Five Weeks and a Day

June 5 is my fifth blogiversary. On my fourth blogiversary, forty-six weeks and six days ago, I had suggested that this might be my last year at it. The shark having been jumped somewhere back around year two, I don’t know what to do anymore. And you can’t tell me because my commenting system is still broken. Maybe that’s a sign. Although email always works. I don’t know. Do you know?



Face recognition software just reported that I look like a cross between James Van Der Beek, Robert Redford, David Schwimmer, Leonard Nimoy, and Tia Carrere. I’m not sure what to make of this, but given that the first time I tried it, it told me I look like Billy Crystal, there was nowhere to go but up.

This is me:

It is a gorgeous day out. There is a large moth stuck between my closed window and the screen, or else I would open it. Now I can never open it again because even when the moth dies, its ghost will be there, tap tap tapping. Yesterday, I did something that was somewhat grueling and took all day but was fun and creative. Today, I did something that was intensely grueling and so horrible it stole the life right out of me, even though it only took five minutes.

I’ve got to get some perspective. James Van Der Beek would have perspective.


The Lofty and the Low

My mind is barely functioning today. Maybe I am stupid. Stranger things have happened. For example, this past week, a very tall man showed up on my doorstep saying that a crane was going to arrive at my house that afternoon and hoist a new heat pump onto the roof. My lucky day! As I was standing there with the door open, I noticed an art student female standing in my front garden, furtively tying some sort of papier mâché balloon to my tree. I was all, hey you! Do I come and stand in YOUR garden and tie papier mâché balloons to YOUR tree? And she was all, it’s ART, yo! And I was all, did you learn that in skyooool? Except none of that conversation actually happened at all. I was not in the mood to deal with papier mâché art balloons or cranes, and yet they both showed up on my doorstep anyway. The universe is generous and provides what we need, although that man with the long grey beard and sign who stands by the traffic light may be able to file a complaint.


Read This Blog Today. Your Family Will Like It.

On the night of his birthday, Rob and I started watching old TV commercials on YouTube. No, I didn’t throw you a party this year, honey, but this commercial for Cap’n Crunch offers compensatory festivity. Well, he seemed to think so.

What struck me about the commercials from the early 1970s was their straightforwardness. Here they were offering products that were largely disgusting if not pure poison-the ozone-killing miasma of hairspray or the chemical bath of canned corn niblets with melted butter that clings instead of running-with a cheerful and direct voiceover. “Why, here is some canned corn! This canned corn is good for X reason. You should buy this canned corn and take it home today.” Today, every aspect of an advertisement is leveraged and focus grouped to the millisecond, but one gets the feeling that an ad agency could have knocked out twenty of these before lunch.

Candor seems to have been very culturally important back then. We can’t imagine this today, when we are dazzled, manipulated, and lied to at every turn, and we are all correspondingly cynical. But back then, the smoke-roughened voice of a narrator saying, “You should buy these cashews because your family will love them,” was all it took. That’s probably why Watergate was so shocking to those people: in 1972, a president just wasn’t supposed to behave in that way. Between 2001 and 2007, we have had the equivalent of about three hundred Watergates and no one bats an eye because that’s Republicanism as usual. People get outraged, but there is only so much outrage that a normal person wants to deal with on a daily basis, and it shouldn’t all be reserved for politics.

Here is something outrageous that happened to me the day after Rob’s birthday. I went into the bathroom at work and discovered that someone who was in there before me had left an enormous poop in the toilet. It was revolting, but I tried not to get too upset about it. This is the magical toilet from the future that flushes itself; maybe the previous visitor thought that the poop had been taken care of automatically. So I pushed the flush button, and the toilet roared to life, but the poop would not flush! It was too big, and by “too big,” I mean it was the size of a gazelle. So there I was, trapped in a bathroom with a giant poop. If I left without doing something, I would be no better than the poop’s originator, and worse, if someone was waiting in the hall, they would think it was mine! This is the sort of thing that would ordinarily make me furious with the world.

People should not behave this way, leaving their monstrous poops for other people to find! Toilets should not behave this way! But instead, I have to divide my outrage between the poop and George Bush. (But I repeat myself.)

Anyway, I’m not going to tell you what I did next, but the point is, Adorn hairspray lasts and lasts and lasts. Try it today.



Today is Earth Day. Today is Rob’s birthday. It’s an Earth Day Birthday, a “bearthday,” if you will.

Tap tap. Is this thing on?

Boy, are my arms tired.


A Garden Plot

Yesterday, I was minding my own business when I started to smell gasoline in the house. OK, that’s a lie. I wasn’t really minding my own business, but the smell part is true. Since we don’t have any oil or gas lines coming in, I wrote it off as one of Goblin Foo’s intestinal antics. But it turned out that there was a fuel leak after all. A truck had come and started pumping heating oil into my neighbors’ house, which is all well and good, except that, their furnace having been converted to natural gas years before, it was unprepared to receive it. Oil spilled all over their basement, coating their possessions, and filling their house with toxic fumes.

