Revisited Resolutions

So... it's be almost a year since I wrote this post...

Let's see how I did.

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).
FAIL...

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."
Eh, could go either way. I'm getting better, but I don't think it's fixed.

Blog at least once a week.
To be fair, I do have more than 52 posts. Eh, more win than fail.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)
Win, big ugly beautiful hairy expensive amazing disgustingly wonderful win.

Become something meaningful.
This might be a draw. While I don't doubt I'm something meaningful to someone, I'm still not sure how meaningful I am to myself.

Do something substantial.
I said yes, and next year I will embark on the greatest adventure I've had yet. I may or may not kill someone in the process.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).
He loves me just the way I am..

Not break a heart.
Win.

Find patience.
Uhm...

Find happiness.
Double win, triple win even.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.
Win, since no one read it.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)
Win...ish.

A long overdue up date.

OMG, two months (ish). And so much freaking stuff happened.

October:

24th: David received a call from this web design firm for a job he really wanted, requesting an interview. He floated about on cloud nine for a while

November:

1st: David was transferred from the deli (that he hated) to the Starbucks (that he loved) in Target (where he worked).

2nd: Interview with Firefly. Nailed it.

9th: Second interview with Firefly, this time the Owners and not the GM. Hashed out salary, but was not actually offered the job.

11th: Firefly did not call back as expected. We pig out in a pity party.

13th: David called Firefly to see where he stood. The GM apologized for not getting back to him sooner and offered him the job. Woot, woot!

During all THIS nonsense:

David's grandfather had his knee replaced, his brother had his gallbladder removed and spent three weeks in two different hospitals due to still unknown complications, and his mother had a breakdown due to exhaustion. He spent and week in Jackson with them, right across Thanksgiving. So I spent Thanksgiving with Oliver and Daisy and my pjs. Score.

Everyone is better now, healthy and home. But now we have to contend with the pooh that this whole thing stirred. And I've been asked to keep my explanations as vague as possible. Grumble. The one time I'm willing and prepared to expound upon the details is the ONE TIME I can't.

Damn.

He started his first real grown-up job at Firefly and loves every minute of it. And... we're not broke and poor anymore. Bonus!

So, that's what's happened in our little corner of the world since I fell off the radar.

What the hell this is

I've seen this hideous amalgamation of discombobulated textile regurgitation at least ten times since Friday, both in person and on television.

And I absolutely must know... what the fuck is it called, where the fuck did it come from, and when the fuck will it be returning?

Jinxing it

Seems I spoke to soon.

It's muggy, it's gross, it's HOT. Summer hasn't given up yet.

Damnit.

A drop in the mercury

After a vicious fight and a final, swampy rally, Summer has finally released her unrelenting stranglehold on South Louisiana.

The air out side is crisp, chilly, and beautiful.

Time to revel in every second, because we all know it won't last.

Serpent Slayer

Dear David just iced a snake for me.

Turns out it was completely benign and none of us were in immediate danger.

But why take a chance? Or so he said.

Common Sense

Jesus Christ, woman, either you want a private life, or you don't. But you cannot, repeat, cannot have it both ways.

You cannot in one sentence discuss a desire to protect your family and their privacy, and in the very next sentence discuss plans for picnics and effing cruises you want to take with you're creepy blog followers.

Jennifer McKinney, I liked you better before you were famous, back when you were cool, and edgy, and different, and only a little religiously irritating. Now you're commercial, preachy, contradictory, and almost totally irritating. If not for the train wreck effect, I'd have quit watching long ago.


Sorry... just wanted to get that off my chest.

By the by, and totally off topic, I got back teh intratoobs today, and full two weeks later than expected. Eh...

Teh IntraToobs...

I misses dems!!!

A cable man...

He has an appointment at my new digs for next Tuesday.

And then I can quit sneaking onto Blogger at work.

Oops.

Some fairness out of the universe.

Why is it okay for this douche to screw us out of money he owes us, but it's not okay for us to do the same to him?

You used the power in this house, asswipe, used way more than the two of us combined I'll bet, and you're refusing to pay for the third I'm asking for... yet because he's a good guy, David to refuses to take from you what you owe us.

...

