Can someone tell me if this is real or a put-on? I got it as a nomination but I can't tell if this is really some Japanese person sincerely trying out her English or if it's totally fake. I don't want to laugh at someone who's not trying to be funny cuz that's just cruel.

What a cute-ly,

Natalie

Okay, another weird thing of the day - so I'm sitting around on Geo Url surfing around blogs from my hometown to see if there's anyone I know that I can make fun of when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a link to Life Of A One-Man IT Dept (aka Mike McBride).

The world just keeps getting smaller and smaller. And as I sit here my ass just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

Six degrees of separation-ly,

Natalie

Okay, weird thing of the day. Al Roker's blog. Caution - it contains a little animated .gif of him flying in an airplane with sound. Scared the hell out of me (it's pretty quiet here at the moment) and really wound my dogs up.

Weatheringly,

Natalie

At what point in the year does it become permissible for me to attack my neighbor's inflatable Santa and stab the hell out of it? Today's, what, the 18th of February? It must be getting close.

I'm thinking of dancing around in the snow late at night in my underwear, brandishing a long sword and thrusting it into Santa's bowlful of jelly belly. Not to slash too much; I'd like the holes to be small enough that the power from the air blower keeps the thing inflated. Just large enough to make my point. Then when the neighbor comes to investigate I'll grab his fire hazard, "too dry to even be potpourri" wreath and smash it down over his head, trapping his arms by his sides. Then I'd get all Steven Segal and rip Santa into ribbons while the neighbor watched, horrified, and powerless to stop me.

Santa would be reduced to ribbons and the blower would give them enough of a thrust to send them up into the air where they'd be caught on the breeze and whisked away to, I don't know, St. Paul. So if you find some kind of red and white streamer lying in your yard just go ahead and consider it a little present from me, and know that my good deed for the year is done.

And if, by chance, you still have a fifteen-foot tall Santa in your yard you may want to take that puppy in, because that just might be me glaring at you from my kitchen window.

Scary though, huh? That you might be my neighbor? Sheesh, if I had me for a neighbor I'd be freaked, too.

Ho, ho, ho boy, it's gonna be a long day-ingly,

Natalie

Ain't that always the way? In the few days since posting my pickle juice faq I haven't received a single hit from anyone looking for the info I posted. The closest anyone's come is "my dog smells of pickle juice" and that's a new one on me so the reasons/remedies for such a prediciment won't be found here.

But what were people searching for that brought them here? Let me tell ya.

how does christina aguilera feel about homosexuality while she was doing this video?
"If it's profitable then I'll do it" probably. Now, I'm not saying she's a whore or anything...wait, no, that's exactly what I'm saying.

funny picture of monkey in tree smelling finger
Aren't monkeys inherently funny enough as it is without "smelling finger"? Apparently not.

sarah michelle geller in a thong
A pickle juice thong, perhaps? I wish! You can't buy publicity like that. Unless, of course, you're dealing with Christina Aguilera - there's always a right price when you're dealing with her. (See above.)

And my favorite...
fart poopy sounds

I could always direct that last searcher here for all of (presumably) his fart and poopy sounds needs. But I won't, because I cannot in good conscience endorse nor condone the proliferation of toilet humor on the internet.

Or something like that, anyway.

Google-ingly,

Natalie

I was reminded yesterday that there are only a few days left for me to accept nominees for The Dilly Awards so if there's anyone you're really loving (or anyone you think needs new undies) then nominate them, for the love of God!

I find it interesting that only three of the people I link to have been nominated - one was for "best sex with a blogger" but I can't exactly make that a category because really, how could you fairly vote? I guess that means that no one else likes who I link to...sniffle. Ah well, there's no accounting for taste, really.

Anyway, here are a couple more nominees for your linking pleasure:

• The Irrefragable 8W - It's A Serious Condition, Actually (comedy)


• Little Tiny Lies - All Lies, All The Time (political, comedy, though-provoking)


• Sonata for Unfinished Yelling (comedy, best-kept secret)


• Real Life Parents (parenting, best-kept secret)


• Life On Earth - Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics (comedy, overall)

So there you go, five more. Get to know them, get to love them, let them buy your vote. I should point out that I'm just a touch offended that Sonata for Unfinished Yelling was nominated for "best-kept secret", as I've been linking to him since God was a little boy and everyone who reads me should be reading him, but there you go. I'm just the judge here, who am I to judge?

Now I'm off to spend money I don't have on things I don't need.

Frugal-ly,

Natalie

Well it just figures. I post an appeal for celebrity bloggers and guess what I get? A nomination for none other than (choke) Moby.

I've been fairly clear on my opinion of Moby and his "eye-roll factor" increased by an order of magnitude when, just days after my post, he posted something about people on the internet being so darn mean to him all the time - but hey, we could be mean if we wanted to because we were driving more traffic to his site. Well good for you, Moby, that's what I say. Bully. For. You.

See, I think the main thing that put me off - as well as initially attracted me to - Moby was his song, "Run On". Now, not a lot of people know that this song was originally recorded by a gospel group known as The Blind Boys of Alabama, who really are blind and are really from Alabama. However, seeing as how they've been around since, oh, the 1940s they can no longer be called "Boys". But you take my point.

Now, the Boys have been out there, doing their thing, living the good life and praising God (if you know the lyrics to "Run On" you'll see that it's very spiritual) and they're just really, really cool guys. You probably know a lot of their songs already, as they're covered all the time (like the line from the Simpsons - you know when Ned starts falling for that Christian rock singer and she says that her band abandoned her, took all the songs and are singing them in a pop group, only they changed the word "God" to "baby" in the lyrics - that's what the Boys have been dealing with for around sixty years now) but the beef I have with Moby (and the Rolling Stones, for that matter) is that they could have thrown so much publicity at the Blind Boys. But they didn't. I think it's barely even mentioned in the liner notes - it's rather distressing.

I'm no God-freak or anything, but man, if you're going to be covering songs written by very religious men you're gonna want to be giving them their props, just in case. Know what I mean? Even the most hard-core thief won't steal from a church because it's just wrong.

But I'm nothing if not fair. Moby will be included in the celebrity blog category. But...if he wins, I'm sending his shorts to the Blind Boys.

Seems only fair, really.

Blindingly,

Natalie

And hey - in the spirit of mindless awards, Joel Flange of Thrillpick has declared me an Honorary Thrillpick Grand Fusilier! This is good (I think) only I don't get any weapons an' stuff. But thanks, nonetheless.

I should put a warning that Thrillpick is utterly hilarious if you have my sense of humor. And if you do have my sense of humor you're most likely locked away somewhere so it doesn't matter anyway. Everyone else, proceed with caution.

Musket-ly,

Natalie

Alrighty - it's been a while since I checked in with you about The Dilly Awards so I wanted to throw a bit more info at ya.

Currently there have been rougly fifty or so nominees, which is great considering this whole thang is totally brand-spanking new, but that's not as great as it could be. So go nominate someone, alright?

One point - please don't nominate Dave Barry as best comedy - the guy is a professional comedy writer, okay? He gets paid to be funny. Save the comedy award for some ordinary average guy or gal who makes you laugh. If we get enough nominees I could do a "Best Celebrity" category but at the moment it's only been Wil Wheaton and Dave who have been nominated. Anyone else you can think of? Let me know.

The whole deal with these awards is to give some recognition to the little guys (that's you and me, folks) not just in awards but also in attention. Every couple of days I'll post five new nominees along with their category (though note that categories can change - I'm just giving you a general idea of where these links fit in with the whole grand scheme). So if you plan on voting when this whole shebang hits the fan, so to speak, take a minute to actually get to know these guys. Would you just blindly punch random holes if you were voting for politicians? I think not. At least, I hope not - and that's when you're voting for something as piddly and silly as public office. This is much more serious - we're talking about underwear here, people. Underwear. How can I be more clear on the subject?

I just noticed that those little dancing stars are keeping perfect time to "The Idiot Kings" by Soul Coughing. That has nothing to do with anything, I just think they'd make good back-up dancers.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the links. These are in no particular order or anything, blah blah blah. You know the drill.

• Liloia - A Lie Told Often Enough Becomes Truth (comedy, overall)


• A Gray Box With Words Inside (overall, thought-provoking)


• Scrappleface - News Fairly Unbalanced (political, comedy)


• I Will Dare - Lonely, I guess That's Where I'm From (overall)


• Not My Desk - Temporary Insanity (comedy)

If you're nominated and you don't want to be a part of this, for whatever reason, email me and we'll remove you. I mean that in the "royal we" sense of the word, of course. This is just me having some fun, really, and spreading the linkage.

Dilly-ingly,

Natalie

So I promised Joel that I'd bake him a birthday cake today for his 45th but alas, there is nary a speck of cake flour to be seen. Nor do I have a cake mix, sadly - my pantry is remarkably bereft at the moment. Personally, I blame the Bush administration. Cough.

But here's the next best thing - for you, Joel, in honor of the birthday you thought no one would remember...all together now...

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday Pax Nortona
Happy birthday to you

He hasn't posted about his birthday so if you want to leave him happy birthday wishes here that's fine - or you could go over and leave them in his comments on a different post, no matter. But come on guys, show the man a little love.

Celebratingly,

Natalie

Okay, so how did this slip past my gaydar? I blame it on the fact that my main news source, MPR, is having their pledge week (or month, or millennium or whatever) so I've been avoiding it. Since I don't contribute they make me feel guilty and I have enough of that in my life, thank you very much.

Anyway, I heard word courtesy of PikaPikaChick, a fellow MN blogger, today of something called "HF 341", a bill introduced to the Minnesota House of Representatives. In a nutshell, this is the deal: (quotes taken from Outfront Minnesota's webpage on this alert)

"A bill (HF 341) was introduced in the Minnesota House of Representatives to repeal the state human rights amendment which protects GLBT Minnesotans from discrimination in employment, housing, education, public accommodations and other areas. In addition, it would remove sexual orientation as a protected class in the hate crimes laws. If approved, Minnesota would become the first state ever to extend, and then rescind, protections against discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. Our current Governor, Tim Pawlenty while majority leader of the House has said, “My vote in 1993 in favor of the gay rights amendment is one I would take back.” Politics in Minnesota, Nov. 29, 2001"

Man, is that guy a dick or what?

The deal is this - there's going to be a little rally at the Minnesota State Capitol Building on March 6th. Go to the Outfront webpage to get all of the details; I'm too mad right now to think clearly and I don't want to post misinformation - best to go to the source.

PikaPikaChick has some buttons you can use on your page here. (Pika - I'm only linking to the image for a few minutes - I need to hit the other computer to upload it to my own server).

And don't say, "Well, that's Minnesota, that won't happen in my state." When you go to the Outfront website you can see how your politicans voted on GLBT issues. If this passes here what's stopping it from coming to a House of Representatives near you? Think about these points, people:

* HF 341 would, for the first time in Minnesota or in any other state, repeal long-standing protections against discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, encouraging people to fire, evict, or even refuse to serve GLBT Minnesotans.
* HF 341 would, for the first time anywhere in the country repeal previously enacted hate crimes provisions, and would send the message that victimizing GLBT people is acceptable.
* HF 341 would, for the first time in any civilized country, reverse a condemnation of Nazi persecution and implicitly endorse Nazi extermination of gay people across Europe in the twentieth century.
* HF 341 comes at a time when the average Minnesotan is far more concerned about how the State will balance its budget than about rescinding civil rights for anyone.

That ain't sensationalism, folks.

So I'll see you there? Mark your calendar, March 6th. Bring your kids, your folks, come in from out-of-state if you need to cuz this is a pretty big deal and you've been given plenty of notice. As Minnesota goes, so goes the country? I sure as hell hope not.

But it might.





HF 341 Threatens Human Rights in MN
Put this on your web page


Mad as hell-ly,

Natalie

I've discovered a new scene this morning - well, it's new to me, maybe not so much to you.

For the non-Minnesotan folk out there, Rainbow Foods is a local grocery store that's, apparently, open 24 hours a day. As far as grocery stores go it's one of the lesser-offensive places to shop. Locally my favorites would probably go something like Byerly's, Lunds, Jerry's in Edina (I think it's called Edina Foods now or something?) then probably Rainbow. We usually get our groceries delivered but I think I feel subconsciously guilty about making those poor guys deal with the cold so I keep missing my ordering deadline on purpose.

Most people probably don't have occasion to shop for groceries before, say, eight in the morning so you've most likely missed out on this phenomenon. I, on the other hand, had to really, really hurry and get some cookies for a really, really important Valentine's Day party. So I tucked my nightgown into my pants and slugged on over to the store - I didn't even bother to wash my face or anything, thinking, "Hey, it's 7.30 in the morning, I bet most of the other shoppers are also tired moms on a last-minute errand." Boy was I wrong.

First were the homeless people. There were five or six of them hanging out in the produce section performing an elaborate clandestine operation which resulted in them surreptitiously eating loose grapes that had fallen from the bag while the produce manager pretended not to notice. The presence of the homeless people gave me pause, as I assume they'd been there all night but we have a shelter right here in town. Was it full? Or is this their scam to get free grapes? Well, I thought, at least they won't get rickets.

Second, people were cruising. I mean, it was like a real scene. At first I thought these people may have been out all night drinking and decided to, I don't know, stop for some yummy Rainbow turnovers on their way home, but no, they looked and smelled too fresh to be all-nighters. The women were wearing make-up more suited for night-time lighting and the guys were typically in black on black on black, with yellow sunglasses for that little splash of bling. Cell phones abounded, business cards exchanged, deli salads perused. It was surreal to say the least.

