Retiring

Obviously I haven't blogged in quite some time. The surface reason for this is that I've spent a lot of time since my last blog in a bed, either recovering from back surgery or trying to prevent it. This blog has been dedicated largely to funny happenings of my day-to-day, and truthfully, there just hasn't been that much funny going on. I had surgery, my brother-in-law almost died, I ruptured a new disc and my grandmother had a heart attack. None of that is funny.

Which leads me to the real reason I'm retiring this blog - I don't FEEL funny right now. And I write what I feel.

When things turn around, and I have something more interesting to write about than how my sheets feel today, I might pick it back up. But for now, vaya con nachos.

Liz

Omegle, Omyoh.

Even though it will be completely obvious I'm stoned when I get to my topic this evening, I would like to preface this entry with the caveat that I am currently laid up awaiting back surgery and on fairly heavy pain meds.

That said, a friend introduced me to a site called Omegle.com today. There is no point to this site aside from chatting with strangers. That's it. And given I'm more or less stuck in a bed and hopped up on pain pills, I knew this would be entertaining. And oh my, has it ever delivered.

I love talking to strangers. I love sitting at the bar in restaurants by myself for that exact purpose. I love chatting with people on planes. But all of that is done in PERSON. It's a whole different world when you're talking to strangers in cyberspace and have no interest in discussing what you're wearing.

Most everyone hung up on me when I wouldn't tell them where I live. Others hung up as soon as they found out I'm not the person they'd been chatting with before. "AJ?" one asked. "Nope," I wrote back. *click* One hung up on me after I confessed I was neither naked, nor Asian. Another guy (or I'm presuming it was a guy), didn't even bother with "hello", preferring instead to great me with a friendly "I'm horny." His honesty was certainly appreciated, but after wishing him luck with that, I hung up on him.

The beauty of this thing is that you can immediately start a new conversation with someone else. I made it my goal to have one normal conversation and eventually succeeded with some kid in Argentina. We discussed music, his interest in studying film in Buenos Aires, I gave him some career advice and we exchanged restaurant recommendations. After a few minutes, though, I got a notice that our conversation had "asploded"...a word I would have associated with bathroom activities, but apparently it applies to internet activities.

But no matter. The entire evening was worth it simply for the exchange below:

Sweet, isn't it?

A gutter ball of a statement.

So, last night, Obama was on Leno and today, all of cyberspace is up in arms about Obama comparing his bowling score of 129 to the Special Olympics. People found this offensive to the Special Olympics, and I can see why. If you're going to make a tasteless analogy, at least make it an accurate one. I attended a Special Olympics bowling tournament just a few weeks ago. (Further proof I don't have a lump of coal for a heart...) And, while none of the participants could give you their thoughts on capital gains taxes, I promise you every one of them bowled higher than a 129. I peronally think a man with no arms could bowl higher than 129 just by kicking the ball down the lane.

Beef stew: the Breakfast of Champions

Anyone that knows me knows I eat breakfast every single day. But a day will come when I won't. And the day I get no mo' Cheerios, will be a sad, sad day FOR ALL OF YOU.

Sorry, I don't speak Crazy. (Or Chinese.)

I will give $100 to the first person that translates this video for me...

My grandmother is adorable.

*answering the phone*

"Hey Gigi, are you okay?"

"Hi love! Yeah, I'm fine..."

"Well, I saw you called earlier today, so thought maybe something was wrong."

"Oh, no! Everything's great. Just wanted to make sure you weren't hit by that fireball this weekend. Looks like it shot RIGHT over you!"

"Ah, well, no, I'm okay."

"Good, love. I'm so glad to hear that. Thought it might have shook the ground if nothing else!"

"Nope, everything was fine."

"Okay, well, I'm heading to bed..."

"At 6:45?"

"This old lady gets TIRED sometimes! Haha..."

"Well, thanks for calling, and love you. Sleep tight."

"You too, love, and so. so. glad you weren't hit by that fireball!"


*Picture of "fireball" over Austin, February 15th

How you know the cat's been on the computer.

Winner, winner, chicken anal beads.

I haven't blogged in over a month, which makes me a loser. Only I won a fierce competition tonight, which not only makes me a winner, but also cured my writer's block.

