Don't read this title yet - I want to re-do it.

I performed for an audience of plastic surgeons last night. I was the featured focus of attention in a room full of people who have had extensive training to find room for improvement in people's appearances.

Well c'mon, I couldn't help but be conscious of that, could I? I do know that it's a silly thing to focus on, though. It's like back before therapy became so common, when people would worry about how sane their answer made them sound if a psychiatrist so much as asked them what time it was. "Quarter past. The hour, I mean. Which is nine. It's a quarter past nine. I do have the full time here. Just like everybody else! Says nine fifteen. Right there. Would you like to see the watch? Oh okay, oh... wait. It's nine sixteen now. I'd like to note that the time did change while we were talking, and that I have never had any difficulty in assessing the correct hour. I am not a communist!" Pure self obsessive paranoia. It was a great show and the doctors enjoyed the entertainment. They weren't analyzing my bone structure and doing a comparative cost analysis against the price of water front property in Hawaii. Probably. Right?

Okay, so I'm not convinced. Actually, if we look at that analogy a little more closely it's really quite odd that we have stopped guarding against involuntary psychoanalysis, isn't it? Our worst fears there have become realized in full technicolor with surround sound. We were worried about degreed professionals trained in objectivity analyzing us? Hah! You can't even order a cup of coffee without a free personality assessment thrown in on the side these days. "Check out Mr. Decaf Soy Cappuccino over there. Today he wants chocolate sprinkles. Classic passive aggressive transference, that. I'm betting he had a fight with his mother." Now pretty much everybody considers themselves qualified to analyze every single thing we say, either on the virtue of having taken a handful of psychology classes in university or on the basis of something they heard somebody else who has taken a handful of psychology classes in university say on a talk show.

I guess we don't worry about whether or not other people think we're sane any more because we know nothing we can say is going to convince anybody that we are anyway. The saner we sound the more obvious it is we're in denial, after all. It's okay, though, because we know the people who think we're insane probably consider themselves to be exponentially more messed up. They only have access to the symptoms of our mental deficiencies when we're actually around to display them (excepting, of course, those of us who have taken the wise precaution of preserving them for future generations on a blog), but self criticism never takes a holiday.

Nothing's ever going to stop us from worrying about what other people think about how we look, though. Birth control, automotive transportation and the internet combined haven't had the impact on social evolution that the invention of the mirror did. I'm sure the first person to ever look their clear, undistorted reflection in the eye immediately hid in a closet until their mother could convince them to come out on the promise that nobody would laugh and there'd be chocolate pudding for dessert. That's not to suggest we don't have our priorities straight, though. Of course we know it's what's inside that counts.

Why else would we be so anxious to create a good distraction on the outside?

You want this title finished when?

Q: When is the proper time to notify an entertainment company that you've changed the time of your event and/or invited an extra hundred people or so to attend and/or that you want specific customization done to the show?

A: The day before the event.

Wrong! Wrong! Wildly, wildly incorrect and no no no no no, what's more!

And yet, an unfortunately common answer.

Christmas has me by the throat. Everything is scheduled down to the second and the wrenches are flying with abandon, lodging themselves merrily in every well laid plan I have made.

I understand. I do. Completely. Hiring entertainment companies is not something most people do on a regular basis. Hey, that's not a problem! Nobody's expected to know exactly how to go about it or how things progress from the booking stage. That's fine. That's what we're here for! We're here to help. Give us a call. We'll answer any questions you might have. Anytime. Really. No, please. Call. Don't make assumptions. It's not a bother, we'll explain everything. No no no, please don't presume. Really, we're paid to handle it, let us handle it. No don't try to make these decisions on your own and then throw them at us at the last minute. We've done this before, we know what works. We know what doesn't work. Please don't do this. Stop it. No don't have a committee meeting I beg you. Please. C'mon - one lousy phone call!

They don't call.

I try to climb inside their heads to get an idea of what's happening in there sometimes. I go right to the very back of their brains and through the dusty, cobwebbed door with a stack of broken chairs heaped in front of it marked "entertainment company". Inside I find shelves as high and as far as the eye can see, each overflowing with clowns and magicians and other colorfully costumed characters. An intercom crackles, sending their little imagined version of me scurrying. For the record I don't actually scurry, and how dare they put me in that ugly cardigan? Okay fine, most of them have never seen me in real life, I suppose I can be forgiving. But really, the over-sized tortoise shell glasses? Couldn't they have imagined me some contacts?

