I feel like I've had a mildly productive weekend, and I still have one sweet, sweet day left. I went to the movies yesterday, which is generally a good time. Sure, I got butt raped by the concessions stand, but frankly, that's the most action I've seen in over a year, so I can't complain. As for the film itself, I encourage you all to skip Hamlet 2; it was pretty weak. The final line of the film, however, is one I can't argue with: "That's the good thing about coming from where you came from. No matter where you go for the rest of your life, it's always going to be better than Tucson." Truer words, my friend. Truer words.

So, I finally got an answering machine. You should all call me and leave me an obscene message so I have something to listen to when I get home from work tonight at midnight. 773-764-4069. Be creative!

Intermezzo 2

I really think that this beautiful, both the music and the film so you should, too.

Intermezzo 1

So, Amazon, what the fuck?

I went to Amazon today to see if they could possibly get me a better price on a subscription to Arizona Highways than what I could get on the Arizona Highways' own website.


As you can see, the Arizona Highways website boasts a very reasonable $24 for 1 year's subscription, so it's just basic cheapness on my part to look for a better price. Let's check Amazon.


Darn, $24 as well. But at least there I'd save $23 off the price of . . . of . . .

Wait.

If the magazine's own site is selling it for $24, then how is Amazon saving me money? Who exactly is charging this regular retail price of $47.88?

Very deceptive, Amazon.

#6: Bathroom Fantasies

Although I has spent the last 13 years of my adult life in dorms and apartments, I still dream of owning my own home. Or, more precisely, I dream of owning my own bathroom, but it's hard to find one of those without a house wrapped around it. So, home ownership it is.

Certainly I won't be buying a home anytime soon, not least because my sum life savings are approximately $73.42 -- not quite enough for a down payment, even in these desperate times. The problem is that I know there is no home out there with a bathroom that will allow me to luxuriate in the fashion to which I will certainly one day become accustomed, and I'm not willing to settle for anything less.

I love taking baths. I always wanted to when I was a kid, but our mom was very opposed to them. When we did get a bath, it came with a scant 3 inches of water and no bubbles. What was the point? When pressed, she would mutter something about us getting infections, which I didn't understand then, and now just don't want to. As a grown-up, one of the many fine things I get to do, along with jumping on my bed and licking the frosting off doughnuts before throwing out the doughy part, is take a bath whenever I want. And I do, almost everyday. But my bathroom is lacking a few amenities.

1. A garden tub. At least I'm not so much of a spoiled princess that I demand a Whirlpool, but I want a tub deep enough and wide enough that my entire body can be submerged with room left over. I once had an apartment with one of these, and I miss it.

2. Shower separate from tub. I once stayed at a hotel that had this, and I really liked it. No doors or curtains obstructing the view from the tub.

3. A waterfall somewhere. Seriously, I really want this. Sure, I could just leave the shower on all the time to achieve nearly the same effect, but I think something essential would be lacking.

4. The toilet off in its own little closet. It's not that I'm offended by the sight of toilets; I just think that it'll disturb the mood somewhat if I'm reposing in blissful serenity and someone wanders in to take a crap.

5. Windows all around the tub. Privacy, schmivacy. I want to see the sky.

6. A bidet. I've heard some stories about them I'd like to put to the test . . .

7. A naked guy. I've heard some stories about these I'd like to put to the test, too.

8. A job I can work from the bathroom. This will probably require a waterproof computer.

So, as soon as I have the money for the house and the renovations, I can make this happen.

#5: Spit and Stuff

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Do you, like millions of Americans, suffer from the heartbreak of poisonous spit? This disease strikes without consideration of age, race, sex, or nationality, leaving your friends, families, and loved ones with no recourse but to hock loogies in public or die a painful death at your feet.

It’s a mysterious condition that leaves scientists groping for answers to difficult questions. Is there a genetic cause? Is there some environmental source? And why is the spit only poisonous while still in the sufferer’s own mouth, having no effect whatsoever on a French kissing partner? We can only hope that answers will be found in our lifetimes.

The good news is: we’re searching for a cure. Here at the National Poisonous Spit Foundation, scientists are working round the clock to identify the root cause of poisonous spit and find a treatment that will allow you to one day swallow your own spit like a regular, polite adult.

How can you help?

Join the Foundation, contribute financially, lobby your Congressman, and help send a powerful message to Washington: we’re tired of poisonous spit.

And please, until we can find a cure, don’t judge that young man who just hocked one into your hair. You may have just saved his life.

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You know that thing? The thing where I’m a lying liar and I never really mean what I say? Yeah, that thing. I am totally not going to give you another five posts tonight. I could have gone back to the post where I promised ten and edited it to five, and played innocent when someone called me on it, but I’ve decided I respect you way too much to do that.

