Somebody stop the merry-go-round!

I think I'm gonna throw up.

Good gawd! Where did this week go?

I'm evidently sooooo in denial. I thought I had a good grip on this move thing. In reality, I have no more of a grip on it than I do on....what?...quantum physics, maybe. I know how to spell quantum physics. That's it.

The place is a horror of empty and half-full boxes with the only satisfaction coming from the measley five or six that are packed and labeled. There's shit piled everywhere and I CAN'T STAND IT. I've still gotta call Ameren, the cable company and the phone company. I've gotta get Stuart in to get his balls whacked before we move...I'm afraid he'll spray when we get to the new place. I've gotta figure out what I'm gonna do with some of the furniture that we don't have room for. (Anybody need a good computer desk, a 27 inch tv, a nice coffee table or some assorted lamps?)

As if my feelings of going the wrong way on an escalator aren't bad enough, I got a horrible hair cut yesterday. I told the little bint to trim it. Keep the same style, but just a TRIM...and to NOT get it too short.

I'll be go ta hell if she didn't whack it all off. GawdDAMN it. I stopped going to those cheapie joints because of this and went to one that's supposed to be "great". Well, the last two trims I got there were great. But my regular stylist is off until the end of April and they gave me some little newbie. I shoulda ran the other way when I saw her black and white checkered 'do'.

My hair looks like it's been chewed on by goats. Fuck.

American (M)Idol...

...'cause dat's what I needed after watching Sanjaya tonight.

No, on second thought, Midol wouldn't cut it. Maybe some acid....

What...the...fuck...was...that??

The hair. The song. Strangely (and it was strange) enough though, I thought it was quite possibly his best performance.

Surely this kid realizes that he's become the poster boy for cringingly terrible karaoke singers everywhere? Surely he knows that he's become a big joke? Surely he knows that he just plain stinks? Doesn't he?

I mean...jeeeezus...I'm embarrassed for him.

I don't think I've posted about AI at all this season. It's because no one has really jumped out and grabbed me by the throat.

Melinda is awesome...but c'mon...she was already a semi-pro. There's just something about the "You like me? You really LIKE me?" act. And she holds herself funny...like a 12 year old pubescent girl who's ashamed of her new boobies.

Lakisha's got a set of...uh...pipes, too.

The Chris'...the fat one is good. The skinny one is gooder, plus he's got a great smile.

Gina of the magenta hair just leaves me...eh, as does Haley.

Phil has a great voice, but his poor head looks like an egg. Kinda...ovoid. Shaved heads kinda creep me out, anyway. But guys...if you're gonna do it, make sure your damn head is shaped right first.

Blake is different. Good but different. Jordin? For 17, she's amazing.

For me, they're all (except for Sanjaya) just...okay.

Dawg.

Whoooo! We set a date!

No, not that kinda date. I don't look good in white, anyway. I mean a moving date. April 28.

Hopefully, we won't need a boat to get there.

We're moving to Rome, though it looks a bit more like Venice right now. The river's waaaay up, though it isn't near the house. Yet. It's supposed to crest Wednesday (I think), so fingers are crossed.

Ok, it just occurred to me that I've lived in Venice, Florida and soon, Rome, Illinois. I love Italian food, grow a couple of different varities of basil and have long had a fascination for all things "Mafia". Goodfellas and Casino are a couple of my most favorite movies. Oh, and I use a lotta good ole EVOO.

Irony? I think not.

I bet I was an Italian mama in a prior life. Complete with moustache, no doubt.

As per my usual behavior, I digress.

The movers have been booked. Mediacom has been contacted for digital cable, phone and...OOOOOO!...high-speed internet. Good gawd. Whatever will we do with all our extra time now that we won't have to wait tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock on this damn dial-up? More sex, maybe? Hey..it could happen.

Just hafta notify our current landlords and the bastardly Ameren-Cilco. Oh, and hit the PO for a 'change of address' kit.

I think I'm right on track.

Now, if I just had a couple of hunky men to pack for me while I lollygag on my chaise lounge and eat grapes, I'd be set.