Off little imaginary me goes, rolling a ladder with a top that disappears at the vanishing point along the towering shelves. She's clutching a little piece of paper that notes this client needs five more performers than they booked for, and they need them an hour earlier than scheduled. No problem! Up the ladder she scurries (yes, she scurries along both the horizontal and the vertical planes) until she reaches the appropriate shelf. She plucks off the appropriate number of appropriately costumed performers, and hurls them down into something resembling a laundry bin on a rail. Zoom! Off goes the bin along it's underground track which connects it directly to the hotel where they're holding the event. Voila! Another successful production.

Really, when you look at it that way, giving our company a whole day's notice is rather generous.

Every word of this title is true.

So if I were to write two consecutive posts about my pets, how annoying would that be? Very, wouldn't it? Okay. Maybe I should just write about my boyfriend.

My boyfriend gets along with my pets really well.

Look, I'm sorry! But there are five of them, you know. As I write this very sentence I am having my belly kneaded and thighs drooled upon by a loosely packed ten pound bag of purr. The topic's kind of inescapable around here. They're part of the very air that I breathe. Seriously - has anybody else ever inhaled a dog hair? That's like the final exam at sword swallowing school.

Look at it this way - it's really not much different than being a mommy blogger. It's basically exactly the same, only sad.

The point is I can't not write about my dog right now. In about forty minutes I have to leave to go and have dinner with my boyfriend, and the dog's not coming.

And the dog has somehow figured this out. And the guilt is already killing me.

Oooh yes he knows. I've been careful not to speak the man's name. I haven't made a move to get ready yet. Still - the dog knows.

Of course he knows. He's a dog. Dogs can smell guilt. Believe me, too - nobody oozes the stank of guilt like I do.

I've never had to face the moral dilemma of lying. I'd be more likely to face the moral dilemma of how to use super powers responsibly. I lie rather less ably than I outrun speeding bullets or jump over tall buildings, and I know that, so I just don't do it. Not even to my pets.

Really, I've tried it. It didn't go well. I told my cats that the cheap crap I bought them was all they had at the store. They didn't question my story. You know, because they're cats. I still crumbled. Confessed. Apologized. Assuaged my guilt with kitty treats. They accepted them happily. I considered counseling. Ultimately decided that would just be too embarrassing to admit to a counselor (but not, apparently, the internet), and decided it would be easier to simply never lie to my pets again.

Those aren't reflections of the flash in his eyes, those are guilt rays.

I think, though, that the lie of omission might be the worst lie there is when dealing with dogs. After all, to them one "blah blah blah blah"'s the same as the next "blah blah blah blah"'s the same as any "blah blah blah blah". It's when we're quiet that they know we're up to something.

Okay, I have to go and get ready here.

He's looking at me. Make him stop looking at me!

I'd better pack a toothbrush. I don't have the guts to come home smelling like roast beef.

Heeeeeeeeere titletitletitletitletitle!

People often wonder what animals would say if they could talk. I consider my pets. The many years we've been together. The many things they've seen. Then I consider the cost of having their vocal cords removed.

Absolutely, it would be wonderful to be able to ask them things like why the cardboard file box filled with important work documents was so much more tempting than the cardboard scratching post filled with catnip, or what, pray tell and for the love of all that is holy, is so horrendously, anguishingly dreadful about having your fur gently brushed that it warrants screaming that special scream dogs reserve for when they're trying to convince your neighbours to call animal protection services? I wouldn't expect a straight answer on questions like that anyway, though. I already get as much of an answer as I'm ever going to. Damn right animals can smirk.

No, there really is no practical benefit that could outweigh the dependency the relationship my pets and I share on the fact that they are not capable of relating anything they've seen or heard. Ever. To anybody. It's enough that they're capable of dragging the contents of the bathroom garbage out into the middle of the living room for cocktail party show-and-tell, I don't need them providing colour commentary on how the various items were used.

There are a lot of reasons cited for humans' deep affection for animals, but I think their provision of mute witness is the cornerstone. They'll keep you company while you hurl juicy insults into the toilet bowl and never remind you about the incident again. They'll listen to every argument about why your boyfriend should be drawn and quartered and never say "Well I certainly didn't expect to see you back here!" after you've stopped being angry at him.

They won't fart and blame it on you, and I think everybody with pets knows from experience that they won't defend themselves when similarly accused.

