What day is it and where am I?

I went back to bed at about 7 a.m. and got up at 10:45. (See post below)

I think I just crammed three days into two, but I'm not sure. That's how it feels, anyway. As my dear old dad used to say, I feel like I've been drug through a knothole backwards.

After I re-read the aforementioned post below, I started thinkin about Ziggy and how he seems to be...well...fearless. Especially when it comes to things of a more...ah...personal nature. MY 'personal nature' to be exact.

I mean...this guy isn't afraid to do anything I ask of him. Like cutting my hair. How many guys do you know that would do that for their gal? And, do a darned fine job of it, at that. Oh, and this isn't the first time I've asked him to do that. I've had my share of...uh....shall we say 'poorly executed'? haircuts that have required a little...tweaking.

I think most guys would grab their cojones, scream and run the opposite direction if their partner asked them to do something like that. And his expertise with a pair of scissors isn't restricted to his talent for hair cutting.

I frequently get these little 'skin tags' that can be irritating. Especially when they're in an...unusual...place. Like my armpit. Or under my boobs. Most normal people would visit their doc to have them removed. Most of you should realize that I'm not exactly 'normal'. It just seems ridiculous to PAY to have them removed. You're talkin payin for an office visit, a procedure AND a pathologist, because stuff like that is ALWAYS sent to a pathologist, even if the doc KNOWS it's nothing.

But, being the chickenshit I am, I can't just whack 'em off myself. So Ziggy does it for me.

Oh, and I didn't mention all the other little irritating skin...things...that happen to women during the aging process. Age spots and splotches. Moles, warts and

actinic keratosis

, sometimes called 'senile' keratosis. "Senile". Swell. And before anyone starts screamin after they read the definition, they CAN be pre-malignant, but usually aren't, especially if caught early. Remember, I'm a nurse. I watch out for stuff like that.

What to do about them? Why freeze 'em off with the handy, dandy 'Compound W Freeze Off Wart Removal System'. Same stuff your doc uses in his office, but charges you hundreds of dollars for. But again, I'm far too chickenshit to do it myself, so Zig comes to my rescue in that area, too.

And finally...I'm trying to figure out how I can put this delicately. Something happened to me several months ago that had never, in about 40 years, happened to me before. I got something...uh...stuck....somewhere. Somewhere that I simply could NOT reach because of my short, stubby fingers. Once again, my knight in shining armor came to my rescue.

And that's ALL I'm gonna say about THAT, other than we laughed like a couple a loons.

Yea, that Ziggy. He's quite a talented, fearless man. He's my lover. He's my confidant. He's my bestest friend. He's my hairstylist. He's my skin care specialist. He can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.

He's even my gynecologist.

A true Renaissance Man.

Is it the middle of the night?

Or just reeeeeally early in the morning?

It's 4:35 a.m., so I'm not sure what to call it.

I'm sure there are those who call this ungodly time of day 'morning'. Speaking as someone who very, very rarely sees the light of day before...oh....10 a.m. or so...it's most definitely the middle of the night.

Yea, I've been to bed. But my biorhythms are all hinky. Ziggy had to work four hours over, not placing him here at home, all safe and sound, until 3 a.m. or so. I hate that. I hate it for him because it screws with his biorhythms, too. I hate it because it makes him spend more time at a place he detests so much.

And I hate it for me because I can't sleep until I know he's here.

Ok, it's not so much that I can't sleep until I know he's here...he's here...and I'm obviously still awake. The truth of the matter is I can't sleep because of that damned coffee I drank in an attempt to stay awake until he got home.

Uh...it worked. Really well.

I suppose it's just as well I can't sleep. At least it gives me something to blog about. The last couple of days, I've suffered from a pretty severe case of

third degree blog block

. Thankfully, Jimbo gives us a few pointers about what to do when you suffer from this terrible malady. For instance:

"1. Update the ol’ Blogroll: I really ought to do that, and I just might. Then again, that means I have to open “Mr. Template”, which is something that always gives me a case of the hot squirts."

I can soooo relate.

I need to update the ol' blogroll, too. I've got a couple of links that didn't transfer right when I 1. developed a major case of the red ass and 2. deleted my whole blog, 3. immediately regretted it and 4. created this new, "improved" (cough) version of Lollygaggin. I've also got a couple of new blogs to add.

But unlike Jim, opening "Mr. Template" doesn't give me a case of the hot squirts. Au contraire, mon ami. Opening "Mr. Template" tends to make my butt clench so tight that hot squirts are simply...well...impossible.

In other news........

I got my hair trimmed the other day. Twice. Three times if ya count me coming home and hackin at it myself. Four times if ya count me enlisting Ziggy's help.
Gnawed on by rats might be a more appropriate description. And that would be before Zig or I had anything to do with it. It looks....less gnawed now.

WTF? It's a disgustingly simple haircut. It's a friggin pageboy fer gawd's sake. All I wanted was an inch and a half or so trimmed and 'stacked' in the back. She didn't even hafta screw with the bangs...I do them myself.

I suppose it's my own fault for not taking a good look when I was there the first time. I was in a hurry and from the front, it looked ok. It was nice out, so I didn't bother having her dry it...I was gonna go right home and take a shower to get all the hair rinsed off, anyway. Besides that, I'm honestly not terribly picky when it comes to my hair. I mean, I'm just not a diva when it comes to that. I figure it'll grow out quick enough, anyway. And like I said...from the front, it was just peachy.

But, after drying it at home, I discovered that I had this big....wad...of hair in the back. It looked like she just whacked it off...straight across. Which, in fact, is exactly what she did. Ya can't just whack off hair as thick as mine and expect it to lay right. It's gotta be 'shaped' a little.

Off I trot, back to the salon, getting a different gal this time.

"Oh, she should have just stacked the back a little."

Uh huh.

Snip...snip...snip.

Again, I didn't actually look at what she did. I just felt. And it felt ok. Plus, it was a freebie. Damn good thing.

Now, ya know it must be bad when Zig says, "Uh...is it supposed to look like that?"

No. No it's not.

Fifteen minutes and another inch or so later, we had it fixed.

Sorta.

I have seen the enemy....and it is us

Most of us women seem to be our own worst enemies.

Bou has posted a pretty funny piece about

swimsuit shopping

and it got me to thinkin. Pretty dangerous thing for me to do, I know. It's soooo much better when I don't think.

At any rate, I started thinking about how much time us women have wasted worryin and frettin about stuff like this. How much time and effort we've spent to choose just the right swimsuit that hides what we want hidden or the perfect pair of jeans that makes our asses look bigger/smaller/tighter/higher or the wonder bra that's supposed to do the same thing as the jeans...only in the boobage area.

How much money we've spent on lotions and potions that are supposed to erase those lines and wrinkles, even though we ALL know that they just simply don't work. How much pain we've gone through to get our faces lifted, our boobs enlarged and our tummies tucked.

How much of our lives has been just totally wasted on this effort for "perfection"?

And for what? Why?

Every, single woman that's had any kind of cosmetic surgery will tell you that she did it for her, not for others. I don't buy that completely. I think that there's a teeny, tiny part of 'em that does it for complete strangers. And the sad thing is, the vast majority of those strangers will never, EVER notice those things.

I dunno....maybe I just think totally different than other women. I've often thought that I think more like a man in a lotta ways. I think this might be one of 'em.

But when I'm out and about, I don't look at other women's imperfections. Well....unless they're like....GLARING imperfections. Those 500 pound women who try to wear bikinis are kinda hard to ignore.

I'm talking about the little things that seem to be sooooo important to us...but in reality, no one else sees. Or if they do, they don't really care one way or another. The people that truly love you...that know you..don't see those imperfections, anyway. And THOSE are the people that should matter. THOSE are the people who are important in our lives, not some stranger.