Hey. A girl can dream, can't she?

I'm not a pack-rat - I'm not a pack-rat...

...I'm not a pack-rat.

Ok. I try really hard not be a pack-rat.

I think some little, hairy gremlin comes in in the night and pokes all this stuff in my closets.

We got exactly two closets and the bathroom cleaned out and packed up yesterday. We had five boxes and two large garbage bags of "keep" stuff. We also had five large garbage bags of "pitch" stuff. Along with a few things that wouldn't fit into a garbage bag. And I left plenty of stuff to work with (towels, washcloths, sheets, bathroom "necessities" and other odds and ends) while we're waiting to move. And those were just storage closets...didn't have the balls to tackle the clothes closets yet. Or the storage area in the basement.

Kill me.

I guess it's like a physics equation or something. The amount of crap you have will expand to fill the available space you have.

It's funny. When I left the ex, I essentially took my clothes and a few small things that were important to me. When I moved to Peoria in 2001, I had a small tv, a plastic table and chairs, an air mattress and a few totes of stuff. My daughter and I moved everything I owned in my car and a two-door SUV.

I really liked not having a buncha crap. I also swore to myself that I'd never possess a buncha crap again.

Mmmmhmmm.

I have no one to blame but myself. Zig just isn't a consumer. He just doesn't buy unnecessary things. It's me. All me.

I am the countess of "If you can't find it, go buy another one." I am the duchess of "That's so cute...I have to have one!" I am the princess of "It was on clearance...so I bought three."

I am the queen of crap.

Mmmmhmmm...

We went to a party last weekend and were talking to some friends from the Springfield area. Springfield, by the way, has a fairly new ban on smoking in public places.

Seems as though the weekend before, our friends, both non-smokers (non-strident, though), were in the mood for a burger and a beer. They checked out a few of their favorite neighborhood bar and grills, only to discover that most of them had closed...due to lack of business...because of the new smoking ban.

Yea, yea...all the smoking police will defend the ban and say that the businesses would have closed anyway. You can say that til you're blue in the face, til the cows come home, til hell freezes over...use any ole homily ya want...and I still won't believe it.

Ya know...I've talked about wanting to quit smoking. But shit like this makes me wanna keep it up...just on principle. I know, I know...that's a ridiculous stance to take, but there it is. Let some damn nanny tell me I can't do something...especially if it's "for my own good"...and I'll break my neck to do it.

(Oh, and btw...swiped the 'toon from my favorite

Curmudgeon

.)

Oh, yea...

...looks like my idea of an exciting weekend. How 'bout you?



Gonna start packin this weekend. We're still not positive of our move date, but it's gonna be sooner than we thought. (YAY!) I called the mover's the other day and got it all set up except for finalizing the date. We used this particular moving company when we moved here from the rat-hole apartment and we were very happy with their service and price so, of course, they got our repeat business.

For some reason, I'm really draggin my feet about packing. Normally if I know I have a move coming up, I jump right on it. Maybe it's because we don't have a definite date yet. I work better under pressure. heh Anywho, we're definitely starting this weekend. If nothing else, I'd like to get all the closets knocked out and all the stuff that we wanna keep but don't use frequently. That's what I'm hoping for, anyway.

Now, I need to find my whip so I can keep Zig on point. heh

We're both really looking forward to this move, but I've gotta admit...I'll miss it here a little, though it's just not the same. In the last three months or so, we've lost two of our beloved little old lady neighbors. One was 86 and one was damn near 98. (Noooo...we don't live in a nursing home) Both of 'em were still pretty active and definitely sharp.

We still have a couple that are in their 70's and 80's, but two of the apartments closest to us are empty...and I'm really not lookin forward to seeing who'll be movin in. This particular complex is slowly becoming "Baghdad West" and I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm not crazy about that fact. It's not because I'm afraid of 'em, and I don't think I'm stereotyping...but it's because they just aren't...well...neighborly. Not a bit. None of 'em stop and chat. 'Course, I suppose that's kinda hard to do if you don't speak the language, huh?

