Melly vs. Stomach

Let me start this entry by saying that it's not my fault that I haven't been posting because time seems to move faster for me and there are a number of assorted disturbances, over which I have no control, that victimize me on a daily basis and force me to ignore the blog that once was a haven for horned-up handicaps and reformed gluttons and instead let the weeks of non-entries pile up into a kind of cyber-dust that slowly suffocates it to death. So it's not my fault.

To make up for this, I plan on taking frequent readers on a two-week, all-expense-paid cruise where they will be individually presented with my consolation gift of $100,000 in cash.

So be watching your mailboxes for the plane tickets and itinerary because as soon as I get my act together, they're on the way!

So anyway, now that that's out of the way, I want to say that I am DONE with all the excuses and empty promises! I keep thinking of very brief things to post on here, but then I remember how long it's been since I posted and I end up not posting anything because it would seem silly to let a couple months go by and then suddenly post something like, "Why did the owners of Bumble Bee tuna decide to name their tuna after an insect? Chicken of the Sea was enough to confuse your average blonde pop singer (Jessica Simpson), so don't you think children everywhere are growing up thinking that they're having a can of mashed bees for lunch? In my opinion, Starkist has the right idea by abandoning any reference to earthly creatures and taking their tuna to the stars. At least then kids may think that whatever they're eating has been plucked from the heavens especially for them and not get it confused with ordinary animals."

Yeah, so you can kind of understand why I wouldn't want to post something like that out of the blue (I really did muse over all of that last night while playing Spider Solitaire and it admittedly feels quite good to finally get it out of my head and into my blog).

So with all that said, I will leave you with a short dialogue that I've been meaning to post for quite some time. And I plan on posting again at least once every day (unless things over which I have no control happen and force me to ignore this blog, in which case it would not be my fault, but I'd feel compelled to make up for it by making lofty promises which I probably won't keep).

This happened about a month ago:

New Attendant (I'll explain later) : I'm thinking about making some garlic bread to go with the pasta, but it's too hot to light the oven.

Me: Well, you could do what I do when I make something I call, "Pseudo Grilled Cheese."

New Attendant: (arches eyebrow) Oh?

Me: (superior voice fueled by confidence-boosting interest from attendant) I take two slices of bread and toast them in the toaster, then put some cheese in between them and melt it in the microwave. Voila! No-frills, no-nonsense grilled cheese! (I preen in smug satisfaction as the attendant eyes me with a mix of amusement and pity.)

New Attendant: I hate to burst your bubble, honey, but that's what the retarded men used to do at the home where I last worked.

Me: (confused, shocked) What?

New Attendant: That's how they would make sandwiches for themselves if they got hungry in between meals. They couldn't use the stove because they weren't allowed around open flames, so we taught them to do that. They really got a self-esteem boost from being able to cook for themselves.

Me: (deflated pride, wildly searching for some recovery) Oh... well, no one taught me that! I... invented it on my own!

New Attendant: (humoring me) Well, good job! Very resourceful thinking!

Me: (pride returning) Why, thank you! Thank you! I thought it was neat, too!



Now I can finally throw away that post-it note that says, "Retard quote on LJ!"

The Pittsburgh Penguins won the Stanley Cup this year! That's old news, but I can't get the images of each (young and athletic) player taking their turn skating around the rink while lifting Lord Stanley's hefty goblet in the air. They were so excited and they kept kissing it and lifting it up and down.
It then occured to me that this time-honored pinnacle of hockey perfection must have some heft to it. So tonight, with hands shaking from a combination of prescribed uppers and long-unfulfilled desires, I turned to Wiki Answers to answer my question: How much does the Stanley Cup weigh?

Fortunately for me, something put out! The cup weighs about 34 and a half pounds . That's a lot. I think. I vaguely remember trying to lift a 35-pound weight once and barely being able to get it off the ground. Even with my guns!

Still, this knowledge was enough to make looking at pictures of the young players hoisting the trophy all the more enjoyable. The cup has substance! It was a man's cup that not just anyone can lift!

But I soon grew tired of living in my own fantasies and decided that I needed something real!  Enough with the pictures and imagination-- I wanted something tangible! And since I couldn't get my hands on a hockey player in mid-hoist, I had to settle for the next best thing: finding something that weighed about 35 pounds.

All I wanted to do was get some idea of the weight so my happy-place fantasies would be more accurate. I am  a journalist, after all! I just wanted to get my facts straight.

