Fudgy Crumbs

I love potlucks.

Yes, because of all the awesome food that people bring to show off and proudly uncover for you to dip into and pile onto your plate, anxiously awaiting that question that every cook loves to hear: "This is delicious! Can I get the recipe?"

Of course you can. Wink Wink. Big grin.

I just happen to have a whole pack of recipe cards and a fresh Bic pen right here.

This is a whole genre of cooking in and of itself. Generally, the trail of recipes can be traced to one source. The back of some box, can, or a label of some sort. Through many years of attending potlucks and also being pulled aside at one point and given some of the most valuable cooking advice I've ever received, "Honey, if you look for the recipes on the backs of boxes and food packaging, you'll never go wrong," I've perfected some pretty awesome recipes. Sure, I've adapted a few to my own tastes or zipped them up a notch here and there but at their very core, they wouldn't exist if I hadn't ripped them off from some food packaging.

In honor of that advice, I give you a recipe for some very delicious brownies. I mix them a little bit in my own ways but I'll let you do your own experimenting. Here, featured on the back of Baker's Unsweetened Baking Chocolate Squares, is the recipe for:

Baker's One Bowl Brownies

4 squares Baker's Unsweetened 3 eggs
Baking Chocolate
1 tsp. vanilla
3/4 cup butter
1 cup flour
2 cups sugar
1 cup coarsely chopped Planter's pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line 13x9 inch baking pan with foil, with endsof foil extending over sides of pan. Grease foil.

Microwave chocolate and butter in large microwaveable bowl on HIGH 2 minutes or until butter is melted. Stir until chocolate is completely melted. Stir in sugar. Blend in eggs and vanilla. Add flour and pecans; Mix well. Spread into prepared pan.

Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out with fudgy crumbs. (Do not overbake.) Cool in pan or wire rack. Remove brownies from pan, using foil handles. Cut into 24 squares. Store in tightly covered container at room temperature. Makes 24 servings. 1 brownie each.

Cake-like brownies: Prepare as directed, stirring in 1/2 cup milk along with the eggs and vanilla, and increasing the flour to 1 1/2 cups.

BONUS! If I tear the packaging apart (which I'm not going to do because where else would I wrangle my unsweetened chocolate? >:( Ingrates) there are also recipes for:

One Bowl Brownie Variations!

One Bowl Chocolate Frosting!

AND

Wellesley Fudge Cake! (GASP!)

Be sure to email me if you want that recipe!

Or, um, buy a package of Baker's Unsweetened Baking Chocolate Squares.

*cough*

Robot Attack Insurance

Insurance is important. Especially when you have a robot part like I do.

The thing I forgot about is that robots eventually turn on their human counterparts. So I posted this video for all my loved ones and well, the people who vaguely associate with me on an occasional level.

Robot attacks are not to be taken lightly, as Sam Waterston here says. I can totally see myself eating all your medication if I can't get a refill on mine because I've turned on my neurologist and clamped him to death with my claws. It's hard to duplicate his handwriting even though I've won against a couple friends in a signature forging contest. They're artists, though, not doctors.

In addition to eating your medication, I will eat up all your cool action figures. That's what the commercial doesn't tell you. There's no way to tell what I will eat either. Actual market value doesn't matter to me. I have my own criteria. I won't be able to keep my clampy hands off your Purple Pie Man or maybe your old Happy Meal toys. I will be voracious and insatiable.

Don't try to reason with me. It won't work. Once I've turned, the only thing you can do is try not to get clamped.

Disposable Mail Carriers and Japanese Monsters

I was thinking today about dispensable people.

It all started because my friend Christopher kindly sent me one of his four camera cords to replace the one I misplaced. It worked out perfectly because we have the same exact camera. However it has been about a week and a half since he sent it and we are both wondering where the hell it is.

I mused about the many goings on in the United States Postal Service and I wondered maybe if my postal carrier had died and the delay was due to a delay during which they are plugging in another carrier into my route and then eventually I will get my package containing the cord with a note on it, apologetically explaining, "Sorry for the delay. Your postal carrier passed on but we're sure you'll enjoy regular promptness with the new one we have assigned to you."