So, instead of ten this weekend, I’m giving you five give this weekend, and one every evening this week, Monday through Friday. Definitely evenings, so don’t bother checking earlier in the day; it won’t happen. Also, I seem to be running short of topics, so if one of you would care to toss one into the ring, I might see what I can do with it.

Incidentally, I considered cheating by using pictures. You know, the old “picture is worth 1000 words” thing. See, one picture would then be worth two posts. Three pictures later, and I’m done. Even I am not that duplicitous, however (yes, I am; I just didn’t figure I could get away with it), so I refrained.

Another note to you Breaking Dawn people: seriously, there is nothing good to see here on that, so you might want to move it along now. And you should try reading some Neil Gaiman or Robin McKinley, too; they’re both way better. DON’T read that idiot Laurel K Hamilton; she blows the great big donkey balls. Honestly, she’s worth a post herself, regarding the incredible suckitude of her books. If one woman can single-handedly destroy the feminist agenda, it will be Ms. Hamilton.

And finally: the Michelin Man. Ribbed for her pleasure.

#4: How to Make a Child Hate You: A Gift-Giving Guide

Back in February I was hunting around some, looking for inspiration for a birthday gift for my soon to be 5-year-old nephew.

The now 5-year-old nephew

Now that he can talk, I thought I could just ask him what he wanted and get it -- seems simple. But when asked what toy was nearest and dearest to his heart, all he could come up with was "I don't know." While outwardly I may applaud his non-materialistic nature, inside I'm just disgusted. How can he not know what he wants? At 5, I was ready to go months before every birthday with a tome of my every want and need, as dictated to me by the Sears catalogue, ranging from "Chapter 1: Dolls I Reallyreallyreally Want But I Know You'll Never Get Me Because You Hate Barbie Because She's Prettier Than You But Maybe We Can Compromise on Her Flat-Chested Kid Sister Skipper" to "Chapter 17: The Crap I'll Have To Settle For Because You Don't Love Me."

I guess if I had really wanted to win my way into the kid's heart, I'd have just gone out and found the biggest and baddest-ass box I could, because if there is anything this child loves, it's an empty box.

Especially a box he can share with the whole family.

Now there is a good time.

Anyway, in a fit of desperation, I googled "toys for 5 year olds" and clicked on a link to the "Top Ten Toys for 5-8 Year Olds, Boys or Girls."

Wow. Someone hates kids. Here's a sampling:

"Rock Tumbler - allows learning of different types of semi-precious stones, rocks, minerals, etc. Answers the, 'how did they get so smooth and shiny?'. Once rocks are tumbled, children can learn to make their own jewelry for themselves, friends, and family. Encourages creativity while learning some geology, and is a hobby you can share with your child."

I remember the rock tumbler commercials. It looked like an awesome thing for the kid who had all sorts of unpolished rubies and sapphires kicking around the house, but the rest of us knew we'd just be polishing up the local gravel right before tossing it back in the street where we found it. Besides, this business of setting your child up to make jewelry for everyone you know sounds suspiciously like "Sweatshops for Beginners."

"Weaving Looms - these can teach history, as well as being fun. Also, teaches creativity, expands imagination, and aids coordination. Looms are available in different fashions, not like the simple ones for making pot holders only. Children can make beaded, Native American style belts and bracelets, or yarn purses, headbands, and the old pot holder for mom or grandma. You can explain that this was how clothes and such were made in the old days, with looms."

I have fond, fond memories of the weaving loom we had when I was a kid. It was metal and lived in the garage with all the other lame-ass crap we got to inspire our creativity (in my case, this would include the make your own AM radio kit, the model airplane kit, and the other make your own AM radio kit). Sometimes we would pull it down off its dusty shelf and try to imagine ourselves doing something with it. If anyone ever did, it was before my time. As presents go, a gift that is supposed to inspire you to make clothing is clearly worse than the horror of actually receiving clothing. Who knew it was possible?

“Scrapbooking Kit - this could be a good project both indoors and outdoors. Go on photo excursions with your child when the weather is good. Share special times and make a scrapbook that will be remembered for many years. Use stickers, cut-outs, markers, photos, etc. Great family project.”

Ah, yes. What child wouldn’t prefer crafting their own scrapbook over watching TV, playing a game, or going outside? A child who knows what a cravat is, that’s who.

I think I may have ended up getting him a ball. Can't go wrong with a ball.

#3: Doing the Right Thing

First, a quick note for the burgeoning masses who I see are finding this journal while looking for Breaking Dawn reviews, spoilers, etc.: That post is down below here, titled “#1: Something something something.” I wouldn't really bother reading it; it's not very informative about the book. Seriously, go read the reviews on Amazon; you'll be better off.

Now, on to the show.

