Tacos from a truck.... but not

So, every time I complain about the Mexican food around here, someone goes: "You should try the Taco Truck!" and I go: "I'm not into drugs."

But really, I have no problem with foods served out of trucks and/or trailers, it's just that this one actually uses its wheels and drives around town. Which means that no one can tell me where it is right now, they can only tell me where it was that one time or where they've heard it goes often, and to me that sounds like one of those cool kid parties I heard about on Veronica Mars where you have to know the code and even if I happened upon it they'd recognize me as an undesirable and I wouldn't get any tacos.

Lo and behold, however, the "taco truck" of Nashville also has a permanent, brick-and-mortar location and is actually called "Mas Tacos" (that link is to their Twitter account, by the way, which was almost a deal breaker for me, as I prefer not to Twit in any way). So, Houseboy and I braved the Saturday traffic through downtown and over the river and picked up some tacos:

My selection: fried Tilapia with a dill sauce, red cabbage, cilantro and some other stuff.

YUM!! The picture of Houseboy's didn't turn out as well, but he got the breakfast taco with chorizo, and seconded my "YUM!"

So, I have joined the chorus. If you're in the Nashville area, and you have any idea what Mexican food is supposed to taste like, I suggest you head to the taco truck (or its more convenient building analog), bypassing all other tempting options that will most likely feature Queso Sauce.

Hockey in Tennessee

So last night for my birthday Houseboy took me out to see the Wild play the Predators, and I talk more about the sportsy part of that here. The most important thing that happened that YOU should know about, though, is this:

That is nachos topped with barbecue sauce and chicken. And what's great about it is that 1) they smoosh all the chicken together in the center so that vegetarians can share it with their omnivore husbands and have reasonable belief that no flesh will touch their gullet, and 2) turns out that nacho cheese (or "queso cheese" as they call it here) and slightly spicy mostly sweet dark barbecue sauce go together reallyreallyreally well.

MMMMMMMMMMMM.

Would you call me bubbly?

So, as of today I am totally done with finals and project work for the next TWO WEEKS, which is an awesome feeling, especially when combined with a warm, happy and healthy dog cuddled up next to me in her camouflage fleece sweater, now at least mostly recovered from scary deadly illness. I learned something new about how I am perceived by people outside of my head during this time, which is that I am normally "bubbly." I had no less than two people comment on the fact that I was not my "normal bubbly self" and ask what was up, and if I had been my normal bubbly self I might have asked if they were being sarcastic, but instead I just kind of stared at them.

Which is also what I did to our cat sitter, who is a nurse at the vet's where we brought Olive, when she was telling me about something and said "Well, you know, you're a nurse." That probably would have been a good opportunity to right what is apparently a long-running misunderstanding, which explains why all summer she kept asking me for recommendations for allergy medications and I kept explaining to her that I don't have allergies, so I have no idea. It unfortunately came up again when she came by for the keys since she's looking after the cats over Christmas, as she took the opportunity to explain the medication that Olive is on, and turned to me and said "You've heard of it of course," and I kind of stared at her and was like "Um, no..." and she was like "Oh, well they use it in humans too," and Houseboy pointed out afterwards that I haven't gotten any closer to making it clear that I'm not a medical professional, but now she just thinks I'm a shitty nurse. I suck at my imaginary profession, so that's good.

Anyway, we also went out last night in celebration and saw the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, which really was Spectacular when it came to the parts with the Rockettes, especially the part where they were dressed like nutcrackers and did this:

[Click for source]

But was pretty unspectacular when it came to the parts with Santa and Mrs. Claus, and also had an unexpected, long and poorly conceived Nativity Story at the end, which actually kind of offended me, even though you all KNOW I love me some Jesus, just because the rest of it was pretty obviously designed to never mention God or even use any of the Christmas carols that reference the Christian part of the holiday, so it seemed very divorced and preachy, rather than entertaining. Though there were live camels and sheep, so I spent the whole time hoping one of them would poop and then wondering how they guarantee they won't poop and whether those poor sheep were really hungry because they haven't been fed in days to ensure the lack of poop. It's possible I have a recent obsession with animal poop.

