Blog A Go-Go

In which we do not work retail

I have worked a few retail jobs in my time, and my experiences can best be summed up by this observation: I was written up for insubordination at every job I ever had. No, no. REALLY. (Stop snickering. I can hear you.) And I narrowly avoided being written up as a teacher. It had something to do with locking my classroom door from the inside so WE could get out, but no one could get in. I pretended it was for student safety, but really I didn't like administrators or student aides just walking in when I was trying to get my kids to wrap their minds around iambic pentameter. Or the occasional poker game. I jest!

Anyway, it turns out that writing suits me very well as an occupation--every career profile test I've ever taken pretty much insists that I never work with others for their own safety. I am a teeny bit clumsy, and I don't deal well with following procedures that don't make sense to me just because "that's how it's done". (It occurs to me that it is a VERY good thing I never tried the military.) If you've never worked retail, you cannot imagine the amount of patience and restraint it requires to deal with the general public. If you don't believe me, check out this link which one of the five Kellys I know posted a few days ago on a messageboard we frequent. (I'm pretty sure I've hit my Kelly quota. I think five Kellys is all a single person can be expected to know.)

On a completely unrelated topic, I have achieved the first step in attempting exercise. I went out yesterday and spent too much money on ACTIVEWEAR. (It just hurt a little to type that.) It's all black and pink and entirely too cute to sweat in. Just between you and me, I feel much more athletic just putting it on. I think it's the spandex. And honestly, wrestling your way into a sports bra ought to count as exercise because that is NOT easy. I do not, however, plan to start any sort of fitness routine today. I have to spend the morning at the attorney's office, and I feel quite certain that when I am finished there I will need to come home and decline with a cool compress and a glass of something restorative for the rest of the day.

In which I am glad I knit poorly

I have been instructed, by someone who loves me and cares about these things, to stop saying I knit badly. Fine, I knit poorly then. Because I DO. I knit flat things because I haven't mastered the circular needle. I knit plain things because I cannot read a pattern. I knit simple things because I can't really purl. (Well, I did once, for about ten rows, and it looked AWESOME. It actually resembled real knitting. But then I got tired and put it down, and now I can't remember how. When I feel like doing it again, I'll pick up Melanie Falick's Kids Knitting and learn anew.) But, novice that I am, even I know better than to knit these atrocities.

In which I am happy

I make no secret of the fact that I miss Mystery Science Theatre 3000. I do. DEEPLY. But I have found something almost as good. At Rifftrax you can purchase an audio file that you synch with your DVD, and best of all, it's done by the same evil geniuses who created MST3K. The files range from 99 cents to $3.99, and they have even riffed Harry Potter. (They have also riffed Reign of Fire, the apocalyptic dragon film with Christian Bale and Gerard Butler, which I expect will be FABULOUS because if a film ever begged to be riffed, it's that one.) Until I win an obscenely large lottery jackpot and buy my own network to air MST3K perpetually, this will have to do.

In which I say "gack"

I have had this site bookmarked for a few years now, and it never ceases to fill me with awe. It's a gallery of Weight Watchers (yes, you're trademarked, but I don't do superscript, so let's just pretend I put in the little TM, okay, WW?) recipe cards from the 1970s. They are wrong on so many levels. There isn't a single dish depicted that I would eat on a dare, and the decor is reminiscent of Sandra Lee's tablescapes. (I'm pretty sure that isn't even a real word.) Anyway, if it's midafternoon and you're feeling peckish, a trip through this catalog of horrors should take care of that. Start with the "Cabbage Casserole Czarina" and go from there. And I do NOT suggest you make a drinking game of it because if you did a shot every time you said "NASTY!" you'd be under the table before the "Inspiration Soup".

In which I love nuns

I don't know why, but I have always harbored an affection for nuns. (I actually wanted to BE one when I was five. Then my mother explained that we were Protestant and that nuns very rarely got to date or wear makeup. Reluctantly, I gave up the dream, but I STILL like a nice full black habit with a killer coif.) My husband and father, both raised Catholic, twitch a little when faced with a nun, but I think they're vastly interesting. My favorite desk toy is my boxing nun, Sister Mary Pugnacious II--so named because the first Sister Mary Pugnacious met an untimely end.

I am also a lover of art, and I don't think it gets any better than putting nuns and art together. Yes, I know about Sister Wendy. She's very sweet, and I have been known to do an impression of her that isn't entirely respectful. But I have to say, Sister Randy is a little more up my alley. If you're not familiar, Sister Randy is an animated art critic who just happens to be a bride of Christ. Her creator, Dan Hanna--who totally ought to win a MacArthur Evil Genius Grant--describes her as "a smokin' nun who shoots from the lip and wears a sexy Freudian slip beneath her conservative black habit."

You may recognize Sister Randy from the early days of BBCAmerica when she flitted around between episodes of "Men Behaving Badly" and "Changing Rooms". If you're not familiar, go here and prepare to waste a LOT of time. She's hilarious and a little filthy. If you haven't the time to go right now, I'll leave you with two of her cleaner observations:

*The surest way to start feeling guilty is by getting caught.