Since we live in an age where it is every man, woman, or child's duty to narc on their neighbor or family member, since I live in a town where I am instructed on a daily basis "If you see something, say something," and since I yearn for my 15 minutes of fame on the local news, I have decided to start outing people for the horrible crimes I have no doubt they are committing. Here are two of the worst.

#1

Ernie Elf

"Want a cookie, little boy?" he growls as he lures our innocent children to a treehouse, lost somewhere in the forest. Once there, he puts our precious snowflakes to work in his cookie sweatshop, demanding they labor untold hours in his kitchens, OSHA be damned. Masking his depravity with grandfatherly kindness, he is so bold as to televise his audacity, claiming that these are not lost children, but actual elves baking his delicious cookies! And the heartless masses, hungry for his concoctions, ignore the evidence of their own eyes to ease their consciences as they gobble down the last of a box of Grasshoppers.

Well, I'm blowing the whistle on this operation. When you see tomorrow's paper, the jolly old "elf" himself lead on his perp walk, the headline screaming "COOKIE EMPIRE CRUMBLES!" you'll know who to thank. Me.

#2

Miss Piggy

I had a conversation with Kermit the other day. It went something like this:

KERMIT

She used to just put a belt, a stick and a wrench on the kitchen table and say "choose."

INT. KERMIT'S APARTMENT -- FLASHBACK

A large, porky hand sets down a wrench next to a stick.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. MEGAN'S OFFICE -- DAY

MEGAN

Gotta go with the belt there...

KERMIT

I used to go with the wrench.

MEGAN

The wrench, why?

KERMIT

Cause fuck her, that's why.

A long quiet moment.

MEGAN

I don't know a lot, Kermit. But let me tell you one thing. All this history, this shit...  Look here, son.

KERMIT, who had been looking away, looks at MEGAN.

MEGAN (cont'd)

This is not your fault.

KERMIT

(nonchalant)

Oh, I know.

MEGAN

It's not your fault.

KERMIT

(smiles)

I know.

MEGAN

It's not your fault.

KERMIT

I know.

MEGAN

It's not your fault.

KERMIT

(dead serious)

I know.

MEGAN

It's not your fault.

KERMIT

Don't fuck with me.

MEGAN

(comes around desk, sits in front of KERMIT)

It's not your fault.

KERMIT

(tears start)

I know.

MEGAN

It's not...

KERMIT

(crying hard)

I know, I know...

It . . . wasn’t pretty.

Men, if you’re being abused by the beautiful, blond pig in your life, please realize that you are not alone. Get help. In the meantime, I’ll be doing my best to see Miss Piggy in the big house for what she’s done to that poor little frog.

Friends, I hope I can count on you to the right thing, too.

#2: The Heinous Fuckery of the Squirrel

I laugh bitterly now when I think back to that sweet, innocent time when I thought of squirrels as cute and adorable. Having grown up in Arizona, my exposure to squirrels was limited for most of my life, occurring only in zoos, on out of state camping trips, or when discussing the nature of a mysterious stuffed animal named Blackie who most of my siblings coveted and who was old and battered enough to defy classification ("A bear?" "No." "A cat?" "No." "An ocelot?" "Maybe."). Squirrel was a possibility, if one accepted that his tail had been chopped off by some vicious future serial killer, and he was dyed completely black by the Exxon Valdez oil spill before coming to live out his twilight years with us.

I know now of course that there is no way that Blackie could be a squirrel since it is inconceivable that I could love so deeply a creature in any way related to those monsters.

You remember how eagerly I looked forward to spring and the promise of warmth and the joys of killing some plants of my very own in the guise of growing my own fruits and vegetables, don't you? And that plan came to some fruition, as my porch soon sported two thriving tomato plants and some hanging flower baskets. All very pretty. My landlord even commented on how well my tomatoes were doing in comparison to his own, while looking at me a little suspiciously, waiting for a confession that would never come of my success ("Yes, well, ground-up baby makes the best fertilizer, I always say . . .").

I have a personal policy regarding not giving any gardening advice, since I have had all too much of it foisted on me unasked. Plus, I was a little afraid that he would laugh if I told him what I secretly suspect is the source of my large plants and their dozens of tomatoes: chatting with my plants every morning while I water them. Very simple, just a few compliments on their appearance, a promise of more water tomorrow, and a cordial wish to have a pleasant day before I go back inside. Good manners hurt no one, I always say.

All was going disgustingly well until those fucking squirrels made an appearance. One tomato on one of the plants had advanced much further in maturation than any of the other tomatoes. It was quite large for a tomato grown out of a pot, at least a pound, I'd estimate, and just starting to turn red.

And then one morning it was a bleeding, dismembered corpse hanging from its stem, victim to hungry teeth.