It's no use, Cynthia. Once you've seen me naked you can't un-see it.

Of course if they could talk they probably wouldn't talk about the sorts of things that we like to talk about anyway. I think we can take comfort in the fact that our dogs don't have enough interest in our personal dramas to go about relaying the details of our late night dessert fueled orgies of self examination. We could be confident, however, that were they ever to have a deep discussion with our dogs, our friends and neighbours would be provided full detailed accounts of the the many rich and varied fragrances that emanate from our backsides.

Any way you look at it, they know too much.

And now for some shameless bragging:

When somebody really funny gives you an award because they think you're really funny that's really cool, and that's why this Musterole Award! (exclamation point mine, because the words Musterole Award! just look naked without one for some reason) is so cool - because Speaking From the Crib gave it to me.

It's likely anybody reading this is already reading her blog because it's that damn good and she has that damn many followers, but if on the off chance I found you first, go go go go go to her blog. You'll love it.

Thanks, babe!

I'm only writing this title because I felt sorry for it.

I've done it, and I'd do it again. I just hope I don't have to.

There really is nothing wrong with internet dating, though.

Hahahahaha - you thought I was talking about burying my neighbours under the azaleas, didn't you? Ah haha. No no. I collect stamps now.

Really, though, internet dating is not the dip into the sleeze pool so many people make it out to be. You have to have a special membership for that. For the main part, internet people are a lot like real life people. It's almost as if the two were connected in some strange, mysterious way.

One of the greatest concerns people have when considering online dating is misrepresentation. Most women worry that the people they're talking to might not really be single. Most men worry that the people they're talking to might not really be women. Everybody worries that the person they're talking to might not really look like their picture, almost as much as they worry about whether or not anybody's going to notice the "Happy New Year 1987" banner in the background of their own picture.

Thank you, yes, some people do say I look young for my age.

The next most common concern is the matter of how does one describe oneself? A lot of people have realized that the simplest approach is to just write "I never know what to say in these little boxes LOL anything you want to know just ask". As I honestly have no idea how they keep up with the torrential responses from people afire with intrigue and probing questions I can't in good conscience recommend this approach.

Another popular method of self description is to describe yourself using nothing but cringingly obvious references to painful dating experiences:

"I believe in HONESTY and TRUTH in a relationship. Game players NEED NOT APPLY. If you just want someone to take you out and buy you drinks all night and pay for a cab to wait while you make out with the obviously underage cashier and then never return so much as a single one of forty six phone messages even though your mother said you were home and your car was in the driveway you know LOOK ELSEWHERE. I'm not willing to settle."

Some don't even get as far as the date:

"I'm not here to play games. If I write you the nice thing to do is write back, even if just to say you're not interested. Why are you even here if you aren't even going to write people back? I would write you back! IT'S THE DECENT THING TO DO."

These latter approaches manage to circumvent the torrential responses from people afire with intrigue and probing questions problem very effectively.

Those among us with basic powers of observation have likely noticed something of a pattern developing here. The two elements that are evidently very commonly believed to be essential for a successful dating site profile are:

1) Informing people that you do not play games, do not like games, are not on the site to play games, don't like people who play games, and don't care if they didn't ask you to play their stupid games anyway because you just said you didn't want to so there.

2) Remembering that if you need to share with people an important insight about the kind of person you are and what you're looking for in a relationship, ALL CAPS AUTOMATICALLY MAKE ANYTHING YOU WRITE POIGNANT. They're especially effective in conveying just how deeply sincere you are about the fact that you DON'T PLAY GAMES.

The self description component need not be an issue, however. If unsure of what to say or how to say it, simply post a clear picture of as much cleavage as the site censors will allow and/or an annual income of $100,000+, and you can write "Wheeeeeeeeeeee I'm a gumdrop!" and still hit in-box capacity within an hour.

In-boxes are someplace else entirely. Equal parts Christmas morning and visiting your mean aunt at the nursing home. Gardens of delights and cat poops.

The first thing you learn is not to open your mail. That is, not all of it. Open the profiles of the people who sent it first, then decide if you want to open their mail. If the profile features, for example, a webcam image of someone holding a ruler alongside their fully extended tongue, you might not be interested in learning their impression of the photo you posted of yourself holding a cat. If their profile is illegible l33t and emoticon soup you don't need to open the letter. I'll tell you what it says right now. It says "What's up?" or some witty variation such as "howru2nite?" or "40SS#%^?" which I mostly just made up but could possibly mean something (and I apologize if it made anybody cry), which in dating site-ese means "I'm bored, entertain me". If you want to help someone achieve the world record for most chat windows open at any given time by all means involve yourself. If you're hoping for a more romantic interaction I would suggest placing an order at a take-out window. You can play Chris Isaak on the car stereo and let your fingers touch when they hand you your change if it helps.