My roommate, who will read this, is refusing to pay his share of the July power bill, but is insisting we pay him back for his share of the washer and dryer. David said he would gladly pay for the washer and dryer if Adam will pay him back for the stool David bought for the pub set (the set came with two stools and there are three of us), and then there's STILL the matter of the power bill. My solution? Take the stool AND the washer and dryer and call it even.

Aaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnndddddddddddddddd... this just in...

David's just spent the past forty minutes in Adam's room and walked out with cash, saying Adam will give him more tomorrow... WTF just happened?


UPDATE:

See post dated 10/19.

A new place to live.

Today's the day. In three hours - three teeny, tiny little hours, we meet with the world's most useless realtor to sign a lease on the cutest little duplex bungalow thing.

Pictures to follow.

Scout's Honor.

But first, lunch with David, Jo, Gramma, and The Flower Girl.

Score!

In other news, I have a humungous ulcer on the left side of my tongue and talk like my mouth is full of cotton. Lunch will be FUN.

People who will burn in Hell

And Michael Vick is at the top of my fucking list.

But wait, there's more.

It's not enough that this abusive bastard got to do what he did to those poor dogs and live to tell about it, but now, apparently, the NFL is letting him back in.

Spot number two is now occupied.

How the FUCK does that happen, people? How the FUCK does that asshole get to kill, maim, and abuse dozens of dogs - animals who exist only to be loving and devoted COMPANIONS to your sorry fucking ass - and STILL get to make millions upon millions of dollar playing fucking football?

Where's the justice in that? How can you let that happen Mr. NFL? This man, upon whom the world should only look with disdain and disgust, who should be literally spit upon everyday for the rest of his life, who should be torn apart limb from limb by the very animals he so GROSSLY mistreated, is now being allowed a position of possible respect and hero worship? What the FUCK kind of message is that sending to the public, to the twelve year old who will now watch Dogkiller Vick with admiration in his eyes? JoeBlow Fuckup in Florida horribly mutilates seventy or so cats and now he's incarcerated, but I bet if that little asshole could throw a pigskin or hit a fucking baseball we'd all be giving him another chance.

And I don't care if "we're talking about a young man's life here." You fucked up. You should be forced to clean toilets with your fucking tooth brush for the rest of your life, and then forced to repeatedly watch reels of the dogs for which you demonstrated such HEINOUS disregard suffer AT YOUR OWN HANDS.

You do not deserve a second chance.

This is ridiculous, ree-GODDAMN-diculous.

We as a nation already put sporting events and sporting clubs before academics and education (don't get me started), and NOW, NOW, we're putting a man's ability to THROW AND CATCH A FUCKING BALL before the LIVES AND WELL BEING OF DEFENSELESS ANIMALS...

My God people, what's next? Yeah he raped and murdered that hooker, but he throws a mean curve ball. We'll let him back in.

Fuck you Mr. NFL.

Fuck you and fuck the sport you have so immensely disgraced.

The cutest little thing

I don't do this too often, but oh my god, go to this blog and check out Miss Harper.

There are pretty babies, and there are beautiful babies. These babies aren't cute, but they are gorgeous. they are model material. They are babies like Suri Cruise, and the Gerber baby.

Then there are the cute babies, the ones that aren't model-perfect but are just so freaking adorable you can't stand it.

And can I please say that Harper is the absolute pinnacle of adorable? Because holy crap, is she ever.

She's not pretty and she's not beautiful, she's just down right UH-dorable.

Can I please be this lucky one day?

Holy OMGWTFPoptarts!!!!

I luuuuuuuuurv him.

And I luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrvvvvvvv this.

So want kind of obsession-bordering-on-stalker effing mania is this going to produce?

I just had a little brain orgasm.

I fear I may succumb to Gollumitis shortly.

A Train Wreck, or Something Like It.

Internet rubbernecking.

I'm guilty of it.

You might be too.

Just like real life, driving along the highway, traffic slows to a crawl, and you find yourself decrying those nosy, nosy fuckers 18 cars in front of you who insist on oogling the vehicular carnage as they pass. Then comes your turn to creep by, and instead of maintaining a constant speed out of courtesy for the bazillion drivers behind you, you do it. Right foot shifts from gas to brake-tap, tap, tap- eyes drift to the left (or right), and the rest of your face follows slowly. Before you realize the crime you've committed, you become one of those nosy, nosy fuckers oogling the vehicular carnage.