Though there's a lot I like about living right in a bigger city...the anonyminity...the handiness of everything...the choices...it will be nice to live in a small town again. I guess ya can take the girl out of the small town but ya can't take the small town outa the girl.

From ye olde email bag

I love it. My daughter and I have very similar senses of humor.

A precious little girl walks into a pet shop and asks, "Excuthe me, do
you have any widdle wabbits?"

The shopkeeper's heart melts, he gets down on his knees so that he's on her level, and says, "Do you want a widdle white wabbit or a thoft, fwuffy bwack wabbit, or one like that widdle bwown wabbit over there?"

The little girl blushes, rocks on her heels, puts her hands on her knees,
leans forward and whispers, "I don't weally fink my pet pyfon gives a phuk."

What's in a name?

In a former life, I had some friends who had their newborn daughter's name legally changed from Carrie to Emily...or vice-versa...I forget...because she didn't look like a...well, whatever the hell the original name was.
At the time, I thought it was one of the stupidest things I've ever heard of.

All newborn babies look like little....widgets...anyway.

But then I started thinkin that it really might not be such a bad idea after all. Wait til a kid turns 2 or so, then name 'em. By age 2, the personality starts to develop and you can fit the name to the personality. We've all known a few wimpy little geeks that look like 'Herbies', but are stuck with some ill-fitting name like 'Brick'. Or how about the 5'10", 350 pound gal named 'Pixie'?

You get the idea. Let the personality or appearance decide the name...not the other way around.

So by this time, you're probably figuring out that we've changed Elwood's name to Stuart. Stuart the cat. Stewie. The Stewster. I'm sure he doesn't know the difference. Doesn't matter. He doesn't come when you call him, anyway. Even when you say, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" The only time he comes runnin' is when you say "Treat!". That gets him off his ass, post haste.

So his name is really more for us than it is for him. But 'Stuart' or 'Stewie' just...fits. He's precocious and hyper stubborn and does his own thing. Just like Stuart and Stewie.

'Course, even we don't call him Stuart most of the time.

But he doesn't come to the sound of "You ASSHOLE!" or "You little bastard!", either.

I think, therefore I blog

Though sometimes I get it bassackwards...I blog first...then think.



I've been honored by another blogger for whom I have the utmost respect.

Junebugg

is one funny, smart, insightful gal and I really hope I get the chance to meet her one day.

Aaanywho, she's nominated me for, what she so aptly describes as a "blogging award/meme thingy doo-hickey called the Thinking Blogger Award"!

I love it that she thinks I think. hehe

The rules are pretty simple.

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote, here is a

silver version

and a

gold version

.

Now, I get the chance to pass on the award to five other deserving bloggers who make me think.

This is gonna be the tough part. See, I value each and every blogger that I read. I can't even begin to tell you how much these bloggers have expanded my world. They all make me think. Otherwise, they wouldn't appear on my blogroll. So, as far as I'm concerned, every blogger that appears on my little list there on the right of your screen deserves this. Every. Single. One.

But I can't do my usual "buck the rules" act with this, so I'll play nice and pick five. In no particular order:

Though we don't always see eye to eye on political or social issues, local blogger Scott at

O'Brien's Briar Patch

never fails to make me think. Even though it hurts sometimes. heh

Val at

Babalu Blog

drags me from my little, insulated world here in the midwest to the mean streets of Cuba. If not for him, I'd have only the often twisted version of the MSM's take on Cuba, her politics and more importantly, her people.

Reading Guy every day at

Charming Just Charming

is like sitting on the front porch, chattin with a neighbor about...well...about everything from gardening to illegal immigrants.

I could say nearly the same damn thing about Sandy at

The Pea Patch

. She's like an old friend...that I've never met yet. Her stories about her Granny Frances and the rest of her family are priceless.

I know it's my own personal opinion, but I think Mark at

Witnit

is one of the smartest guys I know. Well. Sorta know. Quite honestly, he's so smart that he makes my brain hurt sometimes. But he's from California, so that's to be expected. hehe

Now, go. Read. Enjoy. Think.