The cellulite on the thighs of a 40 year old woman. Uh...like...so what?. She's forty. She's supposed have a little cellulite. The wrinkles on the face of a 50 year old woman. Good for her...she's probably earned every, single one of 'em. That little bump on the bridge of the nose of a 35 year old woman. Big deal. It makes her look interesting.

And to those women out there that DO look upon other women so critically and are constantly comparing themselves to others...and I know they exist...well...I guess since they've evidently reached perfection themselves (insert sarcasm), they've got nothin better to do. People like that just simply don't matter to me. And they shouldn't matter to other women, either.

Now, I don't mean that I don't care a bit about how I look. That's not it, at all. Of course I take pride in how I look. I never go anywhere without at least a little makeup, my hair combed, decent clothes on and a spritz of somethin smelly. I don't wanna look (or smell) like a bag lady, after all. But to worry about my flabby arms or the little pimple that's popped up on my chin (thank YOU, menopause) or my poor, deflated boobies...the things over which I really have no control...well...not so much.

I have more important things to think about. It's HIGHLY likely that the stranger I pass on the street does too.

My imperfections are MINE. They make me who I am. They make me unique.

If other people don't think so...well...fuck 'em.

Wished I'd had the camera handy

Well, I did it. (See two posts down)

When Ziggy got home tonight, he found me reclining on the chaise lounge with hundred dollar bills strategically placed on my...uh....well, let's just say 'strategically placed' and leave it at that, ok? And the rest scattered about the chaise and floor.

When he walked in, his immediate response was laughter.

So much for the ole ego. It's a damn good thing I wasn't tryin to turn him on...I'd have been pissed.

What I didn't realize was, that from the door, he thought all those bills were singles...dollar bills.

"What? Ya finally got your check from (insert name of store I worked at during the Christmas season)?" he laughed.

See, I've never gotten my first check from there. I got all the rest of 'em, but for some reason, the very first one is hung up somewhere. I've asked the manager several times and he keeps saying he'll "take care of it". He hasn't. It only amounts to 16 hours, but after all...it's MY money. I suppose I oughta start chargin 'em interest.

Anyway, it's been kind of a running joke around here about that check.

"Honey, you'd better take a closer look," I replied.

He took his jacket and boots off and walked over to where I lay upon my chaise like Cleopatra on her barge. (cough)

Ya know in the Roadrunner cartoon where, at some point, the coyote's eyeballs pop out and the accompanying sound effect is that of an "OOO-OOOOOO-GAH!"...a 'claxon' or whatever they call 'em? That's exactly the look on his face when he discovered that the 'strategically placed' bills had a picture of ole Ben on 'em and not ole George.

Hmmmmph! And to think...I hadda cover myself in hundred dollar bills to get a reaction like that. Used ta be, all I hadda do was get nekkid. (sigh)

Yea, that Maxine...she's mah girl

I like this particular saying so much that I think I'll make it part of the Lollygaggin banner.

Thanks to my pal

Catfish

, who sends out the gooooodest stuff.

MMmmmuuuaaaahh, baby!

Honest ta gawd...it started as a trip to Goodwill

But I never made it there.



Zig had to go into work four hours early today. So, I'm knockin around the apartment, tryin to decide what to do with this beautiful day. I piddled a little. Did a little cleaning. Then decided to run to the local Goodwill. Hadn't been there in several weeks and ya never know what treasures might've turned up between then and now.

Like I said, it was a beautiful day. And my car simply refused to take the exit off of War Memorial, instead heading directly across the bridge into East Peoria.

I wound up

here

.

I left the apartment at exactly 2 p.m. with seventy five bucks (some of my ill-gotten gains from last weekend's gamblin trip) in my billfold. I walked back into the apartment at exactly 6 p.m..........
......with seven hundred and fifty eight bucks in said billfold. Yup. 758 smackaroonies. Sweeeeeeet.

Oh...and did I mention that it was from playin the nickle slots? Uh huh.

Now that I'm back home and calmed down a little, I have noooo idea what possessed me to go to the gamblin boat. I've lived here in Peoria for five years and this is only the second time I've been there. I suppose I was still feelin lucky from last weekend...I have no other explanation.

But now I'm thinkin....maybe if I go once a week.....awwww, gawd...somebody call Gamblers Anonymous for me, please??

I'm tryin to decide how to tell Ziggy when he gets home tonight. I'm thinkin about layin nekkid on the chaise lounge with those seven hundred dollar bills sprinkled over me.

I don't suppose he'd even notice I was nekkid, though.

Ding, dong, the blog is dead

Or is it?

Steve at

Hog on Ice

seems to think so.

Granted, his post is several days old. But it's taken me several days to disseminate and process...to think about what he said. Hey...I AM blonde, remember?

Not that anyone cares, but I've decided that I think he's wrong. I think he's wrong because he's assuming that everyone got into blogging for the same reason he did. To seek fame, fortune and recognition. Of course, I'M assuming that's the reason he got into it...that's how I interpret it. That's the way he makes it sound, anyway.

I dunno...I never thought I needed a reason to blog. I never had an agenda. I never had a plan. I never had an ulterior motive. Obviously, I still don't. I've also never had more than 15 or so comments on any single post of mine. Not sure how many hits I had...still don't know. Never had a sitemeter. Never belonged to any silly 'ecosystem'. Never cared where I 'ranked'. If those were things I really cared about, I'm pretty sure I'd have closed up shop after the first month or so.

For me, it never was about the 'hit count' or the Google searches or gettin linked by the 'big dogs'. It never was about showing off my writing expertise in the hopes of scoring some pie-in-the-sky book deal. I'm pretty sure hell could freeze over before THAT ever happened.

And it sure as hell wasn't because I thought I could make some money at it, one way or another, though gawd!...wouldn't that be nice? I don't do ads. I don't have a PayPal 'donate' button. And I'll be damned if I'd ever stoop to beg-blogging, no matter what my personal circumstances are.

Of course, if someone just felt compelled to throw money my way, for whatever reason...because of something I write...or hell, I dunno...outa the goodness of their heart...hey...I might be a lotta things, but I ain't stupid. My email address is right there on my profile. Email me and we'll talk.

From the get-go, I never planned to be recognized for my blogging. But because of the blog, I wound up gettin a couple articles in the local paper and a ten minute spot on a TLC show. Big deal. I looked upon those things as gravy...a bonus. That's enough 'recognition' for me.

Nope. For me, blogging is all about me, baby. I do it for ME. I do it because I like to hear myself talk. I do it because I like to hear what my three or four readers have to say about what I talk about. Even if it ain't nice. There's always that little 'delete' button, after all. I do it because I've met some wonderful people that I otherwise would never have had the opportunity to meet. That's just priceless to me.

I do it because I truly like peeking into other people's lives. Seeing how they live. Seeing how different (or similar) their lives are to mine. It's not only legalized window-peeping, it's encouraged. For a voyeur like me, that's priceless, too.

Now, don't get me wrong. I think Steve's a really smart guy. A little on the anal-retentive side, but hey...he's gotta be smart, right? After all, he DID get a book deal out of bloggin. It might not turn out to be a widely-acclaimed book. It's not about important social issues. It's not a religious or political manifesto. It's not something that's going to change the world in which we live and I'd be willing to bet that it'll never make the best-seller list, though that's just my opinion. But, hey...it's a book deal. It got him what he obviously wanted out of blogging. And, that's what it was all about. For him.

And that, dear and gentle readers, is kinda my whole point.

Blogging can be pretty much what you want it to be. No, it won't ever make us all famous. It can't give us all book deals or our own tv shows or high-paying jobs. It won't make us all political pundits (yawn). It can't give us all fame and fortune and recognition. I'm pretty sure most of us already know that. I'm also pretty sure that's not why blogging was created in the first place.

If you get into it because you think you might get a book deal like Steve...well...good luck. I wish you the best, but I'm not holdin my breath. Blogging...Steve's definiton of blogging, anyway...might be dead.

By MY definition, it ain't.