I turned this idea over in my mind for a few days before starting the search, which was more difficult than I had anticipated. You try finding a 30+ pound household object that can easily be transported to your bedroom for attempted (and hopefully failed) lifting in order to fuel crazed sexual fantasies! It's harder than you think!

(OMG! Just as I was typing that I had a thought-- THE VACUUM CLEANER! Duh! Oh well, something to look forward to tomorrow.)

Today, however, I happened to glance down at a new six-pack of one-liter Evian bottles that I had gotten the other day. Yes, Evian. It's one of my few splurges. I keep it on my nightstand to drink in the morning while I take my pills and suck my vitamin C drops. It's the little things in life.

Anyway, I was moving it farther under the desk when I realized how HEAVY it was! Immediately, I thought of the Stanley Cup (as anyone would). Could this be about 30 pounds? Could I lift it over my head? Would my fantasies at last come to life?


With a combination of somewhat serious determination and red hot anticipation, I lifted the potential fantasy fulfiller over my head. I had to lean back in the chair because I don't have a lot of core strength to support my back and I didn't want to chance dropping it. I held it shakily over my head for about half a second before letting it thump down to the floor. Wow! What an effort! There's no way I could do that while skating around a rink and simultaneously lowering it to my mouth to kiss it and then lifting it again. My fantasies had new life! Now when I closed my eyes I could be in proper awe of men and their innate strength! Lord Stanley didn't leave his cup behind for no woman to hoist!

Aglow with a new, FACTUAL lust, I lifted the Evian a few more times, groaning in my effort and theatrically huffing and puffing as the bundle of water strained my weak, feminine muscles. I even tried lifting it casually by my side as if I was having my photo taken with the hard-earned prize. My arms ached-- I don't know how those men do it! They toss that cup around like it's nothing!

Soon, though, I got bored with my new game. Sure, the water was heavy but what if it weighed more than 30 pounds? What if all this water tossing was not based in fact but still more fantasy? I may as well be imagining men skating around while joyously hoisting pianos above their head! I needed to make sure my head was out of the clouds and grounded in reality before I let myself daydream about being hoisted and kissed by hockey players anymore!

So, I weighed the water. Yes, I weighed the water. I dragged the digital bathroom scale into my office, worried that the thick carpeting may throw off the reading, so I labored to put it up on the desk and then get the water onto it. I worried that the scale may not register weights below fifty pounds, but  once the water was on the numbers blinked and then the weight was displayed.

The water weighed exactly 14 pounds.

Hot waves of arousal washed over me as I grinned at the number. Fourteen pounds? Just FOURTEEN POUNDS and even my strong arms buckled under the weight! And the Stanley Cup weighs TWO AND A HALF TIMES MORE!!!

I felt justified in letting my mind run wild after that. There was nothing these men couldn't do! I pictured going to a hockey game and "accidentally" falling over the wall and onto the ice and having one of the players pick me up and move me like a jacket someone had dropped on the ice. Were there no limits? What couldn't they do?

I sat in my room, alternating between lifting the water and drooling while staring unfocused at the wall. Sometimes when my dumbstruck arousal faded (before I tried to lift the water again), I began to see how I could assist my future iMANginations; simply find something to lift or touch that was equivalent to something they lifted or touched and marvel/drool at the magnitude of their strength and ability.

Why just tonight I happened upon a photo of 'ole RPattz holding a bottle of Evian exactly like the ones in my six-pack.
Look at how his hands span the bottle! Mine don't even begin to reach around that far. There's something new to marvel at and I can think of that whenever I take a drink of water!

So, I am either quite inventive or quite...well, pathetic. If necessity is the mother of inveention, then just the fact that this necessity existed is pretty sad. But I takes it where I can gets it!

I can't wait to get ahold of a football. Have you ever seen how far around a football player's hands can get? It's like they're holding a chicken egg! Are there no limits???

I am a woman of many hatreds-- most of them petty. But more than anything else, I will have an eternal burning hatred for bugs.

I HATE bugs! And unlike my current wildly insane hatred of Oprah, I think just about everyone else can agree with me on this one.

Screw you, you entomologist freaks.

Anyway, just tonight I was sitting on the twin bed in my room getting ready for bed. I was in a good mood as I sprayed myself with the Clean Lavendar Vanilla Fantasy body spray that I use before bed (both scents are supposed to be relaxing, but in this case they didn't help any). I turned to get a pair of pajama pants out of the white cloth cube thing I keep clothes in on the bed, and while moving aside various shapeless, vitamin powder-stained T-shirts, IT crawled slowly to the edge of the cube.