"You'll appreciate that when you get older"

If I had a buck (hey...inflation) for every time my parents said that, I'd be filthy, stinking rich.

There's just no way you'll ever convince a 16 year old of that, though. Not unless he or she is an exceptional 16 year old. But, boy howdy...don't I just wish I'd have learned to appreciate some things when I was that age? I'd have had an extra..oh...I dunno...25 years, maybe...to enjoy 'em. To appreciate 'em.

A few things I really appreciate now...but didn't when I was a teenager:

1. A really good cup of coffee

2. My dad

3. The movie "Cool Hand Luke" (which is kinda what prompted this particular odd-ball post)
"NObody ever et 50 eggs!"

4. Young, fresh, non-wrinkled skin

5. My thick, wavy hair

6. Raw oysters

7. Health

8. A really good sense of humor

9. History

10. Common sense

I shouldn't give him any ideas

If you see one of these floatin around on the river later this summer, be sure to wave...it'll be us



Even before we knew we'd be moving someplace on the water, we kicked around the idea of buying a boat.

Really, the only reason that we haven't is because we don't have anyplace to store it during the winter. Well, there's that and the fact that neither of us has a vehicle stout enough to pull a boat and trailer any distance.

Now that we know we're gonna be right on the water...not to mention there's a marina within walking distance...the conversation has, once again, turned to buying a boat. Or making one. (ahem)

We absolutely don't want anything fancy. Nothng fast or powerful. I know how boats go...a lotta times, they're a big, gaping hole that you pour money into and rarely get to use because something isn't working right.

We've played around with the idea of a canoe. Um...no. Jon boat. Nah. Don't think so. We've even looked at one of those big paddle boats...some even come with a trolling motor, canopy and seat four people. Eh...maybe, but I'm not so sure.

My idea of a great boat is a party-barge. Some plain-jane pontoon that we can putt-putt around in or just stop and hang out. Something with a motor that won't always have something wrong with it. Something small. But big enough that you can stand up and walk around without fear of capsizing every time you wanna change positions. Big enough that you still have some room for a cooler and
maybe a small grill...so ya can stop on a sandy beach somewhere and grill a burger.

But new pontoons are expensive. Even small-ish, plain-jane ones. And though I've been kinda looking, I haven't seen anything of the used variety for sale. So Ziggy, being a very creative and imaginative guy, is all for the idea of making our own.

Now, I'm pretty imaginative, too. And as far as creativity goes, I think I'm one damn creative chick. But we're talkin water, here. Sometimes deep water. Sometimes, rough water. I know I've often said that I'd trust Ziggy with my life....but...maybe I didn't mean that quite so...literally.

Anybody got a used pontoon for sale?

Too much Chicken Sate??

Maybe I et too much Thai...I'm seeing things

I had occasion to be out and about today on Main. Just as I passed Rebecca Place, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of yellow turn the corner from Main onto Rebecca. As I looked closer (and damn near rear-ended the car in front of me), I saw it was someone on an adult tricycle, dressed completely in bright yellow...shirt and pants...complete with one of those conical, Chinese/Vietnamese peasant hats. Also in bright yellow.

I think I sprained my neck.

Anybody know what's up wit' dat?

Heheh...Ziggy suggested that maybe it was just another of District 150's cost-cutting ideas...replacing the buses with rickshaws.

Now, that's what I'm talkin 'bout!

Up to 73 here today. Glorious, glorious, glorious!

'Course, I had a gazillion errands to run, but what a great day to buzz through Starbuck's and grab a big coffee with extra cream, thankyouverymuch, roll the window down and crank the CD player. Jimmy Buffet's "Beach House on the Moon" was today's selection. Not exactly your usual Buffet fare, but it grows on ya.

