HOW TO TELL IF THE ADULTS HATE YOU

I've had it with crappy toys. It seems like everyone's got a crappy toy story to tell. Someone once told me about the doll with no eyes her mom bought her at a yard sale. After I stopped laughing at her, I realized how traumatic getting a fabric doll with the button eyes torn off could be for an impressionable little tot. And then I felt sorry for the girl. Too little, too late...she jumped off the bridge anyway. Oh well.

No, that girl is probably still quite alive, for the record. I remember seeing her graduate from college the same day I did, so she at least made it that far. (Way to go, Rachel! That eyeless doll handicap couldn't hold ya down!)

Getting back to toys that suck:

I love this topic.

I love it because it calls to mind images of parents full of vitriol for their offspring. I think of the evil-mustached parents who secretly enjoy planting that fake monster under the bed or paying their neighbor to put pantyhose on his head and "kidnap" the kid on the way home from school. You know, as a joke. What? This sort of thing is frowned upon in our society? The hell you say!

My sister and I got bad toys from my one grandmother all the time. Actually, no... we didn't get bad toys, really, she simply stocked her HOUSE with bad toys and we got to "play" with them when we visited. Here is a quick list of some of the toys at Oma's house:
* Small decorative bottles (I'd make them talk out of boredom)
* Dried pasta
* Open bag of flour in the basement
* Picture frames
* A piece of wood with a man's face carved into it...the memory of which can make my piss run cold, I tell ya
* A blanket (I could make Trish sit on it and then pull her around on the carpet. Wheee!)

I remember bringing my record player to her house once and listening to my "The Fox and the Hound" record and having her lecture me on the volume. She made me turn down The Fox and the Effin' HOUND. Who does that?! Cripes! Not cool, Oma.

That's enough about her for today, though. Today I want to talk about my INVISIBLE DOG!

Yep, I had one of those things. A lovely wire with a dog collar attached to the end. I could spend hours walking my invisible dog if it so pleased me. Oh, the frivolity inherent in the INVISIBLE DOG toy!

What a stupid thing to give a kid. Seriously. I know they were popular in the 70s and early 80s, but why? What is so stimulating to a growing child about a wire leash with no real animal attached? Is it to train kids early on ironic comedy or something? Or perhaps learn to weather the many taunts one endures over the course of a lifetime ("you're crazy," "you're a schizo freak," "how did you get out of the locked ward past Jell-O Treat Hour?")?

But I was kind of a stupid kid, so I think I liked my idiotic invisible dog. I seem to recall walking my invisible dog through the mall. PROUDLY.

I bet I tried to feed the invisible dog. And brush it. I know I would have wanted to do those things. Food was essential in all play-games. I wonder if I fixed it a nice plate of invisible bologna, or if I took actual food from our actual dog and set it in front of my invisible dog so it could have a proper dinner. And I wonder if I was surprised when the food went uneaten. Oh no! Maybe my invisible dog is SICK! Maybe the food's gone bad! What are you trying to tell me, Boy? Huh? Is the house gonna blow up? Who threw what down what well? Talk to me, Boy!

Now, I wonder how long it was before the novelty of the invisible dog wore off. I sincerely hope it didn't last for, say, longer than a week. If I had a time machine, and could go back and find out how much time passed before I hung the invisible dog up on a hook to die, I might not do it because I am a little concerned about what I might find out. I might find out I was a Grade A Retard who brought that thing to school and everything. I might have named it, bought it a little hat. Might have introduced it to everyone I met, asked everyone to pet it. And as a result, my poor, disappointed parents might have had some long, hushed talks in their room at night, trying to figure out the best possible place along the highway to abandon me so I could be raised by street people. Or squirrels. Whichever wanted me first.

The best toys for kids? That's easy: An empty box big enough to hide inside; a stick; some string.

Those three things will serve a kid well.

I accidentally typed "sever a kid well" back there. And now I forgot what the rest of my blog was supposed to be about. This is another reason why I am going to be on medication the rest of my stupid life-- I laugh for 20 minutes at a typo involving the killing of children using a box, some string and a stick.

"Pour the gin, Lydia. I'm on my way home."

IT'S CLIPTASTIC!
It's been a long time coming, but I can finally announce that we have a 1947 FLXIBLE Clipper bus of our own now.

Well, it's really a joint ownership thing between Greg and his college friends...but it is living in our backyard now as Greg finishes restoring it into an RV. It's an investment. These things, when they are finished, can sell for 50K or more! And he only paid $6K for this one. It was a smoking deal.

A small part of me is, "Ehh...now we have a BUS. In our BACKYARD"...and the other part of me is totally geeking out on how cool it is to actually own one of these things. Back when I worked on Bus Ride magazine, we ran an annual photo contest and I had a tendency to choose FLXIBLE buses as the winners. I love them. They're just neat old buses. People convert them into cool retro RVs-- and I admit I kind of daydreamed about possibly hunting one down one day for myself. Little did I know one day I'd marry a guy who'd hunt one down. And here it is:


What started this whole interest in FLXIBLEs for Greg was when we stayed at the Shady Dell in Bisbee, AZ, the night after our wedding. We stayed in the Tiki Bus, if you will recall...and it made quite an impression! Now here we are a year and a half later, with a bus to take apart and covert ourselves. (I probably won't do much on it, really, unless he asks me to help since I am kind of afraid of messing up something this antique.)

We tried to pick the bus up a month ago, but it broke down only 10 minutes later as we drove out of town. (We bought it from a great guy named Dave in Hesperia, CA... a good 5 1/2 hours from home.) So we had to leave it there while Dave did some more repairs on it to get it road-worthy. Finally, it was ready to go this past weekend, so on Friday, Greg and I drove out to Hesperia once more, stayed in a hotel for a night, and drove over to Dave's in the morning to pick up the bus. We've gotten to really like this Dave guy-- he owns a FLXIBLE, of course, and his son Jason has one, and his other son has an old Greyhound bus converted into an incredibly cool Elvis Bus... clearly it's a family obsession. Dave just became a grandfather for the first time a week ago, so we brought the baby girl a gift, too. Why not, we figured. They're just really nice people.

Of course getting the bus HOME wasn't easy. It was fraught with peril, literally! First, the bus overheated two hours into the drive home. It was an extending uphill climb that did it in, so we had to pull over and let the temperature drop down to at least 170 again (it hit 240!). That was really no big deal. Then, we made it to Quartsite, AZ, which is just over the border of CA. We needed gas. As Greg pulled up to the tanks, and I sat in my car a ways back so he had room to maneuver, all the sudden I notice FIRE under the bus.

The bus. was. on. FIRE.

And Greg is driving towards the gas pumps! Holy SHIT.