Letters with a subject line that clearly references something you wrote in your profile and indicates that they totally get your sense of humor? Clear your schedule, get a fresh cup of coffee, turn off the music and give every word every ounce of your attention. Those are the gold you're mining for.

If you're serious about finding someone to date, find other people who are serious about finding someone to date.

If they can't take the time to type full words for you, they're not going to go to much effort to win your affection later on, either. Delete.

If they're full of compliments for your photo and mention nothing about what you wrote, that's because they didn't bother to read anything that you wrote. Save your time for people who care as much about your contents as your packaging. Delete.

If, after reading their letter, you can imagine it being addressed to a someone completely different and still being completely relevant, it's a form letter. Delete.

You will get fewer responses if you don't post an income. That's a good thing.

You will get fewer responses if you don't post a hyper-flattering photo. That's also a good thing.

You will get bored, disappointed, frustrated, disillusioned, and fed up. So will the person looking for you. That's okay. If you both persist, the internet really isn't all that damn big. You'll find each other.

Just remember - always wear protection when kissing frogs.

I wrote a title, and you can too!

Ten reasons you should take an overnight trip:

1) Hotels and motels typically provide a few choice, free toiletries. Most of us will go anywhere and, yes, pay anything for free stuff.

2) Look around you. You already knew what you were going to see before you did that, didn't you?

3) The internet needs to test your love. Let it set you free so you can come back to it. Only then will it know that you truly belong to it.

4) It's one freaking night. You can even purchase dairy freely without worrying about it spoiling while you're away.

5) You know how the dog freaks out and loses it's mind with joy if you're gone even slightly longer than it's used to your being gone? You know you love it. You know you want it.

6) It doesn't matter how high your resolution is or how expensive your monitor was, you can't really tell how much greener the grass is on the other side unless you go there yourself.

7) There's somewhere within driving distance you've never been.

8) Money was invented to be spent.

9) Some of the greatest adventures known to human kind were undertaken by people who were completely broke.

10) You might meet a magical leprechaun! Yeah okay, but the odds of meeting one do significantly improve when you leave your living room.

BONUS REASON: When you come home you get to log in and find out people have been saying nice things about you behind your back.

People like brndoutw8ress who gave me this:



Which only just happens to be my firstest everest award in my whole blog-life.

And also people like Oh My Goddess who gave me this:

Which is The Goddess Award* Lucky Friday the 13th Edition, and which looked a lot better on her blog because it was all spinny and shiny and cute and stuff but then like every other non-carnivorous thing I get my hands on, as soon as I transplanted it the thing just died. Mine is a nurturing soul, but I've come to accept the fact that if I can't feed a thing meat, it won't survive my care giving attempts.

So the first thingy has a thingy where you have to do a thingy and elect seven more people to do the thingy and I'm not very talented with thingies of that nature, so the right thing for me to do would be to decline that award. No way in hell. It's my first award and I'm flattered and I'm keeping it unethically and that's all there is to it, so, y'know, if anyone's out there sputtering with indignation, you just go ahead and call the blog police now. There's the full confession.

And I'm sorry I killed The Goddess Award, but I will display that corpse with great pride as well.

Anyway I'm right flippin' tickled. These women and their blogs are oh so holy cool, and more often than not I just boggle that people even consider my posts reasonably coherent. Thanks you two, and if I ever figure out whatever the hell it is I did right I'll make sure I keep doing it!

You write the title. My fingers are resting.

I'm having a rock star day.

No, I didn't wash my hair. It's bigger if you don't.

Of course I'm playing my music too loud. If it wasn't too loud I might risk hearing other people. I can't risk letting their psychic energies disrupt my creative process.

Sleep? Boring. Besides, I don't need to sleep. I dream better when I'm wide awake, baby.

Yeah, the place is a mess. I'm not a total pig, though. I'll move into a hotel if it gets really bad.

I can't decide what to have for breakfast, bourbon of cocaine. Or maybe toast. Yes, I know it's nearly six o'clock in the evening. Your point?