Off to the druggie's to get a script filled, then to the store on a search and destroy mission for some Thai ingredients....and Kroger had every. single. one. Sesame oil; check. Coconut milk; check. Rice wine vinegar; check. Red curry paste; check. Jasmine rice; check. Fresh ginger; check. I figured I'd hafta run down to Main Street and snag some of the stuff from that Oriental grocery there, but good ole Kroger saved me a trip. They had everything I needed. Well, except Thai fish sauce.

I punted and grabbed a bottle of oyster sauce instead. I figured...what the hell...fish?...oyster?...it's all seafood, right? And it's oyster. How bad could it be? Besides, it only calls for 1 1/2 teaspoons. I dare anyone to tell me that they can tell the difference.

Aaaaanywho, I'm trying some

Chicken Sate (Satay) With Spicy Peanut Dipping Sauce

.

Sounds good, huh? We'll see.

Then I did a little shoe shopping. Which I hate. I have such wide ole feet. I have ape feet. It's hard to find shoes that fit ape feet. Dang ole boss won't let me go barefoot at work. (sigh) Didn't find any. But I happened to remember I already have a great pair of Birkenstock's I used to wear to work. They're old, but still in good shape. Except they're white.

Well, they were white. I painted 'em. Yup. I wanted a pair of navy shoes. So now they're navy. And they look great. A little navy latex craft paint, a little Mod-Podge for sealer/shine. and voila! They look brand new. And I know they're comfortable.

Ok. Time to go start my Jasmine rice, spike my chicken (sounds dirty, doesn't it?) and fire up the grill.

I'll letcha know how it turns out.

Update: The Chicken Sate was great...but I'm not sure it was worth the effort it took to find all the marinade ingredients and mix it up. But the Spicy Peanut Dipping Sauce was awesome. Wil tells me there is a big difference in oyster sauce and fish sauce, but it was great using oyster sauce...can't imagine it would be any better using the fish. The Jasmine Rice was...ok. It is a little more fragrant (I think it smells like popcorn) and has a little more flavor than regular.

Me likey

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

A very cool thingamajiggie, swiped from

Leslie

. Quite accurate, too.

What's your Visual DNA, baby?

Where's the outrage?

Where's the moral indignation?

Seems like there's plenty of it.

But I happen to think most of it is misplaced.

Everybody's outraged at political incorrectness. Ann Coulter calls John Edwards a "faggot" and we're outraged. Michael Richards calls someone a "nigger" and the shit hits the fan. You're not supposed to call someone a "cripple" or "midget" or "retarded". People get their panties in a wad if you say "black" instead of "African-American".

I'm digressing a little (again), but why don't us "whitey's" get pissed because they don't call us "Swedish-American" or "German-American" or "Russian-American"? My maternal great-grandma was a Cherokee Indian and I was born here. Shouldn't I be outraged because no one calls me a "Native American"? My paternal grandparents immigrated here from Sweden...so by all rights, I oughta be called a...what?..."Native Swedish American"?

Everybody gets all indignant and shit about profanity...words like "cock" and "pussy" and "fuck". People even squirm a little when they hear "vagina" or "penis" or "intercourse".

Words. Words raise our hackles. Words fan the flames of moral indignation. Words incite hatred. Words.

I was always taught that actions speak louder than words. Words are mighty powerful. Especially hurtful ones. But only if you instill power in them. Only if you let them hurt you.

I happen to be a fat woman. My feelings don't get hurt if someone calls me "fat". I AM. It's a truth. Don't gimme any horseshit about "full-figured" or "plus sized". I'm FAT. I is what I is. Don't sugar-coat it. Don't pussyfoot around it.

Words...words by themselves...rarely outrage me. Action...or sometimes, lack of action...is what outrages me.

People who sit on their asses and won't lift a finger to help their fellow man. People who value the almighty dollar over human dignity.
People who lend their voice to a cause just because it's trendy and not because they believe in it.

Greed. Hypocrisy. Stupidity. Cruelty. Politics. Child molesters. Liars. Fundamentalist anythings.

Those are a few things that outrage me. Those are the things that I get morally indignant about.

Not words.

It just seems to me like we're all wasting a lot of precious time worrying about words...when we oughta be worrying about actions.

