Isn't there a service that can just deliver these titles pre-made?

Thank you in advance to everybody who is going to make the effort of telling me what the real meaning of the holiday season is over the coming days. Thank you for letting me know how shallow I am to enjoy a day spent devoted to purchasing commercially produced objects that will make the people I care about happy, and by extension how shallow the people I care about are for being made happy by commercially produced objects. Thank you for telling me that I am misguided to indulge in consumerism on a scale which can not be sustained throughout the year, because I was stupid enough to think that was kind of the point of a festival - to enjoy an excess of something that over the normal course of events I can engage in only moderately.

Well slap me stupid. Turns out I'm simply soulless.

Turns out I'm not supposed to be giving people stuff from the mall that I know they want. I'm supposed to give them home baked goods they may or may not want and will either be forced to eat anyway or feel guilty about throwing away. Or crap from goodwill - hey maybe I'll get lucky and wind up giving them back something they donated! "Merry Christmas! I found a lamp that perfectly matches the lamp next to your sof... hey, something happen to your lamp? Good thing I found this one!"

Of course if I truly were in any way evolved above the sludge that enlightened people's ancestors crawled out of, I'd hand make presents for everybody. After all, if you buy somebody something they don't like, they can just donate it to charity. Make them something they don't like, and they'll feel obliged to drag it around for the rest of their lives, no matter how hideous it is. That, as everybody with higher brain function knows, is true holiday spirit.

Listen here, wholesome holiday heroes - if you want lovin' from the oven, a charitable receipt and a sweater that there's a reasonable chance somebody died wearing, I want you to have and to enjoy all of those things. Your holidays should be everything you want them to be!

And so, my friend, should mine.

If I want a tree planted, I'll plant one. Don't plant one for me and call it a present. Not unless it's in Hawaii, and you plan on taking me over there to hug it personally. No. You get me something from a mall, wrapped in the pulverized and painted corpse of a tree. Got it?

The point of a one day a year holiday celebration is not donating to charity, exercising frugality, baking and making things for people you care about, and/or offering to help them out with baby sitting or chores.

THAT'S THE POINT OF EVERY DAY.

Charity, considerate acts, frugality: 364 days/yr

Orgy at the mall: 1 day/yr (conveniently identified as "Holiday")

That's right, zen master flash, a lot of holiday mall sluts do that crap day in and day out, all year round. Bragging that you manage it one day a year is not garnering you the admiration you think it does.

Now get off your high horse, get to the mall, and buy me something pretty. While you're there you can pick me up some glue and macaroni so I can make all of your holiday dreams come true too, okay?

That's what I get for staying up all night to finish writing this title.

I went to the store on one hour's sleep. This is what I bought:

- 2 pounds of grapes that had a pretty picture on the bag
- 1 red bell pepper
- 24 panty liners (for the dog)
- 12 cans of dog food (also for the dog)
- 12 foil pouches of dog food (different variety than cans)
- 3 boxes of dental floss
- 2 bras
- 20 serving flat of Nanaimo Bars
- 1 bath mat with fishes on it
- 1 matching fish shaped toothbrush holder
- 1 Oprah Winfrey's magazine whatever it's called
- 3 packs of gum (same brand, different flavors)

This is what I had gone to the store to buy:

- butter

Note the discrepancy.

Dry toast, anyone?

I got this title for 50% off, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. It's just missing a

Attention Shoppers: Please stop putting coins in the Happy School Bus mechanical ride. The kid in there has ridden it 26 times in a row and is starting to look a bit green.

Attention Shoppers: We understand and appreciate that it's very hot today. Management requests, however, that you refrain from handling our frozen food items in an unsanitary manner.

Attention Shoppers: In order to bring you the everyday low prices that you appreciate, we are unable to pay our cashiers enough to put up with your crap. Smile, say thank you, and save your speech about the evils of inflation for your next address of congress.

Attention Shoppers: It has come to our attention that if your kids scream loud enough long enough that you will buy anything, and we will continue to strive to make this establishment as family friendly as humanly possible.

Attention Shoppers: We again apologize for any inconvenience caused by the line break in our sprinkler system over the soap aisle, and again request that all customers remain fully clothed.

Attention Shoppers: Please enjoy our recycled air, unrelenting noise, and affordably priced convenience foods. We invite you to visit our pharmacy before you finish your shopping trip today.

Attention Shoppers: If you are purchasing items for your kids that do not feature any licensed cartoon characters, please take a moment and stop by our courtesy desk to fill out a survey on socially maladjusted children for a chance to win valuable coupons.

Attention Shoppers: Will the customer who made the bulk foods manager cry please report to customer service immediately and apologize. Bring a broom.

Attention Shoppers: You don't need half that crap in your cart. Either put it back or stop whining about how broke you are.

Attention Shoppers: Consumables that are not sold by weight may be enjoyed while you shop provided that the packaging is presented to the cashier for purchase before leaving the store. We remind our customers, however, that this policy does not extend to personal hygiene products.

Attention Shoppers: First parent who figures out where the hell their toddler wandered off to wins a donut.

Attention Shoppers: The store is now closing. Or perhaps we should say the store is still closing. The store has been closing ever since we told you that the store was now closing fifteen minutes ago. But there you are! Still shopping. How can we make this whole store closing concept clear enough for you to fully grasp, shoppers?

Attention Shoppers: It's a beautiful day. Go play outside.

Make sure you rinse this title off really well before reading it.

Fruit should not pose a threat to mature, committed relationships. Once you've found someone who fills your heart with joy and makes every day worth living no plant matter on earth should be able to stand in the way of your happiness.

But c'mon. The avocado was obviously invented just to test me.

The man doesn't just like the decrepid things, he's downright evangelical about them. Avocado is his answer for everything.

"I'm tired."

"Eat an avacado, they have B vitamins!"

"I have a leg cramp."

"Eat an avacado, they have potassium!"

"I'm going to throw something at you."

"Eat an avacado, they have large pits!"

Maybe it's the lithium content, I don't know. Nothing can taste that good.

No, of course I haven't tried to eat one! I know everything I need to know about avocados just from watching him eat them. He calls them "nature's perfect food". I call them "god's earliest experiment in the art of baby *poo manufacture." The other day a glob of avocado gut slid off his spoon and splatted on the floor. The wet smacking noise and soft spread of the gushy green goo was completely consistent with my theory.

The persecution rests.

It would be one thing if it were simply a matter of conflicting tastes, but it's become something bigger than that. It's become a source of endless amusement to him. At my expense.

He could just eat the things when I'm not around, you know.

He could refrain from pronouncing the word avocado with the same inflection that a seven year old uses to pronounce the word snot.

"Avocaaaaaaaaaaaaaadooooooo."

He's not about to do either of these things, though. I know this from the sadistic glint of glee that fills his eyes when he sees me turning the same shade of horror green as the evil filling his spoon.

I should just not allow them in the house. I should just make him eat them outside.

He genuinely does believe they're magic, cure-all balls of fabulousness that can help restore the most pulverized of immune systems, though. And he does have a horrible, horrible, horrible cold at the moment.

Okay fine. But I'm not buying them again. And he better not sneeze on me with a mouth full of that sin. Besides, it could be worse. He's taken to expressing a keen interest in trying durian which, according to Wikipedia, has a "strong and penetrating" odor that has been "described variously as almonds, rotten onions, turpentine and gym socks".

I think I might start keeping a suitcase packed on grocery day.

*Yes, I am aware that the latest few posts in this blog have included higher than normal levels of excretory references. I have no explanation for this. For the record, though, even if I did have an explanation you would not find it posted here. Why spoil the magic, am I right?

Wow. Here I am writing this title. Who saw that coming?

Sooner or later everybody becomes something they never thought they'd be. A spouse with a mortgage and a kid. A clone of their own parent. A country music fan. Life can be terrifyingly unpredictable that way.

And so I find myself today, looking at a woman I never thought I'd become. Sleeves rolled up, sodden mass dangling from my fingertips, shivering my way across the yard with a flashlight at midnight to make a special trip directly to the burning barrel. I might not recognize myself, but there's no question that's me. I can tell from the whining.

I have become the owner of a dog that wears diapers.

It was never intended to be a regular thing. It was just a preventative/precautionary thing. At first it worked, too. Really well! As soon as I put pants on her bony little ass my ancient little dog stopped peeing inside the house!

For two whole days!

And then I guess she had a couldn't-hold-it-moment, and in that moment discovered that most miraculous property of modern dog diaper technology. That it makes pee magically disappear. It's like having your own personal urine fairy!

Once that little dog figured out how comfortable and easy it was to simply let loose in her conveniently attached pee-ceptacle there was no stopping her. Why squat in the wind and cold and damp if nobody could see when you were doing it inside and chase you out there anymore? They're little doggy stealth pants is what they are - hiding the crime, encouraging the behavior and perpetuating the need. I was totally suckered in, and by the time I figured out what was happening had already become a defenseless pawn of the absorbant canine garment industry.

When I started buying more than a pack a week is when I realized that I needed a more afforable, environmentally friendly solution, and bought the cloth diapers. They're not actually diapers per say as much as they are fashion pants with a tail hole that facilitate the sticking of a little absorbent pad into the crotch.

That's right. My ancient little twenty pound dog wears panties and a maxi-pad.

Like I say, it was never supposed to get this far. She can hold it - when she's in her little bed at night she pees not a drop, and if I physically pick her up and carry her outside in the morning she waits very comfortably until she gets outside. As soon as her little paws hit a horizontal surface, though, she gets her squat on.

Doesn't know to hold it anymore, maybe. Too old to care enough to hold it, probably. Never did like peeing outside, and finally just banked enough old lady attitude to call my bluff on the whole "you have to" position I took is my theory.

And called my bluff very effectively, too. I stepped over the line before I even realized that I might need to draw one the moment I brought that first pack home. Once you've done that the grey area becomes too morally torturous to contemplate. It's no longer a simple case of the poor old dear can't control her functions, it's probably time for her to be put down. You've already committed to basically controlling them for her. What's the cut off now?