We are too adorable, deal with it

So, it has been well established I think that Houseboy and I are adorable and lovable and you wish you were us, but don't you ALSO wish you knew how we met and fell in love and got married and moved to Australia, all except for that last part? Well, you're welcome.

The year was 1997. The time was 8:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, the second day of freshman year. The place was a poetry classroom in the basement of the English building. Me: aspiring English major. Him: totally asleep because he had morning practice and also was only there to pick up chicks, which by the way, he was doing a stellar job of by being asleep while the only other two guys in the class were NOT asleep.

So, yeah, I thought he was cute but mostly was really digging on the guy with the earring who wasn't asleep in class.

Then, the year was 1998. The time was afternoon-ish or something. The place was the common room in the weird Sophomore dorm housed under the football stadium. Me: totally going to cut my hair really short and dye it blue. Him: watering a plant he called Kate because he thought that would appeal to the chicks, which it totally would have except that he never ever talked to any of them, including me.

UNTIL. The year: 1999. The time: 2 am or so. The place: common room again. Me: deep in the throes of a serious caffeine addiction and trying to come down by watching Lambada: The Forbidden Dance. Him: finally figuring out that the way to a girl's heart is by sarcastically mocking a really obscure movie in the middle of the night, especially if you follow that up with nightly viewings of public access programs and Adult Swim before it was Adult Swim and when it was just weird. Follow up by asking her out on the day before Valentine's Day because it's the first Friday you've had off from practice and meets all year.

Then, do all the dately things like going to an Italian restaurant and sitting in the window making fun of how people park. Open the door for her and all that. When she offers to pay, do not let her. However, and this is key, DO NOT tell her that "My mom told me I should take someone out." That might seem like it's a good reason for you to pay, it might seem like it will satisfy the 20 year old feminist's desire to be an equal partner, but in fact it will just make her wonder if all your other friends were busy and this has been the biggest and most embarrassing misunderstanding OF ALL TIME.

Also, since you live in the same dorm, literally about 300 feet from each other, make sure that there is an awkward pause at the door, but no kiss and then you go back and sit in the same common room and watch a John Cusack movie, joined half an hour in by your R.A., who sits in between you and your date. All that is very romantic.

It worked pretty well on me since about a month later I asked him if he was bored and maybe wanted to go see a movie or something and then about a month after that he asked if he was allowed to tell people I was his girlfriend and then about 5 years after that we got married. Whirlwind romance!

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http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

That's the way they do it in Vegas*

So the spit has begun to hit the fan around here, which you can tell by the running clothes hanging from the kitchen table, the notebooks scattered on the floor and the books holding up the cups of coffee, all of which are covered in spit. Seems like every time I take a break to check my e-mail, which used to be a great distraction in which I stared at my empty G-mail** inbox and smiled a self-satisfied smile at how well I have weaned down my social contacts until I'm only friends with the people who are as unresponsive as me, which causes a kind of spiral of happiness and confusion, instead of all that what I get is a reminder that I forgot to do something or that something I thought was done weeks ago wasn't really done by me or by others and as a result a cascading waterfall of destruction and dismay is about to befall us all, and as poetic as that sounds it really just means I have to fill out some mundane form and make copies and then talk to someone about it for hours, making it much and much laterer that I'm getting my actual homework done.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right. So Hedgehog has this new job, working at a nonprofit that she really really loves, and I know as a good friend I'm supposed to hate her for it and try to tear her down and make her feel bad about being happy when I'm so stressed, but really all I want is to hear about how great it is because it means there is some kind of light at the end of the tunnel, which is a better metaphor than usual, because there was light before I got in the tunnel, I just decided I wanted a brighter light or more natural light or more pretentious light in which people would call me Dr. Antelope and I could ask them to turn down the light because it's bothering my highly educated eyes.

I forgot what I was saying again.

Wait...

Yup, it's gone.




