I Also Love The Dancing

I don't know if it's because it hasn't been on in like seven months (it's not summer FOX, stop pussyfooting around), or if it's because I need to rethink my sexuality, but I keep dreaming about Santana.

Not the Mexican rocker Santana, the Mexican girl from Glee Santana.

Maybe it means I want to be Mexican (Oh my god I wish) (Do you know how awesome I would be as a Mexican? TOTALLY awesome.) (And I would time travel back to 1991 when being a Mexican girl meant I could wear lip liner the color of chocolate, and pale nothingness as the fill in lipstick, and I would hair spray my hair so crispy if you got near it you could snag your sweater on it and end up trapped in my curls like a burr patch, and I would talk with a thick ghetto accent even though my parents and I speak Castilian Spanish at home, and I would wouldn't have had to wear pants that stopped about mid-thigh because I out grew everything at a lightning pace back then because I wouldn't wear pants, I would wear leggings under jean shorts and an over-sized Raiders jersey that I borrowed from my boyfriend Jose! I don't even care which Jose, and of the ones I knew would work!)

(To be fair that's actually what I looked like back then because I desperately wanted to be Mexican except I'm not, so I just looked like a ridiculous, white, gangly, Jewish girl with too much mousse in her hair and not enough boob to make the Raiders jersey look remotely attractive. It just looked like I was wearing a nightgown to school. And that I'd accidentally lined my lips with a sharpie.)

Anyway, the holidays are over and it's time for mah stories to start coming back on. Raising Hope, Glee . . . lets do this mother!

Here's a magic little gem because it's the song I dreamed about last night. Santana was singing it to me at the hospital while I got my teeth capped with gold and diamond caps. And then I shaved my head.

Maybe I don't wanna be Mexican, maybe I want to be a rapper.

I'm not sure I would fair as well.

Jack In My Heart

Let me tell you a little something about breakfast croissants from Jack in the Box. . .

I'm fairly certain they're made in the heavens by chubby little angels that went to Hogwarts and died in some sort of epic battle against the Dark Arts teacher and now have a place in magical Heaven, not normal human Heaven, and for some reason they work on a line system, like the elves in Santa's Village, even though they're in Heaven and they shouldn't have to work, but these are the kids that really wanted to go to culinary school but couldn't because they got a letter form Dumbledore and had to go just to make their parents happy, all of whom said, "Just finish your seventh year and then you can do whatever you want, go to pole dancing school if you want, I don't care, but you're gonna finish Hogwarts and you're gonna finish good." And then they ended up dying, which just made their parents devestated and crying in the corner, "Why didn't I just let little Bathildaione go to pastry school like she wanted?! Bwaaaaa!", but it's ok because now they get to spend eternity spreading love and joy and magic through cooking those tasty little breakfast croissants.

BEHOLD:






And they're two for three dollars! SHUT YOUR MOUTH!

I'll take twenty!

Anyway, I'm not sure why I'm going on and on about this, but when I lived in Chicago the closest Jack was and hour and a half away, and don't think that I didn't consider taking four trains to get there once, because I totally did. But now my sister lives like a block away from one, and it's pretty much going to be the death of my arteries, and I don't even care.

There goes my "Eating Healthy in 2011" resolution, I think I've officially changed it so now it's, "Eating Healthy More and More in 2011 and Loving Every Single Ham and Cheese Filled Second"


(P.S. I really wanted to label this post: "You Can Put Some Jack In My Box" just to show how much I love it - but then I remembered my Mom reads this so decided against it. Family friendly people.) (Sometimes.)

James Dahmer

Well, my murdering little psycho is back in action. You can all breath a sigh of relief - much like the way I hold my breath waiting and hoping Dexter will kill someone soon, because damnit if that Julia Stiles isn't putting a crimp in my stories with all of her feelings and blah, blah, blah - James has started murdering again.

Because of the winter, my little sucker doesn't spend much time outside if it's too cold, but we've had a weird warm patch which not only brought out the cat, it also apparently set all the mice in the world free, making it like a pedophile set loose in an un-teachered elementary school.

I'll be honest, I liked kill-free life. No blood to clean up, no praising him for bringing dead things into the house even though all I really want to do is cry/throw up a little. Plus when he comes into bed at night to snuggle in my knee nook, I don't worry that my lower legs are about to get some sort of SARS from one of the wild birds he has just eaten while still alive, and then my legs will be the resurgence of SARS back into the world, and I'll be quarantined in some government manned hospital where eventually they erase me from all world data banks, cut off my legs, and make me hobble around on my nubs, occasionally strapping wheels to them like some horrible version of human roller skates except way less fun.

But apparently I can't have life my way all the time. Because this morning. . . . this morning James caught a mouse the size of a football then let it go, caught it again, let it go, caught it again, threw it up in the air for a little bit in some sort of horrible juggling show of death, let it go, caught it again, juggled it, I think laughed a little bit, and then continued on with this cycle for a good forty five minutes, until he got bored, the poor thing died, and James decided the party was over and it was time to eat.

But I swear to God he's so super cute and teeny you could never imagine him doing such a thing! Which I imagine is the trick of all the great serial killers, it's how they get through life - making everyone believe they're innocent and tender and cute and cuddly, and then when you're not looking - *BAM* - there's a slaughterhouse in your front yard.

I hope it snows.

Kitten Pancakes

I'm pretty sure I used to do normal things. A while ago. Like, maybe back in High School. I know I at least made it out of my pjs everyday, because I went to school and trust me I would remember if I showed up in my green paisley silk pajama bottoms (that stopped just above my ankle bones) and my sister's t-shirt from kindergarten that said 'Class of 2000' on it. ( Why they gave a 5 year old a t-shirt that would fit a sixteen year old the size of a anorexic Luke Walton I'll never know.)

So, definitely back then I did important things like learn how to drive a car, and memorize the entire periodic table of elements, and discover that not all boys made out with their entire faces, some actually didn't leave a string of saliva between us like some weird sort of I'm-dating-you-umbilical-cord-of-gross. From there I somehow made it to college and graduated (twice)(how?)(I mean, I pretty much drank my weight in whiskey, which leads me to believe I am simply much smarter when drunk)(maybe alcoholics aren't alcoholics, they're really just cancer-solving, world-hunger-ending, space-robot-physicists trapped in a sober body?)(Please do not spread this around as fact though, as is just a theory. And probably a really bad one. Maybe. I can't tell, I'm sober.)

But then everything after that is sort of a reverse blur where I end up back in my pjs, watching waaaaay too many episodes of Two and a Half Men (awful), and making pancakes for my cat.

Oh yeah. That's right. I woke up the other day and made. pancakes. for. my. cat.

Ok, but here's the thing . . .

