
Anything with Dr. Phil's face? Would rather do an at-home circumcision. On myself.

But what I really needed was a new copy of Jane Eyre for my women writers class. Sure, I have a textbook anthology which includes all the Charlotte Bronte novels, but it's so BIG. It's unwieldy. I like to read in bed and be comfortable, and that requires one-handed reading. The textbook is too heavy for one-handed reading, it requires two-handed knee-balancing maneuvers. It's just too much work.

Also? I love Jane Eyre. I've read it several times before, many years ago. So many years ago that when I pinched together all 300 pages of the story in my text, I looked at the thickness of pages and declared, "Jane Eyre was never this long before!" So I figured if I went and bought a paperback copy of the book, it would kind of...be smaller. Fewer pages. Less work. Just like I remembered it.

There were two copies of Jane Eyre available at the bookstore, and the smaller of the two has about 450 pages. Because, of course, the textbook pages hold more words than the little paperback pages.

Apparently, willing a classic novel to "be fewer pages" doesn't work. I have got to figure out a way to add Jane Eyre to my Google Reader.

Maybe He's Busy Watching The Food Network Like Me

My mom sent me a text message this morning, reminding me to "Save The Date". She's graduating in June with her bachelor's degree in Bible and Theology, and wants me to attend the ceremony in Des Moines. Can you feel my excitement level skyrocket? No? That's because it didn't skyrocket, it actually dipped down below the "practically no pulse at all" level instead.

After graduation, she plans to get a "license to minister". Which...huh? I thought anybody could just...open a church and start stealing from people. Is that not how it works? Is there some kind of government regulation for curch leadership that I'm not aware of? And if so, how do they pay for the government oversight? Not with church taxes, I know that for damn sure.

Then my mom started texting about the big ice storm they had down in Arkansas this week, how it's the worst one she's seen in the 20 years she's been living there, and how they're on the third day of cancelled school (for my brother) and cancelled work (for her). She hasn't been able to accomplish anything because the power is out. Still. Even though the storm happened a couple days ago. She told me that she's praying for the electricity to come back on so they don't lose all the perishable food and so that they can take showers and flush the toilet again.

Now...see, here's where my brain takes a violent detour from any path that might promote a belief in a higher power. Because of things like this, I'm totally unable to suspend my disbelief in the supernatural for even just one minute.

Hey, mom? Don't you think maybe it would have made more sense to pray for better weather, like, three days ago? You know, since god is in charge of all that stuff (hence the comment you made about how global warming is phooey), couldn't he sort of prevent the giant, nation-wide ice storm from starting in the first place? Might he have taken it upon himself to prevent all those people from dying in car crashes and freezing to death because of the storm?

Don't you think that praying for the electricity to come back on is sort of MISSING THE BOAT so far as prayers go? I mean, god didn't give a fuck about your perishable food two days ago when he sent 3 inches of frozen death your way. What makes you think he gives a flying fuck about it today?

Also, if it turns out that I'm wrong and god is totally real and listening to you, and your prayers are answered after all, perhaps you should submit some sort of pre-prayer; a Blanket Prayer Request, if you will, that covers all future calamity and misfortune. God might need a heads up that next week you'd prefer not to lose your best friend to domestic violence or that in another 6 months, you'd really rather not lose one of your students to leukemia.

It's really only fair. God's no fucking mind reader. Wait...

This Is Classic Catherine

It turns out the financial aid office made a clerical error, which they fixed in a matter of seconds this morning. It took longer for me to explain my question than it took for them to reinstate my student loan disbursement. So I could have spared myself a panic attack, a sleepless night, AND a case of Jim Beam had I just though to myself, "Self? I shouldn't be talking to you anymore, our therapist is going to be pissed, but in the mean time, perhaps you should chill the fuck out for a second?"

Last night, poor Gray walked in the door from work just as I finished reading the letter about how my financial aid was cancelled and the world was coming to a fiery end and how Jesus loves the little children of the world EXCEPT FOR ME. His reaction to the bad news proves he's the man of my dreams: He went to the fridge and brought me a beer and said, "Here, drink this."

Back off, he's mine.

I emailed my Jill the good news and said that maybe next time a problem presents itself, that I should remain calm and collected and wait to see what happens before I start writing my suicide note. And then she proved that she's the BFF for me with her reaction: "If you didn't freak out about things I would think something was seriously wrong," like maybe that I was abusing Rx drugs.

So Gray feeds me drugs and Michelle lets me know when I've got a problem with them. It's really the perfect scenario.

And now, some photos of places I'd rather be right now:

Duluth, MN

Seward, AK

Grand Marais, MN (or anywhere with beaver flicks)((or beavers))

Custer State Park, SD

Birchwood, WI (or anywhere I wouldn't die wearing a bathing suit)

Kicking, With Screaming to Follow

Yes, I survived the dreaded dreds. It actually turned out to be a really interesting class and time passed by quickly and I learned shit and I felt special, warm fuzzies not included.

Unfortunately for me, I happened to mention tthis afternoon, to a down-and-out friend, that the only thing one must do, in order for one to acquire new blog fodder, is to complain about having nothing to blog about.

Then I further tempted The Universe by thinking to myself that despite my recent bout of "seasonal affective disorder" (self-diagnosed, naturally), everything in my life is really going along pretty damn well, and I'm not doing too shabby if I do say so myself.

Then I got home and checked the mail. It's a compulsion, what can I say?

In the mail was a letter from my student loan financier that told me they cancelled my spring disbursement of financial aid. So I called them, and they told me that the school was responsible for cancelling the disbursement and they have no information as to WHY THE FUCK the school may have done such a thing.

And of course the school is now closed until tomorrow morning.

So when you hear from me tomorrow, you will be hearing from a raving, sleepless lunatic who probably just turned in my analysis of the "scientific ethics" as presented in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, even though I'm not technically a student now that they cancelled my financial aid and dropped me from the class.

I have officially assumed the fetal position, and am actively pursuing a new career in the field of thumb sucking.

I Could Call It "Dreds of Death", But That Seems Too Obvious

In case you didn't hear me shrieking with glee, or in case you DID hear me shrieking and you were worried I may have slammed my hand in a car door, I thought I'd let you know that I was shrieking with glee because Schmutzie got super high, ate and entire package of pizza rolls, and then decided to feature me on Five Star Friday last week!

I know, can't you just die happy now?

So, after Jesus, I suppose I should thank Heinous again for his prompt that started my now-famous post. Well, maybe not famous so much as...infamous. Or, you know, completely forgotten about already. But whatever, I'm just super excited to have been stuck in a list with all those other great bloggers. It's much better than the time I got stuck in a list with all those felons. They liked to goose me.