"Sorry Allison. You went through eleven diapers last week and that was fine, but twelve? For twelve you die."

Sigh.

The things we do for love, eh? The smelly, ridiculous, expensive things we do for love.

Don't worry, though. I might put special, expensive clothes on my dog specifically for her to urinate on, but it's not like I have any country stations pre-programmed on my car radio or anything.

(Yes, country fans, consider my ass presented for it's whoopin'. I know I've got it coming.)

You'd think I'd have picked up a few new ideas for titles while I was at it.

Things I Have Learned Living a Month in the Country:

• That loaf of bread from the grocery store contains more than your minimum daily requirement of deer poop.
• That well water does not dissolve teeth. Apparently that's "normal grit" and not the shaved enamel of my molars.
• The Hutterites' preferred method of arm removal.
• The further away the convenience store, the greater the craving for junk food. Even if you never bought the stuff when it was within walking distance.
• The full, profound extent of my dog's love of poo.
• If you don't know the weather forcast, you aren't capable of having a conversation with anybody.
• If you don't go at least 60 miles per hour on the wet gravel road the guy behind you will, like, literally die, like, right now and really really painfully, too. You bitch.
• If he's in front of you 10 miles per hour is plenty fast enough for both of you. I mean what's your big hurry anyway, hot shot?
• It gets dark when the sun goes down.
• Cows like strawberries.
• Cows like yoghurt.
• If you offer a cow strawberry yoghurt it will look at you like you're the antichrist and run to the opposite end of the pasture, pooping frantically.
• That a lot of things in life involve poop.

This isn't one of those titles that go with these kinds of entries.

This is one of those entries that you write when your boyfriend turns to you and says "you know you've been here a month?" and you realize that it's way too late to write an entry before two weeks go by and that you just damn well better slam something up there before you log in to discover you're down to just a handful of followers - someone who knows you personally and never reads your blog but added you on principle and a bunch of people who started the blogs that added you when they were drunk and then forgot all about them.

This is one of those entires where you list a million different things you were busy with, like moving in to your boyfriend's place temporarily with your three cats and two dogs (yes, even the incontinent one and to answer your next question both - the man's not only wonderfully crazy he's also extraordinarily generous), spending 12 - 17 hour days fixing up your thirty year old trailer to sell, listing your trailer for sale, *selling your thirty year old trailer after only four days for a very fair cash price and no conditions in a depressed market, and dry walling the house you're trying to move into. This is one of those entires where people leave comments like "wow, you've been busy!", and that helps you to feel justified for having been so negligent about blogging. That's one of the not so secret motives behind these entries.

*yes, it's also one of those entries where you subtly manage to work in a little bragging.

This is one of those entires that carry the responsibility of following up with a real entry instead of another litany of excuses as to why there hasn't been one for over a month, at least it is if you have any appreciation at all for the wonderful people who have hung in there and continued to follow you despite your extended absence.

On a related note, this is also happens to be one of those entries where you go

WOOHOO! TWO HUNDRED FOLLOWERS!

Thank you, guys, for peeking over the edge of the world occasionally after I dropped off of it. This is my most favorite place to hang by my fingernails ever.

I'm thinking of firing the elf who writes my titles.

There are a lot of people who don't believe in the power of crystals. They don't think "a hunk of rock" can manifest a human desire. I think implicit in that form of detraction, however, is evidence that most people don't properly understand how to access the manifesting power of crystals.

Yes, crystals are inert. Change happens when things interact. To access the power of crystals to manifest things you have to use your power to change the state of the crystals.

Say I want to manifest something. Let's say something simple, like a glass of iced tea. I go and get my crystals - I have a whole container of them - and select a few for the process. How many I use depends on the results I want. Whether, for example, I want to manifest ice tea only for myself or if I want other friends and loved ones to benefit from the manifestation. I then take these crystals, transfer them to an appropriate receptacle, and change their state.

I'm not talking about any kind of elaborate ritual or extreme force or anything like that. I'm talking something as simple as putting them in water. Allowing the elements to mingle and merge. That's my entire job. The crystals - and the water, the contribution of that element should not be dismissed - do the rest, and literally almost instantly, I have my iced tea.

Now maybe this fantastical process is beyond the ability of our rudimentary little monkey brains to understand scientifically. Perhaps we never will completely understand how it is that crystals are capable of manifesting our desires, but can you argue the results when, to use our example, they consistently manifest ice tea every single time you use them for that purpose?

Granted, so far ice tea is the only thing I've had success using them to manifest, but then I buy all my crystals at the grocery store. I'm sure if you went to a proper crystal store you'd find ones you could add water to and get, like, ponies and sports cars and stuff.

To make a title rhyme, always choose words that... um... drat.

This is very tiny
This is very small
This barely ranks as any
Consequence at all

Why does it feel so heavy?
How can it weigh so much?
Why do I feel so beaten up
From it's slightest touch?

It's not the gravity of the thing
Or force behind it's blow
I wouldn't have noticed it at all
Had it not attacked my ego

I can not will not stand for this!
I am mighty! I am strong!
Your reason has no place in this!
I am right! You are wrong!

Facts? You dare to bring me facts?
I laugh at facts, you hear me?
I will scream and rant and yell
And then your facts shall fear me!

There is no walk away from me
You will hear all that I have said
Even if I have to argue you
Alone inside my head

This evening when I go to bed
I won't give up the fight
I'll lie awake until the dawn
Battling through the night

I just hope you'll learn your lesson
And will finally stop denying
That I am great and you are not
And shut up, I am not crying.

I can't decide which definition of title to use in this title.

I would have been in little girl hell if I had been a child in this century. I never had the slightest desire to be a princess, and would have been driven batty by all the marketing designed to convince me that being one is the best thing ever since Jello powder sandwiches (have you eaten one? No? Okay, probably best to let me do the commentary on them then).

I have a very vivid imagination, sure, but there has to be some grain of possibility for me to be able to enjoy any fantasy. Last I heard unlikely isn't impossible, and until it is I don't have to let the dream of being cast as James Bond die, even if I am reasonably confident that Jolie chick's going to land the role next. I've come to accept, however, that licking my elbow just isn't going to happen no matter how hard I try. Or how many times I try. Or what angle I try it from. Or who I have helping me. And it's not worth the chiropractic bill anyway. Likewise a princess is pretty much by definition something you have to be from birth, and that whole premise fell completely apart right from the moment my constituent sperm and egg parts collided. Sure, you can marry into the title, but those are fake princesses - they're just apprenticing for a job they'll never hold independently. They get the corner office and a good parking spot, sure, but they'll never run the company.

Becoming a queen, on the other hand, is an entirely more realistic option. Unlike being a princess, that's a title you can gain honestly and independently the old fashioned way - through the taking by force.

Okay, perhaps realistic is too strong a word. That said, though, if you're going to have an unrealistic dream, why wouldn't you have the biggest one available? What the hell are little girls wasting their time dreaming about being princesses for anyway? Have you ever heard of a kid dreaming about becoming vice president or an opening act? Is almost important still the best little girls are being taught they can hope for?

Think back on all the famous princesses throughout history. If you got further back than Diana you get a cookie, but if you only got as far as Margaret you get a cookie with a bite already taken out of it. Bottom line is the only princesses who really make history are the ones who ascend to the throne.

And nobody did a more fabulous job of that than Queen Elizabeth the First. Now there's a woman who truly came to embody what it means to be a queen. She sank navies, survived assassination, wore the biggest dresses on the planet and chopped peoples' heads off. Also guided a violently divided nation from the brink of bankruptcy into a golden age of peace and prosperity. Where's her cartoon? Forget about it. You don't get a Disney musical unless you have sex with a Prince, and that she very pointedly did not do.

Well I actually didn't like Disney when I was a kid, so I didn't waste time dreaming of being rescued by one lousy knight in shining armor when it was just as easy to dream myself the command of a whole freaking army of knights in shining armor. Glass slippers don't even sound comfortable. A crown, on the other hand, affords a woman every comfort on command.

You can imagine my excitement when I was told I was going to get to meet Queen Elizabeth the Second in person. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. Now I wasn't completely unrealistic. I knew she wasn't going to come out rockin' the cape and crown and riding a lion with the head of a traitor on a pike. I was seven years old, after all. Not six. That actually just added to the intrigue, though - how did a modern queen present herself for an average public outing? What did a contemporary figurehead of the Commonwealth wear to distinguish herself as representative of the entire population of Britain? I couldn't even begin to imagine!

If I'd had any expectations, though, I am very sure a tastefully tailored suit in an understated pastel shade would have failed them. It most certainly failed to justify standing on a hot tarmac for hours to see something I could just as easily have enjoyed seeing in the comfort of a nice chair with the Sears catalog open in my lap to Ladies Professional Wear. I wasn't expecting Elizabeth the Second to look like Elizabeth the First, no, but I think I was justified in not expecting her to look like the Avon lady either.

Yes, Queen Elizabeth the Second is a lovely person and an admirable monarch in her own right. As a sequel, though, she's definitely not worth the price of popcorn. Shaking hands with her was less exciting than turning on the air conditioning when we finally got back to the car was. I'm confident the experience of shaking hands with Elizabeth the First would have topped that. I don't wish our Lizzie any ill will, though. Of course not. I very sincerely wish her majesty a long, peaceful and happy reign. And while I defer from proclaiming any loyalties on the off chance RuPaul might someday decide to stage a coup, I would definitely vote she be allowed to keep her head if and when we trium... that should happen.

I trust you know that you really can't believe a word I say in these titles.