I've never made pancakes before. Like not even from a Bisquik mix. I don't even ever order pancakes. Once, Gige's husband and I were really hungover and we all went out to breakfast and he and I noticed the couple sitting next to us left almost an entire stack of uneaten pancakes. And by 'almost' I mean ok, fine, they had eaten a quarter of them, but the other quarter was untouched and golden and I think even glowing a little with sunshine sparkles, and we looked at each other, shrugged, and much to Gige's absolute horror, dug in and ate those suckers. But even then I didn't order them, I just ate them off of some strangers plate.

Anyway, so I don't normally have anything to do with pancakes. But I woke up and was like, "I think I want pancakes today. On a Wednesday. Even though it's 10am and I should be working." And just at that exact moment James jumped onto my chest, squished my boob as hard as he possibly could, and said, "Fuck yeah let's have pancakes."

So that's what we did.

Since I don't actually know if he used the F-word or not, I had to go by his actions, and the little sucker got up and followed me to the kitchen and watched every single thing I did to make the batter, like a crazy little Gordon Ramsey. But one that can fit in the mixing bowl. Which was where he sat after I'd made all the pancakes. Because he liked the feel of the leftover batter on his paws? I'm not sure. That little guy is weird with his textures. But he sat in that bowl as if I was supposed to rub the excess all over him like a whole body facial, or some sort of disguise he could use around the neighborhood to fool all the unsuspecting birds into coming to him.

Unfortunately I didn't act fast enough to get a picture of it, because I was too busy falling in love with him all over again for being RIDICULOUS, but I did manage to get a picture of our pancakes.

I ate like seven, and he only sort of licked this one, but it was totally worth it. Next week I might try waffles, that way maybe I can pour little tiny square pools of milk in them and make a fun little checker board of drink for him to relish! He's so lucky!

And yes, I'm going to shower and leave the house now. I do hear myself.

Just Creeping On The Down Low

So I - like the total creep I am - read a lot of Mommy blogs. Like, they're the first thing I check in the morning. So I - like a creep - totally know all about these strangers' kids, how old they are, what their names are, when they started walking, and so on. So much so that a year or so ago, I somehow brought it up with a girl I went to school with and she was all, "Oh my god I read them too! Did you hear blah blah had her baby?!" and I was all, "YES. She's soooo cute! Almost as cute as her son." and we chatted on like this for a while, talking about these women as if they were our friends, dodging weird looks from the guy we went to school with because he had noticed we were talking about people that were almost fictional to us. But worse. Because they're not fictional - it's not like I have some weird fan obsession with Bella and Edward and their world - it's an obsession about real people.

Cue police escort out of the building.

Anyway, I checked one this morning I haven't seen in a while and was shocked to find the baby is not really a baby anymore. She's walking and has hair and I was stunned. Like, I assume people freeze in time when I'm not reading about their personal life? Actually, yes. That is what I assume. The fact that life keeps happening when I'm not checking up on it is almost mind-boggling. And completely self-absorbed, I know, but still - shocking. Like, there's this kid I knew in first grade who broke his leg, and I haven't seen him since, and for some reason when I picture running into him I picture me as a thirty year old, talking to Casey Waters the six year old - asking him what's going on with his life, how's recess, did he get chocolate or plain milk for snack, you know, the ushe.

And I feel even more like a creep because I know if I ever ran into one of these women I read, or their kids, I would be all, "Oh my gosh! Hi Heather! Leta and Marlo are so cute! Hi Marlo, I know you love cheerios, why don't you come into my van and I'll give you all the cereal you want. Start the van Donny, START THE VAN, I'VE GOT THE KID!"

Just kidding. I don't know anyone named Donny.

Anyway, the whole point is, I should probably leave my house more and talk to real people so that one day I don't stumble out of the yard looking around me like - Where did all these flying cars come from? What's this facebook thing the kids are all talking about? Michael Jackson died when???

And I will. I will leave the house.

Right after I check up on some blogs. Like a creep.

Wolf-Bears, Swamp Orchestra, and Frogs With British Accents

I'm not sure if I mentioned Christmas (aside from the X-rated dinner talk) - but it was very easy, and probably one of the best Christmases I've had. And not because I got a pony (thirty years of asking and still - nothing), and not because my sister and I stayed in our super ugly, all-gray sweats all day, even when we went to the grocery store, which just exacerbated the ugly because with the gray clothes and the fluorescent grocery store lighting we looked so washed-out and sickly that I'm pretty sure the staff thought we were just let out of the hospital as some sort of diseased-twin-Christmas miracle, because no one would help us, probably totally afraid they'd catch whatever it was we had that made us look like that/made it totally impossible for me to tuck my t-shirt in so that it just hung out of the back of my sweatshirt and down to almost my knees like it was hiding my tail.

"They want to know what aisle the graham crackers are in."

"I'm not gonna show them. That one looks like she might be a leper and the other one has a tail. I don't want a tail."

"You can't catch a tail."

"How do you know?"

"Good point. Let's go on break."

Anyway, we did shower eventually. But the thing that made Christmas so good was the fact that Becky and I picked Michael up and brought him over for presents and he was so happy all day it was infectious.

This picture is right after we picked him up and I was singing Do You Know The Muffin Man to him as Christmas-y as I could. (Sidenote: there's not way to make the muffin man Christmas-y. Same goes for Mickey Mouse Club. Which was what I was told to alternate with the Muffin Man. Muffin Man. Mickey Mouse. Muffin Man. Mickey Mouse. It was a very alliterative Christmas morning.)

Look how pleased he is with my singing! I felt like Celine Dion!

The past few years he's had so much bad shit going on, that he's been just miserable. Imagine for a second that ALL of your sinuses are completely blocked/infected, so you can't even chew without ripping pain, and you've had tubes in your ears since you were three that are still there that the doctors forgot about, and you get migraines, your sister still calls your Sugarbutt, and you get generally depressed like anyone but you can't talk through your sadness because you don't have the skills so you just suffer in silence, occasionally stripping naked in public, or biting, or bruising or whatever it is you do because you can't communicate the pain you're in.

(You probably don't get naked when you're mad, but whatever. He doesn't know - that's the beauty of his Autism. He could be naked all day long in a Church full of nuns and baby birds and wouldn't care a bit so long as he got some peanut butter and jelly and the nuns and their weird little birds left him alone for God's sake.)

So, my mom has taken him to various doctors and therapists and specialists for the last few years trying to find a combo of stuff that will make him not so miserable and I don't want to jinx it, but holy crap! Look at that smile!

He even sat at Christmas dinner and had a good time, and then I put Rupert and the Frog Song on for him and he retired to his room to watch the movie which I can only describe as his way of trying to tell me he used to be really, really stoned in his previous life.

A little bear, that looks more like a wolf-bear, spies on some frogs that do a synchronized song and dance number and there's an old grandpa frog that smokes a pipe and yells at his son in a British accent while ogling a lady frog who has just had a baby. Just like any other normal family.