Last week, I got a call from my friend Megan. "So, I'm calling you because you're the only person I know that would go to this with me." With that opener, I was already sold; but she went on to tell me about this show at a local theater called "The Sickest F***ing Stories I Ever Heard". It consists of a group of local comics sitting around a poker table telling disgusting, politically-incorrect stories. It's worth noting the three movies I've laughed hardest in are: Jackass, Jackass 2 and Borat. This was right up my alley.

The show tonight didn't disappoint. There were several times when I laughed as hard as I could, yet still wasn't laughing hard enough to satisfy my amusement. And probably due to his charming tales of rub and tugs, I developed a mild crush on KLBJ's Charlie Hodge, one of the comics. But the best was yet to come. When the show finished, they announced a competition for the sickest audience story. I'm competitive as all hell, but for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything. A chick with a clipboard came by and asked if I had anything to contribute and I shook my head, disappointed in myself. Members of the audience went up to the mic and told stories about poop in a bag, "retards fucking" and even a two-toned dick, the result of a middle school masturbation accident. Suddenly, not one, but two sick stories popped in my head. I headed to the mic, was unanimously voted the winner and went home with a lovely prize package consisting of porn, a dildo, and some anal beads.

And because I'm the most competitive person on earth, it was pitifully a win I needed as last week, I challenged my friends' four year-old to Mario Kart with disastrous results.

"Jackson, you're about to get OWNED!!!"

Jackson's dad shot me a look that was a mix of disbelief and horror. "Are you seriously trash talking my toddler?"

"I prefer to call it 'managing expectations', but potato, potahto."

The kid demolished me. He sailed into 2nd place while I did circles, trying to figure out how to get the "U-turn" signal off the screen. That, combined with continually driving off cliffs ensured I never made it past 12th place.

"He can't even form full sentences!" I howled in my defeat. "This SUCKS! Hey, you don't have Zelda on here, by chance, do you?"

I was still licking my wounds last night, when we introduced my 89 year-old grandmother to Mario Kart. My grandmother had her license taken away from her three years ago, gets driven around like Miss Daisy, and yet somehow managed to finish first.

All this to say that quick thinking and two different but equally disgusting stories have ensured I won't be sobbing myself to sleep again tonight.

Christmas cards of the rich and famous.

Who am I kidding. Of course I'm not going to run out of things to write about, particularly if it's Christmas. I'm currently in the middle of what is proving to be the most ridiculous Christmas ever but while I continue to let that play out, I have something else I'd like to discuss: the lameness of the Cruise family's Christmas card.

My friends clearly know cooler people than I do, but that's not the point. How lame is this thing? I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't a card wrapped in gold thread without so much as a picture. I mean, this is Tom Cruise. Shouldn't this have come with a little booklet on the story of Xenu and the Galactic Confederacy? Or perhaps some WWII memorabilia to promote Valkyrie? Better yet, why not send everyone a small bit of his vast fortune to help stimulate the economy? Hell, even a $20 would be something. Instead he invested all $20 in a gold stamped card, wrapped in gold thread, in a hand-calligraphied (with gold ink) envelope.

Yeah, well, Happy Holidays to you, too, TomKat, and may your family be blessed with only the highest levels of Operating Thetans.

My final post?

As we head into the final stretch of 2008, if I could sprint at this point, I would. This year has absolutely kicked. my. ass., as my therapist noted yesterday in our last session of the year. I should clarify which therapist I'm referring to, as over the past few months I've amassed three: a traditional therapist (who I visited yesterday), a hypno-therapist, and a massage therapist. The fact that I even have this therapeutic triumvirate, with a diminutive Scottish healer thrown in for good measure, is a testament to what a mess I've been the past twelve months.

Really, if I were being honest with myself, I've been hanging out in my "pain cave" - as my friend Karen so brilliantly termed it - for the past year and a half. That's an exceptionally long time to spend in a not-so-great place but just in time for the holidays, I've emerged like Scrooge on Christmas morning, and jimmy-kicked my way back into the land of the living.

Truly, things lately have been nothing short of spectacular. So much so, my therapist actually jumped out of her chair mid-session yesterday, threw her fists into the air and cheered. I've been in therapy consistently since I was five (which begs the question as to what I'd be like had this NOT been the case), and I have never had a therapist cheer. Ever. Quite the milestone, but also not entirely unwarranted.