I was checking out the cookie section, on strict orders to purchase, "anything heart-shaped", when a manager I recognized bade me good-morning. "Hey," I said, though usually when I look this bad I don't engage anyone in conversation, "Is it always like this in here?" gesturing toward the throngs of people. "Yeah, most mornings it is. We get the homeless in pretty early since the bakery lets them eat the mistakes but the rest of them," he threw up his hands and laughed, "I don't know what they're thinking."

Neither do I. I mean, do they work? They can't be on their way to work, dressed like that, unless they work at a store similar to the store "Jeffrey's" on Saturday Night Live. I just don't know what the hell I witnessed this morning but I never, ever want to do it again.

Middle America can still surprise-ingly,

Natalie

Ode to a Potato

Tis true, I overlooked you
And your band of bagged brethren
But it was so blistering cold
And dark
In the garage as I unloaded my groceries
Your absense wasn't noted
As you were an impulse purchase
A great price on a fifteen pound sack of spuds
An offer too good to pass up
I hoped this brought you comfort
Last night I found you
Mistook you for a rock
Then remembered
I brought you into the house
Guilt isn't a foreign word to me
Placed you in the cabinet
To warm up
To thaw
To show my love for an overlooked spud
I did not put you there to leak
And stink
And wither past the point of usefulness
Filthy potato
You were garbage then and you're garbage now
I feel like I never knew you at all

Poetically,

Natalie

I have a bad feeling (my grandma used to sit with me drinking fortified wine by the boxful) that there's a division growing in our household (and listening to this song). Andy's changing sides (and telling me about war) on the "Should we go to war?" question (two of her sons went to Korea). These certainly are scary, scary times (she opposed that effort, and Vietnam, but not WWII) and every day there's more news coming out of Washington - (she taught me that sometimes war is necessary but never to be taken lightly) "We've declassified the fact that North Korea could conceivably blow LA to smithereens" (and it's only history that will tell us if we were right or wrong) - "In the event of a biological attack make sure you put plastic over your windows" (she made me promise that when she died I'd take this tape out of her apartment) - "Have at least a three-day surplus of supplies in your home at all times in case something happens and you can't get out of your house" (because she didn't want her friends to know what a liberal she was) - "We're revising the old Cold War films and updating them to show them in schools." (she told me that a woman her age should know better) What's next, the old "duck and cover" advice? (but every soldier out there is someone's child) It's a shit-scary time to be alive but do we really want to be the guys who go in and start it all? (and that's what she thinks about when she thinks about war) Is the situation that far gone that it can't be diffused? (and with some countries you just never know what you're dealing with) Let a little bit of air out of the tires, maybe then they won't explode. (and you can never really know what a war looks like from the other side) There has to be a better way than going in with both barrels blazing, (it was the only time she let me say "damn") there just has to be.

Well, come on all of you, big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He's got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Vietnam
So put down your books and pick up a gun,
We're gonna have a whole lotta fun.

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam;
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Come on Wall Street, don't be slow,
Why man, this is war a-go-go
There's plenty good money to be made
By supplying the Army with the tools of its trade,
But just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,
They drop it on the Viet Cong.

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why
Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Well, come on generals, let's move fast;
Your big chance has come at last.
Now you can go out and get those reds
'Cause the only good commie is the one that's dead
And you know that peace can only be won
When we've blown 'em all to kingdom come.

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam;
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why
Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Come on mothers throughout the land,
Pack your boys off to Vietnam.
Come on fathers, and don't hesitate
To send your sons off before it's too late.
And you can be the first ones in your block
To have your boy come home in a box.

And it's one, two, three
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Loss of human life can never be called "acceptable" -ly,

Natalie

Because I don't understand how anything works I assumed that you had to be registered through Blogrolling in order to get your pickle next to your name as a "recently updated" - you know, I figured blogrolling just routinely pinged their registered members. But no. I was wrong. You have to ping for your pickle. You ping, Blogrolling sees it and goes, "Okay, that blog's been updated; I'll tell all of the blogrolls that link to that person." Et viola, pickle.

So ping, okay? Some people who shall remain nameless to protect their identity (okay, so I'm talking about Amish Tech Support) are on the brink of insanity trying to help this idea catch on. You can even cheat at pinging by following his instructions here.

So ping for your pickle, people. Proper preparation and planned pinging provides your pickle placement. I promise.

Pee-ingly,

Natalie

I don't know why I did it. I didn't mean to do it. I promised myself I wouldn't do it anymore because it's just wrong but I did it anyway.

I popdexed myself. And guess what? Another French website is listed in my citations and I still can't find the link.

I'm running around, shaking my hands and hyperventilating. This site is, like, a legitimate person who have some kind of government job and has links to government friends. Sure, it's the goverment of Canada, but still - I've long said that America underestimates Canada. It's like in those horror movies where the kids are running around trying to save the world from whatever demon they'd resurrected, but they're failing and they're trapped, when all of the sudden, boom, here comes Grandma to save the day. The kids all do a double-take and go, "Grandma?" Turns out granny had been paying attention all along, despite how oblivious she'd seemed earlier in the movie, and she knew the way to defeat the monsters if only the kids would have asked her.

That's what Canada means to me.

And French Canadians...wow. I just don't know how to handle myself around French Canadians. I wouldn't even know what to say - I'd be all, "So...that Celine Dion sure has a big head, huh?" And I bet they hear that all the time so I'd just look like an idiot.

The sneakiest thing about Canadians is that they look just like us and can easily blend in - you have to look really closely to see the little bit that's off about them. Jim Carrey. David Duchovney. Celine. See, when you lump them together like that you start to see a pattern that you can't quite put your finger on but it's there.

The worst part about it is that Canada could get to my house in around eight hours. Yep, all of Canada, right there on my doorstep, linking to me and not telling me why or where they're doing it. Oh shudder, I'm going to have a nightmare tonight, I just know it.

Andy knows French but he's not here right now - my first line of defense is Altavista Translator but that only takes you so far. Where's grandma when you need her?

French-aphobic-ly,

Natalie

You live in Maryland? Pay attention: Amber Alert (ripped off from Seabrook's page - I'd have one on here myself if I could make it fit).

- This is an Amber Alert - A'Shia Jenkins (click for picture)
- 2-month-old baby, abducted at 7:05 a.m. from Druid Hill
- and Moser Avenue in Baltimore, Md. She is African American,
- about 21" long, 8 pounds, black hair and brown eyes. She was
- wearing a purple snowsuit, hat, a pink t-shirt and yellow socks.
- Police are looking for an African American man in his late
- 20's or early 30's, wearing a black and white striped shirt
- black pants, and black shoes. He has black hair,
- driving a white, four-door Honda Accord with Maryland
- plates. The license number may include the letters JFK.
- Anyone with information is asked to call the Maryland State
- Police and Baltimore City PD (410) 396-2100
- to report a sighting.

Keep your eyes peeled-ingly,

Natalie

I changed a tire. Not just any old tire, a really awful one. Off the rim nastiness. The spare was mounted on the back and didn't want to come off (thanks, Andy, for your stunning use of brute force and ignorance on that one) but I got it. And this isn't a tire for an ordinary vehicle, oh no - this is for a monstrous behemoth of a van. A conversion van. A huge fuck-off piece of machinery. This operation required cunning. It required derring-do. It required a hydraulic jack.

I've never owned a hydraulic jack before tonight. I feel like I've arrived.

I fought long and hard in the bitter cold but in the end I prevailed. Covered in filth, oil, muck, snow and sludge, I sit here, triumphant and chugging a Guinness. I said to Andy, "You have one hell of a wife." He replied, "You're not wrong about that."

All of this butchness and I still look great in a thong. So much good is bestowed upon me while other suffer. Doesn't seem fair, really.

But I don't care, cuz I made that tire my bitch.

Lug nutting-ly,

Natalie

So the other day MJ posted about how her mere mention of a certain Super Bowl ad was bringing her in a ton of hits from people wanting to watch it so she's set up a direct link to the ad from her page. I thought, hey, that was pretty helpful, she's done her good deed for the day. Then I thought, wait a minute, I can rip off her idea.

See, I get a few hits each day for people looking for, oddly enough, pickle juice. Weird, huh? Especially considering that one of the major factors behind me naming my site "pickle juice" is because I thought that no one would stumble upon it by accident - come on, who goes to Google looking for pages about pickle juice?

On average? About thirty people a day. Which leads me to believe that there's some weird pickle counter-culture that I'm not (nor do I want to be) a part of.

But hey, I should do a good deed for the day as well - just racking up those Karma points, which I plan to cash in for a giant stuffed puppy dog - so I've whipped together a handy dandy little faq of the most popular search requests about pickle juice that lead people into the abyss known and my spewed psyche (aka - this blog).

What is pickle juice?
My god, are you stupid. Do you need assistance breathing? Do you notice when you wake up in the morning? What kind of stupid question is that? If you're coming here for the answer to that question I don't know that this faq is going to be much help to you, but I'll try. Cuz lord knows you need the help.

Pickle juice is vinegar, primarily. There are other flavors and preservatives added, but yep. Pretty much, it's vinegar. Duh.

What are the health benefits of drinking pickle juice?
Well, if you drink a cup of the stuff you've filled your daily sodium allowance in one sitting - that's pretty beneficial, isn't it? No, really, there is a health benefit to drinking pickle juice, in that it makes you want to drink more water, which you probably need. Most people go through life dehydrated, which can cause a lot of problems, like hangovers (yes, that's caused by dehydration) and premature labor. And many of us think we're hungry when in fact we're thirsty, but the thirst triggers have been ignored for so long that we don't recognize them. Next time you're reaching for the Doritos grab a glass of water instead. Let's call that the pickle juice diet, okay? I'll make a fortune. Rich broads will comment on it like, "What is so very interesting about the 'pickle juice diet' is that you don't actually drink the pickle juice at all." (twittery laughter, followed by pinkies-out sips of tea.) That's how I picture rich Jazzercise women. Anyway.

But do you really need to drink pickle juice just so you'll be physically thirsty enough to drink the recommended amount of water per day? Just drink more water, duh, and leave the juice in the jar.

But what about those athletes who drink pickle juice when they practice and say it's a performance enhancer?
Remember that one SNL sketch where the guys were in a Gatorade commercial, except instead of Gatorade they were drinking raw cookie dough? Man, I thought Wil Farrell was going to puke at the end - his eyes were watering and he had that dough sliding down the sides of his face. Just watching that set off my gag reflex - wasn't that nasty?

That's about the same thing as drinking pickle juice as a "performance enhancer". If an athlete (which you most certainly aren't) drinks a shot of pickle juice (you know how big a "shot" is, don't you? Thought you might.) it contains around 100 mg of sodium more than drinking a Gatorade. So one little shot of fluid versus a tummy full of sloshing liquid is probably beneficial to some people. Have you ever jogged next to someone whose stomach was full of water or whatever, and even three feet away you can hear it splashing? Isn't that disgusting? And then the person has to pee every five minutes...so put it that way - is there a benefit to not having your guts filled with liquid? Sure. Does pickle juice help retain water so you don't dehydrate as quickly? Sure. Is pickle juice the new steroids for this millennium? I hope so - I could make a fortune, especially since there's little that an Olympic judge can do to you to detect pickle juice in the blood. Until you die from a massive coronary. Which leads nicely into...

What are some of the dangers of drinking pickle juice?
Just that pesky little sodium problem, pretty much. One liter (that's around a quart to you and me) of the stuff contains 10,000 milligrams of sodium. And guess how much sodium we're supposed to have each day? No, you're way off, guess again. You're getting closer, one more guess. What did you say? That's not even a number, stupid, that's a color. At any rate, you're wrong - it's 2,500 mg per day. That's it! Hell, you can consume that much sodium just by looking at pickle juice, let alone drinking it. You probably have high blood pressure anyway, so stay away from it. While you're at it you should probably stop using salt altogether and start using Mrs. Dash.

Okay, so I'm not supposed to drink it - so what do I do with it? It's too good to waste it.
Now, I never said you couldn't drink it - just drink responsibly. That said, there are thousands of uses for pickle juice. My personal favorite is this - once you eat all the pickles (and sometimes that's torture to actually eat the pickles...a lot of the time I end up throwing the pickles away because they've been sitting in less than an inch of brine and are all withered and gross) you cut celery into pieces that fit the jar. This is great even if you only have a little bit of juice left because the veins in the celery will draw the juice up through the stalk. Et viola, pickled celery. It's an interesting flavor. Use them as a garnish in Bloody Marys or fill them with cream cheese or chop them up and put them in a green salad or tuna salad. I'm pretty much tapped out on uses for celery here.

Use the juice in any recipe that calls for vinegar, like a marinade or a vinagrette. The stuff's green, liquid gold as far as I'm concerned, and it's highly undervalued to the point where if you make use of it people will find you utterly remarkable. I speak from experience here - people find me utterly remarkable. And you want to be like me, don't ya? Thought so.

Is there anywhere I can buy pickle juice without the pickles? I have an aversion to cucumbers. See, I was helping my dad in his garden when I was little and got all prickly from the vines and ever since then...
Ugh - shut up shut up shut up! I don't want to hear about your cucumber-aversion issues, alright? You think your stories are so damn interesting go start a blog. Sheesh, you're really getting on my nerves here. But since I decided to take your dumb ass under my wing and help you, yes, there's a place you can buy pickle juice sans pickles from Health Nut Online. They stock pickle juice manufactured by Goldin Pickle. They misspelled "golden" first, so don't blame me. I'm not endorsing their product or service, as I've never used them, but I'm just saying that it's out there. The Goldin Pickle people are freaks, you should see how hard-core they are about pickles. It's a bit disturbing, really.

