This morning, I realized two things about myself. First off, I should never, ever look in the magnifying mirror when I only have a limited amount of time to get ready. Secondly, I don't think I'll ever get to the point where I feel confident that there's nothing hanging out of my nose.


I had sinus surgery a few years ago, and the inside of one of my nostrils is still a bit numb, so it kind of feels like I have some dangling action happening there, even though most of the time I really don't. I carry a little compact and check every 15 minutes or so, but it's when I don't check that I really do have something happening.


That is mortifying.


I hear rumors that when I get old, I won't care so much about stuff like that; you know, boogers, hairs in places they shouldn't be, food on my shirt. Lies. All lies. I'm going to care. There is nothing more embarrassing to me than getting into my car and checking the rear-view mirror and seeing that I had one of those little dangly nose goblins, moving in and out with my breath.


Ugh. 


Part of the reason I'm so paranoid about this is that it happens to be one of my least favorite things to look at. I'm always afraid it's going to make a break for it and land on me. It's never happened before, but I hope that when it does happen, my death will be quick and painless. Just spontaneous combustion or an explosion that vaporizes me. Or, perhaps, if I'm very lucky, some men in Hazmat suits will come and hose me down with a germ-killing substance. You know, to save my life and whatnot.


Not that I had anything making a break from my nasal caverns this morning, I was just thinking about how awful it would be if I was at work and greeting customers with something waving in my nose-breeze, without being aware of my offensiveness. These are the things that float around up in my head.

I pretty much don't use public bathrooms unless it's an emergency. If I have to use one, I feel gross the rest of the day, until I get to my house and can bathe off the ick. Is that so weird?


Apparently, yes.


Every time I watch Monk, which I don't do too often lately because I'm generally tied to my kitchen sink, being the Betty Crocker that I am, I see a behavior that looks perfectly normal to me but its inclusion on the show tells me that it isn't. Yesterday, for example, I saw the episode where Monk is watching a play and has to use the men's room and the guy that plays Doc on The Love Boat is a men's room attendant, so Monk ends up being okay, because the bathroom is actually really nice and clean and the attendant has 10 fancy soaps, lined up all nice and straight. Ah.


You can tell it's a TV show because first of all, theater bathrooms are always gross. Just always. I've never seen one that wasn't. Secondly, even if it was clean he probably still wouldn't be in love with it. I think I might be okay with public bathrooms if they were clean, but they never are. Plus, the idea of an attendant in there would make me so self-conscious I couldn't pee, and number two? Oh, no. That doesn't happen in public bathrooms. Uh uh. Just...no way. The only time that's going to happen is if I'm having a volcanic stomach and it's a choice between a public bathroom and my car. Then, I'll do it. 


Keeping my fingers crossed that that doesn't happen anytime soon.


Another reason I don't like public bathrooms, besides the filth and the stench, is that I'm always party to some kind of weird behavior and then I have to try not to giggle, but I always lose that battle. Last time we went to Costco, there was a lady in the bathroom who went pee and then, while I was standing at the sink, singing, "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" twice (don't judge), she came out of the stall and then just left, not washing her hands. So I was looking at her as though I was pretty disgusted, which I was, and then another lady started washing her hands at the sink next to me and she said, "I really hate it when people do that. It's so gross." As I'm turning to smile and nod at her, she cuts the cheese. Loudly. Then, she proceeds with the conversation as though nothing had happened.


I'm not adult enough to think that is not hilarious.


I was shaking, trying to just smile and dry my hands to get out of there, and then I snorted and had to fake a cough. It was rough. She seemed pretty oblivious, but I'm sure she was embarrassed. I would've been. Not that this experience was that weird, but I do hate it when I see (or hear) something funny and I can't just laugh at it.


So, the moral of the story is: Public bathrooms are the devil, unless Bernie Kopell is in there. Then, you're safe. Still, though, bring rubber gloves and a gas mask, and try not to see or hear anything. Oh, and wash your hands for the length of time it takes you to sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" twice. Otherwise, you're in big trouble.

Well, my life is complete. I have now started a blog that pops up in the search results when a person searches for something having to do with toilet paper. I don't know why, but that makes me so happy, I can hardly stand it.


As a small child, I dreamed that one day I would have a meaningful life, complete with a blog about toilet paper, but I never imagined that those dreams could come true. Until today. Now I know that my deep and abiding love for toilet paper is out there, for the world to see.


What shall I do next? I mean, I could write posts about other paper products, such as facial tissue or maybe even tampons, but I don't want to aim too high.


