I wrote a title, and you can too!

Ten reasons you should take an overnight trip:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8) Money was invented to be spent.

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

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

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

People like brndoutw8ress who gave me this:



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

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

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

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

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

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

You write the title. My fingers are resting.

I'm having a rock star day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey! Where the hell is my Porsche?

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

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

Right. Linear, ordered thinking. Got it.

I'm dating a farmer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I like him that much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That one's cute."

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

"Then maybe the darker ones are less expensive?"

"Ah yes, good appraisal."

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

So sue me. I like cows.

This title will do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, insoles are always on sale somewhere.

This title just seems so small, y'know?

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

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

Diagram A

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

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

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

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

Oh crap. The sun's exploding.

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

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

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

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

This title was writed all by me.

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

Now why on earth do you suppose that could be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you wonderbug!

This title commemorates all the titles that came before.

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

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

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

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

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

...oh yeah. Christmas.

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

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

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

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

No retreat.

No rest.

No prisoners.

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