So we watched "Superbad" last night. I actually thought it was funny as hell, but probably didn't get the full experience since I grew up...a girl, and all. But here is the best part (in my opinion).

I was watching a high school movie starring (well, featuring) one of the people I went to high school with. Actually took some classes with her. For some reason her Hollywood career didn't take off like it should've- but she has been in a few things lately that I have been running across. Not in a stalky way, but by accident. Like the only time ever that I have seen "Law & Order", she was the perp. And there you have it.

But the movie was fun. And it had a nice edge to it- by that I mean, not horribly edgy, and just nice. Our thin hero reminds me of Kman. (notice, I have made the upgrade? Boyz to men and all that) Nice, and very, very funny. With those big brown eyes.....swoon.....
Kman, not the kid in the movie- I am not disturbed....seriously.

Other than that not much happening. Yet.

Yes, I am working remotely today. And there is a double meaning there. Remote and remote. Probably a triple meaning.

Suffice it to say that it is very quiet by comparison to my usual stew of noise and action.

And the cats aren't interested in a rousing chorus of "Spider Pig, spider pig, does whatever spider pig does." They just look at me and blink. Not team players.

Now I have to go nurse the email. It's what I do.

I thought that back in the day I made a rule about drunken blogging. Well, what do they say about rules and being broken? I have plenty of experience being broken.
But not brokeback. Never. Brokeback. Because, quite frankly, I can quit you. Anytime I want. Just ask anyone. It can happen.

And this isn't necessarily drunken. Not on a Monday night. Not at 7:00 PM. Just a couple of glasses of wine to appease the muse. Because today, quite frankly, coffee didn't do the trick. She was feeling....particular. Probably a tad out of sorts about being required to do her business elsewhere. Neglected around here, don't you see.

So in actuality no rules being broken. Nothing to see here, move along.

This weekend we tried to watch Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was too difficult. We gave up and went to bed. Even with the ever sparkly but cotton-candy haired Peter Frampton. He tried soooo hard. And Maurice died for your sins. You know it. Own it.

This weekend I tried so hard to burst the bounds. Professionally. I came up with a perfect paper. But it wasn't really. I found out today. And that's ok. But there is still something rotten in this state of Denmark, and I WILL discover what it is. Just haven't had enough water under that bridge. And don't know the right password. I will, though. That's a solemn oath. I don't take those lightly. Ask anybody.

Had a snow day. Until the afternoon, when it was possible to actually go to the store. But there was snow. Now ice. Later more snow. I am bored. More wine? No. Out of that. Forgot to stock up. Might have to drink Scotch. But not delighted about the prospect, because don't think I will enjoy as much as I should. So probably won't. Speaking in strange shorthanded fashion, and having some difficulty hitting right keys....perhaps rules are being broken. Know when to say when. Otherwise bad things happen. To good people. There was a book written. Not that I bought it- self-help lost its glamour when I tried to stomach A Road Less Traveled at the recommendation of a lunatic ex-boyfriend (Miji for those of you who know the code). Purer bullshit hath never been produced outside of the stockyards. Just plain not applicable. So fuck that noise.

And now I think I must depart, good night sweet prince, say hello to the wife and kids.

Things I have:

A firmed up date for surgery. Think Valentine's day. And pray for Kboy's sake that the pain pills are sufficient.

Crazy assed red chested woodpeckery birds pounding on my roof in the morning. Even on the weekends. To quote former President Clinton, "For Shame!"

A date with destiny in the form of a game designer on Monday. Less said about that right now, probably for the better- suffice it to say, I will be doing some major homework over the weekend.

An enduring and lingering dislike for Tom Cruise that was only intensified by reading the new unauthorized biography. Tom, you are dead to me. I still haven't seen "Top Gun." Don't think it's gonna happen now, either.

A husband who has currently gone missing. I could call and see where he is, but it's better this way. A touch of mystery. Actually, I suspect that he went to the book store for coffee and a magazine peruse. Because that's the way he rolls.

A new haircut. Because it was time. And when I start contemplating wearing a pony tail in public as a remedy to bad hair, it is a dire thing. Just like wearing workout togs in public. Not gonna fly, babycakes.