For starters, I've rediscovered all sorts of things I used to love doing. Like going out with friends, for example. Turns out I'm fairly social. (Who knew, right?) I'm also running regularly again, but more than that I'm back doing yoga and pilates, two other things I used to really enjoy. I meditate every day. I'm reading books. I did a week-long detox for the first time in my life and when it was over, I detoxed my house and got rid of 18 trash bags-worth of stuff in the process. My living area is spotless now, but more than that, there's hardly anything in it. It's like the W in here - so peaceful and cozy. It's almost unnerving. Almost.

A few months ago, my roommate (who has been in her own pain cave for about as long as I've been in mine) asked me what made me happy, because she was trying to think what made her happy and couldn't come up with anything. At the time, I pitifully couldn't think of anything either. "Riding horses. Riding horses makes you happy," she finally said. And in the most wonderful twists of fate, I'm also now exercising a horse every week for a woman short on time due to her new job.

There's only one problem with all this greatness: I'm no longer angry. Like, at all.

What the hell am I going to write about now???

The REAL auto crisis.

I have today off. I love days like this, not because I get to be a slob (which I do), but because I get shit DONE. I morph into this uber-productive, errand-running machine, timing myself to see how quickly I can dash about town getting things crossed off my list. And I was flying about town in my cloud of productivity this morning, when my schedule hit a glitch.

I've been avoiding cops for over a month as my car inspection was due in October. So I went to the Acura dealership today to get that knocked out because apparently Jiffy Lube is completely incompetent when it comes to such matters (having held onto my car for 45 minutes and charged me for an inspection only to tell me they couldn't do it because they couldn't find the connection they needed for the computer, and subsequently FAILED me.) While the Acura was able to inspect my car (I passed), as well as rotating the tires (something else Jiffy Lube wasn't capable of doing), I must offer a commentary on the promptness of their service.

If your performance is such that a respectable-looking business man loses all dignity and can achieve this type of slumber in the middle of a showroom, I submit that perhaps your service is too slow. Mercifully, I keep 96G-worth of entertainment on me at all times for just such occasions, so I spent my two hours waiting getting caught up on episodes of "Fringe". But good Christ. This man was snoring. More alarming than that was that none of the sales folks or other Acura employees seemed fazed by the fact that Yao Ming (the pic doesn't do him justice...this guy was huge) was slumped over on his briefcase like a coma patient.

It made me wonder what would happen if a client fell asleep on the phone while waiting on me.

"Hey Liz, I was wondering if I could get an updated copy of our projected 2009 scope?"
"Sure, let me get that for you. But, well, make yourself comfortable..."
(two hours later)
"Uh, Amy? Amy??? Hey. I have your scope."
"Jesus, I fell asleep!"
"Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, that will be $146.82. Thanks."

While DC figures out what to do with the "Big 3" and their lack of innovation, I'd like to counter that the real crisis concerning automakers in this country is the most shitastic service imaginable.

I'm now off to put my patched, inflated, rotated and balanced rubber to the road and continue my errands.

Words almost escaped me. Almost.

I hate Christmas.

This sentiment shouldn't really be a surprise to anyone, particularly those familiar with my family dynamics. But it's true. When Christmas comes around, I am filled with anxiety and dread. I pretend it's not happening until I'm absolutely forced to acknowledge it, as was the case last year when I came home to find that my roommate had decorated our apartment. I certainly wouldn't decorate for Christmas, although it's fitting the only decorations I own are a tree and reindeer cut out of sheet metal that could easily be used as weapons.

You can imagine my surprise when, several days ago, I found myself caught up in the Christmas spirit. I actually WANTED to get people gifts. And not just "check-them-off-the-list" gifts, but gifts I thought people might enjoy. Getting caught up in my own frenzy, I was done with all my shopping by Dec. 1st. A record on multiple levels.

But all my new found excitement over this most blessed of holidays came to a halt today, with an something a lawyer friend forwarded me. Reading through the trail of e-mails preceding hers, I discovered it had originated with a secretary trying to drum up business for a friend, by sending a firm-wide e-mail explaining: "A friend of mine make these little guys which make cute Christmas gifts..."

Harmless enough, I thought, until I actually saw what she was peddling.

To my friends and family, be glad I got your gifts before I discovered "Pons" by Wendy. To Wendy, if your tampon angel is any indication, I think you might hate Christmas more than I do.

How not to do things.

There have been several different things I've been meaning to blog about lately, but it occurred to me they are all examples of spectacularly bad form, so I thought it might be nice to create a handy guide to help others avoid these situations. So without further ado...

