Oh no! I have a blog!
Not that I don't love my blog, mind you... but it's clearly not writing itself and it's time to get busy again! Between work, singing sentimental platitudes about the Oklahoma territory, trips to the City of Sin with my family and lusting outrageously after Dr. Cox for several hours a night, I've been far too busy to blog my ever so important thoughts and feelings. However, an erstwhile and pitiful plea from a good friend with lunch hours to kill brings me back to my cranial lovechild. Here we go.
I don't really have a theme this time. Who cares?

Da plane, boss! Look at da plane!: I learned an interesting fact this week. I hear presidential candidates, politicians and celebrities carp, carp, carp about the oil situation and the gas prices and save the Earth and blah dee blah dee blah. It amuses me that these same celebrated figures of our Great Nation travel not on the bus, or cramped in a seat in coach with their knees knocking against their tray table (the tray table that holds the drink and snack they had to PAY for because by the way? Beverage/food service is no longer complimentary on domestic flights) and with a chatty Floridian granny on their left, a sweaty fat man by the window and a shrieking child beast with an array of musical toys just behind, or in a small but comfortable, gas-conservative car like us mere mortals down below. Oh no. They fly in private jets. They ride in limos and own SUVs. They cajole us with attractive promises of lower gas prices (although god forbid we drill... we must protect the environment at all costs! Although, I'll let them tell that to the people who can't afford to drive to work/school with current gas prices) and serve only to suck down more precious natural resources themselves. I am SO TIRED of them.

Anyway, that was a side road I will probably take later and much more violently. Back to being amused. SO, a little bit of trivia: Which politician began the tradition of flying from city to city during a campaign, and thus being able to reach a broader audience in a shorter period of time?

The answer? Adolf Hitler! That's right... In 1932, when Hitler ran against Hindenburg for the presidency, he traveled through much of his campaign in an airplane, which enabled him to speak in more than one city in a day. His campaign slogan was "Hitler uber Deutschland" or, Hitler over Germany. It was a clever play on words, you see? That guy. It's refreshing to see our good politicians following dear old Adolf's ways. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll bring back the Wehrmacht! Won't that be swell?

And speaking of Hitler, I am reminded of the next person who wrung a reluctant snicker and a reluctant, coup-d'etat posthumous mental high-five from me this week-

Martin "Zyklon B" Luther: Now, some of you might know him as both the paterfamilias and sergeant-at-arms of the early Protestant church; the challenger of the papacy; the upholder of the infallibility of the Bible and the concept that salvation is through Christ and unmediated by Mother Church; the lone voice that encouraged the ignorant peasants of the Dark Ages to partake of something healthier than a Diet of Worms (hyuk hyuk hyuk).

And me? I tend to think of him as the Great GrandPappy of the Final Solution to the Jewish Problem in Europe.

Oh, yes. Martin Luther was a raging anti-Semite. In fact, his work, "On the Jews and Their Lies" was reprinted five times within the three remaining years of his lifetime. Poor Mr. L had little luck converting Jews to Christianity. When they chose to resolutely stick to their beliefs and not stray from them for the radical teachings of one man, that one man snapped and bitterly railed against them. He wrote that they were a "base, whoring people", that "we are not at fault in slaying them." and encouraged his followers to burn Jewish synagogues, destroy their prayerbooks and seize their money. Whoa there, big fella. Strong words... but you have to respect the moxie of a man who is so sure that he's right that he advocates the slaughter of those who don't flee belief systems that predate his and flock to his side...

Anyway, many historians agree that ML's caustic and relatively successful campaign against the Jews (in addition to stirring up hatred amongst his flock- you know, Christianity... the "Love thy neighbor as thyself" religion- his works would compel riots that led to the expulsion of the Jews from many places in Germany) was a heavily contributing factor in the spawning of anti-Semitism in Germany. And what did anti-Semitism lead to in Germany? Only the annhilation of 6,000,000 European Jews. Many of the Nazis' anti-Jewish books and speeches alluded to Luther's writings; Himmler was said to be a big fan and Luther's text was declared by the Nazis (admiringly, of course) to be the most radically anti-Semitic tract ever published (and it had some competition, too, such as "The Jewish Plague" and "The Toadstool", a charming children's book.) Well played, Martin. They don't want to be Christians? Whatever. Let's genocide them up, then... shall we?

Moving on- Our next contestant is someone who accomplished something I never thought possible: they are in actuality the reincarnation of someone who isn't even dead yet! This is REALLY spooky:

Rachel Ray: The PREreincarnation of Jerry Lewis?





Believe me or don't, people... all I'm saying is that you need to do is watch one of Rachel Ray's shows and finish all her sentences with, "Nice LAAAAA-dy!"