Someone else will drive his truck and his uniform will be cleaned and returned for someone else to wear.

Comcast leaflets will continue to fill my mailbox without missing a beat. The only evidence of his absence: the delay of a package containing a camera cord.

Recent events in my life have made me wonder how easily I could be replaced. After all, I look back and, in many ways I know of several instances where I was replaced and vice versa. It isn't that you don't think of these people occasionally but somehow they disappear from your life whether slowly or suddenly and soon your new daily routine grows over their memory like moss over a rock. Soon no one is aware the rock is even there. Or ever was.

It isn't that we want this to happen but it does. There are small moments we have no idea are contributing to the distance and sometimes there is nothing the other person can do but sit with their hands folded quietly because frankly, it is out of their hands. This snowball has gained speed and they cannot stop it. All they do is hope for the best. Which sometimes is the worst.

Occasionally, we are so caught up in our lives that we do not see the things that are big and destructive, crashing like Japanese monsters through our mutual villages but ever so quietly. Only to one village is the destruction louder than any earthquake and the silence from the other village is deafening. Unfortunately, there is no place to run and hide. It is only amongst the schrapnel and decay that one must stand. One must stand and take it or lay down upon the ground and let things fall where they may. Even the tear drops.

And so it goes. The little things that are the big things.

Be ever watchful.

Get It While I'm Hot!

So Far, So Good

So far, my thirties are pretty awesome.

I started them out wearing a dress I made out of four black t-shirts, altered from a pattern from a great book called "Generation T." Thanks to Bernadette and the lovely ladies at Rumours on Main in Windsor, my hair and makeup looked wonderful. I was a hottie. I was a goddess. I was bee-yoo-tiful. I had a moment when I was having a more magical than usual dinner at Pulcinella with my best friend Michael, having excused myself to wash my hands before dinner (it was, I admit a ruse to stroll past Andrew, the bartender, whom I think is so classy and wonderful and also to be sanitary at the same time--two birds one stone, wink wink, nudge nudge) when I looked into the mirror and there stood a woman who had come a long way. She did not look uncomfortable in her skin or worried about stumbling and knocking something over or what have you. She was confident, she felt great and most of all she was stunning. I put my hand to my cheek and smiled before strolling confidently right past Andrew with all my womanly wiles flaring.

After dinner, Michael and I had our "And now for something completely different" part of the evening. You see, we have decided we like the Diamond Cabaret. The last time we went was the first time. It was quite fun and boobs la la la la. My birthday was different. I don't know if my confidence was ooozing and mutating into some sort of mojo but I had stripper catnip all over me.

It was, in fact, scandalous and fantastic.

Don't get me wrong, I likes my men. At the end of the day I want to come home to a man. However, I come home to cats right now. Also, did I mention I had stepped or been sprinkled with some sort of stripper catnip? It all began with very touchy feely compliments on my necklace and chit chat as they nuzzled me cat-like with their hair and rolled around with a smile in a way they weren't quite doing for the men sitting around the stage. At one point, one reached down my top and fondled my breast and gave my right nipple a good working over. It was a "dear diary" moment and both hilarious and quite the charge. There were other "holy crap" incidents in between the next stripper who actually put both hands down my dress and did the same thing. I looked around and none of the other strippers appeared to be doing this. Monique, the coolest stripper and both of our favorite out of all the strippers, whispered to me, "You are better than all the men in here." Wow. Ego boost. I don't care if she does it as part of her act or what. I was awesome. Toward the end of the evening, leaving the Cabaret, I strutted out, head held high.

Since then I have just been relaxing. I've been watching the orchid Michael gave me and I need to repot it.

Happy Monday. It can only get better from here.

Floyd.

I love going to lunch with my Mom.