A lot of screaming and running towards the bus happened next, as I rightly freaked out and tried to catch his attention so he could stop driving towards the pumps AND get the hell out of the bus. Other people saw it, too, and started running and screaming. Finally, he figured out what was happening, shut the bus down and jumped out with a fire extinguisher and put the fire out.

It turned out a hose for the power steering fluid had blown apart. Since the engine was so hot, the fluid caught fire as it dripped out. Nothing exploded. Everyone was OK.

Well...

Until the BEES showed up, that is.

A truck pulled into the gas station while this was going on, and this truck was apparently carrying food, or something that attracts pollinating insects. And that meant a swarm of bees came with it. These bees proceeded to swarm and attack everyone at the gas station. The guys trying to throw saw dust down on the steering fluid and clean up were chased and stung... people at the pumps were hollering and getting attacked... yeah, just what we need while trying to deal with a burning 1947 bus blocking some gas pumps. Fun. At one point about an hour later, I looked around at the chaos and thought: "Is this really my life?" :)

Greg somehow managed to MacGuyver the bus back into action. He fixed it right there in the parking lot, ruining his favorite T shirt in the process, unfortunately...but the important thing was it was operable again. Amazingly, the whole time he was out there in Crazy Bee Country, he didn't get stung at all. And I didn't either...even though they were landing in my hair, on my neck and at one point, on my eyelid...! Not sure how we got so lucky given the magnitude of that swarm. Towards the end, I was forced to hide in my car and watch poor Greg from a distance as he labored under the bus. I had no choice, though. I couldn't exactly help him at that point, since I am not a mechanic even though I was fathered by one; and the bees were getting really touchy-feely by that point and I needed to flee.

We got the bus home many hours later, finally. On Sunday Greg spent the day moving the gate so the bus will fit in the backyard, alongside the house. It's strange seeing this old bus there... Hailie and Indy loved exploring the whole thing when we finally let them out to do a walk/sniffaround. Indy made me laugh because he systematically moved around the entire bus, smelling everything and checking it out like he was some sort of safety inspector. He's going to be a cool RV dog. I know it.

So that's the bus story, and how I spent my weekend.

Other than that, yes...I was in St. Louis, and it was a decent time overall. Even though I was busy non-stop and had a few points where I literally passed out the second my head hit the pillow at the end of the day, for a work function it wasn't too bad. Then again, my company knows what they're doing and that helps a lot in making life a little more tolerable in these situations. I got to know several more of my co-workers on this trip (people I don't normally cross paths with since we're in different departments), and went to the top of the St. Louis Arch like a good tourist before we left town.

I liked St. Louis, from what I experienced, because the downtown was full of old buildings and interesting architecture; the people were pretty friendly and nice; and they have mass transit. I don't underestimate the power of trains, and use them whenever I can when I travel to a city lucky enough to have them. I know they're kind of gross sometimes, and can be packed with weird people, but seriously... so cheap! So efficient! I love that. I'll be in Phoenix 10 years next month, and I still can't believe the lack of decent mass transit in a city this enormous. We have buses, but oh my GOD. They're not easy to navigate. I remember I once wrote an editor letter about how difficult it was to map a route from my home to the office, because the system would have required me to transfer buses about 4 times and a drive that would normally take me 20 minutes by car would take almost two HOURS by bus. And as of this writing, there are NO TRAINS.

Oh, we're supposed to be all excited because the light rail system they've been building for about 4 years now is finally going to be operational in December. Don't get me wrong, I am excited for myself because I am fortunate enough to live near the line, but I am still not impressed because it's going to cover such a small area of the Valley. It'll connect Mesa to downtown Phoenix. Ok, I know, that's great, really! But damn... Phoenix is nothing but miles and miles of SPRAWL. In every direction. Traffic is terrible, everywhere. The lightrail is going to be a bandaid on a massive, gushing wound. I guess it's better than nothing, and it IS a start. I just can't fathom how a city can explode to this size with no real planning regarding mass transit. I think a train should have been installed decades ago, had anyone thought ahead and tracked population trends. Oh, well. Sure we have over 300 days of sunshine a year, but all that sun can warp brains, apparently.

Wow, I really railed on for awhile there about trains, huh? Get it?

It's good to be back to the blog. I missed my stupid thoughts, vomited all over the keyboard like this. Ahhh. Word vomit.

HOW MUCH JOY CAN YOU STAND?!
A few years ago my sister and I had way too much fun reading aloud the names of courses at the local community college. Don't let ANYONE tell you we don't know how to party like rock stars. Because it isn't true... we are hard-core and we'll mess your shit up, without a doubt.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The names of the courses were great. There was "Baking Bread...And Beyond!" (Have you ever read a more exciting bread-making class title in your life?! It makes me think of Buzz Lightyear, baking bread like an astronaut on speed made out of yeast). Another one was "Sew It Yourself!" (yeah, that's right, lardass...time to darn your own socks, already). My favorite was a course on appreciation (or something)... "How Much Joy Can You Stand?"

Think about that for a minute. How much joy can YOU stand? I think I can stand quite a bit of joy, myself. I'm not the type of heartless bastard who shoves happy people down in the street because I just cannot tolerate that happiness shit for one. second. longer. Nah. I'm OK with joy. The only thing is, it makes me think of Joy dishwashing detergent. And now that I think about it, I do have limits when it comes to Joy dishwashing detergent. There's only so much I can drink before the violent diarrhea sets in. Whew, boy.

You might be wondering why Judy Garland and a bunch of other JOYFUL fruits are gracing the top of this blog post. They're caught mid-song in a scene from "Meet Me in St. Louis," and today I leave for St. Louis. So I'm commemorating it with happy assholes on a trolley or whatever. (I'm not going to be able to blog for days and days, just FYI so you have the 411 and won't have to put out an APB to find lil' old me.)

BIG INCREDIBLE NEWS!

If we were playing the 7 Degrees of Tina Fey, I'm one degree away. Turns out my best friend's father is her driver. Last night, he was even on 30 Rock ("Sandwich Day") as one of the teamsters. He was the one in the orange sweater, if you happened to Tivo it. I am so proud of him, and excited as hell about this connection I hadn't even realized existed in the first place. Here I am loving this crazy-smart bitch Ms. Fey, and now it turns out she's someone I could potentially meet some time, according to my friend anyway. I guess Tina Fey is as cool in person as you think she'd be. Dude...my friend even helped Tina pick out her dress for the Emmys this year. And no, that's not a joke at all. It's true. That's just all kinds of cool.

