out to sea

So, working for the company of the chocolatey-brown trucks isn’t like working my last job, where we were silly and fun all the time, and always had music playing.

That is not to say that it is all work-work-work at the company of the chocolatey-brown trucks, only that we are also, by no means, all partay-partay-partay.

Which is just as well, because my last job thought I was a budgetary constraint.

I doubt it was because I listened to classic rock at my desk, but I can’t help but wonder.

Anyway, we attempt to remain professional at the CBTC, but sometimes we fail.

This has been one of those times.

Last night, one of my coworkers was talking about having seen a trailer or an ad for the film To-Do List, and one of the items on the main character’s list was motorboating, so my coworker took her tweenaged son to see it.

As it turns out, she was not aware that motorboating does not, it would seem, mean getting into a boat that has an outboard motor, and going out into the ocean for a ride.

It has another meaning.

One which, if I had a tweenaged son, I wouldn’t want to visit in a movie with him sitting right next to me, laughing his arse off.

Not that I would have known this, because, up until last night, I was perfectly confident that motorboating meant riding in a motorboat.

I, and my coworker with the tweenaged son, were not the only ones flummoxed by this.

I don’t believe any of my female coworkers knew the alternate meaning of motorboating.

My supervisor, also female, started to Google the alternate definition, then abruptly closed the browser window and advised the rest of us to refrain from surfing for it till we got home, to the privacy of our own firewalls.

Needless to say, we all immediately began badgering the only three males on shift, all of whom knew what motorboating was, and all of whom were blushing furiously, including the two African Americans.

They did not tell us.

But I said, “I’ll bet we all know what it is; we just don’t call it that.”

And, as it turned out, one of us guessed correctly, and, as I had thought, I did know what it was.

And, since the Mom reads this blog, that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Except to add that, when I asked That Man of Mine if he knew what motorboating was, he did.

I demanded that he explain why he had never clued me in on this definition before, and he said it was a guy thing.


Anyway, motorboating is not on my to-do list.

But I’m adding crew-rowing, kayaking, and yachting to it, just in case those terms have alternate meanings as well.

(I rather hope crew-rowing does. I think it would be fun to call a man “coxswain.”)


drinking: ice water
listening to: Fantasia, Lose to Win
motorboating: gives a whole new meaning to deep-sea fishing


I have always wanted a blue guitar. I don’t play. It’s not worth me having one. But I still want it. Curse you, Nancy Wilson (from Heart, not the jazz singer).

I don’t shave my legs, because I cut myself pretty badly once. However, I use Veet for Sensitive Skin, and during summertime in the desert, I use it a lot, because I don’t like wearing shorts with even a tiny bit of stubble. I used it this morning, so there isn’t a single strand of hair on my legs at the moment. If I were courageous, I’d go out with hairy legs, but I am a product of my culture. I get grossed out myself when I see a woman on the street (or in le Mart du Wal, where I see it most often) who, in my mind, didn’t bother to shave, so obviously I have been brainwashed.

Semper Fidelis means “Always Faithful.” One isn’t allowed to be married to a former jarhead without knowing this.

I used to say I would rather swim in a lake than an ocean (I don’t care for waves when I’m in the water, although they’re okay if I’m walking on the beach), but my brother-in-law just sent me a captioned photo of this diving bell spider that lives almost completely underwater, and I’m guessing it meant freshwater, so fuck lakes.

I used to wear black and gray a lot, almost constantly, because it was a good way to fade into the background. I don’t kid myself that black is more flattering if one is fat … if one’s clothing doesn’t fit right, no color will look good. When I finally decided to step out of the shadows, I filled my wardrobe (gradually, and cheaply, by making use of sales at le Mart du Wal and lot purchases from eBay®) with jewel tones and funky patterns, and I guess it’s working, because one of the managers at the company of the chocolatey-brown trucks advised some of my coworkers that she wished everyone dressed like me, since I always look so pretty, professional, and put-together. And I managed this without $5000 and a visit from Stacey London, so there.

