5 More

Ah, the gym. I go because I want to lose a little weight, stay fit and live forever. It's rewarding. It is also simultaneously boring, inspiring and annoying. Where else can you get all those things? Sometimes the movies but at least you get popcorn. I'm bored at the gym because I tend to do the same thing for fear of losing ground somehow by leaving something out or trying something different. I also try to look like everybody else around me - casual, collected, I know how this machine works. When all I really want to do is grab a 15 and a 10 and start swinging my arms really fast at the same time while trying to run straight ahead on a treadmill. "Yeah, it's a new balance drill." Pretty soon I'd see the guy who looks like a Russian trapeze artist (4' 11", fire hydrant frame, negative body fat, zero personality) grab a 30 and a 25 and give it a whirl. He'd end up in the parking lot, a little to the left. I see the same faces every day, and that sounds boring, but it's inspiring because I feel a camaraderie with these strangers you can't get on, say, the subway. Maybe at Subway (eat fresh!). We're all pushing ourselves to be better or at least stay the same in a good way. When I see thin black man with headband and iPod strain through his umpteenth set of crazy upside down leg presses, I think, man that guy could kick over a bus. And I wonder a little if he's training for that. I see older guy with silver hair and silver glasses and same blue t-shirt doing lat pull downs in his borderline short shorts and pray he doesn't do inner thighs next. I see impossibly cut mid-30's lady teeth-clenching her way through chin-ups in tandem with her 20-something guy friend and I imagine the date is going well. I hope they grab a Mich Ultra after. I see the same trainers there every night with their plebes, escorting them from machine to machine, doling out seemingly impossible assignments like "5 more" and "5 more" oh, and "5 more." And I sympathize with the newbies cuz I was there once. I thought 5 more would kill me, but now I find myself saying it. Which brings me to the annoying part. Sometimes I get on my own nerves at the gym with all the self talk and push push push. Who do I think I am? Do I know who I'm talkin' to? Getting annoyed with myself makes me more susceptible to others' annoyances. Like super tall thin lady who lays claim to a machine she may or may not want to use by laying down in front of it and doing some other exercises for a while. She claims entire rows of lockers in similar fashion while changing, even though she doesn't trust the lockerroom to secure her bag. She carries it with her, presumably to mark in advance certain machines she would like to prevent others from using. Her workout is enriched, I believe, by sabotaging the success of others. If you can't get any thinner, fatten up those around you. I found lanky, uncoordinated, dark-haired bearded douchebag equally annoying (didn't think it was possible) yesterday when he practically peed on the sit-up bench to own it for the next 17 minutes. How do you tolerate the sit-up bench for any longer than 2 minutes? I've never seen anyone prep for sit-ups like this guy. He all but prayed to Allah and smoked a joint before finally wrapping his furry calves around the supports and executing the worst six sit-ups I've ever seen in my life. So yeah, I get a little annoyed when I'm on a mission that is derailed by superiority or ignorance, but fortunately my gym is low on both. For the most part, it's me and my strange friends exchanging social graces ("You using this?" "I got another set." "That's my towel.") as we dance through another night of keeping our bodies in check. I think I'll stick it out.