Well, that's all I have for now. I must retire for the eve, for in the morning I have to go to the airport and experience the JOY of air travel. There's a limit to how much plane-joy I can stand, I realize. Let's hope I don't have to sit near any more practicing Jews for this flight, or I'm going to be fishing the hell out of someone's gefilte.

I don't even know what I am talking about anymore.
At all.

SMACKED IN THE HEAD BY THE THRILLER HIMSELF
I’m so busy right now, trying to finish up some work before I leave on another business trip, but something calls to me to come here and blog anyway. Why does that happen? Why, when I know I am pressed for time, do I do this? Is it stress-relieving to write about Pee-Wee Herman? I don’t know.

Anyway, I was tagged by Leezer to do this thing where you post 6 random things about yourself and then find 6 other people who haven’t done it yet and get them to do the same. Since I really adore Leezer (we share a love for Chris Elliott as well as the same awesome first name), I’m doing it even though I’m pretty sure I have already written every single random thing I can think of about myself on this blog over the past 5 years. But hell, let’s see what happens when I give it a go. I have no clue what I’m going to write after this sentence, so it will be interesting to see what my brain pukes out.

Here’s what you do: Post the rules on your blog, which are:
- Write six random things about yourself in a blog post
- Tag six people in your post
- Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog
- Let the tagger know your entry is up
Next, write your 6 things (duh). Here goes…

1) I won a framed glittery picture of Michael Jackson at one of those boardwalk stands with the big wheel that spins around and if it lands on the same number that you’d plunked your quarter down on, you won some crappy treasure. It was around 1984, so a likeness of Michael Jackson as he looked on the cover of “Thriller,” rendered in glitter-infused paint and placed in a tacky thick wooden frame was pretty much THE prize to choose! I hung it over my headboard when my sister and I had bunk beds. I was on the bottom. One night, the picture fell down for some reason and hit me in the head. It hurt a lot, and it sucks to be woken up with a head wound from a falling Michael Jackson picture.

2) Whenever I travel for work, and have to attend a morning meeting or workshop, there is always a strong chance that I will nod off sitting there in my chair. Even if I go to bed early the night before, and even if I eat a healthy breakfast…about an hour in, I drop out. It’s always when I am trying to take notes, too, so I end up with these drawn-out, scrawling messes that run off the page when I start to fall asleep. Later I can’t tell what I was writing. Not just because of the bad sleepy penmanship, but because when I’m like that I only capture certain words or phrases that, put together later, make no sense at all. Since I’m going to a five day conference next week, this morning nod-off is something I’m dreading right now in a big way.

3) There is a brand-new combination lock in my house right now that I cannot find. Yet I know I have come across it several times when I have not been looking for it. But every time I look for it (so I can change clothes at the gym and lock my stuff up), there is no way in hell I’ll find it.

4) I don’t mind drinking room temperature water straight from the filter at the sink.

5) Even though he sheds very badly and his nails can scratch me, I love picking Indy up and holding him like he was a smaller dog. I’ll also let him hop up onto my lap when I’m sitting at my desk, or I will lie on the floor and let him flop down on me. I like cuddling with that damn dog.

6) My friend D told me today that I made an “angry Strawberry Shortcake face” while we were talking. So apparently I can look like a plastic doll from the 80s (because we are not talking about the newly-redesigned 21st century Strawberry Shortcake, in the “Kristy McNichol clothes,” another great description by D). Sweet!

By the way, this took ALL DAY to actually get up here. So there was effort involved, just so you know.

I hereby tag: Trish, Fraulein N, Monotonous Life, Vegas Princess, Shades and Dot. And now, as Shakespeare would say, “Go to!”

IS THIS SOMETHING YOU CAN SHARE WITH THE REST OF US...

...AMAZING LARRY?!

Oh, man, I love this so much. I love the entire movie, but this scene packs in the laughs for me. I woke up thinking about this today. I think Large Marge sent me a dream that reminded me of the basement in the Alamo...

When I was in fifth grade, there was NOTHING funnier to me than Pee-Wee. This was because my Mom taped a special off of Showtime, the Pee-Wee Herman Show, which pre-dates Pee-Wee's Playhouse by a couple of years, and I watched it non-stop. That show was my comedy drug, and Neverending Story was the dramatic (for lack of a better word) movie I watched all the time, over and over. 1985 was filled with me wearing out our VHS tapes while eating iceberg lettuce smothered in Wishbone French dressing. (Me and my sister always loved to eat lettuce 'salads' like that after school. I'm surprised my Mom never bitched us out for going through entire bottles of dressing in about three days each...that stuff isn't exactly cheap when you practically drink it.)

Anyway, there isn't much online from the Pee-Wee Herman Show, but here is a clip where Miss Yvonne shows up and does two awesome things: 1) Hands Pee-Wee a strange little ghost thing and 2) Applies her favorite lip and cheek stain, Wild Raspberry. I know every single word, note of music, and facial expression of this entire show. Seeing this again today makes me so nostalgic. I always wanted to be the most beautiful woman in Puppetland myself. Sigh.

I don't understand Hermit Hattie, though. I think she was gay, making perfume for Miss Yvonne and everything. And she was all concerned with the "cam heads on her Jeep." Weird.

I won't start with Captain Carl. Where can one really begin. The man is legend.

At least we see Monsieur Le Croc at the end of this video. I love the idea of a French crocodile showing up at a window, wanting to test its latest computer dating service. This NEVER happens to me. And that's why life is incredibly boring.

EATING MOVIES, POOPING TV SHOWS

My God. I feel blank today. I mean, I woke up barely knowing what I was supposed to do today (go to work) and now I am sitting here, at the place I go to get paid, looking around at my desk thinking, "Now, what was I doing again when I left here on Friday? All of this stuff here looks mighty confusing." Yes. I thought the words "mighty confusing." Shut it.

Actually, things are pretty good if I actually stop and apply myself enough to think. I've seen a couple of fun movies recently, and watched some TV-type things that made me happy. I worked on the book. Went hiking (it's seriously addictive). Read some, slept some. Not too bad, overall.

The two movies I've seen in the theater recently are:
1) Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Even though it's got more male frontal than is truly needed, it's still a sweet movie and I liked it a lot. I was impressed that Jason Segel wrote it. He was very funny in "Undeclared," a great cancelled show that Greg introduced me to a couple years ago, so check that out, too. I loved Mila Kunis (she's so pretty! I never really noticed it before. I wouldn't mind getting a Mila Kunis Facelift and Hair Transplant, if anyone was looking for a little something to buy me for Victoria Day [Canada]). I enjoyed the cameos, and the "Dracula" puppet musical. I recommend this movie. (Bonus: I saw the preview for Pineapple Express for the first time before this movie. I do enjoy Seth Rogen, especially when he is freaking out; and there's a quick scene they show where James Franco puts his foot through the windshield of a cop car while he's driving and for some reason, it's hilarious.)

2) Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay. I told you I'd see it on opening weekend, and I did. I know it's retarded, and all of that, but damned if it didn't make me laugh like a braying donkey anyway. I knew it would; I love the first movie. Rob Corddry made a great asshole Homeland Security officer... Neil Patrick Harris did not disappoint, eating a bag of shrooms and talking about Hershey's Kisses in a lovely context. Although there is a very sad scene at a Texas whorehouse run by Beverly D'Angelo, so brace yourself if you go see it. Also, there's a surprise cameo by the Reverend Clyde Stanky as he is billed in the credits. He plays a KKK grand wizard, and it's a short scene, but it made me giddy that he was there. Points are taken off for the kind of sappy Kumar love story sideplot, and the kind of terrible Presidential impersonator, but overall I still give it a high grade. Get it? Ah-duh.

As for TV, LOST was back this week and I enjoyed it, of course. It was Ben-heavy this week, and because I don't like Jack very much I was glad to see that he looked like he has severe intestinal pains or something. I'm annoyed that the show killed off Frenchy and her daughter before we got to really know their story, and even more annoyed that Ben's reaction to everything made me feel a little sorry for the big-eyed bastard for the first time ever. Don't tell me the show is going to try to make us care about Ben now. Well, whatever, they got me...I'm along for the ride, whatever they do, I admit it. So go ahead, LOST. Just try to make me like Michael. I dare you.

And YAY for "30 Rock" and "The Office"! I love pretty much every minute of those shows. "Devon, I knew that when they cast Clay Aiken in Spamalot, it was only a matter of time before you showed up here." Hee hee.

We also watched the pilot of "Dead Like Me." And for some reason, that show's kind of got its hooks in me now. I know it's yet another cancelled show on DVD for me to fall in love with, but it's still good stuff.

The Season 1 DVD of "Tim & Eric Awesome Show" came out last week. Trish got it, of course. And we watched a lot of it one night when we had dinner together. It's not for everyone, but it's seriously one of the funniest shows I've ever seen because it is the closest to the type of humor me and my best friend have been saying all these years, and the randomness of it also speaks to my sister and I because we, too, have had this sense of humor forever. I'm all into weird faces, noises, nonsensical songs and completely absurd, random humor.

I'm reading The Black Jewels Trilogy by Anne Bishop. This comes highly recommended by Shades, and it's a huge book so it's going to take me awhile, but I like it so far. Huzzah for reading!

Well, that's about it for now. Here's a completely insane photo of one of those bizarre Olsen Twins to make your Monday that much scarier:

COME ON. She can just go to hell and die. I'm sick of this shit!

WHAT I KEEP IN THE ATTIC

Words on paper make me happy.

Today two different people asked me if they could read more of my book. Both knew what chapter I am currently up to, and both wanted me to send over what I had today. And might I add, I am not related to either of them in any way.

That is so cool. I’m so flattered and excited that they want to know what happens enough to seek me out to ask for more. So I just had to come on here and get all giddy about it for a minute. Yay!

I was just remembering Milk and Cheese comic books today. They were among some of the first comics I bought once I got brave and ventured outside of the safe DC Vertigo world back in college, and they are hilarious. I forgot all about them until I was talking with a co-worker about comics just now, and Milk and Cheese just popped into my head. I asked her if she ever heard of it, since I have never run into anyone who has heard of them before, and to my excitement she’d not only heard of them, she loves them too. So we just reminisced for a few minutes about the “dairy products gone bad” and the particular humor of those books. Now that I have remembered them, I want to buy more than the 4 issues I have...and maybe find a t-shirt or something online.

The thing is, as we talked about comics, I realized how many I actually have. It’s a lot. And I have good ones, too. All the Preacher comics; Fray (the futuristic Slayer series by Joss Whedon); every Sandman collection (I got into them after the individual issues were on the market, so the collections were the best way for me to get the whole story); The Books of Magic; Witchcraft; Moonshadow; House of Secrets; a signed hardcopy of “The Crow” (one of my prize possessions in fact); the first third of the Y: The Last Man series; and a scattering of random issues from various series I tried out. It would be cool to get back into it again, in some ways. I really do want the rest of Y: The Last Man SO badly. I buy them for the stories first, the art second, and the collectability a way distant third. Even though I’m not into trading or selling comics, I do keep them nice, though, in bags with board backing. I don’t want them to fall apart.

Anyone else have a collection of something? What is it and why do you have it?

ALIENS ARE COMING TO GET ME!

Well, I guess it's finally time I make out my Last Will and Testament. Maybe I'll take some time today to do some of the crazy stuff I always wanted to do before I die (pilot a power boat; learn to swing dance; visit Germany and Italy; have drinks with Chris Elliott and Tina Fey...) because I fear that my time here is short.

The aliens have figured out where I live.

This is SERIOUS.

Last night, they made an appearance over the skies of Phoenix in the form of four mysterious lights in the sky. They know about me, and how much I hate them, and so they're coming to exact their revenge on me for saying shit about them on the internet for years now.

I just hope they won't do something like possess our dogs and mess with my head for a few days before they finally take me away to their scary torture UFOs and jam huge needles in my eyes. That would just be cruel. Or that they don't just keep calling me and hanging up. Or putting shoe polish in my food. God...there are so many things that those dick aliens could potentially do to me.

I wonder if digging a hole in the backyard and covering it with plywood would work, at least to give me a hiding place so I have time to actually write that stupid will. I hear these wills take time. Note to self: build Alien Shelter wide enough to allow lawyer to fit inside so he can assist in will-writing.

No, those assholes would probably just blast right through my protective plywood with their lasers. Grrrr! I HATE them!

Maybe I can just get a gun. Should be easy enough. That way, when the aliens come busting down our front door to get me, I can at least take a couple of the sons-a-bitches out before they take me away. Maybe I can die a hero if it means my desperate, crazed gunshots saved my husband and the dogs from possible murder at the hands of overzealous aliens. I think they'd take off once they had me, and leave them alone, if they saw all the ruckus I was causing with the gunshots and everything. Remember: the aliens only want ME. Dogs and husband would only be collateral damage, more trouble than the aliens want. Plus they'll have to clear out of there before the cops show up.

My other idea is to kill 'em with kindness. What if they show up and I smile and let them in, offering to take their ray guns so they can sit down a spell and have some chocolate milk and cookies with me? They'd be really confused. They might even do it! So get this: when they sit down and enjoy their milk and cookies, I would make pleasant chit-chat, to put them at ease. As they finish up, I'll say, "Well, this was LOVELY, aliens. But I suppose it's time we get back to your ship. I imagine you have a lot of sharp objects you can't WAIT to stick into my head!" They'd laugh, and that's when I would yank the pin out of the grenade I've been hiding in my apron all along, toss it at 'em and dive out the back door as they are totally annihilated! Fuck you, you lousy aliens!