How Not to be a Good Host

My Danish family was in town a few weeks ago. They were to arrive in Dallas on a Friday, be picked up by my mother and taken to her house which is about two hours from the airport. The husband needed to return to Dallas for a conference on Monday, so my mother offered via e-mail, "We can take him and get him after the conference if necessary, but the funeral home has to make runs to the Dallas area often and if Bjorn won't be totally grossed out, he might ride with one of the funeral home guys. I promise it won't be a hearse. Usually a Suburban." I'm not sure I've ever mentioned on here that my family runs the funeral home in my hometown, but they do. This fact is something which alone would provide enough material for a hundred blogs, but the point here is that offering to send company in from Europe on a two-hour trip with a dead body is just...well, bad form.

When the Danes finally arrived, I apologized profusely for this only to learn that Bjorn's father had made coffins when he was a child, the stacks of which had provided "a lovely badminton net" for him and his friends.

Apparently dysfunction knows no boundaries, international or otherwise.

How Not to be a Good Guest

A friend of mine - and CHAMPION hostess, I might add - moved to Seattle about a year ago. She didn't know anyone there when she moved, so she's spent the past year trying to reach out to folks in an attempt to get a group of friends pulled together which is how she ended up inviting several of her co-workers over to her place after a company party for some wine the other night. Apparently at some point in the evening (and after they'd mowed through four bottles of her nicest wine), one of her co-workers decided to pull out his balls and put them on her coffee table.

That's it. He just set them there and then he proceeded to laugh his ass off while my friend stared on in horror.

I'm sorry, but what. the. hell. I swear to God, if one of the jackasses I worked with came to my place and put his balls on my coffee table, I'd take a picture and then send out a company-wide e-mail that says, "Why you shouldn't invite Mike over. Ever."

How Not to be a Respectful Boyfriend

While we're on the subject of jackass behavior, I would like to dedicate a portion of this blog to my best friend's now ex-boyfriend. This guy, let's call him Stan, dated my best friend for a year and a half. Then he dumped her. This was shitty enough because they work together and it was extremely uncomfortable for for both of them. But after they'd been "apart" for nine months, he came back and said he wanted to get back together, this time for good. He put the full-court press on her and her friends (who had been none too pleased with him after round one) and won us all over. After dating four months and talking about rings, he'd asked her if he could move in, only to dump her AGAIN two days later and right before Thanksgiving. (Oh, the irony.)

I went up to hang out with her this past weekend; understandably, she was nothing short of a mess. We have been friends since we were eight and until this past weekend, I had never seen her cry which completely broke my heart. And because no bad deed goes unpunished, while she was at a party Friday night, I hopped on her computer to check Facebook and after discovering her retard of an ex still had all his login info as the default, took matters into my own hands:

What you can't really tell from the picture, is that I also updated his profile pic to the ass of a fat chick with "Deliciously Evil" written across the back of her shorts. Genius, if I do say so myself.

How Not to Make a Joyful Noise

For those who feel my cyber-activities Friday night were out of line, please note that karma caught up with me the very next evening, and as they say it's a total bitch. That night, we celebrated my grandmother's 89th birthday, and after dinner I invited my family over to my place to play Wii. My mother is a huge fan of Wii Sports but when she saw the drum set in my living room, she decided to give Rock Band a shot, recruiting my sister and her fiancee in the process. And so you don't have to imagine what the von Trapps would sound like drunk with a two-year old banging a pot beside them, allow me to present the musical stylings of the Taylor Family Singers:

Eliminate the drama in YOUR life!

One of my most irritating qualities is my refusal to zip through commercial breaks. Obviously, this admitted character flaw is somewhat understandable given my profession, but if you just zip through commercials, you run the risk of missing gems like this:



My gut instinct wants to file this under "Badvertising", but I can't. This thing is the advertising equivalent of deep fried bacon - terrible, yet awesome. From the arguably racist caller IDs ("Baby's Momma"?) to what might be the greatest line of copy ever written ("This ain't T. You been DRAMATELLED, playa!") this spot is greatness from beginning to end. Not only that, but it actually makes you consider buying the product. We all know when our calls are being screened, and here's the solution. And this commercial, with its Sister Cleo-esque production quality, illustrates this "almost illegal" solution beautifully. Granted, actually utilizing this product would make you look both desperate and psychotic, but if there was a commercial to compel me to put those fears aside, this is it. If nothing else, I want a Dramatel just to screw with my friends and then shout, "You been DRAMATELLED, playa!"