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* Says Jerry to George. Replies George "You never played Vegas." Says Jerry: "I hear things."
** Because I worked for the Government, get it? Laugh damnit!


http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

I think it's Tuesday

Is it Tuesday? Well, it's Way Back Tuesday anyway, no matter what day it is. For this edition, we'll go way back to ninth grade, which for me was in 1994. If you're clever, you can figure out how old I am from that. Since (as I may have mentioned) I grew up in a small town in Minnesota, this was about the time that grunge hit our scene. Since I had a father who owned flannel and a sister a size or two larger than me, I was set as long as I just wore anyone's clothes but my own. Also, I grew out my bangs, which were never curled and hair sprayed the way they should be anyway, because I'm lazy and because my hair does whatever the fuck it wants; I am not its master.

Anyway, I was 15 years old and thought I was tough in some way I can't really remember or explain, especially since this story involves a band trip. Not Band Camp, you understand, just a fun-filled overnight trip to Madison County, Iowa to compete against other tough band nerds and go to a classical music concert and out to the dinner theater. Rockin!

This was the end of the year*, and as such it was time for the seniors to pass their awesome torch to us freshmen. Because they got rid of hazing after some band dork had to be taken to the hospital when he was wrapped in tape and all his skin came off**, all this meant is that the Seniors gave us those "Awards" which are really just pieces of paper making fun of you. I got "Best Section Leader" because I was (after my senior left) going to be the only person in my section. And because apparently I was so devoid of personality that they couldn't even make fun of me properly. One of my best friends got "Anastasia." Because they couldn't remember her name. Hint: It was not Anastasia. Another best friend got something like "Practice Freak." Because she was really really good and practiced her instrument and it sucked how much other people in her section sounded like ass next to her.

Anyway, that night after our rockin' dinner and awards ceremony, me and my three best friends retired to our hotel room and lit those awards on fire in the tub. I'm not sure how four nonsmoking fifteen year olds got a hold of matches and/or a lighter, but I'm going to guess it involved my friend flirting with one of the older boys who was also a band badass and once called me anorexic and street dumb, but that's another story.

Anyway, there was glue involved in these awards and a fair amount of smoke ensued and we had to turn on the shower and did not burn the motherfucker down like Lisa Left Eye Lopes, but all in all we felt pretty awesome.

I used to have a thing with fire. It's pretty.


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* I think it was the end of the year. My brain kind of sucks at, like, remembering stuff like times and dates and places and names. This story is all true though many details may be confused and/or made up.

** That may have been The Breakfast Club. But maybe it happened in my school too. Who knows?


http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

Worst Road Trip Ever

So, this is in answer to an assignment from Jeff, who has one of the cooler site name/address combinations out there and wrote all about his crappy spring break last week and asked us to do the same.

Anyway, this was also a spring break, in my sophomore year of college, spring of 1999, and my roommate, my high school friend and I decided to join our three other friends for a road trip to Texas. Before leaving my mom informed me (mistakenly as it turns out) that my insurance did not cover any other drivers besides me, so if I let anyone drive my car and they so much as got a ticket, it was out of my pocket. So, we begin the 26 hour drive at about 6 p.m. with me behind the wheel the whole way.

That's all right though, because we get as far as Story City, Iowa when my car starts spewing black smoke, sputtering and swerving and I have to pull over to the nearest gas station and call AAA. The mechanic who comes is about four and a half feet tall and appears to have had his hand amputated and put back on incorrectly and he informs me that "cars ain't meant to be drived long distances at high speeds," and that I should have it towed in in the morning. So the next morning we tow it to Ames, where they replace two spark plugs and tell us we're good to go.

So, with a lot of caffeine and Twizzlers, I drive the rest of the 20 hours myself and collapse in a hotel room while the five other people go out to the pool. A couple hours later I'm awakened by the police pounding on the door. They inform me that while all my friends were out at the pool, my car was broken into. They smashed in my window and stole my stereo.

So, I spend the third day of my spring break (the first day was in Iowa, the second driving to Texas) getting my window replaced in some shady strip mall in the suburbs of Houston.