I'm not entirely sure what IT was. I think the first thing that popped into my mind was earwig, but it was one of those brown bugs with the pincher in its butt. It may as well have been something out of a horror film.

This is when my stages of a Bug Encounter begin. First is shock. I gasped and stared at the hideous thing with my mouth hanging open and my body frozen. Then, anger. What does that thing think it's doing in MY clothing cube? My anger is fueled by the slow, casual crawl of the thing across the edge of the cube. Does it think it belongs here???? Does it think it has every right to be crawling across my cube full of neatly folded stained athletic pants and green shirts????

Then my mind leaps to the obvious action that I must take to end this Encounter: Kill. Death is upon the thing.

It was still crawling at a leisurely pace so I had time to contemplate the exact mechanics of its fate. There were no tissues or papers anywhere around me and by the time I hobbled anywhere to get one, it might be off leisurely crawling anywhere-- maybe even on my bed, where it would wait until I was asleep to bite me with its pincher butt.

No, no, no. I had to be resourceful and fast-thinking in my impromptu murder. The only thing I was wearing was a pair of disposable protective underwear (for women!), so my nakedness left me feeling quite vulnerable and an easy target for any pincher-butt retaliation that might occur.

But resourcefulness is one of my strengths and finally mustering up the courage to act, I pulled the paper wrapper off of a bladder pad and turned to my victim. It was still crawling leisurely with no idea that it was about to die. That just made it all so  much sweeter. I swooped in and grabbed it up in the paper, enjoying its legs frantically waving in the air as I balled the paper up and squeezed as hard as I could. 

Now what? I held the paper ball tight in my fist as I considered my options. Flushing it down the toilet was the best way to dispose of bugs for good, but I would have to put the paper wad tomb in a bag or something so I could hold onto the handles of my walker, and by the time I made it into the bathroom it very well could have gotten its wits about it, crawled out of the paper and the bag and be crawling at an infuriated pace to my bed where it would lay in wait to pincher-butt me in the face. The same scenario could play out if I simply threw the paper wad in the trash can. No, no, this would not do.

I briefly entertained the idea of setting the wad on fire but thought that might set off the smoke alarm and wake my mother up. I unwrapped another pad and wrapped the original wad in that, this time twisting it shut and pinching as hard as I could. The butt-pincher was now encased in two paper wads and hopefully dead. Still, this was not enough for me.

On the top of my garbage I noticed a plastic case that some concealer I had just bought had come in. It had opened easily and would snap shut again-- this time as the final resting place of the butt pincher who dared to crawl on my cube.

I was quite pleased with how the wad fit inside the case and downright blissed out when I heard the snap of it securely closing. I looked down at the bug tomb in my hands and caressed it while smiling in triumph.

I did that for a couple minutes. Yeah, I know it's weird. What's mire weird is that I examined every line where the two sides met to be sure that it was inescapable and was horrified to find that there was a gap at the top where the hole was that let the package hang on a hook at the store.

This would not do! The butt pincher may come to, somehow be able to wriggle out of the two layers of paper and then find its way through the opening at the top of the package. Then it would not rest until it had sunk its butt pincher into my flesh.

I considered setting it on fire again, but burning plastic would not only set off the smoke alarms, it would leave a horrible smell in the air. I wouldn’t mind the smell because it would be a glorious reminder of my conquest, but I don’t think my mom would feel quite the same way.

Turning it over in my hands again, I noticed a brown spot in the paper wad—my victim. It wasn’t moving and actually looked pretty smashed but to be safe I squeezed it through the plastic and paper again. And again. And a few more times after that.

I squeezed it again before coming to the computer to write this narrative of my joyful and neurotic bugicide. Well, first I used my hand sanitizer. I’ll probably squeeze the bug a few more times before I go to bed and thern again when I get up in the morning.

I kind of wish that I was brave enough to open up the plastic and paper and then lay the bug’s body in a corner somewhere as a warning to other bugs. I’m just sick like that.

In no particular order...

* Is the world ending? Read the following line from this New York Times article (last line in second paragraph):

...he begins each day with ritual Jewish morning prayer to help him though these trying times.

I have read that line over and over and over again, trying to find a way for "though" to make sense, not wanting to believe that it could possibly be an error! This is the NEW YORK FUCKING TIMES!!!! I'd usually say something insulting and snarky and then ask who's working the copy desk, but all I can do is cry.