My hair is super cute. I’m wearing it quite short because it’s more comfortable in the desert in summertime. I had them use a #3 clipper around the back last time and cut the rest to about one inch layers. TS Toe’s first words when he saw me last month were “Your hair is so short!” and I told him I fell asleep in the chair. I tend to wear really cute earrings when my hair is this short, just to make sure no one thinks I’m a boy; that is, before they get a glimpse of my incredibly impressive rack. Anyway, the color right now is dark brown, with a few grays naturally-occurring crystalline highlights.

I am normally a rational person, but I have entomophobia and arachnophobia (see above paragraph about swimming in the lake) and no amount of intellectualization on my part when bugs aren’t around will convince me that they won’t eat me when they are around. I turn into a scaredy-cat when it comes to bugs, and it’s humiliating, but I can’t get past it.

I am over the age of 21 (nay, twice that), so I guess I am an adult, but I am not a grown-up and you can’t make me be one.

We rent. I hate it. I hate being poor, and I hate that the best apartment we can get with our lousy credit is this one, with the scorched bathroom sink and the dented front door, outside of which I found, the other day, a dime bag that one of my more careless neighbors dropped. I live with the riffraff. On the bright side, the apartment managers love us, because we’re quiet, and we always pay our rent on time.

I used to tan very well, but I refuse even to try anymore. I’ve heard too many horror stories about malignant melanoma. As for tanning parlors, I only have a small amount of money to spend on vanity, and I prefer to use it on super cute haircuts and adorable (but inexpensive, because I go to le Mart du Wal) manicures.

I have the telly on pretty much all the time, but I’m not always watching it. I read whilst it’s on; I sleep whilst it’s on; we leave it on when we leave the house. I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to television. I will say that, the other day, I was watching A-Team, and That Man of Mine said we had to leave for work. Before I left, I stuck my head back into the bedroom (where the telly is) and said to it, “Liam? Bye, honey. My husband’s making me go with him. There’s juice in the fridge and I think there’s some hot water left if you want a shower.” (What? That Man of Mine has been making me roll my eyes for years. It’s time I made him roll his.)

I used to love spending time with my mother-in-law. She passed away in 2010 and I miss her. I love my sisters-in-law and my stepmother-in-law. I think the reason we get along so well is that we never spend any time together except on Facebook.

I am not a sugar freak. Even less so than I was: I gave up refined sugar and white flour for the past two months in an attempt to detox. It has been absolutely determined that I’m not a sugar freak — but I am a bread ho. See me on the 16th, when my detox ends. You’ll probably find me at La Bocce, shoving pizza into my mouth like it’s my job. (I won’t. Now that I know I can do this, I will be doing this most of the week, and on my cheat days, I will be eating, at the most, a single slice of pizza. I am so tired of being fat.) I am not jonesing nearly as badly for sweets.

I have no idea what happened to Larry King. Wait; let me check — nope; don’t care.

I give less than a shit what my zodiac sign is. Astrology leaves out Ophiuchus (the serpent-bearer, a sign that ought to fall somewhere between Scorpio and Sagittarius but doesn’t, because that makes thirteen sun signs and only twelve months), which makes it patently inaccurate at best and complete bullshit at worst. I have found that, if someone tells me their sun sign and I predict, “You’re deeply sensitive, but you stand up for what you believe in,” they always reply, “Yes, that’s right.” When I am asked for my sign, I tell them I’m a Penguin, with Parrot rising, and that Penguin personalities tend to do their own thing without worrying about some random constellation 66 light years from where they’re actually having to deal with their days.

I can’t remember the last time I made a wish on my birthday. I haven’t even had birthday cake, except at work, in the past few years. The year before last, we were avoiding Retro Bakery because That Man’s sugar was out of control, and last year, I was too sick to want cake, which is pretty fucking sick. Anyway, even before that, I can’t recall when I last had candles on a cake. I blame the Neurontin. I did make a wish on the tip of a slice of pie two months ago (dessert of my last refined-sugar meal before detoxing): I said to myself: “I wish this pie wouldn’t make me fat.”

I ripped these questions off from the Mom, but she did this ages ago and probably doesn’t remember where she got it. At the time, she said she got it from Z’s World, who might have gotten it from Sunday Stealings.