FREE*

My goal was to write something every day. I think I screwed that up when I gave myself topics in advance. Now I'm sweating the topics. Like I see the topic and think, why the hell did I make that a topic? What was I thinking? Then I realize I wasn't thinking anything. I was just trying to finish the blog entry for the day. So I'm pulling topics out of my ass at the time trying to come up with 100. Come on. "Free offers?" That's today's (well, yesterday's now, I think) topic and I have no idea why I put that on my list. I enjoy a good free offer, who doesn't? Now what? Okay, maybe I was thinking about the time I got one of those e-mails about a free flight on Southwest and I got suckered into answering all kinds of personal questions about which magazines I prefer and whether or not I've had hemorrhoids recently and wouldn't I be better off with a lower interest rate on my 3rd mortgage? I was just trying to get a free flight and three days later I received a skin care kit for aging people such as myself that apparently I ordered. Nay, subscribed to. Which means there would be more kits coming. Monthly, until I am young again, dammit! I also got vitamins. I look amazing. Not sure what I clicked on, maybe some flash animation of the fountain of youth (if it had a kitten splashing in it, I wouldn't resist), but it was all part of the twisted maze that led to nothing like a free plane ticket. I never made it to the end. I bailed during the 15 dvd's for a penny screen because I fell for that one in college, only it was cd's and after I got the intial order I believe I paid $5.99 a month until just last summer when I realized, hey, I haven't bought or played a CD in at least eight years. I could not escape Columbia House's clutches. A few months ago I got one of those 0% credit card offers (which sounds like free...) and I took them up on it. When the card I arrived, I cut it up and threw it out. I took the garbage out and personally handed it to the sanitary technician. I watched him crush the bag with the entire back-end of his giant smelly garbage truck. Goodbye, sucker. I will not be adding to my promotional balance. Then I went inside to sign up on-line to manage my payments. Apparently, you need the 16-digit card number to do it. When I called for help, you need the 16-digit card number to get past the opening menu. It's been four months and I finally got a human on the phone yesterday. To make matters worse, I moved after signing up for the card. In order to change my address, they have to send the form to the original account address. I was on hold for the security and fraud department when I got disconnected. 0% is not free, and it's no longer 0%. I see the word free everywhere now. Buy one get one "free!" (um, isn't that the same as 50% off?). "Free*" tacos! (*Tacos may not contain taco meat.) "Free*" skydiving lessons! (*with purchase of a plane.) The word free comes with a price, people. In the words of the facilitator at my one-day "free" seminar on PR compliments of the Chamber 15 years ago (non-members, $12), "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch." That's how she introduced the session, by writing "TANSTAAFL" on the board. I play Scrabble. I play Word Twist for hours at night while everyone sleeps. I can even do Sudoko, medium to hard. I had no idea WTF "TANSTAAFL" stood for, but once she spelled it out, it planted itself in my brain. After years of exposure to billboards, t.v. ads, newspaper ads, coupons, banners, flash, e-mails and all things irresistably clickable, I have come to realize "free" is a worm I need to leave on the hook. Otherwise I will continue to receive products that enlarge things I don't have, enhance features I can live without or relieve symptoms my cat has apparently battled for years. With 20-30 e-mails a day promising me unlimited cash and life after death, I'm getting pretty solid with the Delete key. Once in a while, something like "FREE Cigarettes If You Quit Smoking Now" will raise an eyebrow, but I won't be fooled again. I'm free of "Free." Especially "Free*." The asterisk was big in the 90's. Now they don't even bother with it anymore. I guess even they know it's too good to be true.

Armed and Practical

I love crafts. It's taken me three days to sort it out, but it's true, I do. I'm great at starting projects, lousy at finishing them, but I have tremendous enthusiasm for the opening credits. I love going to Michael's and dreaming up the possibilities. All those pictures I have laying around in various drawers, shoe boxes, old wallets, dusty albums, between the pages of books I have yet to finish, in the box that was once the console of my now-totaled car....I could scrapbook that shit! I could get some of those cool paper backgrounds and those fancy cutters that make different shapes and funny stickers of talk bubbles and flowers and hearts and kittens and all that jazz (oooo, musical notes for my band camp page!!!) and I could organize it and decorate it and shape it all into a big book about me. And bring it out at parties. Hell, carry it with me. After all that work, every bastard I know is gonna have a look. Why haven't I done it yet? I've come to the conclusion that while I do love crafts, if I can't use a glue gun, I'm not interested. I feel the same way about painting and installing new trim. I only do this because I am obsessed with caulk. If there's an opportunity to caulk, I will do all the other crap that leads up to it so that in the end, I am waving a gun around and filling ugly cracks with clean white lines. Secretly, I believe it is to keep whatever's in the walls or behind the trim in there (bugs, giant flying spiders, etc.), but it's also cosmetic. Like eyeliner. Everything looks better with a good bead of caulk. If I could apply my eyeliner with a caulk gun, I would. I would snip 1/16" off the tip of a fresh tube of Lancome's finest and zip zip, lookin' good! I love to glue gun like I love to caulk. Be glad I don't own a real weapon (other than Wii-issued pistol, shotgun and AK-47 to shoot chickens), because I would probably create a project in order to use it. When I'm faced with a chance to be crafty, my first thought is does it involve a glue gun. I don't care if it's low temp or hi temp, mini sticks, big sticks, short cord, extension cord, with or without the little metal support bracket that sometimes breaks off the nose...if I can plug in a hot glue gun and within the first 30 seconds of using it burn my finger tips and get hot glue stuck on my upper lip, I am in. I feel so alive! Last night after I finished caulking the new trim in the bathroom, I got on the ladder to install the new register for the ceiling vent and it had no holes and no screws. I immediately wondered if I could hot glue that bitch? And that's when it hit me. I don't know where my glue gun is. I'm not sure it's in this state. I have a sinking feeling it's back in Michigan. Which is...great news!! I get to buy a new one. Ah, Michael's, here I come. I'm thinking hi temp, giant sticks, any color but teal, maybe a holster... glue lots and carry big sticks, my friends. Together, we can keep things from falling to pieces.