Same rules apply to the internet, and all this blog lurking of which we are so heinously guilty. Yes, yes you too, because if you're reading this, and haven't made known your presence, than you too my friend, are a lurker.

But I digress.

What started as a simple plea for pray has become this clusterfuck of unadulterated adoration, bordering on celebrity for the internet's favorite Jesus-Loving, organic-eating, sometimes-cloth-diapering mommy blogger. You know who I'm talking about. And I'm guilty of it too, don't get me wrong.

I just wanna know how it happened. I mean, I'm sucked in same as you, and I only have a furbaby. Recipes - meh, good but could be found almost anywhere. Photography lessons - again, easily accessible on the web. Her cute kids with their ridiculous nicknames - okay, I'll give you that. You can ONLY find adorable children with fast food internet names over there.

She's preachy, and commercial. She's still funky, fresh, and lets face it, really fucking cool - most of the time. But her Old testament devotion to her husband, her nauseating use of alliteration, advert-saturated homepage, and utter insistence of use of those Godforsaken nicknames drive me up a wall, as I'm sure it does you.

Yet, I get her blog updates everyday. I read them everyday. I'm addicted, and I can't help myself.

So I ask, what's the appeal? Why do we keep going back for more? What is with this voyeuristic tendency, Blogshpere?

Don't all speak up at once now.

Crazy Angry.

And boyohboyohboyoh, was there a shit-tonne of that stuff flying around here last night.
Some people, gauh!!!
And when you live with them, it only gets worse.
Buuuuuut.... 45 days.
I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

You know what, fuck face, you fucking deserve to know what people think of you.
So take it. Take it in the ass, where you deserve it.

I hate you. Die in a fire. Die alone - sad, pathetic and alone.

Oh, and we finished alright. On your bed. That you slept in last night. All up in my sex juice.

A brain for my roommate

Or at least a fucking off switch. This guy is an IDIOT. Why does he keep talking?
He's one of the those assholes who can't be wrong, and ALWAYS has an opinion.
He BEGS for argument. I want to stick my foot in his fucking mouth.

Thirty more fucking days of this asshole and his asshole face, with his asshole voice, and asshole opinions. He's going to die alone. He's 24 fucking years old going on 45, and fancies himself this wealthy bachelor type. He's neither. He wastes his money on credit, and often buys $500 worth of Cuban cigars from Switzerland. He's arrogant and self-serving, and if he's not stretching the truth to have a reason to complain, he's outright lying.

But to his friends (read: Not Me.), he's this great, giving philanthropist. He can't buy groceries, take out the trash, do the dishes, or contribute to this household in any meaningful way, and yet he can PAY the PHONE BILL of some stupid fucking slut with whom he works. He's always broke, but always has money. He had these delusions of being some panty-creaming Lethario, yet we - the people who LIVE with him - have never seen proof of this.

I can't wait to not live with him anymore in hopes that our friendship can be salvaged.

Whew... sorry, I needed that.

Thanks.

Food Addiction.

You know you're a food addict when:

The thought of a chocolate cupcake from the break room make you positively salivate.

Or does that just make me a chocoholic?

Better than an alcoholic I suppose.

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhggggggggggggggggggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

Real names, real people, real places.

So, it's hard work keeping up with nicknames. I have a lot of people in my life, and even more about whom I talk.

And this nickname crap is getting old.

So, without further ado...

Names and Faces!

Charlie Browne = David, my fiance'. (I know, I know, how the EFF did THAT happen? I don't really know either.)


Hannigan = My mom. Her name is Susan, but I've called her Hannigan or Moooooommmaaaaaa for years.

Grasshopper = Thomas, my big little brother. He's six feet tall. I've called him Grasshopper since he was in jr. high. Still do.

This is the two of them after Grasshopper graduated.
I'll let you guess who's who


This is Jessica. She's the batshit insane one. I never really have reason to talk about her.



Pooh = Becca, my youngest sister. She's the hot one.
Except right here. Here, she's the hungover, partied-out one.