I'm tired of these dog and cat creatures. Bring me a capybara. Dye it pink to match my Porsche.

Hey! Where the hell is my Porsche?

I started this post with nothing but a title and a dream.

It might surprise you to know that I painted the cow used for my blog background before I'd even met my boyfriend. Actually, it probably wouldn't surprise you at all. I haven't actually mentioned that I'm dating a farmer yet, have I?

Right. Linear, ordered thinking. Got it.

I'm dating a farmer.

I'm from the city. My working definition of what a farm is had always been "place where young folk with big dreams and a lot of gumption escape from".

I've been informed that this is a very biased perspective. My perspective has changed, though. Well, expanded anyway. At least to "place where young folk with big dreams and a lot of gumption escape from, but not before changing their shoes".

I don't know why the man calls himself a farmer. All he has are cows. I'd always thought farmers who only had cows were, y'know, cowboys, but now I'm thinking maybe it has more to do with the kind of footwear a person favours than with the kind of food they raise.

My boyfriend does not wear cowboy boots. He wears rubber boots. Any rational person who's seen the price of cowboy boots, and who has seen cattle pasture, would do likewise. The main criteria for fashion in the pasture is hose-off-ability. Things with texture and decorative stitching hose off not worth a damn. Rubber, baby - there's your bovine friendly couture.

We were at Farm Fair this weekend. Got up early on Sunday to make sure we had enough time to see everything.

Let me restate that. I got up early on a Sunday morning, a day when I don't have to get up early, and I went to Farm Fair. It's a fair, where they feature all things farm related.

Yes, I like him that much.

There were a lot of people running around in cowboy hats. I've always questioned the practicality of something that looks capable of catching and riding a swift breeze all the way up to the jet stream, and am convinced that cowboy hats must fall from the sky at random intervals in remote areas of Africa and Asia. I do have to say, though, that those cowboys weren't squinting in the sun or having to constantly wipe rain off their faces. Those hats did offer full protection from the elements.

Did I mention that this was all indoors? Apparently cowboys are highly vulnerable to the effects of fluorescent lighting, because none of those guys were taking any chances with it.

We started our mosey (yes, I know how ridiculous I sound trying to talk cowboy. I couldn't even type that with a straight face) at the Dodge City Trade Show. Many cowboy boots and hats were for sale there. We also browsed a lot of practical items essential for living out on the range like livestock trailers, water filtration systems, and the Slap Chop. Then we made the mistake of lingering that half a moment too long that it took for an Emu Oil salesperson to latch on to us.

Yes, Emu. Yes, like the bird. Directly from the bird, actually, although whether it is secreted by the bird or forcibly squished out of a cold pressed Emu I didn't ask. I was too busy trying to fend off the free sample.

I failed. I smelled like Emu for the rest of the day. I can't quite describe the smell of Emu, but I can tell you that when you smell like Emu you don't feel the least bit sexy. I'm thinking zoo breeding programs must need a special budget allotment just for scented candles.

I'll bet you didn't even know that Emu oil is less greasy than Ostrich oil, did you? Well aren't you glad you stopped by my blog now!

Thoroughly lubricated and cradling a literal arm load of mini donuts so fresh I probably have concentric pucker marks seared into my windbreaker, we left for the main auditorium where we could blot out the smell of emu oil with horse droppings and enjoy our snacks. There was a draft team pull competition on. The cowboys competed to see whose horses could drag the most weight behind them, and the horses competed to see who could knock their cowboy's hat flying the furthest. I'm not too clear on the rules, but it's possible that bonus points were awarded for every hat to land in poo.

It was fun, though. Well, it was fun once I had been thoroughly reassured that the horses were doing nothing that could result in any kind of injury that would result in their needing to be shot. I might have been lied to, but that's okay. It was convincing. That's all I ask.

From there we examined the Alpacas, and made a damn fine show of looking like we knew what we should be examining them for, too. Why at one point we almost managed to appraise a specimen.

"That one's cute."

"Yes, but the darker wool might be harder to dye, so you might not get as much for it."

"Then maybe the darker ones are less expensive?"

"Ah yes, good appraisal."

Mostly, though, we just wandered around until someone nice took pity on us and let us pet one, and then went home satisfied. Well, mostly satisfied. A certain member of our two person party was very noticeably disappointed by the lack of cow related activities.

So sue me. I like cows.

This title will do.

