Walking on Hallowed Ground

Don and Mike are currently discussing "gay" music. I think they might be at my house, just going through my CD collection. All my favorites have been discussed: New Order, Soft Cell, Midnight Oil, Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, Pet Shop Boys, etc.

And Don and I have yet another thing in common: we both think Depeche Mode kicks ass. Can a proposal be far behind?

Ka-Zam!

David Copperfield can suck it. My magic earring has once again returned mysteriously.

Or I found it on my floor at home.

The tragedy of today

Yes, I know I already posted today. Don't you have anything better to do than to judge me for posting multiple times?

Good segue into how I have nothing better to do than to post multiple times. And the tragedy? I have set the bar pretty high for what promises to be a disappointment to you.

I lost an earring today. Let's put this into some historical context, shall we? I'm pretty bummed because this is a magical earring. Not in a Jem sense, but still.

Ok, I'm too lazy to change my earrings often and I pretty much wear the same pair every day. I love my pearl earrings, and they match everything (in my world), so I leave them in most times. A few years ago during the winter, I was wearing earmuffs. Yes, I was. When I took them off, one of my earrings flew off, but I didn't notice.

A few hours later I figured it out and panicked. They are real pearls, and I do love the earrings. I knew what must have happened, so I went outside to where I took off the earmuffs. It had been a few hours, it had snowed, and it was on a hill where numerous people walked by. I assumed it was gone, gone, gone.

Behold the magic pearl earring! There it was! No one had kicked it further downhill accidentally, no one had stolen it (I know how dumb that sounds, yes), and I could still find it under the snow.

I love these earrings, so I'm less than thrilled that I lost this one today. This shall be the true test of its magical powers, if it reappears yet again. That would be truly outrageous.

Two Jem references in one post. I'm amazing.

R.I.P. Blister

Well, Blister has gone to a better place. And by that, I mean anyplace that is not my home. She never returned after I booted her out, so I'm pretty sure her real owners have now locked her inside. For the best, really, since I should not own pets.

Hopefully it taught my cat a valuable lesson that she can be replaced. By someone younger and cuter. It's a harsh lesson we've all had to learn at least once in our lives.

Speaking of learning lessons, someone sent me a news story about one of the many future Mr. Aces, Stephen Colbert. He was named second sexiest anchor on TV. While his number two rating is clearly a mistake (but, in all fairness, he lost to some French chick), he is the only male on the list. By the way, the Pulitzer-winning, hard-hitting journalism Maxim magazine compiled this list.

Maxim had this to say on Stephen: "Sure, he lacks functional cleavage and, in his hermetically sealed suits flashes less skin than Diane Sawyer, but shame on you, liberal media, to tell us that ... (he) can't be as sexy as a Joy Behar or a Helen Thomas. Hard-left media arbiters of sexy, you're on notice." Um, I'm not a big fan of ranking women for their sexiness, so maybe I'm not the best judge of this, but is Joy Behar sexy? I'm guessing no. Anyways, Maxim does have a point: Stephen should flash a little more cleavage. Just a little something for his stalkers. Uh, fans, I mean.

So congratulations to you, Stephen Colbert. In my book, which is worth considerably more than Maxim's opinion, you are on top.

Pun intended.

If you need some evidence of Stephen's sheer sexiness, please to be going to the following sites on youtube:
Stephen *eating* a banana and cracking up (2 minutes in, well worth it, I promise)
Stephen opening up about his past
The Dancing Muchachos
Stephen graciously congratulating Barry Manilow on his Emmy win
The best music video ever
Stephen giving a civics lesson

Blister Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Actually, this title should read that Blister does indeed (maybe) live here still, but Laura and I decided that “Blister Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” sounded like a good short story title or bad after-school special. So the title stands.

The Blister in question is not the gross image you all have, by the way. And let the story begin.

So yesterday I had to run out to the store because, in Steve Carrell fashion, I was really craving an egg-salad sandwich but I lacked the bread, mayonnaise, and celery to make said sandwich (oddly, I had the eggs). As I was pulling out of my driveway, I saw a black cat run by and in my rear-view mirror I saw my cat panic. My cat sometimes gets her ass kicked by other cats, so I thought I should toss her inside.

Since she was outside when I first left, I had left some food sitting out. Once I put her inside, I thought I should put this food away. I left my front door open and when I glanced up there was that black cat, just sitting on my couch. After chasing the thing for half an hour, I decided my hunger took precedence over the cat so I left it in while I ran to the store.