Anyway, the holiday was fun. Next year I just hope Michael will let me work some more songs into my repertoire, because if I have to sing Mickey Mouse Club one more time it'll be through gritted teeth, and will have a lot more curse words than Walt originally intended.

I'm just saying.

I Want Him To Move In And Sing Like This While I Shower, Clean, And Just Generally Do Things

I love this so much! At first I was like, "I didn't know that's what Taio Cruz looked like. I thought that was some Pacific Islander way of saying Tom Cruise."

And then I realized the magic that was happening!

And this is a bonus for one of my favorite people, because they inexplicably love this song more is considered normal. As do I.

Christmas Porn

I went into work on Christmas Eve because my boss said it was urgent. It didn't occur to me that it was Christmas Eve and we're a tax office, nothing is important unless it's in April or October. But my boss has mind control voodoo so I ran over there like a surgeon about to preform emergency open-heart surgery on a child the Jews are calling the real Jesus.

Here's what happened:

"Amy?"

"Yes?"

"We need to talk about the porno."

" . . . "

And that's when I went into a coma-like state and simultaneously tried to remember if I've ever looked at porn at work, and if I had why would I be stupid enough to leave a trail on my work computer of all places, I must have gotten distracted by a meeting or something and left some site running that magically spread itself through the office network and onto everyone else's computer so that suddenly my romantic-porn (I wish!) was thrusting itself on everybody's screen, ruining their spreadsheets, but hopefully brightening their day a little because if I was looking at porn at work it would be more like soft porn, with a good storyline and romantic kissing, and would not have as much spitting (spitting! really?) as normal porn, and at the end it would have like a half an hour of cuddling (if I felt like it) and the production of a positive pregnancy test.

And because of all this I had to come in on Christmas Eve, because she found my porn and was going to fire me before Christmas so that she wouldn't have to do it on Christmas in front of the whole family, which I thought was very generous of her. Never mind the fact that I'm well aware that I have never actually looked at porn at work, nor would I, I'm not even sure what to do if someone asked me to find porn, I'd probably just Google 'Megan Fox' and see what came up. Once when I was staying at Gige's house I googled "gay male porn" and left it up on her husband's laptop hoping to stir up some shit, but they didn't even blink. I'm apparently becoming predictable.

And also never mind the fact that no one wants to hear their Grandma say "porno" on Christmas Eve. (She also said it at Christmas dinner by the way) (And she's not crazy, that's just how she tells stories - with an 'o' at the end of words, to make them sound even more creepy than they already are) (and 'the porno' because it's so severe it needs to be addressed the same way she addresses 'The AIDS' or 'The Chinese' - like they can all be grouped into one.)

So anyway, as I sat there for what seemed to be yeeeeeeears trying to get myself out of something I hadn't even done she said:

"We need to do better bookkeeping."

". . . Yes?"

"Because one of my clients had a porno charged to them every month and they didn't know and I don't want that to happen."

"Ok-"

"Ok, now are you coming in tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is Christmas."

**Big heavy eye-roll-y sigh**

"So I guess that means you're taking the day off?"

You bet your ass I'm taking the day off. Like my porno is gonna watch itself?! I don't think so.

Eyebrows, Glee, Dawson's Creek And My Brand New Home

Sometimes a show comes along and saves lives. And that show is Glee.

Just the other day Glee cured cancer.

Ok, fine, maybe it didn't, and maybe it doesn't exactly "save lives" but I'm pretty sure if they had a time machine, ninety-nine percent of the population would use it to transfer into Ohio Glee World, where they get to do rain choreography with Gwyneth Paltrow, and sing with Finn, and make out with Finn, and sing while making out with Finn. (And yes, time machines can be used to transfer to fictional lands, otherwise what are they good for?!)

So anyway, somehow I was way behind on my tv watching and had to watch the last four Glee episodes in a row yesterday. ("had to" - my life is so hard)

Anyway there seems to be a lot of talking and not a lot of singing going on in some of these episodes. If I wanted to see a lot of kids jabbering on about themselves I'd re-watch some Dawson's Creek.

But oh my gosh - that new kid - the school boy who's so super cute he makes my underwear practically shine with the heavenly light of a thousand stars, beaming out of my pants and into the eyes of my soul?

I love him.

I'm taking my time machine to break up with Finn and just stare dreamily at . . . whatever his name is. I can't date him because I'm fairly certain he's gay in this show. Oh, how a huge part of me wishes I was a gay teenage boy so that I could fantasize properly.

I'm gonna be honest and say that I probably wouldn't like him so much, save for the fact he did this little number right here. And not so much the song even, but the fact that the school boys all start side-stepping in time. Moving! At the same time! To a beat! I'm so easy really, but there's something magical about boys doing the same moves. It's why the military and school bands are so hot - because they march in time.

Look at his eyebrows. They're so thick and bushy I just wanna curl up inside of them and roll around in my little eyebrow teepee. You could stay warm for a year with just his eyebrow hair.

I bet they are. I bet they are the most comfortable eyebrows ever.

I haven't seen the Christmas episode yet, but I'm about to get in bed and watch the crap out of it. Right after I re-watch some Dawson's Creek.

You're Welcome In Advance

I love movies. I love them to the point that I probably like some more than I should just because it's a movie. Old School? I wanna marry it. Citizen Cane? Awesome. E.T.? My heart just swelled a little. Goodfellas? Yes please. Bride Wars? Kate Hudson is freakin' funny in that, I don't care what you say.

And I will forever stand by the fact that Grease 2 is my favorite movie and that Casablanca is a piece of shit.

(Just kidding, I've never seen Casablanca. I'm sure I'd love it.) (As long as it has people singing while straddling a guy wearing a leather jacket exposing his chest hair.)

Hmmm, maybe it's not exposing any chest hair, maybe I just like to imagine that part. Oh, Michelle Pfiffer - I wanted to be you so bad when I was a kid. I don't even care that Stephanie Zinone and Michael Carrington probably ended up pregnant and married by 18, still working at the gas station, and living upstairs from it in a studio apartment they share with a renter named Len and his pet snake Tito, surviving off of Corn Nuts and food stamps, and the sheer power of love.

But I may have found something to battle my heart for Grease 2.

Everyone, I present to you - The Room. The sleeper hit of 2003.

It only took 6 million dollars to make this movie people. That's it. Six measly million.

It's sort of like Christmas in video form!

Sometimes I Really Miss Dial Tones

So I'm not sure why, but for some reason no one has a key to my sister's house except the maid. (And before you start to judge, my sister isn't some crazy rich lady who has a maid.) (I mean, she has a maid, but only because the whole town rallied around and demanded she get one lest they condemn the house for too many unmade beds in a house that only houses two people. She's not dirty, my sister, she just doesn't like to clean.)