In days past, when we were quite a bit less fortunate, we had a tradition of going out to a cherished but inexpensive dinner on her payday. It was our reward for making it through the month one more time and also fuel for our souls for the upcoming month, whatever it held. Usually, we ended up at The Galaxy, a Chinese restaurant with two enourmous lions, spray-painted gold standing guard outside. Everything inside was a deep red: the carpet, the walls even the tassels on the menus. All you usually needed to eat there was a twenty dollar bill but only on payday could my Mom spare that for my plate of Sesame Chicken and her plate of some sort of vegetables and chicken with a heavy dose of hot mustard. For one shining hour, we lived like the people who could go eat whever they choosed and with my fingers greasy on an egg roll, I was happy because neither of us had to worry about anything for that one hour in that red kingdom of solace from reality.

Things have gotten significantly better for us financially but we've still seen our share of hard times in other ways. Those days of dinners in the Galaxy seem like a lifetime ago and yet at the same time they are like yesterday. I know my Mom still feels them breathing down our necks as I do, even as I, at lunch today, simply asked the waiter for the dessert menu because I wanted some chocolate cake. I knew it would be okay. No questions asked. It's just chocolate cake. Lunch with Mom has become something of a routine and not just once a month. We have our favorite places and we go there whever we want.

Today, Floyd waited on us.

He was pretty much the best waiter ever. As we were enjoying our chocolate cake, which he served to us with a manical laugh and the glass of milk with ice I requested (it is the only way to enjoy chocolate cake in my opinion,) he happened to be straightening the table next to us and asked how it was. Like little children with mouths full of sweetness, we nodded our heads and gave him a thumbs up as he laughed again. He said, "You guys are great! Which means I'm great! And what matters is what I think, so that means you guys are doing your job!" We laughed at this strangely logical statement and admitted our defeat at the hand of the cake. Floyd offered to box it up for us and we let him, having been beaten up by a chocolate concoction. We didn't feel bad. We knew what we were getting into.

As my Mom signed the credit card receipt, she made sure to tip Floyd generously as he was truly nice to us and genuninely cared about our experience. Plus, he was an all around nice guy and not a waiter autobot.

Floyd made the lunch that we didn't have to scrape for or save for or wait a whole month for that much more enjoyable. Floyd is a part of the joy of our favorite restaurant and is one of the many reasons why we drive twenty mintes to get a meal instead of settling for craptastic food on our side of town or a cheese sandwich we could have easily made ourselves.

This is for all of the Floyds of the world, making special lunches that much more special. Thanks.

Oven Lovin'

You know, she really does do a really good job, I think to myself as I extend myself as far as I can into the oven, which means several inches below my shoulders, having taken out the middle rack and placed it on the sink. I mean, she is thorough."

I reach out of the oven with my left hand and fumble around for the oven knob. I identify it by the mountain of crusty cheese Tom refuses to remove when he does the dishes and wipes down the stove top.

"Red will get it!" he shouts when I complain.

"She has a name!" I shout from the kitchen, stubbornly poking at the cheese crust with my nail which refuses to move.

"I've never met her and you only told me she has red hair!" he shouts from his chair.

"Fuck you, " I say under my breath as I vigorously scrape.

"What?" he says loudly, flipping through my stack of books.

"I love you," I reply loudly.

"Unnhh...why do you have so many books?" he shouts.

And so it seems to go in some form or another most nights. I think of this as I lean my chin in my hands on the oven rack, waiting for the heat to come. I am scared of dying this way but frankly it just seems easier. The last relationship I left was a fucking ordeal and this just seems much easier. I believe in reincarnation and all that so when I thought of it, I thought, well, I could come back as someone or something that is not Tom's girlfriend. Tom is a shouter, as you can see. He tends to make me shout and I am not a shouter. The strange thing is, we never shout about anything of substance.