Completely Adorable? Meet Bat-Shit Nuts.

Okay, just to prove that 1. I haven't forgotten this blog completely, and 2. I don't have a lump of coal for a heart, I bring you the following (which Blogger regrettably won't let me embed):

http://www.ustream.tv/videoplayerpopup/channel/317016

I'm not sure how this could get any more adorable. Maybe if pink butterflies were fluttering around them, or if the puppies were sleeping on a bed of marshmallows? Maybe adding a couple of baby bunnies in there would make this cuter? And maybe that would be a bad idea for the bunnies...

Regardless, that's the cutest damn thing I've seen in ages. But just so you don't think I've gone all fuzzy on you, here's a little jolt to the ol' system:

This is a picture of my mother. (Sorta puts things into perspective, doesn't it.) Obviously it's a picture of her at Halloween, not that this picture portrays her as any less crazy than she actually is. I asked her what the hell she was supposed to be. Her e-mailed response: "Kermit the Frog! Or with sunglasses...the UniBomber."

And here I was, stupidly thinking she was a homeless person with multiple organ failure who'd just received her next meal from a passerby trying to unload some of their kid's candy to save their own ever-expanding ass.

Obama/Huxtable '08

Since the moment McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, I wanted to write a blog about it. I knew more than your average "Lower-48" American about Mrs. Palin, but I still wanted to do a little research before putting pen to paper, so to speak. While researching, I also debated writing anything at all because politics isn't the most entertaining topic, and there have been quite a few blog-worthy things going on of late: my sister's wedding planning, my travels through the remnants of Hurrican Gustav to Bentonville, AR, my subsequent introduction to the Wal-Mart corporate cheer, my discovery of the Intervention episode featuring an anorexic who inhales up to ten cans of computer duster a day, my horror at some of the items offered in the Sky Mall catalog...

But no. I have decided Mrs. Palin needs to be addressed. First, while I sincerely doubt anyone who has read this blog questions my political affiliations, it should be said that I...ahem...tend to lean toward the Democratic side of things. With that said, I'm also a female. Some might argue I'm a strong female. As such, I appreciate the drive and moxie Mrs. Palin brings to the table.

And that's pretty much where the appreciation ends.

With each passing day, I keep expecting Palin fever to end. I definitely understood the initial excitment. She was the dark horse. She's a GILF. She's a supermom. She's "folksy". But since then, people have had enough time to see where she stands on the issues, learn more about her, and frankly come to their senses.

While The Beverly Hillbillies were great entertainment, I don't think anyone would have considered Elly May Clampett a viable candidate for Vice President. And that's exactly what we have here, right down to her success resting on black gold. I can't imagine that any female supporting Hillary would vote for the Republican ticket based on the VP candidate being a fellow "Vagina American" (as Samantha Bee so brilliantly put it). However, I absolutely believe there are a lot of blue collar American men who are currently thinking with the wrong head, and that scares the shit out of me, particularly since she's been so shielded from any form of direct media scrutiny.

But luckily, McCain's team can't keep her in a bubble and away from the media forever, though after the grilling she received last week from Charlie Gibson, I have to imagine they wish they could. The woman is so clueless, so chock-full of soundbites, so in over her head, the interview would have been painful to watch had it not filled me with glee to watch the Palin mysitque come crashing down. It also confirmed my long-standing desire to have Charlie Gibson adopt me.

GIBSON: "Did you ever travel outside the country prior to your trip to Kuwait and Germany last year?"

PALIN: "Canada, Mexico, and then, yes, that trip, that was the trip of a lifetime to visit our troops in Kuwait and stop and visit our injured soldiers in Germany. That was the trip of a lifetime and it changed my life."

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sarah Palin, head of the Department of Redundancy Department. Oh, and Sarah - everyone knows that Canada and Mexico don't count.

GIBSON: What insight into Russian actions, particularly in the last couple of weeks, does the proximity of the state give you?

PALIN: They're our next door neighbors and you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska, from an island in Alaska.

Wheeeeeeeee!!!

GIBSON: What insight does that give you into what they're doing in Georgia?

(Which, for the record, you can't see from any island in Alaska.)

PALIN: Well, I'm giving you that perspective of how small our world is and how important it is that we work with our allies to keep good relation with all of these countries, especially Russia.