Fact: Butter is made from melted dandelions.
Fact: Foxes are the offspring of mated coyotes and house cats.
Fact: Nutmeg is magic.
Fact: If you wear a pair of pants with fake pockets for 21 straight days you will go certifiably insane.
Fact: The entire universe is inside out.
Fact: Mermaids taste like corn chips.
Fact: Finger and toenails are not actually part of the body. They are technically parasites.
Fact: Children who eat glue bounce higher when you drop them than those who don't.
Fact: Math is mostly wrong.
Fact: Grammar is even wronger.
Fact: Worms are coagulated rain.
Fact: Blogger automatically censors out the word
Fact: I was totally messing with you there.
Fact: Roughly translated, the word for "belly button" in Swahili means "imagination of the intestine to believe it can make kisses"
Fact: The original teddy bear was an actual grizzly cub trained to attack small children who got out of bed to pee.
Fact: Kittens are coagulated cotton candy.
Fact: Shag carpeting is responsible for 154 sock fires every year.
Fact: Bowling is technically not considered a pornographic act.
Fact: A properly aged brie can be absorbed directly through the skin.
Fact: Monsters, if they existed, would kill and eat people.
Fact: Pencils feel pain when you sharpen them.
Fact: The average five year old gains three and a quarter pounds over the course of a year eating boogers.
Fact: The longest any human being has survived post-decapitation is not at all.
Fact: This is getting wordy.

No, no, not this title. Anything but this title!

Okay, let's all freak out, shall we? All at the same time, I mean. Like a group hug, only with more eye clawing and screaming. C'mon! It'll be good exercise!

Here are some things to get everybody started, but feel free to improvise:

• Was that freckle there yesterday? Is it even really a freckle? Are you sure?
  
• You know you're forgetting something you were supposed to do. What was it again? Oh yeah that's right. You can't remember. And that's why it's not getting done. And you know what that means! Oh yeah, you don't. Because you can't remember. Something is going to happen and you have no idea what and it's your fault and you can't stop it.
• You feel okay now, but there's really no way to know how healthy the last fly that landed on you was, now is there?
• Ignorance of the law is no excuse. Do you know absolutely every law there is? No, you don't. Remember that the next time you hear sirens.
• Right now, somewhere in your mouth, there's a statistically probable chance a cavity is forming.
• How disappointed would the six year old you be with the progress you've made on the things you were definitely going to do as an adult? Have you been to the moon even once yet? What about the rest of your famous rock band? You do have a famous rock band, don't you?
  
• Oh my god! What time is it?
• Maybe instead of keeping yourself safe from it walking germs on you with it's dirty little feet, the last time you smashed a bug you actually released a tiny cloud of very potent killer pathogens into the atmosphere that are right now getting right to work on the important business of killing us all.
• Computers do not, generally speaking, spontaneously blow up and kill people. That doesn't mean it's impossible, that just means we have no way to see it coming.
• Blue ice.
• We all know our own bodies pretty well, sure, but few of us really know the actual, clinical difference between a normal bump and a dead in three months bump. Bet you don't.
• Something you own is lost. You don't know it yet, because you don't need it right now. When you do need it, though, it won't be there.
• You can't prove aliens from another planet aren't stealing your brain waves. Therefor it's logically possible they are. Hey, you need those brain waves!
• Jayne Martin just Twittered "I think people are following me." while I was writing that last bullet point. The odds of that being a coincidence are not good, my friends.

And on that note enjoy your little group freak out. I'll be under the bed with my teddy bear.

On the other hand, I used to cuddle that bear when I was sick, and it's been stored in a dark, warm trunk. Maybe I'll just cuddle a jug of peroxide and a bag of cotton balls instead.

Would this title look better branded on a baby seal or carved in elephant ivory?

I don't eat babies. Don't even nibble on them. Likewise I don't so much as own the proper footwear for kicking puppies or any kind of meat grinder at all, let alone one capable of processing kitten meat. Please take all of this into account when I say that I'm kind of disappointed they've stopped making Hummers.

Yes, I'm keenly aware that there is a rapidly expanding puddle of murder soup in the ocean. I'm similarly aware that Hummers slurp that soup as obnoxiously as a toothless geriatric with clogged sinuses strains beef barley through ill-fitting dentures. The whole eating the planet and farting hate clouds thing isn't what I'm talking about. I'm just going to miss seeing the things. I think they're sweet.

Thing is, Hummers kind of look like the kinds of vehicles three year olds would drive. They're like giant safety cars for little people who need a little extra protection while they get the whole driving thing figured out. Who, until they do, can't be trusted to keep all four wheels on the road if they happen to pass a toy store, playground, or a particularly compelling cow. Everything's over sized and easy to grasp for infantile hand-eye co-ordination skills, and they're built nice and steady so they won't tip over if the driver gets over excited or forgot to go potty before leaving the house.

Seriously. If Fisher Price designed vehicles, they would design Hummers. You know I'm right.

I guess it's not so much the actual vehicles I'm going to miss as the wildly giggling toddler perched on a stack of phone books I imagine to be steering the things every time I pass one. Don't worry about me, though. I'll get through this.

They still make Harleys, after all.

You'd better not read any further than the title if you're not okay with discussions of barf.

I have the stomach of a god. You can't tell by looking at it (unless perhaps the god you're referencing happens to be Baccchus), but I do. Yea, I have walked through the valley of stomach flu, and have needed no bucket. Thirty one barf free years - that's including the year of the dreaded vodka and tang experiment - and still counting, baby yeeeeeeeeeeeehaw!

Maybe some day I'll even build back enough confidence to eat something. That's right, I'd rather starve than barf. It's not so much the incredible discomfort. It's not just the horrifying feeling of suffocation. It's not necessarily even the terror of not being able to stop due to the self propagating nature of barf (it's one of the principal laws of nature that you have to barf when you're facing a pile of barf, and since nature also dictates that you face a pile of barf while you're the process of making a pile of barf it's a miracle we ever get anything else done at all, really).

It's the betrayal. The horrible, horrible betrayal.

My body gets hungry. It tells me it needs food. It does this in a variety of ways:

It commandeers my attention. I'll see only the coupon for 25 cents off a side of fries, not the stack of large bills with a "Free money! Help yourself!" sign it's laying on or the beautiful naked man professing his love for me holding it.

It embarrasses me. "I'm really looking forward to showing you these expensive options for your lavishly budgeted event, but first an entertaining selection of noises from my intestinal region."

If not attended to promptly enough, it will even very happily resort to pain. And how do I respond to this blatant manipulation?

I give in! I feed it! I give it everything it wants! And what do I ask in return?

Digestion. That's it. We have entered into a solemn pact, and I have already kept up my end of the deal. All I ask is that my body does with the food I worked hard to afford and prepare for it what it indicated that it was going to use the food for when it was demanding it.

I do not take kindly at all to having it literally thrown back in my face.

So I simply do not allow it. Nope. Not coming back this way. You know where the exit is. Use it. Go ahead! Make me drool, groan, pray for release from the horror that is unending nausea. You're not getting your way.

Darn skippy I'll take the pain on principle. Sure I suffer needlessly for an exponentially longer time than I would if I just gave in and opened the front door for the pestilence instead, but at least I suffer with the knowledge that I win.

Yay me!

Maybe?

Well, not write-a-decent-title smart. I'm still on my own there.

I arrived home from London two days late thanks to the volcano in Iceland. Just in time to panic about closing on the house this coming Wednesday. Not a lot of time to tie up loose ends what with a long weekend thrown in the mix. Tomorrow's my first day back at work after three weeks gone and the office looks like a tornado - or perhaps a crazed, sleep deprived woman looking for a passport that was already in her purse - hit it. So is my sitting down in the middle of it all to write a blog entry not compelling evidence of my devotion to the written word?

No, it is not. It's compelling evidence that the cat in my lap is just to damn cute to disturb. She's right, though. I need to not move faster than my brain can think. I need to sit. I need to slow. I need to not do. At least for as long as it takes to write a blog entry. Maybe even for as much time as it takes to write a blog entry and have a sip of this coffee I poured myself before it gets cold.

Only it's already cold. I thought I'd just poured it. Further proof that I'm out of step with the dance of life. Further proof that the cat is smarter than I am.

The most compelling proof is in my face every morning when I wake up, though. Before the brain has a chance to warm up and wind itself around every little anxiety and deadline piercing into my consciousness she reminds me, with a stretch and a purr and an affectionate sniff of my nose, that right now we're comfy and that is what requires my immediate attention. Nothing else. And she's right. Because she's smarter than I am.

Too bad the dog's in charge. Well, at least his bathtub sized bladder is, as he's been reminding me for the majority of the time I've been writing this. Guess I am getting up after all.

Come to think of it, that's usually what eventually gets me out of bed in the mornings too.

This is the authentic, original title.

Queen's just a few minutes' walk up the road. I'd drop in, but she's a bit busy what with the prime minister just resigning and the leader of the opposition dropping by and everything.

Nothing even remotely this historic ever happens in my neck of Canada. At least nothing that doesn't involve hockey. Oddly enough, though, we're the ones more likely to riot. I'm thinking that people in England have enough experience with real civil unrest not to see the appeal of enjoying it recreationally on civic holidays.

Yes, in Edmonton Alberta people riot over the sheer outrage of a paid day off. Either that or maybe it was all the red from the Canada Day decorations that set them off. That doesn't seem as likely, though. Canadians aren't big decorators. Canadians are the mom that buys a bag of balloons and a box of candles and calls it a birthday party of civic celebration.

Also the toilets are different here. In England. Sorry, could have segued better there. Sociological comparison just became overwhelmingly boring to me very suddenly. The toilets here, on the other hand, have held my fascination since I arrived a week ago. They use less water and they work better, and there's no splash back. Just what's with the flushable swimming pools we feel the need to cannon ball our offerings into in North America, anyway? Knowing these alternatives exist, I'm amazed they're even still legal.

Also I've seen some of the greatest works of art on the face of the earth. I dare say that was even more interesting than the toilets here.

More coherent posts about more interesting topics will be forthcoming. I just like that even when I travel half the world away my cyber home sweet home is right where it always is, and I can always get here right away for a little comfort and companionship.

It would be cool if this was my forty second title, but it's not.

So I'm watching this old Art: 21 dvd featuring Josiah Mc Elheny and his reflective sculptures and he's talking about narcissism, right? And okay that's fine. I have my quota of anti-narcissism conditioning. I know it's wrong and bad and being humble is a virtue and all that stuff. I don't know if I believe it, but I know it. Well c'mon, how many humble people you know drive a nicer car than Kanye?