I'm not one to just leave in the middle of the night either, though frankly the irony is not lost on me that I am cooking myself while Tom is formulating stupid things at his stupid desk at his stupid job in his Italian Dude shirts he lovingly (read: compulsively) irons every night before bed. He even has one of those electric tie hangers he delights in spinning, as do I, only I do it when he is gone and I clap as the ties fly across the room like kites in a windstorm. (I blame this on Red. Unfortunately, Red gets blamed for a lot of the petty wars I wage on Tom when he is at work. I feel bad about this so I tack an extra two dollars an hour onto her paycheck. It doesn't make it better, but it buys her more groceries. Or pot. I don't know. We don't talk much.)

It is getting a little warmer and I am reminded of being tucked into my grandmother's bed when I was a little girl. Her bed was huge and I loved folding my knees up to my chest and putting my nose against the blankets. They smelled of Chanel No. 5. I would smell like Chanel No. 5 the whole time I visited my grandparents and I felt very ladylike. I wondered if I should feel comforted committing suicide? I am beginning to smell the cheap oven pizzas I frequently make for lunch. I kind of want one right now and I could see the crumbs on the bottom of the stove from the one I ate earlier. It was delicious. I only buy the supreme flavor because if you separate the flavors it tastes like cardboard shit. They are only .99 so you need all of the flavor you can get. Wow. That was my last one of my entire life. There are two more in the freezer. Tom will throw them out. Bastard. What was I doing with him?

The oven rack is warming up more now. This oven took forever to pre-heat. Tom and I, well I was always complaining to the landlord. I forgot about that. This is going to be a long death. I can’t turn back now. No matter how long it takes to melt my face off or take my breath or whatever happens when you cook yourself, it can't be as bad as what will happen if I start the big break up with Tom. He will fucking say the records are his. They clearly are not. I have sat on the grubby floors of hundreds of thrifts stores, rifling through crappy music to get the good ones. He doesn't even like them. He likes the scratchy sound they make but he would never buy one. He would iron the cover to one if he could. Especially if it were made by some Italian Dude.

Oh for Christ's sake. Why didn't I think to have sex with someone else? Because I have fucking morals. Fucking morals! I could have found myself someone more along the lines of me. We could have had an amazing night with wine and frozen pizzas (because someone like me would love that) and we wouldn't be able to keep our hands off each other, even after we parted our bodies and I could still feel like he was inside me. No, Tom would be the last. Tom, with his pushing my head into the pillow so I can't breathe even thought I try to put my head to the side so I can get air. One time he actually crawled up on my chest and tried to cum on my breasts, all the while sputtering, "You said that one time I could and so I'm going to!" I had no time to respond before he just...did it. Not that I mind that sort of thing, but Tom never fucking asks. He shouts at me.

"Get the bagels!"

"Red will do it!"

"I'm going to cum on your breasts!"

I drop my head in my hands and they begin to burn a bit but I don’t care. I just sigh. I like the smell of the pizza I had for lunch and I hope I will be reincarnated into something that can have them. I hope I can be another human. As much as I hated my childhood, maybe I would have a nice one this time around! Yeah. I will save all my cool toys, too, if they make them when I am a kid again. Too bad I couldn't write some notes to keep in my pocket for when I am reborn.

I begin to get sleepy. I think it is mainly because I have been kneeling for so long. There is a noise from the front room. I wonder if I have started to hallucinate. There wasn't much research put into this on my part so maybe that happens. Maybe it will be fun, if it is warm.

Footsteps pound into the kitchen and I hear the refrigerator open. Then shut.

"You know the oven is electric, right?"

I sigh heavily and close my eyes. I realize this will never end. Even the oven knows that.

As I heave myself out of the oven and shut the door, I feelt pizza crumbs fall from my hair. Tom is eating a bagel.

"Look what I found, " he says, muffled through a mouth full of chewy Asiago bagel and veggie cream cheese.

I stare at him.

"It was the last one, so yeah, we're going to need bagels," he garbles as he swallows, leaning against the sink with his hand on the oven rack that rested there. He wipes his hands on his pants and looks at me, my hair wild, my face red and sullen.

"So are we gonna fuck or what?"

I sigh and think about my record collection.

"Yeah, come on."