And that's all I can think of for right now. So it'll have to be enough.

"I think you can be clever without being crass."
"But I should push it."

"I still think it's possible."

"One of the examples was of a pair of Nikes with a graphic of a dildo going into some chick."

"Right. Crass. But I still think you are more clever than that."

"We're going for edgy."

Things we discuss over morning coffee.

Note to self: two large meals in one day, even if they do commemorate Kboy's birthday, are a bad idea. Especially after over 6 months of not eating like that. Ah, the pain.

And it is probably about time to stop calling him "the boy." He is 39. Perhaps time to come up with a more apt moniker.

Today is MRI Monday. I think it should be a new kind of game. Or something. Like Caturday. Or Naked Thursday.

I got a very strange email this weekend from some chick on a fishing expedition on Classmates.com. No, I won't share some of the particulars, except to say I am unclear as to her motives in seeking some of the people she's looking for, and I haven't seen one of them in over 20 years. The other more like 35. So gonna ignore it. Plus she used sketchy grammar and spelling, which is always a problem for me. Such a snob. It could be an elaborate hoax. I think that the one dude died, anyway.

On the complaints list, Kboy went to Anaheim this last week for a trade show, and brought back a couple of t shirts for me. That was nice. What sucks is that he was around bona fide rock stars and didn't stand in line for hours to get them to sign stuff. For me. To hang at my desk at work. He started this precedent by getting me a signed Peter Frampton picture. His fault that I have these expectations, really. But he had the lead singer from Yes at his booth, and didn't bother...sigh....I shall whine some more. And he was in the convention center with a couple of the more prominent members of Kiss. Which would be kind of a cool addition to Peter on my wall. I'm just saying. I guess the Yes guy is kind of a freak. And the line for the Kiss guys was a tad longish. But seriously, what the hell else did he have going on??? And it would be in the name of love and all that. Pay it forward, chump- I vacuumed the house yesterday in honor of your bloody birthday!

And to wrap this up, am currently watching a Korean soap opera on DVD. Hotelier is the honorable story of a young hotel manager in Seoul who is loved by two men. And has to make a decision. In 10 hours or less of rather tortured and very beige hotel goodness. Seriously. Beige and gold. The whole thing. Beige and gold. With very soft music. Reminds me of the spa at the gym. Only the lighting is better on the tv show.

Ah, just let the anger push you beyond that hurdle. Again and again.

An hour on a treadmill, climbing no where quickly.

The only way to endure is a combination of NPR news/weather and information. But at the very end, when it's become stupid difficult, break out the "Hell's Bells."

Because nothing is quite as motivating as the Australian screeching "Hell's Bells...Satan's coming for you..." to keep you moving on the treadmill. Because if you stop, guess who is coming for you?

Not the nice little Indian lady on the treadmill to your left.

Or the nice little farty Asian lady on the treadmill to your right (please, remember, we can smell those, nice little lady. And if there is something wrong, you should probably either be in a less enclosed room, or at home.)

But then maybe the farts are supposed to evoke Satan more thoroughly. Kind of a multi-media piece. But I don't think she knows I am listening to AC/DC. Or angry.

So follow that up with "Immigrant Song," and you have the perfect denouement for the most evil workout I can come up with. Call it self-punishment. Paying of the dues. Righting the wrongs.

Is it just me?

Or does anyone else have Christmas presents still in boxes sitting around the house? It could be that we are just overwhelmingly slothful. But I am looking at one. And it's cool. I just haven't taken the time to unpack and set it up. I have opened the box. But hell.

I still have boxes of stuff downstairs that I haven't gone through- papers mostly. I have this phobia about papers. And throwing them away. Wonder where that came from??? Without revealing too many sources, it is somewhat of a family trait.

So that might be the only resolution that I make. Belated and all. Go through the boxes. Throw away the crap I no longer need. Figure out a better storage plan for the crap that I do need. I am guessing that return address labels for West Seattle aren't in the second category. But that's the kind of crap I tend to keep.

And I'll set up the Christmas present thingy. Because yes, I feel the guilt. If you prick me, I will bleed. So please don't. It'll only piss me off.