Anyway, you'll notice I didn't post over the weekend. Yeah, that's my new thing now, you like it?
I spent all weekend jacking around on Landers, although I did get a lot of homework done yesterday. Tonight is the much anticipated return to my Imaginitive Writing class with Mr. MLK Jr. McTardy Pants. I am scared to death, and not sure exactly what I'm scared OF. That the professor's giant dred locks will come to life and strangle me? (Hmmm maybe there's a story in that premise...) That I'll be marked tardy AGAIN this time because my school is in some kind of alternate universe where no matter what time leave work, I will always arrive at 7:15 and have to walk into the workshop late and flustered?

My plan is to head over there straight after work and re-read the assignments and prepare for death, you know, just in case those stinky hair balls really do come after me tonight. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, contact Inspector Vidal Sassoon poste haste!



PS - My creative non-fiction piece is coming along, coming slowly along - I will post it here as soon as I have my rough draft finished. It's just that I'm writing it about - what else? - the baby because there's no other event in my mind that even remotely resembles "life-changing" at the moment, and I'm kind of stuck on a few parts that I must have blocked out of my memory already (or maybe that was the vicoden), so I'm having to rehash a lot of non-happy feelings, and then everyone I know is pregnant or just had a baby or just got engaged (non-related, I realize) so I'm all blinded by gigantic belly buttons and plotting more kidnappings, and it's really cutting into my productive writing time, you know?

Help, I've Fallen Onto YouTube and I Don't Wanna Stop Humping It's Leg

My laptop FINALLY arrived last night. I named it Landers, and I made out with it and gave it a makeover. Then I did what any self-respecting woman would do, and I watched 200 versions of "Single Ladies" on YouTube until it was more than 2 hours past my sleepy time. And then I dreamed about Beyonce's thighs. And a little bit about that gay guy in the leotard.

This week, Myshka opened my eyes to the wonders that are European condom commercials. I thought to myself, "NOW I can die happy, with Landers in my lap and smut at my fingertips."

And then I saw this commercial, which just proves there is a god:

I'm so glad Jesus set me free...to sing about fucking you in the asshole for all eternity. This is the best week ever.

Apparently There Was More

If you were not sickened by the precursor, and would like to be sickened by the precursor, knock yourself out.

***

Jonesy considered himself a good tipper.

Excellent service (rare these days) he rewarded with fifteen, sometimes twenty percent of the tab. Though for the waitresses who went above and beyond he occasionally wanted to leave more, he felt it was unwise to draw more attention to himself than was necessary. Often, the restaurants he dined in doubled as his hunting grounds, and he felt it prudent to blend in whenever possible. For mediocre and poor service, he always left a flat ten percent. Even when his waitress was a total fuck up, he left a tip. He couldn't bring himself to walk away and leave them empty handed. It wasn't his style.

Today, he left a fifteen percent tip. She had been decent so far as waitresses go: his meatloaf had arrived in a timely fashion and his coffee cup never ran dry. He'd have to remember her name for next time. It was Carla, if her name tag could be believed. He figured it could.

Jonesy didn't use the bathroom before he left the restaurant. He didn't trust public bathrooms, would rather shit in his hand and bury it personally in his back yard before shitting in a room with other men. But today, he didn't have to shit. He left without using the bathroom because he was hunting.

The girl was probably 7, he thought. Too young, much too young to be out on her own. It was a school day, to boot. She was pushing a bicycle, blue and white, it's front tire flat, and was walking towards the intersection of Hennepin and Lake. Away from the school, he noted. Interesting.

She was plump, but not obese, brown hair, ponytail, white sneakers. But what had caught his attention through the window as he sat digesting his lunch, was her backpack. Funny how something so trivial, like a parent's choice of backpack, could change a person's life. Sometimes he felt like God that way, taking note of the minutia and acting accordingly.

Her backpack was dark purple, Jansport, with black straps and zippers. When Jonesy looked up from his coffee and saw that backpack on a little girl with brown hair, he knew he'd found a new toy.

He noted her proximity to the intersection as he stepped out the restaurant doors and into the bright sunlight. Sunglasses lowered, he walked towards his car in the parking lot. He just happened to have an air pump in his trunk. He thought that it might come in handy today.

This Is Like the Brown Water After a Hydrant Flush

Bear with me, I realize this is neither exceptionally intriguing nor particularly skilled work here. I'm just trying to do the old "pump and dump" with my brain, although instead of liquor from breast milk, it's dead baby from imaginative cogs, but still...it's the same basic principal. This goes nowhere and tells nothing, but it's my way of straining the lumps out of whatever creative juices I may have sloshing around in my head.

My thanks to Mr. Heinous St. James for the prompt (the first italicised paragraph)((yes, please blame him for this entire post)). I know it's painful to read, but this is better than nothing. Right? Anybody?

***

Jim: Jonesy was bored. Really fucking bored. He made an anagram of it: RFB. The body at his feet twitched. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing. Boredom washed back over him.

***


His neck itched, but he didn't bother reaching up to scratch at it. He was wearing a turtleneck, so it was inevitable that his neck would itch. It felt like he was being strangled, in fact. Whoever it was that decided turtlenecks were a good idea should be shot, he thought.

That reminded him of the girl on the floor, and he kicked her body again, just for shits. She moved, but only from the impact of his boot in her ribs. So very boring.

This part was always the biggest let down. He should be taking pleasure in a job well done, but instead he was sitting here wishing he’d saved her just a little bit longer. His erection was long gone, and now he was RFB.

Jonesy was like a cat: he liked to play with his toys while they still lived, liked to chase and torment them and see the fear in their eyes. Once they were dead, it was like the batteries had been removed from the toy, and they ceased to amuse him.

That's why he had to keep doing this over and over again; it was entirely out of his hands. He got no lasting pleasure from this dead girl, or any of those before her. There was no thrill for him in the finality of her death; it was her suffering that turned him on.

He wished he could keep just one girl forever, suspended in that razor thin place, always on the brink of death but never falling over its edge.

What Jonesy wanted was a modern-day Frankenstein, a girl who could be endlessly tormented.

What he had was this pile of dead girl.

He tried to focus, like he learned in yoga. He stared down at the girl's hand and really concentrated on remembering the details: the chipped, red polish; the milky skin, faintly blue now; the cut that ran from the tip of her middle finger down to where her thumb branched off; the stump where her pinkie had been. But nothing about these details of her hand excited him. There was no life here. His toy was dead.

He kicked her again, this time in the throat, before standing.

Time for dinner, he thought. He was hungry: RFH. Yes, he was definitely in the mood for some meatloaf.

Purrrrrrrrrgatory

I want a cat.

Let me rephrase that: I want to cuddle something cute and soft, and we're not allowed to have dogs in the building, so I want a cat.