Anyway I'm thinking about the basic concept of narcissism, and that think winds up thrown on the same thought pile as all that crap I keep over thinking about who are we and why are we all here and what's the meaning of life and all that because boy oh boy, I figure that out I'll probably get a book deal at least, maybe even an action figure. No, it's not something I want to spend a lot of time thinking about, but I do, because brains don't like dead ends. They just keep backing up, flooring it, and plowing back into them. Sometimes for funsies they'll circle the block and bounce off the back side a few times, but deep down inside they know it's the same wall.

So by this point science and theology tend to agree more often than not that everything is everything. Ain't no end to me, ain't no beginning to you. It's all energy, and it all runs on intelligence, and it's all the same intelligence, and we can't find the beginnings or ends of that intelligence. It's everywhere we look, it always has been, and we can't think of anywhere else it might possibly go. Whether that means your god or gods have made you in his her or their image/s or you take a just the facts ma'am approach, most people are saying basically the same thing there, and wondering how it could possibly be that they're an intrinsic, indivisible part of so many people who drive like such freakin' idiots and don't even have the brains to signal.

So out of this bubbling puddle of everything all at once comes the idea that consciousness is the everything that is everything's method of becoming self aware. So if we're not narcissistic, maybe we fail at being the universe. Maybe if we didn't spend our lifetimes obsessing over ourselves, we would completely defeat the purpose of our even existing.

And that is why it's okay that I just spent fifty dollars on eye shadow.

Thank you and goodnight.

I'm going to title this entry "Title". Yeah I am messing with you!

I am obsessed with chicken tractors now, and it's all Vicki Lane's fault. Mentioning the things on a public blog where anyone - even impressionable trailer park residents - can read it. Really! She actually did that!

You hear that, Vicki? That low roar of anguish and sorrow? Those are the legions of people feeling sorry for me right now. Those beeps you hear are call waiting. The legions of people feeling slightly perturbed on my behalf are on the other line. That's nothing to do with you, though - that's just because I made the damn fool mistake of downloading Napster. Yeah yeah yeah, you can tell me how stupid I was after the Better Business Bureau gets me my refund, okay?

Have a cookie everybody, because unfortunately sympathy's not going to help get me a chicken tractor, either. Even if they did allow chicken tractors in the trailer park, now would not be a good time to get one. Three cats and two dogs will be quite enough to get moved and resettled into city life. I don't need to be urbanizing poultry too. No, I don't have the option of having a chicken tractor.

That's why it's compulsory for my boyfriend to have one. He's my surrogate farmer. The other day we had twin calves! My boyfriend bought the cow and the bull and fed and pastured them and gave them water and all the necessary medical attentions and complied with all the necessary legal registrations and whatnot, and I named them. Well, I will name them. I don't want to rush it. I take my share of the responsibility for our calves very seriously. I'm wondering if perhaps it might be most helpful if I were to pick out the chicken names now, so that when my boyfriend realizes that he intends to buy some they'll be ready to go.

It all started with Potato Day, aka The Holiday That Wasn't.

The poor man worked his little heart out on his garden last year. Planted all kinds of wonders and delights. Nurtured it like a little orphaned kitten. An exceptionally cute one, even. Like, a pink one with thick black eyelashes or something. I know, a heart shaped kitten with pink fur and long black eyelashes! Wait, no. I'm scaring myself now. Anyway, you get the idea. The man poured his heart and soul into growing strong, healthy plants.

I hope the grasshoppers enjoyed them.

The only thing more bloody mindedly persistent than pestilence is an optimist, though, and that's how a seed potato found itself wintering indoors in a lovely big pot under a grow light. It was a happy potato. It was an enthusiastic potato. Day after day the little potato reached higher and higher until it was several feet tall. It was proclaimed that a day would be chosen to honor the potato - assuming that potatoes consider being eaten an honor, and I admit that I make that assumption. This day would be in February, and it would be a delicious day.

Then one day in January - although we know not which day - the little potato began to slowly collapse it's proud stalk down to the earth of it's pot. By February it lay fully prone in a perfect spiral. By Potato Day it's last green flush of life had faded to a sepia memory. There would be no potato day, for there was no potato.

The only thing more bloody mindedly persistent than an optimist is a frustrated optimist. Planning for the chicken moat commenced.

I'm pretty sure I'd suggested it last year too, but two potato failures in a row have won my idea new respect. The idea is to put a fence around the garden to keep the chickens out, and then put chickens inside a fence around the fence around the garden to keep the grasshoppers out. I call it the chicken moat, and apparently a full year with an unsatisfied craving for garden fresh potato makes it a very compelling idea. There's a very real chance this might happen, and from there the chicken tractor's as good as up and running.

Once that's in place I'm going to need a few coyotes to drop by, though. Apparently I still need to work on garnering support for my Ostrich Patrol Corps idea.

Anyway anyway anyway that's a job for another day. I have decidedly more important priorities just at present, thank you very much!

So is She-Ra as good name for a chicken as I think it is or what?

Oh boy! And I get to think up a new title too!

Hey, know what I want to do? Like really, really, really want to do? I want to write a blog post! I used to do it all the time. Well, regularly. Okay less sporadically.

I've done it more than once, anyway.

Yes, I've been letting life get in the way. Some big stuff - I did mention that I bought a house, right? Some work stuff - insane shows to produce this weekend, and the owner's out of town so they're completely my babies, and some just day to day stuff - when you have dogs, the thawing of the lawn is not your favorite part of spring. That's the way life is, though, and none of that is good reason not to make doing something I love - blogging - a priority. That's why I decided that I needed to just grab a cup of hot coffee, sit down in front of the computer, and focus 110% on...

...crap. Forgot the coffee. Hang on.

Haha! Good for me! I had all this paperwork on the dining table, and I see it and I think you know what? If I just sit down and do that all right now, then I'll be able to just sit down and focus on writing my blog without worrying about that in the back of my mind. And now it's done, and that is one less thing on my mind, and now I can focus on this and...

...I got up to get more coffee, didn't I? Shoot - I forgot my cup in the kitchen. Back in a sec.

Oh man, stone cold. Okay, just gonna make a fresh pot and then we'll take this whole blog writing thing from the top again!

Okay got the hot coffee. Already stale - you know how you get to doing the dishes while you wait for it to brew and by the time you remember you were thirsty you've mopped the whole floor and rearranged the towel drawer - but it's going to have to do. No more distractions! Time to sit down and

oh hell now the dog needs out. Okay, back in One! Minute!

We have not had rain in, like, over a week, and most of that blew away before it even touched down. Where, can anybody please tell me, did the infernal beast find mud for heaven's sake? And of course you can never just bath a dog, oh no. The dog takes a bath then you need one, but not until you've scraped mud and muck off the walls, ceiling and foolishly placed cat first.

Well fine. We can work with this. After all, there's not a lot I can do dripping wet and wrapped up in a bathrobe. This is the perfect opportunity to just sit dow

Oh thank god oh thank god oh thank god oh thank you blogger for saving my draft oh thank you thank you thank you stupid computer stupid computer stupid computer! You know, I just realized that I haven't eaten anything in over eight hours. There's no way I can focus on this if I don't eat something first. Or at least while I'm doing it. Yeah - I'm just going to grab something and then I'll snack as I type. A lesson in efficiency for the modern blogger!

I really need to keep more snack food in the house. I didn't even want a whole casserole, but you can't exactly eat pasta raw and that's all I had. Yeah, okay, guess I was hungrier than I thought too. Anyway! You know what? The phone's ringing but I'm not even going to no wait I'm expecting that call!

Aw. He remembered. My sweetie.

Um. Look guys. I'm kinda beat. You know what? Best plan? A good night's sleep and then fresh and ready to focus tomorrow on the best darn blog post ever written!

Yes. Got a plan. It's as good as done.

Night!

Well you got as far as the title, that's something anyway.

This entry is entirely inappropriate. Too spontaneous, poorly thought out, rushed, and just generally not a good idea. I don't recommend reading it at all.

For all those who stopped reading after the first paragraph and aren't seeing this, thank you. It's nice to see my opinion afforded some merit.

For all those still reading, thank you. It's nice to know people with enough backbone to decide for themselves what is or isn't worth their time to pursue. Ignore what I told those other guys. I totally like you best.

It's been a disjointed, unorganized, chaotic and strange week, all culminating in my becoming the proud parent of an 80 year old dependent today. It's ten thousand dollars worth of non-refundable official now - I bought a house. No takesies backsies. If I don't want it, I'm going to have to find someone to unload it on.

I'm going to have a busy summer. Need an entirely new roof, ventilation and insulation in the attic, new gutters, new plumbing, a new furnace with upgraded duct work, a new shed, and I definitely gotta have a fence set up before I can bring the dogs over.

So far I've picked out a color to paint the kitchen cabinets. No, it's not my highest priority, but - and this is very important - it will go well with the vintage curtains I'm thinking of hanging in there. It's no small job, either. Have you ever picked out paint chips in heels? The floors in those home reno places are concrete, people. Very unforgiving on the ball of the foot.

Okay, I'm needing to go to bed now. I just wanted to write something because... um... well okay because I'm starting to miss you guys and stuff. Satisfied?

Don't let it go to your heads, now. I'm not totally dependent on you. I can always fall back on all those people who couldn't be bothered to read this.

This title is oh look! She's eating a bunny! Um... I'll finish this title later, ok?

Biiizeee day. Yes indeedeedoo. Busy busy busy. Bit of running around at work, got some errands done, sorted through some books, bought a house, that sort of thing.

Also managed to squeeze in an ungodly amount of time watching an owl that somehow got her talons on a webcam. In my defense she has itty bitty birdy babies. That trumps fulfilling responsibilities any day.