If I were a not-yet-dead Jerry Lewis, I would have picked a worthier vessel than an irritating pixie who makes up banal cooking expressions (like "EVOO" and "Yummo!"), makes completely average looking food and speaks to the television audience as if they had only just weaned off of Baby Einstein and were looking to grow to the next level of one-syllable words and easy two syllable words like "Sammy". I can't even think about her anymore.

Then again, there are those who, disbelieving of such a radical and, I daresay, foolish hypothesis as prereincarnation, could argue that Jerry Lewis is a cyborg or a mandroid or similar or... even worse... an Illuminatus!!! You know, those fun-loving lizard people who take on the visage of humans and, from famous and influential positions, bring about DESTRUCTION and CHAOS? Totally, man. Maybe Rachel was carefully crafted from an ailing LewisBeast or LewisBot's organic matter to carry on his EVIL after his time in this frail earthly form was through... maybe we'll never know... or maybe they're biding their time.
I end with this: Jerry Lewis' EarthMother's name was Rachel "Rae" Levitch. Is there such a thing as coincidence?

I hope I've at least given you something to ponder. I take a great risk here, speaking the truth... if they come for me, WHEN they come for me, don't let my death be in vain. Spread the truth... expose the lies, expose the EVOO for what it is: the Harbinger of Doom. And a delicious dipping sauce for crusty artisan bread... with a little balsamic vinegar? Makes me hungry just thinking about it. YumMO!
Oh no. Oh NO! Nice... laaaaady....

Ho hummage.

I don't have much to say tonight (I'm kind of grumpy) but this clock still has to tick 8 minutes of my life away before I can wash out this itchy dye. I'm a bit afraid to see the end product... I have a sneaking suspicion that my head is going to be a flaming mass of pink appropriate only in Japanese anime. But we'll see.
Days later: the hair turned out a crazy shade of comic book red. Am I keeping it? Hells, yeah. It is, to quote one of the many people in the world I'm sick to death of, time for a change.
I really need to do something with my time... I've been getting soooo terribly twitchy lately. I *thankfully* have an unholy trinity of busy weekends ahead of me, but that's only a tiny bandaid on the gaping abdominal fleshwound that is my present existence. And my present existence is rather disappointing to me... My ambitions for life changed as I grew older and my perspective changed. When I was a child, I dreamed that I would meet the man of my dreams on either my 16th birthday or my 18th (cause that's how Disney taught me to dream. Raise your hand if you DON'T want me to go into that again. I had to stop typing because my hands were waving wildly of their own volition and I couldn't type... must be a sign. Moving on...) and get married and raise babies and not like that's a bad thing, mind you... the world must be peopled.
However, that was not my Route 66, and now the looming conflict is... I'm t-minus 5 days from my late twenties and I have not much to show for it. A 8-5 job answering phones... bizarrely colored X-Men hair... raging commitmentphobia... severe mistrust of everyone around me but a few of those genetically linked to me and one or two close friends... a sickening feeling of impending doom... some curious mental powers passed on through the women of my family... a capacity for observation that misses little but is rather unwelcome to most people I know... strong morals I was raised with and the lingering stain of JudeoChristian purple KoolAid on my teeth but an ever stronger desire to launch myself into the careless, hedonistic, thoroughly enjoyable party that branches off the straight and narrow into Woman of 2008land... itchy feet and a wandering soul... a feeling that I should be doing something somewhere but with no helpful roadsigns... an insatiable craving for nummy snacks and hard liquor... loneliness so ingrained and corporeal you could cut it with a knife and not even biopsy a fraction of it... a long string of unsuccessful eating disorders... schemes I won't allow myself to carry through for fear of failure... a craving for success but little to no ambition... depression as a full time vocation since the 4th grade... a shiny new car but nowhere in particular to drive it to... a creeping suspicion that I'm starting not to care about anyone or anything (because it's better to have stayed aloof and not lost than to love and be hurt again)... a personality that changes with every person I meet... limitless potential, bottled like warm champagne at a party where no one remembered to bring a corkscrew...
If there's anything missing from my life, it's dreams. Careers... travels... homes... loves... friends... I gave up on anticipation a long time ago. I'm kind of a pessimist; I prefer to anticipate disappointment. That way, if something goes wrong, I'm already mentally prepared, and if something goes well, I'm pleasantly surprised. I anticipate failure and then resent that it follows me wherever I go.
But where's the solution? I can't seem to settle on a future. I won't turn to optimism. I won't look forward to an unforseeable future. And I'm always too tired to really think about it.
This is angsty and depressing (but then again, so am I! Charming. Hee.) I'm going to go watch Scrubs and hope the Ambition Fairy visits me tonight and leaves me something under my pillow.

Grimm Goodbye

I have made a resolution on this day.

I'm not a big fan of children, in general... It's cool if they're someone else's, and I can play with them a bit and then get them all sugared up before giving them back to their longsuffering, vaguely twitchy Mommies and Daddies. I'm fine with that. Apart from that, though, I'm simply not the maternal type(unless you consider Shaken Baby Syndrome a positive step towards Happy Families.)