Bonus = Beau-ness, my baby brother extraordinaire.
He's kind of a nut. He's also eleven...I think.




Last but not least, this is Dad. He's name is Ray. He's technically my stepfather, but he's so good at it, so I claim him as the real thing. The other guy in the picture is Gary, our neighbor, and of course, Becca, working on her tan. She does that at random intervals.




And, that's it for now.

The weekend of Fail.

Well, not my fail, per se, but poor dear David caught it from ALL sides.

the Highlights:

Friday (The day of our arrival): His family puts down their fourteen-year-old dog, Pepper.

Saturday: Well, not much really. Historic Vicksburg, MS. Sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

Sunday: He mouths off about he grandfather the penny pincher (there's a reason this man is loaded, honey), so his mom, who, poor thing, is absolutely miserable in Mississippi (wouldn't you be?) rips him a new one for being an ungrateful little shit. Later that night, on a deserted country road in Deep South Louisiana, we blow a tire. And it takes forty-five minutes to change it.

Wow. Happy frickin' Fourth of July.

Almost getting caught.

IT was up for 24 hours before he asked about my blog.
Hmmmm, while he says he didn't read it, I think he might have. I don't know if I care or not yet.

If you really wanna read it, because obviously it's not up anymore, just e-mail me.

If, of course, you're not a figment of my imagination.

Other current events

Isn't North Korea developing nuclear missles and pointing them at us?

Isn't there civil unrest verging on civil war in Iran?

Didn't Farrah Fawcett die yesterday?

You're never know it on Fox News.

What the hell am I doing watching Fox News to begin with? Well, when you live in the STAUNCH Republican South Louisiana and you eat lunch in public, you aren't left with much choice.

Michael Jackson's Corpse.

So, where were YOU twenty minutes ago when MJ croaked?

Me, at work. reading about it on CNN. Because I work in a library.

Wow.

April Rose?

I always stumble upon this shit two days too late.

Who, or what, is April Rose, and what's all the fuss about?

Anybody, please?

Dog Drug Rehab

So, did you know that June bugs are made of crack?!

Because that's the only explanation for Miss Daisy's evening obsession. She cries, whines, and barks to go outside, in the 118% humidity, just to catch and eat as many brown little fuckers as possible before being angrily dragged back up two flights of stairs. She then proceeds to sit at the tightly shut patio door and freaking attack the glass in a futile attempt to ingest even more nasty, pricky, crunchy insects of crack.

As I type, she's invading my personal space, eyes wide and pleading, "Moooooooommaaa, pease take me outsiiiiiiiiide. I need to eats s'more bugses!"

(Yes, to answer your question, Daisy speaks fluent LOLCat.)

A Daisy Diagnosis

After a medium-sized freak out (not naming any names...*cough* David), and just short of too much money at the Acadiana Emergency vet, we have a diagnosis.

The Dais was over-prescribed her antibiotics and suffered a seizure. Not a big one, just a little one, but a seizure none the less. Seems the vet we took her to last week prescribe a 22lb dose for my 13lb dog. See, she was behaving less than cordially that afternoon so we brought her to the vet in her kennel. She and the kennel together weighed in at just under 22 lbs. The vet tech never weighed the kennel sans thirteen pounds of Daisy to get an accurate weight for the aforementioned Daisy.

Just, you know, if you were curious. The seizures should stop when the drugs are out of her system, and after a few rounds of doggy diarrhea and no noticeable seizure activity today, I think we may finally be out of the woods...maybe.


(And just in case you're confused, David and Charlie Browne are one in the same. I'm done with nicknames. Except the J. That's not a nickname; it's a shortening. And yes, there's a difference.)

Whatever the hell is wrong with my dog

This is Daisy.



She is the light of my life and the apple of my eye.

And right now there is something terribly wrong with her.

For the past two nights in a row she has started shaking and wailing for no discernible reason and running around the house trying to get away from whatever is hurting her.

She's just finished a week-long course of antibiotics after a harrowing weekend adventure during which she was bitten by any and every bug found in the woods of central Louisiana. No ticks that we are aware of, but she did spend four unsupervised hours lost in the woods.