That said my next priority should definitely be focusing on the whole bought a house thing. That's obviously going to be pretty high priority just by virtue of the fact that it's shopping related. In fact shopping on that scale could actually trump owl with itty bitty bird babies as a priority, and were it not for the fact that it involves housework it probably would. Alas, though, packing does qualify as house work, and watching an owl with a web cam definitely takes precedence over housework. Ask anybody watching the owl with the web cam if you don't believe me. Actually, probably better to ask their dirty, hungry little children. Nobody wants to be distracted when they're watching an owl on a web cam.

And one of the first things to make it into the charity donation box was the book I bought on how to do housework. Like it's so much fun I want to sit down and read about it when I'm not actually doing it. No, I wasn't high when I bought the thing, but perhaps I would have had better judgment if I had been. After all, there's no way I'd throw out a perfectly good book of cookie recipes.

Tell me I did not just write that. No, I will not bake cookies at ten thirty at night. That's ridiculous. Get that idea right out of your head, me.

Of course this could all turn out to be a dry run. The place does still have to pass inspection to my satisfaction, and it very well might not. I know this because they accepted my first offer, even though I knew for a fact they wouldn't like it and they didn't. They accepted my terms even though I know for a fact they didn't like them either. They quibbled. I stood firm. I got my way. That was way too excellent not to mean trouble.

Yes. I do hear myself complaining about getting what I wanted. Yes. I'll stop now.

No! I will not bake cookies! It's about ten minutes later now than it was the last time I thought about cookies. If it wasn't a good idea then it sure as hell didn't magically become a better idea in the meantime now did it, me?

If it's not my house, it's not my house. I'm not attached to the idea of it. I was getting attached to the idea of it, but then I knew that was trouble and backed off emotionally and to my great surprise it worked. How well did it work? Well if it doesn't pass inspection and I'm found an hour later with tears running all the way down to my cleavage and cookie dough crusting all the way up to my nostrils, I'll know I still have some me-work to do there.

But worst come to worst it's still another excuse to go shopping, right? And there are very few things so bad in life that cookie dough can't make them better anyway.

Hey. Cookies. That sounds like a great idea. I better get right to it, though. Nearly eleven.

Gotta go.

Hey, if there was a problem with this title don't you think I'd tell you about it?

Hm. Hmmm. Hm hm hm hm hm.

Hm.

This is the closest I've come to making an offer on a house. It requires much humming (see above) and hawing (not quite sure what that is, but I'll get right on it as soon as I do have a workable definition and/or whatever necessary equipment and training one requires to haw) and deliberation. Definitely a fixer-upper. That's cool if I get it for a good enough price. There's every indication I can get it for a good enough price, too.

Hm (and/or haw).

Been on the market for awhile now. Vacant. Former occupant is deceased. Didn't ask if the guy died on the premises, but come to think of it I should. That doesn't really weird me out, but it is a little piece of history that tends to be reflected in purchase pricing. Hey, he was very old and lived alone. He might have moldered in there! If my dogs are pawing and whining at the floor I want to know what they're after.

I think a big part of why it isn't moving it is the color scheme. The dark, fake wood paneling in the living and dining rooms is complimented by a rich, orangey golden carpetting. The over-all effect is that of a wall-to-wall and floor to ceiling nicotine stain. I think that puts buyers off a bit. Money will definitely need to be thrown at that. Also the kitchen is old in a rustic, completely devoid of charm kind of way. People really place a lot of importance on nice kitchens. Not a huge problem for me, though. It's more than sufficient for stacking pizza boxes in.

Yard's good but needs a fence. Also not a problem. I have good fence karma. You string a little barbed wire for a person and they remember it, apparently. My volunteer fence-putter-upper is on stand-by.

Needs new shingles. Nuh uh. I ain't goin' up there. That'd be straight out of pocket.

The bathroom is a good size. The tub is deep. That's divine. Oh god. I hope he didn't die in the tub. Okay now I'm getting weirded out.

Hm/haw.

Okay. Refinishing the tub's on the list. That's also going to be out of pocket.

The basement doesn't freak me out (what I lack in fear of dead bodies I more than make up in my fear of squirmy things with bazillions of legs that you get the feeling would like nothing more than to be than deep inside one of your warm, wet orifices and always appear to be in an extreme hurry to find one). Most basements in my price range do freak me out. This is a bonus.

No garage. I pouted as I typed that, but again, if I get this place for a good enough price I'll have enough money left over for a pair of big girl pants to wear while I suck it up. It's not like I'm used to having one anyway.

And that's the little box my brain is running around inside of today.

Hey everybody who pointed out that this whole house buying thing isn't easy: you were right!

I hope this title answers your question, Nessa.

I Shouldn't Have to Tell You This:
Home Selling Edition

• Don't try to frame and install a picture window yourself before listing. In fact, don't try to frame and install a picture window ever under any circumstances unless you are a certified window framer and installer. No, make that unless you're at least two certified window framer and installers. And well supervised.
• Be home for longer than one hour a day.
• If you're only home for one hour a day, make it a more accessible time for people than eleven am to noon.
• If you're only home for one hour a day from eleven am to noon, don't leave two large dogs in your house that like to attack realtors when you're not there.
• Take your air mattress and the rest of your squatter fantastic lifestyle kit with you when you vacate for the showing. Finding that crap in the closet gives me the serious oogies.
  
• If the buyer prefers e-mail, communicate with them by e-mail. If you keep being pissy about it they might just contact your company and ask them why you're uncomfortable dealing with the hard of hearing.
  
• Don't assume your client isn't hard of hearing. They don't owe you an explanation about their preferred modes of communication, so operate under the assumption that it's none of your damn business why they prefer e-mail and just cooperate.
• Don't be so unprofessional that your behavior inspires three bullet points in a row on a list titled I Shouldn't Have to Tell You This: Home Selling Edition, Mr. Big Dumb I-Won't-Talk-To-You-Unless-You-Phone-Me Crappy Realtor Head Whose Stupid Listing Isn't That Nice Anyway So There.
  
• Collect the police notices out of the mailbox regularly.
• Clean off the scuff marks left by whoever it was that tried to kick in your front door.
  
• The door of mystery in the basement? Unlock it. Find another place to keep your strange uncle Marty if you must. Not knowing is scarier than knowing.
• Don't insist on at least breaking even with what you paid for it three years ago when they opened the tar sands. Unless, of course, you have an insanely rich oil strike you'd like to share with the group. 7-11 isn't handing out $700 hiring bonuses anymore, McDonald's isn't paying $10 an hour to start anymore, and you're not going to find anybody as desperate to live in that house as you were in 2007.
• If you're going to paint every room, install new flooring throughout and even spring for new kitchen cabinets, go the extra mile and clean the oven. Dude. C'mon. That's like staying up all night to work on your resume and not bothering to wear pants to the job interview.
• Oh yeah, wear pants. Prospective buyers can be swayed by little touches like that.
  

Title is conveniently located directly above the blog entry.

My head is filled to brimming with the pudding of distraction. Realtors dance through my dreams at night like three ring binder winged fairies, sprinkling my eyes with hyperbole dust. Days are filled organizing and sorting and throwing away and regretting and digging through garbage and retrieving and ending in a lot less accomplished than energy expended. It's all very giddy and surreal and awesome and terrifying.

Yeah. I'm having a good time. Complacency kills brain cells. Nothing like a good jolt of sheer economic terror to keep the think muscles limber and supple. I really do live for this kind of nonsense.

Got the mortgage pre-approved on Friday and just had the market evaluation an hour ago. The numbers actually do crunch quite agreeably. So far. Knock on wood. Unless I've made a horrible mistake that I'm completely overlooking and aren't going to discover until I'm fully committed and will have to work three jobs - one of them partially naked - until I die just to make the minimum monthly payments. Barring that, though, so far so good. Looks like the next thing to do now is buy a house, since I sure ain't going to try selling this place with a half bald sixteen year old dog taking regular squats in the living room. First we go away then the new flooring comes in. That is the appropriate order of things. It's bad enough Andy the wonder cat kept leaping for the realtor's back every time the poor guy leaned over to look at anything. Always fun to watch someone try to ingratiate themselves to you through gritted teeth, but kitty really needs to learn that what I think is cute can be what someone else thinks is grounds for caticide.

Tomorrow's house was built in 1916 and features 1.5 bathrooms. A spare toilet is the most wonderful thing a house can have, second only of course to a primary toilet. Just one of those things that it's just nice not to have to take chances with in life. Wednesday's house was built in 1920 and features pretty blue siding. Yeah, that's a stretch for a sales pitch, but the bottom line is it's boring but looks like it's in pretty good shape for a pretty good price. I'm staying way way way within my financial comfort zone on this deal, and after all I'm not looking for a house to die in. I'm looking for a house to get me the hell out of the suburbs. Anything that can rescue me from the beige brain rotting blight of planned communityville is inherently awesome. Pretty blue siding is just a great big juicy cherry on top.

I'll let you know how it goes!

I'll even throw in a free title!

I have now had a full night's sleep. Also, the little tiny goblins with the razor sharp teeth have stopped nibbling at my toe nails. These facts are likely related.

So. Morning people. Can I just ask why?

We have ordered our entire civilization around your schedule since... oh let's see now... carry the one, times infinity... since forever. That's how long you've controlled everybody's lives. Forever. And what have we night people been doing all this time?

Tip toeing around. Teaching ourselves how to sneeze silently without having an occular haemorage. Being dirty because the shower makes noise. Wondering which will make you angrier - our waking you up by flushing the toilet or your waking up and discovering that the toilet isn't flushed, and then deciding the hell with it, a ruptured bladder can't hurt that badly, and maybe if we just don't drink anything for the next eight hours we can hold it.

Putting you to bed when you come home drunk and answering your phone calls when people break up with you and you've been awake crying half the night and don't know anybody else to call at that hour.

Making appointments when it's convenient for you, even when we're the ones paying.