Kick me

Nah. I'm not into the whole BDSM thing. Never been able to figure that particular little sexual quirk out. I've heard all the explanations...all the reasons. I don't buy most of 'em.

But I digress as I've been known to do.

No, I just need a little kick. Some....oooomph. I'm teetering on the edge and need that little nudge over. Beeeecause....

I'm pretty sure I'm ready to quit smoking.

Now, I know I've said it plenty of times before. But this time is different. I think I'm really ready. Except I'm not.

Ok, the truth is, I'm scared shitless.

No, I'm not scared of "failure". Hell, failure and I are best buds. Ok, that might be a little harsh. Let's just say failure and I are on pretty familiar terms. Just ask any other fat woman how familiar she is with failure. Especially where diets are concerned.

I've never gone into anything with a sense of impending failure. Except diets. In fact, it's been quite the opposite. Most things I've done, I've just jumped blindly into with the feeling that I'll either sink or swim. And most of the time, I swim. Or dogpaddle. But the rare times that I did sink, I've never let it get me down. I've never let it eat at me. I'm just too easygoing and optimistic to let that happen. Or maybe it's just that I'm stupid. Whatever.

So why the hell am I so scared to quit smoking?

I'm really not much into psychoanalyizing myself. I prefer to psychoanalyze others. Less scary. But, if I was a self-psychoanalyzing kinda gal, I'd say that I'm afraid of losing my best friend.

Cigarettes have always been there for me. When things weren't goin so hot, they were there. When things were great, they were there to share it with me. They're a glass of champagne, a handkerchief to cry in, a pain pill, a pal to take a break with.

See, that's another funny thing. Most fat women use food like that. But I don't. I overeat because I loooove food. I love the tastes. I love the textures. I don't snack when I'm stressed...I smoke. I don't eat when I'm feeling down...I smoke. Oh, I overeat...there's no doubt of that. But honestly, there doesn't really seem to be much of a correlation between my feelings and my food intake.

And that brings me to a whole 'nother can of worms. A couple years ago, I started on Atkins. And did well...lost nearly 45 pounds. But gradually, I slipped back into my old habits and put about 20 back on. And I feel it. And I don't like how I feel. I don't care so much about my body image...if I was fat and felt good all the time, I'd be ok with it. I firmly believe that some people are just meant to be overweight. And I'm one of 'em. But I don't feel nearly as good as I did after I lost that 45. So I need to crack the ole diet whip again.

Which brings me to my current state of 'deer frozen in the headlights' mindset.

I'm almost ready to quit smoking. I need to quit. But I also need to lose some weight.

Can I do both? At the same time? Aren't I just asking...begging...for failure...on both fronts if I try to do 'em at the same time? I mean, I'm feeling pretty crappy right now with only 20 of those 45 pounds back on. If I quit smoking, I'm terrified that I'll eat more food as a substitute...and wind up feeling even worse.

So, which is hurting me the most right now? Which problem do I tackle first? Do I quit smoking because I think I'm ready or do I stop eating because I'm feeling lousy?

Like I said. Somebody kick me.

The dirty dozen...

...and some odds and ends. Beeeeecause? Say it with me, now.

All my ends are odd.

I thought this little thingy, found at

Michele's

, was kinda neat.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 12 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Only 12, huh? I suppose it's not suprising when you consider that statistically, my last name is only the 5893rd most popular last name in the US. A "Smith" or "Jones", it's definitely not.

% % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % %

How 'bout this season of AI? Anybody else as...underwhelmed...as I am with the boys? The girls are a little better, but not by a lot...ain't a Fantasia or Taylor in the bunch.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $

I'm sick, sick, sick of winter. I want it over. Now.

@ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @

So ole Scooter was found guilty. Is anybody suprised? And all the hoo-haa about Walter Reed hospital...what? Ya think this is anything new? From what I've been told, nearly ALL the veteran's hospitals are snake pits and have been for years. And I'm absolutely not begrudging our brave soldiers good care. They deserve it. But I can't help but see a big...a huge...discrepancy here in the way the current soldiers are being treated and how the Viet Nam vets were treated. They deserved it, too.