She's been drinking, and she'll take snacks of table food, but she hasn't eaten her food for a few days now.

Does anybody have any thoughts on this? Does anybody out there know what's wrong with my Daisy Mae?

Thanks in advance,
J

Myself, wherever I may be.

So, apparently I have readers.

And you people miss me!

Thanks!

I have the warm fuzzies. Really, I do.

I've been busy. That's why I've been silent for ...holy crap, two months now!

I guess I'll have to update soon.

God, that's going to take forever.

Stay tuned.

Sleep.

I should be sleeping.

I want to be sleeping.

I guarantee you, I am not sleeping (or sleep blogging).

Here's the thing: my brain won't shut up.

It won't make cohesive statements either. Just a rambling of jumbled thoughts, indiscernible feelings, and a maddening desire to explain everything.

All of these things are mutually exclusive. And yet they all exist, simultaneously, in my skull.

The cat in the bag...

Or out of the bag as the case may be.

Seems not only does Charlie Browne know about this little blog of mine, but he's been reading it since effing October.

Excuse me, do you have a towel for the egg on my face?

Oh, and as usual, I have plenty of expounding to do, all of it about dear ol' Charlie Browne and giving in.

It's been awesome. And a relief. Total, fucking relief.

A few happy thoughts for Stellan

The explanation isn't important.
And you can get all you want here.

But think a few happy thoughts for this little boy, if, you know, you're so inclined.

Thanks,
J

My Don't-Give-A-Fuck

(This will make a little more since if you read this, and maybe this.)

Has turned into downright mutiny.

I-don't-wanna, I-ain't-gonna, You-can't-make-me, Just-fire-me-already, Caine-style M.U.T.I.N.Y.

We got a game plan e-mail today. I have to be at work two hours earlier than usual on Monday, at freaking 8:30 in the morning on Tuesday and Wednesday, ad then at 2 "until further notice."

The 8:30 days are for training purposes. Watch me and my subversion. Just you watch.

I don't want to "learn" a "new" way of doing things, just so we can revert back to the old in six to eight weeks. I don't want to listen to that balding bitch-witch babble on and on about inconsequential, bureaucratic bullshit at 8:30 in the effing morning for four effing hours.

I have never felt such animosity for a job, or a boss, in my life.

Urg, grr, grumble, piss, moan, dig in the heels, and then beat the fists on the floor.

(And no, I can't just quit and move back to Houston tomorrow. I have a freaking lease.)
(did I mention I'm moving back in with my parents in August. Parents and batshit-fucking insane sister. Joy and rapture.)

The saddest thing to happen since last January.

She died.

She was awesome, a fantastic actress with a great voice. She was the good-looking sister.

And now she's dead.

I haven't been this sad since he died.

excuse me while I go cry on the inside. Because I'm at work.

Total agreement

I never thought I'd see the day...

Loathe as I am to admit, I agree with this guy.

Why is it okay to take the money and run? Take my money and run to a house in the Hamptons?

Why don't more people care, have respect for those they serve?

Oh, yes, high-rise Corporate America, I'm talking to you. You serve your stockholders, and now that you're operating on government funds, you serve me.

Where's your humility? Where's your compassion? Where's your "give a fuck?"

Huh?

Things I could be doing

Like:

Finishing the count...4 blog drafts waiting to see the light of day
Laundry
Playing with Miss Daisy
Working of Michelle's blanket - that baby could be here any second!
Working on Lori's blanket - but I have until May
Working on Erika's blanket - I have 'til may on that one too
Looking for a Job - urg, grr, gag, vomit.
Looking for a new apartment - see above... and I have until next January
Cleaning my current apartment

Things I'm not doing out of sheer laziness/lack of significant motivation/lack of proper yarn/my deeply embedded procrastinatory tendencies:

(see above)

Fiscal Responsibilty

Are you kidding me?

Are you kidding me with this shit?

Honestly people. Honestly!

How much money do you need? How many cars, houses, jets, country club memberships, dominatrices do you have to have?!

The size of the planet.

I read this blog. Don't remember how I came across it or why I'm still reading it. I don't jive or relate to the woman in any fashion whatsoever. I just got sucked in.