Eeek. Either way, I don't have much time. I bet they'll be back tonight with their stupid lights and their "unexplained phenomenon"-ness. I'm sorry if this has to be my last blog ever, but at least you'll know what happened to me.

And if they don't kill me right away when I'm up there, in their horrible alien clutches, I'll probably try to blog a few times from the Human Zoo.

420
Duuuude. I totally spaced and forgot yesterday was 4/20. I could have used it as an opportunity to roll a fatty and get toasted. Instead, what did I do? You guessed it: I took a nap. So at 4:20 pm on 4/20, I was asleep. Typical.

Truth be told, I actually couldn't give a shit about 420. I can't remember the last time I smoked The Weed. It wasn't in Arizona, I know that much. So we're talking at least a decade. I just don't make a good smoker, or taker of drugs. I'm a wimp with a terrible immune system, so inhaling smoke into my lungs usually means a few days later I'll have a cough or something. I already take prescription drugs and I fear weird interactions; hell, even an innocent beer or two can have a profound effect on me these days.

But I'm no snob, and I have been known to enjoy things near and dear to the pothead community. I get the munchies pretty much ALL the time. I still have a little Rusted Root on my mp3 player. And I love watching cartoons and eating big bowls of sugary kid's cereal. I'll go see Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay on opening weekend.

All I wanted to say with this post, really, is Happy 420, one day late, to anyone who appreciates and celebrates this national holiday. I respect your decision to smoke up. Hope you had a nice, stoned time and didn't get busted by anyone.

POPEMOBILE

I'm not even remotely Catholic, but I do enjoy reading about the Pope from time to time. So of course, I'm mildly excited that the Pope is here in the US for a little visit.

I think "Pope" is just a hilarious word for some reason. I think it traces back to when I was in fourth grade and this kid Nate in my class drew a picture of Pope on a Rope. It was just a sketch of a piece of soap with the Pope's hat on it... but it killed me. I'm easy to entertain like that.

That same year, I lost it during the Iowa Tests when, on the vocabulary section of the test, I had to find the mistake in the sentence: BEN GOTS FAT FINGERS. It was one of those laugh-so-hard-I-cried situations. A silent, test-taking classroom + me reading that sentence = sheer hilarity. To this day, I break out in a giggle over that sentence. And I swear to God I would want to name my band Ben Gots Fat Fingers, if I ever formed one.

Anyway, I digress. The Pope. I am a fan of rhymes, so I say things like, "The Pope Gives Me Hope"... "The Pope Ain't No Dope"... "Don't Mope, Here Comes the Pope"... Can't Cope? Try the Pope!" You get the idea. I just kind of say these things quietly to myself. Or to my sister, if she's around, since she understands the rhyming obsession as well as the Pope humor.

Here's a past post I wrote about the old Pope. It's basically a conversation my sister and I had at lunch after hearing the Pope had died. THIS is how things are in my family:
****
Monday, April 04, 2005

A Lunchtime Comedy Routine (File Under: Hilarious)
Sister #1*: Dude! Did you hear the Pope died?
Sister #2*: What? Are you kidding me or something?
Sister #1: No, man, he was real sick and shit.
2: Christ! How come I didn’t know he was sick?
1: Man, listen: he was suffering from the Yellow Fever or something, and he finally just couldn’t hack it anymore, and he died.
2: Wow.

(Five minutes pass)

2: Hey, did you hear the Pope died?
1: Holy crap.
2: Yeah, I heard he was ridin’ in the Popemobile, and it took a wicked fast turn and the thing toppled over and shit. Pope was flyin’ around inside the glass and everything. They thought he just had a scrape, you know? But it turned out it was serious internal bleeding.

(Two minutes pass)

1. Whoa, look over there. Here come the glass guys. (Two trucks, the type that carry glass for windows and other glass applications, pull into the parking lot)
2. Someone ought to tell those guys that no matter how much glass they are hauling around, it ain’t gonna bring the Pope back.
1. What? He DIED?!

(Two minutes pass)

2: So I heard the Pope died.
1. Oh yeah, dude. I heard he was wrestlin’ an alligator, and that he was right in the middle of a gnarly deathroll when the alligator snapped his jaws down on the Pontiff’s throat.
2. Hey, is a Pontiff the same as a Pope?
1. I think so.
2. Hmmm. (Pause) Oh man!
1. I know! That means the Pontiff died!

(A minute or so goes by…)

1. So anyway, the Pope died.
2. Crap! How’d he die?
1. He was hit by a truck.
2. Oh. Too bad.

(Thirty seconds later)

1. Hey. The Pope died.
2. Yeah, that blows.
1. I think he was at a pool party with Jesus—
2. I heard it was Peter. You know, the disciple.
1. Oh, maybe. Anyway, they were doing chicken fights, and Peter or whoever was on top and the Pope was underwater, and he was pinching that he needed to come up for air, but it was too late. Pope drowned.
2. Oh, Pope! No!!

(Two minutes pass)

1. The Pope is dead.
2. No shit. How’d he die?
1. He was carving one of those chainsaw sculptures out of wood. I think he was making a bear or an Indian, and the chainsaw slipped and cut his leg. Turned out, the Pope wasn’t up to date on his tetanus shots. He ended up starving because he had lockjaw.
2. You know, he was a cool old Pope. Too bad. Too bad.
1. And you know what—he lived a whole life and never wore pants. That’s rare.
2. He was the holiest wearer of dresses ever. He had a lot of dresses, caps and funny hats.

(Ten minutes later)

1. So you should blog about this conversation.
2. I think I should. People need to know: The Pope died!
(*= actual sister saying the jokes varies; numbers 1 & 2 are interchangeable.)
****

And of course, there's the Popemobile. How cool would it be to have a Insert-Your-Name-Here mobile? I want a Lisamobile. I want to ride in a Plexiglass box, maybe sitting on some sort of throne upholstered with pink faux fur or something, listening to my old Def Leppard tapes and rockin' out for all the world to see. I'd like to ride around town, just eating a big messy sandwich in my Lisamobile and waving my sloppy fingers at other motorists when we're stopped at red lights. I'd give people the finger if they looked at me wrong. And if we went down a bumpy road, I would puke all over the place, and people could enjoy seeing THAT. Wow. It would be kind of fun.