Not much time to actually think and write- work stuff is going on. Full on politics. Sad co-workers. Mean co-workers. Stressed people.

I did get confirmation yesterday that the surgery will happen. The Dr was good- very confident that this can be fixed easily, and quickly. With a minimum of fuss. Which is his job. But the place was like a Seattle sports museum. With ballet dancers included. So I figure that my shoulder is much less of a challenge than re-building a pitcher's shoulder after it is destroyed. Cake walk, no doubt.

Next is my very first MRI. Next week.

In my dream I was singing Courtney Love again. And feeling like the rock star.
It's never really like that, though. I am made to understand on a daily basis that I
am not a rock star.
It's ok, really.

It's the time though, that I am beginning to see what my choices have made. And
how many of them are permanent. That sense of endless possibility is dying.
Probably not a huge problem- I hung onto that for too long, no doubt.
It's ok, really.

Because there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The relentlessness of the process
is revealing. And Revelling. Mainly because those of us about to die salute you.
And we're all in that club, and it's not a lonely place. It's what you make of it.
If you want loneliness, just think that you're not going to die someday. That'll do the
trick. Because all of the rest of us will be leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when
we'll be back again. Probably never.

So sod off, indeed. Sod is what it's really all about. Wouldn't it be interesting if global
warning was due to putting us in air-tight containers rather than just planting us in
an open ditch? I do know that it causes some kind of financial burden. But otherwise, can't
really pull much cause and effect out of the mix.

Only if you were to build on a cemetery, there would probably be some problems with
nasty chemical leakage. Enough said. Bad idea. Don't do it. Teenage Suicide- don't do it.
The song really does remain the same.

And in my dreams I am a rock star. Not iron man, but a rock star. It's bona fide.

Today the obsession is with sweaters. Not sure why, only that the strongest impulse I have is to crawl back in bed and be warm. I think it has to do with winter. And with politics. And with work. And with the combo package of the last two. Things are happening, and I am trying to ignore the whole blasted thing. Has no direct effect on me, and it's hard to give a shit.

So sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters. They are in my thoughts. I have never knitted an adult-sized one. Only for a baby. It was fun. I should try. I should. I should.

Ok, distraction isn't working so well. Back to politics. And work. No escaping. Which figures. What did they tell us all about being careful about wishing for things? And something about wishing being horses and beggars riding, or something, something.

And the words are just flying off the shelf. Like water bottles with a hurricane coming. I haven't figured out why every time there is a storm warning here, people act like that. There is a run on things that make no sense to me. Like milk. If the power goes out, your milk will spoil in the fridge, Einstein. Or Eisenstein. (heh heh heh- now it's on to nonsense.) And the power doesn't make the water cease to come out of the faucets. I don't get it. Again.

And there is really nothing else to say. The words might be flying, but they aren't pertinent or particularly interesting. Just words. On a page. Signifying not a hell of a lot. Someone else no doubt said it better. Which is typical. And probably appropriate.

So when silence isn't necessarily golden- it might just be grumpy. And not feel like sharing.

It happens in the best of families, but probably occurs more frequently in the worst of families.

And that's why we hate Dickens. Too simple. The decision last night was that if he were writing today, he would be another Jerry Bruckheimer. No nuance, only action. And very simple messages. Ah, but knowing the audience- priceless, no? But seriously, the consistent and simply gratuitous use of coincidence? Come on.

And that's why we love Dostoevsky. Plenty of nuance there. And ambiguity. And the message might be blazing red hot obvious, but then again, maybe not. But definitely not an action hero kind of guy.

And we love Fitzgerald. And we love Capote. And we love Maugham.

This was all part of a discussion last night. Before going to sleep. Because when is there ever a better time to talk literature?

News of the day-

you know the shoulder, the one I keep hurting? Welll.........it seems that the answer isn't more wine. It's surgery. Cool, eh?

Really, really bums me out.

Only spin I can put on it is that at least there is a solution and the Dr didn't just gently tell me to fucking deal with it. She actually used the word "gimpy" in describing what can happen if I re-injure it and cause nerve damage. Gotta love a Dr who uses the word gimpy.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I see the surgeon next Monday. More to follow.