That having been said, I recognize that someday in my future, I might choose (or be forced) to unleash a genetic copy of myself into the world. A girl, of course. Because boys are smelly. And they make me awkward. And one should never have to be awkward with one's own progeny.

And it occurred to me that it would be prohibitively intimidating to be answerable for the development of a whole new person in such a disorienting, frenetic, violent world (triple word score for that sentence.) Not only do parents face the obvious crises looming over every child (violence, sex, substance abuse), but also the less visible forms of mental/emotional/spiritual angst such as depression, peer pressure, and the (wait, wait... let me climb up onto my soapbox. Ooof... okay. I'm up.) unbalance caused by the manipulation of modern media/entertainment.

No, really. Look how much kids these days are affected by what they see on tv! Their lives are saturated with Paris Hilton and Hannah Montana and Solja Boy. Not that these are bad things (necessarily. Well...), but they affect the way children think and develop and interact with others.

THAT having been said, I'll get on with my original point (if I can remember that far back), which is: as crucial as outside influences are to the development of the mind of a child, I hereby resolve that should I ever have a girl child, fairy tales shall be barred from my domicile henceforth.

I grew up in a great age of Disney musicals... The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin... come on. Those movies were and are to this day great works of art (to me). And I lived through a great age of cartoon female empowerment; Belle was a not only gorgeous and smart, but a ballbuster and a hero in her own right. Mulan dressed as a boy to fight a war and save her father's life. Jasmine, too independent for a privileged, useless life behind castle walls with a privileged, useless royal husband, snuck out and dressed as an urchin to pursue a freer life (and interesting point about Jasmine: she was a royal who married a commoner, unlike most Disney princesses. She had nothing to gain in the relationship but a life companion. I think that says a lot for her). I would never say that newer Disney musicals haven't fought the good fight for girl pride and empowerment (the traditional, sleep-'til-your-prince-saves-you-and-kisses-you-awake Disney musicals notwithstanding). Never.

However, for all their girlpower and role-modelage, I think that fairy tale adaptations give a subtler message, and one I heard with my whole heart at an early age.

Love. What little girl didn't swoon when the prince kisses his true love? What little imagination didn't picture herself in a flowing white gown, waltzing around the ballroom? What little heart didn't beat for the day it's true love would ride up and carry it off to a happily ever after? Mine did. I dreamed of a dark headed prince in shining armour, and I practiced being carried off into the sunset (True story. On a rocking chair. I never told anyone that. I'm making you my Secret-Keeper.) And not that a girl shouldn't dream, but... I think that through the medium of Disney cartoons, I was ruined for the ordinary. I was made to be discontented with anything less than a prince. I was shown that a simple girl like me could accomplish daring feats and save the day, and then ride off in the arms of her rich, titled, handsome beloved.

It seems like any life would be blase after a prototype like that. But I beg to disagree... I ask for so much less than the fairy tale life, and crave something so much better: just something to call my own.

I spent so many years in romantic anticipation. Why did I not see that my time would be better spent proactively making my own life spectacular, rather than waiting for it to be validated by the presence of the princely stereotype? Why did I look forward to a happy ending and not an eventful story? I've lately begun to mourn the wasted years I spent in Disney ingenue naivete. And I'm ready- oh, so ready- to set that aside.

No single girl of a certain age is likely to be fortunate enough to NOT be told, "Someday your prince will come." I have been, many times. And people are well-meaning, so I try not to be annoyed. But I ask you this: what if he doesn't? Does that ruin the ending? Does that lessen the triumph of the lessons learned and the life full of victories and defeats and attempts? No, I think it's a distraction, and one I prefer to live without.

I attended a tiny religious school. One of the things that frustrated me the most while I was there was twofold: A. That many girls at school were DESPERATE to land a husband and start nesting and B. That as much as I scorned their impatience, I would not have minded the same thing happenening to me. Thank God it didn't.... And I don't mean to scoff at the people who did choose to make that decision so early. If that's your choice, so be it; I just think that a permanent romantic relationship is not something that should be forced or rushed into or really even "pursued", as it were. Fairy tales (as told by Disney) make love and romance out to be the destination at the end of the journey, or the prize at the end of the race. I have to disagree... to me, it's only one plot arc in the scope of the whole story.

One of our generations's zeitgeists (and the one that I appreciate the most, I think) is that it's not only possible, but rather encouraged for young men and women to run amok and accomplish things and have a life and enjoy themselves before "settling down". Marriage is now being preempted by other things. I would have resented that on behalf of marriage, once upon a time, but now I can't support the concept more. Is it better to enter into an early commitment and give up on your own limitless promise for a life of pursuing other people's limitless promise? Or is it better to live your own life for yourself before devoting it to others? And the answer is relative to everyone.