* A Sexual Predator recently moved into town! And we found out about it courtesy of Megan's Law. I have to admit that when my mom told me that a cop had come to the house to let us know a sexual predator had moved in down the street, I was excited. I pictured a tall, well-muscled brute of a man pacing around his house and punching holes through the wall in frustration at his overflowing desire for a young and inexperienced female to plow. I could easily pass for a teenager, if that's what he liked, and toyed with the idea of going over to his house and offering myself up to his intense sexual need (it would be for the children, to keep the children safe). But, using the information on the sheet the police gave us, Mich looked him up on some Megan's Law web site and found out that he weighed 340 pounds and had been charged with molesting a child with a coat hanger. Eh...that's just not my thing.

*I called our local Salvation Army today to see if they had a certain time that you could bring in donations or if you could just drop stuff off whenever. I just have some odds and ends that I've cleaned out of my desk and my room that I don't need or use but don't want to throw away, either. The lady who answered  the phone took on a superior tone of voice to inform me that they did not accept donations on Wednesdays (the day that I had called), and donations were only accepted from like, 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. on this day and another time on another day. Then she went on to say that they accepted clothing in good condition, and other stuff, but they did NOT accept, bla bla bla. This left me with quite a few ruffled feathers and made me want to say, "Excuse me, but beggars can't be choosers! Since when do you get to specify what and when your pittance shall be?You should be damn thankful for whatever shit you can get!" But instead I just said, "thank you" and hung up the phone. They sure as hell won't be seeing my dead aunt's tennis shoes anytime soon!!!

* Zac Efron says he will eat anything for $20 (I love how they also make sure to note the equivalent in British pounds). I'm not even going to make the joke that everyone is thinking. He must have a really good or a really bad publicist.

*Here is a picture of my new office that took forever to be completed. But since I didn't have to pay for any of it, I can't really complain. Not everything is put away and it's not very organized, but it will be a great place to do a lot of writing. :)

I'm still here! Just caught in some weird spaced-out/lacking motivation/depression type thing that involves Spider Solitaire (of course), mood swings, TV On Demand, the Twilight series (I've read all four books) and my daily pursuit of home office prep.

Don't worry, I'm not counting this as a "real" blog post, just sayin' that I'm still around. I really don't want to get out of the habit of blogging and I hope to be back in the groove very soon! I never got to write about my "Winter Heat" and here it is mid-April and I'm about to take flight on my "Spring Heat!" I'm always at least two seasons behind.

I will be back in a day or so with office pictures, a beaten-back libido and the blood of several hookers on my hands.

I checked my email this morning and was skimming a message I had sent to my supervisor at the advertising department, who assigns me various businesses to profile and other stories. Yesterday was the deadline for a restaurant profile, and because the owner didn't send me their write-up until late that day, I emailed it into the paper a few hours past the deadline. I wrote a note of apology to send along with the story:

I hope this isn't too late, but "Restaurant Man" didn't send it to me until after 5pm today, and then said it was very rough and I needed to poofread and edit.

I didn't notice that rather ironic typo until today. At least my mistakes are amusing. I mean, "breastfast" -- what is that?

My exile at the kitchen table is coming to an end!!!! The office furniture that I was promised months ago is being installed tomorrow! I will have a space where I can pen my tales of ignorance, disability and lust without interruption! No longer will I be interrupted in my deep contemplation of the origins of the eternal Heat that laps at my loins! Gone is the day when my attempt to describe the sheer sensuality of the male radiologist lifting me onto the MRI table (that happened last week *sigh*) is interrupted by my mother waltzing into the room and announcing that she's figured out what makes Democrats behave in the way that they do (she theorizes that the "Democrat Brain" is aligned differently and those who are inclined to the Arts, such as actors, singers and the like, are full of dreams and therefore, Democrats).

Anyway, after I get organized and situated and everything, I will post my Winter Heat saga. Really, I will. I have yet to finish a "Summer Heat" series that I was emailing LeRoy, but there's no better way to Christen a new office than to sit down at the desk, get comfy in the chair, pull up the keyboard, and tell the world of your insatiable horniness.

It's like, tradition!

I know I've said it before and I probably sound like some withered old school marm, but, THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR THIS!!!!!!