So that's why you're supporting Georgia? To keep good relations with all countries, especially Russia? Well, then I hate to tell you but the Russians probably won't appreciate your Georgian support on a matter that arguably doesn't affect our country in any way. Just sayin'.

This next exchange would have really cracked me up, were I not so terrified someone [this close] to the presidency is this retarded.

GIBSON: Do you agree with the Bush doctrine?

PALIN: In what respect, Charlie?

GIBSON: The Bush -- well, what do you -- what do you interpret it to be?

PALIN: His world view.

GIBSON: No, the Bush doctrine, enunciated September 2002, before the Iraq war.

You could tell Charlie wanted to finish that last statement up with a giant sigh and, "DUMBASS," but as a professional journalist, he kept his reserve and his complete and total annoyance with her was only marginally, and by that I mean completely, obvious.

PALIN: I believe that what President Bush has attempted to do is rid this world of Islamic extremism, terrorists who are hell bent on destroying our nation. There have been blunders along the way, though. There have been mistakes made. And with new leadership, and that's the beauty of American elections, of course, and democracy, is with new leadership comes opportunity to do things better.

Wheeeeeeee!!!

GIBSON: The Bush doctrine, as I understand it, is that we have the right of anticipatory self-defense, that we have the right to a preemptive strike against any other country that we think is going to attack us. Do you agree with that?

PALIN: I agree that a president's job, when they swear in their oath to uphold our Constitution, their top priority is to defend the United States of America.

I know that John McCain will do that and I, as his vice president, families we are blessed with that vote of the American people and are elected to serve and are sworn in on January 20, that will be our top priority is to defend the American people.

GIBSON: Do we have a right to anticipatory self-defense? Do we have a right to make a preemptive strike again another country if we feel that country might strike us?

PALIN: Charlie, if there is legitimate and enough intelligence that tells us that a strike is imminent against American people, we have every right to defend our country. In fact, the president has the obligation, the duty to defend.

This whole exchange went on for quite awhile and absolutely killed me. It reminded me of that episode of The Cosby Show where Vanessa tells her parents she's at a slumber party and she and her friends drive to Baltimore to see "The Wretched" instead. When they eventually get busted for lying, Cliff tries to stay calm even though he's clearly pissed and annoyed, while Vanessa stammers and tries to explain herself. I kept wishing Clair Huxtable would burst into the interview, lose her shit and say all the things you know Charlie was thinking.

"Here you think you because you've been cramming for a week that you know ALLLLLL about international politics and the Bush Doctrine, when your entire career, you've just been havin' BIG FUN in Alaska. Weren't you, Sarah? Having BIG FUN in Alaska. Ridin' snowmobiles, eatin' moose burgers, shootin' guns and killin' caribou. You don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, do you?"

"But, Clair," Sarah would stammer.

"SHUT UP! Don't you DARE open your mouth when I'm asking you a question! RUDY, GO TO BED!"

Maybe she should wear pearls with her tape?

A few days ago, I spent the night at my aunt's house and she and I ended up talking late into the night. My uncle had fallen asleep in his chair, and as we sat there drinking wine and chatting, I suddenly interrupted her.

"I'm sorry, but how do you sleep with that???" I asked, nodding to my uncle whose snoring was causing the windows to vibrate.

And with her response, I got one of those weird glimpses into married life that, as a single person, leaves you completely befuddled.

"Oh, I tape his lips shut," she explained, and took a sip of wine.

...

"Wait, you do what?" I asked, with a horrified look on my face.

"Well," she explained as though this was all perfectly normal, "you know, he sleeps with a CPAP machine, but even with that mask on, he's just soooooo LOUD." She began to imitate my uncle by putting her lips together, then blowing air through her mouth which created this horrible sputtering noise. "So after a couple of nights of that, I decided if I taped his lips shut, he wouldn't be able to make that awful sound."

"Clearly, that was the next step," I deadpanned.

Unfazed, she continued. "Bless his heart, when we first got married, he made this styrofoam box that only his engineering mind could have, because he wanted a sound-proof...well, a sound-proof box, I guess...so he wouldn't disturb me. It was so cute," she remembered with obvious fondness, "Here he'd taken one of those gas station coolers and made this box, and he called me from the bedroom one day, and I walked in and he was lying in the bed with all this styrofoam around his head. It really was so precious. Of course it was also so funny, I had to take a picture of it. Speaking of which, I wonder what happened to that picture..." she trailed off.