I am sick to death of living in anticipation. I am so exhausted from the disappointment of a life spent in wishing for something better and living for a future than may not exist for me. I am discontented with the promise of a sugar-coated happily ever after. I am bored by Prince Charming in all his irritating perfection.

Ahhh, Prince Charming. Let's talk about him. Sure, he's pretty and brave and good with a sword; chances are he usually has something romantic to say and is more than happy to warble sweet nothings in your ear in his clear midrange tenor voice. Isn't it fabulous how he dashes around the country on his steed, rescuing people and slaying evildoers and accomplishing noble... stuff? So... the older I get, the dippier Prince Charming seems to me. Maybe I value 5 o'clock shadow rumpled hair and that scene in Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy climbs out of the lake in the wet shirt oh my GOD just give me a second.
Whew. Anyway. Maybe it's that I value the ordinariness of the Everyman. Maybe it's that other people's imperfections help me accept my own. Maybe it's that I prefer comfort and laughter and familiarity to an Ideal. Either way, give me a scruffy, awkward, beer-drinking, football-watching, jeans-wearing, imperfect boy over a Charming anyday. Bub-bye, Charming. It was real, and it was fun, and it was real fun, but I could never commit to anyone prettier than myself. Peace out.

If I ever had a girl, I would want her to grow up infused with the scope of what she could accomplish, not mooning over who she may someday marry. I would want her to envision where she'll go to college and how she'll change the world, not what she'll wear to her wedding. I would want her to be strong and brave and not ever once wait to be rescued. I would encourage her to look for what gives her happiness rather than what fills an ideal.
So, I have to accept that this whole diatribe didn't ever go where I wanted it to go and was mostly a single, childless girl discoursing on issues she's almost entirely seperate from and rhapsodizing about how sensible and free-spirited her non-existent girlchild will be. But I feel really strongly about this. There's nothing cuter than a little girl twirling around in a princess dress. But, there's nothing sadder than a older girl trolling for an unrealistic man of her dreams. I'm not talking about lowering standards... I'm more encouraging women to let fantasy compromise with reality and to not to judge men off of what they see on tv.
Whatever. I have to get back to work.

Funk: 7, Elizabeth: 0

The thing is... as anyone who has ever even met me could tell you, I'm not a big fan of organized religion. At all. So, I realized that my penultimate chance to prevail against the perceived evils of organized religion and wield a mighty sword of entirely relative truth would be to... organize my own religion.


And voila! Here we are. Lizlam. We are few but proud, and wicked hot. We believe in loving all people but never quite calling them in the morning... We thrive in performing arts settings and wherever pancakes are served. Our people are served by a hardworking Executive committee consisting of me, the Prophet, and my hard-working, industrious, jolly as hell Executive Vice Prophet in Charge of a Riotous Good Time To Be Had By All. We are an iron fist in a velvet glove and we fight for our (and YOUR) right to par-TAY.


And, like any true religion, we have enemies. And, like any true religion, we take those enemies down, whether in a swift public act of destruction or sneaky coup in the quiet hours of the dawn, while everyone is still passed out from being so totally wasted at the riotous Lizlam celebration the night before. Lizlam faces enemies far more devious and malevolent than ever before, so I have compiled a rudimentary list of our top ten public enemies. Please be on the lookout for these offenders; the well-being and non-bad-moodiness of Lizlamites everywhere are dependent on your cooperation in this matter.


Before we get started, we are so proud to inform our Faithful that the Executive Vice Prophet has graciously agreed to take over management of the Big Apple Branch of Lizlam. Skyler, miss you terribly and good luck bringing the light of the Goddess to the most heathen city of New York. And bring some heathen back to us at Christmas, please.

So, here follow the Top Ten Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad and Generally Craptastic Enemies of Lizlam:

10. Mornings: In a perfect (that is to say, Lizlam infused) world, the daily party kicks off at aboot noonish. Where does that leave mornings? Being slept through and ignored, where they belong. Mornings, I renounce you in the name of the Prophet and her non-morning-person Executive Prophet (and: hee. If you ever have the privilege of road-tripping with the EVP, whatEVER you do, don't leap onto the pullout couch on which she is sleeping and sing loud, freeverse songs in her ear. Just... take my advice.) Any time before noon: make yourself scarce.

9. Celebrities and their CelebuSpawn: Cause, really? We pay attention why? The only thing more horrifying than an egomaniacal, arguably talented and filthy rich stick insect to whom we pay good money to speak someone else's words into a camera is the very real danger that that same evil being will probably create a merged genetic copy of itself and another breathtakingly shallow, hard-partying, no education-having Hollywood hellbeast and unleash it's celebuspawn on a country that embraces and covets the wasteful, hedonistic stick insect lifestyle. So, let's lay waste to the rich and the useless and then sell all their crap and use the profits to Lidice the shite out of the entire Hollywoodland universe. Stat!