I used to skip breakfast, but I can’t do that anymore. Some of my meds need to be taken on an empty stomach, but if I want the rest of them, particularly my pain meds, I have to eat something. I do not tend to eat the full Denny’s-style 1,500-calorie breakfast. Multi-grain toast or high-fiber cereal with soy milk is usually good enough for me. If I want the calorie-laden breakfast at all, I’m more apt to have it for dinner, since I can’t finish it in one sitting.

I have no idea what I would name the royal baby. It’s not my baby to name, and I don’t know the protocol. I know they need a fuckton of names. I’m going to go with Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Prentice Tyler Mountbatten-Windsor. Go me, incidentally, not only for knowing Prince William’s surname, but for remembering Jackie Tyler’s entire name. It’s more than Pete Tyler could do.

I don’t buy newspapers at all anymore, ever. I read the RJ online, and if we need newsprint, we buy $10 worth of gas at the AM/PM across from our apartment, Monday through Saturday, and they give us a free one. I don’t miss the newspaper. I prefer reading the comics online anyway, particularly Dog Eat Doug, which is my new favorite since Charles M. Schulz died and Lynn Johnston sold out.

I’m pretty sure most of those factoids were repeats, but I don’t much care. I’m not at all sure who’s paying attention these days, anyway.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Candlebox, Far Behind
tired of: erick erickson. he needs a nice cold glass of shut the fuck up

ask a silly question …

… and you get a metric fuckload of silly answers.

I have been given a total of two engagement rings. The first engagement was a complete waste of both of our time and energy. I tried to throw give the ring back, but he said it was mine. It wasn’t worth much, but I sold it and bought myself a string of nice pearls. Every woman should have pearls. Anyway, I’m still wearing the second engagement ring (along with its bestie, the wedding band), but on my index finger, because, although they were tight when I got married, and impossible to wear for years after, they’re now way too big on me. Which, yay.

This marriage is, without a doubt, the longest relationship in which I’ve been. Aside from the eleven years we’ve had paper and rings, we were a couple for a few years before that. At this point, I reckon we really mean it.

The last gift I received was a silver claddagh ring with an emerald heart, for Christkwaanzukahsticestivuseid. I didn’t get anything for my birthday due to finances (and I was too sick to go out to dinner), but I should be getting something nice for my smokeaversary, which is next month.

I dropped a cell phone into a puddle once. I stuck it in a bag of rice, but it never came back to life. I was so mad. However, it was one of those older phones, with buttons and an antenna, so it’s not like I had any vital photos saved on it or anything.

The last time I worked out, a full workout, was yesterday, but in my defense, I did do a full-body yoga stretch when I got up. I modify it to allow for my lack of balance and range of motion, but I still get all the muscles loosened up. Also, I’ll be walking later, so if I skip a full workout, I’m not going to sweat it. Heh.

In general, the only things I get to spend a lot of money on are medical bills or car repairs. I get a design on the nails of my ring fingers when I have a manicure, but I’m supposed to go every two weeks and I usually don’t even have enough money to go every four weeks. I can manage every five weeks, but my old manicure is usually quite the hot mess by then.

The last food I ate was last night, when we had hot dogs and beans because it was the fourth of July. I only had a small spoonful of beans because they raise your sugar and I’m trying to watch my carbs. That Man of Mine, the diabetic, finished the bowl.

I think the first thing I notice about the opposite sex is his facial bone structure. Eyes (and eyebrows) next, then his smile. If I can get close enough, I will check out his aftershave.

I don’t know if I have one favorite song. I love music so much. Every time I hear something new to me, it’s my favorite. Sometimes, I re-hear something old, and that speaks to me as well: like, I finally just learned all the words to Eres Tú, but it’s not my favorite; it was just bothering me. Possibly Danny Boy. It’s so sad, but it’s one of my favorite songs to sing, and my favorite recordings of it are Eva Cassidy’s and Harry Connick, Jr.’s (his long version).

I live in North Las Vegas. Some people think that this means I live at the northern part of the Strip, but I’m just too embarrassed to say so. No. North Las Vegas is an actual city, with three post offices and Nellis Air Force Base, just in case you think we’re kidding. It takes about fifteen minutes to get from here to the Strip, but that’s cool, ‘cos we never really go there anyway. We’re locals now. We refer to this city as “Northtown,” and we know where the good off-the-strip hangouts are. If you want to go to Vegas and not be bothered by that much neon, well, we can’t help you with that, but we can take you to the supermarket, where there is much less neon, and air conditioning, and slot machines, and liquor, and red seedless grapes for 79¢ a pound.