Which is possibly the worst idea I've ever had, and that's saying something because I've had a disproportionate number bad ideas in my lifetime (please refer to my ill-advised marriage, my very butch hair cut in high school, and the time I turned our kitchen floor into an "ice skating rink" by smearing the linoleum with congealed bacon grease)((that isn't easy to undo, by the way)).

Gray's only response is, "You don't even like cats." Which is so very true. I don't like cats. They're smelly and bitchy and they don't come when they're called. They get fur on the couch and on your clothes and, honestly, every damn thing in the house. You can't have people over who are allergic to cats. They try to sneak out the front door. They often succeed. They're smart enough to know how to evade you, but not smart enough to take a piss outdoors.

I don't want to change a litter box. Hell, I don't even have a room in which I'd feel comfortable PUTTING a litter box. Cats claw up carpet and furniture. They vomit up hairballs and piles of kitty food in the middle of the hallways for you to step in barefooted on your way to the bathroom. They must be fed and watered. They require trips to the vet and medications and grooming. We would have to pay an additional damage deposit on the apartment, and we'd have to pay an additional amount of money each month the cat lived with us.

Cats are a huge, bitchy pain in the ass.

And I want one.

Meow?

Don't Step On My Blue Suede...wait...

I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to take today off in order to work on my paper for school and get a bit of sleep, since I'm still fighting off a really disgusting mucus thing from a couple of weeks ago, and I'm coughing big lumps of shit out into my sleeve all day long. And when I'm not doing that, I'm dripping snot everywhere. But it's clear snot, so no worries.

So I put in for a day of vacation, which my boss approved, and I proceeded to sit on my ass all day long. I neither worked on my paper nor got extra sleep. I sat here and thought alternately about writing and about napping, but considering these ideas does surprisingly little in the way of getting them done.

I did get to watch the Inauguration, which was exciting for me because I love those blue stairs in the background. It was really annoying because some black guy was blocking my view of them with his big ears, but I could see around the edges pretty well. Ah, blue velvet stairs. Nothing like 'em.

So.........yeah, that's about all that's going on here with me. I'm sick and I'm lazy and I'm not writing anything worth reading. Going to go do some more of the tortured artist bullshit now.

Peace.

Completely Unrelated

Yeah, so I've got nothing. The unfortunate side effect of creative writing assignments, apparently, is that I freeze up at the knowledge that I'll be graded on this particular bit of writing, and my brain stops working and I can't write anything at all, let alone anything that would count as "passable" or "blog-able" (although, since when has that stopped me before?), so what I'm going to do is post some photos of Alaska in September. Because they're totally irrelevant, but really beautiful, and because I forgot that I'd taken them until today.


Later this weekend, I'll probably subject you all to the rough draft of my first writing assignment: a 5 page, non-fiction narrative, meant to encompass a (roughly) ten minute period of my life during which I experienced some kind of "turning point" or other, similarly huge pivotal moment. Because don't all important life changes come in nice, ten-minute sized chunks?


Fucking MLK Jr. Day, seriously.

I'm Just All Kinds of (drugged up) Fancy Over Here

I hope nobody flung themselves from a bridge yesterday when they realized I hadn't posted anything here. Because I'd really hate to be responsible for an expensive body recovery mission. Although if you live around here, where the air temperature hasn't been above zero degrees since Monday, you would have just landed on ice below the bridge, and all they would have to do is send one of those rescue dogs out on the ice to drag you back to shore (preferably the kind of rescue dog that is trained not to eat dead animals, because that's what you'd be). In which case, I hope I'm listed as your "next of kin" so I can come and look at you in the morgue. I've never seen a dead person before! Ok, that's not really true. But I've never seen a dead person who died from flinging themselves off a bridge because I didn't post to my blog yesterday. I imagine it would be a humbling experience. Humbling and inspirational.

I'm following too many blogs. Seriously. There are 196 new posts in my Google Reader since yesterday. YESTERDAY! This isn't going to work. I'm going to have to break up with some of you. I'm in school now. I have actual reading assignments that don't involve you people. I tried to convince the Dean that because I'm a famous blogger with 55 (!!) followers, and because I read so many other blogs on a daily basis, that technically I've fulfilled all the requirements for my English degree, and I shouldn't have to take any additional courses. They should just give me the diploma. Don't you think?


I guess he didn't agree. Something about "academic standards" and "living in reality", I don't know, he kept using all these fancy terms I didn't understand so I kind of tuned him out after a while. I'm pretty sure he was just making up stuff to intimidate me (NO WAY is "unconscionable" real word), which I think is really fucking unprofessional behavior for someone in his position at a university. Not only is he refusing to grant me a diploma for all of my hard work and determination during my first class of the semester, but he's also discriminating against me because I'm a blogger, and I intend to take it up with Al Sharpton as soon as I lose my "sexy black lady/heavy smoker" voice.

At first, I really appreciated all of your comments about my Really Fucking Bad Day. (Except for you, Kel. If I wanted to hear that kind of "be grateful for what you have" crap, I'd go to church. Shut up and go back to the beach.)

But then I realized that if you guys had actually wanted to make me feel better, you would have done what Sheri from Sheri's World did, which is give me TWO awards on your blog, which is almost as good as getting a check in the mail. Except not quite as good because there's no money for me. But thanks anyways, Sheri. It's the thought that counts. And yes, I'm truly a beautiful butterfly, thank you for noticing.

It seems that word got around the Interweb about how fantastic I am, because then I got a comment from Teri (rhymes with Sheri - coincidence? I think so) at Cold Lemonade, informing me that she was jumping on the Cat's Awesome bandwagon by awarding me the Lemonade Stand award. I'm choosing to believe that the "50 cents" on the icon has NOTHING to do with the fact that Teri thinks I'm a cheap slut. Because nobody taps this for less than $80, yo.

Then, it's like the Universe is totally apologizing for being such a raging bitch on Monday, because I got ANOTHER award from my Latin lover Petra from The Wise (*Young*) Mommy. This award is special because it's not really based on my blogging abilities, but on my abilities to please a woman in bed. I know you all are totally imagining that right now, so I'll pause a moment......................................sexy, right? I know, it's hard for me just to get ready in the morning because I want to tear my own clothes off, which is counterproductive to arriving at work on time. I've got all my mirrors covered over with sheets, and it's got nothing to do with vampires (although that's an admitted bonus).