8. Living Single: The state of singlehood, not the '90's sitcom. We all have to do it, and it sucks. I really have no way to elucidate here. If you're single, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not, you're probably...
7.... the Smug Married: Oh yes, THAT married person who asks you loudly, "Are you seeing anyone?" or "Why haven't YOU gotten married yet?" or "Let me tell you all about how f-ing happy I am with my [significant other]!" or "I'm so glad [significant othe] and I had children before we got too old! Speaking of not getting any younger..." or "I can't understand why no one wants to date you! Why, if I were twenty years younger..."


6. Subcutaneous fat and the people who have none: You know who you are. If I have to hear one more size six girl boohoohooing over something making her look fat or mourning the fact that she can't have another cookie because it'll go to her hips (read: it'll make her HAVE hips) or watch one more teenage boy polishing off three pizzas as I pick miserably at a pile of lettuce with no dressing, I SWEAR I'm going to eat until I've gained 95,000 pounds and then singlehandedly (or doublechinnedly, as the case may be) seek out each whiny skinny bitch and SIT on them and CRUSH them and teach them to fear MY fat more than their own. And even Chuck Norris will tremble. Except he's not skinny... so no worries there. Can you imagine the epic battle between my Fat Wobble of Doom and his Roundhouse Kick for the skinnyfolk's SOULS?

Time to move on. But just imagine...

And the top 5:



5. Reality TV: Reality shows have slipped a roofie into television's drink, dragged its intert form into an alley, gang raped it and left it for dead and really? It's time to pay for your crimes. The Bachelor, Survivor, AMERICAN IDOL (yours will be the most painful and prolonged of demises, I can promise you that), Pants Off Dance Off, the Surreal Life... your time has come. The Tribe has spoken. America has voted and you substandard voyeur fodder porn star vehicle wretched excuses for the sheltering of the lowest forms of humanity shall disappear in fire and blood and anguish! Except for anything on the Food Network. Bobby Flay much?




4. Jay's exboyfriend Greg: I don't have a recent snapshot... so this old one will have to do. Just look for the EVIL and the cold, dead eyes. Someday, I'm going to ninja to his house in the dead of night, ring his doorbell and, when he answers, punch him in the balls. And as he doubles over in pain, whispering, "WHY?" I'm going to point my finger in his face and say "You KNOW why." It's gonna happen. Be ready.




3. Hickory, NC: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave... Hickory is the ideal location to settle and roost and raise a family. But, to the single, non-drunk-faced young person of today, it's a sucking, bleak, depressing, boring, evilly sentient black hole of despair. We all have plans to leave. But few of us ever make it. Most are stuck forever, wandering in a Silent Hill-like Mayberry, praying for deliverance. Deliverance. What a perfect word. In SO many ways.


Paddle faster, I hear banjos. Someone get us out of here!



2. Paula Deen: Can you really look at this woman and not get chills down your spine from the evil? No one who cooks with that much butter or speaks with such an ungodly rural twang should be permitted to walk the earth among us decent, hard-working Lizlamites. Paula Deen, I hope the devil enjoys fried chicken and milkshakes made with heavy whipping cream!







1. The Uterus:

It's spongy, it's theoretically fertile and it's a royal pain in the pelvis. Unless you're planning on dropping a litter any time soon (which is not really smiled upon in Lizlam), the uterus is not only worthless, but painful and cranky making. Best to have it out if possible. Uterus, the tribe has spoken. Pack up your one-three weeks a month of pain, anguish and GET OUT! And don't come back!

Things that make me saddish.

So, I've hit day four of The Funk. And day four of The Funk has hit back. Hard. Right in the babymaker. Except not. Ew.

In honor of my inexplicable doldrumitude, I'm going to share some things that make me feel even more Eeyorish than I would normally. Sigh. Thanks for noticing this list:

1. People sitting alone in restaurants: I mean, I do it all the time, generally with a good book. But I'm talking, like, elderly people... sitting alone... not surrounded by family... probably remembering the good ol' days before Hank/Betty died when they would eat together... probably wishing that that girl with the clearly fake red hair who keeps peering at them from the next table would either say something conversational or learn to mind their own damn business. Kids these days! No respect for America's finest generation. Meh.

Anyway, despite the fact that they seem to judge me so harshly, I feel sad for them.

2. Kids that get picked on in school: And I know it's everyone. But kids are ANIMALS and some kids get it worse than others. Ugh. I can't even think about this one. Move on.

3. CHRISTMAS: Christmas turns me into a pathetic, quivering, sobbing, snotty, temperamental DISASTER. Seriously. I generally start my drinking oh, maybe Thanksgiving? And don't stop until the last stocking has been emptied of it's plunder and the tree is nestled safely back in it's box in our attic.