The word "aggressive"is misspelled in the headline, but spelled correctly in the first paragraph. Why is it so hard for whoever proofreads these things to notice that the two words are different? Or did the moron think they were two different words? I mean, GAH! If you're going to misspell a word, at least be consistent!!!!! This just makes the people at the paper look like oblivious morons instead of plain 'ole morons.



WHO IS WORKING THAT COPY DESK?!?!?!?!?!

He may be overreacting, he may be a diva and an asshole, but this sound file of Christian Bale cussing out the DP is sooooooo hot. He's so bossy and mean and his accent is so sexy. I bet he was stomping around and throwing things and making fists. You can tell he's really worked up and goddammit-- if he needs to let off some steam, you'd damn well better put your legs in the air and give him what he wants. Or he will take it from you.

He should have acted that way when Winona Ryder refused to marry him in Little Women. Then that bitch would have gotten her head out of the clouds and into his pants, where it should have been.

I'm in heat. More on that later.
 

A conversation I had with the Physical Therapist this morning:

Me: My mom was in the hospital all weekend because she almost fainted at the store. They found out her potassium levels were low and took her off her blood pressure medication.

PT: Yeah, those kind of meds can do that to you. So what did you do with your mom not here all weekend?

Me: (excitedly) Well, I had this box of chocolate Fiber One poptarts!

PT: (confused) Uh-huh?

Me: And I ate a pack...every night... (I trail off as saying this out loud makes me realize how not exciting it is.)

PT: (pity mixed with politeness) Oh, ok.

Me: (trying to redeem myself) And I had some beer too!

PT: (humoring me with a chuckle) Wow!

Me: (giving up and trying to smooth things over) Well, I was tired.

PT: (nodding) I understand.

This is how my mother reports the news:

(This time last year)

My Mom: (watching TV in her room) Melly, who's Heath Ledger?

Me: (in my room reading) He's an actor.

My Mom: Oh...well, he died.

Me: WHAT?!?!?!


And yesterday, almost the same scene played out again:

My Mom: (watching TV in her room) Hey Melly, did you know that there hasn't been a plane crash in the United States for over two years now?

Me: (in my room reading) Oh? Well...that's good.

My Mom: (dramatic pause) Until today!!!

Me: What?!?

My Mom: One crashed into the Hudson River in New York. No one died, though.

Me: Oh...ok, that's good.



This blog is still alive and kickin'!!! I've got plenty of new entries lined up, and as soon as I get enough sleep, I want to post a whole bunch all at the same time. So stay tuned!

Taken from the police beat in this morning's paper:

Man yells at Santa: North Franklin police said a man was yelling at Santa Claus about 8:45 p.m. Friday at Washington Crown Center because he did not like Santa's hours. Police found the man at a restaurant, but no charges were filed.


*insert snarky comment here*
(I keep zoning out and losing concentration and I don't know why. Perhaps it's those Zone nutriton bars that I've been eating for breakfast.)

These are hard times we're living in; perhaps someday we will look back at the ailing economy, lack of jobs, lack of universal health care, blatant discrimination against minority groups (i.e. gay marriage), and billions of dollars in bailouts, and view this period of time at the turn of the new millennium as the Great Depression of our generation. Perhaps someday we will regail our grandchildren with stories of paying $4 for a loaf of bread and carpooling to work to save money on gas.

But my mom and I are living like kings! Err... queens.

Our secret: free samples. Yes, these golden nuggets of consumerism aren't just confined to the random grocery store handout or occasional mailbox surprise. There are websites that collect the links to these treasures and post them for greedy people with idle minds.

Like me. Sometimes. Well... when I'm procrastinating (which is all the time).

It all began one day when I signed up for a free Fiber One sample after seeing an ad for it in a magazine. I filled out the short form, answered a couple survey questions about my fiber intake and pressed the "submit" button.

"Your free sample and money-saving coupons are on the way!" the confirmation page excitedly proclaimed in bold script.

"Neat," I thought. "I should sign up for more free samples! That way, I will have something to look forward to everyday! How fun it will be to get some free product in the mail everyday!"

And with that thought I typed "free samples" into google and would never again be the same. The first site that came up seemed to be the most legit, so I clicked on it and got to ordering.

The process of signing up for stuff was sped along with the help of "Autofill" in my google toolbar, but I still spent hours raking in all I could get. I started with the "Food Freebies" and soon moved on to health, clothing, office, etc. I used my alter ego "Red Hot Henya" email address because I knew I would be spammed and reveled in my cleverness. I also beamed at my thoughtfulness as I requested samples of heart burn medicine and arthritis cream that I could give to my mom and aunt. I even got a sample of Nicorrette gum for my mom, who quit smoking last Spring.