By the time I got home, she was completely happy in my house. She (as I ascertained) had eaten some of my cat’s food, politely used the litter box, and had curled up on my bed. I thought she was hurt, so I didn’t want to toss her back outside. She also appeared under-fed, so I thought maybe she was a stray. But I didn’t want her. I don’t like owning pets. I still couldn’t catch her (slippery little bastard) and I was tired and my solution to the cat problem was to take a nap.

When I woke up, the cat was curled up on top of me, purring away. So I might have bonded with her. I threw her outside and told her to please go home before I got too attached. But not before I gave her a name (which signified the beginning of the end).

Now, when I was telling my friends this story, they all assumed that I named her Elvis or ‘Cilla. Again, I didn’t want to get attached and naming a cat after a member of the first family of rock and roll would definitely do that, so I didn’t. She was pretty annoying at first, but then I got used to her, hence her name.

Blister. Blister the Cat.

It fits, I swear to God. Don’t judge me. I know that it fits, because she came back a few hours later, scratching at my door, meowing, and looking kind of cute in a Blister-y sort of way. So I let her spend the night inside. She comes to her name, by the way. What did you think I was going to name her, Cuddles or Miss Whiskers? Have you met me? Do you know me but at all?

I put her back outside this morning, so I guess I’ll see when I get home if I still have Blister.

64 box with the sharpener

Here's why I sometimes enjoy my job. I spent twenty minutes this morning prepping a map quiz for my students for Wednesday. Which meant I was coloring in territories and bodies of water, etc.

Which means I got paid to color within the lines.

Funny how I never use the biology or calculus that my high school and undergrad school forced me to learn, and yet I use the skills I picked up in preschool.

Suh-weet.

Lock the cellar door

I love weekends. Especially when the weekend in question is not to be followed up by exams.

Maryanne, Laura, and I went to Spokane yesterday for a day of "pampering." There is no way to say that without sounding: a) pretentious or b) gay. I'm not going to help my case here either, considering we went to a spa and received either facials or a manicure. This was followed up by a delicious lunch (food is not a strong selling point in Pullman which only believes in having two restaurants at any given moment), book shopping, and playing with Laura's little puppy.

I then drove home and watched a movie, cleaned my house, sorted my laundry, and went to bed early. Boring I might be, but I was very contented. God, maybe I am 80.

Some of the relaxation from yesterday sort of trickled away today, as I had to grade midterms, prepare lectures, and write a grant proposal. This was added to by yet another piece of evidence that I must move: my washing machine isn't working. I made it four loads through my wash, so I can't complain too much. But I will. Living in the ghetto sucks.

Another reason it sucks is for the thin walls. So my neighbor is out of town, as evidenced by her car being gone all weekend. Her boyfriend's car was here, but I hadn't heard a noise from their side of the duplex all weekend, so I assumed he was with her. Which led me to sing in the shower. That's right, both "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "My Way" at full volume. And with plenty of enthusiasm.

I was gearing up for my conditioner-setting, time-killing encore (I like to close with a tear-jerker, and I typically favor Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me"), when I heard the toilet flush next door. Our bathrooms share a wall, by the way. I then heard laughter.

Not embarrassed at all. But I'll be avoiding eye-contact until I move.

Make-up can only hide so much

My exams are over and I am mentally drained. I don't find out whether or not I passed for another week. Did that stop me from celebrating (that they are over)?

Hell no.

So a big thanks to (a) people who bought pitchers (b) people whose asses I kicked in pool (by my definition, a win is a win) and (c) the professor who tossed a fifty dollar bill on the table to pay for drinks.

Also thanks to everyone who said this morning that I looked "a bit rough" or "a little worse for the wear." Appreciate it. Even if those comments are true. Damn.

I plan on not doing much this weekend. And loving every minute of it.

Bob Hope reincarnated

Ok, I'm halfway done on my exams. They suck and I choose not to talk about them.

I'm currently sitting in my office, thinking that I should be either studying or prepping for class, but really I'm looking at People magazine online and celebrating that my fantasy football team kicked some more ass this weekend. I'm also celebrating that today is Don Geronimo's birthday. I shall use that as an excuse to eat some cupcakes this afternoon.

Since nothing exciting has been happening in my world, I shall share some "celebrity" news. Queen of All That is Classy, Britney Spears, and her super-talented husband Kevin, popped out baby number two. How long until this white trash family gets knocked up again? I'm guessing she's pregnant by spring. She's such a good mother that I think it's great that she's expanding the family. And her waistline.