But that's another story for another day.


Yesterday she posted a note about this family. My morbid curiosity and the fact that they were/are from Texas (my old, if slightly large, stomping grounds) bade me visit and peruse.

Turns out this guy, David, went to my high school. He graduated three years before I ever set foot in the place, but... weird.

Kelly lives in freaking Arkansas. She blogged about this family that lives in Texas. I'm in deep southern Louisiana (almost the swamps), and I read her blog for absolutely no reason at all-anymore. She just happens to blog about the death of a man who attended my high school and whose funeral at least a few of my former colleagues (have I mentioned I once taught at my high school? Yes, yes, another story for another time...) attended.

It really is a small world after all.

My Give-a-fuck

Six months ago, if you had asked me how excited I was about The Big Move, I could not have vocalized an answer. Just nod and smile in overwhelming exhilaration.

Ask me that today, or maybe tomorrow, and I might shrug my shoulders. Meh.

And that makes me so very, very angry.

Hustle and bustle saturate my work environment. The shelves are nearly bare and overfilled boxes abound. In two weeks, and at the very most by this time next month, we (my co-hortsworkers and I) will be livin' it up in the new digs, with literally thousands of brand new, spine unbroken, possibly shiny, fresh-from-the-publisher books around every corner, and enough space so that I never have to see, hear or smell the Train Wreck.

Eric is practically drooling at the thought of this place and that guy doesn't get excited about anything. Okay, anything of remote importance.

Gregk, were he not so mired with the actually moving mudanities, would be shivering he tight little ass off in anticipation.

Bill can't wait, neither can Crystal, or Whitney.

But try as I might, I can't give a shit. I've dug deep, too. I really worked at it. But since all this crap hit the fan, I've been too busy trying to pry the eight inch serrated blade out of my spine to care about much else.

There are work place politics, and then there's my job. See, when they can't fire you, they have to get very creative in how they make you leave. And by creative I mean dirty, underhanded, two-faced, backstabbing techniques and slight of hand. And just the slightest little thing, sometimes one may not even know what one did, can set off a chain reaction that would make Mount St. Helens look like a fucking sneeze.

See, I don't know how this got started. Okay, I do know. But it's not really important anymore. It's happened. It's over.

And I just don't give a fuck.

sigh.

Something, Anything!

Because I am B-O-R-E-D. Bored.

All I wanna do is play some sudoku (and get that damn Sheryl Crow song out of my head. Shut up, because now you have it stuck it your head too.) But I can't because my pseudo-boss is still here.

And my God I have so much to blog about. Maybe I'll do that when I get home.

And it's Friday, during Lent, and I'm Catholic, and I want a freaking cheeseburger.

My appreciation

For dear, wonderful, fantastically awesome CAGB over at The Busy "Baylys". You've made my day, nay my year.

As usual, I'll expound later. But you, whoever you are, go. Read. She's a genius. And her kids are pretty damn cute.

A dirt bag.

Is a dirtbag is a dirtbag.

This guy:

Is a dirtbag. Not a hero, not an idol, not of any importance anymore whatsoever.

You, my young stupid, stupid, jerkoff friend are a dirtbag.

And by God if he doesn't loose a few endorsments over this I'll be one pissed puppy.

A humongous grossout.

If you insist on dipping in public, please have the polite foresight to dispose of your unwanted, chunky brown saliva in something other a clear plastic bottle.

Please?

Heroic Standards of American Citizens

Did you see those pictures of Michael Phelps hittin' a bong at a party?



So did I.



Do you think they warrant the intense media circus that has befallen them?



Neither do I.



Dude's what? Twenty-four, -ish, thereabouts?


Find me one red blooded American male in his mid twenties who has not hit a bong. Go on, do it. I'm not saying you can't; I'm saying it will be really effing difficult.

If this guy, dear Mr. Phelps, were not the half-man, half-fish swimming freak of awesomeness that he is, he'd be finishing his senior-ish year in college, where he'd probably shared plenty of face time with those pretty glass tubes.

And nobody would give a shit, except maybe his mother. That's assuming, of course, that she found the photos on someone's Facebook.