I went to West Haven High School, in West Haven, Connecticut. West Haven is to New Haven what knock-off sneakers are to Nikes: pretty much exactly the same, and perfectly serviceable, and the pizza is just as fantastic, but without the brand-name. For the most part, when people from Vegas ask me where I’m from, I say “Connecticut,” and then they ask me if I know Aaron Hernandez. From now on, I think I’ll say I’m from “just outside New York.”

My cell phone is a Trac-Fone. If I finally commit to a carrier service, I’ll let you know. Assuming you care. I have no idea why this question was asked of anyone, let alone me, but I presume it’s important.

The last wedding I attended was two strangers. They got married in the Stations buffet. To each their own. I have higher hopes for the salad bar, which had proper olives the other day, than I do for the marriage.

My favorite fast-food restaurant is El Pollo Loco. I know the other chains claim to have what they consider healthy alternatives, but El Pollo Loco is the only one that I can pick from most of the menu and just avoid a few items. It’s the other way round with all the other fast-food joints.

That said, my real favorite fast-food restaurant, when I don’t care what I’m putting into my body, is Sonic. I will have large tots, with a side of tots, and a diet cherry-vanilla Doctor Pepper, and can I get extra tots with that, please?


drinking: ice water
listening to: Thea Gilmore, Even Gods Do
neil gaiman: fast becoming one of my favorite writers ever

putting the “bum” into “biddy-biddy-bum”

The Mom did a Sunday Stealing about what she would do if she won $100 million, and the first thought in my head was, I’d move to Canada, where my money would go farther.

Only, in this economy, it doesn’t. The Canadians are apologizing to the U.S. for the state of the dollar, and it’s humiliating.

However, I’m too lazy to come up with another topic, which means one very important thing: I, of all people, need enough money to be this lazy; and I may as well take her post and make it my own.

Two things. Sorry. I’ll come in again.

One. Hundred. MILLION. Dollars.

I’d buy a bunch of different cars. The environment can go hang. I’d have a Bugatti Veyron (red), and an SUV of some sort, and maybe some classic cars. Since my neck doesn’t have full range-of-motion, some of y’all will have to drive me places. It’s a Bugatti.

I’d have a home in New England, so I’d have a base of operations to visit my family; I’d buy a home here in Vegas as well, ‘cos I like it here; and I’d have a flat in London, which would be awesomely cool of me.

Certain members of my family would never want for anything ever again. Certain members would have trust funds so they would have money to dip into when they get big enough to go to college or blow it all on cute shoes.

Certain other members of my family will be wondering why I don’t feel like being their doormat anymore.

I would donate to Literacy Volunteers of America, and a bunch of health-related charities, and perhaps I would fund a scholarship for kids who want to grow up to be writers. Or punk rockers. I think there ought to be a scholarship for that.

I have very few friends at the moment. I am recording their names now, because I’ll be checking people off the list when they show up at my home in New England (or Vegas, or London), hands out, asking me if I remember what good friends they were to me.

I would go everywhere for vacation. First I’d go back to all the places I already know I like so much that, if I died, I’d regret not having gone back. Then I’d go to all the places I have wanted to see but haven’t yet. Then I’d go back to all the places I’ve only been to once before. Then I’d drive by all the places I’ve never wanted to go, and moon them out the car window.

The first luxury item I would buy (after having taken care of first-world necessities like beautiful homes and cars) would be a private jet. Did I mention that the environment can go hang?

My life would change so much if I had a hundred million dollars. Mostly for the better, I think. I would pick up a whole new set of worries, granted, but many of those that I have now would go away.

I would put aside enough to take care of myself in my old age (assuming I live that long) and spend the rest, because I don’t anticipate them figuring out a way I can take it with me.

I think it would change my current relationship quite a bit. Because we have so little, That Man of Mine and I have no choice but to share everything. Once I had that kind of money, I’d hand him a wad and advise him that, once that’s blown through, he will exist only by peanut butter and jelly and my good graces.