Oh sure, I mean thanks for the convenience stores and Wal-Mart. You know, seeing as how we can't get absolutely everything from those incredibly cheerful obviously recorded by morning people infomercials you leave behind for us after you've chewed your way through all the topical information and first run series and gone to bed. It's nice to have those options since ordering that crap at three am does nothing to alert the delivery person that leaning on the doorbell of it's recipient at nine am will probably make them cry. You know, because delivery people are as obedient to the morning person rules as the rest of the world is. Cute little boutique shops, professional offices and technicians that don't require a second house mortgage and the selling of blood to afford? All very much in your world and not ours too.

So yeah. Why? Why does it have to be this way?

Nobody's arguing that it has evolved to be this way through necessity. Before electricity humans really sucked at night navigation. Mostly they just found things to bump into, and were found by things looking for food before ever finding food for themselves (excepting, of course, when they managed to step in it). Curling up and lapsing into unconsciousness really is about the only thing a human in a natural environment has any talent for after dark.

For city dwelling humans in the western world there no longer is any such thing as dark, though. It's not like morning people use substantially less electricity than night people do, either - we see you there, with your light bulbs all lit up while the sun's still in the sky. You're not fooling anybody. Never mind all that juice you pump out to stay comfortable during the hottest part of the day while sane people in equatorial countries sleep. Meanwhile the streets are fully illuminated from dusk till dawn with barely anybody making use of all that electricity being spent. You know. Because you complain about how noisy it is when people drive on them.

I propose tradesies. We've done it your way. You enjoyed it. That's cool. Now we get a turn.

Let's not be morning people oriented anymore. Let's be night people oriented. You guys be the deviants. You do the tiptoeing around and the getting inspired just when you need to be getting to bed in order to get enough sleep for work in the evening and watching crappy tv and not being able to find anybody on the internet when you're bored because you're wide awake and everything interesting is closed.

We'll be the super cheerful ones wishing you "good evening!" as you struggle desperately to remember how to make a pot of coffee using only the eighth of your brain that you could persuade to wake up when the alarm went off.

Deal?

I can't write this title with a straight face.

What are the odds, right - what are the odds that I would start communicating with two realtors whose first names combine to form the full name of someone I knew two years ago on the very same day said former acquaintance should happen to get his e-mail account infested with malware, which then led me to see two familiar names that I was expecting to see in my in-box and then in the warm, cozy cushion of trust that is my brain at two thirty in the morning open said e-mail's attachment with unquestioning abandon, only to quickly realize that things of that nature most certainly are not generally featured in real estate listings - nobody's going to want to eat anything off that counter again - and that I'd unleashed a torrent of passionate spyware that I have only now, eighteen hours after the fact, managed to eradicate, right? I mean really, what are the odds?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

No hell no it is not funny. But it is okay, you know? I just have to deal with this crap. I don't have to live inside the poo addled brain that invented it. Now that would make me feel sorry for myself. Think about it - people really do live non-lives like that. Sends a chill, doesn't it?

What is funny, though, is how Trend Micro thinks that a consumer reporting a failure of their product to protect a computer on an epic scale is a great dialogue opener to say "hey, would you like to buy an even more expensive product from us now?" Yes, I laughed for the full forteen hours it took them to fix the damn thing.

Another thing that's funny is that when I went to have dinner one of the tines on my fork was slightly bent, and I quickly looked at the handle and realized to great relief that it wasn't one of my good forks. "Oh good," thought I, "it isn't one of my good forks," and then I doubled over laughing for the better part of five minutes.

Another thing that's funny is absolutely everything when you haven't slept for over 36 hours.

What isn't funny, though? Having only a small pot of instant mashed potatoes for dinner. I think that's the saddest thing I've done for a long time. That's about as sad as wearing your old prom dress at a birthday party for your dog or something.

I'm still writing, aren't I? I kind of dozed off in the middle bit there, but I'm happy that it appears I've come to some sort of lucid conclusion. Hope you liked the part about the elephants - I wouldn't want to have to untangle those parachutes!

I suppose you were expecting one of those hippie yippie funky chicken modern titles, eh? Well the hell with ya! This one'll do just fine.

Introspection done. Now I'm into full on obsession. Want a house. Need a house. Must have a house. What did you do today? Looked at houses! What are you doing on the internet? Researching houses! What's for lunch? Houses!

I'm looking forward to having a foundation again. To not having to leave the taps running half the winter so the pipes don't freeze. To not swaying in strong breezes.

And here's something I never thought I'd say: I'm looking forward to having the option of public transportation again. Cars are mighty emblems of freedom only as they whisk you away down highways to distant lands. In the city they're just big, awkward dependents whose needs and expenses must come before your own.

"You're going out to eat? But where will you put me? No no no! Don't you dare leave me on the street! You won't be done eating before the rush hour parking ban comes into effect - they'll take me away from you! Put me in that nice building over there. That one! The one just twenty blocks from the restaurant. Because the other ones are full. Well then take your fancy shmancy ooh-look-at-me-my-shoes-match-my-dress heels off, that's what the old emergency hiking boots in the trunk are for. You do have fourteen dollars in change handy, don't you? What's that? Oh boy! You mean it? Yay! Take-out again! I knew you'd change your mind!"

Seriously. You might as well rely on getting piggyback rides from teenagers for transportation as take a car downtown. I will still keep my car, though. For one thing my old dog's getting a little too bleary eyed for the whole fake-being-a-seeing-eye-dog-so-they-let-you-on-the-bus routine - my conviction to the method acting technique falters when I'm dragged into the path of moving vehicles - but he's still a fun travel partner when he isn't in charge of navigation. I just think it would be nice to be able to sneak off without the big metal need-machine occasionally.

Now I'm not necessarily sure I can get a house. Well, I'll amend that. I know I can get a house, I just don't know if I can get a house and still stay within my financial comfort zone. There are a few reasons I chose to live in a trailer, and while bloom has gone off many of those roses (and turned into venomous, barbed, bloodthirsty thorns) the fact that it's damned affordable living smells as sweetly as it ever did.

On the other hand, if I can work this whole getting a house thing the way I hope I can work this whole getting a house thing, there's a chance I can actually come ahead in the deal. Actually reduce my monthly expenses. I might only have a trailer, but I do have a very nice trailer, and it is in on a very, very nice lot in a very, very popular area.

And I do own it outright. That's the part that burns a bit. I couldn't own a house outright. Yeah, I'd be just as out on my fanny if I failed to pay my lot fees as if I failed to pay a mortgage of course, and of course money toward a mortgage is actually money toward owning something whereas money toward lot fees buys you nothing but limited time, but it still seems preferable to getting the bank involved. Why? Because under these boobs of mine there beats the grizzled heart of a stubborn old man who doesn't want some damn bank gettin' all messed up in my business dadgummit!

But grizzled old men don't like turning on the taps and having nothing come out when it's forty below either. They hate watching their homes relax into a nice comfortable slump every time the ground gets a bit damp too. They like good solid houses cemented into the ground the way nature intended! The kind of good quality craftsmanship you'd be proud to grow feeble and die in!

So yeah. I guess it's enough playtime in the little trailer now. Inner child satisfied. Time to let the inner old fart have a fun day.

I got this title because it was so unique, and also because the people next door have one.

One of the most striking characteristics of the human race is it's inescapability. Try it sometime. Go to the far reaches of the earth, and find a nice little isolated spot. One that takes you a few weeks or months of trail breaking on foot to get to. Somewhere tranquil that you can be by yourself and just relax. When you get there close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Then exhale. Then open your eyes again. You will discover that you are now surrounded by roughly fifty people; forty eight of which are chatting about how nice and quiet the spot is and two of which are on cell phones trying to broker a subdivision.

I grew up and lived pretty much my whole life right in the heart of the capital city here. Then I decided I needed to not be in the heart of a city for awhile. I needed wind and sky and space. I moved to a quiet little trailer park far on the outskirts of a small city on the outskirts of that capital city. It was completely surrounded by fields of sweet smelling canola in every direction for miles around. I traded convenience for solitude. I successfully got away from it all.

It all found me again. Eight years down the road they started pouring concrete in the last field left this side of the highway. The solitude is completely gone. Only the inconvenience remains. Well, I guess being force fed a steady diet of franchises and box stores is a form of convenience. Kind of like fighting off a pack of rabid badgers is a form of exercise.

I had two hours to kill downtown in the capital city today. I wandered the familiar streets and realized that I'm still part of their landscape. I realized that I prefer a landscape peppered with obscene graffiti and garbage to one saturated in fast food chains and billboards. I prefer braking constantly for pedestrians and hunting for rare parking spots to blankly barreling across an unchanging landscape. I prefer old buildings that need some work done on them to brand new buildings that won't be worth repairing when they get old. I prefer strangers arguing in the street to everybody averting their eyes when they pass one another.

There is no alone in this world, so I might as well be home.

If you're looking for the title please allow me to refer you to item number seven.

Ten Reasons I'm Not Posting Today

1. I've decided not to have a Monday this week and to have an extra Sunday instead.
2. I haven't posted for two days now, and I hate to lose momentum like that.
   
3. I haven't had any sugar today at all. My brain is mean and scary without sugar. Don't want to go in there.
   
4. Because I can't blog from the bathtub. Well okay, can't is kind of a strong word. Don't have a high enough mortality threshold to blog from the bathtub, then.
5. Because I'm only half way through this list and I'm already getting distracted. Yes you are a silly kitty. Yes you are!
   
6. This all goes on the internet, you know. People can, like, see everything I write here. Ooh! Gives me the oogie woogies!
   
7. Because if I write a post I'll have to write a title.
8. Time is money, I'm not getting any younger you know, and he who laughs last is lost... wait... okay I don't actually know that one but I think you see where I'm going with this.
9. Because lists are trendier than posts. Can I be popular now please? I can wear tight jeans if it'd help! Well okay, can is kind of a strong word.
10. Because when I started this list I don't even remember how long ago I thought it would be easier than a full post, didn't I? When actually if I'd just written about the creepy old man in the waiting area at my mechanic's like I'd originally planned I'd be long finished and eating fudge while my toes pucker in a bubble bath by now, wouldn't I? But I'm just too stubborn to admit when I'm wrong and have to keep paddling the damned sinking ship anyway, don't I?
    

