Freedom, I won't let you down, but I will not give you up

I can't even begin to tell you all how happy and relived I am right now. I'm sure you all, like me, have been nervously following the long ordeal of America's sweetheart. Twenty-three days, my friends. Twenty-three long days. But it's over now. Thank baby Jesus.

That's right. Paris is free.

After serving some hard time, Paris Hilton is out of jail. I thought it was my duty (heh-heh, duty) to let everyone know, because the media has failed us yet again. Instead of informing us of this momentous occasion, the media has been keeping a tight lid on it, the Watergate of the 21st century. So I figured no one knew. She should do a big/unnecessary interview with a famous journalist. Like the creepy egomaniac with big glasses and suspenders. That would be awe. Some.

Seriously, could there be anything else on TV today except coverage of our favorite anorexic leaving jail? Isn't there some kind of conflict in the Middle East or some confusion on the vice president's role in the three branches of the federal government? Something, anything, more newsworthy than the blonde twig from The Simple Life? And she's not even the semi-cool one (semi-cool only because her "dad" rocked in the 80s).

In other news, my interview went well. At least from my perspective. But I must say that I enjoyed six hours of people asking me all about me. I'm my favorite topic, after Elvis. And I enjoyed a very nice lunch and delicious dinner, as well. Tomorrow, bright and freaking early, I take off for Ole Miss. Jackson, Mississippi, here I come.

And how about no more fuck-tarded comments on my site regarding what exactly constitutes the South? That would be fantastic. The South is more than just the states who got all uppity back in the 1860s. That's a really simplistic definition of the South. I define the South as any state that is full of people with funny accents who love Nascar. So Kentucky, just FYI, is part of the South, even though it stuck with the good guys during the Civil War. History lesson complete, bitches.

The Great Outdoors

People don't always think I'm super outdoorsy. But I am. I'm all about Mother Nature. In theory.

I took a little mini-vacation this last weekend to scenic Coeur d'Alene. As a late birthday celebration (in my mind, if no one else's), I wanted to go fishing on the lake. Fishing for me means a boat and alcohol. Fishing to others, though, apparently means worms, fishing poles, and mean jokes about my lack of fishing abilities.

But I know that you're all wondering if this little Girl Scout caught anything. I bet you're all thinking that I don't even know how to fish. I scoff at your scepticism. Scoff, scoff, scoff. I'm from Idaho, people. As you all know, you can take the girl out of Idaho, but you can never take the mad Idaho skills out of the girl.

But in answer to your (unspoken) question, uh, I actually don't know how to fish. I tried to cast this weekend, but that required way too much hand-eye coordination for me. And apparently, you have to continue casting if you are using a flashy lure to trick the fish into thinking that the lure is really some delicious bug-type-thing. Non-stop. You don't stop. All that casting was distracting me from my margaritas.* So I decided that the lure wasn't the way to go. I would just kill an innocent worm. Fishing with a worm means dropping the line into the water and sitting there while waiting for the pole to move.**

And move it did.

I squealed with delight, basking in the glory of being the first to catch something. My gloating was quickly quelled when I couldn't reel the fucker in and my fellow fisher-person had to take care of business for me. But then I just thought that I must have caught the granddaddy of all the fish in the lake, since it was too big for me to reel in by myself.***

So the other person kept reeling in and reeling in, with me nearly prancing with happiness. Who's the best fisher-person ever? Me! As the line got closer, my fish looked less fishy then skinny and long and brown.

I caught a mother-fucking snake.

Ok, so it was actually a stick, but it looked very snake-y. So I responded like any sane person would. I screamed like a little girl and ran as far away from the thing as I could. Which wasn't too far. Because I was on a boat.

I did this twice. I caught two sticks and thought they were snakes twice. And screamed. Twice.

Because that's the way I roll.

No actual fish were caught on our fishing adventure and since we couldn't eat my stick-snakes, the whole adventure resulted in no down-home good cooking. But it was still fun, because tequila makes everything more fun. Yes? Yes.

My vacation is over now and I'm in Missoula. Of course, I'm sitting in a hotel room watching cable (no adult channels, though) on my big-ass California King bed. That's kind of vacation-y. I have an interview tomorrow and then I take off for another fun time in the South. Mississippi.

And then I have to go back to Pullman to move out of the ghetto. I only have to sleep one more time in the ghetto. How awesome is that? If you haven't seen my ghetto duplex with the carpet coming up and with dark wood paneling and with my classy neighbors, you cannot judge. We should all help me celebrate that that phase of my life is over in just a few days. Celebration, just FYI, means either presents for me or lots of drinking. Either way, you should be done reading so you can go purchase either a present or my booze.****

*Said margarita was made on the boat in a portable blender. Outside of the Brady Bunch variety hour, I have never seen anything that rocked so hard.