Here's a couple more past Pope-related blog posts:
The Pope Gets a Tracheotomy
The Pope Does DeNiro

Well, that's all I can think of to say about the Pope. If you want to read more about his nemesis, the Dalai Lama, I suggest reading this informative post over at Leezer's blog.

Have a Popetastic day.

PAINFUL COMBINATION

Note to self: if I'm ever sitting here missing Malcolm and crying, and Jeff Buckley's "Halleluiah" comes on my player...turn it off. No good can come of it.

I miss Malcolm so damn much. It's supposed to get easier. Instead I find myself wanting to go find him, pick him up and kiss his peach-head and have him close. I wish things could have been different.

I'll probably delete this post. Too depressing.

MY SHAMEFUL WRITING PAST

I used to be an editor of a magazine for the carwash industry. It was just as exciting as you might imagine. Glamorous, even. I traveled the world...OK, about 4 states, total... learning all there was to know about both full-serve and self-serve carwashes. I have an opinion on friction versus touchless (go for friction). I know the name of the curtains that swing to and fro and slap your car with wet soap (mitters). There was a time if you asked me a carwash specific question, I could likely answer it in under 30 seconds. What a claim to fame, right? Yeah. I was so cool.

Anyway, my co-worker reminded me of this article I wrote many years ago. It's about how a carwash might appeal to the fairer sex. She especially loves the captions on the tiny little pictures, and the photo of a "lady-friendly" bathroom.

Please to enjoy: Get In Touch With Your Feminine Side.

If you're too lazy to click that link, here's a sidebar you might like. Remember...this was ACTUALLY published, as strange as that might seem:

How to Please a Woman
Cleanliness is critical, especially in restrooms.
Flowers and attractive landscaping have a strong appeal.
Use coupons. Women are more likely to return coupons than men. Coupons printed on the back of grocery store receipts get excellent results.
Sell greeting cards. According to the Greeting Card Association, women purchase 80 percent of all greeting cards.
Stock up on bottled water. Women purchase more bottled water than men, and more often than any other beverage.
Install a baby-changing station.
Train employees to interact with customers.
Make floors and walkways easy on heels.

Yes. I actually got away with that headline. Amazing, isn't it?

Even I am offended by the content of this article, and I wrote it. The things we do when our supervisors give us a command. (Whew...good thing I wasn't around during World World II, being a German and all.)

MY CUPCAKE PLAN

The other day as I walked to the ladies’ room at work, I walked past an area that had a strong smell of baked goods. Someone must have been enjoying some delicious cake, brownies or…cupcakes. While I didn’t find the source—mostly because I would have felt rude sticking my head around cubicle corners, hunting for treats—it did set my mind in motion. By the time I was washing my hands I had formulated the idea for Cupcake Day.

I love cupcakes. They’re so adorable, and delectable. They don’t require a plate or a fork…just a mouth and some hands. They can be very pretty with fancy icings, sprinkles and other accoutrements. And if you have the willpower to eat just one, it’s not likely to ruin a diet because the small portion delivers just enough treaty goodness. They might be the perfect dessert.

Anyway, I thought it would be cool to suggest the following to HR:

1) We designate a Cupcake Day.
2) Cupcake Day means everyone who wants to participate brings in a tray of cupcakes. Even as few as 6 cupcakes for those who just want to pick some up at the store.
3) We load up a rolling cart (we have one, I see it all the time in the mail room) with all the cupcakes, with a little box for the money part of this endeavor.
4) Someone (maybe me) can push the cupcake cart around the office, visiting all the cubes and offices. For a donation (suggested: $1) people can have a cupcake of their choice. The money collected will go to a charity.
5) End result: Happy people everywhere!

I based my idea of Cupcake Day directly off of the real Cupcake Day we used to have in elementary school. The concept was the same, except the cupcakes only cost 25 or 50 cents, and the money went to the PTA. Some school aide would bring the cart to each classroom around lunchtime and it was AWESOME.

It might be kind of pathetic and sad that some of my fondest memories of being very young involve cupcake scenarios, but it’s true. I loved Cupcake Day and can still picture that glorious cart, loaded up with mostly homemade cupcakes, rolling into the classroom. I swear that cart glowed with an inner light, and the faint strains of harps and angels singing filled the air as it made its way into the room. The perfect cupcake would float into my mouth like a sweet cloud of happiness. All was right with the world, for the Cupcake Day Cart hath arrived.

I also remember a lot of parties with cupcakes involved…cupcakes with filling, cupcakes with little plastic Muppet figures pushed into the frosting on top, cupcakes baked in flat-bottom ice cream cones. And the scratch-n-sniff cupcake sticker was one of my crown jewels in my collection. All the sniffiness came off over time because I scratched it down to bare paper. Ahhh. Happy times.

So, what about this new incarnation of Cupcake Day?

Well, it might not happen. And here’s why. I bounced my Cupcake Day idea off of a trusted co-worker, who happens to agree with me that cupcakes are awesome, and she pointed out a flaw in my plan.

We have a small company, maybe 75 people on a day when we are all here in the office. The company is predominantly made up of women, and a good number of these women are healthy eaters. If I went around with the Cupcake Day Cart, chances are I’d hear a lot of, “Oooh, no thank you. I’d love to, but I’m on a diet,” and then the few takers who did purchase a cupcake would only contribute so much cash to the charity fund.

“You’ll probably make about $17,” co-worker said. And she’s right. What charity would be impressed with just a $17 donation? Our company would probably be too embarrassed to write the check. (“Sorry, this is the best we could do when we held a…ummm… ‘Cupcake Day’ in your honor. Cupcakes were our only idea because we’ve got some dumb employees on staff. One in particular.”)

I still might suggest a Cupcake Potluck. No money involved, just eating. But then what if someone wants to bring brownies? Or cookies? God, all kinds of situations are possible. I need to fine-tune any plan I come up with so we don’t risk cross-dessert contamination.

I bet if I suggested a Fruit Potluck they’d go for that. Oh, yay. Fruit.

A COMEDY PORCUPINE HELPS LETTERMAN GET IN SHAPE

This is for Leezer.

Oh, hell. Here's another one, just because it's Tax Day and everything. Figured we could all use a little Bionic Guy right about now:

SONGCHARTS

My friend Dot sent me this Flickr group devoted to musical charts and graphs. It's kind of brilliant, I must say. I've been reading (wasting time on) them all morning, guffawing and chortling like some common goon.

Here are a couple of my favorites so far. You might want to click on them so you can read the small print:

TIME TO PRACTICE MY HEBREW

Sad news. I did NOT pee on any national monuments while I was in DC last week. I didn't get to crawl up to Lincoln's lap and get me some of that stone cold crotch action. And I didn't get a chance to visit some politicians and cause a fuss of some sort. It's because they made me WORK. Seriously, dudes. I had to do stuff that prevented me from achieving my blog goals, and that's just not cool.