The middle part of the vacation went pretty well... we drove over the border into Mexico and bought some Chicklets from little Mexican children and drank Corona and felt all cultured and shit.

Then, on the drive home I saw a drunk driver weave in and out of traffic and drive right off the road and into a sign. At that point I decided it might be a good idea to let someone else drive for a few hours, no matter what the insurance said. So I let my roommate take over, gave her the keys at the gas station, and she promptly put the ignition key in the door and broke it off.

So, we had to call a 24 hour locksmith out to an Oklahoma gas station at 11 o'clock at night and I'm not even going to describe what that experience was like.

Houseboy and I are starting on a roadtrip ourselves tomorrow--out to my cousin's wedding in Maine and down to his family and around to Tennessee, etcetera... here's hoping it's better than that one was.


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http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

Can I call in sick on my last day?

Dudes, I have a cold. I know, right? Will the world ever be fair and just? I have about four sick days left, and in any other week I wouldn't even have thought twice about it. I'd have called my boss early enough that there was no way I'd have to talk to anyone but his answering machine, said "Boss man, I have the sniffles and work is just too much for me right now," and then started to cry and maybe have a coughing fit or something.

But no. I only have five (four and 3/4) days of work left, so apparently it's bad form to call in sick. Because, what? I'll get fired? They'll call up Vanderbilt and be like "Just a warning, your new student TOTALLY called in sick in her last week of work. That's the kind of person you're letting in to your program now. You're welcome."

Speaking of getting fired, at my first job out of grad school, my best friend (who worked there with me) quit and then went back to her desk, got a phone call, and was informed that they were firing her instead. They sent security to escort her out and everything. Oh, and p.s., it was her birthday. Thus began my illustrious career that I am now attempting to escape by going back to school again.

Also, no matter what your big sister tells you, butterflies and moths don't bite, not even if they're really mad at you for pulling the petals off a flower. I'm on DayQuil.

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http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

Jesus Cured My Hangover

So, Houseboy being all finished with his life-changing world-altering calm-shattering exams, we're attempting to re-enter the world of a social life, or at least as much of a social life as two thirty year old shut-ins have ever had.  What that means is that we spent Friday night and most of Saturday watching old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on dvd and eating chips and other fried things.  

Saturday night though we really tore it up and had Hedgehog over to drink beer and eat fried things on our couch with us.  Because, as I may have mentioned, I am an elderly person, I had about 5 beers and ended up all kinds of hungover on Sunday morning, which happened to be my morning to teach all the little childrens about Jesus.  There were sheep and a sheepfold and a good shepherd involved, I think.  There was a significant amount of staring silently at the sheep.  Maybe some stroking of their backs.  There was also a photographer there to capture the magic of our multicultural classroom at work and post the photos on the wall.  So, next year, when I'm long gone to Nashville and quite possibly sober enough to put in contacts, there will be pictures all over my former church of me in a ratty t-shirt and bloodshot eyes stroking some wooden sheep with a distracted look on my face.  I hope that really sells the program to the parents.

...

http://irregulargiggling.blogspot.com

You're a bum, You're a Punk, You're an Old Slut on Junk

Sadly, the Pogues did not play Fairytale of New York when we saw them, probably mostly because they didn't have a female singer with them, so it would have required Philip Chevron (aka, the coherent one) to affect a high voice, which would be uncomfortable for everyone.  

They did, however, play this song, which I love:

I shot that on my cell phone, which isn't the kind with a good camera or anything, so I'm going to guess that doesn't violate any copyright laws.  I saw other people there with real cameras, and I will name names to save my own ass, if I have to.

So, anyway, this is all meant to show you how cool I am, because I like Irish Folk Punk, and I own a cellphone with a shitty camera.  You know you want to be me.

....