So...erm...you don't happen to have any pictures of...let's say...alternate uses for the pickle itself, do you?
Sigh, I was hoping that you weren't going to show up around here anymore. No, I don't have any pictures like that, nor do I have any pictures of men, women, dogs, grandmas or postal workers eating pickles. Or myself, for that matter. You know how I eat pickles, usually? First, I take some sliced beef, slather on some cream cheese, roll the pickle up and chop the hell out of it until it's cut into bite-sized pieces, then I skewer it with a toothpick and chomp with all my might. There, how's that for a sexy visual, huh?

Sometimes a pickle is just a pickle-ly,

Natalie

And another link ripped right off from Artichoke Heart, Not In Our Name. I gave them five bucks, you should, too.

Peacefully,

Natalie

I'm pretty sure I can die a complete person after tonight. Not only did our local news anchor refer to Kim Jong Il as "Kim Jong the second" (those pesky teleprompters - they make the letters "I L" look like the Roman numeral for "two") but I also saw a man balance a Jack Russell terrier in his hand. The terrier was doing a hand-stand at the time.

Life is funny-ly,

Natalie

So I believe in karma, and the whole "whatever you do to another comes back on yourself three-fold", be it good or bad, but...

When is it going to happen? Why does this idiot always seem to have it easy, when I'm the one who's losing sleep, losing hair, and dealing with my remaining hair turning grey? Why am I the one who constantly has to fight the battles on the ground while he's the guy back at the base chewing on a cigar? My cause is just while his is selfish - it always has been that way. He's been dancing the Underhanded Tango and getting away with it while I'm over here trying to do what's right by my daughter and barely keeping afloat.

When does the karma kick in, huh? When are we going to win? I'm sick of hanging on by my fingertips and being the only person who's looking out for the best interest of my daughter while he gets to see her for visitation so damn often that he doesn't even bother spending any time with her when she's there. He takes her for granted, pawns her off on other people and on the rare occasion he actually does spend some time with her it's usually to mock her for one thing or another.

All of her problems are blamed on the fact that I live in Minnesota. "You shouldn't have moved" is his war cry, "It's not my fault; I'm not the one who moved." Well, I moved because my daughter's life would be better here - that's documented over and over and over again. But I know that I'm going to have to end up back in court answering questions like, "Do you really think it's wise to live somewhere so cold?" and "Isn't it a fact that you moved your daughter away so that you didn't have to live near to your mother?" Between examinations his lawyer and the judge will chat and talk about what country club their sons are caddying at this summer and "How about our local boys, huh?"

In the meantime I'm going to be paying a lawyer a fortune to sit there and look like an idiot, never asking the real questions on cross of him, like, "Isn't it true that you spotted your daughter out in a room full of people and made fun of her for being Jewish? Isn't it true that your step-daughter has scabies because of the poor hygiene your family practices? Isn't it true that most days when you have visitation you don't feed your daughter? Isn't it true that during your visits with her you routinely have your girlfriend babysit so you can go out? Isn't it true that you insult your daughter when she does something that reminds you of her mother? Isn't it true that you've been totally fucking this child's mind to the point where she's reached critical mass and had an emotional breakdown at the age of nine?"

But that's not how it's going to go. I'm going to have to jump through hoops again, oftentimes having to plan a trip down to Illinois at a moment's notice, or being served with papers telling me to be in court the next day when I was just getting ready to leave. It's going to be a god damn circus and if it doesn't work out well this time I just don't know what I'm going to do. This transcends the whole, "I don't like my step-family" problems that young kids often face. This is like, "Mom, I've reached the breaking point and if something doesn't change then I will be broken inside."

She has no clue how hard I fight for her, and she never will. I don't ever, ever want her to feel a single bit of responsibility over these stresses - they're obviously issues that her father is projecting onto us but still, children will blame themselves. She'll not say, "Okay, things are bad because dad's irrational" - she'll say, "Mom is stressing out because of me, this is my fault."

Karma, where are you when I need you? I'm needing you pretty bad right about now - it'd be nice if a few things could go my way for a change. Karma, look at that little girl and see what she's going through - I can only remove so much of the burden, which isn't even fair because I'm not the one who's putting the burden on her in the first place. Karma, make him wake up and realize, stupid as he may be, that trying to manipulate a small child is the wrong thing to do. Oh, and Karma, one last thing - when you exact your justice onto him, would you mind signing my daughter's name to it? You know, just so he's absolutely positive about where it came from. Please, let her be the victor, and soon. She's only a child for a short amount of time but if this carries on I'm afraid she'll be damaged to the point where I can't get her back.

Downtrodden-ly,

Natalie

Here's a little IQ test question for you:

If all western songs are country songs, and some western songs are honkey-tonk songs, you could reasonably infer that:

• A.) All country songs are honkey-tonk songs.


• B.) No honkey-tonk songs are country songs.


• C.) Some country songs are western songs, or


• D.) Natalie grew up in an uncultured household.

My dad did the honkey-tonk country-western stuff when I was growing up and I admit that every now and again I get a hankerin' for old Willie & Waylon, or a bit of Johnny Cash. In tribute to my fathers years as a guitar player and singer for numerous country bands I've written a song for Nic, called, "My Baby Smells Like Corn Chips and I Don't Know Why." It's to the tune of "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" - feel free to sing along.

Oh, my baby smells like corn chips and I don't know why
Well yes, my baby smells like corn chips, and I don't know wh-h-h-y
Oh yes, my baby smells like corn chips, yes my baby...oh my god, I just figured out why - Andy come and see this neck cheese, man this is nasty. You rotten little baby, I just gave you a bath yesterday, how did you get so nasty so quickly?!? There's no way in the world I could have missed all of that funk when I was giving you a bath - damn, kids are so disgusting!

I'm expecting the Dixie Chicks to contact me any day know, asking to cover my song. Then whoo-hoo, watch the royalties roll in!

Virtuoso-ly,

Natalie

This little table-top cascading waterfall fountain thing may relax some people, but all it does for me is make me need to pee.

Ho hum. I'm gonna be a peach today, I can tell already.

Urinating-ly,

Natalie

Because my guts are twisted up in knots over an issue on the homefront I cannot sleep - I took a break from reading all of these awful law websites about our situation to check out the new post on Artichoke Heart's blog and found my second bed-wetting liberal link for your clicking pleasure: Poets Against The War.

The pen is mightier than the sword-ingly,

Natalie

Okay, let's rewind and do a little bit of "the morning after the night before"...

So last night I saw Andy passed out...erm, I mean sleeping and thought, hey, why does he get to have all the fun? I wanna pass out, too! Ah, but the dilemma - out of wine. Then I remembered I had a bit of vodka left in the freezer and was able to enjoy a couple of very tasty (and not white-trashy in the slightest) kiwi-strawberry vodkas. I'm glad I even had that juice, or else I would have had to make the decision on which sounded less nasty - gatorade and vodka or green tea with vodka. Nice. I could have just gone the vodka tonic route but my tonic was flat. I briefly thought - tap water? - but no, thankfully, I had some juice left.

Now, in many ways Andy's the lucky one. When he's asleep he's not getting into any trouble. What do I do when I'm drinking? I go on the internet! I chat with people I barely know and say things I can barely type; I buy stuffed squirrels from eBay; I get into the terminal window on Andy's machine and type things like "make poopy" - and in conversation I say things like, "I'll tell you one thing about those Nazis - I bet they were great housekeepers!" Then I lose my mind completely and that's when I get into trouble.

This morning I took delivery of a small Korean boy from UPS with a COD charge for rush overnight delivery. I couldn't have ordered something useful, like a monkey to clean my bathroom; instead I get this kid who keeps asking which dog is for dinner. It's very disconcerting, but I'm sure he'll fit in quite nicely. Once he learns to clean the bathroom, that is - my heart was really set on a bathroom monkey, you see. Man, that would be sweet.

But I'm sitting here, afraid to get on my IM in case I really made a fool of myself to anyone last night and that there might be bad messages waiting for me. You know that quote that goes something like "you wouldn't worry so much about what people thought of you if you realized how little they did"? That's a load of crap, right there, and I'm not just saying that because I'm paranoid. Or maybe that's exactly the reason - who am I to judge my own mental health?

My paranoia is well-documented not only here, but in anecdotal evidence given by members of my own family. Even as a child I didn't like riding in the car with my father if we were going someplace new. I would think, "Okay, I know how to get home from here if he dumps me...but oh my god, what if he's taking me somewhere to kill me?" I would get myself so worked up that I would cry out, "Daddy, don't kill me!" Dad would level his gaze at me for a split second before saying, "I won't." I was sure that between my outburst and his reply that he was seriously thinking, "Maybe I shouldn't kill her after all" rather than, "What the hell is this kid's problem?"

Like most people, I keep a log of my stats. Unlike most people, I obssess about them. Andy pointed out this site I hadn't seen before, Popdex, which is remarkably similar to Blogdex only with some different citations. Some of these blogs that link to me are ones I've never heard of - okay, so the paranoid didn't kick in just yet, logically there will be people who read me that I don't know about (I'm not that far gone...yet). So like anyone, I clicked on the little linkeys to see what these pages were all about. This one's weird...hmmm, I can't seem to get to the url it's pointing to so I'll strip it down a directory or two and find my way back...paranoia's starting to creep in just a touch. This didn't work, going to have to strip the url a bit further...paranoia's growing stronger. Aha, I've reached the main page and - what's this?...it's FRENCH. Bwoop, bwoop, bwoop, paranoia's in high gear now, serious code Fuschia (or whatever the French equivalent of "red" may be). I madly click around, trying to find the way to the directory where I'm linked...nothing. Man your battle stations, this is getting heavy now!...nothing here, nothing there, my god it's all in French and I can't even read any of it - come on, troops, pull back, pull back, it's an unacceptable risk, we're losing too many people here, I said fall back, damn it, and that's an order!

Whew. I made it out okay. And what have I learned from this? Two things - one, I shouldn't go searching for mentions of my own blog; and two, the French are talking about me. And I don't know what they're saying.

Damn, I need a drink.

Shakily,

Natalie

Ethical dilemma - should I leave his drunk, "But I'm only resting my eyes" ass on the couch or do some kind of Green Beret-type commando-style lift and carry him to bed?

Ah, I dunno. But I've switched my empty wine glass for his full one, so no worries here.

Vino collapso-ingly,

Natalie

But it was all so strange...you were there, and you were there, and so were you...but it couldn't have been a dream, it just all seemed too real. It wasn't a dream...was it?

That bad paraphrasing of Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz" is my pathetic attempt to segue into my point. The other night I had the weirdest dream (I can hear the collective groan as I write this - like, "Great, a dream post on a blog, yeah, we've never seen that before" - but stick with me, there's a real point to this.) and in this dream everyone I link to played a role. It was one of those dreams where even the dream-you comments on how weird it is - at one point I turned to Andy and said, "Isn't it strange that we've met everyone I link to? Small world." At least, that's the vibe I was getting - I don't believe dreams actually have words, just perceived vibes. Telepathic communication, I think, is the way of the dream.

At one point in my dream I went into this god-awful bathroom in a gym or something - every bathroom in every dream of mine is set up like it's in a gym with exits at each side - and this bathroom was foul. I had Nic with me and wasn't sure if I could go to the bathroom while holding him, so I asked the bathroom attendant, melly, to hold him for me. She was like, "What, you need both hands to wipe your ass? Hold your own kid." I went into the stall and it was totally covered in filth and I gagged. Melly told me to grow up or hold it and get out. I got out.

We went into an antique store run by MJ where Artichoke Heart was shopping with her twelve little children who all had hair like Michael Jackson and were running around breaking things. I cut my arm on something and these little mitochondria-looking bugs started to swarm in to burrow down into the cut. I freaked out until Irish Girl showed me how to singe my arm hair off with a lighter - I don't know why they stayed away after that but they did.

When we left the shop, Simon was outside at a caramel apple stand. I went up to buy one of the multitude of caramel apples he was carrying and he told me that they weren't for sale, that they were all for him. This part is particularly strange because yesterday he outed himself as being fat - maybe I somehow knew that, or maybe I inferred it from the name "Big Simon", or maybe it was just part of that whole wacky subconscious thing. (My favorite line of that post, by the way, is "[I'm] really big, not just American-fat." It's a really honest post, you should check it out.)

Anyway, what are dreams if not our subconscious trying to tell us something, huh? HUH?!? Nothing, that's what. And what have I learned from this? I need more links.

Since announcing the Dilly Awards I've been sent quite a few links to some really great blogs, many of which I've begun reading regularly, but I didn't want to link to them from here because I didn't want even a whiff of impropriety about the contest. But forget that - it's getting to be too much of a hassle to keep popping around surreptitiously reading blogs and keeping them from the rest of you. It's just not fair, damn it.

So in the next few hours - or days, whatever - expect some freshly plucked linkage for your enjoyment. One in particular is one that Andy and I have been reading for a long time, Time For Your Meds, but I've resisted putting a link to her because she's too popular and I didn't want anyone to think I was kissing up to the popular kid, but screw that. And screw you for thinking that, ya rat bastard! Who are you to judge, huh?