I’d definitely retire from the workforce, but I wouldn’t just walk in and say “I quit.” I like this job. I’d give them at least a month’s notice and help to train my replacement if needed.

I’m not saying I’d never work again. I would spend my time going back to school, and writing, instead. I just don’t want to punch a card, deal with the smell of fish and broccoli in the break room, or deal with rude people for low pay, anymore.

I would hire a staff to do the things I never want to be arsed with anymore, such as balancing my accounts and scrubbing my bathroom floor. Not to mention flying my jet. Oh, and my helicopter. I know a helicopter pilot.

I’d never have to fly my own helicopter anymore, if I didn’t want to.

I have never before typed the above words in that precise sequence. I thought you might want to know that.

The main dream I’d finally get to achieve would be to spend serious time abroad. I want to travel through Europe, taking pictures, drinking beer, and writing about it.

I would hire my office girlfriend, because he has such good fashion sense, to be my personal stylist. It would be his responsibility to make sure I never wind up on the “what-were-they-thinking?” pages of the celebrity magazines.

I firmly believe that the reason that rich people, like the Kardashians, are not fat is that they can afford some easy treatment that isn’t accessible to us po’ folks. So, if I won a hundred million dollars, I think I’d go find the secret place and pay them to make me sexy.

The main thing I think I’d miss about being poor is the fact that most people know that it’s a lost cause to hit me up for money. (I say most. There are still a few people who don’t realize that, just because I have more than they do, doesn’t mean I have enough to take care of myself and them.) Once I had my hundred mil, I’d miss no longer being that lost of a cause.

I suppose you think the first person I would tell ought to be That Man of Mine. Please. He is the very quintessence of champagne tastes on a Budweiser budget. I’m telling him last. The first person I would tell would be the Mom, and I will say it something like, just a casual, no-big-deal, “Here,” as I hand her a big fat check.

They say money doesn’t buy you happiness, and I have said many times that, were I only to have some, I would then have peace of mind, so I could make my own happiness.

That is true.

But I’ll amend it to say that having a hundred million dollars would mean I could hire Kari from Retro Bakery to deliver cupcakes daily. And I can have as many cupcakes as I want, because I already paid for the secret Kardashian thinnermaker.

As many cupcakes as I want?

Sounds like happiness to me.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Demi Lovato, Heart Attack
nanaimo bars: for those, it might be worth it to move to canada after all



That, for better or worse, was what I looked like in high school. Gourd help me, I thought I was fat.

If I could travel anywhere in the world, all expenses paid, I’d go to London. I know I’ve already been, and that I should pick someplace new, but I miss London, and have done  every day since my only trip there, some twenty years ago.

Fine. If I must pick a new place, let it be New Zealand. Preferably in December, so I can celebrate the usually-frosty winter holidays on the beach.

Five songs for the soundtrack of my life (so far):

  1. Different Drum – Linda Ronstadt
  2. Don’t Stop Believing – Journey
  3. Bad Moon Rising – Credence Clearwater Revival
  4. Here, There, and Everywhere – Beatles
  5. Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon & Garfunkel

Yes, I’m old. But it could be a whole lot more embarrassing.

I no longer have any television shows that I must watch every week without fail — at least, not until Doctor Who returns at the end of November. I try to catch certain shows, such as NCIS and NOVA, but if I miss them, my world doesn’t end. The one show I never seem to miss is Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Not because it’s a favorite (really, I like Guy Fieri as a television character, but I imagine that, in real life, he’s probably a bit of a douchebag), but because it always seems to be on the television in the break room at work.

I firmly believe, with all of my heart and soul, that gay couples should be allowed to marry, and should be accorded the same rights as so-called traditional couples: to be on each other’s insurance; to make deathbed decisions; to fall into cold water because his spouse left the seat up; to get her face smacked by wet pantyhose on the curtain rod the second she steps into the bathroom, and to open the fridge to find an empty bread bag inside. This actually happened to me today. I hope it can happen to my gay friends someday.