Vitame Vas

In the tiny town I grew up in, we had a yearly festival called "Kolacky Days," in which we pretended that everyone living there was Czech and knew what the hell those ladies in red dresses with frilly aprons were lip-synching to on the Czech Singers float in the parade and said things like "Vitame Vas" (We welcome you!) to one another while eating dumplings, sauerkraut and cheese curds.  It was good fun, and also involved beer, as all good fun does.  There was a corn-eating contest and my dad competed in it (as was required of the local doctor), and lost miserably every year to men with arms as big as my head who worked in the steel mill or the Green Giant canning factory.  As kids we bought tickets at a dollar a piece to ride amusement park rides that had been put up overnight in the park and would be taken down and packed off to another town the next week, and as far as I know no one ever died on them, even though I'm pretty sure they were short a few more bolts every year.  

On Saturday night there was a dance in the park and it started out with one of the local polka bands, and the children and older women polka'd together until it started to get dark, sometime after 9pm, when a rock and roll cover band came on and my parents would walk us home, where we could hear the bass and the drums from the upstairs bathroom window.  On Sunday we all went out with wooden stakes and rope to mark off our lawns and keep the drunken parade-goers from parking on it and then walked down to the funeral home and sat on the curb and waved at local politicians and the winners of the Kolacky Queen Pageant so they would throw us Tootsie rolls and suckers.  If we were feeling athletic we competed in the Bun Run, a 4-mile race that went straight out of town on the highway, looped around an abandoned dirt road by the railroad tracks and headed back in, chugging up the hill on mainstreet in the 95 degree heat and being hosed down by volunteers that used to be our elementary school teachers.  

If we were old enough we spent Friday and Saturday night on Main Street (which was really First Street, but no one ever called it that), which had been blocked off to traffic and the six bars spilled out onto the sidewalk and street with beer specials and karaoke, once that got popular.  Boys and girls flirted and men and women drank like teenagers and started fights and drove home through the town, beaching their trucks in my parents' backyard and good-naturedly tearing up the grass trying to get back out.  

After the parade on Sunday people trickled back to their homes with bags full of Kolacky and pockets full of candy, and the municipal employees headed out to the parks to gather bags and bags of trash, and on Monday the Green Giant workers sat at the same picnic tables and ate their lunches and talked about how much the festival had changed.

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Seventy-Five Percent More Powerful

So, I'm through the first day and halfway through the second day of learning how to be a better presenter, and let me tell you something.  I look freaking weird.  I'm a weird looking lady.  This is all I think about while watching the videos of myself.  I'm supposed to be examining stance and eye contact and what not and all I can think is "Is that really what I look like?"  

I know that your voice sounds different to you because you're hearing it inside your head, and the first time I ever heard a recording, I was like "What a freaking dork!  Who is that?"  But, honestly, what is my excuse for not knowing what I look like?  I gaze in the mirror for at least two hours every morning and evening.  I use multiple mirrors to see all sides of myself.  I fill photo albums with pictures of me in all hairstyles and combinations of dress and standing outdoors in front of monuments and indoors with liquor bottles.  I thought I knew what I looked like, but apparently I've just been catching myself in good lighting and good angles every time.  

This is not doing good things for my self-esteem, blogees.

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Cowboys and Powerful Presentations

Today I am going to be learning all about how to give a "Powerful" presentation, which apparently involves things like "vocal variety" and "meaningful gestures."  I did not know it, but I guess I've been talking in a monotone and doing meaningless things with my hands.

Anyway, before I go I need to share my thoughts on All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy, which in googling for a picture I just found out is also a movie.  Well.  Anyway, my quick low down: McCarthy has pretty prose and this is less bleak (almost sweet at times) than The Road, but it remains pretty bleak.  Also, near the end he renewed his obsession with the word "laved."  As in "he laved the water over his neck."  I can't tell you the number of times people laved things in The Road.  Anyway, I still liked the book and, as I said, the man can write.  I don't know if I'll go on to any more of his books, though, especially since all the descriptions in the back involve a variation on the phrase "... in a country where men pay for love in blood..." 

Okay, off to be powerful.  Enjoy reading the cowboys, I think you'll like it.

... 