When I found out about this, I felt suitably bad for them, but I did hear the rustling of leafy laughter coming from the back yard.

Don’t mess with the weed tree.


Stop the Pressers

Yesterday I held a press conference. I had never held a press conference before, nor had I ever even spoken to a microphone. For my twenty-four years on earth, I have been so convinced that I hate public speaking that I never bothered to actually do it. So I did it, and it turns out that I don’t really like it very much, but I also was not terrible at it. I suspect the twenty ounce thermal coffee mug that was filled with something besides coffee had a little something to do with increasing my confidence.

The press conference was called to answer allegations from the Daffodil League that I am a flowerist. As I remarked at the microphone, these allegations happen to be true. I believe in my heart of hearts that the daffodil is an inferior species, a homely weed even. Then the Daffodil League called a press conference saying that they don’t believe I have a heart at all, much less a heart of hearts. Then I called another press conference suggesting that all fields full of daffodils be turned into nuclear waste dumps. Then the Daffodil League called another press conference saying, fine, the radiation is all they need to finish mutating into giant, malevolent (and homely) vines that lasso the moon and pull it crashing down onto Medicine Hat, Alberta. Then Medicine Hat, Alberta called a press conference to announce that it is known not only as “The Gas City,” but also “Canada’s Sunniest City,” and that the sudden appearance of the moon in its midst would be inappropriate.

The press itself, meanwhile, was focused on some other nonsense.


Get My Pet Goat

”You know,” said my pet goat, “I’m sure if I watched ‘Grey’s Anatomy,’ I’d like it, but I just don’t have the time.”Extremely long pause.

“You should make the time,” said the farmer.


Rob and I TiVo both “Family Guy” and “Grey’s Anatomy.” We watch “Family Guy” regularly, but we had about sixteen months’ worth of “Grey’s Anatomy” stacked up. Now that we’ve started working our way through the almost thirty episodes, it’s like Christmas. Christmas 2005, to be exact.

Unlike my pet goat, I don’t like “Grey’s Anatomy” very much so I don’t know why we taped it in the first place, but I know why I watch it now: the commercials. “So that’s what life was like back then,” I will say to myself as I fast forward through advertisements for products and television programs that have since vanished from the face of the earth. Life was simpler in the good old days when “American Inventor” was on the air. There were things I didn’t have to deal with that I now have to deal with. Thousands of people who have been shot to death since were alive then. Thousands of tons less carbon dioxide was in the atmosphere.

“Every day brings its own surprises,” said a crazy old woman once on “ER.” This may be true, but I could do with fewer surprises. They cause wrinkles on my forehead.

One surprise a week would be more than enough.


Tenacious D

Hello. It is raining. It is Sunday. It is morning. It is spring. A rainy Sunday morning in spring. I used to hate spring, but the older I get, the more I can see its appeal. By the time I’m thirty, it will be my favorite season, right behind fall, winter, and late summer. The worst thing about spring is that this is when the homely daffodil appears on the scene. I dislike daffodils because of their ugliness in color, shape, and size. Other than that, I suppose they’re fine. I should find something positive to say about daffodils because springtime is about love. I will work on this.

In other news: I see here that those swanky souls in the Human Rights Campaign are using “Satan’s Talking Points” to hoodwink righteous souls into supporting gay gay gay faggotry. This was not discovered sooner, perhaps, because no one in the boundless universe pays any attention to the Human Rights Campaign, but it is a relief that the devil’s agenda of justice, fairness, civil rights, freedom to love, and freedom to create families has come to light at last. Now that civilized society has a clearer idea of that which threatens its very existence, it can use the full nuclear-tipped arsenal of Jesus’ unconditional love to stamp it out.

Love, love, love. Oh, I just thought of something nice about daffodils. They’re tenacious. Oh well . . . they can do their thing, and I will do mine. Don’t hate; appreciate.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging

Translation: “Oh, I see I am still far less monstruous than anyone in the Bush Administration.”


The Easter Bunny Says…

“Try one of my chocolate eggs! I’ve been making them all year!”



April Fools has come and gone. It should have been my time to howl, but I got nuttin. I should petition the April Fools Commission to extend the tomfoolery for another week or two, but I won’t because I have had a sudden flare-up of my chronic lazyitis. I will simply vent my spleen on my tax return and leave Uncle Sam to pick up the pieces. It is a well-known fact that the spleen is the funniest internal organ.

OK, what else? My in-laws are in town and have been plying me with nice wines. Also, my gym boyfriend told me Wednesday that he is having an operation and wants me to visit him at home during his long recovery. He submitted an agenda for this encounter that did not include my suggestion of Parcheesi. It took all day for it to occur to me that there was something untoward about this proposition. Let’s blame it on the wine.