I guess, perhaps, the best thing to do is just quietly accept this little victory and continue my quest for universal hand cleanliness and lined-up pictures, secure in the knowledge that when a person searches for "did costco change toilet paper?" or "does charmin clog toilets?" my blog will be there to answer those questions.


(In case you didn't read that one, the answer is: Yes. To both.)


I'm still pretty sure I prefer the Costco toilet paper to the Charmin and/or Scott, but seeing as how we're down to our last two rolls of t.p., with no trip to Albuquerque on the horizon, we may need to get some quilted Northern in order to make it through the next couple of weeks.


Because, really, that's all a person needs in life: a dream and some toilet paper.

When I was a kid, I loved vegetables, so I don't have that whole, "My mom told me that when I was a grown-up I would like to eat my vegetables." issue. I'm pretty sure that's a load of crap, anyway.


Unless you consider tater tots to be vegetables.


I also enjoy french fries and salads, if the salad has fruit on it and lots of crunchy fried things, along with a delicious dressing that's chock-full of fat and preservatives.


Oh, and I made pumpkin muffins. That makes them count as a vegetable. Also, I have decided that it's perfectly acceptable for me to put cheese on any vegetable that I'm forcing myself to consume. So now I will eat vegetables at every meal.


This is, of course, a lie.


I force myself to eat them boiled with a little salt and pepper. I wish I could love them the way I did when I was little, but there's always something so much better looming in the background. So I eat them really fast, in order to get to the good stuff as quickly as possible. Even the best green beans pale in comparison to a big hunk of steak. Or meatloaf, or turkey, or mashed potatoes, or....


...mmmm. Thanksgiving.


Anyway, I have to make myself eat them. I have to. They are good for me, and I want to look good when I'm old. I don't look that good now, but I think I could pull off the 'old lady' look. So I will throw that can of V8 into my lunchbox and drink it super fast, as if it was a shot of something that would make me enjoy my day just a wee bit more.


Hold on...is coffee a vegetable? It comes from beans. Beans are vegetables. Why is coffee not in the produce section? I'm calling shenanigans on the grocery store for that one. Also, I'm pretty sure chocolate comes from beans. Wait, wait, wait. Vegetable oil. Notice that the name contains the word vegetable. So if I fry something, it's going to have that vegetable goodness in it.


I am practically a vegetarian now. Holy cow.


What? I can justify anything. Bring it on.

Why is it that I never sleep well the night before I start my two-day office stint? It's almost like my body feels like it's going to be traumatic, so I should be nervous about it. That is dumb.


Really, it's not traumatic at all, unless you count the constant assault by b.o. and people handing me things that have been rotting in their mouths for months and a computer system that regularly flakes out while I'm trying to get some scheduling done and all of the last-minute cancellations.


Not traumatic at all.


I'm just happy I don't have to be at 100%. Really, it's not like I'm building a hospital for sick bunnies or trying to make a non-lethal nuclear weapon that will save the world from the evil Maurdog who comes from the planet Neptune. Those things take a lot of brain power; I just have to be nice and keep things from falling apart for a few hours.


Nice. Hmmmm.


Well, I guess that's why I have this blog. To get all of my inner a**hole out so I'm presentable when I'm around my fellow human beings. Therefore, I will now use it as I originally intended. 


Here is a list of all of the things I hate the most right now, at this moment in time (the list is constantly fluctuating; I just like to make lists, okay?):

• The word yummy is gross. I just hate it. I don't know why.
• People who say, "These are great for travel!" about travel toothpaste. Really? They are? Wow. Never heard that before.
• Using milk or whipped cream in my coffee. I like half and half, thank you.
• People I don't know very well who ask me why I don't have kids yet. When did that become not rude? I guess I didn't get that memo.
• People who make their kids get their teeth cleaned when they've been throwing up. Such a great way to not traumatize your child and make him hate the dentist forever.
• Meat on the bone. It's too close to its original form and it makes me barf.
• Killing bugs. It makes me feel guilty and sad. Plus, that's the main reason I got married in the first place.
• Older women (like 70s and up) who insist on wearing pale lipstick, like the kind that was mod in the 1960s. Yep, not so mod now, kind of makes you look like you're dying.

And finally:

• People who constantly blow everyone off but the coolest person in the vicinity, so sometimes they're your friend, and sometimes you're just not cool enough. That is crap.

Ah, I feel much better now. Have a happy Thursday!

My studio has a lot of students who are getting ready to graduate in the next week or so. This means that I won't be seeing them anymore, so I'm trying to give them some wisdom to take with them when they go, since I am all-knowing and whatnot. I realize that they don't really listen all the time, since a lot of nonsense spews forth from my mouth during the course of a lesson, so I thought I'd put it on here, for the world to see.