Anyway, so I've been using the spare key everyday to get into the house because no one seems to remember that there is such a thing as making more keys, so instead we just sort of live life on a whisper and a prayer that someone will have remembered to put the spare key back in it's hiding spot so we can get into the house. You never know if you'll be able to get in when you want to, which sort of makes me feel dangerous.

"Can I get in the house today for lunch? No one knows."

But yesterday I was at work at 6am and left at 6pm, and by the time I got home, I was so thrilled with myself for remembering to put the spare key back I hugged myself a little in the car. Then I practically ran to the key, then shoved it in with all the enthusiasm of a teenage boy about to do it for the first time, before it stopped cold and sort of bent against nature. Wrong hole. I tried the top lock - nothing.

This isn't funny.

I tried again, and again because I'm not a quitter, before I realized it . . . my rich, crazy sister's maid locked me out of the house.

Naturally I grabbed my cell phone to call my sister and find out when someone would be home, but I had been using the GPS app thing all day to walk around the block to see if it would work correctly (it did!) and my m.f.ing battery was dead!

I just stood there for like five minutes because I had no idea what to do. How do I call people without a cell phone? Pay phones? Do they even have those anymore? I know they have them in Baltimore in the projects, because that's how they catch drug dealers - but I haven't seen a pay phone in years!

Finally, I got in my time machine and took it to 1998, where there's a pay phone on every corner and hair spraying my bangs was still sort of passable as a look.

Actually, I took it to the gas station and there was a pay phone there! I was so shocked I jumped up and down a little then ran over to it and kissed it. Then I got AIDS.

No, I didn't. But it was sticky and weird, and I left my sister like seven voicemails screaming at the top of my voice like a lunatic, because I was worried she wouldn't be able to hear me through the tin-can-like pay phone, that was all crackly and had that background radio noise that landlines have, so I was all, "BECKY! THIS IS AMY! I DON'T KNOW IF YOU CAN HEAR ME. I'M IN A PAYPHONE. (I wasn't in one, but I was scared of the phone and not thinking right) CALL ME BACK HERE. I'M LOCKED OUT OF THE HOUSE. I'M! TALKING! TO! YOU! FROM! A! PAYPHONE! WHAT THE F*&K!"

Anyway, I got a hold of my mom, she called my sister and discovered no one would be home for a long time. So I was back to plan B. Break-in time.

Now, I've climbed through the window once before, but it was after my ten year High School reunion and I was hammered, and Gige was hammered, but she was there to help push my butt through the window, uncaring that I was about five seconds away from breaking my pelvis because for some reason all the windows in Becky's house only open to about six inches high. Like a prison.

It took like forty minutes, and a break to eat some Taco Bell after my reunion, so I was not looking forward to it. This is what it looked like the first time I did it:

It was uncomfortable, and I'm not even sure how my six foot one frame made it through an opening the size of a loaf of bread, except that the alcohol must have made my bones sort of Gumby-ish.

But somehow, magically, last night - after I'd braced myself for a broken bone or two - I made it in with absolutely no problem at all. It was like I'd Alice in Wonderlanded myself through the opening.

I almost wanted to go back out and do it again, just to prove I could, but I didn't want to risk it.

And then two seconds after I slid into the house the Math Teacher came home with the key.

Of course she did.

It was kind of nice though, having to use a pay phone, it was like when you were a kid and it was so fun to pretend to use those old fashioned phones you have to talk into one part that looks like a tulip and hold the other part to your ear while wearing a monocle.

I might just try it again. Get all hair-sprayed up and head to the gas station to make some phone calls. Only this time, I'm bringing some hand sanitizer with me. Because I love nostalgia, but just with less stranger goo.

Willow Smith, Hairography, and How I'm Going To Make Thanksgiving More Weird Than It Should Be

So I texted Gabi the other day and was like:

"I kinda love that song - I Whip My Hair Back And Forth"

and she was like:

"Yeah! It's catchy!"

and I was like:

"I know right!"

and then she was like:

"It's Willow Smith. Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith's kid."

and I was like:

"What? That's a kid!"

That was as shocking as when I found out Justin Beiber was white.

and she was like:

"Yeah, she's got a good voice."

and I was like:

"She??"

and she was like:

"Boys whip their hair back and forth?"

and I was like:

"If they grow it out. I'm not prejudice."

and she ignored me and was like:

"I can't wait to shake my booty to it in front of your family!"

and I was like:

"Me too! Get ready for some weird girl-on-girl dancing to a thirteen year old singing what I thought was a sexy hip hop song!"

and she was like:

"LMAO!!!"

and I was like:

"Your mom LMAO!"

and then we exploded into a SoCal, valley girl time bubble of giggles and hairspray because for some reason I can't talk to/about her without saying 'like' every five seconds as if I'm a thirteen year old trying to get out every emotion she can before third period bio class because she's just so teeming with hormones and bursting with love for Christian Slater she can't control it and if she doesn't say 'like' SHE'LL PROBABLY EXPLODE ALL OVER THE HALLWAY and be late for class because how can you keep stuff in when you're a thirteen year old girl? You can't. You have to get it out or you'll die, so as a place holder for actual words you say 'like', or your heart will stop beating.

Anyway, so I was feeling some sort of weird thirteen year old kinship with this Willow, when my sister sent me this, the video:

OK. Hold. Up.

That is one young looking thirteen year old. Where's her padded bra? Where's her. . . adult face? Why does she look like someone from my third grade class dressed up in her mom's makeup and grandma's clothes???

And what up with the lip bedazzling? What sort of high-class dancer dazzles their lips with fake little diamonds, and where the heck can I get some of those!

And then I figured it out:

She's nine.

NINE.

Years old.

Not, nine years and four as they say in the olden days, when they added things in a really weird way instead of just saying the number outright. And not nine as in some sort of age code all the kids are using so that when you say nine what you really mean is 117 divided by 13 is 9, because they all talk in crazy computer algorithms now - but nine as in, she should be watching the Ninja Turtles, and asking her mom to leave the hallway light on when she goes to bed because she's afraid of the dark because she's nine.

Now I feel weird. If I'm gonna be grinding up on my sister or friends at a family function I want to be able to do it to a song that's not added an extra level of uncomfortable to the whole mess. Do you know what I mean? I mean, I'm a thirty year old who just used the word 'grinding', if that doesn't creep everyone out already, you . . . well, you might really enjoy the Willow/Jonbenet Ramsey type video.

To be fair, there are no real sexy lyrics, and she's not dressed that inappropriately, but I still feel weird dancing to it.

Is that gonna stop me once I get a half a glass of wine in me?

I doubt it. I highly, highly doubt it.