I hate the music, I hate the lights, I hate the Santas and the creches, I definitely hate how perky everyone gets and I strangely enough don't really enjoy getting presents. Giving, always fun for me. Getting, not so much. I also hate how incongruous the lights and festivity and general feeling of ho ho ho are with the fact that it's pitch black by 4 pm. Yick. And for some reason, all Christmas music (From "Don't They Know It's Christmas Time at Home" to "What Do You Give a Wookie for Christmas") makes me think of all the poor children who don't get Christmas presents because they're POOR. Ugh. I need to become a communist and get it over with.

And need I mention that Jesus wasn't born in the winter and that most Christmas traditions are pagan? Not like I mind- oh, no- but still. Christmas. Ugh.

Wow, this has been really cathartic for me. Let's move on to:

4. Dead/sick/abused animals: I know that everything has to die, but not necessarily under a tire. Sigh. And I think that people who abuse animals should have pieces of their body forcibly and painfully removed. Just saying.

5. Buying a book at Barnes and Noble and thinking, wow, this looks intriguing, but then finding out it wasn't worth the $17.27 you paid after your member discount: This is really getting to be a strain on the budget. But books are like Pandora's Box to me... I have no self control. I hate disappointing books. I hate not finishing a book out of boredom. Sigh.

6. Child Abuse: I think the only punishment for sexual abuse of a minor should be castration. Make it happen, people.

7. Being easily forgotten: I really think that's my worst fault, is that I'm virtually impossible to remember. And it makes me sad.

8. People dying their hair blonde: because, seriously? WHY?

9. One-legged puppies: because they've got the heart of a champion. Oh, Li'l Brudder.... I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm thinking about male modelling... or high finance.

10. The fact that I use my blogspace to make long personal lists about myself: Isn't there something else I could be talking about here? I'd better wrap this up.
Ugh. I'm blue like jazz, man... I'm going to eat some more Chex mix (so I can be sad about being fat, too) and maybe pretend not to notice myself in the mirror.

Why I disturb myself sometimes.

I've begun noticing more and more lately the tendency of people to harbor, whether they admit to it or not, a sick, twisted fetish for the grotesque and macabre. The same disturbing curiousity that makes you slow down to peer at a ugly car wreck on the highway (hoping you'll see something, praying you won't) also compels you to pick up the remote and flip to American Idol or Shot of Love with Tila Tequila. How can something so wrong seem so right?

So, It made me wonder... what unlikely things make me go hot and cold at the same time? When my schadenfreude sense starts tingling, these are a few of my favorite guilty pleasures:

1. Jack the Ripper/Other Faceless True Crime Serial Killer types: Mmmmm, true crime makes me giddy. Jack the Ripper is, in my head, no less than a Victorian Mr. Darcy; imagine, a look of titillatingly evil glee on his handsome face as he wields a scapel and some basic anatomical knowledge and slices confidently through the pox-ridden whores of Whitechapel with an irresistibly unreadable gleam in his eye and a leer curling his lips. Being trivisected has never sounded so hot.
Not like I think murdering people is acceptable. No no no. Well.... no. But still... his lack of identity and ability to escape detection in as many as eleven murders (even in the days pre-CSI) has turned him into a daring, rakish (albeit bloodstained) cavalier of romance and bloody intrigue in my fevered world. Well played, sir. Very well played indeed.

2. Frat boys: You know the ones I'm talking about... deliciously awkward, horridly blonde spiky highlighted hair, Abercrombie t-shirt, baseball cap, God's gift to... anyone too unconcious to resist them, usually saying, "I'm SO totally waaaaaasted right now, dude" or chanting someone's name in between primal grunts. You know that guy. You see him in Chili's... you see him outside Walmart late Saturday night... you almost want to have pity sex with him so he'll stop trying SO HARD. Then, maybe he'll fall asleep and be quiet for a while. Hmm. That's a thought.

3. Awkwardness of any kind. Mmm. Awkward people, awkward product placement, awkward lesbian beverages, awkward dates, awkward silence, awkward pimple constellations... I'll take it! Saying awkward and irrelevant things? My spiritual gift. See how my natural ability feeds my creepy fetish for awkwardness? It's positively serendipitous.

4. Getting in front of wretched impatient obnoxious ignorant bitchfag drivers on a highway and slowing down when they have no way of passing me: Speaks for itself. Try to tell me you haven't done it too. I feel no remorse.

5. Anything bad that can happen to someone in Hollywood: Oh no, Paris Hilton is in jail? Nicole Richie looks like she jus crawled out of Auschwitz? Britney Spears is still alive? My confession: TMZ.com. Shameful, I know. I just want to know what crazy sexual hijinks celebrities got up to this weekend, and who might have had to miss that party in Vegas because they ran over a child south of the Valley. Heeeeeee. And now they're all spawning! Now there's a new generation of overpaid, really really ridiculously good looking trained monkeys to amuse me with their sex tape scandals and DUI's. Wouldn't it be so totally awesome if Jamie Lynn Spear's kid was cruising with, like, Nicole Richie's CelebuSpawn in her Barbie DreamYukon and got pulled over for DUI? Now THAT's comedy.