A few weeks later they started to arrive; on a Thursday morning I awoke to discover an adult diaper and a pouch of instant mashed potatoes nestled in among the usual bills and pieces of junk mail. I squealed with delight and showed my mom the fruits of my new hobby, bragging that more stuff was on the way. She looked on in quiet envy as I donned the diaper and sat down to eat the mashed potatoes.

(Side note: the potatoes were Betty Crocker, whom I have concluded is an evil bitch. Yes, they had some trans fat in them, but I thought that the magic of it being free food would neutralize them. Apparently I was wrong; two hours after finishing the potatoes, I awoke to find that I had fallen asleep sitting upright in the arm chair in the living room and had a sore jaw and a bad case of gas. Good thing I had passed out while wearing the diaper.)

My mother watched as something new came for me every day--- a tampon, packets of tea, coupons for free protein bars and a piece of foam used in Sealy mattresses that I could squeeze and be enticed to pay a thousand dollars for a bed. Everyday was like Christmas and I began referring to our mailman as "Santa Claus."

Soon my mother had had enough. She was telling a nurse about my newfound source of wealth and excitement one day at the physical therapy she still goes to for her leg. The nurse told her about another site which has an even greater expanse of links and even printable coupons for the savvy shopper.

She came right home and started ordering. She would spend hours and hours looking for free stuff and then do more google searches to find more web sites. I knew from experience that this was an addictive habit and she showed no immunity to it.

Now, we both usually get samples when the mail goes every morning and we sit around opening them like Christmas presents. She'll put the mail in the middle of the living room floor and we'll sit around it drinking coffee and talking excitedly about what treasures waited for us.

"Oh, here are my tatouage samples," my mom said in a delighted voice as she held up the small stencils she had gotten.

"Look, Mama!" I cried out, holding up a piece of paper. "It's a coupon for a FREE bottle of steak sauce!"

"Oh, here's this do-it-yourself rosary that I ordered," she said, holding it up. "I don't know why I ordered it, though."

"A COOKIE!" I gasped, holding up the free Kashi oatmeal dark chocolate chip cookie that I had ordered weeks ago.

This went on for about a week before my mom started ordering things that I had already ordered and would only ship to one address.

"Melanie!" my mom said sharply as I was coming down the stairs one morning. "Did you order some Dunk'n'Donuts coffee?"

"Oh, did it come already?" I asked excitedly, thinking that I could have a cup that morning.

Instead, my mom put her hands on her hips and laughed-- only it sounded more like a cross between a snarl and a chuckle.

"I knew it!" she spat, stomping back to the computer. "I had the form all filled out and then it said, 'Sorry, we've already shipped to this address'!" She crossed her arms and reminded me of a child who had been last to the toy box and had to make due with the dirty, half-mutilated Barbie doll.

"W-Well... you can have some of mine," I offered cautiously.

"It's not the same!" she sulked. "I want my own sample!"

Then I had a brilliant idea and after a few quick text messages to Michelle, I was in business: I would have more samples shipped to her house so we could get two of everything!

That realization opened up another whole new world, and I immediately went back through the free stuff archives, re-ordering samples that I had really liked. My mom brightened at my news and also began ordering more free samples, saying that we could use them as stocking stuffers this Christmas.

My mother, paranoid and fancying herself to be a wiley one, began misspelling her last name and the street and town names in our address to somehow thwart would-be identity thieves. This allowed me to score a duplicate free sample of the same product when I entered my own name and our address spelled correctly.

As our snowball picked up speed on its descent, we began ordering things that we nor any of our family and friends would ever conceiveably need. It started innocently enough when my mom and I each ordered a glow pen flashlight and a magnetic clip for the refrigerator. But the snowball plunged downward and we were never satisfied until everything that was free was headed our way (or our way via Mich's house). One day my mom ordered a bulldozer poster. Then I ordered a laminated poster that displayed different hog branding techniques. She ordered a "Don't forget my senior discount" ballcap. And then I ordered an earthquake preparedness kit (it comes with furniture straps and putty to hold household items down-- who knows, we may need it!).

It then occured to us that we may accumulate quite a bit of junk over the winter months, which is why we sent away for samples of trash bags in our real names and pseudonyms and under Mich's name.

So the moral of this story is... necessity is the mother of invention? And we invented... being petty con artists to get free junk. Somehow I don't think we were the first to do this.