That Was Easy

I have an easy button. A few years back, that might have meant something different, but you know what I'm talking about, right? The red plastic button from Staples with the word "easy" on it. Push it and some fella who's probably rich off one-cent royalties and now officially a mute says, "That was easy." Three little words that sum up so much. The first time I heard it I wanted to hear it again. Right away. Several presses later my fingertips hurt, my wrist ached a little and I was tired from all that pushing. Wasn't so easy anymore, just ironic. My button was a gift. Given to me by someone who thought I made life easier for those around me. Probably not suggestive of me carrying it around to remind them, but I did it anyway for a while. I finished that report. "That was easy." I installed the new software. "That was easy." I showered. "That was easy." It sort of made me cocky after a while. Who knew all these things were so easy? It occurs to me now that other buttons could enhance my personal soundtrack. "That was stupid." "That was awesome!" and "That was close." come to mind. I would, at times, also enjoy a "Shut the F@#% Up" button, but maybe it should be encased in glass. I think what I like best about the easy button is its sheer size. I mean, it's a big button begging to be pushed. Others could learn something from its design. When you're wondering how the fuel tank door on your new car opens, no worries. It's that big fat red button in the middle of the dash that says "Gas." Cell phones could just be one big button. "Call." And then you just get whoever you get. We're always looking to make new friends. Microwaves, just toss in your hot pocket and hit "Nuke." And when you burn the roof of your mouth, just push "Help." Everybody should have a Help button (could also be labeled F1). That way if you don't know or were surprised by what a big button does, just hit Help. I mean, the big buttons would all be pretty clear, but there's always someone who proves Darwin right. I think a big button world would also allow you to make better use of your pets. No more "I don't have fingers or thumbs" excuses. Just shut the f@#% up and do my laundry, Fido. Put your big floppy paw on "Wash" and then "Dry." See, that was easy. My cat just pushed my "That was stupid" button...

Taxes (and Death)

It's that time of year when you gather your W-2's, your 1099's, your WD-40's in triplicate for you, yourself and the government and start doing the math. Many of you probably Turbo Tax it. I prefer to Lea it. Conveniently, Lea lives in Vegas and this requires an annual personal visit. I s'pose I could just shoebox everything up and send it to her, but then she'd have to forge my signature and that's against the law. Few things scare me more than breaking the law. Flying. Spiders, maybe. Giant flying spiders definitely. If by killing a giant flying spider I broke the law, um, I'd do the time. I would be so thrilled that I had the nerve to kill a giant flying spider that I would sit in my tiny cold cell and eat pea soup and notch the days gone by in my giant flying spider skin belt. I am deeply frightened of the word audit. Not because I'm doing anything underhanded or trying to get away with something when I submit my tax return. Now that I have Lea, I worry less about that, but pre-Lea, just the thought of someone trying to make sense of what I make and how I make it made me shudder. If an auditor ever darkened my door, I would put my hands out for the cuffs. "You got me. I don't know what I did or how I did it, but you got me. Just don't look at those receipts. Or my handwriting." To me, auditing means going through everything with a fine tooth comb and TRYING to find mistakes. Maybe it isn't really like that. Maybe auditors are only looking for the good in people and we shouldn't judge. Maybe they have nice hair and a puppy and they like movies. But the questions they ask...oh the questions. "Why exactly did you expense Taco Bell on Tuesday the 24th of June?" "Who is 'Pooh Bear' and what does his facial correction surgery have to do with your marketing plan?" "So when you bought the camera, your intention was to use it for business purposes? Half of these videos are of you dancing in front of your Wii..." When you wear as many hats as I do throughout the year and sometimes people pay you for it (I have other clothes on, too!!!), it's a challenge to lay it all out in black and white. Having a day job, being an entertainer, a free lancer and a candlestick maker takes its toll on recordkeeping. I save receipts, but I save them in different places and then I move them from place to place over the 12 month span that is my tax year until finally, in the new year, they end up all in one place ready to be Lea's problem. I make spreadsheets, I explain everything, I log miles, I note expenses, I show my pennies earned. I know I've got it all there, but still, I fear the Reaper. I have total confidence in Lea, but in the end, I know it's me who is accountable. It's my own signature I'm forging. That's why sometimes when I'm flying somewhere, and I envision the plane being attacked by giant flying spiders and then happily, engulfed in flames, I think I can handle that. Just please don't audit me. I am a good citizen. I promise.