OK, I guess the trip was still decent. I liked the hotel we were in, and the meetings weren't too bad at all. Interesting topics and discussions, and very nice participants. They fed us well, and even took us out for dinner at a place with a great view of the city. With a magician, no less. Yes, you heard me. Magician! At dinner! Doing magicks while we drank wine and had polite conversation! WOW!

Seriously though, the magician stumped us ALL when he took a $100 bill from our CEO and had him write his name on it. Blah blah blah, stuff happened, other jokes, etc... and then finally the magician says, "I bet you're wondering where your money is right now," and takes a lemon out of his bag. Then he passes the lemon around to some people to check that it is a real lemon, and it's confirmed: real lemon. Magic Man cuts into the lemon, and the $100 bill was INSIDE the lemon. How the hell...? Pretty cool, I have to admit. He got me. He got me GOOD.

THE TWO BEST PARTS OF MY TRIP:

1) I wrote a LOT for my book. I'm on chapter 4 now and I'm giddy. It's going well! I can't believe it. I was a typing fiend on the plane, just writing and giggling nefariously to myself as I realized what evil I was bringing down on my protagonist...and the reader...with this weird plot that's brewing. Fun, fun, FUN!

2) The Jewish family on the plane "practicing their Hebrew". I had a window seat and a mother and her goofy teenage son sat in my row, and right behind us was the father and an equally-goofy teenage girl. Goofy might be an understatement...this girl was at the Awkward Stage, all frizzy hair and bad teeth. Anyway, the family would not shut up for the entire flight. Mom kept turning around in her seat to say something to the daughter and her husband. Things like, "Now when we get to the hotel, we can order room service! What do you think you'll want to have?" and then the husband would say somethng like, "I don't want room service, I want to ask the concierge for a good hot spot to try." (yes, that he DID say. "Hot spot.") Teenage girl would say something to aggravate teenage boy, and there was the requisite sibling bickering going on.

And then it was time to practice Hebrew. I guess the teenage girl was about to have her bat mitzvah or something. Anyway, the father was making her recite these phrases and prayers, and they were LOUD. The best part was when Super Jewish Dad began to do that singing-prayer thing. You can't sing Hebrew quietly, I realize. You have to commit to that shit and belt it out. And he did. I couldn't stop laughing to myself behind my hair as I listened to it through my earbuds, thinking how I couldn't wait to tell everyone about THIS. It was too good. Hebrew! Loud! On a PLANE!

Some people were turning around in their seats to find out who was playing Rabbi back there... and finally a flight attendant did come over and ask them to please keep it down. They did lower their voices and for a brief time, there was no Hebrew at all. But about a half hour before we landed they started up again. Dad still sang, just a little quieter. Mom next to me buried her head in a James Michener book after awhile, still craning her neck from time to time to see her loving family in the seat behind her. We landed a half hour earlier than planned and I can't help but wonder if that was on purpose. I bet those pilots couldn't take any more Hebrew, either.

Finally, as we are coming in for a landing, some older woman at the back of the plane says in a loud voice, "Oh, look! It's the Grand Canyon!" and some people snicker. Why'd they snicker? Because it was NOT the Grand Canyon. It wasn't even a canyon. Or even a HOLE. It was a mountain range outside of Phoenix. How the hell do you confuse a mountain... with the Grand Canyon? It would be like me pointing to some post office in Paris and going, "Oh look, it's the Eiffel Tower!" Dumb ass lady shut up after that.

GOING TO DC

I'm out of here, bitches. I'm going to Washington, DC so I can finally speak to the President, and possibly punch him in the stomach. Then, I can't wait to get in front of the Senate and holler my opinions in a loud, rude voice, maybe bang a couple pans together like Tanisha on Bad Girls Club. And best of all is going to be peeing in the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial. A quick squat and I'll have left my mark! Sweet.

Hell, I'm just going there for a meeting for work. Two short nights and I'll be back to Phoenix...which is lovely right now; all high 70s and low 80s. I'm worried about being cold in DC. Hopefully I'll have the cherry blossoms to warm my heart.

I'll be back late Friday. Until then, I hope you are all just burning doing the Neutron Dance!

"I don't want you stopping to fix your make-up, make phone calls, to buy Raisinettes...you know how that works?"

PERALTA TRAIL

I didn't bring my camera, but yesterday we hiked part of the Peralta Trail out in Apache Junction, and it was beautiful. It's a winding trail that lead through trees, dry riverbeds with big round rocks, past wildflowers and little caves under giant volcano rock... and views of the Superstition Mountains that made me stop walking a few times just to stare at everything around me. I'd like to go back sometime and take photos of my own. (The picture here is one I found online)

It was so nice to be out there hiking, but two things suck: traffic and poor planning by the highway department. Yesterday happened to be the Safeway International golf event, and the final day of the Arizona Renaissance Festival...and both of these events were on the same two-lane road. This meant traffic was backed up for miles starting on the freeway, and then up until we finally passed both events about 45 minutes later. So stupid. They wider roads, or something, out there...or at least better timing of the traffic signals so cars can get through more efficiently. We needed to deal with the traffic both ways; it took us an hour to get back home after our hike. So stupid.

I guess had we known about these events we might have gone out there another weekend, but since we don't travel in golf or ren-fest circles, we didn't really know. No longterm harm done...my memories of yesterday are predominantly of that amazing trail and seeing hawks swooping and floating over canyons as we drove. It was a nice day being out of the city.

We also did a yard sale on Saturday, and no one came. We had ONE car stop by. And then neighbors from across the street walked over and bought some stuff. One old man on a motorized scooter rode around our stuff in the driveway and left after exclaiming, "You don't have anything I need." I think we cleared about $26. Woo hoo. Still, it was something we didn't have before, so that's good. And we wrapped it up around 11 am so we didn't have to sit out there all day long, amongst our old crap.

Two movies we watched this weekend: Jackass 2 and Severence. Both were funny, and featured blood. I wish I didn't like that stupid Jackass stuff, but I do and usually laugh really hard in the process. I also wish I didn't like horror movies (especially ones with dark humor) but I most certainly do. Maybe one day I'll get all highbrow and female and go see Atonement or something; or, I might not. We'll see.

I also updated my other blog. But that's between me and myself.

WHEN TO WEAR A SHIRT

When in doubt, just wear a goddamn shirt. Period.

I'm just saying, if you have some sort of odd growth on your body, it's probably a good idea to cover it up if you are fortunate enough to have the growth in a place that can be covered. I feel bad for people with face growths or hand deformities, or anything that just HAS to be out there on a daily basis. But if you have say, a huge growth on your back, maybe it would be best to just wear a shirt in public.