Is our behavior wrong? Are we taking advantage of multi-billion dollar manufacturers who are simply throwing scraps our way in the hopes that we may make a bigger purchase? Or are we simply being resourceful in this hard time of rising food costs and a growing expense of living?

I'll have to ponder these questions while relaxing with a free sample of hot chocolate and gazing thoughtfully at my free promotional tractor poster.

Me: Look at Rachael Ray's cabbage!

My Mom: Why, that can't be cabbage! I think it's lettuce.

Me: Nope, she just said it was cabbage. Isn't it beautiful?

My Mom: Oh my... that's amazing. Just look at it.

Me: I know! That cabbage makes me downright giddy.

My Mom: (gasp) LOOK AT HER BANANAS!!!

My cousin Kelley got my mom an HDTV for her birthday and we just got the HD-capable cable box installed yesterday. They have an HD Food Network that makes watching a cooking show SO much better than before (who thought it was possible?) I can't wait for the next episode of Man vs. Wild.

I know I haven't been posting much lately but I've actually been pretty busy writing for the advertising section of the local paper. They're getting pretty ambitious with their special advertising sections and I'm glad to help them out.

I'm also getting a home office very soon! OVR (office for vocational rehabilitation) is going to buy office furniture and a brand new laptop computer to turn the spare bedroom upstairs into my own office! That means I don't have to worry about my mom  waltzing through the door and loudly saying, "Stinkin' girl!" when I'm on the phone interviewing someone. (Yes, that's happened before-- I have it on tape.)

In sad news, Ethel-- the car I proclaimed my love for in my last post-- has died. Very sad. I sold her to an auto mechanic for $500 and he's going to chop her up and use her for parts. My plan is to save up all winter and then try again in the Spring. But I don't know if I will mention anything more about it in here because apparently I kill beloved objects. A couple months ago, I found an old friend on Facebook who I'd been friends with in elementary school and Jr. High, but she moved away and we lost touch. I was so excited when I found her and asked about the dog she got as a puppy when we were 12 or 13. She said that he was still going strong and was her dear little old man dog. A couple weeks later, he died.

And the death toll mounts. Just last week I was interviewing the head chef at one of the restaurants that's advertising in the paper, and he told me all about the wonderful new dishes they were introducing to the menu for fall and how their food is all home-grown on an adjacent farm and served fresh to the customers. It all sounded delightful. I told him I would speak with him next week and arrange for a photographer to go out to the restaurant.

Today I got an email from the special advertising sections coordinator at the paper who told me to scratch the previously mentioned restaurant off the list because they were closing. I didn't tell him that apparently I was the one who had caused it.

Anyway, that's how things are right now. Soon I will have an office from which to launch a more extensive death-through-inquisition operation. I should buy a bunch of "Thinking of You" cards and send them to people I get mad at as the ultimate display of passive aggression. 

I should get going so I can be well-rested for a joint doctor's appointment with my mom tomorrow. She's really excited because after we both see the doctor she wants to drive out to the cemetery to see my grandmother and other relatives.

Oh God, I just mentioned the doctor. I hope we won't have to go to the cemetary to see him too.

Something needs to be done.

Just read this article. Actually, you don't even have to read the article because THE VERY FIRST WORD IS SPELLED WRONG!

Ok, it's on. I am writing a loooong letter to them with all the evidence I have collected thus far.

The letter will say:

Dear Sir or Madame,

WHO IS WORKING THAT COPY DESK?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

LeRoy has a blog! It's very funny, and how I keep up-to-date on pop culture. This is a video he posted on it and I can't stop watching it. It makes me happy, in a mean way, I guess. Actually, Maggie and I discovered that Chuck Storm is a character of some website and not really real, so I guess it's okay to like it so much. ;)

I haven't had a lot of energy lately. It's driving me nuts. We finally got a porch lift on the house, my car has hand controls, the forecast for the next several days is GORGEOUS, perfect weather. It seems as if the planets and moons and stars have all lined up perfectly to illuminate a sparkly path to freedom.

But then fatigue strikes.

Sometimes it's funny.  Well, for me anyway, because I like to see everything from a humorous, potential-blog-entry point of view. So this means I have a wealth of predicaments and incidences to work with. Take yesterday for example: beautiful day, shining sun, warm-but-not-cold weather (perfect for the defunct a/c in my car), and me with a to-do list. On that to-do list: a haircut. What a beautiful day to go get my hair cut!