6. The Other Sister: Go out and rent it but don't you dare judge me if you do.

7. Any instructional video made to introduce adolescents to the brave new world of puberty: Periods 101, What's Happening to my Body, etc. Hormone-driven teen awkwardness? Yes, please.

8. Facebook stalking: I never saw myself as Creepy Peeping Tina, but with the advent of Facebook and it's constant information feed, it's now entirely possible for my to spy on people's conversations, know where everyone is at all times, know everything about who everyone is dating... oh my god, the great and terrible beauty of it. Skulking is an important part of life, people.

9. Physical pain: I mean, check the bullwhips at the door... but I get an insane pleasure out of chewing on a hangnail or papercutting myself in the finger. I think it's the Irish in me... I want to cause pain as well. I only wish there were English around to fling potatoes at. You walk aLONE, English!!!!

10. Playing strange music at work: I love some Bollywood and some Greek music, people. So, now, apparently, I'm a terrorist and I play terrorist music. Or so they tell me.

That's really the tiniest drop in the great big sloshy bucket of things that disturb me about... me, but I've wasted enough company time on blogs and theonion.com, and I really should get back to making stacks of paper into other stacks of paper. Hee!

An ode to a perfect art form.

Behold, I say unto ye:
How perfect is the pancake?
See how it lies upon the plate, docile, ready...
An existence created solely for the purpose of being consumed,
But retaining it's sweetness nonetheless.

How perfect is the pancake?
It comes in many forms...
Sometimes shaped like Mickey Mouse,
Sometimes sublime in it's simple oblong...ness.
Sometimes dripping with butter, sometimes sprinkled with chocolate...
It matters not to my stomach. I crave it all.

How perfect is the pancake?
Oh pancake, how I long to ravage you,
How I long to consume you
Whether you are mine, or I have to sneak nibbles off someone else's plate,
You are still perfect and fluffy.

How perfect is the pancake?
And how complete my love for it.
Selah. Let's eat.

On the much-argued gender identity of God

So, I've heard so much discourse on the sex of the Almighty, and my conclusion has always been... it doesn't matter. I mean, God is God, he or she or it or all the ambiguous abstract territory in between. Doesn't matter, sagely said I, with a nod to impress the listeners that I had delved into the deep well of my soul and my subconcious and fished out a shining gold coin of profundity.
But, you know what? I really do think it matters. The interaction of the sexes is an all-critical part of how every human lives each day of their lives... it would be irresponsible for me to shrug off such a crucial moment of understanding with a cavalier, "Doesn't matter."
I, personally, have always associated the Supreme Divine with the male sex. I was raised by Christians and always took the idea of Father and Son for granted... what the Bible and the preacher say, selah. Fair enough.
However, I got into a discussion with a friend of mine once, after we participated in a particularily awkward responsive reading at a religious institution at which we both worked over the summer. In this reading, we learned that God reconciled the church to Herself. I was a bit uncomfortable... not only is that a large leap from the conservative dogma under which I had spent the better part of my life, but... pushing for a female deity in a responsive reading treads very close to propaganda. Or is it agenda? Either way.
So, over lunch, we discussed the use of male/female articles when describing the Lord. He argued that the only reason that God has been referred to as a he for so long is because the Holy texts of the Abrahamic religions (the Bible, the Torah, the Talmud, the Qur'an) were written by men in patriarchal societies.. therefore, the idea of God as a male was because of the sexism of the patriarchal viewpoint. A very reasonable argument.
I countered that if you believe in creation as set down by the Abrahamic religions, mankind was created as a reflection of God's own character, and, thusly, the patriarchal state of the Abrahamic religions was a reflection of God's character. Not that God is strictly masculine, I think, and made the majority of civilizations on the earth to reflect that. No... I feel more as if God in the masculine sense is a reference point... a visual image for His people on earth. Besides, if the God monotheists associate with Creationism were actually meant to be percieved as female, would the vast majority of civilizations on the earth be predominantly patriarchal? I don't really see a woman God creating people and then making them "mankind". There are a few notable exceptions of truly stunning women being remarkable leaders in their time- Elizabeth I, Bouddicea, Hapshepsut, Joan of Arc... and women are ever becoming a powerful force of leadership in the world. But that's only after centuries of cultural evolution...
Does this make God a male-dominant sexist? No no no. In fact, I feel that in the Abrahamic sense of creationism, God established the ultimate checks-and-balance system. Men have traditionally been in charge of the human race. However, women have always borne the responsibility of continuing that race. Really, I think it's like when two children are splitting a sandwich and their mom makes one cut and the other choose...
Anyway, so ALL of that having been said, why does it matter?
Well, I've broken with my old church crowd and church-going ways.... I'm more of a freelance monotheist than anything else. My thoughts on the issue? I think it matters because God should be approached not because of who He is, but who you are and what you bring to the relationship. And it is a relationship. But let me not digress into THAT right now. Wait, no... maybe I will.
I believe any relationship is defined by what the people who are involved carry with them from before. The woman whose husband left her for a younger woman... the girl or boy whose father sexually abused them... the girl who was shy and ignored... whether it's good or bad, every person carries a planeload of baggage with the into every interaction they have.
However, an interaction with an abstract concept such as God is trickier... whereas you can look at me, talk to me, touch me, and know for a fact that I'm a girl, my voice is squeaky, I'm however tall, my hair is whatever color (red, as it so happens)... communicating with the Divine? Subtle and open to opinion, guesswork and a healthy dose of imagination. Do you see God in the beauty of a sunset? Do you hear Him in an encouraging word or feel Him in a hug? And on a deeper (to me) level... do you see Him as a man? Do you imagine God as a nurturing Mother? Are you incapable of worshipping a God connected to either of the sexes because of past experiences? I know girls who cannot grasp God as a father because of what their own fathers did to them. Are they wrong to reject Abrahamic principles? Or should we then start to grasp that God is not petty enough to reject those who refuse to bury themselves in tradition, and endeavor to accept God for themselves and not for everyone else? I don't believe He cares how He is approached or what He is called... I think He respects us when we try.
I reject that it doesn't matter if God is male or female, because it matters, because everyone matters, and that's why it shouldn't matter, because I don't think it matters to God. Is that what I meant to say?
I'd better quit now and go find some caffeine. Except that I gave it up. Damn it.