The shows from my childhood that should be brought back on the air are, in no particular order: Mr. Wizard’s World, Emergency!, and Patchwork Family. Patchwork Family wasn’t particularly good. But I liked the puppet, Rags. His favorite food in the world was jellybeans. Last time we had someone on the telly whose favorite food was jellybeans was the ’80s, and that sonofabitch ran the fucking country. Rags was way cooler.

I think the one place in the world I would love to live would absolutely be right where I am now, if it were closer to my friends and family. That said, if I could afford to live anywhere, I’d pick New York City. Close enough to visit everyone conveniently, and remote enough that it’s an adventure to come visit me. Mind you, I want a penthouse, and a limo. I think it’s important to set realistic goals.

My favorite animal, for those of you not paying attention, is the penguin. I have never had a penguin tell me he needed more space, or that there wasn’t room in the budget for me. Granted, I’ve never had a dog tell me that, either. But I’ve never had to clean penguin shit off the living room carpet, either, so penguins still win.

My name is Greek for “defender of mankind.” What a joke. I can barely defend myself much of the time.

I don’t believe that honesty is the best policy. Okay, sometimes. “Do I look okay?” can be answered with an honest “You’ve got a little spinach on your teeth” (fixable) or you can be dishonest and say “You look beautiful” to your friend who is really sweet and can’t help the fact that she looks a bit like Steve Buscemi.

If I knew the world was really ending this year (as opposed to all the false alarms we’ve had in the past decade), I think I would learn to dance. Better late than never.

If I won the lottery, the first thing I would do is to send a big wad of it to the Mom, so she could get my dad into a better facility. Then, I’d pay off my bills; then, I’d set up a retirement fund for myself and That Man of Mine; then, I’d donate the rest to charity, quickly, before That Man could buy any baseball cards with it.

I think the aspect of my childhood I miss the most is sleeping in the car. When I was a tiny kid, they used to tuck me into the backseat with my pink blanket, and they did all the worrying for me. I could do with a bit of that now.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Grace Potter & The Nocturnals, Devil’s Train
bonus: i’m not superstitious. it’s always, for me, a 50/50 chance of good or bad luck

tea stow

There are quite a few differences between this time that T.S. Toe came to visit, and the last time, which was in January of 2003, and I knew this blog would come in handy some day, if for no other reason than to pinpoint the date.

The most blatant difference, aside from the fact that I got thirteen comments on that post, and only two (from the same person) on my last post before this one, is that T’s personal life has changed quite a bit in three and a half years, and for the better, as he is happier than he’s been in a long time.

I got to meet J, the reason for all the happy, and K, who is a local friend who also lived in CT for awhile. She was uncomfortable meeting new people. However, she is former military, and a twin, and next thing you know, she and That Man of Mine were thick as thieves.

J, incidentally, is ridiculously adorable.

We ate at the Rio, this time, and no one tried to tell us we were hanging around too long chatting; in fact, the server came by several times after we would have already been out in the street at the Luxor, to see if we needed more beverages.

She also, in the middle of the meal, brought complimentary champagne for those of us who could have it. I originally typed that in as “those of us who wanted it,” but that was a lie, because I wanted it. Desperately. Fuck drugs.

However, if this first surgery works (next Tuesday), I can have the second surgery, and then, maybe, I can stop with the drugs and be allowed to have champagne next time T.S. Toe and Company are in the area, which, if he follows form, should be right around the beginning of 2017.

Anyway, the only other news is that I lost four pounds. No one should have to work as hard as I do to have the only result be a four-pound weight loss. In my post the last time T.S. Toe was in town, That Man had just lost sixty. He’s lost more, since. He is about ten pounds more now than I was in 2011.

Granted, I am a lot less than that now, but it doesn’t make it any less depressing.

I firmly believe any man who loses more weight than his wife, without really trying, is an arsehole of the finest order.

However, since he won $79 at the Rio last night, I’ll let it slide.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Alicia Keys, Tears Always Win
other stuff that changed since last time: we talked about doctor who instead of the big lebowski


I haven’t posted in two weeks, but I’m going to say a “fortnight” instead, because it sounds cooler.

“Fortnight” is short for “fourteen nights.” I don’t know why they thought half a month would be without daylight, but I don’t question. I just recycle and reuse.

I could say that I didn’t post anything for a fortnight because I am tired, and it would be true.