All these awards had rules. Rules I don't wish to follow. At all. So I'm going to make my own rules, and pass these along as follows:

• To Elle Charlie from Sometimes A Girl Needs A Blog: I present to you the Lemonade Stand Award, because there's nobody who knows better how fucking sour life can be at times. But you keep on keepin' on, and the Universe awards you with funny shit like this (ok, maybe not funny now, but someday it will be - I certainly got a good chuckle out of it).
• To my Jill at Confessions of a Desperate Housewife: I present to you the You Are Truly Beautiful Award, because...that one is pretty self-explanatory. I haven't seen your boobs in a while, but I'm guessing they're just at hott as ever they were. Also, think of how gorgeous you'll be after you're done with smoking!
• To Anndi at Anndi's Transition: I present to you the Honest Scrap Award because you don't hold back. You're on this rad journey, and you're taking us all with you.
• To Bobbie at Welcome to Bobbieland: I present to you the Butterfly Award because...well, it's the last one left, and I figured I'd better give you something so I didn't have to hear you whine about how nobody loves you and nobody comments on your blog. Seriously? Coming from the Queen of Attention Whores? You're a total slut. That's why I love you.

I know that almost none of that made any sense, but hopefully you'll go check out these docious blogs anyways. It's not their fault I'm all doped up on Sudafed (still) and talking to the giant green man in the corner of my office.

Is It Just Me? Or Was It a Bad Day?

Maybe what I consider a "bad day", other people are shrugging off as normal. Average. Not so bad, quit whining you whiny little whiner. This is really the only explanation I can come up with for why I have such bad luck and such bad timing and such really fucking bad days. I put good karma out there in the world. I over tip. I smile and say hello. I hold open doors. I let cars in front of me in parking lots. I go out of my way to be helpful to people at work. I always say please and thank you. I bought those re-usable Trader Joe's bags for grocery shopping. I never remember to take them into the store, but still...it SHOULD be the thought that counts, right?

So why is it that I keep having the Ultimate Days from Hell? Repeatedly. Is it really not enough that my fetus died 3 months ago? Do I REALLY need this shit on a regular basis? Am I being taught some kind of horrible lesson about how life sucks and then you die? Because I kind of already know that. I'm an accountant.

Yesterday morning, I woke up around 4:15 and was unable to return to slumber due to a Killer Kombo of menstrual cramps and giant tonsils. My throat inexplicably felt like I'd swallowed glass, and I wanted to scrape my fucking uterus with my damn fingernails just to get it all over with already, jesus christ that shit hurts. (I should mention, I'm still getting used to having a period, as for the previous 8 years I've been a suppressor. Now I remember why.)

So I'm laying there in pain, cursing my alarm clock as it advanced slowly but purposefully toward the Dreaded Time when it would alert me to the fact that I have work to do! Get up! For a moment, I nearly dozed off....

.....MOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOW....

Fire alarms. At 5:00 a.m. Loud ones. We rolled out of bed and I stuck my head into the apartment hallway (forgetting to test the door knob for heat and stuff) to check it out. Nothing. Nobody standing in the hallway, no smoke, no fire. Just loud, loud alarms. Definitely too loud to sleep through, and most definitely too loud to watch television. Loud, loud alarms.

For 30 minutes.

Eventually, the firemen cleared the building (they never checked MY apartment, what if I'd been on fire in there?) and they shut off the alarms. Gray went back to bed. Bastard. I got in the shower and headed to work.

In the car on the way to work, I happened to catch the weather report. It informed me that there would be snow. Several inches of it. Followed by several days with highs below zero. I didn't really think much of it, though. Until later in the morning, when I realized I had my first creative writing class at 6:00. In St. Paul. 32 miles away, in the snow, in rush hour traffic. FUCKITY.

During the course of the day, my tonsils continued to throb and they were joined by sneezing and yet ANOTHER new cold sore (had one last week)((thanks Dad)). Then my top lip just kind of...split, presumably from the cold, dry air. Because my bleeding hands aren't enough torture.

At 3:00, I checked the university's website for any class cancellations: there were none. Many area schools were closed, but none of the colleges. That was ok! I was EXCITED to go to creative writing. I was looking forward to a class for the first time! I didn't want class to be cancelled! I wanted to go! Write!!

So I headed out at 4:00 for St. Paul. The roads were just this side of passable. There wasn't even really that much new snow - maybe 4 inches - but it was still sloppy and extremely slippery. There was bumper-to-bumper traffic during a time of day which wouldn't normally see any traffic at all.

But it was all good! I had snacks! I was prepared! I could let the stress of driving across two metros roll right off my back because I! Was! Ready! and I figured that since I expected it to be a slow drive, that I'd just...chill. Listen to the radio. Get pumped up about class.

I'm not sure that my speed ever exceeded 5mph during the first 90 minutes of the drive. I literally rolled my way from Shakopee to St. Louis Park. And then, for a moment on highway 394, it looked like the traffic had cleared! I was driving 25 miles an hour! I was practically at warp speed! I was going to make it to class no more than 10 minutes late!

Then, out of nowhere, back to 5mph. I rolled all the way to St. Paul. And got to class at 7:15. THAT'S RIGHT. It took me OVER THREE HOURS to drive 32.17 miles.

Which meant I was exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes late to class. My professor? NOT COOL about it. I got marked as "tardy" like a little fucking kid. It was mortifying. Never mind that two people showed up after me, we were all delinquent little tardy fuckers. I'm pretty sure this professor gets around by flying on his magic fart dust, because he had no concept of weather and traffic and road conditions. Wasn't his fault it took me 3 hours to get to class, I should have left work early, apparently.

The best part? He cancelled class for NEXT Monday. Because of Martin Luther King Jr Day. Because THAT? Is an emergency worth cancelling class over. We NEVER SAW IT COMING, that holiday. We don't know WHAT hit us, but we certainly can't be expected to make it to class that day. It's MLK Jr. Day.

And I'm sure I'll be able to report that next Monday, when I don't have to drive to St. Paul, it will be 32 degrees and sunny. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it.

And so I ask of you: Is it me? Am I just a negative person or something? Am I failing to see the Sunny Side of the Street here? Am I overlooking all of the silver linings that are lavishly bestowed upon my sickly, exhausted self?

Let me make a list of all the things that went right yesterday, and focus on those:

• It could have been worse. The building could have been on fire. I would have lost ALL of my porn and I had 6 beers in the fridge. So those fire alarms, they were a blessing in disguise
• I could have died in a snow-related car crash. And I didn't.

That's pretty much all I can come up with. Which means that I just need to learn that any day in which I do not lose everything I own in an apartment fire or die in a violent traffic accident is a FUCKING FANTASTIC DAY.

Clearly, I've been expecting too much. It must be that whole American entitlement thing.

I've Got Answers (To Questions You Didn't Ask)

The chemical smell I mentioned yesterday? Well, I Googled it because I was afraid that my body is so intrinsically and violently opposed to exercise that it was attempting to deter me from running by giving me olfactory hallucinations. Turns out that I'm not crazy after all. I know, I'm just as surprised as you are.

The chemical smell? It's ammonia. This sports guy named Dr. Lewis G. Maharam gives the low-down on ammonia sweat. It's fascinating, and by "fascinating", I mean that it's disgusting BUT! It does explain my chemical odor issue. Isn't there a band called My Chemical Odor? Something like that anyway. I bet they're emo. Or scientists.