That's a sad sign of how my exams have sapped me. Bad, obvious jokes, with an emphasis on bad. Perhaps I should go back to work.

Niagra Ghetto Falls

Ok, so my exams are this week. I've been studying this weekend non-stop. If by non-stop, that includes sporadic Scrubs and Arrested Development marathons. We call those "stress relievers." Speaking of stress relievers (of the second-best quality), I decided last night that to calm down and forget about studying and worrying about exams and thinking death thoughts on all faculty associated with said exams, that I would take a relaxing bath.

And don't judge me. I'm a clean person, and I took a shower first, so I wasn't soaking in a stew of my own filth. Wow. That was graphic.

So after my bath (added to by candles and a good book and Elvis singing in the background. Seriously, don't judge me), I was all calm and feeling good. This feeling lasted approximately five seconds.

4, 3, 2, 1.

I walked downstairs and found that my bath had one other side-effect besides relieving my stress. We all like waterfalls, right? They're beautiful and soothing and awe-inspiring, blah, blah, blah. It's my own picky personal preference, though, that I only like them outside. Not so much in my bedroom. On top of my dresser. Onto my carpet.

That's right. There's some problem with the plumbing in my apartment that resulted in a mini-flood in my bedroom. Shocking, I know, considering that I live in the ghetto.

So, yeah, my stress level went right back up as I calculated where I will be showering until things are fixed, how much this is going to screw up my very regimented morning schedule, and how much damage was actually done to my belongs. Before you all get worried (and by you all, I mean me), my framed Elvis newspaper was out of the line of fire.

A collective sigh of relief from everyone, I'm guessing.

Pullman advertising

Ok, so my latest problem involves porn. And not in the fun way you may be hoping. Sometimes I step out of my office and forget to close the door. My desk is right by the door, and typically my laptop is sitting there. And I'm online. And I get pop-ups that show pretty naked women with tantalizing questions such as "Need to find someone to fuck in Pullman?"

And faculty walking by might see this.

Must . . . remember . . . to . . . close . . . office . . . door . . .

I'm 50!

I'm pretty sure that soon I will qualify as the biggest loser ever. Even more so than now.

Background story that will explain why I am going to choose to be this loser: So yesterday I had to drive up to one campus to get my coffee and paper before heading down to the other campus. I was wearing a skirt with no pockets, so I knew my hands were going to be full (cell phone, car keys, money, etc.).

I had to take my cell in, because I was calling a radio station for their morning "Expresso-Retro" name-that-80s-song contest. Which I won yesterday by the way (thank you Cure). I had to pick up two coffees because I owed someone else, and I was also picking up two papers, because the day before I had grabbed Monday's instead of Tuesday's. Is anyone still following along on this story?

Good.

Anyways, so I'm now holding my phone, my keys, wallet, two papers, and two coffees. And I spilled the goddamn coffee on my skirt. Again. So I've decided I need a better way of carrying things. While my friend Maryanne suggested I get a purse, I've decided that I'm going to get one of those belt-clip cell phone holder things.

You know, like the ones middle-aged men have. Because I am a loser. Feel free to not hang out with me when I sporting my super-cool new accessory. I will understand.

Long Live Mrs. King

Blah, blah, blah, restful and relaxing weekend, blah, blah, blah, Labor Day, blah, blah, blah, out of town. I'll catch up on that later because I have a HUGE piece of news now that takes precedence.

One of my friends, who has opted to remain anonymous, is getting married to an Elvis Tribute Artist!

Isn't that the greatest thing ever? I'm already planning out the TCB wedding, and hoping I can be a female member of the Memphis Mafia. I'm assuming the wedding will take place at Graceland, with me crooning "Love Me Tender" as she walks down the aisle. And since I will be a member of this bridal party, I hope the groom knows the usual tradition regarding the bridesmaids and the husband-to-be (you know, how we all get to tap that before the wedding. Or is this just an Idaho custom?).

Now before this anonymous friend decides to comment, maybe I should mention that I am prone to hyperbole. Shocking, I know. Maybe their engagement hasn't OFFICIALLY been announced. And maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself on their relationship. And maybe they just went out once, yesterday, and she put in a phone call to a shrieking-with-excitement Ace who might have filled in the rest of the details.

And maybe I should seek help.

Sigh. I guess I should cancel the order for four white sequined jumpsuits for all of the groomsmen.