A Very Unstable Product

The church bells were ringing but, as she was rummaging in the trunk of her car for the new cat box, she thought to herself that it was actually the sound of an ice cream truck. As always, this delighted her. However, it seemed to be taking the ice cream man an odd amount of time to travel down the street. Was he actually broken down? The tinkly music did seem stationary... What a way to start your work day, she thought, as she hoisted the cat box under her arm and closed the trunk. The possibility of massive amounts of ice cream all melting together, running everywhere: Bomb Pops, Creamsicles, Fudgesicles, Eskimo Pies, Fat Boys, etc., It made her cringe to even think where one would even begin to clean that up. Furthermore, what sort of mood would the ice cream man be in when he went home? Hopefully, he had someone he could talk it out with because ice cream is a very unstable product to deal with.

Last night, she had been having the most wonderful conversation with a very good friend. It was the type of conversation that, had time disappeared, it would have been a good thing because you could have gone on laughing, giggling, hugging, singing and whispering very deep things until your eyes demanded to close. In fact, as she carried the cat box across the street she couldn't recall individual details of the conversation in particular, with the exception of one thing. She remembered her friend giggling, "I wish I could be you everyday."

This had taken her aback, much in the same way that the thought of cleaning up hundreds of pounds of melted ice cream had. When frozen and kept under proper temperature regulation, ice cream is great to deal with. Everyone is excited about it. Most people like to expound on their favorite way to eat it and how it is actually a fairly interactive part of their lives. It's fun. It's flavorful. It comes in tons of funny, fantastic names. Yet, once it has melted and taken on that odd, warm quality and starts giving off a slightly nauseating scent, it becomes a little less inviting. In its more unstable state, it isn't pretty and it is sloppy. The funny thing is, once it gets into this state, it is much harder to get it back to its original state. Most of the time it freezes into some bizarre form of its melted life.

This wasn't the first time someone had said this to her. Her personality had the tendency to be comical and the words that fell out of her mouth were cartoonish and fanciful. Her imagination didn't just run away. It grabbed the hands of the people around her and took them with her. Unfortunately, it is much easier for them to leave than it is for her. For when they let go of her hand and the ice cream begins to melt, there can be quite the mess. She is the one who sometimes cheerfully cleans up all the Otter Pops or other times cries despairingly at the colors running together uncontrollably. And other times she is frustrated because the words are too small for how big and beautiful the colors of the melted ice cream are and the only thing she can do is lie down beside it and be a part of the vision.

She unlocked her front door and carried the cat box up the stairs. Once in her apartment, she opened the closet where the cat boxes were kept and replaced Charlie, the younger cat's, box with the new one. Afterwards, she washed her hands, put on some coffee and made some oatmeal. Once the kettle had caught a boil, she added it to the packet of instant oats, leaving just enough water in the measuring cup so that it wouldn't be too watery when she added her almond creamer. She scratched her nail on the black tiled counter for a few seconds as she waited for the water to soak into the oats. A boy whose behavior had hurt her feelings crossed her mind and she wondered what he was doing. Immediately after she sighed and smiled at her thoughts. Her momentary instability. Her little ice cream spills. Her large ice cream spills.

As she spooned her oatmeal into her mouth, standing next to sink, because that was where she ate when she was alone, she thought about all the people she had thought she would like to be in the past. But when her friend made that comment last night, she thought, as she spooned more cakey oatmeal into her mouth, about how it made her realize we have no idea about the massive ice cream meltdowns that exist within the admirations and laughter we want to absorb or walk around inside.

It was a very nice gesture but ice cream is a very unstable product.

Eye Brain Connection With Time Machine

Time Machine - Funny videos are here

So I don't think the movie "The Shining" is actually about a haunted hotel.

I have been cooped up for a couple days in my apartment with nothing but my writing, my cats (who can be as peevesome as Shelly Duvall and that little boy) and a sinus infection or chest cold. I don't know which and frankly, I haven't crossed out the possibility that it could be both. I have a little more sympathy for Jack Nicholson in that movie now. Frankly, I think he was just overstimulated creatively and alternatively bored out of his skull.