Now, Dr. Maharam says that the cause of the ammonia sweat is my body having to break down amino acids for energy because I don't have enough carbs in my system. Which? HA HA HA! That's the best laugh I've had all week. Clearly, this man has never been to my house. He hasn't seen the entire kitchen cabinet devoted to noodles. He has never witnessed my passionate love affair with rice. He doesn't want to begin to imagine what I do with Italian bread loaves.

Trust me: I am not carbohydrate deficient.

Except that I smell like ammonia, so I must be. My other weapon against the odor is drinking more water, so that my kidneys can dispose of the nitrogen in my pee pee instead of squirting it out of my pores. And if worse comes to worst, I can always just kind of smear myself all over the counter when I get home. I will double as a love machine and a household cleanser. How green would I be!?

So...aren't you glad I cleared up that little mystery for you all? You're welcome. Go have that breakfast now that you're good and repulsed.

And Now I Remember Why I Quit Running

I completely blocked this little gem out of my memory, but as it's slowly taking back over my life, I've had one of those deja vu, holy shit that's right I totally remember this happening last time! epiphanies. Didn't I once hear that exercising gives you increased energy? Didn't someone tell me that once, oh, like the surgeon general (which, is anyone else freaked out by that title? Is he some kind of military guy who walks around with a scalpel and demands that the American public do as he says, or he'll cut us like commies?) or my health teacher, or every single magazine article ever written for women?

Yeah, I don't know what the hell they're talking about because running makes me MORE tired. Like, fall asleep on the couch at 7:30 on a Saturday night and sleep until 10:00 a.m. the next morning, and still feel like I've been hit by a bus. That kind of tired. I seem to recall now that part of the reason I quit running last spring was because any time my friends would call to see if I wanted to hang, I'd be asleep. Any time Gray and I had a romantic night in planned, I'd be asleep LONG before any romance might occur. When I'm running regularly, it's like the Sand Man drops by at 6:45 and starts pouring his mojo into my eyes until I'm completely unable to hold them open for a moment longer. As if my normal bed time of 9:00 isn't fucking early enough as it is.

Any of you runners out there know how to combat the fatigue? Or is my body the only one that reacts this way to regular exercise? Are the rest of you all out there hopping around like wind-up toys on crack? WHAT DO I DO? I don't want to sleep my life away, I really don't.

Also...a strange phenomenon I've experienced twice now after a run: the very strong smell of chemicals, seeming stuffed UP my nose, where I can't escape from it. The first time it happened, I was all the way home from the track and in the shower trying to get the sweat off before it results in even more backne explosions. I was nearly bowled over by this really strong CHEMICAL smell, like what I might imagine chloroform might smell like, and I was panicked that maybe I'd sprayed down the tub with skin-eroding bleach cleaners and just forgotten to wash them off before getting in the shower. But I hadn't, and after a few minutes, the smell went away.

Yesterday, I got the chemical smell in my nose DURING my cool-down laps at the track. That's when I realized it must somehow be associated with the running. So now I'm certain that Baby Jesus doesn't want me to have a smokin' hot body for summer, and he's trying to kill me by smothering me with chemicals. He'd never get caught, he's invisible. He sent the Holy Ghost to off me.

So. You runners out there: Any idea what I'm going through here? Or should I just go consult my shrink directly?

Just When You Imagined You'd Seen The Breadth of My Lameness

Petra at The Wise (*Young*) Mommy came over to my house yesterday and we totally made out on the couch in my basement until my parents come home early and started screaming something about hell and how were are both going there in some sort of basket. We tried to make it look like we'd only been playing Donkey Kong the whole time, but I think her lipstick on my ear may have been visible even in the candle light. So they called her mother to pick her up and sent me to my room to think about what I'd done. Then later, Petra snuck out of her house and was throwing little pebbles at my window, and then she serenaded me with her accordion (did you forget she plays the accordion?) and then she told me she'd wait for me forever, and then she tagged me for this photo meme.

Or...well, it went something like that anyways.

I had to follow some steps for this meme (which, for you lay people, means "lame version of cyber tag used when posting actual words proves difficult due to hangover or idiocy"), which was difficult for me because I was really drunk already and I kept trying to juggle because I thought the second rule said to "juggle some grapefruits", but all I had were carrots (the baby kind), so it didn't work out very well. Plus, I'm a really bad juggler. But fortunately, Gray pointed out that the second rule actually says, "Go to your 6th file", so I had to start the whole thing over.

1. Go to your documents
2. Go to your 6th file
3. Go to your 6th picture
4. Blog about it
5. Tag 6 friends to do the same

Behold, the dog named Bailey, who neither belongs to me nor particularly cares for my company:

Bailey belongs to my Fairy Godparents (if you don't have a set of those, I highly suggest you pick yourself up one)((pair of them))(((or just one, I'm not biased against single Fairies))). It was just about 2 years ago now that myself, my Jill, my sister, my Fairy Godmother, and another friend NeeNee...well, we nearly killed poor Bailey in what would have been a tragic boating accident. Fortunately for me, she didn't die and it really turned into a pretty funny story, so long as you have no scruples or love of animals. Or so long as you're drunk.

It was about a month before I was to marry my now ex-husband. We were at the Fairy Godmother's beautiful lake home in western Wisconsin for my "bachelorette" party. There may have been alcohol involved. We were on a deck boat, cruising around Balsam Lake with Bailey on board. Bailey was recovering from both knee and hip surgery, if memory serves. She was taking it kinda easy, as opposed to the rest of us who may or may not have been topless.

Our friend NeeNee was driving the boat, and she decided to stop the boat without any kind of...I don't know...slowing down process. She just kind of turned the thing off, and we all went flying into each other.

Bailey flew right off the front of the boat, which then ran her over. Her, and her poor, gimpy legs. I believe there may have been some panicking until we saw her surface behind the boat and begin paddling to us. And there was no red water or floating doggy parts behind her. Apparently NeeNee got the motor turned off in the knick of time. (Bailey was was all, "Yeah you bitches, this is GREAT because my fucking legs hurt and I just had my fur done, but whatever, don't worry about me, it's my own damned fault for getting on this death trap with a bunch of drunken buffoons.")

For some reason, I think she blames ME for her near-death experience, even though I wasn't driving the boat (or even aware that I was still ON the boat). It was my party (funeral) after all. To this day, when I visit my Fairy Godparents, Bailey flips me off and calls me a whore, which of course is why I heart her. Plus, who doesn't love talking dogs?

Oh, and YOU THERE! You're tagged. Yes, you. I know it's Friday, I'm sorry to impose this upon you before the weekend, but it can't be helped. Don't try to sneak away, I know you saw this. You're tagged and there's nothing you can do about it.