It was cold, cold, COLD

But I was hot, hot, HOT!


Well, I was as hot as one could get playin the 5 cent slot machines, anyway. Yea, that's FIVE CENT machines. Now, don't laugh...the good news is that a guy sitting right behind us Saturday night won 1500 bucks on one of those babies. The bad news is, it wasn't one of us.

But I DID wind up up about 200 bucks and Ziggy came out about 30 ahead. And that's after most of our expenses, even. Not bad for a coupla non-gamblers. In fact, that was the first time Zig had ever even touched a slot machine...and only the second time he'd ever set foot in a casino.

Our 'windfall' aside, we had a great time. It woulda been a lot more fun if it wouldn't have been something like 2 degrees. And windy. We'd have done a little less gamblin and a little more sightseeing. As it was, pretty much the only 'sights' we got was the view from our hotel room, which was attached to the casino. Not a bad view of the city, though. It was especially pretty at night.



On the way there, we even took a little side trip around St. Louis to pop in and see the kids and the newest addition to their little family...an eight week old Cocker...Bailey. Her brother, Jaeger (my daughter's s/o is a liquor distributor...go figure), seems to have a little GI upset, so he was at the vet's, poor baby.
Jules seems to be coping as well as can be expected with two Cocker puppies and a six year old to run after. Glad it's her and not me.

Unfortunately, Lady Luck didn't look too fondly upon Jack and Karen, the couple who invited us. They didn't lose a lot, but winning's soooo much more fun, don't you agree? I swear, I didn't rub it in. Really. I tried to soothe the sting a little by springin for supper Saturday night. Don't think it helped much, though. heh

I don't expect Zig nor I will become anything resembling high rollers any time soon, we DID have a blast. Hey, good company can make up for LOTS of crappy gambling. At least that's what I tried to convince Jack and Karen of.

Don't think that helped much, either.

Project Gutenberg

Since

Junebugg

and I share a love of reading, like her, I was tickled to find this. (Where HAVE I been that I didn't already know about it?) I could type up the whole concept, but she said it far better than I could:

One of my favorite pass times is reading, and now I have a whole library at my fingertips. You can browse by Author, Title, Language or Recently Posted and there are 17,000 free books in the

Project Gutenberg Online Book Catalog

with more being added every day.

FREE BOOKS ONLINE!

What a wonderful thing!

Being the true 'techno-tard' that I am, it'd be even MORE wonderful if I could remember the HTML tags that would allow the graphics to show up on that little button, over there on my sidebar.

Anyone care to enlighten me?

The link works just fine, so CLICK IT ALREADY!

I smell a clusterf#@k coming

CANTON - In the wake of the beating death of a 4-year-old Canton girl last month, local legislators are proposing a law that would require police notification of suspected child neglect or abuse.

The whole story is

here

.

Though I can't positively say, I thought that the Department of Children and Family Services was already required to report any "criminal activity" to the local gendarmes. If that's the case, then this proposed law is basically lip service...something that politicians are so good at. If it's not the case, I can forsee one, gigantic clusterfuck. Something else that politicians seem to be so proficient at creating.

But it looks good on paper, doesn't it?

The DCFS representatives said the agency receives around 300,000 hotline calls per year, and it would be impractical for the agency to notify police of every call, Leitch said.
"The system's supposed to be about protecting the Kathryn Westerfields of the world, not the bureaucracy," he said.

Uh huh. Riiiight.

If the 'system' is supposed to be about protecting children, then why in the hell is it ALREADY fraught with "bureaucracy", red tape and caseworkers who's only goal is to suck the ole system for all it's worth? Why is it the ultimate goal of DCFS to return these poor, abused children to homes where you just know the abuse will continue? Why do so many legitimate complaints of child abuse get essentially ignored, yet the unfounded claims, like the parent who smacks his kid on the ass (gasp!) in public when they're misbehaving, get investigated to the nth degree?

I have a good friend who is a caseworker for DCFS. I KNOW for a fact, that he tries to do the right thing. I think he's in the minority. And I think that many times, his hands are just simply tied by 'bureaucracy'. I dunno...I think it'd be like going to work every day and beating your head against a brick wall. I suppose his reward is the rare times he's actually allowed to save a child.

Personally, I rank child abusers right down there with child molesters...lower than the scum on the bottom of the barrel of humanity. Once proven guilty, I think they should be given one of two sentences...life in prison or death.

The sticky part is the 'proven guilty'.

But this law they're trying to pass...I dunno. I think DCFS is gonna resent being forced to report to the police. I think the police, who are already usually overtaxed with other problems, are gonna resent the additional 300,000 phone calls from DCFS.

And MORE little, innocent kids will fall through the cracks and die.

If Rep. Leitch really wants to do something important...something that will actually save more of the Kathryn Westerfields of Illinois, he should call for a complete and total revamp of the whole damn DCFS system. Cut out the deadwood and the red tape and the bullshit. Stop trying to place these abused kids back in the same situation. Simplify the system. Develop mandatory sentences for abusers.

And REALLY cut out the "bureaucracy", not just blow about it.

The end of April can't come too soon

Vacation in the tropics...it's like that little carrot that's danglin in front of us jackasses.

It was 63 degrees here yesterday.

It actually thunderstormed last night...complete with lightning.

It rained like a cow pissin on a flat rock (wonder where that particularly colorful little saying came from, anyway?) this afternoon.

And it's supposed to snow later tonight and be down to EIGHT degrees by tomorrow night/Saturday morning.

Your current Heart of Illinois weather forecast brought to you courtesy of your local "Fat Chick With a Major Sunshine Jones".

I'm completely and totally fed up with Mother Nature teasing us with a beautiful, sparkling day that not only feels like spring, but smells like it as well, only to snatch it away again and give us...crap.

It's like you think you're gettin a big mouthful of whipped cream outa the can...and it turns out to be shaving cream instead. Not that I've ever done that.

I'm sooooo friggin ready for the Keys. (sigh)

Ok, so I'm not quite June Cleaver

I don't wear fou-fou little 'day dresses' and I don't have two rowdy boys to look after. (I DO however, have a lovely set of pearls that Ziggy got me for Christmas one year. I don't wear 'em while vacuuming, though.)

But I have to admit...I'm close. I love being a 'housewife'.

Ok. So I'm not exactly a wife. It's all there except for that little piece of paper, though. And frankly, that little piece of paper isn't worth a damn if the other stuff isn't there.

But I love taking care of Ziggy and the house.

What set me off on this strange (for me, anyway) tangent? A post by a very smart

cookie

, who also happens to like being a mom and a housewife.

The funny thing is, that this is all I've ever really wanted to do. I just didn't have the opportunity when it really would have mattered...when I was raising my daughter.

I guess I wasn't your 'traditional' feminist baby-boomer who thought I'd set the world on fire with my intelligence and/or talent. I always thought that all that 'feminist' crap was just...dumb...other than the 'equal pay for equal work' thing. I never expected (or wanted) to break through the 'glass ceiling'. Hell, I'd have just probably cut the crap outa myself, anyway.

I never believed that burnin the ole 38DD would be a good thing. I've never believed (and still don't) that a woman can 'have it all'. SOMEthing or SOMEone's gonna suffer. The kids. The marriage. The job. The sanity.

I've always believed that there's an intrinsic difference (thank gawd!) in men and women and the people who were screaming otherwise were waaaay off base. Not exactly how a proper feminist should think back in the early 70's. Maybe I watched too much 'Donna Reed'..I dunno.

I started working when I was fourteen at a local A & W as a carhop. With the exception of a few weeks or months off here and there, I've ALWAYS worked. At first, it was for extra spending money. After I was married, it became a necessity as my ex wasn't exactly...ah...shall we say dependable?...when it came to keepin a job. There were even several times when I had a full-time AND a part-time job. And I continued to work pretty much full time AND go to college, first to get my LPN certification, then to get my RN degree.