Few things are as under appreciated as ordinary days, aside from perhaps youth and health. And arch support. Good insoles, people - always a worthwhile investment.

Look around any emergency waiting room on any given day. There isn't a person in there that wouldn't rather be doing the dishes, fighting traffic, or standing out in the rain in their pajamas while the dog squeezes out that last precious drop of pee that just couldn't possibly wait until morning, despite the fact that they'd just asked the belligerent beast if he'd wanted to go out not five minutes before they'd started getting ready for bed. Ordinariness like that takes on all the romance of first loves and childhood Christmases when lost to circumstances we would give anything not to be a part of.

On ordinary days the alarm goes off and we inwardly complain about having to get up. Actually, those of us who don't have children in the house complain very outwardly, and with a surprising creativity considering the earliness of the hour. It's amid these obscene assaults on the day that we neglect to appreciate just low lucky we are to have beds too comfortable to want to leave. It probably wasn't very difficult to pry our ancestors away from their vermin riddled bags of straw in the morning at all.

On ordinary days we yell at the jerk ahead of us for holding up traffic. What kind of valium popping zombie goes 105 in a 110 kph zone, anyway?

Well, what kind of bipedal ape travels faster than a caffeinated cheetah? Apparently one incapable of appreciating that once it's already going 101 kph faster than it can walk, sacrificing 5 kph of velocity probably isn't going to lose the day unless there's a row of shiny red lights on top of their vehicle and a person hooked up to life support in the back.

You're not Batman. The freedom of the first world is not dependent on your getting first pick of the donuts in the break room. Chill out, boy wonder.

On ordinary days we get upset when we don't get our way, sad when people fail to show us consideration, and frustrated with each other when things stop being easy. We forget that the small effort it takes to love one another unconditionally always pays off generously. We only remember when we're sitting in that waiting room, unwilling to re-imagine our lives without somebody we love in them, and wishing we were with that somebody, helping them to do the dishes. Without complaining.

On ordinary days nothing goes perfectly and most things work out just fine. The little details of displeasure that we allow to become the focus of ordinary days disappear from our memories when things really do go wrong. It's only when normalcy is lost that we appreciate what a fine arrangement normalcy was.

On ordinary days the sun rises, birds sing, and everybody pursues their own idea of happiness the best way they know how. Let's cut ourselves and each other some slack. Let's have a nice day.

After all, insoles are always on sale somewhere.

This title just seems so small, y'know?

I have recently been informed that in approximately 4.5 billion years, this planet Earth is going to cease to exist. I am posting now to make public record of the fact that I am extremely displeased with this developing situation.

What they propose is going to happen is that the sun - friendly emblem of happiness credited for every day we describe as being "nice" - is going to eat us. Or perhaps more accurately burn us to vapor and then suck up the fumes.

Diagram A

I'm going to speak frankly here. I have a problem with that.

We literally worship the thing. Build it all kinds of lovely temples. Our innocent children draw smiley faces on it in their little pictures. Apparently, though, none of this behavior is anywhere near as endearing as we'd hoped. All the supplications in the world don't change the fact that in the grand scheme of things, we rank no higher than hors d'oeuvres.

No, nobody needs to come over here with picture books and explain, using their puppy house-training voice, that I'll be very thoroughly dead by that point anyway. I am quite aware of that likelihood, thank you.

Likewise, however, I think we can all concede that my death is technically just a hypothesis founded on previous evidence until proven fact. I mean what's the ultimate point of all the disease research and guard rails and letting the poor toast burn when we've got a fork sitting right there if we're just taking it as read that we're all going to die anyway? That might be the reality, but surely it's not the goal. What if we did figure it all out? Padded every sharp corner, destroyed every weapon, cured every disease, and reversed aging. Haha! Immortality at last!

Oh crap. The sun's exploding.

It doesn't show a lot of dedication to the cause if we're not looking at the long term, big picture. There's no point basting ourselves in sunscreen now just to watch our pasty flesh sizzle on the bone like pork cracklins in just a few short billion years. Little surprise that so many of us do fail to take proper care of our health. Let's examine the options: die from an excess of drinking, drugs, sleeping around and fattening foods, or be cooked by an exploding star.

Pass the methamphetamine and pop tarts. Exploding arteries seem rather more civilized, even quaint by contrast. Perhaps because there's less soul shredding terror involved.

