I'd Love To Go Out With You. Craaaaaaaaaap.

After all the pissing and moaning I've been doing about being single, you think I'd be thrilled to have a date tonight. Truth is, I feel like hurfing, cancelling the thing and obtaining enough astronaut diapers to get me through a high-speed car trip out of the country. What the hell is wrong with me?

I mean, the guy seems really nice. But I'm worried he'll get uneasy when my nerves cause me to react in all kinds of off-putting ways. Despite all my efforts to remain cool and collected, one or more of the following usually occurs on a first date:

1. Debilitating gas pain. This is almost a given. Five minutes before I meet the person, my pancreas, spleen and both intestines get in some sort of West Side Story rumble. And they're all definitely packing box cutters and switchblades.

2. Uncontrollable perspiration. I could be wearing pasties and meeting my date in the middle of an ice rink and I will still be sweating like Britney Spears at a drug test.

3. An inexplicable, temporary speech impediment accompanied by nonsensical segues. "Tho where did choo go to high school? Really? I luv cheez, don you?"

4. Complete loss of motor skills. Don't ask me how it happens, but five minutes into the date I'm spilling food and drinks all over myself. It would be like inviting this guy to dinner, without the drunkenness and homelessness, of course.

5. Apocalyptic, Exorcist-like vomiting. 'Nuff said.

Soooooo, now you understand my slight hesitation (read: absolute dread) about this evening. It's nothing against the guy, mind you. He seems like a perfectly nice, normal person. Of course, after tonight, he will likely need years of therapy.

Wish me luck.

Time To Start Collecting Cats

Someone managed to videotape my future self and put it on YouTube. Upon seeing this, I began to wonder--at what point do you give up on relationships and succumb to your destiny: becoming your neighborhood's token crazy old bat?

In my eighth month of being a singleton, this may all be a tad premature. Still, it's never too early to plan ahead and prepare. Don't get me wrong--I'm definitely not a loony shrew now. But perhaps I should just pull together the stuff I'm going to need when that time comes.

Stacks and stacks of newspaper, for example. If I'm to build newspaper towers throughout my house, I need to start pulling them together. Otherwise, any visitors (animal control officers) will have no trouble walking through my house. Also, it will give my babies (feral cats) something to potty on.

Or toenail clippings. I've always felt that throwing these away was terribly wasteful, but never really knew what to do with them. But I'm going to need something to put in all my creepy jewelry boxes. I can also use them to make gifts to send to my neighbors. It's like macaroni art, but way more personal.

Fossilized hard candy is another good one. If I buy a couple pounds of it now, it should be just old enough to set out in dishes a few decades from now when I'm ready. I should also look into collecting menacing-looking porcelain dolls, don't you think?

Oh, and cats. I'm going to need a lot of cats. It honestly baffles me that someone could amass some 130 cats in a tiny apartment. That is commitment! She probably started way before me.

Anyway, if you want to contribute in any way, or if you think I missed something, feel free to let me know. In the meantime, I'll be standing outside the APL with a Supersoaker full of warm milk.

Elmo Gets A New Job, Still Has Time To Haunt My Dreams

The holidays are months away, but sociopaths--err, I mean toy designers, are already releasing the "IT" toys of 2007. A few days ago I noticed that Elmo is back with a brand new bag, and by bag, I mean a singing pan pizza that is clearly possessed by the devil.

If you don't feel like sleeping for a fortnight, you can watch Singing Pizza Elmo in action here.

It's been awhile since Tickle Me Elmo and the other one (what was it? Heavy Pet Me Elmo?)--so I had almost forgotten how much this character disturbs me. There's something really creepy about a 45-year-old man lending that kind of voice to a vibrating muppet. Sure, the guy looks harmless. But can't you just see him using that voice for evil?

"Hey kids, it's Elmo! Help me, I'm stuck in the back of this unmarked van under a pile of golden retriever puppies and popsicles!"

Anyway, one can only imagine what's next for Elmo and his inanimate-object-come-to-life friends. Speaking-in-Tongues Lasagna Elmo? Severed Kitten Head Bongos Elmo? Soul-stealing Blueberry Scone Elmo? "It Puts the Lotion on the Skin" Elmo??

Here's a thought: this year, skip buying your children these freaky-ass toys and just send them straight to therapy. You'll thank me years from now, when an entire generation of deeply disturbed kids are tossing their parents into wood chippers.

A Letter To The Owner Of My Parking Lot

Dear Sata--err...