With the budget I had it's a miracle this title even got made.

Okay, I have now finally been to see James "I'm just going to keep killing stuff until you cry" Cameron's monster tree pull and cat shoot. It was very shiny. It was also almost three hours long. Still didn't even manage to make a dent in my concession stand fountain drink, though. I think Cameron would have to pick off every single card carrying member of the screen actor's guild one by one to buy me enough time to hit the bottom of one of those wax paper buckets.

I always buy one, though. Not so much because I want one as because I would feel deprived if I didn't. Same goes for candy. Yesterday the early show we'd arrived for had been sold out, and we spent the bulk of the two hours waiting for the next showing at a mall food court. By the time we arrived at the theatre there was barely enough room in my pants for both me and all of the mall pizza I'd just consumed, and the top layer of my tongue had been stripped raw by the sugar in the pop I'd washed it down with. It took a truly admirable force of will to get me to that concession stand, I tell ya, but I made it. Only the weak skip dessert, and as far as I'm concerned if I don't have a bag of chocolate between my knees I don't have any business even being in a theater seat.

Yeah, not really a popcorn fan. Wasn't before last night, definitely not one now after spending three hours sitting behind someone who liberally sprinkled hers with a seasoning that smelled uncannily like the least adorable part of my dog. Fortunately the people behind me weren't eating anything too obnoxious, or perhaps I just couldn't smell it over the sound of their kicking the back of my seat. I appreciate that sentence didn't actually make sense, but I really wanted to work the fact that they kicked the back of my seat for three hours into this post and that's the best I could come up with. Yes I will get over it, I just need to work through it in my own time, that's all.

No, of course I didn't complain. I sat there and took it like a Canadian, dammit.

Am I still allowed to say that? Judging from the ad I saw before the movie, the licensing rights to Canadian patriotism have been purchased by the Coca-Cola company. Evidently their market research department has concluded that the most effective way to inspire patriotism in Canadians is to scream "He shoots he scores!" in our faces repeatedly until, one would apparently logically conclude, it makes us thirsty. Then for a finale they finished things off with a veiled dig at America. Oh yes they did! They told Canadians to remind the world where hockey came from. Okay, giant American corporation, I will! Right after I finish my Pepsi. Ideally I'd bundle up my spite scented brand loyalty and dedicate it to a Canadian brand of pop instead, but that's just not a practical option. Canadian pop is called "beer", and drinking it requires the taking of public transportation. In this part of Canada taking the bus requires five layers of clothing and the social calendar of a comatose ninety year old to be a workable proposition. Also they don't let you fiddle with the temperature controls and get really snarky when you sing along to the radio at the top of your lungs. I can't behave that well in a moving vehicle when I'm sober. They're simply asking too much of me.

Then when they got up to leave they leaned on my hair. The people behind me, I mean. At the movie. Yeah I was kind of hoping a smoother opportunity to work that in would present itself before I finished writing this thing, but I'm out of ideas and still have healing to do.

In my day titles were more than just cheap gimmicks.

I'm in training to be an old person. Making good progress, too. I've mastered the chair nap, gotten the damn kids off my lawn, and spent all day Sunday at the RV Show. It was too a very romantic Valentine's Day! Sure, my boyfriend wanted to take me to the botanical gardens, and yeah that would have been a more traditional way to celebrate. I for one can't think of a grander romantic gesture than spending an entire day allowing your girlfriend to cram you into an endless succession of little rooms that you can't stand fully upright inside of just because you know it will make her ridiculously happy, though. Poor thing's probably still a bit stooped. It's a noble stoop, though. A manly stoop. A stoop of chivalrous sacrifice!

Also he's as dedicated to finding opportunities to eat mini donuts as I am, and I know sugar's romantic. After all, giant multi-conglomerate corporations say so, and giant multi-conglomerate corporations are never wrong. About anything. Ever! You don't believe me just ask their legal departments. Bring a lawyer to translate. And whatever you do don't sign anything.

No, I can't afford an RV. Yet. I can afford the RV accessibility atlas of North America, though, so that's a start. It has a special plastic cover you can safely spill soft foods on and everything. What I can do in the meantime, too, is help above mentioned boyfriend refurbish his Boler Trailer. Boler trailers are definitely romantic. One could even go so far as to say they're forcibly romantic. They're so small that two people sharing one have two options. One is killing each other. The other option requires just as much energy, can be just as messy (if done correctly), and is generally speaking a bit harder on the suspension, but it at least leaves a second person around to share driving duty for the trip home and offer important navigation assistance, like notifying you immediately after you've just passed the turn you needed to take and wiping lunch off the atlas.

Apparently all we need to do to get the Boler back in business is scrape off the lichen, sand down and paint the exterior, remove and replace all the trim, rewire all of the electrical, completely reupholster everything, sew up some curtains, get some tires and new windows on the thing, and do some fixing stuff with the scary explodey can that runs the stove and fridge (pretty sure that bit won't be my job). So far we've managed to pick a color. We're in agreement that bright yellow would best minimize the risk of it getting lost in particularly dense foliage, which for a Boler trailer would mean a particularly precocious second season shrub. We'll just need to be careful of black trim to avoid any embarrassing and potentially painful mating attempts by stinging insects. But really, once those little odds and ends are dealt with hey presto - we'll be rugged and outdoorsy Grizzly Adams types ("Grizzly Adams types" being defined as "people who live in a can without a toilet").

Wow. I already feel so nature-ey and stuff I can't stand it. I'm practically a moose.

How hard can it be to write a proper title anyway?

I've often heard it suggested that people should have to pass an IQ test before being allowed to have kids. Interestingly enough, though, I've never heard of anybody voluntarily testing themselves or their co-procreators before proceeding with their own seeding. Of course there's a good reason for this. We take our ability to diagnose stupidity in others to be conclusive evidence that we are not suffering from it ourselves. Presumably people who actually are stupid never question anybody else's intelligence. That being the case, it sure makes people calling for IQ tests look stupid. Why go to all that trouble?

"Hey Bob, who do you know that's stupid?"

"Who do I know that's stupid? Geez. Can't think of anybody."

"Bob?"

"Yeah?"

"You're an idiot."

Settled.

It' s not like these conclusions are reached without a reasoning process, though. It's not a conscious one, but it's there. Obviously you can't be stupid if you're capable of the same level of reasoning as smart people are. Your friends are obviously smart people because they agree with all of the same conclusions you arrive at, and you only arrive at the conclusions that make the most sense. To you. Who think them up. Look, let's not lose focus here - the point is that if you were stupid you'd be driving, voting, and rearing children like those people your friends make fun of, and you're not, are you? No, you're doing the opposite. So there you go! No further testing required.

When I was a kid it really used to bother me how water would run off of peoples' chins when they came out of the swimming pool. I was always so embarrassed for them, and so grateful that water didn't run off my chin like that.

Of course it did! It's a good thing I didn't find that out that back then, though. I'd have probably drowned in the shower trying to make my chin the highest point on my head the very next day. Yeah, it bothered me that much. I guess we just assume that we're innocent of the things that bother us so much in other people because it seems logical that we'd be more accepting of traits we have in common. Or perhaps just that we'd be more self aware than that. Doesn't really matter which, seeing as how both assumptions can generally be completely disproven just by standing naked in front of a mirror for about ten seconds anyway.

Tell you what, I'm just going to concede right now. Everyone else is way smarter than I am. They can make the next generation. I'll just find some other way to spend my time and money. I'm sure there's a beach in the tropics somewhere that the cost of living for one independent adult would run roughly the same amount that it would take to raise a few children.

Yes. That would be an excellent place for us stupid people. I can be packed and ready to go in an hour. Great idea, smart people!

Send my love to the kids!

The cheese grater in this title made a lot more sense when I was asleep.

I wonder if they'll ever invent remote controls for brains. Volume, brightness, rewind, pause, that kind of thing. It'd be so cool to be able to just change the channel on those arguments that we can't stop replaying in our heads. No, you still wouldn't be able to go back in time to the academic debate where your reasoning was challenged and use that decisive "Stupid stupid dumb head face!" counter argument you formulated after the fact. How much sweeter, though, to be able to simply delete the stupid stupid dumb head faces of the world forever right when they're in mid snide remark, and switch over instead to your twelfth birthday party when you freakin' owned that pinata, man? Zoom in on that and crank the surround sound. Pity party is over! It's a hooray for you party now!

The best part, though? The off switch. Click! Sound asleep. No muss, no fuss, no sharp blows to the skull. Just sweet, complete unconsciousness at the flick of a switch.

I know all the parents are with me on that one.

It goes without saying, though, that once we're adults the only person we'd want to be able to access our remote controls would be our own selves. It also goes without saying that the government would put an end to that idea pretty quick.

They'll say:

"Our nation can never truly be free as long as terrorists are allowed to turn their minds to the purpose of destroying democracy at will!"

And then we'll say:

"As far as I'm concerned as soon as you decide to be a terrorist you give up your right to control your own mind. After all, if you're going to try and prevent my freedom, why should you have any?"

And then before you know it:

"Well if you wait until after someone's blown up a building to take control of their minds it's a little late for it to do much good then, isn't it? Besides, if you have nothing to hide you have no reason to care if the government controls your brain."

Leads to:

"If you don't support the government controlling your brain you don't really love your country, and if you don't love your country you're too dangerous to control a brain."

Not that we'd ever notice the government tinkering away in the back of our sub-consciousnesses anyway. Not with all the spam we'd be sifting through.

Well you didn't think it would be free, did you? Sure there'll probably be a basic install package available for a low, one time fee. One that lets you taste the possibilities but not truly indulge in them. Once you're dependent on the thing, though, nothing will slow the march of profit. You want to finish reliving that first kiss? Sure - right after this message from Gum, now with icyhotsonicspicyfreshwinterweinerdoodleblastcoolness crystals!

Of course they'll be targeted ads. Google's algorithms are going to be snapping all over your synapses.