Why Do You Live - Because I Have Something Worth Living For

Ahhhhh! Stop talking all low and whispery to each other like that! MY NERVES CAN'T HANDLE IT.

Screw Bella and Edward (you too Jake, but not in that way) - you know what I just remembered is coming out in a week?!

Harry Motherfucking Potter!

(if I could make that font glitter I'd totally do it)

Harry Hogwarts Hermione Ron Snape Snape Severus Snape Potter! HP7 as they're calling it. I don't even care that they're whittling it down to a weird little acronym, I'd get that creepy, steely looking acronym tattooed on my bicep because the movie looks soooooo good!

Yeah, on the inside of my bicep, because I don't want to show it off all the time.

(Sometimes it's amazing I can lift a coffee cup to my lips. I've got to get back to the gym. At one point in my life I could bench press the barbell. Just the bar. With no weight on it. Don't be jealous. That sucker weighs like 8 . . . 10 pounds. Just kidding, I think it's 45 pounds. Forty five pounds of pure steel I could life over my head like some sort of Greek goddess! . . . Er, at least that's what I used to yell every time I made it more than one rep.)

The best thing about not having any sort of memory is that I don't have any sort of memory, so everything seems new to me. I've read all the books, most of them more than once, and I know for sure I loved the last one with all of my heart, but I cannot for the life of me remember what happens.

I was watching the trailer, and I started to get all excited and nervous, and I was like, "Oh my God! WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN!"

I mean, I know what the end-end is going to be, but I forget all of the middle section, so I just started shouting at my laptop, "Why is Harry with Voldemort so much? Oh my gosh Run! RUN FASTER! Hermione what are you doing? Who are you being so brave against, and why is Ron topless in a field of leaves?! Who just kissed? MORE Voldemort?! Where's Dumbledore? OH MY GOSH THAT'S RIGHT (*slight sobbing starts here*) Why does the panning across the landscape sort of look like the opening of the Twilights? This better not have a crossover or I'm gonna be pissed. (*now the sweating with nervousness starts*) And how come Harry looks like someone out of Lord of the Rings for a while? AND WHEN WAS THERE A LIGHT SABER STANDOFF AT THE END!?! Oh my god I'm so excited!"

Two parts my ass. Someone better leak that shit or I don't know what I'm going to do with myself.

I mean, just look at this.

J.K. Rowling, sometimes I wish you were my mom.

(just kidding mom, i love you)

Snow Running

I was just told this was an unattractive look:

Oh but I beg to differ sir! I'm about to run in the snow, I need to be warm. And also, right before I was told that I was looking at myself in the mirror thinking, "Oooh, this is kinda cute. Like sporty cute."

"No."

"No?"

"No, it's not."

"Are you sure?"

" . . ."

And because I know myself and my sexual prowess, I stood strong and maintained it was not an unattractive look. Not at all. I know unattractive! And I knew that I wasn't done dressing.

Because then - then came this:

I'm not sure why I look drunk so early in the morning, nor why my hoodie/warm headband combo makes look like I'm about to go scuba dive, but it always does. For some reason, this particular hoodie is so fit, and tight around the head, it's less hood and more skull cap. Like something you put on to flatten your hair down before you put a wig on.

Needless to say, I was still thrilled with my look and the new snow when I got back from my run that I decided it was time to get James out into the cold. Time to let him get giddy with happiness at the pretty weather, and possibly up his cuteness level by a million by sticking his little kitty tongue out to gather snow flakes on it! HOW MUCH FUN WE WILL HAVE! I shouted as I picked him up and dragged him out into the snow with me.

He was not a fan.

He pretty much saw me heading for the door, looked up at me and said, "You've got to be shitting me."

"OH AM I?"

"You don't want to do this."

"OH DON'T I?!"

"I'm not kidding."

"OH AREN'T YOU!"

"Have you seen the way I can kill with my bare teeth and then devour a bird twice my size in a matter of seconds?"

"OH HAVE I?"

". . . "

"I mean, I have. Yes. I have seen you do that. But c'mon! This will be fun!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaaay!"

And then, giddy with anticipation, and dressed for sexy I dragged my little sucker out into the first snowfall! Because I knew once he got out there he'd love it. He'd look up at me and be thrilled. He'd probably thank me; with a little kitty card he made by himself at his little kitty desk, signed: **pawprint** your James. (And then I'd cry).

Anyway, he didn't love it so much as he hated it. Hated it a lot. But that doesn't mean I didn't stay out long enough to take many, many pictures!!! (My kids are so gonna be the ones at the mall dressed in matching cowboy outfits, complete with fake guns, for their fake posed shootout at sundown, and they'll be all, "Mom this sucks." and I'll be all, "Just do it, you know you'll love it once that life size photo comes back and I hang it on your wall. Think of how cool your friends will think it is!" and they'll be all, "I don't want it on my wall. I'm eighteen. And I don't have friends anymore. Not after you jumped out of my birthday cake at school and sang Happy Birthday to me like Marilyn Monroe." and I'll be all, "But that was so fun for me!" and they'll be all, "Marilyn Monroe, Mom! For fuck's sake!" and I'll be all, "Ok that's it mister, for cussing at me you now have to wear that bandanna as a handkerchief around your mouth. You just got demoted to robber.")

(Click to enlarge/read)

300th Blog Post!

And here's my sister celebrating! (this is why I love her)

Glee, Sex and the City, Rocky Horror, Topless Magic

I'm apparently waaaaay behind the times (with my movie and tv watching), because I just was scrolling through my Netflix and I was like, "Oh what's this. . . Damages? Glenn Close is in a tv show?" *An hour later* "Oh my god this show is amazing! I must tell everyone!" *Calls Becky*

"So there's this show. . . " *Becky lets me go on and on and then says* "Yeah, I think it came out in 2007."

Interesting.

Then I was wandering around Target the other day and I saw a display for Sex and the City II out on DVD and I was like, "Oh man. . . I thought I could still see it in theaters!" So, I went ahead and bought it. Not rented - but bought it - because I loved the first one so much, and thought, "What could go wrong?!"

Oh god. So much. So so much could go wrong.

I'm not gonna get into it, because you all saw it a year ago when you should have (or you didn't because you are smart), but I was so uncomfortable and slightly bored, and then - AND THEN - they got up and sang I Am Woman, at some underground karaoke thing, and I was so embarrassed for them I hid under my sweater and started sweating a little. Like I was mortified for them, looking around to make sure no one was suddenly in my house watching me/them sing so inappropriately. I haven't been that embarrassed for a character since Baby was learning to dance, and carried a watermelon.

I just got sweaty again.

Anyway, so then I recovered and remembered I STILL HAD GLEE TO WATCH! ROCKY HORROR GLEE! ALL MOTHERF*&KING CAPS ROCKY M*F*ING HORROR GLEE!