*All's fair in love and war, but those who love war can get away with even more stuff.

In which I plan world domination

Well, who HASN'T thought about engaging in a little world domination now and then? But there are two problems with becoming a dictator: bad decorating and making a messy end. The first is documented in Peter York's Dictator Style which offers a glimpse into the bizarre decorating schemes of despots. (Why these people insist on so much gilding and faux marble is BEYOND me.) If anything it's a book on how NOT to decorate, and frankly, the Ceaucescus' homes gave me the willies. And don't even get me started on Saddam Hussein's comic-style portraits of busty ladies. (Although I have to confess, I wouldn't have completely minded being left alone in Eva Peron's closet for an hour or so.)

But if you still want to contemplate the pleasure of ruling the world, you might want to peruse Peter Anspach's Evil Overlord List just to avoid making any elementary mistakes. Preparing for total world domination is harder than you think.

In which we lighten the mood

Alright, things have been a trifle gloomy at the Blog A Go-Go, and it's time to put on a cute pair of shoes and a party dress and dance our cares away. Actually, I'm in Phoenix, probably having the time of my life and enjoying the love of fabulous readers and some very good friends. But we'll have fun together just the same. All you have to do is spend a little time with The Totally Awesome Coolness of These Portraits and I guarantee you will feel better. It's like a mood elevator in a link.

On a totally unrelated note, I would like to observe that you have no idea HOW MUCH you fling your hair around until you get whiplash. My hair-flinging has been VASTLY curtailed, and I feel like half my personality is missing. Sigh.

And since I'm being completely random, I believe I am about to be the victim of a squirrel coup. Every morning, just before dawn, as many as six squirrels gather in our driveway in a large cirle. They look like a furry coven. We have no idea what they are doing, but if they had tiny drums and a little chicken blood, it would look a LOT like a voodoo ritual. I'm beginning to be a little afraid of them, and I think they may be plotting to take over.

Finally, if you're curious what your cadaver would fetch on the open market, take the quiz at What's Your Body Worth? My friend Nicole from Mississippi brought this to my attention, and I am happy to say that I am worth $5275! That should console my husband nicely in case he's planning a kegger for my wake. (Actually, one of the perks he gets for working for an unnamed entertainment company affiliated with an also-unnamed brewery is a few cases of free beer each month. I suspect the $5275 would actually be used as a down payment on a Ducati.)

In which I have no bad gifts

I got lovely things for Christmas--things I wanted and am very pleased to have. Others are not so fortunate. I have been spending way too much time at Bad Gift Emporium checking out the horrors that other people inflict on one another. (The crystal hermit crab. Seriously--A CRYSTAL HERMIT CRAB.) If nothing else, it will make you feel really good about whatever you unwrapped this year. (Although in the interest of strict disclosure, I should point out that nothing on that site is as bad as the gift one of my friends received in anticipation of her wedding. She wanted a sexy, fitted corset to wear under her wedding gown. Her future mother-in-law either misunderstood or NEVER wanted this girl to sleep with her son because she presented her with her own post-hysterectomy panty girdle. USED. Beat that.)

In which doctors hunt

This is the link to a short film my friend Vanessa sent me: American Big Game is the name of it, but it could just as easily be titled, "When Doctors Hunt". It was written by an admirer of Vanessa's, and if I ever meet him in person, he will be my new best friend because this is awesome. My spleen hurts from laughing.

When you're done laughing yourself senseless, check out FreeRice . My friend Kristen sent me the link and I'm addicted. You can test your mad vocabulary skills, and feed the world at the same time!

On a side note, I finally perused the full Sexiest Man Alive issue of People Magazine, and they DID feature a few of our favorites in their extended list. Gerard Butler and Clive Owen both got in there, and People was kind enough to include a photo of Hugh Jackman. At the beach. (After extensive study undertaken on your behalf, I finally realized it's the muscle definition that does it. He's toned, but not TOO toned. Biceps and pecs should be cut, but while a firm midriff is essential, a six-pack just doesn't work for me. Ripped abdominals seem to suggest someone's trying too hard. They always makes me think of digestion, and if anything can ruin a good set of pecs, it's thinking about peristalsis.)

Revision watch: don't ask. I am DONE with this round and have nearly killed myself in the process. 116 pages done yesterday--that's 29,000 words revised in one sitting. Both shoulders are completely jacked up, and my entire body hurts. 614 pages, 122,000 words total. I have Janis Joplin blasting on my ipod. "Turtle Blues", people. Yes, it's just that bad. I am hanging on by my ragged fingernails here, holding out for Friday. When I settle into the couch for the Longhorn kickoff, leftover turkey-and-dressing sandwich in my freshly-manicured hands, THEN all will be right with the world. (I also have a massage and a pedicure booked this week. It's time to pull out the big guns.)