So let's hear some options, folks. I'd just as soon not evacuate. We're already pretty settled in now, imagine the clutter we'll have accumulated in four and a half billion more years. It would take several generations just to tidy the hall closet. Nobody's going to want to pack all that. We'll need to either fix the sun or replace it. If we fix it the thing's still going to wear out again eventually, so really the best option is to just replace it.

I vote we set Jupiter on fire. Who's with me?

This title was writed all by me.

My blog looks like someone who didn't know the first thing about image sizing or complimentary colour schemes messed around with the template code.

Now why on earth do you suppose that could be?

I don't care. I made a computer do something. This is epic. I'm empowered. There's no telling what I could do next, but the dvd player better get ready for some hot and heavy programming action. That's right, baby - you're going to know what time it is when I'm through with you, and it ain't 12:00!

Well I suppose it could be. I don't even know what time I'm going to get started, let alone finished. There is a chance it could be 12:00, sure. It's only 9:30 now, but it really isn't that big a priority so I doubt I'm going to get to it right away.

Who am I kidding? That's not getting done.

But still! It could! I have a slightly higher level of competence than I previously gave myself credit for. Why, the possibilities are slightly less far away from being endless now.

You know, the only reason I started a blog in the first place was just to play with the templates? For most people that would be an indication of aptitude in the area of html programming. For me it was an indication of my ability to be distracted by pretty colours. Never really progressed beyond that.

So okay no, my colours don't really match and things aren't really centered very well and if you blink too enthusiastically while looking at it you might experience a sudden onset of vertigo and slight loss of stomach content, but a lot of skill went into customizing my blog template. It goes without saying by now that none of that skill was mine. Credit for the design disaster, yes. Mine all mine. Credit for the skill required to showcase that disaster?

That credit goes to the magnificent, erudite wonderbug, who actually managed to write a post about blog customization using language so clear that even I could understand it. Seriously, with high tech-to-toddlerese translation skills that fierce we'd have Starbucks in Alpha Centauri if this person worked for SETI.

Thank you wonderbug!

This title commemorates all the titles that came before.

Happy left over candy day! My teeth are crying, my dogs are sulking, there are tiny little wrappers everywhere and I'm too full to make dinner. As I type I'm popping gum balls into my mouth, chewing them for a minute or two, and then spitting them out as soon as they stop being juicy to make room for a new one. Apparently that's the way they used to chew gum just before the fall of Rome, too.

I know what you're thinking and nuh uh - this isn't stuff that was left over in the store that I bought cheap. These are legitimate left overs. Stuff I bought for other people who didn't show up to claim it. That's fair won booty.

Not my fault I fell asleep and didn't hear the door until most of them had gone home for the night. Really, it's not. Did you know there are people mad enough to think getting out of bed on a Saturday morning just to go have brunch is a good idea, and that these people have the full freedoms and liberties that normal humans do? Consider yourself warned. I'd already provided what I thought was the obvious answer to the question of what I was doing Saturday morning - nothing - and found myself staring down the barrel of a sincere invitation before I found out myself.

I will no longer count being unconscious as doing nothing. Sleeping is absolutely doing something. I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but I'm very confident that it's a higher priority than brunch.

Anyway it's nice to have the festivities over with. Now I can just sit back, relax and...

...oh yeah. Christmas.

Okay. I've got about two weeks of sanity here before all hell breaks loose.

You know those annual company parties you attend in order to maintain good relations with coworkers, positively influence supervisors, and make up the difference of how much you thought your holiday bonus should have been in free liquor? I'm the stiffly smiling entertainer paid to distract you long enough for the alcohol to make you sleepy! I think the number one reason companies have for hiring the company I work for is "to avoid a repeat of last year." Sure, interactive entertainment for large groups is expensive. So is the bill for the clean up from an impromptu game of left-over-dinner-roll football or a Chinese Circus inspired chair balancing act performed by three guys who can't agree on which direction the floor is spinning, though.

The glamour. The excitement. The audiences so drunk I could entertain them for hours with a spirited game of peek-a-boo. I love show business.

The next two weeks are war room weeks. Instead of generals I have on-site producers. Instead of infantry I have actors. Instead of artillery I have sound systems and gaming equipment. Everything needs to be deployed strategically to maximize both the available resources and the impact it will have. I don't want to be making these decisions in the field. Two weeks from now everything will be mobilized, and there'll be no turning back.

No retreat.

No rest.

No prisoners.

Clients really do get mad when you take prisoners. That's probably why we require payment in advance.