And because I am a bed-wetting liberal I heartily endorse The Lysistrata Project. Though I have, on occasion, muttered the phrase, "Just nuke the bastards and be done with it" I really am not serious about that sentiment. Or maybe I am, I don't know. No, probably not. Okay, maybe a little. But only on Tuesdays in February - after all, isn't February really the Tuesday of the year? Thought so. What the hell does that even mean? No clue.

Disjointed-ly,

Natalie

I wish the manic side of manic depression lasted longer than it did - I have a lot of things I should have done when I had that energy boost. This is me today, so I'll just go away and hide.

Dumpily,

Natalie

I been drifting along in the same stale shoes
Loose ends tying the noose in the back of my mind
If you thought that you were making your way
To where the puzzles and pagans lay
I'll put it together: It's a strange invitation
When I wake up someone will sweep up my lazy bones
And we will rise in the cool of the evening
I remember the way that you smiled
When the gravity shackles were wild
And something is vacant when I think it's all beginning (<-- one of the best lines ever)
I been drifting along in the same stale shoes
Loose ends tying the noose in the back of my mind
If you thought that you were making your way
To where the puzzles and pagans lay
I'll put it together: It's a strange invitation

Yesterday

mom: You tricked us. Your father and I were both on the phone, ready to sing to you and you didn't answer.
me: That wasn't a trick, I was asleep - dad was going to sing?
mom: Yes. He dialed your number himself.
me: Wow, good for him. Put him on the phone
dad: Schedule D.
me: What?
dad: You sold those shares, right? For your taxes. You need schedule D. You can pick one up at your local public library or the post office. It's best to pick up a few of them in case you make a mistake on one, then you'll have a replacement.
me: Uh, okay, I'll get into my horse drawn carriage and go to my local post office. Then I'll send something via pony express and come home and play a record on my gramophone - geesus, do you even know what year this is? I use software to do my taxes, but thanks for the tip.
dad: Software? Does it have schedule D for reporting? Because you have to report that gain. It's a capital gain and that means it's income, even if you don't have a job.
me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure it has schedule D for reporting.
dad: You take a look at the weather channel today? Weather on the 7's, that's what I watch.
me: Nope - I looked outside, saw snow, went back to bed.
dad: If you don't watch the weather channel you won't know when the snow's coming. You won't know what the weather is like down here.
me: That's a risk I'm willing to take.
dad: I'll give you back to your mother now. Schedule D, now don't forget.
mom: (yelling at my dad) You could have told the girl happy birthday, you know! Sorry about him, he's an idiot; I don't think he even notices when he wakes up. Bitter morning, sparrows singing, birds without necks.
me: Uh...okay.
mom: It's Zen. I bought a Zen-a-day calendar and that's your Zen for the day.
me: That's my Zen, great. What does it mean?
mom: You're supposed to think about the sparrows without necks. They hunch their heads down when it's cold outside. I bought this calendar the other day because the calendars are all on sale and I like Zen. I was Zen before I knew what Zen was. The more you talk about something the less power it has over you - that was yesterday's Zen. They teach you that in AA. If you talk about getting drunk and blowing your own finger off with a gun it helps you heal faster.
me: What, your finger?
mom: No, your addiction.
me: Who blew off their own finger?
mom: Some guy I was in AA with; aren't you listening?
me: J's mom ripped her own toe off when she was little. She got it caught on a hook in a barn and tripped. She stood up and saw it sticking from the hook and she fainted and fell off a hayloft. She was in a coma for a while. That's why she limps and buys things from the Home Shopping Network.
mom: What does that have to do with anything?
me: It's Zen - think about it.
mom: Oh. Oh, yeah, I get it.
me: Thought you might.
mom: Did Andy give you your lingerie?
me: Yes, so you don't have to worry that you've just ruined the surprise.
mom: I wasn't thinking, but you opened it already so that's okay. What are you doing for your birthday dinner?
me: Going out somewhere. I think I'm going to have lobster, just because.
mom: Hmmm.
me: What? You have something against me eating lobster? You don't keep kosher, either.
mom: No, it's not that, it's just...nothing. Nevermind, it's your day to enjoy yourself.
me: No, go ahead and say what you were going to say.
mom: I was just thinking that someone who's so far in debt might not want to be buying lobster, but I'm not going to mention it. It's your day, enjoy yourself, worry about your debts later.
me: Thank you, I will.
mom: Your sister called to wish you a happy birthday but you didn't answer the phone so now she's mad at you.
me: Yeah, that was another one of my tricks. She's just jealous because I'm stylish and she can't handle it.
mom: (silence)
me: That's some more Zen for you.
mom: I get the feeling you're making fun of me. Hippy tried making fun of me for the Zen but she's decided to become Wiccan now so she has no room to talk.
me: Oh christly christ, a Wiccan?
mom: Yes, but don't tell her I told you; she asked me to not mention it to you. You know, she did her taxes and got back nearly $5,000? She got back more than she paid in.
me: Wow, that's a neat trick. Poor people living in the ghetto get all the lucky breaks. What's she going to do with the money? Maybe move out of the projects and into a real apartment?
mom: No, she's getting her yin yang tattoo redone. The pink is fading and the blue has bled out a bit. I think after that she's buying a couch and some artwork. If there's anything left she might get her brakes fixed.
me: Glad she has her priorities in order. I forgot about her tattoo; she got that when she was a Buddhist, I remember. Is she going to get some Wiccan tattoo now, too?
mom: She wants to but she doesn't know what all the symbols mean yet. She's only been Wiccan for a couple of days.
me: Mmm, fresh Wiccan. Tasty.
mom: You'd better not tease her about it! You'll hurt her feelings.
me: She's 34; it'd be a crime to not make fun of her about it. I read a great quote, something like it's good to be open-minded, but not so open-minded that your brain falls out. Her brains have fallen out.
mom: I want you to think about what you've just said when you get your card from her. She gave you $30 for your birthday and she doesn't have money to throw around like that, you should appreciate her.
me: You just said she has five grand.
mom: That's not the point. You be nice and don't make fun of her on your journal.
me: I won't. Hey, you know that I was nominated to be an honorary Dykewrite lesbian?
mom: Is that a good thing?
me: Yes. Yes it is.
mom: Oh. Then I'm proud of you. But I'm not going to tell your father. Or any of my friends.
me: I said honorary. I don't have to be a lesbian.
mom: I know that, I just don't want to have to tell anyone.
me: Then don't. But that's not a very Zen-like attitude to have. You've disappointed Zen and I don't think he wants to talk to you anymore.
mom: Now you are making fun of me.
me: Just a little.
mom: I didn't want to bring it up but since you haven't said "thank you" yet I have to - did you get your card?
me: Yes, as a matter of fact, it came yesterday. On time for my birthday...there, beat you to it.
mom: Beat me to what?
me: I mentioned that you sent the card early enough so it got here in time for my birthday before you could do it and criticize me for being late with your card.
mom: The thought never even crossed my mind!
me: Yeah, it didn't.
mom: Your card was free from the March of Dimes. They sent us some free greeting cards and asked for a donation but they'll just have to wait until December like every other charity. Who does that? Who contributes to charity this early in the year?
me: Crazy people.
mom: Yes! Crazy people. Are you typing?
me: Uh...yeah, I'm on yahoo with Andy. He says hello.
mom: Oh. Hello. I'm going to have to get going, I have a doctors appointment and we're going over to Boob Job's house tonight. She's throwing a sex toys party.
me: She just went to a sex toys party last month! Damn, that girl has a serious problem.
mom: If she throws a party she gets a discount. All she buys are tassles - you know, she makes some pretty good money when she takes her boobs out.
me: She's a stripper now?
mom: No she's not a stripper - she just dances around topless at parties and people pay her money.
me: Oh, is that all? Good, for a second there I thought you were telling me she's a stripper now, but what she does is nothing at all like stripping. I was just a little confused.
(dad picks up the other line)
dad: Do you need me to go to the post office or what?
mom: I'm on the god damn phone here, you lazy cuss! You couldn't walk the ten feet down the hall and ask me in person? You don't know what we were talking about, maybe we were talking about a gift for you and you ruined it, did you ever think of that?
dad: Well I'm going to the post office and I'm not taking anything you wanted me to take. And I won't be back for a long time because I'm getting the tire fixed!
mom: Watch this, Natalie: Honey, how old is Natalie?
dad: (silent)
mom: Well?
dad: I don't have time for all of this.
me: You don't know my age?
dad: Well I have a lot of kids! I can't keep track of all of you.
me: Thanks for that, mom, I feel really good now.
mom: Are you still on the phone? Talk to your daughter while I take out the trash. (click)
dad: I don't have time, I'm going to the post office. (click)

Disconnected-ly,

Natalie

Too ... hung ... over ... to ... think ... of ... anything ... clever ... to ... say...

Nah, I'm not really that bad. A bit thick in the head, sure, but then what else is new? Dinner was fantastic, though I was too distracted by the surprise arrival of a friend to eat any of it, and the kids were excellent. Real live grownups doing real grownup stuff and drinking two bottles of grownup wine. It's a good thing.

We thought the place we were going to was supposed to be posh - that's the worst part of being a transplant to a new area, you don't really know what you're getting yourself into when you eat at a non-chain restaurant - but it wasn't, though I was actually glad for that because they really knew how to handle kids there. I'd rate the evening a four out of four - or ten out of ten, or whatever arbitrary rating you choose, I'm not picky. Best birthday ever, so much so that I'm having another birthday today. I wasn't born until after nine at night so I figure my birthday only started after I got home from the restaurant and will continue on until this evening. Which means more presents for me, cuz damn it, I'm special.

The day already has the makings of a pretty good day - the highlight came when Andy told me this morning, "You smell gorgeous, what's that fragrance?" and I huskily replied, "Downy wrinkle-releaser - I sprayed it on my shirt last night." Yeah, that's sexy.

But lordy is my head giving me grief this morning. At some point last night I remember demonstrating to Andy how my new undies would fit as an eyepatch and I'm pretty sure I grabbed a walnut and used the underwear as a slingshot - it's all a part of the seduction, you see. But yeah, I got drunk, and now I'm off to nuke some lobster for breakfast.

Celebrating-ly,

Natalie

Thanks, everyone, for the happy birthday wishes...but how did you know it was my birthday? I've been pretty quiet about it, I thought.

It's been a good birthday so far - I got sexy lingerie, doo dah, doo dah, I've got cleavage up to here, oh dee doo dah day. Seriously, there's only one word for it: padow. Or a plain, old, "damn" works but you gotta say it like, "daaaahhhhhmmm". Seriously deep, "I don't need to take my purse, I can keep everything here between my breasts" kinda thing. Picture J-Lo's butt, then put it on my chest. Allow me to reiterate: padow.

I would post a picture but I don't want anyone to think I'm trying to bribe the judges at Dykewrite. In case you missed it, I've been nominated by the lovely Artichoke Heart for the coveted title of honorary dykewrite lesbian for March. If I win I'd join the ranks of Michelle, Joel, Kitty, Suzie, and Roni. What a great birthday present that is to just be nominated - course, it would rock to win, but I'm trying to be all adult an' stuff. Cuz I'm 26 now, you see. Yeah, adult.

I'm pleased to be considered for this award. There are some people in society who believe that dykes should go back to their own country and complain that dykes are taking all of the good jobs, like stand-up comediennes, folk singers and angry poets. And they keep more than their fair share of cats. But not I. I say, let the lesbians stay - after all, who among us can say that they don't have any lesbian ancestors? We can all live in peace and harmony in this country, there's no need to send dykes back to their native homeland of...hey, where do lesbians come from, anyway? I can't tell by their accents. Ah well, I'm awful at geography anyway, I probably wouldn't know where the country is even if knew what it was called.

So thank you - the nomination was just the icing on a pretty good day as it was.

I have to start getting the kids ready for my birthday dinner. Andy said he wanted to do something nice for me and I thought, "Kick ass - we're getting some gyros and doing it twice!" but no, we're going to a restaurant. A real-live eating establishment that doesn't have a designated play area. It's a bit of a novelty...oh who am I kidding? Novelty, hell, it's unheard of! Of course, the kids will be in attendance but I plan on getting really drunk and ignoring them - Andy can deal with them. Betty Friedan and I share a birthday so I'm gonna do her proud tonight.

I'm still counting on us doing it twice, though. I'll have to post tomorrow to let you know how that whole thing turned out. Andy, watch out, cuz momma ain't sleeping on the couch tonight.

Padow-ingly,

Natalie

Dah dun nun nun nah...ya say it's your birthday? Dah dun nun nun nah...it's my birthday too, yeah...

And so on.

We're going out for my birthday, dah dun nun nun nah...wait, didn't I say I'd stop that? Thought I did. I haven't been out to dinner in at least three months, maybe longer. I'm psyched. I'm happy.

I'm 26.

Shit.

Aged-ly,

Natalie

For mopsa and her "it ain't easy being green" theme she's got going on over there...

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
All of us under its spell,
We know that it's probably magic
Have you been half asleep? And have you heard voices? I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm s'posed to be
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Kermit-ly,

Natalie

Fun With Beans

Beanie can't or won't say the word "milk" - she calles it "nope" for some reason. Our whole family has adopted this word, and many other words that Beanie's said, as the real word. Sam has even gone to school and told the lunch lady, "I'll have some chocolate nope, please." I've never tried to correct Zoe until lately since she's only just learned to pronounce the "L" sound, now it's time she learned the real word. And in typical Natalie-fashion, I jack with her about it.