My current read on this...thing

I have this friend, see. Or at least I thought that I did. Well, maybe not so much.

She was having professional problems. I listened. I offered up what wisdom I had. Then I got the cold shoulder. Seriously cold shoulder. Went from hearing from her via im or email or phone daily, to nothing. Well, two contacts in 3 weeks. Yes, there were holidays in there. But this is also the woman who wanted to look after our cats. Luckily for the cats we had someone else lined up. Because I suspect that they wouldn't have been horribly healthy if she were involved and in her silent, stealth mode.

Now the part of me that I like more says that it's totally her problem, whatever it is. Indeed. But the other part of me thinks that I must've screwed up somewhere. And then there's the denial princess who thinks that there might just be too much general business.

But seriously, from daily chats to nothing? Right. I thought so. Now comes the next step. I don't think I choose to take one. I don't want someone in my life who handles things so ... poorly. And can't even be relied upon to communicate if she has a problem with something. Not interested in reading that many tea leaves. And if she's a flake at this point, there's really not much hope for a future in the friendship. And there you have it.

Moving on.

Kboy cracked open the Maker's Mark last night. We even have a couple of official Maker's Mark glasses. So we had some, and it was good. I only sipped a touch- had overstayed my welcome in Whiskey city earlier in the week, and am trying to be good. And had nasty, and lovely food for lunch- too many calories to count...math hurts sometimes.

And this weekend, boxes await. It is finally time to start with the one kind-of resolution that Kboy and I share. We want to eliminate many of the assorted boxes in the basement. To be replaced in the future by boxes that currently live in Montana. Filled with our stuff. To be eliminated. Basically it has been easier to just shove crap in boxes and forget all about it. But that technique isn't conducive to moving a lot. And we tend to do that. So it's time. I think that I'll tackle books and ceramics first. Then we'll see about the boxes of papers. They are my bete noir. I have an absolute phobia about throwing out papers. See, there are likely very important things in there. Very important. So important that if I throw them out, we will suffer tremendously some day...you get the idea...

And now back to our feature film- work! And after a night of restlessness, courtesy of strained back muscles. And all because I went to the gym. Not part of a New Year's resolution, I remind you.

Suck it up, cowgirl. Take a handful of something and call me in the morning. Which has broken. Just like something somethinnnnng. Call that fool Cat, and you might get esploded real good.

Yesterday was all about the shopping. For new things to fit my shrinking self- tired of jeans that are now pull-ons. Tired of other tatty clothing items. All destined for the dumpster- not interested in sharing them a la the leg warmers. Sorry.

Sharp segue to Kenya. How's that for unhappy? And downright silly. Who throws a shoe, seriously? No, nothing funny there. Not at all. Just inhumanity of humanity. And overwhelming stupidity. Would love to think that it couldn't happen here, but then remember church bombings not too long ago...

Left turn at politics. Because it's where all the cool kids hang out. But not really. Just reporters. Hey, did I share that I got a new Zune for Christmas from work? Yeah, well I got to listen to NPR while working out last night! How fucking cool is that! Answer- not in the least, babycakes. Another nail in the coffin of cool. All Things Considered is the anti-cool.

Now it is time to go. Be well, do good work and keep in touch. And if I EVER quote Garrison again, you have my full permission to bitch slap me to oblivion. Hello oblivion, how are the wife and kids? Pa dump ump.

He says I'm funny and cute

When I'm drunk. Which is certainly more celebratory than saying that I am a mean drunk. But I keep replaying the tapes and thinking, "did I make a total ass out of myself?" I'm told not, but it's probably the dying brain cells in their death throes causing all of the ruckus.

I just remember announcing to all present that I have the prettiest toes in the room. And considering that I was the only girl there, it was likely true. Then I showed them. My toes. In all their red glittery splendor. Thankfully the polish wasn't all chipped and ratty looking- that would be embarrassing. Like exposing my bare feet isn't.... I guess I am lucky not to be more of a hussy- it could've devolved to exposing other...assets...and I would be cringing. Still. I guess feet aren't so bad- it's not the 17th century.

I am wondering if his funny and cute comment is just meant to butter me up...or if he really means it. Boys. Who can read them?