I know that people who haven't seen Rocky Horror/weren't a total nerd in High School probably didn't appreciate that episode very much, but oh my shit it made me so happy I can't even stand it!

The only thing that was a little questionable was the word changes in Touch Me, to make it a little more FOX friendly - it pretty much undid every sexual fantasy I had between 1994-1998.

But then made up for it!!! Finn as Brad! Can you make me wish I was a transvestite any more? (Brad sleeps with Dr. Frank N. Furter in the movie. I think. Maybe I'm just wishing.) (No, he totally does. Tim Curry - Hot.) Meatloaf and Barry Bostwick guest starring! Uncle Jesse singing and motorcycle riding all over the place gaflaghaliuewrpjsldkfka! AHHHHHH! It's like they took all forms of happiness, shook them up in a snow globe and let it explode it's joy all over the world!

The only problem I have with this, is that I'm behind the times so I had to watch it on Hulu and sometimes my internet is slow and takes time to load like right in the middle of my heart spasming out of my brain with pure, weird bliss, so I get all antsy and, again, sweaty with joy. (Medical condition I should get looked at?) I get sweaty when I'm embarrassed and excited - it's a curse. I blame my mom. I also get sweaty more when I'm cold than when I'm hot. Don't ask me why, just know that it's making me rethink my refusal to move directly onto the equator.

Anyway, so as I was waiting for Hulu to load my Glee (which I have figured out how to hook up to my tv so I can pretend it's on in the middle of the day) (am technical genius!), I whipped off my shirt and ran to the kitchen to wash my armpits. (I have a system. It involves washing and reapplying. Don't judge me.) I'm not about to run to the bathroom because then I might miss some of the episode so I stand at the kitchen sink wetting my underarms and squirting some Dawn up on there, stealthily keeping an eye on the tv, and then I realize I don't keep my deodorant in the kitchen! So I start to panic, because this means I'll have to go in the bathroom, but panicking means more sweating, so I calm down and look from the TV to the bathroom. TV to the bathroom. Bathroom. TV. Bathroom. TV.

And then I run.

And I get back just in time, because the show has started again, and I'm singing, and thrilled, and multitasking by applying my deodorant, and singing some more, and then . . . out of the blue. . . I'm not kidding. . . The goddamn UPS guy shows up. AGAIN!

And the worst part is the TV is right next to these two, huge, sliding glass doors, so it's not even like I can duck down below the windowsill, because there is not windowsill! It's just huge glass panes of embarrassment, there to show off my glowing white goodies to all of the yard, and the UPS delivery guys who don't use the side door like they should.

I never order stuff from UPS. I'm not sure why suddenly he's coming to deliver stuff to me EVERYDAY at the worst possible time!!!

So, I'm standing there, topless, in pajama pants (again) in the middle of the day, the only thing making me feel better is the fact that I do not have a wine glass out.

And he just stands there.

As do I.

Uh....

Hey . . .

Uhm. . . This looks weird.

Uh. . .

I was just . . . Glee is on.

And it makes me sweaty.

Oh . . . ok?

So . . . uh. . .

. . .

. . .

Ok, I'm just gonna leave this here.

Needless to say, he just dropped the package right there, didn't even have me sign for it, just sort of waved and backed up without turning around until we couldn't see each other anymore. I'm not sure why I just froze there, except that I think I kind of thought if I didn't move maybe he wouldn't think I was real.

If you look you can see James in the background, watching and judging. He stayed away until the guy left as if he was embarrassed, and didn't want strangers to know that this is where he gets his food. And the front shot of me - those bangs - that's what happens when I don't put on the headband. I look like I have a botched mullet. Too short in the front. Too much party in the back.

I don't know why my leg was up either, it's not like I was going to deodorize down there next, I think I was just too excited to be standing still, and I didn't even notice my leg was up until after the UPS guy had left and I had to forcibly put it down. Maybe I always do that? Like when girls put on mascara and they open their mouths? I'm gonna have to pay attention next time I use it. Which could be soon. Glee is on again tonight.

Thanks A Latte (It never, ever gets old does it?)

So, I'm turning into my mother, but not in the normal ways. In the really weird ways. Like in the way every time I talk to her on the phone she gets lost. She's lived in Southern California her entire life, but for some reason when we get on the phone she gets sucked into a weird vortex and I can time my watch to twenty minutes into the conversation when she'll suddenly stop and say, "Dammit! I'm lost. Get some sort of map up on your computer." and then I help her find her way home. - The other day I got lost in Target while I was on the phone. TARGET. Not like lost where I was afraid I'd never find the exit, but lost in the way where I didn't know where the clothes section was, or how to find the housewares. In Target. That's like my hometown, I should be arrested for getting lost in there.

Or like how she has worn her eyeliner the same way since 1973. The other day someone suggested I try smudging, or smoking, or something weird with my eyeliner, and I had a total meltdown inside, and scream-whispered, "But that's not how I learned to do it in 6th grade?!"

Then yesterday I went out and bought an espresso machine.

Oh yeah. That's right. I'm my mother.

Now, this may not seem that crazy - lots of people have espresso makers you think. And they do. But do lots of people pack a suitcase specifically for bringing along their espresso maker on vacations? Let me repeat: A whole extra suitcase. For her latte machine. Because sometimes coffee shops run out of soy and she doesn't want to be left in a place where she can't have her soy latte because for the love of God, how's she supposed to control her menopause if she can't have her soy?!?!

So, here I am getting lost in Target, looking for the coffee maker section when a staff member kindly directs me over to them. Then stands and helps me decide which one I want (which is weird, because it's Target, not a car dealership, I don't usually get such attention, nor do I want it. Target is for throwing hundreds of dollars of things in my cart, then slowly as I make my way around the store, deciding I don't need this thing, or that, then dumping said item in the wrong spot of the store because I'm not about to go find out where it is really supposed to go, I still have ten thousand different kinds of loofahs to look at, and winding up at the register with a sweater and a spatula I hand to the checker and say, "I'll just have this gum, I don't want these things.")

Anyway, I'm standing there trying to decide which machine to get and the teenage guy is like, "Well, what do you need it for?"

I'm opening my own coffee shop, and this way if I buy one here I can make about two lattes an hour. What do you mean what do I need it for?

"Uh. . . for making lattes?"

"For just you?"

What is he, some sort of latte expert?

"Well, probably just me. But someday I might make them for someone else if you know what I mean *wink*" Why I feel the need to talk to teenage boys like I'm some pervy mom out of an after-school special, I have no idea.

"I do." He's totally un-phased. And because he's so calm I proceed to get less calm, and more talk-y.

"I drink coffee too."

"So you don't really need this?"

"No, I do."

"Ok."

"I need it for the soy milk. Well, and I like lattes, and how fun because I can make like pumpkin ones in fall and stuff, but soy pumpkin."

