Stupid odd numbers

I've only been listening to the radio today (man, I miss my cable), but I've already heard more than I want to about the significance of today's date. Apparently a lot of people are getting married today. Due to my intense hatred/fear of odd numbers (especially prime), I choose to pretend that today is July 6th still.

And I'm okay with how crazy that sounds.

In other news, today is my last day of being connected with the rest of the world on a regular basis. I return to the land that knows no cell towers. Nor internet service, other than dial-up. Oh yes, I'm heading back to Montana.

If you haven't heard from me by September, that means that either the isolation got to me and I killed some people just for entertainment, or that a rattlesnake hunted me down.

Dee-Licious

First, everyone should go watch the latest Die Hard. It should just be on your summer to-do list. Because it rocks.

Second, although I love my new apartment very much, my bedroom and office are on the second floor. And it is very hot up there. My TV and Scrubs DVDs, though, are on the much cooler first floor. Guess how much work I've gotten done?

Third, why was the Thai place closed yesterday? It wasn't a holiday. I was looking forward to take-out all day. Ass-hats.

Fourth, I'm pretty sure that my cat is gone for good. While I enjoy not cleaning out the cat box, I think that talking to a cat was good for my crazy. Now I just talk to myself. Should I get a new cat when I get back from my summer travels? I'm thinking no, since I don't actually like owning pets. And I think I'd rather have a dog anyways. I'm not allowed dogs at my new place, but if I got a long-haired chihuahua, do you think my landlords will figure out that my "cat" barks?

On the boats, and on the planes

So Mississippi, a part of the SOUTH, was hot and humid. Those are truly my memories from my trip last week. That's all that I have right now, but we'll see if just saying that gets people angry at me for attacking the South. Are all the Sally Sensitive's still lurking out there?

I got back late, late, late Friday night and spent the next morning moving. Thanks to the help of some very nice and, more importantly, strong friends, we were done by noon. I am officially out of the ghetto and my new neighbors have not yet woke with me with their yelling or left trash out on the patio. So I clearly love it.

I spent part of yesterday on the lake, drinking and eating, and the evening at a friend's house, eating, drinking, and watching fireworks. And listening to the music Pullman chose to choreograph the fireworks too. It's just not the Fourth without Neil Diamond's ode to the U.S. of A. And now I know the Coast Guard's anthem. Only Pullman, I think, would play that hidden treasure. It was awesome.

Now I'm getting ready to spend three weeks without my cell phone and reliable internet service in Montana. This won't help much with the crazy, now will it?

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.