I considered my options over the next couple days: chili pepper, netting, cages, etc. but everything seemed open to failure. I wanted to win and win decisively. In the meantime, a few more tomatoes, less luscious but no less loved by me, were victim to the mongrels, and I knew I had to take action or be soon left with nothing.

And so I moved the tomatoes indoors completely. I put them in the sunny, sunny room I had painted yellow, up on tables so that they could take full advantage of the windows. I unfortunately broke a branch on one on my way in, and the tomatoes it bore soon shriveled, but the rest survived. I've been watching my plants closely, and over the last week that have not merely survived, but have actually done well. I think I'll have some to pick soon.

I related all this to my landlord this morning in the basement as I was putting laundry in the wash and he was putting the hose away ( . . . the garden hose, you perverts. You know, not everything I say is meant to be taken as an innuendo.). I asked him how his tomatoes were fairing, one floor up from mine, now that the squirrels couldn't gorge on the second floor. As he was answering me, fuck if I squirrel didn't come sauntering up to the basement door, clearly listening to our conversation! I won't claim that he had a tomato in his hands at that moment (though that would have been perfect, wouldn't it?), but he certainly appeared well-fed.

My eyes narrowed. "Well, speak of the devil," I sneared.

The Best Landlord in the World turned around, and without a moment's hesitation, hurled a broom twenty feet out the basement door with all the accuracy of an Olympic javelin thrower aiming for something somewhat to the left of the squirrel.

Our spy scurried off, back to report to his troops on what steps to take for the next offensive while the Best Landlord in the World and I discussed BB guns.

#1 Book in Review: Breaking Dawn

I slunk out this morning to a Borders bookstore in another town to pick up my latest guilty, self-loathing-inducing pleasure: a copy of the last book in the Twilight series, Breaking Dawn.

Of course I have to synopsize the series for you people because none of you are girls under the age of 14, and therefore none of you have read any of the books. So: girl with no apparent personality or unique qualities at all beyond an apparent fondness for cooking meets and falls in love with a vampire, who conveniently falls in love with her, perhaps because she is the only one -- human or vampire -- whose mind he can't read, so maybe she doesn't bore him to tears. She spends the first three books whimpering, sniffling, apologizing, getting hurt, getting almost killed, etc., etc., etc. while either the vampire or the werewolf (also in love with her) take turns rescuing her and assuring her that nothing is her fault.

Feminism what?

So why do I read these books? Why have I purchased four of them, two in hardcover? Why was I actually worried as I rode the train to Evanston this morning about the possibility that the book would be sold out?

Still working on the answers to that. However, since the protagonist of the series is certainly unable to defend herself, I'll step in.

Some criticism I've read:

"A powerful message was sent. A very wrong one."

Am I the only one sick to death of hearing about "messages" and what's being sent in them? I for one was not reading these books to enrich my mind or broaden my horizons; I was looking for empty fluff, a happy ending, and some sex. And that's what I got. Except it needed way more sex. I don't need to be inspired by everything I read, for fuck's sake. Not everything has to be good for you. Geez.

"This book tells you that it's okay. Having children that young is Okay."

Well, the characters were young, but they had graduated high school, they were married, they were very fiscally sound, and they had their own house near the prestigious college in which they were enrolled for the next year. I see nothing bad about having kids with those things in mind -- particularly the fiscally sound part. If my tax dollars aren't paying for your kid's education, food, health care, etc., then why do I care what you have when? I really don't. And while 18 may have been a teen pregnancy, she was also an adult. You can say18-year-olds are irresponsible teenagers, incapable of making adult decisions, or you can say it's okay for them to go off and fight and die in wars, but to my mind, you can't have it both ways. Finally, since our protagonist actually does die giving birth, experiences two days of excruciating pain to become a vampire, has to plan for sending her child to live in another country to protect its life, and then deal with a near all-vampire war over having had the kid, it's hard to construe that as delivering the message "okay."

"How could this book be written by the same author we all came to know and love in the first 3 books?"

It amazes me how so many of the reviewers missed how the first three books sucked in so many of the same ways that this one does. Superficial characters. Lack of motivation for their actions. Threats resolved swiftly and easily. Are those in Breaking Dawn? Check, check, and check. Yeah, it's the same author.

Now I think I need to go reread it, since the 14-year-old in me isn't done sighing over the dashing hero.

I look back at this journal over the course of July, and I feel nothing but shame. Two posts in 31 days. That sucks, yo.

So to help assuage the guilt AND suckle my martyr complex -- all in one go! -- I will feed this journal 10 posts this weekend. 10! Guaranteed to be at least 500 words each. For reals. And this post doesn't count.

So check back soon, but not too soon because I think I'll go back to bed now. In the meantime, please enjoy this fine film of Madeline Kahn which proves to us that no monster, no matter how furry and adorable, can upstage Madeline fucking Kahn.