And of course parents would undoubtedly have to shell out for specific installs for school and different ones for after school activities and set up all kinds of different security codes and permissions. "Pause Kimmy for third period - she's not allowed any sex ed." The company you work for would likely be shoving something in there as well - at least a scrambler to block certain channels while you're on company time. Hey, you're not getting paid to miss your mommy, alright? People would definitely be frying their gray matter with cheap back alley bootlegs, too. Overall it'd be expensive and overstimulating, it'd be abused and become intrusive, basic human rights and freedoms would almost certainly become compromised and there would undoubtedly be a risk of severe and permanent brain damage.

But still - you could record your dreams like TiVo! Totally worth it!

Sure, the first self referential title's cute, so you keep it. Then the next thing you know you've got self referential titles all over the place.

I have always wanted a pet ostrich. Well, two pet ostriches. If I only got one the thing might get all needy and weird. That's just not the kind of relationship I'm looking to have with the ostrich in my life.

I'm a very firm believer in responsible, informed pet ownership. This is why it is so very important for me to learn something, anything about ostriches other than the fact that it's a giant bird you can ride (cool!). Especially since I've heard something to the effect of their being able to disembowel a person with a single kick. This in turn is why I absolutely intend to at least read some sort of Your First Ostrich primer before welcoming an ostrich into my family. Also I should probably move out of the trailer park first.

Now I can appreciate how my general lack of ostrich knowledge and preparedness might make it seem as though I'm not truly serious about ostrich ownership, but I am! I am a registered forum member on ostrich.com. How much more credibility can a person have than that? Granted I've never posted there yet. Not actually having an ostrich I'd worry that I might come across as the giant bird enthusiast equivalent of someone who has three dozen kitty cat sweaters and lives in a pet free building. In truth my involvement with the site so far has consisted entirely of deleting regular e-mails informing me that there's a big sale on feathers.

A lot of the information on the site will become a lot more interesting to me once I do have an actual ostrich or two kicking around I'm sure, though. Once I'm that far along in my goal achievement I assume I'll just very naturally develop a keen interest in knowing what variety of dried earthworms are tastiest, and how best to fumigate birds that can disembowel you with a single kick. I know I'll definitely be interested to learn the proper mounting technique for giant birds you can ride (cool!).

One thing I have learned already is that I definitely want both of my ostriches to be the same kind of ostriches. In the process of attempting to sell me an ostrich the site has proudly informed me that ostriches can lay between 80 - 100 eggs per year. That would grossly exceed my requirements for ostrich companionship. I am at least reassured to see that they do ask if you already have a book about ostriches right on the ostrich ordering form (of course you can buy ostriches on-line. What greater purpose a technologically advanced society than convenience of ostrich procurement, after all?). Whether they refuse to sell to people who don't have the Your First Ostrich primer or whether they include that with the order I don't know, but the very fact that they check does seem to indicate a reasonable level of seller responsibility. Seller responsibility is an important thing. Again - 80 to 100 eggs. 225 pound birds. I really, really, really need to be able to trust that if they say they sent two boys, they sent two boys.

Meanwhile, I just checked the Alberta Agriculture website's classified section. Someone up in Rocky Mountain House is selling a yakalo. Hm. Maybe there is something cooler than a bird you can ride after all.

No. Nonono. I definitely don't need a yakalo. Stick to the plan, babe.

(cool!)

Never write titles when, um, the thing is... wait what? No! I mean never write titles when you're high. I think?

I used to think it was ridiculous for people to get uptight about going to the dentist. Never bothered me, and I'd had all kinds of work done. Sure it's a bit uncomfortable having the ice pick they use to administer freezing hammered into the roof of your mouth, but once they're done that you just relax, let them do what they gotta do, and enjoy taking a nice little break from having to swallow your own spit all the time.

And then I aged out of the children's dentist and had to go to the grown ups' dentist. Things were different there. Well, one thing was different. That one thing changed everything, though.

The grown ups' dentist didn't give me the happy nose. I'd never actually known what the happy nose was. I knew that I must have looked very silly with that big rubber thing on my face, and I was a very self-conscious child as a rule. For some strange reason, though, I didn't mind the happy nose. I didn't mind the happy nose at all. It was heavy, it made me look funny, and it smelled strange, but I had absolutely no problem with the happy nose. No. Happy nose was fine. I was good with the happy nose.

I sure figured out what it was for in a hurry when it wasn't there anymore.

What gives? Why should kids get all the good drugs? Isn't it enough that they get all the best presents at Christmas, the piece of cake with the flower on it at birthday parties, free room and board and two months off every summer so that they can, shall we assume, work on their novels, renovate the kitchen, and attend to all of the other urgent priorities they have over getting an education so that they can start supporting themselves? They have all that and they have to hog the happy noses too?

Well frankly that is just plain ungracious. There. I've said it.

So it turns out I'm not as blissfully mellow about hearing the music of heavy industry emanating from my teeth as I'd thought. Evidently I simply lack the self awareness necessary to know when I'm completely stoned. Couple that with the fact that my grown ups' dentist doesn't have the decency to let me pick out a toy no matter how well I behave myself, and no. I do not like going to the dentist at all anymore. But get this - I saved the biggest injustice for last.

Apparently when these teeth fall out, I don't get to grow a new set. Unlike some sugar crunching, toy hoarding individuals I know. So it's not like I really have a choice, now is it?

That part where Shelley Duvall read this title backwards in the mirror was so cool.

In truth diaper commercials weren't the only things that scared me as a child. Only the most irrational. That was also, thankfully, a fear I easily grew out of. It's much harder to grow out of rational fears like falling from great heights, being bitten by a snake, or watching a puppet show. I appreciate that there will be some debate about how rational it may or may not be to fear puppets, but I do have to insist that it is completely rational. To support my position I offer the following substantiation:

Just LOOK at them!

Obviously everybody is now nodding and making comments such as "Very astute observation.", "A quite credible perspective.", and "Wait, WTF? Puppets? This isn't icanhascheezburger!", and generally agreeing that no further exposition is necessary. At this point, however, I'm sure everybody will also agree that the post is very short, so I will continue to add words.

Yesterday's post about pedo-selenophobia (fear of baby-moons) (just because I made it up doesn't make it less real) is not actually what instigated this one. It was a recent conversation about those horrifying wind up monkeys that clap cymbals (if you click that link and can't sleep for a week, don't come complaining to me. Did I say they were horrifying? Yes I did. Toughen up, sissy sissy cry-baby face) brought to my mind the movie Poltergeist. Movie fans will note that the movie Poltergeist has absolutely nothing to do with wind up monkeys that clap cymbals. Movie fans have undoubtedly also gone on to figure out that it was actually Close Encounters of the Third Kind that I was thinking of. I bet movie fans are even making fun of me using insider movie fan references that would go right over my head, too. Oh movie fans, you're incorrigible! You're right, though. Close Encounters is the one that has a wind-up monkey that claps cymbals in it. Poltergeist has the evil clown doll. I was clearly looking for Mona Lisa in the Last Supper there.

Because it turned out that I had spent valuable seconds, perhaps even minutes pointlessly thinking about Poltergeist, my ever resourceful brain devoted itself immediately to finding a productive reason for thinking about Poltergeist in order to keep me from feeling too stupid. Keeping me from feeling too stupid is one of the primary functions of my brain, second only to finding new and creative justifications for buying a purse. In a fit of inspired genius my brain then decided that I needed to find pictures of the dead bodies that had started bobbing around in the swimming pool excavation just in time for Jo Beth Williams's big screaming-in-a-wet-t-shirt scene. As everybody with a resourceful brain like mine knows, urban legend has it that real dead bodies were used for this scene. My intellectual curiosity is very naturally piqued by this possibility, because wow cool dead bodies.

It is really, really hard to find images of that scene. I've looked before and found nothing, but this time I was beyond successful. I found not only a very clear picture from that scene, but also the answer to a mystery that has plagued me since the days of my earliest memories.

I found out that there really was a movie made in the seventies about a psychotic, kill crazed wooden puppet, and this has filled my heart with joy like only a psychotic, kill crazed wooden puppet can. Because it means I'm not crazy. I didn't just imagine it. I really did get the idea - and I'm using the word idea as a synonym of knowledge here - in my head that puppets are bad, bad, bad from somewhere, not just from my imagination.

Why, perhaps the creators of that movie even had automatonophobia themselves. Oh no I didn't make that word up! Check out the sweet factual reference action there, baby. It totally makes all the stuff I actually do just make up credible.

The movie was Trilogy of Terror, and it was an ABC movie of the week that aired back in the halcyon days when parents allowed very small children to watch programs with the word terror in the title. While eating sugar. Without a helmet. It was awesome! Probably best if you don't let your kids read this.

All my life I've been haunted with fragments of images of a little wooden doll chattering through a house, chasing, it turns out, Karen Black (why was I not surprised?) and hacking at her ankles with it's little wooden knife. I don't remember any gore, and it wasn't so much the prospect of a puppet thing suddenly turning homicidal or someone getting hurt that freaked me out. It was the way the thing moved that gave me this case of the oogies that has lasted decades.

Puppets do not move like anything natural, innocent, or in any way good. They move like bad, bad, bad things. I'd describe it more eloquently, but that would require conjuring up a mental image, and I do not have anywhere near enough chocolate in the house to deal with that. Suffice it to say that little tiny human like things jerking around with fixed grins on their faces do not amuse me.

(Because I don't do political humor. You capitalize on it.)

So here I am, all these years later, not only gratified to know that I did not imagine this fiendish little made for tv gem, but with a video link to the very segment from that movie itself open in a tab on my computer! Finally I can satisfy the curiosity that has burned in me since childhood, and actually see this little monster that cast such a long, dark shadow over my life.

No freaking way. YOU watch it.

Am not a sissy sissy cry baby face. I just don't want to, that's all. Don't bug me!

Besides, I'm going to go play with my Feels Like Home award that the most interesting and ever engaging JenJen at Jen's Voices Gave me.


Thank you darling!