Unfortunately for Mr. Phelps, he is in fact a half-fish freak of awesomeness who crushes records, competitors, and walnuts with his delicious washboard abs (and assorted other, equally delicious body parts), and isn't allowed to participate in anything but the most vanilla of recreational activities in his free time. You know, the time he has all to himself?

Which begs the question: WTF?!

Comments.

I have a comment! From an anonymous commenter who completely missed my point. But hey! That's okay. You know why?





I have a comment!!!



(Really, is there such a thing as clinical lameness? And, no, I don't mean the equine condition.)

You. Whoever you are. Again.

Well I came out of hiding over on Brianna's blog sometime last week. She asked her readers about their names, and since my name is not only cool and unique, but has a nice little (okay, really looong) story behind it, I decided to share.

And as of today, two hundred, eighty-nine of you have at least pit stopped here in the pursuit of something (ah-HA see what I did there?).

I have triple digit visitors!!! Woot-woot (little dance).

God I'm lame.

No I'm not. I'm excited! Now, no one's bothered to say anything, but that's okay. Nothing I say really warrants response, as in "Please, please, please, PLEASE do NOT respond to anything I have to say about David, puh-leeeeeeeeeze?" Unless, you know, I ask.

And to those of you lurking around, searching for the meaning of the "J," you won't find it here. My anonymity allows me to talk about my life without having to answer for it. So I've purposefully eliminated as much identifying material as possibly from this little corner of the web. I do promise to post an explanatory blog identifying the nicknames I employ. But there's no answer to the J question here.

If you really, really, really must know, like it's-killing-me must know, shoot me any email. I'll tell. There's little in this world I won't share about myself with others. You just have to ask.

My priorities.

So much happened last week (history, my 25th birthday, really deep moving thoughts about my relationship to my stillborn brother and my mother's acknowledgement of said brother, or lack thereof) and yet the ONLY thing I talked about for TWO weeks is my freaking idiot roommate and his unreciprocated (probably not a word) crush on me.

I hate that. I'm not a romance reader, and I vary rarely watch soap operas. As a matter of fact, I only go out of my way to watch one and it's been cancelled since 1989. AND the only reason I watch it is because it starred Kate Mulgrew for the first five years and I'm a humongous effing nerd.

And yet, somehow, my life is a teenage drama mongers dreamland. Double You. Tea. Eff.


My excuse for not catching up this week: sheer laziness. That's it. I only worked a few days this week, and spent the rest of my time devouring Dr. Who series 4 and Torchwood series 2 (awesome, FYI).

So my goal for this week, well next week because this week is over, is to blog about all the things I meant to blog about for the past two weeks.

And I promise, scouts' honor here, not to discuss Charlie Browne. Unless he does something blog worthy, but only the ONCE, I swear!

How gross I feel.

I feel sick and achy. Is it the food I ate or the sheer volume of DRAMA in my life right now?

Or is it the flu?

I don't have the time, money, nor inclination to have the flu right now.

Demons, come OUT!
(I'm sooo joking)

A reminder for Myself

Note to Self:

No matter how randy you may be, do not, under any circumstances, try to get snuggly with Charlie Browne, especially Drunk Charlie Browne. This is not only rude, but kinda bitchy. And you don't want to be that kind of tease.

AND there's always the possibility that Al Bundy could decided to leave his room and find Charlie Browne's hands up your back while you straddle his thigh on the edge of Charlie Browne's bed. This looks bad, regardless how many layers of clothing your each have on.

Note noted.

The name I've given Myself.

As seen in Brianna's comments section:

I'm named for my grandmother. I come from a large, Southern, French, Catholic family. Repeating names is a hobby we have. I was the four grandchild born and the fourth girl. According to my mother, my name was Melissa until the day I was born. Then, my dad had this brilliant idea to name me after my grandmother "because no one's done it yet." So, I left the hospital with this beautiful, difficult French name, off to live my life in equally beautiful Acadian Louisiana.

Until the age of three months, at which point my parents relocated to Houston, TX, the least "French" place on Earth. I spent the next eighteen-ish years educated the general population on the proper pronunciation of both my first and last names. I gave up in college and just went with Elizabeth, my middle and only remotely pronounceable moniker.