First: Kiss your boss's butt. I understand that for some of you, this is terribly difficult, bordering on being an impossibility, but I figure I'd have the kids try it out. Jobs are pretty scarce nowadays, and the ones that pay decently for the amount of work a person has to do are even fewer and farther between. So once you have a job, make sure to keep your boss happy. This also goes for professors, but I feel like I need to warn the children that with professors, there's a very distinct possibility that the nice older professor is going to attempt to hook up. It's one of the perks of his or her job, I guess, but don't go there. That's just nasty, and he or she is not in love with the person he/she hits on. The victim is probably the thirtieth kid he/she has chosen because he/she is a pervo. Just say no. Now, if it's a boss, that's a different story. Hahahahaha...just kidding. Ick. Try to avoid that particular situation whenever possible, because it will result in the subordinate getting fired. No questions.


Second: Real opera singers have training. Full training, not partial training that they quit after a year to go be on a reality TV show. We don't do that. There's a reason everyone pees in their pants when there's an opera singer on Idol: It's unusual. WE DON'T DO THAT. Why? Because, as lame as it sounds, it truly is about making art. I'm pretty sarcastic and non-emotional about most things, but music is different. That's why a lot of us do crap jobs on the side (I have been fortunate enough to snag a fantastic crap job, though). That's the price one has to pay for being an artist. I didn't take two years of voice lessons and then decide I was awesome and stop working on my instrument. I will be slaving away at this until I'm too old to make any noises come out of my mouth. Then, I will die. Catering to the lowest common denominator on a reality show is not part of my equation. I'm not perfect, and I have a long way to go, but at least I haven't given up, and that counts for something. No offense to people that want that kind of fame, because that would be cool and all, but in my humble opinion (which is totally right all of the time, by the way), that's not real opera. Real opera is not about being famous.


Third: Don't just listen to one kind of music. A person becomes terribly limited if she doesn't try other kinds of music. I love love love all sorts of music that aren't classical or operatic at all. At least give things a shot, or else it's hard to know what kind of music is enjoyable. Also, don't listen to music that sucks just because everyone else likes it. Most people are stupid, anyway.


Fourth: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT become a pretentious douchebag. There is always a danger of that, especially in the arts-type fields. Remember: You are not now, nor will you ever be, better than everyone else. It's just not possible, not to mention that it can be super embarrassing when someone makes himself out to be something, raises other people's expectations, and then doesn't perform accordingly. Be modest and humble and kind. A person knows how good he is; other people can figure it out for themselves without him having to tell them.


Finally: (Yep, there are only five things you need to know to have a happy life) Wash your hands. A lot. There is fecal matter, along with dead skin cells, cold and flu viruses and staph everywhere you go. EVERYWHERE. It wants to live inside of you, and you don't want that. So wash your dang hands. You should've learned this one in Kindergarten, but maybe you were sick that day. Sick from the poop.


Yes, the moral of the story is that life is hard and not all that fun most of the time, so lower expectations in regards to other people and raise expectations in regards to yourself. Be nice to other people. Wash your hands. In addition, please don't forget to laugh at other people. You know they're laughing at you anyway, so why not be part of the fun? After all, you can always laugh at yourself, right? So what's the harm? Plus, other people really don't notice, most of the time. If anyone loses her sense of humor, I may have to bring the smack down.


Oh, and wash your hands. Then wash them some more. Repeat.

Most people aren't terribly complicated. They think they are, but they're really not. I know this because I can definitely recognize my fellow shallow people. It's kind of like radar. This fake deepness is most amusing when the person thinks he's deep, then says things he thinks will sound profound. You know, things along the lines of, "If you're always spinning, you must simply stop spinning and appreciate where you are." (This is not an actual comment; I just made it up to illustrate my point.)


It kind of sounds, at least to me, like someone has been reading too many fortune cookies. Then, other people make positive comments, and I want to smack them. Don't encourage other people to say lame things in hopes that they're really not as shallow as they are. Ugh.


This is a really wide-spread problem, and Facebook doesn't help at all. We need to band together to stop stupid people from making deep-sounding comments that are, in actuality, just saying the same thing backwards. It's pretty much the real-life equivalent of what The Sphinx does in the movie "Mystery Men." All he does is say things such as, "He who questions training only trains himself at asking questions." Yeah. That's really meaningful and complicated. Whoever said that must be a freaking genius.


Not everyone is a genius. Not everyone is gifted in the cranial area. Some of us have to make do with other talents. I, for instance, can crochet as well as being able to find a scene from Family Guy that will fit almost any situation that should arise. Believe me, that skill has saved the day many a time.