What's Under That Fur Coat?

My cat is fattening up. She's gone from 7.5 pounds to about 10 in 6 months. That's like me putting on 25 pounds. But we're not talking about me. She's still average, but I see other cats in the neighborhood and wonder if there's something in the water. Now that she's a teenager, I worry she might have a boyfriend. We were gone for two weeks over Christmas...I saw no evidence of partying, but she's always been pretty tidy. And secretive. I should have never gotten her that cell phone. How she is able to text without thumbs...Let's just say her weight gain is legit, though, and she's on her way to becoming a fatty. Is she an apple or a pear? I'm thinking pumpkin. Most fat cats are really big around the middle and have the same sized head of a normal cat. That's the route she's going to take, I can see it in her gut. I just don't understand the weight gain. She eats the same thing every day: crunchies. That's the scientific name for Iams orange bag hard food that comes in little triangle-shaped what I thought were "bite sizes." I watched her this morning. She eats three in one bite. But she only takes two bites and then walks away like it's the worst thing she's ever tasted in her life. Last night she chased a dropped grape around the living room. She seems sensible about her diet and gets plenty of exercise. Her litter box is in the basement. Sometimes she sprints three flights just to take a whiz. Granted, she sleeps two hours in a sunbeam by the sliding glass door, four hours in a box of coats in the bedroom, three more hours while watching TV (she is a Biggest Loser FANATIC!!!) and another 10 hours through the night practically on my face. So maybe she could be a little more active, but I think her bursts of panicked galloping from one end of the house to the other burn at least 7 calories each time. That's probably two bites of crunchies. I checked the food bag, not a lot of info there other than she shouldn't be eating more than a cup a day for her weight class. The chart goes up to 20 lbs. What is that, cougar? I have nothing against fat cats, I just wonder how they got to that point. I imagine them eating whole birds and standing up just to pee. I think a pair of tight jeans might help. If cats wore clothes, it would be a whole different ball game. When you can see folds flopping over fabric, it's a bit of an inspiration. But Maverick's not quite there yet; she falls asleep reading Shape magazine just like her Momma(s).

One Good Shoe Deserves Another

Whenever I see an abandoned shoe in the middle of an intersection the first thought that comes to mind, naturally, is "Where's the other one?" Sometimes you see a pair of them dangling from an electrical wire, but when it comes to the streets, seems like it's always a lone shoe, generally a canvas Converse hightop either navy or dirty white and it's been sort of flattened by traffic. Somewhere along that route is a young man limping along who either doesn't know he stepped out of half his footwear or doesn't care. It takes a special kind of individual to leave a single shoe behind. Especially in the middle of a busy intersection. I'm thinking maybe he sprinted through and feared getting caught by the pigs for jaywalking. I call the pigs pigs out of affection, by the way. Sometimes I refer to them as the fuzz or the heat. But I like pigs best. Pigs are cute! And ever so smart. I lost a shoe once, early in life, under much more dire circumstances. School field trip, me in my Buster Browns, somewhere on a muddy path in the woods. One misstep and I was ankle-deep in muck. I had to give it up or die of starvation. But generally there's no muck in an intersection. Maybe the shoe fell off a truck. Kind of like how a friend of mine gets her Percocet. When I moved to college, I was buzzing up 127 on my way to MSU with big plans for getting smarter and learning how to party. My pick-up was chock-full of boxes and crap you need in college. I actually watched in the rearview mirror one of the boxes flip open and the toe of my only pair of nude control top hosiery sneak out and start flappin' in the breeze. 70 mph it was only a matter of seconds before both legs made an appearance and then as I sucked in a helpless breath, the whole pair shot out and spread-eagled the guy behind me's windshield. To his credit, he held the road and calmly turned on his wipers. Who trains for that? I'm glad it wasn't a shoe, because if a bird can take down a plane, I'm pretty sure a low heel through the windshield can stop a car. Of course, you're wondering why I would need hosiery in college. What can I say, it was the 80's and not all of us were perpetually tan or stylish. Plus the whole bank-robbing thing was really hot. In the end, someone must be claiming the shoes left behind, because they aren't in the street forever. You might see one on your way to work for a couple of days in a row, then all of a sudden, no more shoe. I wish socks worked that way. I have single socks who lost their mates in the dryer years ago that I can't shake. They just keep re-surfacing, trying to hook up with socks that ain't their same kind. Maybe I should put them in a box, strap it to the top of my car and hit the highway. The world is my closet!