Now people have to ask what the J stands for, and honestly I like it. It make me even more intriguing (or maybe that's just the ego talking).

How to write a new post

Because MR. Peck wanted to learn how.

Tah-DAH.

Taking the initiative

Without going into too much detail (because it's 2 o'freaking clock in the morning), Charlie Browne just kissed me. A lame kiss, flat on the lips, like Dad insists on kissing me, or DW. All this after me drilling him to just "take the initiative."

I don't mind being the dude's life coach. I just don't want to tell him how to catch me! I shouldn't have to, I don't want to. That's like having a fish just jump into the boat once you're clear of the launch. No fun for you or the fish. He's too nice, and I know men are tired of hearing that. But yes, there is such a thing as too nice. Eh, maybe he's not too nice. Maybe he's too inhibited. No, he's definitely too inhibited, too afraid of rejection, too afraid of screwing it up.

(And, odd though it sounds, I want to march into his room right now and show him how to kiss a girl. Of course this present a whole new set of problems.)

Look at me. I said I wasn't going into too much detail, and low and behold...

Urgh.

Really I just wanted to get the thoughts down so I could expound upon them later.

I know, I know, I've got a lot of expounding to do.

(tee-hee.. oh shut up, it's funny.)

Oh, and he's obsessed with finding my blog! I told him if he could find it, he could read it. But there aren't many giveaways here, so good luck with that.

Good night... or good morning. Whatever. You're imaginary.

Freaking ex-boyfriends

I hate that they are happy and in relationships and content with their lives, and I'm not!

F.Y.I: Never friend an ex on Myspace. It will only piss you off (whoever your are).

The closest I have is a really sweet roommate who has a TOTAL crush on me.

Grrrrrrrrr. Aggression. Ill will. Feelings of utter stupidity.


(in another post, at another time, I'll expound on a.) how I have only myself to blame, and b.) how those boys weren't right for me anyway and we ALL effing know it.)

BLARGH!

You. Whoever you are.

My counter says 41 people have visited my blog since I put up said counter. I'm obsessive, but only about ten of those people are me.

So, who are you, Numbers 1-31? I know you're out there. I've been tracking you. Show yourself.

Please? With a cherry on top?

I know I rarely say anything meaningful, but I'm begging here. Yes, I'll beg. Often. Totally shameless, that's me.

Not that, you know, I have room to talk. I lurk all over the place. Hell, I think I've left a total of four comments, combined, on those blogs I follow on the list to the right, and that list is a drop in the pot compared to what I follow anonymously.

Alright, so I have lurkers. That's better than me talking to myself on cyberspace.

Score!

My sick need to check the social networking sites of friends

I was going to leave it as just "My sick need," but you can see how that would lead to problems, right?

(I just decided, for the thousandth time, that I hate my writing style. I should be more eloquent. Oh shut up and just type.)

I must be secretly masochistic. I surf the social networking (read: Myspace, Facebook) pages of friends and relatives, and become insanely jealous that I was not invited to be a part of the reverie, whatever it may be.

I could get into the psychiatrics of this, but I suddenly don't care anymore.

Maybe I'll expound the next time I'm feeling genuinely shitty about my life.

Blah.

My resolutions

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."

Blog at least once a week.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)

Become something meaningful.

Do something substantial.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).

Not break a heart.

Find patience.

Find happiness.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)

All of my eggs

Every single last one?

Check.

One small, flimsy, not-up-to-the-challenge basket?

Check.

Miniature unicycle on fishing line suspended one hundred feet above solid concrete?

Check.

Inner ear infection and slight vertigo?

Check.


Awesome.

A Bonus little gem

Driving to Dallas to deposit Pooh at her newly detailed and repaired car, Ms. Hannigan desperately needed a fix. So we asked The Lady (read: Hannigan's new GPS toy) to find the nearest Starbucks (our familial drug of choice). The Lady obliged, sending us to Fairfield, fifty-ish miles up the road.

Twenty-five miles and countless "-ville"s and "-field"s later, Bonus asks, "What ville are we looking for again?"

Hilarity ensued.

WONK!

There. I said it. It's out of my system.

Moving on...

My list of things to never do again

Beer batter and deep fry onions and/or chicken at home.