While I briefly considered my uncle lying in bed with his head shoved in a styrofoam cooler, I was still confused. "Sorry, can we go back to the fact you tape his lips shut at night?" I asked, clearly perplexed.

"You know, the lady at the CPAP store the other day also thought that was strange, though I assured her I fold the ends under so he can rip it off more easily. I used to not do that and he had a terrible time getting it off in the morning..."

"Hang on, how did all of this even come up with the lady at the CPAP store?" I inquired.

"Well, I'd looked at his machine and saw it had this filter on it, and thought to myself, 'I bet that needs to be changed.' And sure enough, when I pulled it out, it disintegrated..."

Usually not a good sign.

"...So I went to the CPAP store, and told her I needed a new filter, that this one had disintegrated. Then she asked me how long it had been since we'd changed it, and I told her we'd never changed it. She gave me this puzzled look, and then asked how long we'd had the machine. When I told her we'd had it twenty years..."

Oh god.

"...then she seemed really troubled, because I guess you're supposed to change it every three months."

Oh GOD.

"So after she'd gotten my new filter for me, we were discussing what a great machine it is, and I told her that while I do think it's a good machine, it still doesn't keep him from snoring and that's why I have to tape his lips together. When I told her this, she looked at me like I was a murderer or something and said, 'M'am, if the electricity ever went out, he would die!' I mean, she really seemed upset about this! And I just laughed and said, 'Well, I guess we're lucky that hasn't happened!'"

My poor uncle.

A few days later, I was at dinner with them, when my uncle held up his wristwatch. "Dear, do you like my repair job?" Sure enough, around the clasp of his wristwatch was suspicious-looking tape.

"That's the stuff, isn't it," I asked.

"Oh, ha, yes! It is!" my aunt replied, and started laughing. I told my uncle I'd heard about his sleeping conditions and was concerned.

"You know, I'm not the only one who snores," he said with a groan, "But your aunt refuses to acknowledge that she could possibly make any noise at all while she's sleeping, but I assure you she does. And I've suggested perhaps she try sleeping with her lips taped shut, or at the very least with a CPAP mask on, but she won't do it."

With this, she gave him a knowing look, patted his arm and said, "Well, dear, that's just not very ladylike," and they went back to eating their meals.

The ties we find.

I've been hanging out a lot this week with a few of my aunts - two aunts and one great aunt - and have had a blast. Of course when you hang out with family, you end up talking about family and in our case, family history. Which made me curious to know more, so I joined a website called ancestry.com to do some research.

A couple of years ago, an episode of THS had me convinced I was related to Anna Nicole Smith. They had interviewed her hillbilly cousins and they all had the same last name some of my relatives in that area of Texas. So I figured if nothing else, doing a little research could help me solve the Anna Nicole mystery, as I haven't slept soundly since my initial realization.

I will also confess another reason for my ancestral interest is joining the Daughters of the American Revolution. We have a cousin that's very involved with DAR and after doing some research, I want a piece of the action. I found a couple of local chapters with some wonderful programs such as "Historical Shoes" and "White House China: A Retrospective". I'm only kicking myself that I didn't attempt to join sooner.

"Now these shoes belonged to Millicent Butts, of the Baldwin County Butts. And I think I speak for the room when I say, 'Thank the good Lord for Manolo Blahnik!'"

Surprisingly, I've found this whole ancestry thing mildly addictive. It's fascinating what, rather who, you'll find. Obviously, the first order of business was establishing my "patriot", so that when I attend the meeting on "How to Mark a Patriot's Grave", I'll know who the hell's grave I'm supposed to be marking. And sure enough, within a couple of days I'd established that I'll be riding into the DAR on the coattails of Private Evan Shelby.

But I didn't stop at the 1700s with my searching. On my paternal side, I was able to trace my family back to the 900s. We were Italian then, but sadly that was soon buried under 1000 years-worth of English and Scottish heritage, explaining why I can't get a tan to save myself.

Other interesting finds have been famous relatives I've come across. I'm related to an alarming amount of famous writers/publishers (William Randolph Hearst, Gore Vidal, Geoffery Chaucer, Mark Twain, Elizabeth Browning, and Robert Louis Stevenson, to name a few) which have given me comfort that genetically-speaking, there's no way this blog can suck. Other than writers, I learned most of my famous relatives fall into the categories of actors (Jimmy Stewart, Mae West), political figures (Zachary Taylor, Woodrow Wilson, Lady Bird Johnson, BOTH Bushes) and outlaws/robbers (Pretty Boy Floyd, Frank James, Butch Cassidy, at lease one of the Bushes).