To Whom It May Concern,

It has been brought to my attention that the cost of parking in your fine facility has been increased by 39.5%, effective October 1st. I must say that upon receiving this news, I may have been slightly upset and irrational (translation: had a mini-seizure and threw a stapler at someone's head). But now that I'm clearheaded and the assault charges have been dropped, I'm ready to openly discuss the price increase and find a common ground with you and your fine staff.

First and foremost, I think that I will be much more understanding of your price gougin--err, fee modification--if I knew exactly how this additional cost might improve our garage. For instance, I understand that many parking structures have issues with peeling paint, but I've never seen a building that actually has a dandruff problem. And although I don't particularly mind tracking white flakes of lead paint all over the entire west side of Cleveland, I am concerned that the pigeons and homeless people that occupy the garage are confusing the paint leavings for tortilla chips.

Also, you may or may not be aware that we've been experiencing some technical issues with the entrance gate. Many mornings, the front panel of your control box is completely missing and the poor attendant lady is hot wiring the thing in order to get tickets to spit out. Other times, the actual gate seems to have gone missing, and in its place is a couple yardsticks held together with duct tape. Generally when these mishaps occur (three or four times a week, usually), your people give your loyal monthly customers a form to fill out and bring in the next day so your administrative staff can account for us. Most of the time I simply throw this form out. Sometimes I burn it.

I also feel compelled to mention that you have a series of formations growing in the parking structure that should probably be reported to either a geologist or a HAZMAT team. Certainly I'm no expert, but based on their location, I believe these white stalactites are made of cigarette ashes, bird doo and bum wiz. And I usually have to park directly beneath them.

Finally, there's the small issue of the stairs between parking levels. The indoor stairwell has a significant rust problem. While the steps are in disrepair and shift constantly, I'm afraid to hold onto the railing until I get another tetanus shot. Also, it sort of smells like dead people, and feels like the kind of place you'd run into Larry Craig.

The other set of stairs is outdoors, which makes it much easier on the nose. Even though it's outside, it also doesn't appear to have as severe of a rust problem--I'm starting to wonder what exactly the indoor steps were exposed to in order to reach the state they're in. Actually, the only real trouble with the outdoor steps is that I nearly perish every time I use them. You see, the metal grate material you've used for each step might have been a poor choice. The six-inch gaps in the grate aren't ideal for the type of shoes people wear to work. Unless, of course, you wear scuba flippers to work--and I rarely do.

I realize I might be coming off as a bit of a whiner. Really, I just thought the amount of money I was already spending to park with you was enough for a few updates, or even an annual power washing. To be honest, all of your facility's shortcomings didn't really bug me until I got news of the price increase. Now they're all I can see.

Perhaps there's another way to make your garage more profitable? Here's a thought: instead of charging all of us more to park there, start charging the crazies who are constantly wandering around the garage to be there. Like the strange Mr. Rogers-looking man, whose apparent OCD prevents him from stepping on cracks (and prevents us from being able to enter the lot for the ten minutes it takes him to shuffle by.) Or the person who keeps leaving the "Are You Going to Heaven?" brochures in the stairwells. Or anyone that has in any way contributed to the formation of the stalactites. Because I'm pretty sure those are not the people who are paying you to park there everyday.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know the state of affairs at your parking facility so that you might reconsider increasing our monthly fee by such a gratuitous amount, especially when you've been so completely blasé about your garage becoming one giant car toilet.

Thanks in advance,

Stephanie

I Shouldn't Be Laughing

Okay, so I stole another "essay" from my mom's folder. First, let me preface this by saying that I'm pretty sure this was written by someone who didn't grow up speaking English. I could be wrong--but God, I hope not. And since I didn't master (or even get close to understanding) either of the languages I took in high school or college, I probably shouldn't even be laughing at this. I'm sure that one of my French papers is floating around some French blog somewhere, and a bunch of French people are all having a good laugh. Or snapping their fingers. Or throwing baguettes. You know, whatever French people do when they're amused.

With that in mind, I'm going to share two genuine paragraphs from this essay.


Ladies and Gentleman, I give you two paragraphs of SPOOKY HOUSE.




I like walk in a mountain after dinner, the reason why, when I walk in a mountain such as walk around, I can breath fresh air, here bird sing and see beautiful landscape. Last week, I had dinner in my house before I walked in a mountain. Actually, I always walk same way. I want to find new way; a place untouched by human foot, that so I took the other way. I had no idea it will give me spooky house.

. . .