Play It Again, VHS

I have acquired an old VCR. I came by it honestly. Jenn gave it to me because she no longer had use for it. I accepted it for reasons I don't remember. It was about 4 months ago. It's still sitting in my office with its remote, the back facing me and the cord dangling casually down the side of the filing cabinet. When she asked me if I wanted it, I was enthusiastic and hopeful about all the things I could do with it. I have all these old tapes. In a box somewhere. Tons of old tapes I haven't watched in years because I no longer had a VCR. Tapes like "Bild Eines Deutschen Madchen" which I'm not sure I'm spelling right and that's sad because I wrote and produced it. Entirely in German! It's an interview with my mom I did back in college for a class. 45 minutes of me asking tough questions auf Deustch like "How did you feel when you became a U.S. Citizen?" Oh, how I stuttered through Staatsangenhuerigkeit...I think it means citizenship. The introduction was spot-on, though, and I did not even flinch when a three-legged dog limped by while I was shooting it. Then there's my trip with Zena to visit Rebecca in West Virginia. Zena spilled Easter M&M's all over my truck and we arrived in a snowstorm in April. We were wearing shorts thinking this was a trip to the South. Captured all that on VHS. Some of my favorite videos I did back in the day for Jacobson's department store are somewhere in a box. "Folding Girbaud" (how to properly fold jeans) and "P.O.S. Systems" (starring who else, my mom) and of course the whole "Success through Negotiation" series. I got my brother Stan involved in that one. He was a first-take wizard. I thought I would never be able to watch them again, but now I have hours of entertainment ahead of me because I have a VCR. Still sitting in my office. Gathering dust. Maybe I'm just not ready to travel back in time. Plus I'd have to hook up the VCR to a TV. Our TV already has a cable, dvd, tivo and wii box plugged into it. It looks like someone on life support. Being a newer model, it would likely reject the VCR anyway. Now I have to get an old TV to go with it. Clean out the loft. Spackle, caulk, paint. Go to Ikea and get shelving, a desk and a daybed. Hang some art, set up the TV/VCR, buy a library of VHS classics to put on the shelves (along with all those classics of my own) and be that crazy aunt from whom her nieces and nephews learn about the old days. "When we go to Aunt Susie's, we watch big plastic movies in her attic." I might as well learn how to bake ginger snaps. Meggie?!

Deal Me In

In keeping with the order of things, I'm due to talk about Vegas. But I want to kick this off by giving a shout out to Jessika Baier who auditioned for American Idol in Puerto Rico and may appear in the episode next week that features Rico auditions. Back when I was famous for my hometown talk show (filmed in a barn in Grass Lake), Jessika appeared as my guest several times. Randy and I sort of tracked her singing and pageant career. We followed her parade appearances. We were borderline stalkers. Now that she may be even more of a star, I'm glad to say I knew her when. She's so damn cute you will just want her to kick ass on AI. Here's hoping she does.