And it just kills me. Ya just know that General Weightman knew all about the deplorable conditions...and no doubt his higher-ups knew about it, too. But he probably followed orders and stuck to the budget, so everything was swept under the rug. Don't rock the boat, baby and pass that buck.

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

Five months under my belt and I still really like my job; I have tomorrow off; my cat's napping quietly and not chewing on my leg; I have a great cup of coffee in front of me; my computer is de-trojaned; Ziggy's due home in a couple of hours and all's right with my world.

So how's yours?

A warning to local bloggers

Our computer has been hijacked by...something.

This morning, I clicked on one of the local blogger's (Pasghetti's Place) links on my sidebar (that's since been removed). The blog was gone. But in it's place was some kinda ad. I tried to back out fast, but it was too late.

It's something called "Malware Alarm 2.1" and basically, it's holding the computer hostage until I buy the friggin thing.

I'll throw away the computer first.

I ran the MSN Spy Sweeper program and it found it, but when I tried to remove it, I got a popup that said I needed to go online first in order to remove that specific program. It LOOKED like a legit popup from Spy Sweeper....so I clicked it. It evidently wasn't legit and now I can't even remove the program, even using the Control Panel. Basically, it's saying that I have to purchase the program in order to figure out how to remove it.

I can still get online, but it's waaaay slower than usual.

I tried using the Spy Sweeper program again, but it didn't even pick it up the second time.

Anybody got any ideas?

Update: Whew! After three attempts to do a system restore, it finally worked and we rode that Trojan horse into the sunset. So to speak.

'Course, the first two times, it was me tryin to do it. The Zigster got the job done on the third try. Which either means he's a lot smarter than me or that what I did to it enabled him to finish the job so easily on the third try. (ahem) Yea. That's it.

I'm a walking, talking contradiction

Yesterday, I'm bitchin about my loss of edginess and today I'm postin photos of my damn cat. Just call me "Sybil".

Can't help it, though. He's just so cute. That fuzzy, blue thing has become one of his favorite toys. Sometimes, he'll just walk around, carryin it in his mouth. (He's not a smart cat.) But just recently, he's learned that if he brings it to one of us, we'll do something really cool with it...like throw it. And, if he brings it back, we do something even cooler. We throw it again! So now "Fetch" is the name of the game. Until he gets bored. He loves his laser pointer, too, and never tires of it. Drives him insane, though...I think he'd chase the little red dot until he dropped.


"This peevish look will remain on my face until you shut that friggin camera off."


"What're you two hoseheads laughin at? I do NOT look like Papa Smurf."


"That was some schweeeet 'nip, dude!"


"Now go to Amazon and look up kitty condos."


"Doesn't everyone have a bath on top of the refrigerator?"


"Bow unto me, you lowly humans. Bring me my kibble and my treats, posthaste. And ya might as well do a little poopin-schoopin while you're at it."

How do Pammy get her groove back?

I used to be kinda funny. I used to be able to write reasonably well. Ok, so maybe "reasonably well" is a stretch. But dammit...I'm a good speller, at least.

I used to be a little...well...edgy.

I think my edge has been dulled.

Fr'instance, I used to love to write about stuff like

this

.

Liquid looooove. Say it. Just rolls right off the ole tongue and drips on the floor like little balls of mercury, doesn't it? Remember playing with mercury in science class? It's magic. Ephemeral.

Kinda like female ejaculation.

Oh, I wasn't nearly as good as

Erin

. But I had my own kind of crude style.

I used to write a lot more about sex. Because it was one of my favorite subjects. Still is. On my first incarnation of Lolly (may she rest in peace), I wrote a long piece about the swinging lifestyle. Hah. Lifestyle. I always thought that was such a silly word...kind of pretentious, really...to describe what most swingers do only occasionally.

Aaaanywho, even had the damn thing published in a local free-rag. Evidently it was good enough to publish. Either that or the editor just needed to fill up some space.
(If anybody knows that for a fact, don't tell me, k? Just let me remain wrapped up in the warm faux-fur cocoon of my little fantasy.)