"That sounds-"

"-Not because I'm like allergic to milk or anti-animal products or anything, I love meat. And cheese. Well, I love cheese more than meat, but you know what I mean. I'm not against them. I'll eat bacon like a motherf*&er."

"What?"

"It's just the soy is the key, because it's good for you. For women. For me, mainly. See, you probably don't want to know this. . . " But of course I don't stop myself from telling him. "But I haven't had my period in a long time. I went off the pill because I don't want to be all dependent on chemicals, but my period has decided to go on a permanent vacation, and so I'm starting to get a little freaked out, because it's been like 9 months, and I'm clearly not delivering a child right now, so it didn't stop because I was pregnant, it just stopped, I don't know, to fuck with me? Anyway, I've been reading that soy is good at balancing your estrogen levels and whatever, so I've been getting soy lattes every morning, but that shit is expensive, so I figure I'd just make my own, and help my hormones check themselves before they wreck themselves, and so I need this machine really for my womb. This machine is for my womb."

**stunned silence**

**equally stunned silence from myself** Sometimes a time machine would help me out in life soooooo much.

"Well," the kid said reaching for a box. "This one might be womb-worthy."

Awwwwww! I LOVE HIM.

So I bought it, and told him I'd make him one anytime. But of course he was already running into the back room where I'm not allowed to go, before I could get the whole offer out.

So, here I am. Latte machine in hand. Slowly, but surely morphing into my mother.

There are worse things to be. That's for sure. I just wish I could have gotten her less crazy traits, but oh well. Maybe those will come when I get more of this soy into my system.

My Mom Is A Tween

My mom came up to me at work yesterday and asked me if she could borrow my car keys, which is weird because she has her own car - and she didn't ask if she could borrow my car, just the keys, like she was gonna go shank someone and didn't want to get blood on her set.

"You want the keys?"

"I got a ride into work today so I don't have a car."

"What are you going to do in the car?"

"Uh. . . "

**searching my brain for reasons my mom needs to just be in a car that don't include hot-boxing, or changing her clothes**

"Do you need to change your clothes?" I went with the most possible, though not any less weird.

"What?"

"Why do you need my car?"

"To drive it." Well you didn't mention that before weirdo.

"Drive it where?"

"Uh. . . drive it to . . . the uh. . . " and then she looked searchingly up to the left so I knew she was trying to think of some sort of lie to tell me, like a teenager asking to borrow the car so they can go hot-box with their boyfriend behind the cemetery. Or change clothes in the car with their boyfriend behind the cemetery. Or something weird she was going to lie about. And maybe she looked up to the right, I can't remember which way is supposed to mean you're lying, all I know is she looked very about-to-lie-to-me-y, and I know that look well. I don't need a right brain/left brain signal to show me that, I memorized that face after the time she sat me down and told me waiting for marriage was fun. Mostly because she started laughing about two seconds before the whole sentence was even out of her mouth.

"Honey, waiting for marriage is good."

"Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not. But I know if you're related to me this talk is going in one ear and out the other so I'm just gonna stop now before I dig this hole even bigger."

"Huh?"

"Don't get pregnant."

"I'm twelve."

"So we have a deal then?"

So, anyway, as I was trying to figure out what to do with my mom leaving to be sneaky with my car my sister interrupted by sending me a picture of something so weird looking my mind could only comprehend it to look like exploded golf balls all over the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"I exploded eggs all over the kitchen."

"That makes more sense."

"I tried to hard boil some eggs and then I forgot about them and they all exploded. I didn't even know eggs could do that. What should I do?"

"Clean it up?"

"But I want hard boiled eggs."

Then I imagined her trying to scrape egg off the ceiling to eat it in a sandwich, but that got interrupted with thoughts of my mom doing a drug deal in my car (that's another thing you can do in a car I just remembered!) (and no 'just doing errands' does not enter into my thoughts because she wouldn't have been being sneaky about errands), and then that got interrupted with a text message from my mom that said: Be back in a few hours.

Be back in a few hours? What the heck!

Then my sister said something about how, oh by the way the Math Teacher fell down some stairs and could I go to Watts to get her car, and something about collecting stray egg bits from the dog food and my insides melted down a little bit.

It's the Busiest Time In The World at my work right now! I don't have time to handle my newly teenaged Mom, and my culinarily weird sister, and her leaving-car-in-the-middle-of-The-Hood girlfriend! I'm afraid of PEANUT BUTTER for God's sake!

*sigh*

I've started drinking wine again.

I think we all know why.

Not Drunk Enough For Most Things Apparently

When Gige got married I was not nearly drunk enough. Not drunk enough to give a speech, I mean. I was more than drunk enough to (accidentally) flash the bike riders in Santa Barbara while we were bored waiting for pictures to be over, as I tried to show the others that my dress was about a foot and a half too short for me by lifting it up over my head, to demonstrate the fact that my dress was so short it didn't even cover my chin. I'm sure I could have gotten the point across with less - look-I'm-not-only-wearing-a-dress-that's-awkwardly-short-I'm-also-wearing-my-Mom's-underwear, and more - look-my-knees-are-showing, but alas, that's the only time I was drunk.

I wasn't drunk because too sick to keep drinking, but after an entire box of Sudafed and some Tylenol PM (bad move right before a wedding p.s.) I was just sick enough, and just hopped up enough on over that counter drugs that I got dizzy standing up, so that sort of replicated being drunk.

Sort of.

But I had to give a toast, so I got up and gave a speech that I think was short? That talked about love and stuff? I'm not really sure, but I do know that I cried during most of it, and that I warned Gige's husband about what he had just gotten into. And then I naturally quoted a play about AIDS.

Because that's what everyone wants at their wedding - a maid of honor who brings up AIDS.

They're so lucky!

The AIDS was just a bonus, the real key of the speech was the warning to her husband, Mr. Gige. I made some statement about how when he married her he got me too and that means everything. Everyone sort of laughed, like - oh, ha ha she's gonna be around a lot, isn't that funny, ha ha she's crying again, that's weird, she said something about him having two wives. . . did she just make a joke about a threesome at a wedding. . . who the hell invited her?? But the jokes on them because I wasn't joking. (I mean, I was about the threesome, but not the rest of it) (Maybe)

Luckily, Mr. Gige knew that marrying her included lots of things like me calling in the middle of their date night to ask Gige something like, "Who's that guy in that movie with my husband where he's shirtless?"

"Gary Oldman?"

"No, my other husband."

"Kevin Spacey?"

"Yeah."

"Oh it's. . . hold on . . . American Beauty. That guy is Chris Cooper."