I could also say that I didn’t post anything for a fortnight because I am writing other stuff, and that would also be true.

But the actual reason behind my not-posting-of-anything for two weeks is that I had nothing going on and I didn’t feel like doing a meme. And you can’t pretty that up by trying to call it a fortnight.

Seriously. The most exciting thing going on in my life is that I found a fuckload of Liam Neeson wallpapers for my Android.

They are so bomb.

Except for the fact that a) I change them up every couple of hours, because Liam Neeson is just that awesome; and b) now I hate logging in, because his face gets all covered up with app icons.


Meme it is, just so’s you don’t forget about me.

As usual, no one is tagged, and I’ll be using complete sentences and paragraphs instead of Q and A format, so my teacher will give me extra credit.

Do penguins count as sea creatures? I ask because the first question in this particular non-meme asks into what kind of sea creature I would like to be reincarnated. No matter. If penguins don’t count, I’ll go with the sea angel. I never saw one before till my office girlfriend made me Google it, and they are just as precious as he (my office girlfriend) is. No shit. Like sweet little see-through teddy bears. Also, I might as well be a sea angel next time round, seeing as how I’ve pretty much lived this life as a landlocked devil.

I never, ever go to IHOP. $11 for an order of pancakes is just-off-the-highway robbery. If I want pancakey sorts of breakfasty stuff, I go to Lumberjack’s, which is a bit like Denny’s, only with flannel shirts. We tend to prefer Lumberjack’s in this town because, for some reason, we’ve never gotten good service in Denny’s since 2008 (when we moved to Vegas) except that one time in 2010. Oh, no, wait — we were visiting Connecticut that time. (Speaking of Angels. Heh.)  Anyway, I am cautious about ordering pancakes in restaurants, as they tend to overbeat the batter, which develops the gluten and turns pancakes into Cotton Wool Circles of Doom. Eat one and, no matter how much you chew, or how much coffee you drink with it, it will reform itself into a whole pancake in your stomach. A few restaurants do it right, and I trust them. Blueberry Hill (a family restaurant/diner with a few locations in town) knows how properly to flap a jack. At Lumberjack’s, they probably do, but I haven’t tested it yet because they have Cinnabon® French toast, and why the hell would anyone want a pancake if that were available, may I ask?

The last book I read was incredibly bad and a waste of my time. I don’t remember the title. I only read it because it was free, and I deleted it from my Kindle app right after I finished it, because I knew I’d never want to reread it.  The last book I read, that I enjoyed, was a reread itself: Life, the Universe, and Everything by Douglas Adams. I have no idea how he became so good at writing novels when he hated it so much.

The wallpaper of my cell phone is Mount Charleston. It was one of the first pictures I took with this phone, and I decided to put it to good use. As far as the number is concerned, if you need it, let me know … but be aware that, if you don’t already have it, it’s probably because I decided you didn’t need it that much. Now, as for the Android, I just had this generic cupcake picture on there till, as I mentioned, the other day, which was when I came to the realization that I really do like Liam Neeson more than I like cupcakes. Which is true about very few things in my world, including people I actually know.

I don’t drink much soda. I like it all right, but not as much as coffee or beer, or energy beverages fizzy-lifting drinks, which I try to avoid because they are not particularly good for me. Soda is very high in sugar, and there are a whole lot of “Where the hell did all those calories come from?” calories in it, so when I do drink soda, I try to drink diet soda, but my favorite sodas do not come in diet. They are Jamaican ginger beer, which is like ginger ale, only sharper; and Mexican Coca-Cola, which is the classic classic Coke recipe (cane sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup). This is the main reason I drink so much water. Never mistake that fact for my actually thinking, “Mmm, isn’t this water delicious?”

If I could use only one form of transportation, I think I’d go with the TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. That’s what I need. A phone box that I could park just as easily outside on the corner as inside in a supply closet. Also, the ability to get to work with my hair dry five minutes early, even if I take an hour-long shower right before I ought to leave the house. Also, have you seen the library in that thing? As Clara Oswald said to the TARDIS, “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

I was home alone for dinner last night, because That Man of Mine was working. I made a small ribeye steak and cooked it the way I like it, without anyone gagging and saying, “It’s bleeding,” or “Is it still alive?”