I'm not going to lie. I've had some strange thoughts sitting here in my sweatpants, sriped knee socks and a bejeweled butterfly hair clip. Okay maybe I don't want to kill people and hack through doors but my hair does look a little crazy. And I did seriously consider purchasing something called the Eye Brain Connection. On any other given day, I would be against this big-brother sounding item. But tonight I am open to it. Hey, it could be the wave of the future. But wait, isn't my eye already connected to my brain? This is considerably less cool than it sounds. It's actually a speed reading program for your computer. I can already do that and I did it the old fashioned way-by reading books. However, if you are interested, you get 200 classic books on cd or dvd (my tv is on mute because the world series was on earlier) and your gift with purchase is an ACTUAL book. A fabulously illustrated copy of "The Time Machine." So, to recap, what I saw when I glanced up just now was that I could get the Eye Brain Connection for $14.95 with a free Time Machine. Talk about a let down.

Another thing I thought long and hard about was where my neighbor with the big dog went. Seriously, in the next building there used to be this HUGE dog and its owners walked it everyday. I have been here for 48 hours straight, not counting the trip out for a meatball sub and cup of tea, and I haven't seen them once! Maybe the dog ate the owners and is just pooping them out all over their apartment because they are no longer there to walk him. Then I think that if he is strong enough to overpower them, then he could probably open the door to get out and poop. So maybe he is just really disgusting and enjoys pooping indors.

I have also learned a lot. For instance, my cat Charles enjoys sitting in the dish drainer and reaching up to play with the key to my windup robot. Hmm. Interesting. Normally he just knocks magnets off the fridge in fits of Pavlovian food rage in the morning. I suppose I will be dragging my ass out to Target tomorrow, illness or not, to get a new dish drainer and coming up with a system to keep him and his butt out of it.

Well, I'm sure if I stayed up a little later I'd come up with even better ideas involving robots built out of the entire case of tofu someone gave me (can you say trash?) and is still sitting in my fridge. However, I shall say goodnight.

Sleep tight.

Don't let the bed bugs bite.

Thriftwood

I finally replaced my couch with a dreamboat, inviting, "Hey, come watch a movie or take a nap and dream of pixies on me" model. It is a quiet oatmeal color with flecks of a lovely brown that just basks in the sunbeams that stream in through the window. Very subtle and tasteful. It doesn't yell over my pillows and its arms are the perfect width for cat perching (it has two arms and I just happen to have two cats, though one has taken up residence on the back of it) and has the paw of approval from the more soft-spoken, elder cat, Dee-Dee, who made it perfectly clear last night as she walked across it, chriping, that it had a nice texture as well. I concurred and gave her a happy scratch behind her ears in her Scratch Indicator spot. My best friend Michael, who is somewhat of a couch expert, even gave his stamp of approval, declaring it an excellent stretch-out spot.

I should take this opportunity to tell you what a son of a bitch my previous couch was. When I bought it from the Salvation Army, which had, in the past, yielded pretty cool results in the couch department, it seemed okay. It was retro and had this embossed flower pattern on it. Sure it was kind of scratchy but whatever, I needed a couch and the price included a matching chair (which I still have for guests so I'm not at a complete loss for seating--not like everyone gathers at my house but the minute I ditch it, a jillion people will surprise me and stop over to see how I'm doing and I'll be at a loss, saying, "Gee, I JUST had this chair...") for a grand total of $50. The pair were sturdy, clean and I figured would last me until I moved. It wasn't until recently that I figured out the couch was bowing in the middle and becoming a sinkhole. Because it was roughly from the 60's, and possibly they didn't properly know how to measure cushions or some guy on acid made the couch, there was a rather large gap between the two cushions that was, again not immediately apparent. It was roughly the width of a cell phone and guess what routinely fell between there? Yeah, my cell phone. Also, pill bottles and other important items. My now ex-boyfriend had his one brilliant idea and suggested I put my pill bottles in a baggie, which I did. At the time I was a little torked that he thought of this first when he couldn't even pick out and buy his own shoes or schedule his own haircut, much less buy clothes. Yet, ironically he could solve the pill bottle between the couch problem. In the end, it got solved, so whatever. Also, maybe he was just really smart because when I met him he had two fake vaginas, possibly in case one ran out? (Alright, that was just me having a jab, but it's the truth! I don't normally do that, but I'm a little punchy today.)