Zoe: Can I have some nope, please?
me: Nope.
Zoe: Yes, nope.
me: Nope.
Zoe: That's what I said. I said "nope".
me: And I said nope.
(Zoe looks puzzled for a moment, realizing we're not getting anywhere.)
Zoe: Can I have some milk or not?
me: Milk? Sure. I thought you said nope.
Zoe: (laughs hysterically)

She's quickly becoming one seriously funny kid.

It's not mental abuse if we can all laugh at it-ingly,

Natalie

Snow, snow, snow! Whoo-hoo, I'm so happy. I was out there, a-blowin and a-shovelling in my pajamas. I smell like motor oil and the bottom of my pants are soaked.

If I woke up to this every morning, with a working snowblower in my garage, it would be heaven to me.

Ah, I love the smell of Minnesota in the morning! Smells like...well, it smells a bit like a gas station at the moment, what with all the snowblowers going, but after that it'll smell like snow. If I had more gas for the thing I'd snowblow everyone's driveways for them.

Andy, on the other hand, came in the house muttering the lyrics, "We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave..." No problems, though, as tonight he'll be able to enjoy a lovely lavender and chamomile bubble bath.

Frostily,

Natalie

An open letter to the woman who posted a comment that I deleted before I could make a note of her IP address

So I deleted your comment - I was mad, you see, because Andy and I were just rehashing this very same argument earlier in the evening, though with him it's not an argument; it's an intellectual discussion. You were trying to provoke an argument.

Her comment (and please, correct me if I'm wrong - I didn't ban you, I just deleted what you said and lordy knows I wish I hadn't) was something along the lines of...and please, put your sarcastic glasses on here..."I'm glad that not everyone is worked up about the Columbia disaster, it's refreshing to see someone so self-involved as to think that we care what she thinks about her age." Or whatever. I'm parahphrasing (please, please do comment again, as I'd love to hear your opinion - it was my initial anger that made me delete you and I promise I'll not do that again).

The fact of the matter is this: I cannot bear to grieve again. If you're a regular reader of this here site you'll know that I often hide in humor to mask pain. I could never, ever, be able to look my children in the eye and say, "Daddy won't be coming home ever again because he was too involved in studying the effects of weightlessness on mold growth, or combustability, or an experimental ant colony or whatever. Your daddy is dead." For fuck's sake, I couldn't do that and I would never want anyone to have to do that, either. But there are people tonight who have had to do that very thing with their children. I can't do this. I can't think of those spouses, now widows, who have to deal with explaining this tragedy to their children. I just can't.

I am fundamentally broken. Everything about me is broken. My family tree is splintered because of the Holocaust - I can't even explain that to my daughter when she asks about it. My grandmother was one of thirteen children, four of which survived Hitler's rule. Over a half-century later I still lack the words to explain this. I can't reconcile this stupid tragedy so I won't pretend that I can. Know that I am splintered, know that I am in pain but please don't expect me to put myself on the brink talking about how awful and tragic this disaster is. Because I know it is but if I think about it, it will break me. Seriously, it will break me.

I can't do that to myself. I'm allowed to be selfish because I'm alive. I'm allowed to hurt because I am alive. Survivor's syndrome.

I know what I can and cannot talk about. I remember the Challenger, yessir, I do. My children will remember the Columbia, yessir they will. There's no point to that loss - Andy said they knew the risk when they signed on, but screw that. You know the risk of road rage when you decide to commute? You know the risk of homicidal kids when you become a teacher? They had children; children who are dealing with one less parent tonight.

Tonight I lit a candle in Bean's room and we sang "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" while pretending that the light was a real star in the sky. I can't pretend to comprehend the loss for those children so in the meantime I'll not pretend that I do, and just write about myself.

If you find that self-absorbed then take your business elsewhere. I do what I have to do.

Un-apologetically,

Natalie

What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?
Anyone can roast beef.

What do Alexander the Great and Winnie the Pooh have in common?
Same middle name.

Man: Are you interested in philosophy?
Woman: No, I'm not.
Man: Do you have a sister?
Woman: No, I don't.
Man: Well, if you did have a sister, do you think she'd be interested in philosophy?

It's Garrison Keillor's annual joke show and I'm just dying over here. I'm quickly realizing that I have an awful sense of humor.

Guffaw-ingly,

Natalie

On ponderance of my impending birthday...

There I was, surreptitiously peeling the skin from the fried chicken for a midnight snack (why won't KFC sell me a bucket of skin? Surely there's a lot of chicken skin lying around, what with all of the restaurants offering skinless chicken breasts...come on, KFC, buy up those skins, fry them up and sell them by the bucket! I'd eat there every day) when a thought hit me: when I am my husband's age I will have been a mother for over half my life. In April I will have been a mother for a decade. A decade. And I'm only going to be freshly 26 next week.

I'll not insult anyone by proclaiming my age as old, per se, but damn it if I don't feel old inside. Today was a good day for me; since my "hundred pounds of chicken" episode I've vowed that I'll get to know my suburbs a bit more completely so I drove out to Mounds Lake...or Mounds View?...or Mounds Hill...or something like that. Mounds something, anyway. I blinked and missed a couple of suburbs between here and there, but when I got there I decided to browse around the one and only strip-mall that this poor town offered up and discovered a book store. I love book stores; mainly I love to overhear the other patron's requests for books. "He goes by Edsel when he writes science fiction, but his horror writing pen name starts with Mac...Mac something..." Invariably, the clerk knows the exact author that's being searched for and also other trivia about the person - "Yes, his wife published a coffee table book in 1998 under her maiden name..." and so forth. I trudge along the stacks, baby in tow, and listen and watch and love.

Nic was sleeping most of the time so I felt like I was alone, like a real-live grown-up out doing grown-up things. In the back of my mind somewhere I knew that Andy was home with our girls but for that brief period I was alone (or as alone as is possible with a baby) and oh god was I so happy for that. I felt so serene, I wanted to sit down and have a steak sandwich, or sniff shampoo fragrances or something. I've been down so long that I've forgotten what it's like to be an adult.

I think that because of my isolation (and I really am isolated - in nearly four years of living in Minnesota I've only made two friends - those friends got married and moved away - I don't view this as pathetic in the slightest, no matter what anyone thinks. I truly am an island and have never needed, nor indeed, wanted anyone else) I forget about the simple pleasures like hanging out in bookstores and being childless and nerdy in my own nerdy way. I wanted to do stupid things like sit on the bench outside of the mall and just smoke, smoke, smoke until someone asked to bum a cig off of me, and I'd offer them two. Bus-stop smoking. Deli sandwich eating. Discount chain hair cutting. Making eye contact to the point where it's uncomfortable for both of you and saying "thank you" in a genuinely, sincere manner. God, I so miss that.

Tonight I danced Nic to a song that says "gonna live while I'm young". I don't mean I danced with him, I mean that I held him up and made him dance a goofy baby-dance to the song. That's not mature, but it was funny to me. Funny and sad, sad in a "you don't want what momma's got" kind of way.

And me? Well, no, I won't live while I'm young - I didn't even know what living really was, or what fun was supposed to be, when I suddenly became a mother. But some consolation can be found in the fact that when I'm in my early forties all of my kids will be in college (two will be finished with college, hopefully) and my mortgage will be paid off. I can have fun then, and a fun that's truly appreciated.

My sister who just had her first child shunned everything in her earlier years to follow the Grateful Dead. She tells me stories with nostalgic undertones about drug-induced orgies she had; the women and men she slept with and the money she made by letting a couple of guys film her sexual exploits. I don't have stories like that. I don't want stories like that. I was too old at too young of an age to appreciate anything of the sort. I'm glad for that.

I'll be old to some, but young to me, when I can live a "real" life, whatever that means. I don't love my kids any less for this burden (and I can admit it's a burden, unlike many) but when they're out there, growing up, I'll be drinking something exotic with an umbrella sticking out of it on a beach somewhere and thinking, "I've fucking earned this."

Old before my time-ly,

Natalie

I hate Hugh Grant. I hate him, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate him.

But god damn it if I don't love him after watching "About A Boy".

Okay, so the book was better (duh) and there wasn't a single Nirvana song in the whole movie (which makes no sense because "About A Boy" was a spin from N's "About A Girl") but the Badly Drawn Boy stuff kicked some major ass.

Now I love Hugh Grant. Watch the movie; you'll love him, too.

So loving-ly,

Natalie

Nic Names

This is something else I was just thinking about - nicknames. His name is Nicholas - a nice enough name but not one I'd have chosen, necessarily - but I call him Nic. Note the absence of the K at the end...that's about all you can do with that name, really. But he's getting some strange nicknames...I just popped out with Chucky Chesterfield for some reason and it got me thinking.

Nic is also known as Nicodemus, Nickadoo, Nickerdoodle, Dibbity (which is DBD for "da big dog"), Nico, and Boyo.

Zoe is Zo, Zo-beana, The Bean, Beanie, Beanie Mareno and Das Bean.

Samantha is Sampantha, Sam, Sammy, Samalamadingdong and Ditty (for "sissy" - Zoe named her that.)

Andy isn't even his real name, so that's a nickname, as is Andrew, Kenny, Snidey Dave and Fritz. Strange thing - he went by Kenny, but he had a friend named Kenny whose nickname was Betty.

And me...well, my dad calls me Noodles but if you try it I'll break your legs.

I want a nickname.

Non-nom de plume-ingly

Natalie

I'm an excellent driver. Definitely, definitely an excellent driver. Yeah.

Okay, so my Dustin Hoffman impression sucks, but you should hear my Sean Connery! "Shooow...nishe gooat. Schudn't we be mahking luv now?" I can pop my eyebrow like his and everything, oh you should see it, it's perfect.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Driving. Anyone who's ever had the misfortune of driving in Minnesota knows that we are the worst drivers ever. Even the agency that studies accidents and whatnot says so - I can't remember the name of the agency but you know the guys I'm talking about. They said that Minnesotans are the least likely drivers in the country to brake before a collision. What does that tell us? That either these drivers were a) not looking around at the other vehicles that could be potential accidents, or b) they were trying to speed up to get in front of other vehicles that could be potential accidents. Most likely scenario? Both.

There's a little saying here in Minnesota: Merging is a priviledge, not a right. I didn't realize how truely people believed this until last night, when Kare 11 (our local, what, NBC station? I think it's NBC - anyway, it was local news) had a feature on merging and how awful we were at it. It wasn't simply anecdotal evidence; they had a driving instructor actually take the reporter out on some of the busier freeways and point out what people were doing wrong as well as taking him up in a helicopter to show an aerial view of the freeways. Okay, so there's the proof that Minnesotans are, in fact, idiots. Pop quiz, hot shot: You're in your car and you're coming off an exit ramp - there's a semi truck driving in the inside lane - what do you do? If you're a Minnesotan you'll most likely misjudge how fast the semi is driving, think, "If I floor it I can get in front of him" and put the pedal to the metal, then realize the semi's going too fast for your intended plan so you change your mind and decide to enter traffic behind the semi instead. You slam on your brakes and swerve while the semi driver makes a highly unsafe lane-change to avoid hitting you. In the meantime, you're in the merging lane at a dead stop and other people behind you are coming around a blind curve...thankfully, they spot your dumb ass in the nick of time and slam on their brakes while you slowly gain speed and merge onto the 70 m.p.h. freeway at a leisurely 30 m.p.h. Without signaling. Or looking over your shoulder. Completely un-freaking-aware of how many lives your dumb ass just endangered.

If you are from any other state in the country you'd think...well, what's there to think about, really? Merge behind the semi. Duh.

Why are Minnesotans so bad at freeway driving? Get this - it's not taught during driver's ed. Minnesota not only requires less "behind the wheel" time during driver's ed than most states but they're not required to teach freeway driving and merging. But if you knock over a cone while parallel parking you fail your exam. What the hell?!?

This is a worry because roundabouts are gaining popularity. There are a couple in our town located in the Commons shopping area, and there are a few major ones on actual streets. The news crew planted a camera in front of one roundabout to show how bad people were at merging, right of way, and the rest. See, herein lies the basic flaw in a US roundabout...let's say, for argument's sake, that you enter a four-way roundabout. That's just a double circle (inside and outside lane) with four spokes coming off of it. Still with me here? You enter at road A and you want to exit the roundabout at road D, which would be a left-turn if this were a four-way stop. You have the furthest distance to travel around so what should you do? Get into the inside lane and leave the outside lane for other people entering and exiting the roundabout. Why should you stay in the outside lane making traffic for the guy who enters at B and exits at C? You shouldn't, but I betcha you will.

I'm allowed to criticize Minnesota drivers because I was schooled in Illinois. I was pregnant when I was in driver's ed - very pregnant, in fact - so I was cautious to a fault. I had five hours of freeway driving instruction alone (Minnesota requires six hours "behind the wheel" in total) so I feel qualified to offer my criticism. And my driving instructor's name was Mr. Carr, for whatever that's worth. Andy paid me the compliment once of saying that I was the only American he's ever ridden with who he thought would be able to pass the strict UK driving exam.

So yeah, I'm an excellent, definitely an excellent driver. It's the other guy's fault. I swear.

Pointing the finger-ly,

Natalie

Tonight

me: I'm in love with another woman.
andy: (deadpan) Really. Who is it this time?
me: Hang on, let me check.
andy: Sounds like true love to me.
me: No, I know who it is. It's Karen something. Karen Something-To-Do-With-Computers [yes, I can speak in hyphens, it's an inherited trait] Her blog's name is a spoof on something that makes me think of comics, let me check.
andy: If I had a dime for every woman you fell in love with...
me: It's Karen Zipdrive from Pulp Friction.
andy: Oh her? She's popular.
me: Oh no, is she really?
andy: I think MJ and Joel link to her.
me: Ah well. You can't discover something that's in the phone book.
andy: No you can't.