But today I found something even more horrifying than discovering I was related to President Bush (my seventh cousin, twice removed).

At the time, I was working on the heritage of my sixth great grandmother, Susanna Clement, when suddenly I saw names that looked familiar: Simon Clement and Susannah Lockett. Why did they look familiar? I backed out for a bigger picture view and proceeded to throw up in my mouth.

They sounded familiar, because they were ALREADY ON MY TREE!!! My sixth great-grandmother married her goddamn COUSIN!!! And a first cousin, at that! I'm a product of incest, and not the ancient-European-royalty-keep-the-bloodlines-pure kind of incest, but the backwoods, Appalachian, cousins-screwin'-in-the-woods kind. Only in my case, they married each other.

I didn't even know what to do with this info. Part of me wanted to run to the bathroom like Fergus in The Crying Game, while the other wanted to run to the mirror to relish the fact I don't have three eyes.

So before you judge or yell at me for what my cousin has done to the economy, please keep in mind that unlike you, I'm just lucky to have opposable thumbs.

The glamorous world of advertising.

When I was in high school, I absolutely loved Melrose Place. Amanda and Courtney worked at D&D Advertising, and it was, like, the coolest thing ever. The pages of a magazine brought to life.

Now that I'm actually in advertising, I'm constantly irritated by the glamour conveyed on television and movies when it comes to representing my profession. I love advertising and can't imagine doing anything else, but it's still nothing close to what's shown on TV. And to illustrate my point I bring you the following...

"My Monday: A Story in 25 Acts"

Wake up at 3:30 after about 3 and a half hours of sleep.

Get to airport by 5am.

Fly to Dallas at 6:30am.

Eat a nasty breakfast at Chili's Too.

Board a plane at 8:30am to fly to Kansas City for a 10:30 meeting.

Take a seat on the last row by the shitter, behind a screaming child.

Get nauseated by the smell of the toilet.

Check out the cute guy across the aisle, and wonder if I could get past the fact he's missing a hand.

Decide I could live with the stub and proceed to flirt.

Bitch about screaming toddler with flight attendant in line to small/smelly lavatory.

Wonder what's going on with the plane.

Get excited the one-hand man is flirting back. (Yes, he was just. that. cute.)

Deplane an hour later due to "computer issues".

Realize we'll be missing the meeting if we try to fly now.

Watch my airplane crush board the next flight without me. *sniff*

Call-in to meeting.

Have an hour-and-a-half long conference call on consumer segmentation at Gate 8, while a creepy man stares at me.

Eat a nasty lunch at same Chili's Too.

Board flight home in a thunderstorm.

Experience heavy turbulence the entire way home.

Convince myself I'm about to die in a plane crash.

Embarrass myself by babbling nonsense to the co-worker seated next to me in a desperate attempt to distract myself from our impending demise.

Land safely and am back in the office at 3pm.

Eat two bags of popcorn for "dinner".

Finish working at 8pm.

-THE END-


Amanda never would have had a day this un-sexy at D&D. That said, she also never would've received an e-mail this awesome from her travel agent.


To: Liz
From: Travel*
Subject: since you had a bad day, hopefully this will make you smile

Here's a picture of a rabbit with a pancake on its head...enjoy.

*Not his real name.

Crack attack.

Speaking of unflattering pictures, here's one I snapped the other night at dinner with my mother.

This ass belongs to a 60-ish woman who came into our restaurant wearing a tunic over black tights. About thirty minutes into the accidental peep show, our waiter (who had been sending his other server friends through our area to enjoy the view) came over to our table.

"How."

"Man, I don't know what you do here," I replied.

"I mean, do I say, 'Excuse me m'am, but I think your dress is maybe riding up a little in the back.'??? How do I address this tactfully?"

"Sorry, you're asking the wrong person. I just took a picture of it."

"Well, it is funny," he sighed.

At this point, my mom chimed in. "I was awlready enjoyin' the sunset. Now I get to enjoy a full moon, too!"

Yes, mother. There's nothing like staring at the smashed ass of a senior while eating ravioli...