It would also be a good opportunity to ACTUALLY DRIVE MY CAR! It seems like ever since I got it there have been these short windows of time that I could drive it before something needed fixed or there was some reason that I couldn't leave the house (snowstorm, ice on steps, other acts of God, etc) and I was beginning to feel a little like a little boy who claims to have done superhuman things just to impress other people. For example, "Didja see? See how high I can jump? I jumped right over this house once!" Only with me, it's "See that? That's my car! Yeah! My car! I drive it! I drive all over and I go real fast on the highways!"

I finally settled on naming my car Ethel. It's the classic little old lady name and I think it fits my dented, turquoise-ish, handicapped license plated '92 Honda very well. Ethel may be older, she may have had her troubles, she may not have fancy-dancy things like a/c and a CD player (or a working radio, for that matter), but Ethel gets me around. And much like a little old lady, I only drive it to doctor's appointments, the grocery store, or sometimes to Target (for some special "me-time").

Anyway, I really did get off-track from "Take the other day, for example" didn't I? Hahaha. Ok, my mission that day was to go get my hair cut a few miles down the street in Canonsburg, perhaps drive-thru McDonald's for a pumpkin milkshake (the McD's here has them! I HAD to have one!) and mosey-on home with shorter hair a shake in hand.

I fully-expected to leave the house that day. I  put on makeup when I got dressed. I struggled into a pair of jeans, which I haven't been wearing because I usually need two hands to get them on and button them at some point in the putting-on process, and I have to hold on to something with one hand. I've finally managed to figure out a way to put them on, although it's slow going and I have to sit down to zip-and-button at the end.

So, anyway, by the time I finished getting dressed, I was ready for a nap. 

And by the time I just finished typing all of that, I am ready for a nap. See, I'm being serious-- this is why my updates have been few and far between and relegated just to random quotes. So, let me sum up what I had so ambitiously wanted to share in a colorful and humorous narrative:

I didn't succeed in leaving the house yesterday.
Today, it was on! I got 8+ hours of sleep, I had my pills and RedBull readied. I was gonna fly!
Woke up at 8:30, made it downstairs by 9:30, ate, read paper, consumed Red Bell, got dressed by 11:30
Indecision: Go get haircut? I had Chiro appointment that evening-- make it earlier? Pumpkin milkshake? Too ambitious!!!!
12:30: Feel tiredness setting in. Ate soynuts in frustration.
1:30-5:00  Paralyzed with fatigue and indecision. It occurs to me that my indecision is exactly like my mother's. Have panic attack. Kindly neighbor starts mowing our lawn which sends me into outrage because a) I don't want to get in his way, and b) I don't want him to have to stop the mower and smile sympathetically at me while I grin awkwardly as the porch lift (in essence, a freight lift) slowly lowers me to the ground. I have mental fit that manifests as sobbing and sniffling to myself while looking at Craigslist cocks.

My mother had an appointment at the chiro too, and I really  didn't want to have to go with her. I wanted to get out and drive, but I still needed to get adjusted. For a few moments I contemplated the idea of waiting until she left, taking a few painkillers from her stash, going to McDonald's and getting a pumpkin milkshake, then coming home, popping the pills, drinking the shake and feasting on cocks (from Craigslist).

In the end, I insisted that we go in separate cars. And then I came home on the highway and went to McDonald's and got a pumpkin shake!

And I felt better, I was going to stop for gas, but my total at McDonald's was $6.60-- just six cents short of THE NUMBER WHOSE VALUE WE SHALL NOT MENTION. God was telling me I'd had enough for one day, so I just went home.

The pumpkin shake wasn't that great. It tasted the way a pumpkin candle smells. Too perfumey.

Freedom, however, is sweet. I think me and Ethel got that back tonight. Even if it did (temporarily) rob me of energy and the abiliy to write coherently.

Or maybe it was the McDonald's food...
 

Random overheard quote from a kindred spirit outside:

"Stop sign! HEY!! Stop sign, asshole!"

~overheard just now while sitting in the kitchen with the back door open.

Random quote from my mother:

"Can you see Laura Bush saying that her 'girls' are loose?"

~On her dislike of referring to breasts as "the girls" and how this demeans women when they say it about themselves, and how a "true lady" (in this case, Laura Bush) would never use that term


I will update for real very soon!

 Random quote from my mother:

"Melanie, we need to find a way to tie your legs together."

(There's a story behind this which I hope to get around to telling very soon.)