I'd always try to temper my writing about sex with humor. Because humor is one of my favorite things, too. I think the two go hand in hand. Uh...penis in vagina? Face it. Sex can be funny. And there's just not many things better than being comfortable enough with your partner (er...partners?) to laugh during sex.

Ok, back to my edge. And why I've lost it. And why I'm posting about stupid, fucking inane things like my new glasses.

The thing is...I'm not so sure I've lost it. Entirely. But it seems to be in some sort of strange...limbo. Maybe it's because I'm older. Gawddammit. Maybe it's because I'm working again and have less time to ponder the whole male/female-female/female-male/male-male/sheep dynamic. I know that it's not because it's not as important to me as it once was. It's still important. Just not quite so...urgently...so nowdays.

Honestly, I think I know what it is. I think I stopped talking about sex...stopped being edgy...because I thought it made some people feel a little...hinky. A fat, middle-aged gramma talking about....sex? Ewwwwwww! Everybody knows that only young, beautiful, thin people have sex, right? They're the only ones that should talk about it.

Screw. That.

Pammy's workin her way back into the groove.

But don't blame me. It's all Erin's fault.

Peek-a-boo

Got my new specs today. These are them. Except they're in a dark brown tortiseshell, not black like I had before.

Kinda trendy for an old fart, but I like 'em.

I can definitely see things at a distance better. Close up...not so much. I need bifocals, but I've tried 'em and absolutely can't get used to 'em.

My peripheral vision, however...well, let's just say they're gonna take a little gettin used to. The wiiiiide temple pieces or whatever they're called make for some interesting visual effects. Like seeing things that aren't there.

Just as long as I don't start hearin voices.

'Course, for 460 bucks, the damn things oughta have a built-in I-Pod, huh?

It's a sad case, really...

...one of the worst I've ever seen.

Seems as though one of our

local bloggers

has had a bit of a run-in with someone who doesn't agree with him.

Now, I'm not a physician, so I can't legally diagnose illnesses and conditions. But I've dealt with my fair share of blowhard, windbag assholes so believe me...I know this syndrome when I see it.

It's called micro-penis. And though I've not actually seen the perp, I can almost guarantee that he's also suffering from a case of impotence so severe that even a case of Viagra couldn't help.

How can I even be so sure that the perp is a male? Oh, it most certainly is. Criminal profiling is a little hobby of mine. If it'd have been a woman, she'd have gone into a lot more detail...and would have probably spelled it right, too. And, no doubt, he drives a big-ass ole truck replete with big-ass ole tars. It's an outward manifestation of his insecurity about his teeny-tiny dick. He's probably middle-aged (younger folks don't much care about local issues), unhappily married (because of his impotence) and surfs BDSM sites and dresses up in women's lingerie in his spare time. He only has a high-school education (if that) and works at some menial job...like a janitor. He's always felt unlucky, unloved and persecuted.

Ya know, I'm not a big fan of anonymous blogging...but I can certainly understand the reasons for it. If I was in a position where I thought what I said on my blog might affect my job or my family, I might blog anonymously, too. Thankfully, I have very little to hide, so I figure I might as well let it all hang out. Well...most of it, anyway.

And though I've never met Knight, I respect his decision to remain anonymous...as well as his opinion on various topics, even though we might not always agree.
Hell, I read a lot of things that I don't agree with...but ya don't see me running around, taping anonymous, threatening notes to the authors' doors. (Honest ta gawd I don't.)

Disagreeing is one thing. Going to someone's home and leaving an anonymous, threatening note because you don't agree with a particular point of view is just plain criminal.

Us local bloggers are a pretty motley crew. I know this even though I've only met a handful of 'em in person. We have an enormous range of opinions on just about everything. And sometimes, we snipe and snip at each other because of those views.
But ya cut one of us and we all bleed.

Now go and read what those who are more eloquent than I have to say about it.

Eyebrows

Peoria Pundit