This issue came to mind this weekend, when we drove past a guy riding his bike down the side of the road. Without a shirt. And when we got close, all I could see was the huge, gross lump on his back. It looked like some sort of cyst growing next to his spine or something; in fact, it was almost pointy and seemed like some little horned beast was going to burst through the flesh at any moment. Really, this lump was ALL I saw. The guy attached to the cyst vanished--his bike vanished, all of it. He was nothing but a grotesque lump riding down the road, distracting me from my driving duties and potentially creating a driving hazard for all of us on the road.

Come on, guy! You know you have that...thing...back there, right? So why did you ever think it was OK to just go out for a bike ride on a busy street with that mass on full display? You've got to know people are going to stare at it when they see it. People are like that. We like sideshows, we really like freaks, and we LOVE gawking at these things. Unless you get off on that sort of attention, please just cover the hell up. And I know it's hot...can't you just put on a thin tank top or something, at least? They make them in nice, breathable fabrics these days. You'll be fine.

What's not fine is making all of us stare at your lump.

I didn't set out to stare at it. I didn't wake up that morning and think to myself, "Hmm, today I really hope I see some unfortunate medical oddities!" I was minding my own business, driving down the road, and suddenly I was FORCED to gaze upon your wretched lump. Sir, this was just outrageous of you. Inconsiderate and uncivilized. I was of the mind that I should call the constable on you for your blatant disrespect of common decency, but lucky for you I was also "in a hurry" and had not the time for such malarkey.

What a dickweed.

In case you are wondering, that IS a photo of a shirtless Mark Twain up there. I figured, why not? At least there are no visible cysts on his chest. Mark Twain would know better. Mark Twain would totally cover up if he was flawed in some way. Smart man, that Mark Twain.

I bet he was the kind of guy who wouldn't take a shit in the work toilet, either. Mark Twain would know to save that business for home.

RRRAAWWWR, EASTER

Here it comes...the day the baby Jesus rose from the grave. Time to celebrate with chocolates, eggs and pastel-colored fake grass. And ham. Please... don't forget the ham.

Anyway, Happy Easter!

Some of my favorite Easter memories:

Age: 3
The Chocolate Baby Year. So we had a Doberman mix named Dobie when I was very young, and this dog would eat anything. She once ate a block of meat that was frozen solid when my Mom went to put a load of laundry in. My mom came back to nothing but a little styrofoam tray and some shreds of plastic wrap. Anyway, for my third Easter, the Easter Bunny brought me a chocolate baby. That's right... it was a baby made out of chocolate. Almost life-size, too! It was HUGE! It sat right in the middle of my basket like an idol to be worshipped. I was so excited about this chocolate baby! But, we had to go to church, so we went...and when we came home Dobie had found my Easter basket and eaten my chocolate baby. I never got to enjoy its sweet chocolatey goodness. Ever since, all I want to do is eat a chocolate baby, but do you know how hard it is to find a goddamn chocolate baby?! You can't! No one makes them! I better get one before I die otherwise I will be really pissed.

Age: 4
The Year of the Hilarious Train. This was my sister's first Easter, and marks the historic day that we first bonded over humor. I had gotten this little train-shaped cardboard box with chocolates in each compartment, and all I know is I started to push it back and forth in front of her as she sat there in her high chair. She started giggling and then laughing so hard her little face was red and she was holding her little baby-hands in fists up in the air. It was awesome. We even have a picture or two to commemorate the occasion. Oddly enough, she still acts that way if I push a little train filled with candy back and forth in front of her...

Age: 7
The Year of Saving One Rabbit's Life. The word went around that the Easter Bunny was thinking of bringing a pet rabbit to kids that year. My Mom told me. But then she and I talked about it and realized it would be dangerous the Bunny to bring us a rabbit, because our cat Benji was a ruthless killer. He was always out on the hunt, taking down mice and one time, a crow. Me being the ever-concerned animal lover, decided to write the Easter Bunny a letter to dissuade him from leaving us a rabbit. It went something like:
"Dear Easter Bunny, Please do not bring me a rabbit for Easter. My cat will kill it. Love, Lisa."
We stuck the letter inside my empty basket, along with a dyed easter egg, the night before Easter. The next morning I was pleased to come downstairs to a basket full of candy and a note: "Thanks for Egg & Letter." I was so proud that my letter-writing skills had saved the life of at least one rabbit. And the Easter Bunny had been satiated with my offering of a colored egg.

Age: 12 or 13
The Chocolate Egg Year. The family was all there for Easter Dinner, and I skulked around avoiding them all day as my loner teenage self was wont to do. I spent most of the day off reading "The Talisman" for the first time (I couldn't put it down). Dinner came around, we had baked ziti and the inevitable ham, standard Easter dinner. But then my grandfather had an... accident. He was suffering from Alzheimer's and was unaware of things sometimes. I had been sitting in the living room after dinner, reading of course, and he walked by to go to the bathroom. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary until my other grandmother (not his wife) walked past and then stopped short. "What's this?" She bent down and picked up a brown object that ws on the carpet. "Someone dropped a chocolate egg on the floor...oh no, it's SHIT!" She called to my mother in a panic and all hell broke loose as my other grandmother scurried away to help her husband, and my Granny tried to recuperate from having picked up a shitball with her bare hands. Meanwhile, Trish and I snickered like the mean grandchildren we were. Suddenly it was an interesting Easter.

Every Easter, Ages 1-17
The Slaughter of the Lamb Cake.
My mother used to make a cake shaped like a lamb every Easter. I loved this stupid cake. Not just because I was a fatty in the making and loved baked goods, but because it was so CUTE. She would decorate it so nice, and sometimes even colored some shredded coconut so it looked like grass for the lamb to rest in. It was the highlight of my Easter. But then, my uncles realized it was great fun to STAB THE LAMB with a big knife. The ritualized slaughter of the Lamb Cake after dinner was always traumatizing. One of my uncles would crouch over the table with the knife held high above his head, and they'd both start talking in low, scary voices as they closed in on the cake. I'd get REALLY mad if one of them made dying lamb sounds. In the early years, I would shriek and cry and beg them not to kill the lamb. Later I would just leave the room; as a teenager it became funny and I was OK about being teased. But I was never, EVER OK about the lamb cake being slaughtered like that. It just wasn't right.

So that's some of my wonderful Easter memories. What's buried in your Easter memory bank? Hopefully not another slaughtered lamb cake. Shudder.

364 DAYS OF KICKING ASS

Thanks to my friend D who shared this awesome video with me. That Easter Bunny is a real bastard.