Now, none of that would have been so bad, really. Except for the fact that I ALSO was expected to pretty much keep the ole homestead goin, too. Oh, the ex helped...some. But most of it fell on my shoulders. The majority of the cooking, cleaning, laundry, child-rearing, bill-payin...all the general household stuff was MY responsibility. I was also tryin to take care of my aging, crazy mother, which at times, was a full-time job in itself. His main job was the yard work.

Pretty good deal if ya can get it, huh?

I've never wanted lots of things, really. The ex did, though, and I just kinda got sucked into that mindset. The nice home. The expensive car. The big vacations. All the things that most people seem to think are sooo important. Things that people work soooo hard for. Things that really don't matter. Not one single bit, when it comes right down to it.

A little over a year ago, I started to have some pretty serious medical problems and I quit nursing. Just wasn't physically able to handle it anymore. I wasn't mentally able to handle it anymore, either...but that's beside the point. If I'd have been physically able, I'd have kept at it until...well...until I went crazy, probably.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I've not pulled my weight financially in this relationship...even when I was working, really. After I quit, I felt even guiltier. Still do, some. Maybe that's why I've turned into June...kinda.

I figure that if Ziggy brings home the bacon, then I'll damn sure cook it for him. I'll bend over backwards (I'm talkin figuratively...haven't tried THAT particular position...yet) to make sure his homelife is stress-free, relaxed, comfortable and...well, as wonderful as I can make it.

No, I don't have a child to take care of. No, I don't have a huge home or yard to take care of. Yea, I'm here and can do pretty much what I want, when I want and I'm not out bustin my ass at some job I detest. I'm not an immaculate housekeeper, but, I DO work at it. I do all the grocery shoppin, cleaning, meal prep, laundry and general upkeep. I run errands for him, if it's something I can do. I even shop for his clothes.

To quote a Buffet song that we like to sing to each other, "It's my job." (Ok, you Parrotheads...I KNOW it's really a Mac McAnally song...but it's on a Buffet CD.)

Don't get me wrong...Zig helped me tremendously around here when I was working. And he still offers to help, on occasion. I'm pretty sure he appreciates what I do for him, even though I don't exactly wait on him hand and foot. I know he'd probably appreciate it a lot more if I could just win that lottery too, though. Hey...it could happen. If I could remember to buy the damn tickets.

My point is, I don't expect him to do one, single thing around here. Well..except take out the trash. And then, only if it's on his way to the car.

That's his job.

Well, he does have one other job around here. But since I know it makes people hinky when I talk about our sex life, I won't go into that.

"The Pride of Peoria"

That's how the announcer just described Matt Savoie, Olympic figure skater, who just finished his short program to Barber's Adagio for Strings (the background music used in 'Platoon'). It was beautiful...fluid and soooo graceful...but not flawless...he bobbled one important jump. The telecast isn't over, but I believe he winds up qualifying in 8th place. (I heard the news earlier this evening

His choice of music was perfect, as was his costume...simple, understated, classy. As opposed to some of 'em.

Gawd...who thinks up these costumes for skaters, anyway? Some of the designers should be shot.

Did anyone catch Johnny Weir's getup? Great googly-moogly! It looked like a cross between some of those painted 'flames' like you'd see on a souped-up '57 Buick and a Spiderman costume...complete with the beaded, net...thing...on one arm. And what's with the one, red glove? Are we making some kind of statement?
If so...well...I'm thinkin the statement is "Look at what some idiot designer came up with."

And, how about the choreography? It doesn't seem like any of 'em want to have any fun anymore. Remember Scott Hamilton and his outrageous programs? The back flips? What FUN to watch! And you could just tell he was havin a great time, too.

Anywho, though I don't know him, I'm proud of Matt, not only for his beautiful skating, but for his open love of his hometown (which he's chosen to stay and train in)....AND for his taste in costumes.

I'm keepin my fingers crossed for a medal.

The "Ladies"

I've written before about how much I like where we live. And I do.

I like the area. It's pretty diverse and we're centrally located to just about everything in the city. I like the apartment complex and how it's managed. They're always right on the ball if you have a problem. It's also a 'secure' building, requiring a key or a buzz from one of the apartments to get in the main door. I loooove the apartment, itself. It's spacious, cheerful and comfortable. The rent is reasonable and the utilities...well...our last Cilco bill was somewhere around 80 bucks and the water and garbage pickup are free...can't beat that with a stick.

The neighbors? Well. Since we got rid of the party-hardy, bonehead Bradley students who wore nothing but combat boots upstairs last summer, let's just say it's quiet. I mean quiet.

The main reason it's quiet is because of "The Ladies", bless their little hearts.

The apartment complex consists of five buildings, each two stories. In each building, there are four apartments on the first floor and four on the second. In our building, four of those apartments are occupied by "The Ladies", three on our floor, alone.

"The Ladies" consist of a very active 86 year old who still drives and plays in a couple of local orchestras; an incredible 97 year old retired nurse who, up until she fell and broke her hip last May, STILL DROVE HER CAR (I cringed every time I saw her pull out); an extremely nice 88 year old who, up until she had a wreck a couple months ago, STILL DROVE HER CAR (again with the cringe) and a somewhat reclusive but extremely nosy 70-something year old, who's also a retired nurse. I'm really not sure how old she is. Unlike the rest of them, she doesn't bring her age up every time you have a conversation. heh

"Honey, just wait til you're (insert proper age...86, 88 or 97)....LIKE ME!"

Lemme tell ya....nothin...and I mean nothin goes on around here that one or all of 'em don't know about. Especially the two whose apartments face the parking lot. Once one of them gets wind of something, it buzzes through the grapevine like shit through a goose. And when one of 'em gets goin...well, honey...it's a regular meeting of the minds in the central hallway.

Today, I had a few errands to run. Drugstore, Target, Kroger's. So naturally, when I came home, I had bags of crap. Bags and bags. Three trips worth, in fact. (Why in the hell do I hafta buy groceries that are so freakin heavy??)
And I walked right in in the middle of one of said meetings of the minds.

Not that anyone of 'em bothered to buzz me in the main door, you understand. They stood and watched while I fumbled with my key while trying to hold fifty-eleven HEAVY bags of groceries, my purse and a half-cup of Starbucks.

I think I'm their main form of entertainment.

Anywho, today's topic du jour was my appearance in Saturday's local newspaper and forthcoming tv appearance.

Oh my. The questions flew at me, fast and furious.

On and on and on. One of 'em wanted me to autograph her damn newspaper!
She only laughed when I did, so I think she was serious.
And she was simply astonished that this was my second appearance in the paper and said that she still had the one from last year saved.

"There's a CELEBRITY living here!"

Oh, my gawd.

You gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em

I'm not a gambler. I have enough vices, thank you very much.

It's a damn good thing, too. 'Cause I can see why and how people get addicted to gambling. Well...I can see why they get addicted to slot machines at casinos, anyway. All those flashing lights and the ding-ding-dinging. The repetitious motion of feeding quarters into it and pulling the lever or pushin the buttons.

It's kind of hypnotic...almost soothing, in a way. You kind of forget where you are and what you're doing while you're busy pissing away your car payment or light bill....or your kid's college fund.
I'm sure that's the whole idea. I'd be willing to bet that a psychologist plays a big part in how they design casinos.

Ziggy's not a gambler, either. He feels pretty much the same way I do. Casinos are there to take your money...not give you any. If you DO happen to win, it's just a way to keep you coming back. Like dangling a carrot in front of a jackass.

They don't call slot machines "one armed bandits" for nothin, ya know.

Having said all that, we're going to a

casino

this weekend.

I know. We're just a mass of contradictions, aren't we?

Well, we wouldn't be going if we hadn't been invited by some good friends of ours. Friends who don't happen to be gamblers, either. heh Just don't make sense, does it?