"Yes! Thanks!" *click*

But it also includes fun things like, me taking over his bathroom and office every time I come to visit; me allegedly saying things like "dirty vagina sweat" (at dinner with his parents), or "Auntie Gabi will teach you about oral" (to their new baby), or "Motherfucking Cold Stone" (different dinner, this time with both their parents) (because apparently I CANNOT keep my mouth shut and recognize when there's adults in the room, and then end up so mortified I'm fairly certain Mr. Gige's parents secretly refer to me as That Tall Girl With Turrets Whose Face Is So Red She's Either Constantly Blushing Or She's Sunburned). Or, like right after they got married it somehow became my job to call and leave fake dirty messages for him on their answering machine, where I would talk about what sort of lingerie I would be wearing for him, where we would meet, what I wanted to do that night. . . you know, normal stuff you say to your best friend's husband. (Don't you want me for your best friend??)

The best part about it is that at that time they had a roommate and said roommate did not know me, or of my existence really (not sure why they'd want to hide me, but whatever). And the Gige's still had one of those old-fashioned answering machines where you can hear the message someone is leaving as they're leaving it, blasting out into the living room like some sort of pornographic intercom system. So this roommate was hearing me leave messages asking Mr. Gige whether he wanted me to wear the leather or the nothing at all under my trench coat, and she was all, "Uh. . . I don't know what's going on here, but I feel like I should say something."

Way to have a brother's back Roommate! Narc.

And then along with the dirty messages (which I have stopped now that they have a kid) (I have some standards people) I also like to send Mr. Gige pictures of ailments I have and ask him to diagnose me and stop my freaking out. And, because he loves his wife, he always answers me. Like the time I had a rash On My Eye and was fairly certain I was going to die. And more recently, the time I sent him this picture of my knuckle and started crying while I was typing - because again, I was fairly certain my knuckle problem was going to cause death.




Let it be known that Mr. Gige has an actual job that does not include dealing with my mild-hypochondria, but does include dealing with holding people's lives in his hands all day long, and making sure they live through surgeries - so the fact that he takes time to text me back during a procedure is comforting. To me. To the patient it probably wouldn't be as comforting.

He joked that he thought it was probably something sex related (because he's mean and doesn't understand when I'm freaked out enough to send him a photo of my most-likely cancerous knuckle it's no time for joking! Joking is for weddings and children, not for illness!), and then asked me to try washing it off.

Washing it off? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder! You can't wash it off Doctor.

So then I sent it to Gige and asked her the same thing (sleeping with someone medical makes you medical - that's a fact). She responded with: I can't see the picture it's too small/blurry. Did you burn yourself?

Did I burn myself? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder that will lead to death of my lungs! You can't just chalk it up to a burn Doctor's Wife! I mean of all the. . .

Wait a minute.

Hold up.

**totally about to be embarrassed**

As a matter of fact I may have burnt myself. But more importantly. . . why does my knuckle disease smell like peanut butter. WAIT. Why does my knuckle death TASTE like peanut butter.

I tasted it again to try and figure it out, literally licking my wounds, and sure enough it tasted like peanut butter. Mostly because it was peanut butter. Not an infectious rare form of hand syphilis, but just part of my breakfast. And I guess I wasn't 'literally' licking my wounds, I was just licking peanut butter off my knuckle, but it felt as if I had just cured myself with magic kisses. Kisses I'll try to sell from here on out - because my saliva heals! Or just eats foodstuffs! WHATEVER!

I guess you'll just have to judge for yourself.

Sofia Vergara, Britney Spears, and Damon Salvatore - It's Like A Trifecta Of Happiness All Balled Up Into A Tortilla And Dipped In The Salsa Of Good

Will Toward Men

I love fall so much. And here's a list of reasons why:

1. Pumpkin lattes.

2. Leaves turning.

3. Big sweaters.

4. Fall lineup.

Ok, and that list is really just to disguise the fact that the main reason I love fall is that all my shows are back! Thank God, 'cause I was getting a little sick of all the reading and filling-my-time-with-healthy-activities that was going on. How'm I supposed to learn how to knit socks when there's a new episode of Parenthood on?? Or Modern Family?! I mean, seriously, who can concentrate when whatshername's boobs are on the screen?

I just forgot what I was writing about.

Oh yeah! AND THEN THERE WAS GLEE.

I love Glee so much it hurts. Like physically hurts. It's how I imagine having sex with Stefan and Damon at the same time would feel like - painful, but sooooooo good. (Because they're vampires, and everyone knows vampires hurt you sexually when you're having sexual stuff, cause they're supernatural and they have to try not to kill you even though they're in love with you. . . it's all very scientific.)(And for some reason in this daydream there's no awkward boy on boy on girl stuff going on where you're like, 'Oh yeah I totally want to do it with both of them,' and then it starts turning south in a way you hadn't been prepared for, not that you're opposed to that sort of thing - to each his own - so to speak - but you had a little more of a - by sleep with both of them at the same time I just meant we'd be gazing at each other and they'd give each other she's-mine-back-off looks and I'd be all, "Oh boys, no need to fight." and then I'd lead them into the bedroom where . . . well I hadn't really though this through but there was lots of kissing going on. Lots of kissing. Not that I'm in junior high and all I can think of is kissing, I know how to do other stuff ok. I mean, I would be thinking of other stuff, but they're brothers, and that's not ok, no matter how hot they are. So maybe I have to separate this dream and make it individual vampire-hook-up times, so there's no awkwardness in my fantasies - because believe me, I already have that with my Adam Lambert daydream.)

So awkward.

Anyway. . . when I was watching the Britney episode of Glee I had to pause it for a second to run to the bathroom, and as I did I actually ran from the room like a crazy person screaming, "I LOVE IT SO MUCH! IT FILLS ME WITH A SORT OF TINGLING JOY I CAN'T EVEN EXPLAIN!"

And then I tripped over a pillow I had thrown in the midst of my overwhelming excitement, because I had too much good energy and if I didn't throw something I was going to have to tear something.

I'm not even sure why it makes me so happy, but it totally does. Like, my cheeks hurt when it's over from smiling so much, and my heart is all full of gooey sugary love. It's just a magic combo of teenage boys dancing and singing in full football gear, and girls crying while they're singing, and teenagers trying to getting stoned and hook up with their dentist. *sigh* It just makes me nostalgic.

This was the only episode Gabi agreed to watch, because she has a weird obsession with Britney, and I feel like someone who just talked someone else into going to Church for donut day. Like they don't really want to be there, but they want the donut so they'll sit through mass - that's what she's like. She'll watch but only because Britney is in it, and then she's never coming back and she'll go straight to hell where she belongs, but at least I tried.

Ok, maybe not that bad, but she'll be stared at in an uncomfortable way whenever she's over. Trust me, sometimes that's bad enough.

Teenage boys! Singing Britney! In full on football uniforms, doing weird hip pelvic-y movements, and being totally serious about it! In wheelchairs!

TV doesn't get better than that.