I do believe, however, that stupid people should be encouraged to write blog pages about other stupid people. That, my friends, is awesome. Like this Pegasus.

In case you haven't picked up on it, the theme of this blog in general is that I'm trying to be a better person this year. You know, happier, kinder, blah blah blah blah blah.


Note that being less judgmental is not on my list.


Anyhow, I think it's working. I certainly feel happier and more disposed to be kind to others. Plus, I'm even nicer to small children and animals than ever before (not worms or spiders, though, as there is scientifical evidence that they want to eat my face off). However, there is one aspect of my personality that I am supposed to be working on that I have conveniently ignored thus far: Being a doormat.


Maybe it's that pesky x chromosome. Maybe we're wired to say. "Sure!" when what we really want to say is, "Go get it yourself, you lazy piece of crap!" or "Are you serious? Have you seen the size of your butt? Do you think you really need that extra cupcake?" or "I'm sorry. I didn't realize 'playing Mommy to an emotionally stunted adult' was part of my job description."


Or maybe it's just me that wants to say that.


I don't think I'll ever be very good at saying no. I practice what I'm going to say when I know I'm coming up on a situation where I'm going to be asked to do something I really don't want to do, but I never end up saying the things I came up with in my practice conversation. I end up saying, "Sure! No problem." Maybe it would be better if I didn't practice the conversations before they actually take place, but I've done that my whole life. Plus, I think it adds to my particular neurotic brand of charm. You know, driving along in my car, sitting in my bathtub, or doing dishes while talking to no one in particular about why I don't want to do whatever it is.


Who doesn't do that? (If you just raised your hand, you're a dirty liar.)


Maybe there's a middle ground or an in-between. Not being a doormat, but not being super aggressive about saying no to anything that isn't appealing. I'm not great at moderation, though. Anyone who's seen my stomach and/or my CD collection can tell you that. Still, maybe that's what I should be aiming for. Not perfection, but saying no to a few things, rather than saying yes to everything.


Or maybe I should just grow a mullet. Yeah, I think people will stop asking me to do stuff if I do that.


I'm pretty sure there is no answer to this particular conundrum. I think maybe I have to choose to be one way or the other, and I know I'm going the doormat way. This may not be a popular decision, but I think we all do it, in one way or another. We're all a doormat for certain people or certain things, some people are just more selective than others. Plus, it doesn't mean I can't still think the evil things that pop into my head at the same time I'm smiling and agreeing to whatever it is. 


So, yes, I will go to your birthday party. Make your cake? Sure, no problem. Oh, and yes, I'd love to stop and pick up all six of your nieces and nephews, who all live in different parts of town and are all recovering from colds so they have runny noses, the snot from which they'll be wiping all over the inside of my car, and bring them to your house so they can be part of your special day.


You great big pile of turd.

Sometimes I wonder what our neighbors think when they hear the noises coming out of our house. Yes, we are the adult couple with no children that has pets and yes, we talk to our pets like they're babies.


Well, right now, we only have one pet, a cockatiel named Bruce, but he gets plenty of baby talk and because it's warm right now and all our windows are open....well....it's pretty bad.


I realized it this morning, as I was singing a song to him about pooping. I sing all sorts of songs to him, sometimes about his feathers, sometimes about his fat tummy, you know, stuff like that. Important stuff. Mostly, though, I sing him songs about poop. 


I know that this is normally done for human babies, but we don't have any, and I have so much material. Just SO much. I have about fifty songs going in my brain right now, and this doesn't even take into account all of the songs my husband sings to the bird.


Are we crazy? I think maybe yes.


When we had a dog, there was a lot more singing and baby talk, so it's actually toned down, but I'm sure the neighbors still get an earful. This morning, they were treated to my rendition of, "I am Brucie, Hear Me Roar," and "The Poopie Man." I don't always steal from famous songs, those just happened to be the ones I felt like including in my performance.


The strange thing is that I don't usually talk baby-talk to babies. Just animals. I think human babies think you're an idiot if you talk to them like that, plus I'm afraid of the whole Children of the Corn scenario. So, yeah, I'm pretty normal as far as talking to little kids goes.


Not with the animals. Doesn't matter if they're mine or if they're yours. They're all fair game, and I will sing them a song, most likely about bodily functions.


Don't you wish you lived next door to me? I'm pretty sure this page just cemented your longing to be my neighbor.

As you may have guessed, there are a lot of things that drive me nuts. I don't think this is because I'm overly nit-picky with other people (I totally am with myself, but I'm comfortable with that); I'm pretty sure that it's because I pay attention and I notice a lot of things.