But, they got a heck of a package deal through her workplace...swanky hotel room, boarding passes into the casino...maybe even a meal or two. At any rate, it's a chance to spend time with some good friends. And casinos are just peachy places to 'people watch', one of my favorite activities. I'm sure we'll have a blast...we always do when we're together. Besides that, it's close to my daughter's home, so we'll get a chance to see them.
I'm not expectin to come back a rich woman...but one never knows, does one?

Wonder how long it'd take me to win a million bucks playin the nickel slots?

Hug me? Nah..."Bite me" is more like it

I'm not big on Valentine's Day. I think a day set aside to celebrate love is silly.

It should be celebrated 365 days a year.

And not with fancy gifts wrapped in foo-foo paper. Not with heart-shaped boxes of crappy candy. Not with big, overblown displays of roses that die within a day or two. And certainly not with ridiculously expensive, teeny little bits of lace and elastic that pass themselves off as 'lingerie'. Let's face it...most real women just look silly it crap like that.

It should be celebrated with little 'just because' gifts...gifts like making the coffee for your partner. Gifts like taking out the trash or helping with the supper dishes. Gifts like holding your partner's hair while they're hurling into the toilet. Gifts like thinking so much alike that sometimes words just aren't needed. Gifts like being the only one that really gets your partner.

Gifts like respect and laughter and feeling as though your partner is the most important thing in your life.

Having said all that, I will admit that getting something sparkly is a perfectly lovely gift, as well. hehehe

(I ordered it last night. Thanks, baby! I love you!)

Your Candy Heart Says "Hug Me"

A total sweetheart, you always have a lot of love to give out. Your heart is open to where ever love takes you! Your ideal Valentine's Day date: a surprise romantic evening that you've planned out Your flirting style: lots of listening and talking What turns you off: fighting and conflict Why you're hot: you're fearless about falling in love

What Does Your Candy Heart Say?

Swiped from

Bou

I usually get spam

But, sometimes...sometimes...I get those rare, little gems of email that just make my day.

Case in point:

Dearest Pam,

I saw your mug in the paper today. Can't wait to see you on TV and see the funny stories from good ol' MDH. I was readin on your blog today while talking to "Mary" that may or may not be her name. You mentioned not having many friends, etc. So I thought I would write and tell people what kind of a friend you are!

Once upon a time there was a group of people who worked at a small little hospital on the prairie. On the night shift, the crew from all the departments got along marvelously. No one minded coming to work because everyone knew their job and did what they were suppose to do and they all worked as a team. The result of this hard work and diligience was that the staff sometimes has some spare time to talk, play little games and generally goof off.

Well one night one of the nurses, we'll call him "Joe", was taking care of his group of patients. He finished his appointed rounds and took extra special care of his terminally ill patient at the end of the hallway. She was a nice lady and so was her daughter. Joe made sure she had her morphine on time and that she was comfortable. So at about 1am when everyone thought all the visitors were gone Joe and his friends he worked with (there were several one we will call "Pammy" and another we will call "Mary" and another we will call "Belle" and another we will call "Barb") decided to "goof around" a little before they went to check on their appointed rounds again.

Joe proceeds to position his body over two wheeled chairs such that his entire body was suspended horizontally and then pulled himself around the nurses station by pulling his suspended body by using his hands on the floor. His friend Barb decided that she wanted to join in on the fun. So she jumped on Joe's back and was riding him like a horse. Pammy, Mary and Belle were laughing and carrying on saying "Oh, look, Barb is riding Joe".

At the height of this laughter and fun the balloon popped! From the end of the hall in a direct line of sight to the festivities Joe sees his dying patients daughter come out her mothers room and enter the hallway. He quickly looks around in desperation to his friends for help getting up and quickly wanted to pretend that such shinanigans were not actually occuring - but - his "friends" who had been there laughing and playing with him were suddenly, mysteriously gone. His friend Barb was still on his back. Joe quickly tries to get up thinking that Barb had dismounted.

However, in defiance of the laws of common sense Barb began spanking Joe on the ass and saying "Yee Ha, getty up cowboy!" This continued up until the time as the lady approaches Joe and Barb. She says that her mother is resting comfortably and that she is going home for the night. Joe informs her that he will go down in a few minutes and check to see if she needed any more pain medicine. The lady thanks him for the care he has provided to his mother and also thanks he and Barb for the laugh. She related during this time of grief you don't often come across something that makes you laugh and she appreciated it!.

Whew, Joe wasn't going to get fired today (that would come later). But what happened to Pammy, Belle and Mary? Being the great brave friends that they are; they too saw the lady coming out into the hallway and they quickly and expertly dispatched themselves to hiding spots so as not to be associated with the incident.

Luckily the lady thought it was funny and the crew continued to work together and have fun until a dark day when a foul evil witch came and banished Joe from the kingdom.

See what kinda friend I am? Why, I COULD have sent a message, via one of her flying monkeys, to the foul evil witch, thereby banishing Joe from the kingdom far sooner.

But, nooooooo....Pammy didn't do that, did she? She, along with "might-or-might-not-be Mary" and Belle, decided that the right thing to do...the only self-sacrificing thing to do...would be to run and hide, thereby giving Joe and Barb all the limelight.

I think I'll go have some cottage cheese. I wonder which dish I should use for that?

Perhaps the soft, pink one.

Hmmmm...wonder who she talked to?

Cuz it sure wasn't me

Ok, the reporter for the

PJStar

WAS there that day. And, she DID talk to me...for about 20 seconds on the phone because we were too busy for a good, ole 'face to face'. Not nearly long enough to pick up on things like...oh...sarcasm...for example, I guess.

"I am open to new adventures and I love making a fool out of myself," she said.

What would have been more accurate, would have been this: "I'm always open to new adventures and I love making a fool out of myself," she said sarcastically. That's what I said and that's how I said it.

Oh, yea...like 'making a fool out of myself', on purpose, is one of my favorite things to do.

Given the choice, I'd rather not 'make a fool out of myself', thank you very much. Just because I'm damn good at it doesn't mean I LIKE it.

None of the crew told me I couldn't "share the details". It must've been Louise that told her that, though I'm not sure how they could prevent it since all three stories were found on the blog during research for the show. In fact, two of 'em are saved on the ole processor...I might just blog 'em again...just to be perverse.

And finally, we actually reinacted and filmed two of the stories, not just one. And I had to retell the third, on camera. I'm not sure if they'll use just one or all three...but it's a little factoid that could have been mentioned.

Am I nitpickin? Probably. But I'd still like to see facts in the newspaper.

At least, that's what I was taught waaaaay back in the stone age when I was a journalist...get the facts and report 'em accurately.

I thought that's what newspapers were for?

Ah well. At least it wasn't an obit.

Mad dogs and Englishmen - Part Deux

The 'post photo' part of Blogger seems to have a fart crossways this afternoon, so I'll try to post the rest of the photos in a Part Tres.

"Act natural. Be yourself."

Uh huh. Act natural and be yourself. But while you're doing that, look at me, not the camera. No, don't look at me, look at the camera. Don't look at me OR the camera. Use your hands...but don't use your hands up near the mic. Don't let the passing traffic, groups of interns, gawkers, cranes, trains, helicopters or car alarms distract you. Try not to shiver so uncontrollably. Tell me the story again...and again...and again. Now, tell it this way. Add this. Don't say that. Move up further on the seat. Fake a fall. (WTF? How do you 'fake' a fall?) Lie on your back on this luggage rack that we've tried to pad for your comfort (it WASN'T) and thrash your feet in the air. Push the bed faster. Hold your hands just here. No, not that way..this way. Do it again.

And again.

And again.

"Be yourself." My ass.

The day didn't start off well. The plan was to meet at the location at around 2:30. Irene, the producer called at about 10:30, told me the plans had changed a bit, they were on their way to the location now (thank Amy for me, Jason...hehe) and wanted to know if WE could come now. Uh. NOW. I hadn't even finished my first cup of coffee yet! Do these people have ANY idea of what I'm like without my coffee? Evidently not.