In the morning I waked up. I just looked around in this room that is so clean and white. I went down the stairs it was very old wood. So it made strange sound. I looked around house, it's so wonderful. It was designed antique.that is just my dream house even though it's old house. After I was going my home I asked to a guard of mountain what spooky house is. He didn't know this house is the mountain. He looked at me such as insane. So we went into mountain to spooky house. When we went that location it's not house. It just has too many trees. He turned deathly pale with fright. He said one architect killed himself in here. he was so poor and had great architectural design. So he was selling this design. But it was stolen. And then he chose died in here.

The End.

. . .

I know, I know. It's not fair to make jokes about this person because clearly English isn't his first language. Or second, even. But there are some things in life you just can't help snickering at, even when you shouldn't.

Big people playing (and consequently falling off) the Dance Dance Revolution game, for example. Or fainting goats. Or that time when John Madden inadvertently drew naughty shapes on Monday Night Football. Shouldn't be funny. But it is.

In the defense of Spooky House, however, he at least came up with an interesting story. Somewhere on that French Blog, they're probably being forced to read my essay, "My Name A Stephanie, With Fashion Top Designer Pants."

A Night Out With Me

Hey—look at me.
Is there something leafy in my teeth?

Okay. Check my nose. Do I have any bats in the cave?

No? Well, what about the makeup? Did I screw up the eyeliner already? Am I pulling an Amy Winehouse over here or what?

Fine. Smell my breath. Is it nasty? No really, smell it. You can’t smell it from that far, get closer and really get a whiff! And be honest!

Phew. So what? Is it the outfit? Too revealing? Not revealing enough? Do I have a wedgie? A muffin top? A ninja foot?? Oh God, not that I hope!

No?? Good.

How about toilet paper on my shoe? An elbow growing out of my face? A suddenly lazy eye? A moustache? A unibrow??

Head lice? Face worms? Corn teeth? A shelf ass? Cankles?

Nope? So...what the heck is it? WHAT? WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHY NO ONE IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN PLACE HAS APPROACHED ME YET?!?!

Oh, wait. Is it because I just had an existential breakdown in the middle of a sports bar and I’ve only finished half a drink?

Well, crap. Let’s go somewhere else and try this again.

The Devil Is Freezing Today

Browns 51, Bengals 45

Pigs are traveling by air and cats are making love to dogs and Britney Spears is staging a successful comeback. Because yesterday the Browns beat the Bengals. And scored 51 points in the process!

Oh, it was glorious! I just wanted to kiss the large, hairy man in front of me, who thought he'd entertain me between plays by showing off four inches of butt cleavage. My eyes welled up when Leigh Bodden intercepted that final pass. A choir of angels sang and my beer turned into two white doves which flew out of my hands and into the perfectly blue sky.

And you know what else? The Browns are at .500! Ah. Do you smell that? Smells like...average. And any sensible Browns fan will take average, and be quite happy about it.

It was so wonderful that I totally forgot about the bratwurst that someone had pelted me with at the tailgate. Unfortunately the brat had exploded upon impact leaving behind a brat gravy which was beginning to attract ants. But I didn't even care! No insect stings were going to stop me from enjoying this incredible moment in Browns history.

Derek Anderson, I'm sorry I called you all of those names. I'm sure you're not a twirling fartknocker. And Jamal Lewis, you aren't the overpriced old buttlick I thought you were. For everything I might have ever muttered under my breath (or screamed at my television set, causing a half-dozen elderly neighbors to go into cardiac arrest) I am sorry.

Today, I am happy. Pigeons will be spared from kicking. Slow drivers will not be heckled. Homeless people will be hugged (not really, but I won't tell them to stop whining and get their resume together). I will be nice to every creature I meet.

Ugh, this is going to be hard.

Chad Johnson Hopes To Make Us Even More Miserable

There is a laundry list of side-effects that come with being a Browns fan. For example, many Browns fans suffer from sleep disorders, primarily the one in which we wake up screaming in the middle of the night. We experience episodes of delusion, generally between August and September, followed by a solid four-month spell of depression. Sometimes we urinate or defecate while still wearing pants for absolutely no reason at all. Well, that might just be a personal thing. Stop judging me!

Anyway, I was in a temporary delusional state this morning and decided to collect some Browns/Bengals insights and determine what the keys to victory were this Sunday (looks like we're going to need a little fairy dust, some Jesus hair, a warlock and some inexplicable mass-ankle spraining accident to occur in the Bengals locker room). That's when I noticed that Chad Johnson had renewed his pledge to leap into the Dawg Pound this Sunday after scoring a touchdown.