Existential meltdown in 5-4-3-2-AAAAH!

I wish that my tale begins with my mother, a wild Valkyrie of a woman lying, spent, on a bed of green leaves in a tautly silent forest, holding my newborn body up to the soft golden glow of a new moon and, with her last breath, whispering, "Give 'em hell, toots" before flinging me to a waiting she-wolf, to be suckled by her and raised as her own cub. I wish I could tell you that I grew up wild and strong, like my mother, with a careless sneer of a smile and the alc0hol tolerance of an entire German border village. I would love to say that I cut a wide swathe across the earth with my merrily wicked ways, and that all who looked upon me loved me and trembled... And it would give me no end of warm fuzzies to end the tragic comedy of my life story with the retelling of a glorious, Thelma-and-Louise-esque finale, or even a stirring climax of eleventh-hour redemption.

But, um, yeah... that never happened.

I think the bitterest pill to swallow is that a life is only as boring as the person living it. I'm so tired of these Bergman days! So, here is my Anti-Mundanity Manifesto, as written down by I, the Prophet of Lizlam, in my 25 and 11/12th year (may she live at least three more years, and may her name ever be synonymous with the word "fabulous"), and so let it be done:

Decree 1: I miss the days when I wasn't weakminded. So, break out the Ginko Biloba and call my brain back from the Sandals resort in Cancun! And get me a copy of Dostoyevski's The Idiot. And... Gone With the Wind. And... some Dora the Explorer. Stat.

Decree 2: Time to quit everything not keeping me alive. Coffee, sleeping pills, oral fixation anything... it's all gone. My god, I'm so healthy.

Decree 3: Write a book or achieve world peace or something useful. No, wait, I know... form a Mayan Apocalypse Suicide Cult! Ok, so we're meeting in Palenque in... 2012. Bring blankets, patio furniture, picnic food, we'll provide the purple Kool-Aid... I mean, the drinks.

Decree 4: Strike all manner of blahness from my life. Update: My blonde hair is finally gone, may it rest in peace, and has been replaced by a fiery red man of utterly Irish fabulousness. See? My manifest has taken control already!

Decree 5: Have at least one conversation per day that does not involve the person I'm talking to taking on that familiar, ever-horrible glazed-eye look. When did I become so boring? I was never obtuse as a child... or perhaps I was, and I never knew it. Either way. If I can't say anything that won't send my listeners plummeting into a comatose state of no return, then I'd better remain mute.

Ho hum. I believe that's enough decreeage for now. Especially as I'm not likely to ever invite anyone onto this blog, and thus have no reason for all this needless cathartic post-internal monologue.
A brave new world, people. Let's make it happen.

Maiden voyage. Hee.

My feelings upon this, my first post, are complex and bemusing. On one hand, there's always the possibility that no one outside my immediate family and anyone I ask over for dinner and force onto a laptop for an obligatory reading will ever see it. On the other hand, it gives me something to force the powers within to the force of good instead of evil. And, let's face it: I'll probably forget my username and/or password and never make it to post #2.
As I have nothing to say this fine evening, I'll peace out now, and save valuable (and I hardly need add FREE) blogspace for a better, sober evening.
Good night, darling reader(s), and, if you're anything like me, dream gentle, sweet dreams of Mini Coopers.