Ever the accomodating, easygoing person, I replied...HELL NO. Ok, what I said was 'give us an hour or so'.

Fast forward. (And I do mean fast) We get to the nice, warm location, only to discover that Irene, the producer, would like to do the first interview....outside.

"It's such a beautiful day and I've got the perfect location." Yea, Irene. It was beautiful. The sun was brightly shining. It was a balmy 36 degrees with 20 mile an hour wind gusts. And the 'perfect' location? Planted right in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. So help me gawd. I'm suprised it didn't fall over on my head out of pure outrage.

I have never been so fucking cold in my life. Not ever. In fact, I shivered so hard that muscles that I didn't know I had hurt today.

Keep in mind, I had NO coat. Even if I did, I couldn't have worn it. In between takes, someone would shuck off their coat and wrap me in it and Lulu fetched me hot Starbuck's. Zig finally remembered he had a blanket in the trunk of the car, so we used that, too. None of it helped.

So if any of you actually see me on this program, pay close attention to the outdoor 'interview' shots. It might look like a gorgeous, sunny day...but just remember...it wasn't. It was soooo cold that Tim had to change batteries on the camera twice and the remote mic once. Evidently, the cold drains 'em fast.

Tell me about it.

The rest of the looooong day went pretty much the same way. Except we were inside, thank gawd. Originally, the plan was that the shoot would take 'a couple hours'. Try eight. EIGHT HOURS. I guess those Brits have a different concept of time than we do.

And the thing is, eight hours of filming will probably wind up as a 10 minute (if that) segment. I really can't wait to see how they cut and piece it all together. I felt totally jerky and awkward and clumsy...out of my element...distracted and discombobulated. I can't wait to see how they handle THAT.

And the stories...well, let's just say a LOT of 'artistic license' was taken with both of 'em. I, being the stickler I am for details (ahem), had a problem with that. I kept trying to look at it from a nurse's perspective...the IV was wrong...we wouldn't do it this way...we'd do it THAT way...it didn't happen like that, it happened like this. I was trying for at least a semblance of 'reality' and Irene was trying for overblown 'funny'.

We butted heads a few times over stuff like that, but I finally realized that Irene was the expert at this...not me...and just went with it. So, for any of your medical-type peeps out there...I KNOW some things weren't 'right', ok? It wasn't meant to be 'Life in the ER'. It was meant more to be...I dunno...a scene from 'I Love Lucy' where Lucy plays a nurse.

I thought I might've had a teeny concept of what it takes to produce a tv show or movie, I can honestly say I had NO idea of the hard work involved by everyone. I mean hard, physical work.

I've gotta say, though...the whole crew was just...bloody brilliant. (Picked that up pretty fast, too...heh..gawd, but I looove those British accents) Friendly and patient and funny and kind. They all were. I can't say enough good things about 'em. Lulu, the production assistant, rounded up three lovely women from the

Peoria Players

, a local theatre group, to be 'extras'. They were just awesome, as well. I'd mention their names, but frankly, I can't remember 'em. Too many other things to remember.

Like "being myself".

And, Ziggy...whatta man. He took the day off to be my moral support, as well as to be an extra. Bless his heart. He spent nearly ALL day sitting in the lounge, cooling his heels. But when his time came, he was an ACTOR. He did his 'speaking part' perfectly. He EMOTED. He SPARKLED.

And when he did his 'dying' scene...well...it took my breath away. Mostly because he forgot his deodorant. hehehe (Hey...we were RUSHED...he usually smells awesome) But, he just did it SO well. He lived the part. He didn't bat an eye. He didn't make a peep. He didn't crack a smile once.
But, I guess he's had a lotta practice checkin out the insides of his eyelids... whilst snoozing on the sofa. (I love you, honey. Thank you for doing this for me.)

All in all, I'd say it was......an experience. Not one that I EVER wish to repeat again, but it was an experience.

Airtime? Sometime in May. As soon as I know, you'll know.

Mad dogs and Englishmen - Part One

L to R - Tim, cameraman extraordinaire; Miz Thang, myself (the 'mad dog'); soundman Brian; producer Irene and in the chair is the lovely, fuscia-haired Louise, aka Lulu, the production assistant...which means general fixer-upper, arranger and gofer.

I'm so bloody tired right now...I can't even begin to tell you. (How'dja like the 'bloody'? I pick up accents quick.) Today ranked right up there at the top of my list of "Days That Were 36 Hours Long".

It's past midnight and I've been to bed once, but think I'm in the process of my 'second wind'...something I wish I'd have gotten around...oh...4 pm or so, and my brain refuses to shut down so I can sleep. Soooo, I figured I'd get back up and begin to tell you about my day. I might finish. I might not. If I don't, not to worry. The rest will follow shortly.

I'd like to begin by saying that I learned something about myself today. I never have been, never will and never want to be an actress. Ever. I'll never underestimate the expertise of a good actress again.

I was soooo bad....I sucked major suckage. Suckage personified.

Of course, all the crazy Englishmen declared me 'brilliant'. But I know better. They were just tellin me that so I wouldn't go into the bathroom and attempt to flush my head down the toilet. Believe me...I was tempted on more than one occasion.


Brian, Irene and Tim "set up" a shot.

And, before I go any further...I know you're all anxious to know...no...I did not commit any major faux pas. I did not fall down. I did not pee my pants.

Notice...I said major faux pas. I did however, keep forgetting about that little black box that was attached to me. The little thing that recorded every word I spoke, every sigh I sighed, every profanity I uttered under my breath. The...uh...remote mic.

Verbatim: "Ooooo, look! It looks like Tim's peeing on the Virgin Mary!"
He wasn't really. He was doing...well...whatever cameramen do. He just happened to be doing it right in front of a large statue of said virgin...with his legs slightly splayed apart. Honest ta gawd...from behind, it looked like he was takin a whiz.

From brain to mouth in an instant.

I did, however, remember to have Brian unhook me when I made a trip to the little girl's room. Thank gawd.

Luckily...oh, gawd...LUCKILY...I caught myself before I did it again. Except this time, it would have been a capital-letter MAJOR faux pas.


Ziggy got in on the action, as well. That's him...in bed...playing a dying man.

At one point, I was to lean down and tell my "patient" (Ziggy) to 'go into the light'. He was doing such a fine job of not laughing (HE, on the other hand, is a swell actor...really), that I thought I'd whisper a little something in his ear to shake his composure a bit. I leaned down and opened my mouth to say, "Hey, baby...want me to tell you what I'm gonna do to you when we get home?" Actually, it was something far worse than that. Use your imagination.

At that very instant, I remembered that little black box in my pocket. The one that was attached to the cord that ran up inside my shirt...that was attached to the tiny mic clipped to my shirt collar...that was remotely attached to Brian's and Tim's ears.

My mouth clapped shut so fast...I swear you could hear my teeth clack together.

MAJOR faux pas averted.

I'll end 'Part One' by saying that my favorite local tv station didn't show up like they were supposed to. Don't know what happened there...they were all gung ho about it... but they're no longer my favorite tv station. The

PJStar

DID show up, however. It's still my favorite newspaper.

Dana, the reporter, said that hopefully, the story would run in tomorrow's (Thursday) paper, but it was so late when she finally got to talk to me, it might be held until Friday.

I'll go ahead and post this and give you rubberneckers something to read during your morning blog rounds. Part Two (with more photos!) will probably show up ahead of Part One...because I'm too lazy to change the times around.


Discussing the next scene...or just bullshittin. A lotta both went on.

Let's all eat cake

Eating less fat late in life failed to lower the risk of cancer and heart disease among older women, disappointing news for those who expected greater benefits from a healthy diet.

Even so, scientists say the results from the government study of 48,835 women don’t mean dieters should just throw up their hands and eat cake.

The whole story is

here

. It was an eight year, 415 MILLION dollar study that they're now saying might have been a bit skewed.