Know what's even better? I also heard that he bought a bunch of tickets for his friends to sit there, so it looks like Cleveland loves Chad Johnson.

Which reminds me of another Browns Fan Side Effect: fits of unadulterated, apocalyptic rage. I mean, REALLY?! Isn't there anyone more currently miserable that you could pick on, Chad Johnson? Why don't you taunt an entire pediatrics burn unit? Throw eggs at the nice people in the old folks home? Fart on a freshly-orphaned baby deer? God, you're a dick.

Okay, so here's my suggestion. Nobody sit in the first two rows of the DawgPound. If you happen to have tickets to one of those seats, don't worry. I will share my seat with you. Okay, so it's settled. No one is sitting in the first two rows. Well, maybe Chad Johnson's friends, but they won't be there for long.

Next, we take the entire contents of every Muni Lot port-a-let and spread a thick layer of nastiness across the first two rows. At last Sunday's tailgate, the pile of human waste in each port-a-let had grown so high that it actually stuck out above the toilet hole. And people were still waiting in line for twenty minutes to use them! Seriously, all I did was glance at the filth mountain and I got syphilis.

Following his touchdown, Chad Johnson will sail into a lagoon of bratwurst flavored puke, doody and urine. Besides immediately contracting syphilis, he will also throw up in his mouth, and sprain his ankle. WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, CHAD?? NOT YOU, BECAUSE YOU'RE CHEWING YOUR OWN VOMIT!





I think I just made myself sick. No surprise. Nausea is a common side effect of being a Browns fan, too.

Summer Finishes Prematurely, Hardly Satisfies

Can you believe summer is over? Oh, and anyone who just thought "No, Stephanie, summer isn't over until September 22" can eat it. It's friggin' over.

So yesterday there was a distinct chill in the air that told me Summer had packed its bags and is getting the hell out of this miserable place before Aunt Autumn and Uncle Winter get in a big ol' fight and turn everything to shit. And then I realized...I haven't done squat this season.


Ah, when May rolled around I had such high hopes that I would achieve my goals for the summer before September reared its fugly head. Let's see how we did.

Summer Goal #1: Get a boyfriend.

Umm...no. I got a sixty-year old man to wash my car every week. But then he had to go and have that triple bypass surgery. What? He's fine now! Stop looking at me like that.

Summer Goal #2: Lose ten pounds.

Perhaps I would have better luck with Goal #1 if I had achieved Goal #2. Funny thing about that, though--apparently you don't lose weight eating Chef Boyardee out of a buttered hot dog bun.

Summer Goal #3: Cut back on the booze.

Not even close. But that's okay, that was a stupid idea anyway.

Summer Goal #4: Save money.

HAHAHAHAHAH! Yea, right. That's about as ridiculous as Goal #3. It's been all I can do not to go bankrupt. Fortunately, my friends haven't caught on to the fact that every time we hang out, one of them wakes up in a bathtub full of ice with a note that says "Call 911". On a completely unrelated note, I'm selling spleens and kidneys at bargain basement prices. Call if you're interested.

Summer Goal #5: Read more books.

Okay, I totally got this one. That is, of course, if books = UsWeeklys and read = look at them for as long as possible until the checkout clerk pitches a hissy.

Summer Goal #6: Become more eco-friendly.

Okay, I still litter. But at least I cut up the six-pack rings before I chuck them over the bridge. And I totally stopped kicking pigeons. That's got to be worth some heaven points, right?

Summer Goal #7: Give back to the community.

Well, my friend made out with a homeless guy in a wheelchair and I didn't stop her. If that isn't charity, I don't know what is.






Okay, so I didn't get much accomplished this summer. Big deal. I didn't contract a disease, get arrested, lose my job or become pregnant either. So there.


Of course, summer isn't technically over for another 8 days or so.

I'll Miss My Computer, The Filthy Whore That It Was

At work, I use one of the older Dell laptop models. Unlike more modern laptops, this one wasn't designed to travel anywhere. I know this because it weighs 46 pounds. Still, it gets the job done...that is, if its job is to pick up more viruses than Paris Hilton on a Sunset Strip bar crawl.

So yesterday things looked pretty bleak when I turned it on and all I got was a black screen and some sort of suicide note in MS-DOS script. Something like "error message 00110: can't open windows >//> wishing for the sweet release of death>//> : boot drive you all will be better off without me."