Blog squared

I read a bunch of other people blogging today about how they have funny IM conversations, and I got jealous, so I'm sharing this:

Hedgehog: and look at this crazy fucking shit

http://chicago.craigslist.org/chc/fuo/1012043083.html

Antelope: holy shit i would've given my future left boob for a dollhouse like that when i was a kid

Hedgehog: you didn't has a boob then

Antelope: i have one i made myself, and put in carpeting and wallpaper and lights and everything, but it was not as cool as this

that's why i said FUTURE left boob

Hedgehog: oH!

slow

Hedgehog: that's a hutch! made to look like a muthafuckin' dollhouse

Antelope: NOOOOOOOOOO

i wondered why they didn't show the inside

Hedgehog: oh! liquor cabinet

Antelope: actually, it would be more awesome as a dollhouse, but liquor cabinet is pretty wikid

Hedgehog: because you should keep your liquor in a mansion

Antelope: yeah, you should

Hedgehog: guess so

i buys it for you, k?

Antelope: kay yes please

Hedgehog: k, I hire moving company that no ever bring it to you, but I sweared that i buyed it

k

Antelope: brilliant

Hedgehog: it happens sometimes

...

Urban Outfitters, Woolite, Jelly Beans

So, my good friend Hedgehog wrote a blog yesterday that was about how she doesn't have internet or cable in her new house and is trying to decide between AT&T and Comcast and the associated hair-pulling and whatnot.  All of a sudden, she's of interest to people working in the tv industry and even a young whippersnapper named ComcastCares1, who offers the sage advice that there are probably special offers for new customers in her area.  

Since I already get DirecTV in my building and have no choice about the matter, I figured this would be a good time to mention that I like to shop online at Anthropologie and ModCloth and that I'm thinking of buying all my tools at Sears.  Plus, Target is a great place to shop, and a Minnesota company.  Also, I like chocolate.

Bigmoneybigmoneybigmoney.  

The best, most awesomest great and fantastic birthday present ever

Here is how it started.  Houseboy and I walk in, there's a little back and forth about which section is ours and which row we should walk down so as not to have to crawl over people, and suddenly I'm distracted, because there's this really loud thwacking noise, and I turn around and there are giant men hitting frozen cow dung at us: 

So, I hyperventilate a little bit, but get myself settled in:

[Holy sh*t we're close]  And watch the warmups while dancing to the wickid music.  And then there's Mikko Koivu and my new favorite player, Clusterf*ck Clutterbuck and there's a lot of hip checks and cross checks and smashing into the boards, and my personal favorite, where they do that thing where they slap the puck all the way across the ice and it rattles around the plexiglass behind the goal, which makes this thwackpingthwackpingthwackping noise when you're right behind it and makes me giggle.  

I even got on the jumbotron, which has never ever happened before, and I saw it and was like "That girl has the same color scarf as me!" [Double take] "That's me!"  And won the award for most spazzy reaction to being on a big video screen ever.  

And there are three Wild goals in the first period and one Blackhawks goal in the second, all at our end, and the Wild kill two penalties and the Blackhawks goalie Khabibibibibulin catches like twelve shots in his glove and then in the last minutes of the third, they pull their goalie and the Wild get their fourth goal in one of those long, sad open goal shots that no one can stop, and absolutely everyone gets up to leave, except me and Houseboy, who do the dance of The Best, Most Awesomest Great and Fantastic Birthday Present Ever. 

....

My Precious

So, I know Christmas and my birthday have already passed, but there was something I forgot to ask for, and I really really need.  It's these:

Don't you think the Fat Cat and the Neurotic Cat would get along well with them?  I'd need several, because I think I might squeeze the first couple to death due to their extreme adorableness.  

Don't you want to be my friend?

I added the new blogspot feature called "Followers" so that you people could sign up to be my minions, but of course no one did, just highlighting what I think I've made clear before: I don't have friends.