Researchers suggested that the women in the long-running study — with an average age of 62 — may have started their healthy eating too late. They also didn’t reduce fats as much as the diet demanded, and most remained overweight, a major risk factor for cancer and heart problems.

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

Ok, so they studied almost 50,000 older women, ages 50 to 70. They didn't take into consideration the 'good fats vs. bad fats' theory. And the dieters may not have cut enough fats for a "meaningful comparison".

Uh. Wouldn't you have thought the researchers would have thought of those specifics BEFORE beginning a 415 MILLION dollar study? Most of the bucks, I might add, probably came from government grants. And we all know where government grants come from, don't we?

I mean, I'm not a researcher and frankly don't know much about it. But one would think, that if you're going to do a long, detailed study like this, you'd think of all the possibilities and try to make it as controlled as you could.

"“The results, of course, are somewhat disappointing. We would have liked this dietary intervention to have a major impact on health,” Manson said."

Personally, I think that the study is probably correct. Look at all the other things that the talking heads used to say were bad for you...but...ooops...they were wrong. I think they simply don't want to admit that they might have been wrong all these years. They don't want us to know that they don't know everything there is to know about how the human body works...or doesn't.

They are, after all, the talking heads. They are our gurus...our dali lamas...our seers. One word from them and we change our diets, our lifestyles...our very way of thinking.

They hold a lotta power over us lemmings.

Odds and ends

Because most of my 'ends' are odd

I don't like my dishwasher. I shouldn't complain...it's brand-spanking new and we didn't hafta pay for it...shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

I think I've mentioned before that I love where we live. In fact, I could link to several posts where I've said that very thing...if I wouldn't have been such a twit and deleted the whole blog. Anywho, the apartment is really nice and the management has been outstanding. Anytime we've had a problem, they're there, if not the same day, the next day, for sure. And the problem gets fixed. Period. I should probably mention that we rarely have problems in the first place. They actually maintain the joint.

Several weeks ago, my dishwasher took a big poop. Right in the middle of the kitchen floor, no less, turning the kitchen into an indoor pool. I called and my favorite maintainence guy, Greg, came right over to check it out.

Yup. Within five minutes, he'd pronounced the poor old thing dead. No problem. The very next day, a brand new, sparkling white dishwasher was delivered and installed within a half hour. No mess. No fuss. And no leaks. Poof. New dishwasher. Problem solved.

Except I don't like it. Oh, it washes the dishes like it's supposed to. But it doesn't seem to have the room the old one did. I don't like how it turns on. I don't like that it feels....cheap. Well, hell..it probably was cheap. It's just not the same quality as the old one.

As I was loading it last night, I mentioned not liking it...again...to Ziggy.

His reply?

"Think of it this way...what if we'd had to pay four hundred bucks for a new one and you just...didn't like it?"

I like it a lot better now. He's such a smart man.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # #

In other 'odd ends', I'm startin to experience a little stage fright. Tomorrow's the big filming day for the TLC special. The crew's in Chicago and will drive down tomorrow. The location is set and all the 'extras' are in place.

I'm firmly convinced I'll make a total ass out of myself. I'll probably fall down. At the very least, I'll probably provide an illustration of just how damned easy it is for me to get my size 7 foot into my size 6 mouth.

Wouldn't that be ironic? They're shootin a special about blunders and I make a huge one during the filming. And believe me..it could happen. I suppose it'd just give 'em a little more footage. A blunder filmed whilst filming a special about blunders. Perfect.

Hey...if it could happen to anyone, it'll happen to me.

Anywho, I'll (or Ziggy) will take lots of photos if given the opportunity. He's takin the day off to be my moral support (AND to be an 'extra'), bless his heart...I know it kills him to miss work. And, be sure...a detailed post will appear...at some point.

'Blog fodder'. Yea. I'll just keep thinkin about what great blog fodder this'll make.

Yea. That's it. I'm doin this for you guys, ya know?

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Castration is only the first step

It's the only answer. Castration and a complete penectomy, both without benefit of sedation, and life imprisonment with three hundred guys, all named 'Bubba'. Death is too good...too easy. I want 'em to suffer. For a looooong time.

I'm watching

Dateline NBC's

special on online predators. They set up a sting operation in Riverside, California in cooperation with

Perverted Justice

and netted fifty...that's 50...predators in THREE days.

I'm really not shocked by the predators...we hear about 'em every day. I AM shocked by the sheer numbers, however.

EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of these...slime...said it was 'the first time'.

Yea. Right.

Think about it. Every single one of these fifty guys came to a house, fully prepared...completely ready (right down to the Viagra and condoms)...to have sex with a 12 or 13 year old child. Think about it.

Three days.

One community.

FIFTY child molestations (or worse) COULD have taken place.

I don't know anything about Riverside, California. I don't know how big it is. I don't know what the community is like.

I DO know a little bit about the community I live in, though. In the greater Peoria area, I believe the population is somewhere around 300,000. And I know that child molesters have the highest rate of recidivism of any other crime. In other words, they do it again and again and again...they CAN'T be 'cured'.

If fifty child predators were caught in the Riverside, California area, how many could be caught in THIS community? How many have molested children and NOT gotten caught? How many?

The molesters come in every description, every ethnicity, every age bracket, every socio-economic background. Teachers. Actors. Ministers. Physicians. Factory workers. Rabbis. Police officers. Truck drivers.

It could be anyone.

How many in YOUR community?

Watch me do my imitation of a skunk

(Inside joke...only the gal about whom I'm writing will get it. Let's just say it was one of those 'ya hadda be there' things)

Gawd, I love my friends. I don't have a lot...not many at all, really, despite me being such a sparkling, extroverted, gadabout. (ahem) But those few that I have...well, I'd entrust 'em with my life.

Hey, they already know all my deepest, darkest secrets (like the skunk story) and a few others. I figure if my secrets are safe with them, so's my life.

And friends like that...well, it's funny. No matter how long a time goes by...no matter how much water passes under the bridge...you can still pick up the phone and call 'em and it's like ya just talked to 'em yesterday.

Take Mary, for instance. (That may or may not be her real name...after all, 'Mary' is a pretty generic name, right?) I'd just gotten outa the shower and was drying my hair and "I should call Mary" just popped into my head.

Now, I haven't talked to Mary in probably...oh...six or eight months, at least. I've gotten a couple emails from her, but she's terrible about answering me. (Get OVER that, sister!) Growing up, we lived within a mile of each other. We went to school together. Though we had different positions, we worked together at three, separate jobs. While we didn't go to nursing school together, we both wound up becoming nurses rather late in life and we worked at the same place for years. We both love animals. We both like being by ourselves. We both loooove fried 'taters and broccoli...not mixed together, though.

Our birthdays are even within a couple days of each other, though I'm a year older....dammit. That USED to be a good thing. Today...well...not so much. We both have very similar senses of humor. Sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes it just gets us into trouble.

Anywho, like I said, it was like we'd just talked to each other yesterday. Though I'm pretty sure if I'd just talked to her yesterday, we wouldn't have talked for an hour. But, talkin to Mary just makes me feel....good. Ya know?

Did I mention that we both dislike talkin on the phone? heh

Oh, and I forgot to tell ya, Mary (which may or may not be her name)...I love ya, honey.

In which I critique the 'great American novel'

Uh huh.

I love to read. I've loved to read since I first learned how. My daddy passed his love of books and reading to me.

"Always gotcher nose in a damn book!" my mom would screech after repeatedly saying something to him. When he read, he was gone. He didn't see anything. He didn't hear anything. And, that fact was especially irritating to my yammering mother.

It's no wonder he lost himself in books...they were far more pleasant than his miserable reality. Though he would read almost anything...he even read the Koran once..his taste ran more to science fiction and westerns...quite a combo. Not exactly my cup of tea, but one's preference in reading material is...well...one's preference.