Meanwhile...today's hot topic: Las Vegas! I LOVE Las Vegas. People say it's a horrible place with all the sins running rampant and people losing their last quarter every second of every day, but I'm here to tell you it is an awesome place to spend 72 hours straight wide awake and $900 you do not have. I could walk up and down that strip all day taking my chances on random games of chance, perchance to dream a little dream for me. My favorite casino was imploded a while back (the one with the clownface...Boardwalk!), but that was inevitable. My other favorite (O'Shea's, hole in the wall, twice the apostrophe!) is still around. It remains the one place I have: A.) Gambled in a bathing suit (under my clothes...a challenge to pee) and B.) Had a conversation with a highly intoxicated Latino man in an all white suit. I try to get to Vegas once a year because my accountant moved there and no one does my taxes like Lea. I have followed her to the best place on earth to blow your refund. Even if you don't get a refund! Some may worry I have a little gambling issue, but please don't. I'm a responsible adult and I have the 800# memorized. At least the 800 part. If I ever have to call them it will be for insight on the best machine to play. I much prefer cards or roulette, but I have to say, some of those themed slot machines with the bonuses and the flashing and all the hoopla are quite compelling. I remember when I flew, er, played my first Top Gun machine. Wowza! All I wanted to do was get all Gooses on the payline or launch into the Top Gun bonus. The music was super loud and the seat vibrated every time there was a flyby. Then it got old and I was into machines with fish. Reel It In (sounds promising), Goldfish Bonus (fish kisses!) and Lobstermania (actually won something at the airport). When things go awry, I even have a foolproof fallback position: Hexbreaker. The worst you can do on that machine is lose $20 because it is more than likely your last $20. Surprisingly, this combination of desperation and lack of future funding lends itself to winning. I once won $10 on my last $20 using Hexbreaker and then promptly stuffed all $30 into a machine that featured a dancing cactus. The drinks were free!!! I think in my next life I would like to be a casino dealer for Let It Ride, Three Card Poker or Roulette. I've been squeezing a stress ball for years in anticipation that it could happen in this life. I can snap a marble around the toilet bowl like you wouldn't believe. I would not be like some dealers out there who are dull or grumpy or act in many ways like the House is theirs, including the budget. I would wear my shiny vest with pride and encourage people to "bet the farm," "go all in," "hit the ATM." Of course there are consequences. That's what you deal with the other 362 days a year. I'm hitting Vegas in March, staying at the Wynn (ooooooo, shi-shi but for free-free!) and my mission is the same as always which to some is the definition of insanity. But I know of no other way to try to get my millions. Even if everyone who reads this gave me $1, I'd only have $7 ($8 if my cat would get a freakin' job. You heard me.).

Safety Frost

"We don't believe in your so-called 'Snow Day'. Those kids better not be tardy."
-Principal at Michigan Center High School, 1983

Cold is Already Cold

Weathermen across the nation are blustering about "Arctic Air" coming our way. And when I say "our way" I mean New England, but of course, the Midwest gets everything first. So to my Michigan com padres I say, how cold is colder than cold? Someone in the office told me it was gonna be 3 on Friday. I can't help but wonder how 3 happens. How do 3 degrees even register? I don't notice much of a difference between 32 and 0 cuz at any point in there you are in the freezer. You're ice cream. Broccoli. The unlucky chicken. So when it's 3 and it goes up to 4, do you peel off your hat, wipe your brow and say, damn, 3 was cold. I much prefer 4. I think that's why they like to bring in terms like "Arctic." It helps the measurement-challenged understand how cold it really is. It's the kind of cold that rich retired people hop on helicopters and ice-smashing barges to visit, wearing $20,000 parkas with pockets big enough for champagne bottles and caviar which they will enjoy at a bar made out of snow blocks built by the staff. The kind of cold reserved for polar bears and penguins and the very few other creatures indigenous to icebergs. It's dogsled cold. I don't really know how far south we are of the North Pole but I figured that's why we have Canada. To absorb all that Arctic Air before it gets here. So when I'm layering up on Friday with all the clothes in my closet, my leg warmers and gloves from Norway, my hot pink down coat, several knit caps, my cat as a scarf and my flask of JD, I will be cursing Canada for slacking off. I hate being cold. I doubt romanticizing it with a term like Arctic will distract me. When I was in Norway it got down to -8. At first I freaked cuz that's insane but then I remembered the European's fascination with Celsius. Trying to figure out how cold -8 C was in Fahrenheit actually warmed me up a little. I know 32F and 0C are the same thing. That's as far as I got. Then I used my guestimation skills and an exposed finger to determine -8C is about 12F. I was going to use my big toe but it was jammed into a fur-lined borrowed boot, and I would have to actually touch something with it to gauge the temperature. Not fair to my traveling companions. I will now look up the formula because I'm here to educate and like most people who play Jeopardy, I just want to know if I'm right. Okay apparently you multiply the Celsius by 9/5 and add 32. I think I was a little off. In my world, it's always 5 degrees colder. Where's my flask?

I Did My Homework!