Gray is Old and I Think it's Awesome

Happy Happy Birthday to my LOML, my Lobsta, my WWE Wanna-Be, my evil side kick. Here's hoping it's the funnest fucking birthday you've ever had in all of your 33 years on this earth, and all the eons before that you spent in the sweltering heat of the earth's core and poking sinners in the ass with your pitchfork.

33 Things that Make You the Best Non-husband I've never married:

1) You never censor what I write on this blog (like that you clogged the toilet AGAIN this week, and the only reason you were busted as the culprit was because you left a little evidence behind: your WWE game play book((because the game itself isn't nerdy enough)) or what I can tell my friends and family about you (like the infamous "hung like a mammoth" text).

2) My dad likes you. Heck, my whole FAMILY likes you. In fact, you were so close with my sister for a couple years that I was vocally rooting for you two crazy kids to get together because I knew what a great man you were, and I knew what gigantic losers she usually dates. In hindsight, am so totally glad you never hooked up with her because that would have made it kinda skeevy for you and I to date. I share many things with my siblings, but sex partners will never be one of them.

3) You love our baby niece Angel Butt as much as I do, maybe even more sometimes. You came to the hospital when she was born and you held her before even her own bio-father held her. You willingly learned to change diapers (and then would call me in to do an "inspection", holding her up in the air). You wanted to feed her. You realized that clucking your tongue would provide hours of amusement for both of you. In fact, I love you for being amused by many of the same things that entertain her. It's sexy when you play with blocks, I'm just saying.

4) Your love of music.

5) Your love of movies. I'll forgive you for making me watch My Bloody Valentine in 3D and the Friday the 13th remake, but only because you wanted to watch Lars and the Real Girl the other night, and you handed me a tissue at exactly the right moment.

6) Your devotion to your family. There's nothing you wouldn't do for your mom. I like to think we'll move to new and exciting places someday, but I know there's probably no chance of you leaving Minnesota so long as your mom is kicking around, and that's ok.

7) You make the bed every single day, which is sort of baffling to me because your dirty clothes end up in a pile on the floor and your dishes go into the sink (regardless of dishwasher status), but that bed, boy - you'll be damned if it's not made before you leave for work. It's quirky and I love it.

8) Your little Chiclet teeth.

9) Your (nearly inverted) chin.

10) The fact that I can braid your ear hair from time to time when it hasn't been trimmed in a while.

11) That you always get your hair cut when you think it's getting too long for MY liking.

12) That you don't take shit from anybody, ever. Unless they're joking. In which case, you can dish it back out pretty damn well.

13) You're honest and dependable and honorable. You'll admit when you've made a mistake, you'll apologize whenever it's necessary, you'll ask for help when you need it. You're always where you say you'll be. You never leave me hanging.

14) You like man-stuff, but you're not obsessed with it.

15) You don't play golf. I can't stress enough how important this is to me.

16) You're funny and goofy and a total blast to hang out with, regardless of the company or what we're doing at the time. I have just as much fun with you on a long drive as I do when we're on an adventure together.

17) You haven't lost the childish exuberance for life. Remember the Como Zoo? How you wanted more than anything to show me those little wax mold animals because you used to get them as a kid, and I'd never heard of them before? You made sure we found all of the machines in each of the animal houses, and we took them all home. Just...because you still think they're fun.

18) You're an amazing communicator and you realize how important it is to talk to me.

19) Every milestone, anniversary, birthday, holiday - you make a big deal out of them, you make them special regardless of how we celebrate.

20) You almost never fart on my feet. I forgive you for Tuesday's slip up.

21) You love holding hands. You know not to hold my hand when yours is clammy.

22) You're almost always the designated driver when we go out. You say you've had more years to party and that you like letting me have a few drinks. I think my therapist would call you an enabler, but I call you my personal limo service.

23) If it's important to me (your mother, your family, your friends) you're 100% down with it.

24) You got all your wild oats sewn and all your stupid stunts and experimentation done BEFORE I met you. I've never had to babysit, I've never had to worry, I just get to laugh at your stories about all the crazy shit you did.

25) You tell me about your father and what a great man he was and that he would have liked me. He would be so proud of the man you've become.

26) You hate seafood as much as I do.

27) You ate a green bean that one time, just to make me happy.

28) I have never felt unloved, unappreciated, like your mother, like your maid, like your chef. You never forget to thank me for anything I do around the house. And you do things, too.

29) You are still friends with MOST of your ex-girlfriends, including the one you technically were engaged to. And I've met them, and they're pretty cool. But thank you for not marrying any of them.

30) You always want to share the things that you're passionate about (Slayer, Jason Voorhees ((NERD)), fishing), and you want me to share mine with you.

31) Not one day has gone by in the last year and a half when you didn't tell me that I am beautiful, smart, funny, sexy, amazing, a "culinary genius", that you love me, that you can't wait to see me, that I look hot today, that you're the luckiest man on earth. I never have to wonder how you feel.

32) You always wash your hands after you poop.

33) No matter what, for the rest of your years on this earth, you will ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS be WAY older than me.

Happy Birthday baby, and here's to the next 33!

Clearly Not What You People Are Looking For

Google Analytics. Demonstrating daily (with graphs! charts! primary colors!) that I am most definitely not what you people are looking for. I have a very high bounce rate, and while I know that sounds like a great thing to the lay people, I can assure you that in Blog Land, a high bounce rate is not a desirable thing. We want people to pull up a chair and stay a while. Kick around our blog. Read our archives. Be inspired to lick their monitors.

Also...I'm beginning to think that either you people are the speediest of the speed readers, or you just scroll down to the comment section and mark your territory without actually reading my posts. Because the average time spent on my site is like 1 minute and 4 seconds. Now I KNOW I'm more long-winded that 1 minute 4 seconds will allow for, but I'm going to go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt because your time is being averaged with that of the people who stop by here accidentally.

People like those two dozen or so who were sent to this post by doing a Google search for "XXX". I'm pretty sure those folks were disappointed when they arrived here at my blog. Which is awesome! Because as much as I love me some porn, I feel that if you want real quality money shots (which by the way are NOT the hottest part of the flick for women, at least women I know), you have to invest a little money. Perhaps begin an at-home collection of your own. Surfing the web for porn is bound to result in viruses on your computer. Cyber STDs burn more than you might imagine.

This one has me totally stumped: "gage gift shit pills". I know I've said all four of those words here, but I don't think they go together logically as something that person was looking for.

"Shit" and "gift"? Sure, of course.

"Gift" and "pills"? Probably.

But those four together, in that sequence. I just can't imagine what that person was trying to find, nor why (when I tried it myself) it might be common enough that there are 211,000 hits on Google. Is this some kind of thing the kids are doing now? Because I'm all about trying new things involving shit. Or pills.