**Waiting for the pole to move? Fishing is fun and dirty all at once.

***Of which there are five. No one told me that Lake Coeur d'Alene is fish-less.

****I was serious. Presents, please.

Don't worry, baby

Is anyone else pumped that today is Brian Wilson's 65th birthday? I'm guessing it's just me. And maybe some people in their 50s and 60s. It's hard to be as awesome as I am.




But, come on, Brian rocks. Not as hard as Elvis, but still. So maybe we should all take a moment of silence to honor the man who gave us "Fun, Fun, Fun," and "In My Room," and "Surfer Girl," and "God Only Knows." And maybe some of us can now justify going to Baskin Robbins for some ice cream. Because I owe it to one of the greatest song writers ever. And I'm just a giver.

Give, give, give.

Traveling intermission

Trip one to the Dirty South is over and done. Kentucky was bo-ring. Actually, Kentucky was fine but my job down there was boring. Reading essays for eight hours a day is not quite as glamorous as it sounds.

So I'm back in Pullman for a day before taking off for the next week. Montana job interview and back down to the South. Mississippi this time. Unfortunately, I won't be able to go to the birthplace of Elvis this trip, since I'm on the opposite side of the state. I'm hoping, though, that the Elvis aura will be strong wherever I am.

Anyways, that is my excuse for the limited posting. Nothing truly exciting has been happening, so I don't think it matters. And I move next weekend, so no more fun stories about neighbors yelling non-stop. At least I hope so. That's the excitement of moving and meeting new neighbors. I don't think it can get worse, so that's something to look forward to.

Plus the fun of the actual move itself. I have already made two trips to Goodwill and thrown away numerous things, but, good Lord, I have a lot of crap. And by crap, I mean valuable, irreplaceable items. Who else owns a 1977 Elvis/Graceland Coca Cola memorial bottle? Or Lisa Lisa's debut album on vinyl? Or Red Dawn on VHS? It's tough to be so classy.

Rabbits and porn

Wow. I forget how much fun it is to move. So much. So, so much.

I'm moving in a few weeks, but I'm out of town for most of the time between now and then, so everything is getting packed up now. The good thing about moving is that it makes you reevaluate stuff. And by stuff, I mean useless shit. And by reevaluate, I mean throw it away.

I did find some childhood items that I had kind of forgotten about. Only my sister will appreciate this, but I had a doll when I was a kid that might now be the uglies doll ever. When I was three or so, I decided she needed to have her hair cut and washed. So I chopped it off pretty short (super attractive) and then the washing portion for some reason matted it all up and made it stick straight up. I also broke one of her eyes in the process, so she has this crazy eye. Since I'm not superficial, I still loved this doll and took her everywhere.

The best part is, creative Little Ace named the doll Rabbit. Which is great fun, since those who know me are also aware of my intense fear of rabbits and all things hoppy.

So I was labelling boxes last night. Most of them were normal: DVDs, books, misc. kitchen, Elvis shrine, towels, sheets, etc. And then it occurred to me that I should just label a box "Porn." Just to see what my moving-assistant friends would do. Do you think they'd open it? Or just get awkward around me?

Like I'd ever be open about where I put my pron. People would steal it.

And by porn, I really mean books on Elvis. Because they're my porn.

Anyways, I'm cleaning out a lot of stuff, so if anyone has any desire for bad 80s movies on VHS, tacky Christmas dinnerware, or mismatched oven mitts, please to be calling me.

Cat burglar

Guess which pet owner of the year has three (yes, 1, 2, 3) pictures of her cat?

I've owned the cat for nine years, and have three pictures. Do the math on that one. In my defense* I mean that I have three pictures that are just of the cat. I don't want one that's of the cat and me, or the cat and the dogs, or whatever. I have a few of those.

The Skirt is still missing, so I'm making little flyers to hang up around the neighborhood. And I need a picture. So I had to dig through photo albums last night. The most recent picture I have of her that is just of her is from 4 years ago. Luckily, she has aged well. Except for the fat skirt. Maybe I should have taken her in to get some glamour shots. She's nine, which is past middle-age for a cat. And we all know there's no better way to celebrate aging gracefully than getting some lovely, tacky glamour shots.

I do miss the cat, and I feel badly that she's still gone. These sad feelings, though, ease a bit whenever I think of not having to clean out the litter box. Is there a grosser thing to have in your house than a box where an animal has just popped a squat? Ew. Even though I clean mine twice a day, it still makes me want to vomit.

Ok, I have to work now, but please to be enjoying Stacy's list of things she'd never say. It provided me with two straight minutes of pure, unadulterated laughter on this rainy Tuesday morning.