I might get an "I" for Incomplete, but it's a start. Yesterday I said I would come up with topics for the rest of 2009 that I intend to tackle in my blog. Today I have 100 topics. I realize that gets me to spring. By then someone may quietly suggest I give it up. Until then, however, I give you stuff that fell out of my head when I begged it to come up with something:

1. Arctic blasts
2. Las Vegas
3. VCR’s
4. Abandoned shoe in the middle of the intersection
5. Fat cats
6. Taxes
7. Easy button
8. Glue guns
9. Free offers
10. The Gym
11. Life as a comedian
12. My obsession with frogs
13. I can’t dance
14. Please eliminate peas
15. Tote vs. Backpack
16. Polar bears
17. High heels
18. Wood floors or carpet?
19. Why I Hate Beans
20. Unframed photos
21. Flying
22. When’s the last time you smoked?
23. Hedge clipping
24. Insanity breeds confidence
25. Why Jack is better than ‘Dad
26. A conversation with a stranger
27. Take the stairs
28. I miss my car
29. Biggest Loser
30. Recycling
31. Why I don’t wear lipstick
32. Everything in its place
33. Things passed down to me
34. What I miss about school
35. Cremation vs. Burial
36. My IQ
37. Horror movies
38. Some assembly required
39. Is it time to write a novel?
40. Why I want one of those MacAir notebooks
41. Ideal co-stars
42. I Am Smiling
43. A week’s worth of garbage
44. Total number of ball caps I own
45. New idea for a museum
46. Is cabbage required?
47. Call me crazy, but call me!
48. Greek Week
49. I miss improv
50. That purple coat my mom bought me
51. If I were president
52. IOU and U and U
53. Next concert I want to see
54. Botany is not rocket science
55. Do you hear what I hear?
56. Capitalization in written communication
57. Lunch
58. Paint swatches
59. Three wishes
60. Precious Moments
61. I wish I were taller
62. Shoes that no longer fit
63. Tunes that should be banned
64. Body Doubled: I Could Clone Myself!
65. It’s a little early for white shoes, isn’t it?
66. Talent
67. Book reports
68. My Dad’s season of long hair
69. Strapless gowns
70. Webkinz
71. What Maverick’s doing right now
72. Parallel parking
73. If I could knit
74. Invisible tape
75. Retired bridesmaid
76. Google me
77. Recipes I think I can do
78. Almighty Isis
79. Oh, the Seasons
80. My forays into the UP
81. Word games
82. My first real punch
83. Being German
84. When to send flowers
85. Don’t answer that
86. Me and Dogs in General
87. Dicks (Calling All Private Investigators)
88. Spelling
89. Who was JJ Jinkleheimer Schmidt?
90. Taco Bell
91. Give me one good reason
92. Vacuuming the stairs
93. Butterflies
94. The Hammock Chair
95. Born a Fool
96. Is it corn season yet?
97. Potholes
98. PSP
99. Pink
100. How I make the perfect cheese tray

Blogging to Blog

I have no definitive subject today. I am merely blogging to blog. The fact that I'm blogging fulfills a promise I made to myself to write more. Now I suppose I need a promise within a promise to come up with a legitimate topic each day until I die. Yikes. I'm going to die?! Well perhaps my first order of business is some sort of will and testament. Since I have nothing, I will work on the testament. Hold on. I gotta look up testament. Testament: a will, esp. one that relates to the disposition of one's personal property. Well, duh. Why don't we just say will by itself? Why do we have to add "and testament?" It's the same damn thing. I like how the dictionary abbreviates especially. It's an esp. long word. Wait a second....testament relates to the disposition of my property. That's different from distribution. We're talking about my property's personality. Well, since it isn't worth much, my property's general disposition is grumpy and bitter. Try divvying that up. Who wants in? Let me know where you want me to begin bequeathing. Bottom line: tomorrow's blog will be a list of topics I plan to cover in 2009. Perhaps the first should be what to do with my remains...

Romance and Elephants

I just ordered pizza so I have 30 minutes to write this. That's a lot of time actually, for someone as empty-headed as me. I will spend most of that time hypothesizing about what to write. I got hooked on TLC's Moving Up this morning. I could write about that. Couples move out of one house and into another and then they go back after a few months to see how their house has been changed by the new owners. Grown men burst into tears over brick fireplaces and handcrafted kitchen cabinets gone the way of the dumpster. It's really quite touching. And in case you're wondering how to bring a little romance to the boo-dwa (I sound out words I can't spell. I should just be normal and say bedroom.), simply install a dimmer switch. That's what one thoughtful lesbian did, and the chemistry between those two was palpable. Well, they both had the same haircut anyway. I also witnessed something on CBS Sunday Morning I thought I'd never live to see. Elephant polo. Apparently it's all the rage in Nepal, so much so that we sent our New York team over to beat the kilts off the Scots in what proved to be the slowest potentially fast-paced game I have ever seen. I mean, you think the elephants are gonna stampede as soon as the whistle blows, but then you realize, oh yeah, they weigh 54 tons. It takes FOREVER to get from one end of the field to the other, what with them grabbing each other's tails and all. I wanted more scoring. It was like watching day one folks from The Biggest Loser play soccer. Believe it or not, the King of Argyle (or some neighboring region, country or planet I can't spell) actually practices for each match by climbing atop a small elephant on his mantel and swinging the 12 foot stick at a ball placed on the floor by his butler. A full swing. In the house. My mother would kill me. He hit it pretty good. I shouldn't sell it short. It takes a fair amount of skill to sit atop an animal of that mass and unpredictability, then maneuver a very long stick at a very small ball in the middle of nowhere. And the Scots did it in skirts. I'm thinking this spring I will start a Smart Car polo league. Should move a little faster and we can do it in virtually any parking lot or roller rink. I'm going to start whittling my stick now. I think they're done with the Christmas tree downtown. It did not take me 30 minutes to write this, but I have to get my plate and mix a cocktail...