This one is my favorite because...well...because don't we ALL really want to know the answer to this question?

"what is katherine getting me for my birthday in bentonville that probably costs less than 100 dollars and is awesome apparently".

I can tell that person, from experience, that anything katherine may have bought you in bentonville for under $100? Came from Wal-mart.

I'm just saying, keep the receipt if you want any chance in hell of returning it.

One Fortune, Three Months Late

I almost didn't go running yesterday. I was at home. There was beer in the fridge. There was porn on the shelf. I start my spring classes tomorrow. There were things I wished to do, like laying on the couch and picking my toes, that did not involve a trip to the track. In fact, I decided I wasn't going running, and then I put on my pants and headed to the track anyway.

There was a small woman running ahead of me, and it turned out that she kept the perfect pace for me (let's pretend she wasn't a foot shorter and her stride wasn't half mine), so I was able to run a respectable distance behind her (and appreciate her little round ass) for most of my workout. After mile one, I thought I could make it another half mile before walking. After that, I decided that I could keep going until I hit two miles. My running partner (the stranger in front of me who probably didn't appreciate me riding her bumper) veered off the track for her cool down, and I decided just to run one more lap, which turned into another half a mile. Then I walked three laps, and proceeded to run an entire extra mile before cooling down. Three and a half miles last night, my friends. Not bad for one week of running.

As I ran, growing more confident with each step, I pondered the changes that have taken place in my life over the last six months or so. Gray and I decided to move closer to work. Then we decided to try for a family. We had a plan all worked out: how we would pay for the hospital, how we would finagle as much FMLA leave as possible so that we could stay home with our baby for nearly the first year of his life, how we would save for a house.

We had this plan, you see? How could anything go wrong when we had a plan, with plans we had planned out?

Still running, I remembered the fortune I got in a cookie a few weeks ago, which said, "Be prepared to modify your plan. It'll be good for you!" I don't take much stock in fortunes or astrological signs or spirituality or karma. I don't believe in anything, really, but coincidence and hard work. But as I reflected on the change of plans it predicted, I realized that it would have been appropriate about three months ago, just before we realized that our plans for a family weren't going to turn out the way we expected. But in the midst of that crushing grief, I undoubtedly would have been unreceptive to any message the little cookie strove to convey.

Now, though, three months later (a quarter of a year, a new calendar year, a day when I ran three and a half miles), perhaps I was ready to consider that message. Perhaps 2009 is a year for Catherine. A year in which I will be nobody's mother, nobody's keeper, nobody's caretaker. 2009 is for me to do all the things I never do for myself: get into the shape I've always wanted to be in, take classes that force me to stretch my writing abilities, focus on getting myself out of the lingering divorce-debt, stop smoking, get some dental work done that I've been putting off because of how much it costs, turn down invitations I have no interest in accepting, drink good wine even if it is a few more dollars for the bottle, stay up late on a night when early bed would be advised, sleep all day Sunday just for the hell of it, see if I can't find some volunteer work that makes me feel good about myself. Really focus on myself. Making myself happy in a way I've never really been able to do because of my responsibilities to other people.

There are children in my future, I have no doubt about that. But here I am, a twenty-five year-old divorcee, finally studying something I'm wildly passionate about, finally beginning to feel like I don't have to carry around the weight of the world on my shoulders. I've been given a chance to be selfish, and I think I might just take that chance and run with it. It'll be good for me.

How Not to Take Control of Your Life

Ever have one of those days that starts out GREAT and then kind of declines into a downward spiral of pain, suffering and ooginess? That's what I'm having today. Some kind of Monday meltdown.

Gray is on day 5 of not smoking, and his not smoking is making ME want to smoke. Oh my hell, if he isn't a roller coaster of moods at the moment. One minute he's laughing, the next minute there's literally steam coming from his nostrils and he's visibly restraining himself from putting his fist through the wall. It's really unsettling to me, which is completely unacceptable. He's normally the calmest most go-with-the-flow human being imaginable. I'm trying to be supportive by not killing him.

That said, I had a total fucking freak out on Saturday when I purchased stamps from the ATM before making a deposit, THEN it told me that my account was overdrawn due to the stamp purchase, when if I had known that, I would have made the deposit first for FUCK'S SAKE. There was yelling and stomping and cries of, "I'm getting a second job!" and "I'm sick to death of being fucking broke all the time!" and "We're never going to get our heads above water!" It was the ultimate in melo-drama, let me assure you.

This morning, I had to call (strike one: phone usage) and make an appointment to see a dermatologist (strike two: explaining an embarrassing skin condition to a complete stranger) for my raging backne. In November, my OBGYN assured me that the backne "wasn't so bad", and that it was likely a result of my hormones going haywire. My body thought it was pregnant, then when we went in to remove all the shit that isn't necessary to have when the actual BABY isn't in there anymore, and all of a sudden I went from Pregnant to Vacuumed the Fuck Out, and my hormones apparently have some kind of PTSD that manifests itself by covering the upper half of my body in the biggest, deepest, most painful fucking hell-zits I've ever imagined in my wildest nightmares. And despite body wash with salicylic acid and daily astringe-ing and all kinds of freaking attention to the hell that is my upper torso, they are getting WORSE AND BIGGER AND MEANER and I'm pretty sure the one on my shoulder flipped me off this morning.

My doc said I can either go back on the pill or I can go see a dermatologist. So I'm trying the route less likely to land my ass in a padded room, at least for now.

On top of the fact that I can't look in a mirror without vomiting in my mouth a little bit (or fighting the urge to play Connect Four on my boobs), is the other fact that I've gained about 7lbs in the aftermath of the holiday season, compounded by my smoking cessation, and a hunger that has increased since I started running again. Technically, running should help me get into better shape, but so far has done nothing but hurt my legs and give me extra time to listen to The Smiths on my Ipod and feel sorry for myself.

Wah. Wah wah wah. Who needs kids when I'm the biggest baby around?

On the upside, I did start clearing out the spare bedroom to make room for...not exactly sure what I'll do with it, only that I'm hanging a dart board (which is funny because I hate darts). I also realized that clearing out one room multiplies itself into a project requiring the organization of that room plus two additional closets.

At least my screwdrivers are in length-order now. That should help me sleep at night.

Guess What? Answer

When I started reading Meredith's comment, I was like, "TAKE THAT! I stumped you!"

But then I realized that she actually guessed lava lamp, which is a pretty damn lucky guess if you ask me, considering it WAS a picture of my lava lamp. I think Meredith is some sort of visual genius - I bet I could take a photo of any random internal organ, and zoom it in real close, and Meredith would be all, "That's the second inch of a large intestine, probably a middle aged male, smoker." And then I'd give her the Nobel Prize for visual genius. The only problem with this scenario is that I'd have to dig through my freezer, find a tricky organ, and then thaw it out. Everyone knows spleens are mushy after they've been thawed.