The IT guy went to work trying to resuscitate the damn thing and I got myself a lender laptop (similar to the original but even heavier, if you can believe it). While it was in his custody, I started to reminisce about my half-dead computer and all of the things we've been through together. I thought about how much I'll miss its little quirks when my laptop was finally off to the big garbage heap in the sky.

Like, how the mouse button slides out of place, leaving a green sticky spooge all over my fingers. No biggie as long as I'm not using my mouse, which I need for BASICALLY EVERYTHING.

Or, how the broken fan inside my laptop causes the machine to produce a considerable amount of heat. Good thing the IT guy taught me that trick where I prop my computer up on my stapler so the heat has somewhere to escape. Otherwise my desk might be covered with burns and my stapler might actually be used for stapling.

Or the way it just chooses to "hibernate"--that's what Microsoft calls it, I call it slipping into a irreversible coma and erasing everything I've worked on in the past millennium--for absolutely no rhyme or reason.

Or the way that the volume seems to come in and out inexplicably, and make random sounds without provocation. This can usually be resolved by pounding on the computer in just the right spot. I still haven't figured out how to get it to stop telling me to kill people, though.

And finally, the way that it just stole $200 worth of iTunes from me (assuming it can't be repaired). My laptop is so cute when it robs me blind of all the music I used to enjoy whenever the volume was cooperating.

Oh, gigantic, horrible laptop...you will be truly missed. Perhaps you will come back to this world in the form of something a little more advanced, like a Skip-It, or maybe even a Teddy Ruxpin.

UPDATE: Computer is fixed! IT guy was able to talk it out of suicide, so it's back on my desk, atop my stapler, leaving green ass-goo all over me. Fortunately, all my music is still there. I don't know how I would begin to replace my classic George Michael or Howard Jones collections.

I think I just figured out why my computer wants to kill itself.

Britney Opens VMAs, Announces To World "I'm Dead Inside"

Like most people who watched the MTV Video Music Awards last night, I was banking on seeing one of two things: a glittery, jaw-dropping comeback performance in true Britney fashion or an absolute train wreck in even truer Britney fashion. In retrospect, I'm not even sure what the hell I saw.

To be honest, I was expecting to witness something truly freaky. Like some crazy-ass performance art in which Britney would set fire to her eyebrows and pee all over tabloid magazine covers, all while juggling a Red Bull, a carton of Marlboros and little Jayden James.

Instead, millions of viewers (well, at least thousands of viewers) were treated to a three minute...thing, that felt a lot more like a blocking session than a true performance. If Britney actually had her microphone turned on, all the audience would hear would be her moaning "brains...must eat brains..." as she lethargically stumbled about and rubbed against her back-up dancers (for stability, I'm assuming).

For the entire performance, Britney moved around stage like a wad of meat in a pinball machine. The star of the show was really her muffin top as it constantly threatened to take over the entire upper half of her shorts and put someone's eye out.

Anyone who has witnessed past Britney performances was horrified by last night. I mean, she has always lacked a certain something...oh, I don't know...live singing, maybe? But she was always entertaining in a "any minute this sparkly bra could be three rows into the audience and I could be making out with Sinead O'Connor" sort of way.

Someone please explain what has happened to poor little Britney. Is it prescription medicine? Alcohol? Young motherhood? Being married to a scrawny, fame-whoring succubus? An overly-tight weave problem?

I don't know about you, but I'm going to try and avoid all of the above. Oh, except for the alcohol. Lord knows it's going to take a stiff drink to erase the memory of Sunday's "performance."

Steph Presents: Bite Ideas On A Budget

Everyone knows that eating healthy isn't cheap. So I just don't. In fact, as my cash flow continues to shrink, I've had to be more and more creative in satisfying my cravings. As a girl who used to frequently enjoy dining out, it's been quite an adjustment learning how to make do with whatever is around the house.

Hence my new feature, Bite Ideas on a Budget: Meals for the Financially Challenged. Whenever I come up with a new, inexpensive substitute for a dinnertime favorite, you will be the first to know. Today's entree: The Meat?ball Sub.

If you're at an authentic Italian joint, you can't go wrong with a big, beautiful meatball sub. Even if it's not your favorite sauce recipe or meatball recipe, the combination of meat, sauce, cheese and freshly baked bread is almost always a winner. And it will usually run you about 8 or 9 bucks.

Not so with the Meat?ball Sub.