Eye of Flute

So I'm watching the game last night like most people trying to understand what the BCS Championship is and wondering which bowl game it either was supposed to be or which one it replaced. Words like Orange and Cotton and even Alamo were tossed around in desperation amongst friends, but we didn't know what the heck we were talking about. I thought it was the Basil Bowl at one point because the transition graphics were so fast all I saw were a couple of B's and I put that together myself. That aside, I had to pick a team to favor between two teams I knew nothing about. I went with Oklahoma for two obvious reasons: their fabulous ruby red helmets and the flagrant overuse of the piccolo in the Gator marching band. There were at least a dozen piccoloists, piccologians, piccopickers...people playing the piccolo and everyone knows that is way too many. First of all, the piccolo is a pointless instrument easily drown out by any other instrument known to man unless played completely independent of any other instrument known to man. Even a triangle trumps piccolo. No matter how many piccolos you put out there, they are puffin' in a vacuum. The only audience that could appreciate the piccolo is perhaps one of the canine variety dressed in tuxedos swirling champagne in their Eddie Bauer water bowls. Certainly not anyone at a bowl game and certainly not at a bowl game with an equal number of tubas. I don't know who's idea it was to put those girls through that, and admittedly I only caught a couple of screen shots of them trying their hardest, but I did not hear a single note for all their blowing. Then again, it could have gotten better, I fell asleep early in the third quarter and for all I know the game is still going on. Truth is, I once played the piccolo. And when I say once, I mean...once. I played the flute for years and being first chair (geek!!!!) in high school meant first right of refusal to anything piccolo. When first handed the piccolo I thought it was so cute! I wanted to wrap it in swaddling clothes and coddle it through lunch. It was slim and trim and half the size of that ginormous flute I'd been toting around. But then I tried to play it. I would rather suffer through an ice cream headache. The good news is second chair coveted it. Her huge eyes and super long eyelashes openly yearned to play that damn thing, so I said, "Here. You try it." She was amazing!!! Not my favorite sound, but honestly, she made it sing and since she was right next to me, I could ALMOST hear it when the whole band tuned in. So I know a thing or two about what a piccolo sounds like and what it takes to make one make any sound at all. One is enough, Florida. It's the same as 12. Does anyone know who won the game???

Just Getting Started

New Year's resolutions get me every year. I'm not the only one, as evidenced by the number of people at the gym on Monday. Barely got a machine. But as I was climbing (ramp 11 resistance 7), it occurred to me that I should actually do something this year that I've talked about for years. I'm not a big talker and I'm really crappy at small talk, but I realized when I hit 40 (yeah, I said it) that maybe I'm just all talk. It's time for action. 2009 is my year to take action. Believe it or not, I set up this blog three months ago. I can't believe I'm actually writing something. So maybe I will attempt to write a little bit each day and see where it goes. This could replace all that talking to myself I do. I talk to myself a lot and have genuine fears of turning into the muffin lady. You don't know the muffin lady. No relation to the muffin man. The muffin lady walked the streets of my home town talking gibberish to herself mostly, but occasionally one phrase would come through loud and clear, and that was something about not baking the muffins or don't you tell me to bake the muffins. So my mom called her the muffin lady. I think about her every time I launch into a conversation with myself while walking or driving or shopping or standing in the elevator or blowing drying my hair. I don't think I'm crazy like maybe she was, but I think other people think I am. You know, the people who happen to pass me just when I decide to say something out loud instead of under my breath or inside my head while quietly moving my lips. And when they look at me with that raised eyebrow I think, ya know, I really need to start that blog. So, here I am.