I went through a week-long phase when I was fascinated with the lava lamp, and took all kind of photos trying to capture its fluid, graceful movements. The bubbles! It was as if they were alive! How did it work? Can I get a GIANT lava lamp?

I wasn't even high during this period of time. It was winter. Which is almost the same thing.

Guess What?

This is probably just as obvious as all the others, and Meredith is probably going to hop in here and blurt out the answer in, like, 5 seconds. But I'm not going to let my simple mindedness keep me down! I'm posting this Guess What! If it's the last thing I do! (No, seriously - having some stabbing gas pains this morning, they might kill me, so this might be the last thing I ever do. In which case, I'm sorry Dad.)

So Guess What?

Shout Out for My Jill

Michelle at Confessions of a Desperate Housewife made a big bloggy boo boo (B.B.B.B.)((B4)). She tried to change her URL, thereby losing her blogroll and confusing her followers. I fucking love when other people do stupid things. It helps me feel like I'm really a part of something, you know?

Read all about it here. And then go follow her. Or baby Jesus will die. It's totally your call.

The Trouble With Being Proactive

About 30 minutes ago, I had a realization coupled with a brief flash of panic: My classes start on January 7th and I haven't ordered my textbooks yet. EGAD! I did the same thing in August for my fall semester classes - totally spaced that I have to have actual books, and that these books don't appear on my coffee table as if by magic, and that I must go in search of the books IMMEDIATELY or start off the semester as "that girl" who isn't prepared for class, which really isn't that big of a deal (unless you're crazy like me and require the undying love and approval of everyone on earth, especially the people who determine my grades).



So just now, I logged onto a series of elaborate websites associated with my university and it's bookstore and their web order company (of course I had to reset my password because I couldn't possibly be expected to remember something I set up 5 months ago and only used once), I searched my spring courses for which texts I needed (of course none of them were available used, of course they weren't), I swallowed the giant lump in my throat (cheapness) and clicked "purchase".


Then I checked my yahoo email account and saw this offer from Barnes & Noble:

Of course. It's just like me to get free shipping offers immediately after paying shipping. I'd hate to break stride on this point, I'd really rather continue on missing opportunities to save money on items I'd rather not pay for in the first place. I find comfort in routines.

Popping My Spin Cycle Cherry

Is it going to hurt? This Spin Cycle? IT'S A BIG BLOGGY DEAL folks. All the "real" bloggers are doing it. I want to be like them when I grow up. That's why I dig through their garbage cans and steal their panties. It's all about showing my respect for their blogs. The restraining orders are so unnecessary.

To be fair, I planned to do a post about my goals for 2009 anyway (notice I don't use the word "resolutions", because if there's one thing I'm not, it's resolved). Then I saw Petra's post and I was like, "FINALLY! I can get my toe in the door! The new visitors to my blog, they will be many! I might even get my first troll! THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!" And then Gray looked up at me and asked what the hell I was talking about and gave himself the sign of the cross. And he's not even Catholic. He predicted some time ago that I'd have 40 followers by the end of the year, and I'm sad to say that he was 3 people wrong. And I blame you, lurkers. It's all your fault. It's got nothing to do with my cop-out photo posts and my flagrant disregard for the commonly accepted measures of public decency. It's because you read but don't follow. Bastards.

So here you go, you mooching fools: My Goals for 2009

• First and foremost, I am going to do SOMETHING with our barren, baby-less second bedroom. We moved twice in 3 months to get that extra bedroom - the bedroom that sits empty save for some boxes of garage sale baby toys and maternity clothes. Uh-uh, that's it. I'm done with preserving the shrine to Gage - that room costs us $80 a month buster, I love you and all, but Mama's putting up the damn dart board already. If anyone has a futon for sale, lemme know!

• I know I did this last year, too, but I am going to quit smoking. For reals. STOP LAUGHING! I swear. Last New Year's Day, I quit cold turkey and made it 6 months. Then in June, my baby sister stumbled upon the dead body of someone she loved very much, and I rushed to her side to...I don't fucking know what I thought I was going to do, I just knew I needed to be there immediately...and I started smoking again right then and there. My mom was here visiting from Arkansas - She's the Queen of the Anti-Cigarette Coalition - and didn't batt an eyelash when she saw me light up that day. So I think I was justified. Then I quit again in August when I got knocked up, then I started again in October when I lost the baby...and here we are back to January already. I'm hitting the "reset" button on my lungs. Seriously. (so long as I don't get drunk enough to forget that I quit.)((so basically until next weekend.))

• In my former life, I was renown for my greeting card-sending skills. They were mad, my skills. Everyone in the family and all of our friends could expect to receive cards for their birthday, anniversary, big occasions such as births or funerals, thank you's for everything imaginable, and holidays. I took great pride in remembering my ex's second cousin's husband's birthday, although I'd never met him before and probably never would. In fact, I'm sure many of those distant relatives found it very odd indeed that I had their home address. Some of them may have changed the locks on their doors. I also wrote a quarterly newsletter that I so cleverly named The Campbell Quarterly (freaking genius, huh?) and sent that out to keep the family abreast of our lives, our dogs, our jobs, etc. When my ex and I split, I sort of boycotted the whole greeting card thing, and I've been really bad about it every since. This weekend, I'm dusting off my old address book, burning all the pages with my ex's family, and I'm starting anew. I've already sent out Thank You's for Christmas and a birthday card to my grandpa Gus. (Yes, his actual name is Gus. Cutest damn thing I've ever heard.)

• Running. I'm going to keep doing it. Honest. In fact, I was ::this:: close to skipping the indoor track yesterday after work - it was a holiday! I had food to gather for the party! I had to find the chip'n'dip! - but I dragged myself there anyway. Unfortunately, I neglected to notice the sign on the front door of the community center which read that they were closing at 4:30 for New Year's Eve, so I was midway through my second mile when they shut.the.lights.off. Um, whoops? Guess I'd better leave now.

So. That's pretty much all I can expect out of myself in one year, as I'm really quite a lazy mo'fo, and at any given moment of the day I'd rather be laying on the couch watching Jon&Kate Plus 8. Other things I would add to the list if I thought there was any chance in hell I could manage them: writing more positive feedback letters when I receive excellent customer service (or you know, any at all), submitting a few short stories for publication (I'm laughing, too), cooking with mostly local foods (ever had local tomatoes in MN in the winter? me either), and figuring out how to drink 3 bottles of wine by myself without blacking out (or at least passing out at the same time I black out, so as to avoid the awkward, "Did we have sex last night?" conversation.)

I'm ready for a new fucking year. 2009 go ahead and BRING IT.