My favorite toy when I was a tiny kid was Kimberly. She was a plush doll given to me by my dad, who knew I didn’t like what I called “hard dolls”   —   Barbies or plastic-bodied dolls that were useless for hugging. We did play together quite a lot, and she rode on my bike with me, but my favorite pastime was reading to her. She was a very appreciative audience.

I buy my own groceries, but That Man has to drive me anyway, so he gets to pick some of them (within reason), and he can reach the top shelves and carry the heavy stuff. Also, he is not only willing to put groceries away when we get home, he insists upon it, because he says I do it wrong. Of course I do it wrong. How else would one get one’s husband to put away the groceries, eh?

I’m pretty sure of two people who discuss me unfavorably behind my back. However, I give less than a fraction of a full, entire shit about either of them, so I just hope they’re enjoying themselves.

My favorite fruit, as I have discussed before, is the Bosc pear. I like the fact that it’s better on the inside than it looks on the outside. I know Bartlett pears have nicer wardrobes, but Bosc pears have better personalities. Or fruitalities. Whatever.

I always wanted to learn ballet. Ballerinas are so beautiful and graceful. I did music lessons instead. I regret not being able to dance, but I wouldn’t trade my musical background for it.

I listen to quite a lot of classical music. Full symphony orchestra when I need to wake up my attitude, baroque when I need to soothe my soul, chamber music when I need to fall into a coma. I also like heavy metal arrangements of classical music. Beethoven and Mozart, had they lived in contemporary times, would both have approved of slammin’ guitars.

The first television theme song that pops into my head is Doctor Who: first the four-beat (the heartbeat of a Time Lord, which has a binary cardiovascular system), for a few measures, then OOO EEE OOO, WEE OOO OOO. I understand that the original theme was recorded using white noise and a single plucked guitar string, which they then turned into music utilizing wave-form oscillators. Electronic music before it was considered fashionable.

People consider me smart even before they know me very well. I get asked questions about some of the most ridiculous bullshit, just because everyone naturally assumes I will know the answers. The fact that I usually do is neither here nor there. I am just the Mom‘s daughter. We learn things, we retain information, and, most importantly, we look shit up.

My favorite salad dressing, if I have made the salad, with mesclun mix and a variety of additional fresh vegetables, is vinaigrette made either with red wine vinegar, sherry vinegar, or lemon juice. If I’m eating one of those restaurant salads where they bring it to you before the meal, with iceberg lettuce and a single lonely wedge of refrigerated tomato, I usually ask for bleu cheese, just so I will have something to taste.

All the members of my immediate family live way too far away from me. They’re in Connecticut or Massachusetts, and I’m in Nevada. I also have cousins in other parts of the world, but I don’t know which of them is the farthest. I’m not sure it matters, because I probably have never met any of them; and if I have, I can’t have made much of an impression.

My first name gets mispronounced all the time. Most commonly, people see the spelling with an “O”, assume it’s a misspelling, and pronounce it as though it were spelled with an “A”. However, at work the other day, a coworker called me by a completely wrong name, and I didn’t know she meant me till she told another coworker that I was ignoring her. Well, that’s what she gets. I have enough trouble paying attention when you get my name right.

I started blogging in November of 2001, but my posts have gotten very few and far-between. Part of it is the fact that I can keep in touch with my friends and family much more easily now than I could in those days before social media and unlimited talk and text. Part of it is the fact that I no longer work for a company that allows personal web use at one’s desk, even during breaks. Most of it is that I don’t think anyone really gives a shit anymore. I only keep doing it because I’m just that fucking stubborn.

I have a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. I would like to go back to school, but my company will only pay for further business classes, and I want a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

My biggest peeve is that everyone seems to want me to call my peeves “pets.” If they’re pets, then, fine. I will abandon them, and you can rescue them and take care of them yourself. My other two main peeves are people who are being paid for good grammar and spelling but cannot manage either one, and trying to lose weight when food is so delicious.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Black Symphony, Deliverance (Queensryche cover)
alternate sea creature: one of those blue fish like Dory in Finding Nemo. We have the same memory span.