A shout-out is due to Michael and my friend Ryan for heaving it the new couch my treacherous stairs and not taking out the antique light fixtures in the hallway or living room in the process. I love living in a historical building, but my stairs are treacherous. I have, actually, fallen down them. Not all the way, but from the fifth stair up, carrying a computer bag, clarinet case, messenger bag and arm full of books. Of course, assholes live below me and would never open their door to see what just hit the floor outside the door and the guy on the other side has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder hardcore from being in the army, aside from being rather odd. One time I somehow found myself in his apartment and a car backfired. He literally leapt over his desk and onto the floor between his massive L-shaped metal desk and the ginormous antique hutch attached to the wall of each apartment in the building. I was sitting in his video chair by the window which had speakers in it and thinking about how I could save up to get one of these things because you could also plug your headphones in it and listen to your music when it happened and he scared the shit out of me. I told him I thought it was just a car backfiring and asked if he wanted me to look out the curtain. There came from the floor a resounding "No!" I then understood I was a lady and he sure as hell wasn't going to use me as a shield if some sort of hell was going down outside his window, which was sort of sweet, really. I felt bad for him because he's actually very nice and always asks after me when he runs into my Mom. He's seen me go out of my building seizing with the paramedics more than once and one time I actually remember seeing him and hearing him say, "Hang Tough, Wendy." So he's a good soul. I suppose my point is that he is also a heavy day sleeper and even if he was awake my hitting the floor with all my shit probably would have made him hit the floor as well, which kind of sucks.

While I was in the midst of shopping, I was talking to my Mom (as you know, or if you don't, now you do, I can't drive right now due to my Epilepsy, but we're getting closer and closer to getting back behind that wheel!) in the car about making picture frames or something. I'm not sure, but what I meant to say was the word "driftwood" and what came out was "thriftwood" because we were passing the oddest thrift store. You know, the kind you don't want to go into because you're quite sure everything has been pissed on by a ferret or a drunken college student. Odds are, it's one of the two. Sometimes the latter owns the former and you get double piss on the merch.

The giggles got the better of us as the word Thriftwood was quite the interesting word to us and I started saying that it would be quite the thrift store attraction. 40 acres of crap you don't need. I justified it by listing other attractions and pop culture things with the suffix "wood" in them: Hollywood, Bollywood, Dollywood (!)...Thriftwood! Of course there would be limitations set forth at Thriftwood that I just don't see in place at your average thrift store.

For instance, no more selling of the following items:
*swim suits
*undies
*lingerie
*socks
*sheets
*blankets
*goggles