I'm not blaming anyone of course, because as it turns out if you invite me to your wedding I'll forget to charge my camera battery and end up with only photos of your ass and my feet, because I thought that was cute and I'd had a few beers already. Sorry Hedgehog and new husband, Sonic (he suggested this name, so you can see that they're adorable together, even though they won't let me post the ass pictures here).

Here's the picture of our feet:


I'm hoping it's the perspective, but DAMN do I have some thunder calves. Also, finger toes, and that's not a perspective issue. You can't tell from the photos I took, but I was wearing this totally awesome dress that I bought on Etsy from this lady who makes them to your measurements. So I looked like a hot 50s housewife, which is one of my life goals.

The only other shot I got was this fun little video which mostly shows darkness, darkitude and some darkosity. But if you look closely you'll see the telltale signs of White People Dancing and then White People Waiting for the Next Song and Wondering How They Should Dance Until They Figure Out What Song It Is.

Hedgehog got Houseboy and I drunk and made us dance to Monster Mash. It was a graveyard smash.

Other than that I've spent this week inventing new smileys, like the Ice Grill :[] and new internet slang, like LUAS (laughing up a storm). Those are copyrighted, by the way. Ten cents for every use. Given my vast minions, I should be a millionaire any day now.

Darn it all to Heck

So, the Saturday before last I spent the whole morning at a "Safe Church Training," otherwise referred to in our household as "How to Not Rape Kids." It's a great training, and I would never say a foul word against the laudable pursuit of protecting kids. Because rape and molestation are bad. In case you ever wondered. But, I had to do this same training two years ago and found out at the end of this 2 hour meeting that they recommend congregations do it every 5 years, and if I'd known that I would have insisted that I still remembered all the finer points. Among these points is making sure that kids' parents or guardians pick them up after Sunday School, a rule I find annoying because kids' parents or guardians are all busy in the parish hall eating cookies and church coffee and chitchatting about Jesus and I'm left wandering around the church with their spawn looking for them. But I do it, because I am against child molestation, even in church. Anyway, I got to watch the awesome video where they interview former victims and perpetrators of abuse and play the "Is this an ok touch in church?" game and there was some tasty fancy tea and doughnuts, so among Saturdays it's not the WORST I ever had.

Immediately the next day of course I'm in the Sunday School room and being extra special careful to not let kids go to the bathroom alone or have the second graders sit on anyone's lap, and I get up to walk across the room, trip over a kid coloring a liturgical calendar and land hand-first on her ass. Darn it all to heck, I'm going to be in that training again next year, I can just see it.

I am badly in need of Viagra

Another possible title for this post: don't click on things in your junk mail folder, even if they are from admin@ or say re: or you're really really tweaked on meth and having a hard time focusing on your work or complete words. It appears that admin@viagra.com and I are becoming bosom buddies, if the number of times he's responded to e-mails I supposedly sent him in the last week is any indication. As a matter of fact it's really something I should put on my list of growths and accomplishments for the year that I have someone with whom I communicate so regularly. Before the administrator of Viagra.com I only had Houseboy, who is legally required to interact with me on a daily basis and can't even break his legally binding agreement on account of the Great and Powerful OZ, or the Da Vinci Code or something along those lines.

Oh, I have other friends, but generally I'm pretty shitty to them and try to avoid their phone calls, and when they invite me places I stand them up or I tell them I have quilting to do that weekend and then actually spend the time on the floor of the shower, speaking to the silverfish. So mostly they don't e-mail me every day with updates on what's going on in their lives and business like this new associate of mine, and certainly they don't hear from me every day, like it appears has been going on in this case.

Now, since I don't actually remember writing any of the e-mails that Mr. Administrator is replying to I have to say that our friendship is probably largely based on a mutual admiration of pharmaceuticals and/or sleepwalking, but as long as Houseboy doesn't notice me slipping off in the middle of the night, I'd say this friendship has potential. It involves no conscious work on my end, as far as I know I've never had to leave the house, and there's no larger circle of friends that I have to pretend to like or pay tribute to in the form of dinner parties or infant souls.

I think I'll go ahead and add him to my address book.