Here's what you'll need:

One (1) can of Chef Boyardee Lasagna (Pasta with Chunky Tomato and Meat Sauce)

One (1) value brand hot dog bun

One (1) heaping spoonful of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (the light version, of course)

A temporary lapse in judgement and overall absence of self-respect

Now that you have everything you need, it's time to prepare the Meat?ball Sub. Simply open your can of Chef Boyardee Lasagna, place it in a microwave-safe container and zap it for about two minutes. While this is cooking, liberally cover your value brand hot dog with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Light.

Remove lasagna from the microwave and spoon it onto your buttered value brand hot dog bun. Grab a tall glass of tap water and you are ready to eat.

Results

Price: $1.85 or so.

Taste Factor: Surprisingly decent, considering you're eating canned pasta out of a hot dog bun. The Meat?ball Sub gets its name from the questionable quality of meat used in the Chef Boyardee lasagna. Its powdery consistency and frighteningly nonexistent meat taste is a drawback, but the sauce is undeniably pleasing.

Shame Factor: Still recovering, quite honestly.

Digestion Factor: See above.

Chance of Repeating: Fairly high, since cans of Chef Boyardee were 5 for $5 and these hot dog buns aren't going to eat themselves.

Have a recipe you want to share? Leave it in the comments. Otherwise, I'll see you at the next exciting installment of Bite Ideas on a Budget: Meals for the Financially Challenged.

Next BBQ, Be More Specific

It has been brought to my attention that several readers think this is actually me. This is absolutely preposterous. I sleep on my back.
For the record, I found this photo at CollegeHumor.com.



There are three things I associate with Labor Day: drinking, sleeping in and drinking. And if I had to pick a close fourth, it would be cookouts. There's really nothing better than a Labor Day BBQ with some good friends--and that was my plan this past Sunday.

Most BBQs are BYOB, so I stopped to pick some beer and headed over to my friend's house. Of course, you can't go to a cookout sober, so we had a brew or two before heading to the party. WHAT? I DON'T HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM. STOP LOOKING AT ME!

So now we're low on beer. Easy fix to this problem: bring vodka. Fortunately there was a liquor store on the way, so after my friend counted out nickels (WE'RE FINE! STOP LOOKING AT US!) to pay for said vodka, we were off.


I should also mention that since this is a cookout with friends, I wore my finest garb. Shredded Citizens of Humanity Jeans, dirty flip-flops and that one Splendid tank top that makes it look like I kinda have boobs. My friend was basically wearing the same thing, except she really has boobs. Bitch.

So we're walking up the drive carrying an open case of beer and brown bags filled with booze, laughing and yelling and announcing to all our friends who are presumably in the backyard that "the strippers are here!"

We turn the corner and about fifty family members look up.

Oh. Holy. Shit.

Mothers holding babies. Fathers flipping burgers. Grandmothers with their perfectly coiffed hair and sailor-cut pants trimming friggin' rose bushes! ARE YOU SERIOUS??

Our friend who was hosting the party approaches us with a grin and grabs the beer, putting it in the tent somewhere between the table of nuns and the table of kindergarten teachers. We retreat into the house, bottle of vodka in hand. My friend confesses that she's just peed herself a little.

The host finally comes in to see how we're doing (besides half-drunk, totally embarrassed and sorta smelling like urine, great). At this point I'd rather walk directly into oncoming traffic than back into the party, but after a bit of coaxing, I relent. Fortunately for us, most of his family is totally cool. The old men really take to us, which may or may not have anything to do with the stripper announcement.

There's a lesson here. It might be "don't invite assholes to a cookout." But I'd like to think that it's "go ahead, invite close friends to a BBQ--but Sweet Jesus, tell them if it's going to be attended by your entire extended family."

Hope y'all had a great Labor Day Weekend. If anyone finds my dignity lying around, give me a call.

Extended Holiday

Hello, friends. I know there's about 4 of you that read this almost daily (Hi Mom and Gramma!) and I hate to leave you hanging, but I'm afraid a little computer trouble is forcing me to postpone today's entry. Besides the fact that my 'h' key and 'r' key pop off my keyboard all willy-nilly, my applications are running slower and slower, and I finally realized that although constantly blowing air on it worked for my Nintendo, it's not fixing anything on my computer (and the IT guy is sick of wiping my spit off the screen). So basically, I didn't get around to a worthwhile post (clearly) and will have to put that off until tomorrow.

So again, sorry for the delay. I'm going back to work and contemplating homicide.

Kisses!