Non-Magellen-ly,

Natalie

An Open Letter of Apology to the Butcher at Whatever Store That Was I Went To Last Night

Kind sir, please understand that there are a couple of factors at play here. Last night I didn't want to go anywhere at all, sick as I was feeling, let alone trudging through streets I don't even know to visit a grocery store I'd never heard of. I don't know these suburbs yet and I've really never had much need to extend my shopping beyond the Commons, so you could understand how I could get confused over your grocery store and the other grocery store that I'd intended to go to.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. See, I've only realized that I like the dark meat on chicken. Until about a week ago it was white meat all the way for me; I never even looked at the dark meat because it was too fatty. Now I can't get enough of the stuff; I want it morning, noon and night. Imagine my bliss when I saw in a sale ad "ten-pound packs of chicken leg quarters, 28 cents per pound, one day only." I mean, come on! $2.80 for ten pounds of chicken bliss - how could I refuse? I was going on a stock-up expedition.

Another thing I've only just begun doing is being frugal in my grocery shopping. The booming economy of yesteryear saw me shopping at grocery stores with carpeting and crystalline lights hanging from the ceiling. There was always a pianist playing at the front and occasionally a harpist, and upon entering the liquore store the Armani-suited merchant would hand us a glass of wine and declare how nice it was to see us again, even if it was the first time he'd ever seen us at all. We not only didn't bag our own groceries but we didn't even have to carry them to our own cars - there was a slew of overly-polite young men who would do it for us, humble boys who would actually clip their heels together when they'd receive their tip. The days of conspicious consumption and vulgar opulence were upon us and I was covered in the filth.

Now I freak when I see a sale for chicken at a dingy little grocery store in the next town. I'm still adjusting.

I looked through your poultry section and didn't see any of the sale-priced chicken so I asked you if there were any more available. You were so kind to offer to make me up a package in the back and I saw the sparkle in your eyes when I said, "Make it ten." Yes, I was going to buy ten ten-pound packs of chicken quarters from you - I wonder what that would have meant for you? Would you have gotten a star on your nametag, or maybe your name printed on a white board in the back? Did you go into the cooler and tell the other butchers, "I'm about to off-load a hundred pounds of chicken on that lady out there!" I can't even think about that, I just feel too guilty.

You brought me the chicken and I saw that it wasn't, in fact, priced at twenty-eight cents per pound as advertised; rather, it was up around a dollar. You asked me if something was wrong and when I told you the price I was expecting your face fell and you informed me that yes, this was the sale price for this store, but the sale price I was after was from a different store. I understood the words you were saying but they were lost to me - in my mind I was seeing this scene from the eyes of the other customers who passed by, no doubt wondering about the strange woman shaking her head at the gift of a hundred pounds of chicken this confused butcher was trying to present to her. I saw the realization sink in and I couldn't speak; I just stood there opening and closing my mouth like some fish. You walked away and I walked away and I wonder which one of us felt worse?

Something similar happened to me once at my old, vulgar grocery store. I'd misread the label on some particularly good cheese and grabbed a few chunks of the stuff and made my way to the check-out. The woman running the register began weighing the cheese on a scale and I realized with a sinking feeling that the price I saw marked on the cheese was the price per ounce and not the total price for the entire unit. Thankfully I'd realized this in time to tuck my cash away and produce my credit card for payment instead. I couldn't admit my mistake to this woman; I felt that if I did I would be black-balled from every Byerlys across the state. I laughed about that one later but I didn't laugh over what happened last night. I truly felt awful about that.

If, on the off-chance that someone reads this and says, "Oh, so she's the chicken woman Wayne was talking about!" please extend my deepest apologies to him. I really do feel like an ass about this - I know that's of little consequence to the kind butcher at whatever store that was. I only hope that my stupidity didn't case you any trouble.

Apologetically,

Natalie

I'm still sick and I don't want to write about it and you don't want to read about it. Instead I bring you another installment of "Meet My Folks". This conversation took place a week or two ago when I visited my parents in Illinois.

mom: Come here, you have a blackhead.
me: Nice to see you, too. And it's a freckle.
mom: A freckle like that I've never seen. It's a blackhead. Come here.
me: I'm not a child anymore, I can take care of my own skin. And it's a freckle.
mom: Come here, let me see.
me: No! You're not getting those nails anywhere near my face. (hiding behind my father) Dad, tell her I'm not a child anymore and make her stay away.
dad: Leave her alone, this is why she never comes to see us.
me: (sticking my tongue out at my mom) Nyeh nyeh nyeh.
dad: And it's a freckle.
me: Aren't you supposed to be going blind or something? How can you even see my freckle from ten feet away?
mom: A blackhead that size even a blind person can see; and anyway, it was a staph infection that's stablized now. I have cream for my eyes and wash them with baby shampoo. I see you're a red head again.
me: Yeah, so what of it?
mom: You need to cover your roots. Why do you dye your hair? It's so beautiful naturally.
me: It's so black naturally. It's like used motor oil. When I get grey hairs they stand out too much - this way when I have grey hairs and dye my hair it gives me a nice highlight effect.
mom: What do you know from grey hairs? I was grey when I was seventeen.
me: Yeah, and now you're bald so there.
mom: It'll happen to you, too, someday if you keep dyeing your hair like that.
me: Then I'll buy a sassy wig, or wear bandanas of the confederate flag or something.
mom: Anyway, I read that story of yours. Why didn't you tell me you started writing again?
me: Because I didn't want you to know. You'd just destroy me like you always do.
mom: What destroy? When have I ever destroyed?
me: When I changed my major from engineering to criminology, for one.
mom: Ach, all I did was call you Scully and tell you that you were stupid for changing majors. You couldn't handle criminology, you're too soft. When I worked in the morgue I saw tougher people than you pass out. You couldn't do it - engineering, that you could do. All that takes is some math; anyone can do math. You should have stuck with something you could do instead of being stupid and changing.
me: See, that's what I mean.
mom: What? A mother can't give her daughter constructive criticism? You're too sensitive. That's why you could never make it in criminology.
me: At any rate, that's not a story, it was a dream I had that I weaved together a bit.
mom: You should write about what I was doing in your dream.
me: I'm pretty sure you were dead.
mom: No I wasn't - I had left your father and was living a fun life. You should write about the fun life I was having without your father.
me: No, I'm pretty sure you were dead in my dream. I had that feeling, anyway.
mom: I'll be dead someday after I leave your father and have fun. Write about that.
dad: Write about it, hell, just go do it and leave me alone.
mom: See what I have to put up with? You should write that book you're always threatening us with. You're too old to be anything special anymore, but still it's not too late.
me: What do you mean, too old to be anything special? I'm not even 26!
mom: Yeah, but if you would have written a book when you were younger people would have paid attention. They would say, "I can't believe she wrote this, being as young as she is!" Now, not so much.
me: Well for your information, I'm working on a book, as a matter of fact.
mom: Am I mentioned?
me: Oh yes. Heavily.
mom: Good. Now, you're not going to make me into some monster, are you? Because you know all memories are false.
me: I understand that memories are inherently flawed because it's only one person's perspective of a situation at a young age, if that's what you mean.
mom: No, I mean you can't trust your memories. Of anything. Remember when you swore you invented peanut brittle? And scooters, remember that? See? False memories.
me: I didn't exactly think I invented peanut brittle, I just made the recipe using the proper scientific names for the ingredients.
mom: You called the peanuts "protein pellets" - how can that be scientific?
me: It was easier than calling them "excessively caloric legumes" or "arachis hypogaea" or something like that. "Protein pellet" worked just fine.
mom: False memories. Remember when we went to Wisconsin Dells and you got carsick? Everywhere we went, you with the carsick. Even within a month of going your memory was that we'd gone to Arizona.
me: Well, I was sick, and could swear that I remembered driving in the desert. The haunted house we went to had an Old West theme. I got confused is all.
mom: I'm not going to tell your sisters that you're writing a book. It'll just upset them. And don't publish it under your own name, that way they'll never know. They're still mad that you called them "pigs" in that story you wrote in the first grade.
me: Somehow I'm not surprised. And my stories are going to be a mixture of fact and fiction. I'd call it "faction" if that weren't already a word. And "fict" just sounds like a swear word with a French accent.
mom: Just be nice to your sisters. You write bad things about them and they won't speak to you after I die. I want to know that you kids will stay friends.
me: I promise I'll be nice to my sisters.
mom: They know what you call them in your journal. That's no so nice.
me: "Ditz", "Hippy" and "Boob Job" are perfect descriptions of them. I call them that to their faces.
mom: But not to strangers. Just be nice.
me: And don't put my real name to it.
mom: Yes. That way if people say, "This sounds like Natalie" I can say, "Yes I guess it does. Maybe Natalie should get in touch with this person who wrote this book, this other person that's not Natalie."
me: Yep, that'll be pretty convincing. And when you loan the book out you can say, "Here's a good book that Natalie didn't write under a pseudonym."
mom: Don't be smart.
me: Okay. How dumb would you like me to be? Slightly dumb or extremely dumb?
mom: Don't give me any lip, missy.
dad: You two, play nice.
me: She started it.
dad: Well I'll finish it.
me: Sorry, dad.
mom: Him you listen to, me you sass. Remember, I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.
me: I love our mother-daughter time. It's good for reminding me why I'm a neurotic.
mom: You're neurotic because you let yourself be. That's why you could never make it in criminology.

Post-nasal drip-ingly,

Natalie

Because I am sick I am dripping from every orifice in my head, and when it lands it sizzles like on Aliens. I feel like I should post something but am in no fit state to write anything. Since I am an uncreative hack I've pulled the following thing - it was originally one of those email things that went around last year where a friend emails it to you and everyone in their address book, then you reply to everyone on the list and include everyone in your address book, ad infinitum; the point being, presumably, to introduce your friends to each other and, I don't know, get to know your friend's friend's. I hate these because they usually become an exercise in seeing who can out-obscure each other in the music and books department. I, on the other hand, used it to farm for email addresses that were nicknamed things like "Dad at work" and "Pastor William". I would then make sure those addresses were placed in my address book under "Dirty Jokes List". Anytime I got a dirty joke or picture in my email, dad at work and the good pastor would have it sent to them as well.

The funniest thing is that most of the time these strangers emailed me back to tell me that they liked the jokes. Crazy.

Anyway, this is my response to one of those things. Yes, I'm being lazy but I prefer to call it "recycling". Feel free to grab the form and start it going around again, either in email or on your blog. I promise, I won't send any dirty jokes to your grandma Kate (but I bet she'd like one).

Sick-ly,

Natalie

**************************

1. IF YOU COULD BUILD YOUR HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE?
Exactly where it is - on an alien lunar launch pad located in Vector 6.12-59 in the subsection of Galaxy Macrosan. I like it here, the rain falls upside down and there's a never-ending supply of haddock.

2. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING?
My toga for formal occasions, my fig leaves if I'm going casual.

3. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE PHYSICAL FEATURE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX?
BOOBS! No, wait, that's not right...hang on a second, shoot, what is it? Oh, yeah - it's boobs. Big old droopy man boobs, yeah baby!

4. WHAT'S THE LAST CD THAT YOU BOUGHT?
An inspirational self-help book on cd to deal with my emotional baggage - it's called, "Daddy Drinks Because You Cry - Continuing the Abuse of Your Inner Child"

5. WHERE'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO BE?
In the ripped-open carcass of a freshly killed caribou, trying to stave off death from exposure by urinating on myself for warmth. (I usually refer to it as "Minnesota")

6. WHERE'S YOUR LEAST FAVORITE PLACE TO BE?
Too far away from my beloved caribou.

7. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO BE MASSAGED?
The knobby bit on the underside of the webbing of my toes, you know that part? That feels FANTASTIC! The doctors want to remove it - they think they're so smart throwing around words like, "malignant" and "abnormality" but I like my knob. I call it Gregory and he gets angry if you stare. At least, I think it's anger he's expressing - when it starts throbbing and glowing green? Sure looks like anger to me!

8. WHAT'S MOST IMPORTANT, STRONG IN MIND OR STRONG IN BODY?
I like a person who's strong in strength - that's always refreshing.

9. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING?
I do not understand the ways of your people - what is this "morning" you speak of?

10. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW?
I like that one show, it's on all the time, you know where they make up stories about places outside of America? Gosh those guys have great imaginations...the big storyline now is about this place called "Afghanistan" where people ride camels and hide in caves and stuff...it's pretty amazing. How do they come up with this stuff? I can't wait for sweeps week, I heard that George Clooney is going to make a special appearance - do I smell a new love interest? Tune in and find out!

11. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE KITCHEN APPLIANCE?
My mechanical bull. Who needs a mixer when you have a mechanical bull?

12. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE CHILDHOOD MEMORY?
Any that don't come out during regression therapy. At least, none of those that require more electro-shock treatment.

13. WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Things that are funny. Weird, huh?

14. WHAT MAKES YOU REALLY ANGRY?
When people get in my face, trying to find out what makes me angry just to antagonize me. Just back off, okay!

15. IF YOU COULD PLAY ANY INSTRUMENT WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Probably an instrument of torture. Or the triangle because it's an instrument AND a shape - I respect the triangle's diverse nature. Don't let anyone label you, triangle - stay strong!