I'm sure I could think of more, but basically nothing that has touched any moist part of your body or, in the case of the goggles, that could transmit eye diseases. That's why women don't or shouldn't share mascara or other such eye makeup. You can create some really hideous eye problems that are drippy and pink, amongst other things. Come to think of it, add cosmetics to that list. Also, nothing mystifies me more than when I'm walking by an aisle and I see a woman casually flipping through used lingerie. Really, lady? You know some other lady's BARE crotch has touched that? Do you know what people do when they wear that? Obviously, because you're flipping through the rack and thinking of doing the same thing. Come here and let me whisper how crazy some people get with it, though. I'll even tell you some of my own stories in your ear if it will make you run screaming with your cart full of toddlers to the Women's Dresses aisle where you belong or even the Broken Ass Computer But I'm Sure I Can Fix It Department.
Then I see the casual flip through the used underwear which is a) usually chock full of grandma underwear and b)GRANDMA UNDERWEAR!!!! Shouldn't the words USED GRANDMA UNDERWEAR be enough to induce vomiting? They should put it on the back of poisonous chemicals. When you call Poison Control, the first they should say is, did you say to the person "USED GRANDMA UNDERWEAR?" If that doesn't work then the next thing to be used is "USED GRANDPA TIGHTIE WHITIES!" I have seen these items fly into carts like free iPods made of gold, usually pushed by people with mullets and women with mustaches, who I also don't understand. Are they not aware of popular culture making fun of them? Does the person with the mullet not go, "Oh my. I should maybe get a haircut! There are many websites devoted to making fun of my hair! Not only that there are ironic t-shirts for sale!" The woman with the mustache, well, the abundance of waxing studios and the fact that she could get away with being an old-timey villain is not a hint? On a personal note, it angers me that this woman has a husband! Granted, not the gem I would pick for myself (not a mullet fan, myself, but whatever) but still you know there was that moment where this guy stopped and was all, "Heyyyy! I want to give that ladeeee a smoochie!" My point being, of course that sure, these people would inevitably show up at Thriftwood. It's bound to happen. But they would mainly hang out chewing on our offerings of turkey legs and free popcorn. The turkey legs would cost like eight dollars. Plus you could get sandwiches and Arnold Palmers as a meal deal. Homemade root beer would be available, as well as year-round snowball fights. (I would hire my friends to collect snow in the winter and stock massive freezers with snowballs). This privilige would require the signing of a waiver because if you've ever been hit by a summer snowball, you know it's basically a wad of ice. I haven't worked out all the bugs here. I'm sure some sort of basic knee pads or face guard would be provided but the chestal area would be fair game. I mean, summer snowball fights aren't for total pussies and neither is Thriftwood.

Also, we would have fresh felt year round, cut into shapes. Maybe to taunt the mullets, we would have felt underwear and lingerie ornaments. Possibly mustaches and mullets?

And to top everything off: we'd have an antique carousel with live music by awesome bands and musicians (insert your dream musician here or feel free to leave a comment for your dream line-up. I'll start it off with David Bowie.That guy gets all the free turkey legs he can chew on.)

In closing, it's going to be pretty awesome and I just thought that I might put in a gallery of pictures of really comfortable couches as well. However, I don't know what our tagline is yet but I think the working one is THRIFTWOOD: We Gots Turkey Legs But No Undies!

The FBI Wants To Know About My Birthday Present

I have decided, as a birthday gift for myself, to do what I have been wanting to do for quite some time and change my last name to my Grandmother’s maiden name.

It’s quite the interesting process.

I have to be fingerprinted at the police station or, as my Mom says, "anyplace they fingerprint bad guys," so the FBI and the CBI can run background checks on me to make sure I’m not trying to create an alias to escape something I did to land me on the wall of the United States Postal Service nationwide. (Does anyone actually flip through those things?)

Then there is mucho paperwork with instructions to carefully follow which I have to file with the court. After that, I have to pay to publish it in the Greeley Tribune legal ads for a certain amount of time to make it super official. All in all, it ends up being $50. Not bad. Interesting but a good gift for myself.

I’m sure, just like when I go buy decent lingerie for myself, I will be entertained with questions of whether or not I am getting married. This is so irritating. People do both of said things for reasons other than getting married. I understand the name change situation more than I do the lingerie one. I was not aware that only people going on honeymoons bought lingerie. Pardon moi for trying to be classy and have pretty things in my wardrobe. I suppose department store clerks think single people are dirty tomcats who mate in dumpsters behind 7-11? Okay, some are but only a small percentage. Those people will always do that, even when they are married, if they ever get married. It’s a lifestyle thing, not a marital status thing. My point is that single people do things like buy decent lingerie and change their last names all the time for various reasons. Married people don’t have the monopoly on that like they do cheap groceries and tax breaks.

I just want my name to reflect the part of my family I feel closest to and relate the most to. It will be a constant reminder every day of the woman I look up to most and whose spirit I feel around me and in my blood. If I am half the lady Alberta Louise York was, I will feel I have lived up to her legacy and made her proud.