*One of my friends pointed out that the phrase "In my defense" is one of my most common. Apparently, I'm always having to defend myself. As in: "In my defense, the store was having a clearance on Elvis-themed bath products." Or: "In my defense, the goddamn baby wouldn't stop crying and someone in the theatre had to instruct its mother on what God invented babysitters for." Or: "In my defense, there were only three cookies left and four people sitting there. Someone would have been left cookie-less even if I hadn't eaten all three of the cookies." Or: "In my defense, someone chose to put The Brady Bunch Variety Hour on DVD. I didn't want their hard work to go unnoticed, so I had to rent it and watch it four times."

Less than a year . . .

June third is always so bitter-sweet. Just 364 more days, though . . .

My birthday was fan-frickin-tastic. I went for a hike, hoping to get some sun to disguise the fact that I'm the whitest white girl ever, and two people commented on my shorts and my legs. Good comments. Building my ego comments. So that was sweet. I then had a nice lunch, went shopping, and spent two hours at the coffee shop reading fiction. I don't work on my birthday. Especially a weekend birthday.

Then the party. Ah. The party. Barbecue, Elvis-inspired peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and, most importantly, my own pumpkin cheesecake. That I won't share with anyone, no matter how much I love you. Because (a) I'm selfish and (b) Maryanne is moving soon and this might be my last cheesecake for a while. Although she is staying at my house when she comes for a visit this August, and I think she should repay my hosting generosity with a cheesecake. Just a suggestion.

So thanks for all the gifts, nice people. Oddly enough, some of them were Elvis-themed. Actually, the truly odd part is that some were Elvis-free. I love gifts. And my birthday.

Today a few of us went to what I like to consider a breakfast-birthday-fun-continuation-thing, but I'm pretty sure was just a regular Sunday breakfast. On my way to the restaurant, I got a flat. And no one tell Gloria Steinem, but I called a guy to come a fix it for me. Because I'm the best feminist ever. In my defense, I know how to change a flat, but I was wearing heels and just had a manicure a few days ago.

While I was waiting for my tire-changer, a cute little old man walked by and offered to help. This offer lost some of its sincerity since it came with a comment on my shirt and my *ladies*. Okay, so the shirt dipped a bit low, but ew. Men in their seventies can't comment on that. And no one tell Jane Fonda, but had I not been able to call someone, I might have played up the shirt aspect. Who just set the women's movement back fifty years? I did. My feminism will always take second place to my OCD issues with getting dirty. Solidarity, sister.

And The Shrine will grow . . .

Happy Birthday Eve to me! If we count Christmas Eve as part of the holiday, then the same rule applies to my birthday. And yes, I just equated the birth of our Lord and Savior to my own. The similarities are amazing. His mother's name was Mary; my mother's middle name was Marie. Pocatello, Idaho is often referred to as the Bethlehem of the West. I like chocolate; we commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus with chocolate eggs. Jesus walked on water; I've been known to go swimming. Jesus had twelve disciples; I have at least twelve friends. Maybe. Jesus turned water into wine; I prefer wine to water. And the perfection thing, but that's just a given.

So I better finish this post before God smites me.

I'm back in Pullman, and my cat is still missing. I'm not too worried still, since it took her a bit to return last time, too. I think she's afraid to come back, since the abusive ass-hat has moved back in next door to me. The Fat Skirt doesn't like yelling, and all he does is yell. Oh, and watch TV topless. Sex. Ay.

Birthday news: the birthday celebrations have already begun. I had my birthday dinner with my family the other night. More importantly (because I'm all about the materialistic attitude of America), I got my presents. In recognition of my early onset, my dad got me a PDA. So watch out for me being about as yuppie as I can get with that bad boy. In recognition of my love for Elvis, I got a very large purse with a pink Cadillac on it. This might fall into the same category as the Marilyn Monroe purse. And I'm still not a purse person. I also received season two of Scrubs, in recognition of my great love for what used to be the best show on TV, before it jumped the shark. And finally, in recognition, of my *obsession* I received two Elvis documentaries. Allegedly, they were from my 19-month old nephews, but I've been shopping with those two and I don't think they are capable of picking out DVDs. Food off of shelves, yes. Presents for their favorite aunt, no. So thanks to Heather and David for those, really.

And I doubt I'm their favorite aunt since a) they see me twice a year b) I left the toys I bought for them at my house and c) they are 19-months old and incapable of making that kind of decision. But once I start buying them beer, cigarettes, and Playboys, I'm sure I'm in. Guess who never will be asked to baby-sit after that comment?

Anyways, things in Pullman are, well, Pullman-esque. Except, of course, for the fact that everyone is gearing up for the big party tomorrow. Damn, I do love my birthday. I already scored a free lunch today from Maryanne in recognition of this somber holiday. And with the promise of vodka and cheesecake tomorrow, I don't think things could get much better. Unless someone has cloned Elvis from 1958. And gift-wrapped him for my birthday. And by gift-wrapped, I mean just one big bow. And I'm going to end that there, before I go too far across that crazy line.