16. FAVORITE RESTAURANT/CAFE/EATERY?
The ones that don't kick me out for not wearing pants - so I guess, none.

18. IF THERE WAS A MOVIE MADE ABOUT YOU, WHAT CURRENT/FORMER HOLLYWOOD STAR WOULD PLAY YOU?
Probably Patrick Swayze because we both have really huge cleft chins. And we both look like crap in drag.

19. DO YOU BELIEVE IN AFTERLIFE?
I believe in afterdeath.

20. FAVORITE CHILDREN'S BOOK?
"Consolidating Debt for Dummies"

21. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON?
I really like paprika but have been surprised by my blooming passion for coriander, the sexy little beast!

22. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE HOUSEHOLD CHORE?
Scraping the barnacles off the toilet seat.

23. IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPER POWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
I would speak in binary code. But I would hope that I didn't meet someone else who spoke binary code because I don't really have an ear for foreign languages - we'd have to communicate by writing messages on a white board or something, and I just don't have that kind of time.

24. IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT?
My tattoo is the little guy on Fantasy Island who would say, "Da plane, da plane!" at the start of every show. I think his name was Eric.

25. WHO WAS YOUR FIRST LOVE AND AT WHAT AGE?
I had a whirlwind romance ending in heartbreak with Captain Kangaroo at the tender age of four - we just wanted different things out of life, you know? He wanted his show to go into syndication...I was interested in boogers and eating paste. But I'll always have memories, sweet memories of pooping behind the sandbox. (That last part has nothing to do with love, I'm just fond of that particular memory - does it count as a memory if it happened today?)

26. THE SONG YOU WISHED YOU HAD WRITTEN?
The song that makes the whole world sing - I can't remember if that's the Coke song or the song that doesn't end.

27. DO YOU PREFER CATS OR DOGS?
Prefer them what? Boiled, fried...? Was this question cut off or something?

28. WHAT'S IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR?
Joey "Loose Lips" Cabronne - but don't tell the Boss, as I didn't get his permission to whack the guy.

29. FROM THE PEOPLE YOU EMAILED THIS TO-WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
The certain individual who also received a picture attachment of themselves with a certain unnamed politician in a certain compromising position - you know who you are!

30. FROM THE PEOPLE YOU EMAILED THIS TO-WHO IS LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
The FBI - they never come when you need them, but when you make just ONE threatening gesture toward a visiting foreign dignitary and they're all over you like white on rice.

31. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DAY?
The day I mooned the Pulitzer Prize winner and poet laureate, Maya Angelou.

32. USING ONLY ONE WORD, DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Me.

Okay, the Dilly Awards page has been updated if you care to take a gander. I'm finding some seriously cool blogs because of the links people are sending in - blogs that are quickly becoming regular reads. I think when this is all over with some of them will find a permanent place in my blogroll but I don't want to do that yet in case any voters view it as an endorsement.

Notable changes include a revised form with categories and now you don't have to input your email or your blog or name or anything - totally anonymous. I've decided that the anonymity factor was more important than having your contact details in the event of a problem. When the time comes I'm sure you'll let me know if there was anything wrong with your submission.

Just go on and check it out, give me your nominee, nominate as many people/times as you'd like...just do it for the pickle, you know you wanna.

Taunting-ly,

Natalie

Okay, Super Bowl...Superbowl...SuperBowl...whatever.

We watched the half-time show and I was severely embarrassed for Sting. I'm sincerely hoping that the duet was impromptu - in my world, Sting would never have agreed to such a disaster. It was as bad as, I don't know, Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow? No, worse than that. Natalie Cole and her dead father? No, worse still. Liza and anyone? Now we're getting warmer.

Honestly, I couldn't watch it; I had to avert my eyes. It gave me gooseflesh. Even Zoe said, "What's wrong with Ding?" (She loves Sting - she says, "Mommy, play 'If I ever ooze my face'!!" Alternate lyrics include "lose my face" and "ooze my place".) Samantha, who is currently in a heated debate with her best friend over who is the bigger talent, Sting or Prince, groaned and said, "I'll be getting some grief over him tomorrow." Not for his performance, just that he shared the stage with Gwen Stefani.

What's up with her, anyway, with that 1950s Hollywood Leading Lady hair? Isn't she married to that guy Gavin from the band Bush? Now, he has some nice hair - he should have given her some tips.

I'm tired and can't sleep. I thought I had something really important to do and it was nagging at the corner of my consciousness but now I'm up and can't think of what it was. I'm going to make some changes to the Dilly Awards, most notably that if you've already won one you can still be nominated again since there's like a prize an' stuff. And I'm going to change the submission form to include categories - pretty much every submission I've received this far falls into a couple of the same categories, like funniest, best layout, best overall content, best political...that type of thing. As more submissions come in the categories will expand, obviously, but there's no sense in making this bigger than it is yet.

I may hop around now to see if I can find video clips of any of the commercials I missed - I was so out-of-it tonight that Andy changed the channel to some true crime program and I said, "This is the worst Super Bowl commercial I've ever seen!" I'm glad I missed the pre-game show, though...as Dave Barry said on his blog tonight: "I don't know about you, but to me there's just something about tuba players gyrating their tubas to 'Black Magic Woman' that really shouts 'Super Bowl.' "

Really sorry I missed that. If I had seen it, at least then I'd have something to blame for my sudden insomnia. I can't complain, though, as in around three hours Andy will be getting up to catch a plane. He said he was going to Kokomo, IN, and without thinking I told him that there was also a place in the Bahamas called Kokomo. I nearly made him cry after the day of cold he'd had, just mentioning somewhere warm. Poor guy.

Wow, this post is putting me to sleep! (All together now..."You and me both, lady!") I think I'll go lie down after all, those commercials can wait.

Procrastinating-ly,

Natalie

Football, schmootball.

Unimpressed-ly,

Natalie

The day started out the same as any other Sunday, filled with good intentions but lacking motivation. I dragged my butt into the shower at eleven and grabbed some grubby clothes to wear while cleaning the house. The pants, no problem - the shirt...well, I grabbed what I thought was an old sage green thing that I don't wear in public anymore (um...sage?) so I wouldn't mind it getting bleach and general yuck splashed on the thing. A quick glance in the mirror revealed something so horrifying, so puzzling, so disgusting that I had to avert my eyes before it all became too much and I spewed my tea all over the place. It's almost too much to even type.

I saw bears. On my shirt. Happy, warm little fuzzy teddy bears. Two of them, having a picnic in a field of sunflowers and marigolds, beatific smiles adorning their furry little faces. A bluebird is perched on a length of wooden fencing, presumably singing its' little bluebird heart out for the audience of bears nearby. An inchworm. A bushy-tailed squirrel. A watering can. Sandwich triangles with the crusts removed. A dancing mouse, complete with top hat and cane. And is that?...oh god, I think it is...it's a bumble bee hovering around a glass of lemonade. It's truly a sight to behold.

How did this shirt come to be in my closet? How could this have happened? I wouldn't have bought it myself, not in the ever ever, and I don't even know any teddy-bear shirt people who could have possibly left this at my house.

My mother is slowly approaching the chasm of being a teddy-bear shirt person but she hasn't reached it yet. She's an Old Navy woman. My whole family are Old Navy people. I am not an Old Navy person. If K-Mart were a flaming homosexual it would be Old Navy - that's how I look at it. Old Navy wouldn't sell this shirt - I don't know of anywhere that would sell this shirt.

Is Andy playing a joke on me, perhaps? Did this shirt come in a Bag O' Rags that they sell at the hardware store? No, that couldn't be the case; those are usually ripped into squares. Is it maybe Sam's shirt? We share shirts, maybe it's hers. But no, she looked upon the happy bear scene with just as much shock as I.

In times of crisis such as these I have to rely on Occam's trusty razor...the simplest explanation is probably the right one. So what's the simplest explanation? Ah, of course - there's a portal to another dimension in my closet. In a parallel universe there's another me who wears such shirts as this. Somehow the laundry fell through one of these swiss cheese holes into my closet. That must be it, because a shirt like this shouldn't even exist in this dimension.

So I say to you, my other-dimension Natalie: I'm doing you a favor by keeping this shirt. In my world, it is a working shirt, something to become filthy, splashed with bleach and covered in cobwebs. In your world you wore this thing out in public. I can't let you do that, other-dimension Natalie - it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to your family. Do not fret over the absense of this shirt from your other-dimension closet. While you're looking through your clothes, asking, "Now where is my shirt with those happy little teddies on the front?" I can guarantee you that your other-dimension Andy is secretly glad it's gone. Just do me a favor and make sure none of your other-dimension clothes find their way into my this-dimension closet, okay? The hand of charity can only be extended so far - I can't keep doing this for you, it's too damaging.

Picnicking-ly,

Natalie

Wow. Have I had some massive interest in the Dilly Awards.

Just a brief note here to say that I'm doing this thang for real here. If you pick up the image below please give a link to this site with it. Spread the love, spread the pickle.

Thanks to Simon for the button. If you've won it, wear it with pride, folks.

More info to come later - check out the link and let me know what you think.

Amazed-ly,

Natalie

All together now: What do we want? DILLIES! When do we want them? IN A TIMELY MANNER AS PROMISED YESTERDAY! What will we do if we don't get them? READ A DIFFERENT BLOG. How will that make me feel? UNLOVED AND REJECTED, FEELINGS OF WHICH YOU'LL LATER PROJECT ONTO YOUR OWN FAMILY.

We can't have that, now can we?

So yes, the First Annual Dilly Awards are here. You don't win any prizes and there's no real reason for them other than the fact that I can, I'm bored, so I will. I'm using it as a showcase for my little loves here in case you haven't paid my links much attention - each one is dillier than the one before it. It's sort of, "If you like me, you'll love * fill in the blank* ". Everyone thinks their links are the best, don't they? Let the Dilly Day be a day when we break away from our arrogance and check out some of the links on other people's blogs and find some new loves. Okay? Okay.

Without further ado, let me generously bestow upon you your Dilly - these are in no particular order, this just happened to be the order in which they were randomly generated by my team of Award Monkeys whose duty it is to cull the internet looking for people to, I don't know, honor or something.

It's a Family Affair

This Dilly goes to Mike and Angela McBride. As I've mentioned before, they are an absolutely adorable married couple who maintain separate blogs yet visit each other regularly (and they get Angela's mother in on the action) and also posts the link to Angela's brother's blog. Mike maintains another blog which is devoted to surviving child abuse and donates half of the money from his department store and Amazon affiliate links to Prevent Child Abuse America. Mike's a real shoot from the hip kind of guy when talking about general tech stupidity and can be painfully honest when discussing his struggles. Angela's like a rock of support and a generally no-nonsense kind of gal, but in a very fun, "Can't you see the stupidity of this?" kind of way. With so much of their lives being readily available you really feel like you know them. It's like watching The Osbournes, except without all of the cussing.

What is This Guy On?

This Dilly is given to Phil for his bizarre writing of all things other-worldly and just plain old weird. At first I thought his site was tongue-in-cheek but soon realized that he's a true believer. I bet he'd get along with my mother - that right there is cause for alarm. You can never know exactly where you stand with him because out of nowhere he'll steer the conversation toward something completely off-the-wall, like pasta or geese. I spend half of my time playing catch-up.

Sean Hegarty can also claim this award for his whacked, off-the-wall commentary on "Sonata For Unfinished Yelling." It simply defies explanation. He's currently trying to maintain his New Year's Resolution of not invading Samoa while he's broken his resolution to stop eating bananas because they make him angry and paranoid. You know how some people write funny stuff just to be outrageous? He's not one of them. I think the line between reality and fantasy are horribly blurred in this man's mind.

You're So Much Smarter Than Me
or What Does That Word Mean?

This Dilly is given to both Artichoke Heart and Joel Sax - one real dyke and one honorary dyke, both literate as hell. Joel's wife kind of scares me in the way that I feel like I could have my ass kicked online by her if she so chose - she's one scary-smart dame, as is AH. I'm not afraid so much of AH because she's very gentle and I'm pretty sure I'm bigger than she is. Joel is a bit of a pussycat until he gets pissed, but thankfully he's never directed his wrath towards me. Yes, I am seriously intimidated by overly-smart people.

Anytime I notice that AH or Joel has updated their blog I open a new window and hit the online dictionary because I know I'm going to need it. They can twist your mind in totally new directions without even trying and leave you with a whole new set of ideas to consider. I'm no slouch in the vocabulary department but they both consistently use words that I've never heard of and weave their magic around them and oftentimes leave you speechless. This is high art, folks; often imitated, never duplicated.

The first time I read AH I laughed so hard I cried. The first time I read Joel I cried so hard I laughed. Enjoy your Dillies, you've earned them.

Bitch Forgot Her Kava Kava

Why do I like bitches? Maybe because I can relate to them, I don't know. Four (yes, that's four) Dillies are awarded in this category. Cower in fear of these women cuz they'll mess you up.

First up is my very favorite bitch of all time, mopsa. When I first started reading her I was in awe of how pissed off she could get - I was impressed. But it's not just the pissed-off thing; she doesn't come across as a generally unhappy person or anything, and I don't believe she is, but it's the way she can deconstruct the events that have pissed her off and make sense of it. It's none of this, "Ooh, I hate that!", rather, it's more like, "Everyone else is stupid, now let me tell you why." And she does. It's a teaching exercise and I'm proud to say that I'm much more aware of my own ass-holiness than I was before. Not that I'm going to change, but hey, awareness is a good thing.