My taste in books is as wide and varied as my taste in food. I love biographies, true crime (I've always said that truth is stranger than fiction), just about anything by Stephen King or Dean Koontz, Truman Capote, John Grisham...mostly contemporary writers. I read for mostly entertainment purposes. I rarely read something that I'm supposed to learn something from.

I don't care much for poetry, especially the dark, brooding, self-exploring kind...I've got my own self-exploring to do, thank you very much. I do love the poetry of Dorothy Parker, though. She's just scathingly funny.
And I absolutely refuse to read anything resembling a 'bodice ripper' or anything remotely political. I DO have my standards, ya know?

I've tried to read 'War and Peace' on more than one occasion...just because I thought I should. (yawn) I tried to read 'Atlas Shrugged' for the same reason...and got the same result. I've read my share of 'classics'. Most are 'classic' for a reason. Some..well...I've never understood just why they're considered 'classic'.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Kinda.

At this stage in my life, I've decided that I should read a few more 'great American novels'...just...because. The classics I haven't read yet. Perusing ye old Amazon site, I added a few to my Christmas wish list. Faulkner. Hemingway. Williams. Fitzgerald. Kerouac. Wolf.

So I was delighted when Ziggy got me a collection of Faulkner novels for Christmas...(he loooves that Amazon Wish List...takes all the guesswork out of Christmas shopping)...As I Lay Dying, Light in August and The Sound and the Fury.

Gawd holy damn. I must be far denser than I thought.

I picked 'As I Lay Dying' for my first foray into Faulkner. It's a sad, depressing tale of a mother and wife who dies. It chronicles her family's (Jewel, Darl, Dewey Dell, Vardaman and papa Anse) pitiful attempts to fulfill her request to be buried far from where they live. (I can see why)

Keep in mind, this novel is set in the mid-1920's or so in the deep south. In the summer. Nope. No cars...horse and buggy. No air conditioning. No embalming. And the burial location, while Faulkner doesn't elaborate on distance, is days away.

To make it worse, each chapter is told by a different family member...and it's written in the vernacular. Sometimes words are capitalized and sometimes they aren't. And the punctuation is...scattered.

"The trees look like chickens when they ruffle out into the cool dust on the hot days. If I jump off the porch I will be where the fish was, and it all cut up into not-fish now. I can hear the bed and her face and them and I can feel the floor shake when he walks on it that came and did it."

Here's the spoiler: the useless, bumbling father uses the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. He gets the by-now-long-dead-and-stinking-to-high-heaven wife buried in the 'big city' and gets him a new one in the same day. It's no wonder that hillbillies get such a bad rap.

Nobody told me it was supposed to be a black comedy.

Ok, so I slogged through that one. I am determined to read the other two...if it kills me.

The second choice was 'Light in August'. It's a bit...easier, though kind of confusing. It's really two stories..that of a very pregnant and barefoot, unmarried hick-ette who sets out on foot to search for the slimy, fast-talking papa-to-be and a mulatto bootlegger/murderer (no, he's not the papa-to-be) and how their paths cross. Sorta.

It left me with a kind of a...ho-hum...feeling.

Ok, so the back cover of 'The Sound and the Fury' says it's "the tragedy of the Compson family, featuring some of the most memorable characters in American literature: beautiful, rebellious Caddy; the manchild Benjy; haunted, neurotic Quentin; Jason, the brutal cynic; and Dilsey, their black servant."

I'm in the process of trying to wallow through it.

Again, it's written in the vernacular, with punctuation and capitalization seemingly an afterthought.

"Father will be dead in a year they say if he doesn't stop drinking and he wont stop he cant stop since I since last summer and then they'll send Benjy to Jackson I cant cry I cant even cry one minute she was standing in the door the next minute he was pulling at her dress and bellowing his voice hammered back and forth between the walls in waves and she shrinking against the wall..."

And this is supposed to be "one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century."

Of course I see glimmers of beauty in some of the phrases. I'd be a doofus NOT to. But a few little glimmers do not make a great novel. At least in my humble opinion, they don't.

Then again, nobody asked for my opinion, did they?

I'm thinkin that my little foray into the 'great American novel' just might result in me rethinkin the whole 'bodice ripper' thing.

Yup. Me and a Campbell's soup can

Found this floatin around the blog world.

Who Should Paint You: Andy Warhol

You've got an interested edge that would be reflected in any portrait You don't need any fancy paint techniques to stand out from the crowd!

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

Huh

No, it's not a question...as in "Huh?" It's more like an "I'll be damned" 'huh'.

My horoscope for today:

Libra
September 22 - October 22
You will have all the inspiration you need, dear Libra, to get to work on some of the problems that have been happening in the lives of your entourage lately. You will use your pragmatism and tact to efficiently tackle those things that have been making life difficult for the people you love. (Emphasis mine) You will help people not to panic in the anxious atmosphere that may surround all of you today.

It's strange that I used the word 'pragmatic' to describe myself in the previous post. A post I made long before I read this. I don't really recall ever describing myself that way before. And the 'making life diffcult for the people you love' comment is just...creepy.

Maybe there's something to this 'horoscope' juju, after all.

Hostes alienigeni me abduxerunt. Qui annus est?

I was kidnapped by aliens. What year is it?

I have no other excuse.

Though there are some that don't like to publicly admit it, and others who simply refuse to accept the fact, we all make stupid mistakes. We ALL do things that, when thought about later, makes us say to ourselves, "What the fuck was I thinking?"

There are also those of us who act before thinking....as in even before that first synapse hits it's pre-destined location. A knee-jerk reaction, if you will.

And then there are a rare few for whom which BOTH of those human conditions seem to override any semblence of intelligence...of normalcy.

Like me.

I seem to have been....blessed...(ahem) with an overabundance of both qualities. I'm extremely impulsive and, believe it or not, I've been known to make a stupid blunder or two...or twenty.

And, it's funny. I've always kinda prided myself on the fact that I'm impulsive in a way that almost always results in a good outcome. I've prided myself on the fact that I let my heart rule my head, even though I've always considered myself a pragmatic person. (THERE'S one for ya to figure out, Dr. Freud)

I suppose that's why I continue to be soooo impulsive. It's always worked for me. By now, it's become a conditioned response.
Impulsivity = good results. Kinda like Pavlov's dogs...slobber = treat.

Unfortunately, problems arise when I combine that on which I've usually prided myself, with a big blunder...a blunder of astronomical proportions. A sort of harmonic convergence of stupidity and impulsivity. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often.

My harmonics converged last night and I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.



Hey...there's a GOOD reason why this picture has become my 'signature'.

My deleting the blog was a knee-jerk reaction which I almost immediately regretted. In fact, the regret was so immediate that I quickly created another Lollygaggin...just so no one else could take the name. Just...in case.

Once in a while, those synapses DO go where they're supposed to.

Just who in the hell do I think I'm kidding, here? I can no more stop blogging, anymore than I can stop.....making stupid mistakes. It's all about how I handle those mistakes that makes the difference. Hopefully, I can do it with as much grace and pride as I can muster.

So don't take me off your blogrolls just yet. It ain't over til the fat lady sings....and gawd knows...I'm a piss-poor singer.

I won't bore you with the details, other than to say that someone who's very dear to me was hurt and I very much regret that.

But what I won't do, is make excuses. What I won't do is try to defend the choices I've made. What I won't do, is let anyone dictate to me how I should live my life. What I won't do, is to let other people's judgment of me color the way I feel about myself and my life. What I won't do, is let another anonymous, ball-less whackjob hurt someone that I love so much.

And, what I absolutely, positively refuse to do is crawl in a hole and hide.

I quit...

...for a while, anyway.

I've deleted all 642 posts...all those months and months of posting...all those thousands of words...with one click. Simple. Painless.

Poof.

Gone.

Too bad it's not that easy in real life.

I'll hang onto the site. You know me...can't keep quiet for too long.