Then there's melly. I've sat here for a good five minutes just looking at her name. All together now: "How do you solve a problem like melissa..." She goes backward when everyone else is going forward, and by the time you catch on and go backward as well she changes it up on you and goes sideways instead. That sentence makes more sense than you probably think.

And Nicole. She wears her bitchiness like a badge, even stating, "There's only space in this room for one bitch, and that's me" as her personal motto. She used to work with Andy and when I first noted her presence online and asked him about her he said, "She's a real bitch, I think you two would get along. You're a lot alike." I took that as a compliment then and I'm sure Nicole will take it as a compliment now.

Which only leaves Leandra. Andy knew her way back in the day and remembers her fondly as being "sweet". I thought, "Great, she's some sickly sweet do-gooder who's going to make me want to puke." Uh, can we say Bitch Master? From the first time I talked to her I knew, "This ain't the little girl Andy once knew." She's on a one-woman crusade to straighten up the educational system in the Isle of Man and damn if I don't doubt that she'll succeed - she's already won a battle with the local government over the quality of her water supply and forced their hand to provide her with safe, bottled water during her pregnancy. She was in the armed services, if that gives you any indication, and she's married to a law officer but I'd be willing to bet he's probably a little bit afraid of her.

Why Can't I Be You

This goes to MJ for having the single most enviable life on the planet. It doesn't seem like she has any obligation to anything - her days are spent having fun online (why bother with doing anything useful? I want to play games!) and her nights are spent living this devil-may-care lifestyle full of parties and fun. I want her car. I want her house. If I can't have that, I'll settle for her being my sugar daddy.

Another person with a rather enviable lifestyle is Hugh. When he's not busy luxuriating he can be found writing fierce little snippets blasting pretty much anyone or anything that doesn't fit into his Hughdom. But in a fun way. Or he's telling stories about this designer or that famous person that he used to know back in his Studio 54 days...or he's writing a play...or he's creating some very serious cutting-edge art...he just basically sits around all day being creative and fashionable and I hate him for that.

Cream of Everything Soup

John Conners is the original comfort food. Andy had been keeping a journal of sorts for quite some time but it was John who introduced us into the whole "scene" and he's my one "steady away" read. He has this great knack for taking a seemingly mundane task and writing about it in a way that makes you go, "I never thought of it that way." And he's unapologetic - if a bit sanitized - in his writing. He doesn't try to shock you; he's more like, "Hey, can I get you a cup of tea?" He's my favorite cozy sweater.

Daisyhead is another comfort food. She has her life mapped out and is staying the course, steady as she goes, though there are some turbulent waters ahead with the new baby coming. It's refreshing to read about another person's journey into motherhood. She's a vanilla scented candle.

The Alumnus Among Us

Man, I don't even want to touch this with a barge pole - my own education experiences have left me feeling a cold shudder when I consider them, but Irish-Girl and Tribal Night are doing that school thang. It's interesting to read them one after another - TN is just starting out, finding her feet, being all groovy and artistic while IG is established in her own art, finding her niche and making the big decision on where to go from here. Literally, "from here" as she's a local gal (as are mopsa and Scott, come to think of it...Ian's moved/moving away but you can count him in the local section) and her sites are set on Oregon. Reading her blog puts me in a very, "Now spread your wings, you can do it" frame of mind, very "seize the day", very "I'd love to be able to do that but I can't so I'll mask my jealousy by pretending to be too world-weary for my own good." Yeah, so I'm full of crap, so what.

I know that I'm missing a couple of them off but I really can't sit here any longer - and I'm not quite sure where they all fit in? Scott is a Smells Like Coffee because in the middle of all of his personal (sometimes very personal) entries he kindly throws in reviews of places he's dined, which would be a useful guide for me if I ever actually went out, but in the meantime I live vicariously through him. Mike isn't quite "What Is This Guy On?", he's more like or A Little Bit Off. Check out his photographs, you'll see what I mean. Ian and Daddy are more like Steady As She Goes and they're both in the process of moving across country - I could come up with better stuff, clever stuff, but my butt really hurts.

Oh, and the non-link Dilly - I almost forgot. The Wonder Down Under goes to Fiona, one of my favorite visitors. She caused quite a stir back when she first arrived because she posted as "The Girl" without putting in her email addy or a blog url, so I thought someone was jacking with me. Andy informed me that it was an Australian IP address that was being posted from and then The Girl revealed herself to be Fiona. "Wait a minute, Natalie, I thought you said that this was to encourage us to check out other people's links and stuff - what gives? This chick doesn't even have a blog." Very observant of you, I'm glad you've been paying attention. That's true, she doesn't have a blog, but hopefully this will encourage her to sart one. See? "Ahhh, I get it." Thought you might.

What would this whole award thing be without mentioning my favorite blog of them all, Andy! Unfortunately, he's been disqualified from getting an award because of some scandal involving sleeping with the judge - I don't know all the details but it sounds a bit dodgy to me.

So there you have it, The Dilly Awards, a day late. It's just my little way of saying, "Hey, you. Nice work. Thanks."

Dilly-ingly,

Natalie

So how about this - around six this morning my stupid neighbor (this is the good one; at least, he used to be the good neighbor until today) starts his car with his stupid little remote car starter, which doesn't even make any damn sense to own because he has a freaking garage but he never parks his stupid car in there...okay, Natalie, calm down...okay. He starts his car and thrash metal starts blaring out of it, right by my bedroom window. Now, I can dig on the thrash metal as much as the next guy but not at six in the morning. What's worse even than this is that I look out my kitchen window (I was standing in the dark, watching his house like a freak - don't worry, Andy already busted me) and I see lights going off and on through his house but does he pop out to turn down his radio? No. If you have a remote car starter please at least have the decency of getting something similar for your car stereo, or at the very least turn the damn thing down when you get out of your car at night.

I hate him now. I never really minded him much, though I wondered why he was living in a house the size of ours when he's just a single guy. He's also a freak about his lawn; he was watering and mowing as late as two weeks ago. Meanwhile, we haven't even raked up our leaves from last fall...or from the fall previous. Eh, it'll decompose, who cares.

As if this isn't bad enough, Sam's going on a school trip today to go see that kangaroo movie with a group from school. She informs me last night that she "can't remember" if I'm meant to drop her off at "the elementary school, the middle school or the high school" at "nine or nine-thirty...maybe it's eight-thirty". Does she have a note from the school telling her which it is? No. Since she's "all grown up" and nearly ten now the school has trusted her to remember these details and announced them over the intercom yesterday, but as Sam said, "They were all mumbly - I couldn't figure them out."

This means I have the joy of getting three kids ready and driving all over town to these three schools until I figure out which one is the right one, but I might be early (or late) so I won't know for sure if I've picked the right school or not unless I scout them all multiple times until I see other kids or buses.

Have I mentioned how fecking freezing it is outside? Yeah, there's that, too.

AND I have something purple and sticky on the side of my finger. Don't know what it is, where it came from, or why I can't manage to wash it off. Mystery purple sticky, first thing in the morning. What the hell?

I'm sure later in the day this won't seem like such a big deal to me but for now I'm seriously pissed off. I think I'll go take it out on my neighbor...he's in his mid-thirties and still listens to Slayer so he should be expecting to get some grief thrown his way every now and again.

Neighborly,

Natalie

Today marks two annual events, one new and one that's been around for a couple of years now. The first one is the third birthday of The Bean, that lovely little monster who lives down the hall. Yes, three years ago today, three years ago this very minute I was slowly recovering from the worst birthing experience imaginable. That was her way of letting me know that she was going to become the hell on wheels that she is today - it can never be said that I wasn't warned.

Happy birthday, Beanie Mareno. I love you, even if you do make my ass tired.

The second event is new - you may have noticed that none of my lovely friends on here (and by "friends" I mean people I link to) have been nominated for a Bloggy, which is unfortunate because some of you guys really are stars. I think we've all been ignored because The Man wants to keep us down - he knows it's the only way to keep us in check. So I say damn The Man, fight the power. Let them eat pickles.

Which brings me to (drumroll, please) The First Annual Dilly Awards (and the crowd goes wild!). The rules are simple - if I like you, I give you a Dilly and say some nice things about you. Does any of this matter? No, not really. Do you get a prize? Just my love and affection, which can be melted down to make any number of unique and beautiful jewelry items. (Think of the Blackadder episode where they're trying their hand at alchemy and Percy presents Blackadder with a lovely lump of green rather than gold. That's the quality we're talking here.) Since I slept on the couch last night - Andy took a tumble after hitting his knee on the coffee table and I thought it best to let him have the bed to himself - I am tired and sore, so only those of you who I link to are getting awards, with one exception to be revealed later.

Speaking of Andy's poor knees, here's some history - he shattered both of his kneecaps playing, what, rugby, I think? Most likely he was playing soccer but I think his major injuries came from rugby. Anyway, they're both busted and were never properly set to heal, which means they always hurt him. So of course, in some cosmic twist of fate, his kneecaps have become magnets for blunt-force trauma. Seriously, he is always hitting them on something. One day that I remember quite well (because I am sadistic) was when he was working on setting up the dvd player in the basement room for the kids, which was a difficult task because it involved him rigging some wires this way and that. He finished it and declared, "I am a genius!" - I'm cracking up just thinking about this, picture it with me - he said "genius" as "genie ass", by the way - so there's this tall, stately-looking man declaring his victory, "I am a genie ass!" with his fists in the air when he turns to go back upstairs. THWACK goes his knee into the corner of the door and he goes flying across the room. He was airborn for a few seconds and landed on his back right at my feet, rolling around like a turtle on its' shell. I - just - lost - it. Funniest damn thing I've ever seen in my life.

Of course, I thought he was faking - it was all timed too perfectly - and felt like a real ass when I realized he really was hurt, but for that brief moment I thought he was the greatest slapstick comedy genius of all time. No, not genius...genie ass.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes - the Dilly Awards. I was actually thinking of doing something like this around Thanksgiving, like the whole, "I am thankful for the following people for providing a seemingly endless source of entertainment" blah blah blah but since I am Native American I decided it would be an affront to my native people and the rich culture that was so brutally stolen from us by the White Man. Okay, so not really, I was just lazy.

So sit back, grab a cup of tea, and wait for the Dilly. That will come in the next post - I don't know when the next post will be, though. I think I'm going to give myself an award for being the "most flighty".

Awardingly,

Natalie

PS - One thing I do have to mention is that I think pickle juice underwear should have been nominated for a Bloggy for the coolest blog-related merchandise. They have no sense of humor over there, I swear.

So this isn't a real entry, but anyway - for all of you who subscribe to Reader's Digest check out page 23 under "Grass Roots". See that guy there, Chad Pregracke? I went out with him a couple of times in high school but ditched him because he was too much of a tree-hugger. His goal is to clean up crap out of rivers and the grand old Mississippi (the love of my life) remains a huge focus - sure, it's a noble cause, but a lousy date. Anyway.

For anyone who doesn't subscribe (and I really don't blame you if you don't) let me share with you the first line of this story: "'That's tight, dawg,' says Chad Pregracke, admiring the goose decoy his shipmate pulled out of the Ohio River." It's nice to see that Peter Pan is alive and kicking in Chad - the guy's 28, for crying out loud. Dawg. Honestly.

Congrats, Chad - hope this fosters a greater public interest in your cause and pulls in more donations. (Though I have to say that I'm disappointed that he still uses the word, "Dude". It was with him when I first said the phrase, "Look, don't 'dude' me, okay?")

Eco-warrior-ly,

Natalie

Now try telling me you're not in love, I just dare you.

Photographic-ly,

Natalie

Missed me, missed me - now ya gotta kiss me.

Yeah, I guess I'm back (I think). I'm still in the process of having some home-truths slapped down on my white ass, but I'm adjusting. I just came back from visiting my mother - which wasn't emotionally draining in the slightest, thank you very much - and have, like, stuff to say an' stuff, but not tonight. I'm still processing the whole drive home, which I somehow managed in around six and a half hours when it usually takes me an hour longer than that. Oh Iowa, behold Iowa, how I loathe thee! I must have hit a snag in the time-space continuum (or space-time continuum, depending on how you were schooled...I don't judge) that sucked me through an hour earlier than anticipated. And for that, I'm eternally grateful to whatever Powers That Be.

Iowa sucks, plain and simple, but there are sources of amusement to be found. Iowegians, as they're know to us in Minnesota and Illinois, are a notoriously funny people and prone to erecting billboards on the least-travelled roads of the state. I take one such road and tonight was blessed with both, "Politicians take note: HOGS DON'T VOTE" as well as "Our dogs shoot back." For as much NPR as I listen to, I can't remember either of these points being made an issue of in the last...well, in the last ever, really. But they're fun little signs, no?

At any rate, I'm still decompressing but wanted to give it the old "Hi, how ya doing, you're super, have a nice summer" thing. To everyone who sent emails and left messages to me I say "thank you" (to mopsa especially - you truly are a gem, lady) and to all of those who didn't get in touch I give you my customary, "Go boil yer heads." For all you know, my last post was written with Andy holding a gun to my head - maybe he wanted me to stop, maybe I was forced to leave my beloved pickle juice for a week (a week!!!) under distress, but did you take the time to find out? Noooo. So screw you, go eat fish heads.

And on that friendly note I'm off to sleep. Love you, missed you, hoped you missed me too...if you set it free and it comes back, it's yours forever but if it doesn't it never was. Oh, how I love pj, I realize this now.

There's a real post to come later but for now - good night.

Comatose-ly,

Natalie