This can be a good thing; however, quite often, it leads me to believe that everyone else notices as much as I do, which then makes me paranoid. For instance, my issue with my newest walking shoes, which aren't really shoes; they're closed-toe Keen sandals.


My old walking shoes are dead. Well, they don't look dead, but the cushioning on the inside is all gone, which makes my weird long toe on my left foot (it's Morton's Toe, and I've been told by a certain person whose brain is a compendium of all the useless knowledge in the world that it's a sign of intelligence, which means I must be a freaking genius, because my toe is around half an inch longer than my big toe) hurt like crazy whenever I walk. This isn't good, because I don't need anything that discourages activity, and it also forces me to whine constantly during the 45-minute-long trek I take at night with my husband, which discourages him from doing activity. Well, activity other than escaping to the happy place in his mind where I'm not whining at him.


Anyhow, it's definitely not time in our budget for new walking shoes, plus, they're super expensive, so I decided to try out the Keens I use for hiking. The first day out, I discovered a major problem, though: Socks.


See, I usually use these shoes for hiking, and since they can be thrown in the washing machine and I'm not wearing them every single day, I don't wear socks with them. They're sandals, for crying out loud, and the one or two times a year when I go hiking I can just brush out any little rocks or twigs that get in there. Plus, I also use them for working around the house, which isn't really the kind of activity that fills my shoes with crap. For a long walk, however, I have to wear socks. First of all, I'm dong this every day and they will get super disgustingly gross after a few days. Secondly, I will get blisters on the back of my heel where the strap is (which leads back to the whole "discouraging activity" thing).


Therefore, I must wear socks with my sandals. Ugh.


My husband assures me that, in this town, no one's going to notice. I know he's right, but deep down, I feel the stares I get from passers-by. I can feel the judgment. This is probably enhanced by the fact that I know that I'd be silently making fun of someone I saw sporting this look. Not that it's quite on the level with the scientists who go for black knee-highs with their sandals, but you get the general idea.


This is quite the conundrum.


Maybe I just need to buy some skin-colored socks to wear under the shoes. Yeah, that's it. Except that my skin is so pale that the white socks I'm wearing now hardly show up against my skin at all, and any darker would definitely show up even more. Oh, and trying to just enjoy my walk and not think about it? That's not going to happen. I guess there is no solution to my problem. I guess (gasp) that I will just have to (sniff) deal with it. 


Wow, imagine the level of paranoia I could reach if I had any real problems. That would suck. Thank goodness the rest of my life is Mary Poppins-perfect.

Congratulations. You made it to Wednesday. I don't have a party for you or anything, though. I do, however have a blog topic that is sure to knock your socks off:


TOILET PAPER


Yes, T.P. I know, it's a little risqué, but I think I can handle it. Mostly, I just want to complain in a public forum about what's happened to toilet paper. More specifically, to Costco toilet paper.


We used to love the huge pack of Costco T.P. Number one (Haha...I said number one), all of the rolls were individually wrapped, so you didn't have to worry about bottles of shower spray leaking on them a little bit in the closet (which never happened, I just like to give myself a little something to worry about). Plus, it gave them a little more heft which came in handy when throwing a roll to a person stranded on the toilet because he forgot to check before he sat down. Or she, I don't discriminate.


Secondly, the paper was just the right balance between soft, absorbent, and flushable. For example, Charmin is the softest toilet paper ever, but in our house, with its old and bordering-on-unreliable plumbing, you can't use a T.P. that's really thick. That's basically like begging the toilet to regurgitate all of its contents, and I don't want that. Northern flushes well, but it just isn't as soft as I'd like, plus it's never on sale and I don't want to pay that much for something I'm just going to flush down the toilet, anyway. Scott tissue is super cheap, but it's too rough and I have sensitive skin. Plus, you pretty much have to use an entire roll to get any real work done. Yeah, so Costco, obviously, is the winner in the texture/flushability category.


Finally, the rolls were just the right size. Not so small you have to change it every day, but not so large that it doesn't fit on the roll holder thingy.


No more, though. No more. Costco has changed its paper and I'm not happy about it. They no longer individually wrap the rolls, which I can get, because that's probably pretty wasteful and goodness knows I can't stand waste of any sort.


However, there is no excuse for the uptick in lint. My bathroom is covered in a fine white powder, which is a direct result of the increased lintiness of the T.P. It's ridiculous. Also, they decided to put less rolls in a package and make each roll larger, so now it barely fits on my roller and I have to use a quarter of the roll before the thing will dispense paper properly. In addition, it's definitely rougher, and the 2-ply sheets separate easily.


That's crap.


I'm going to protest. When you love something the way I loved Costco's toilet paper, it's totally worth fighting for. Plus, when you go through as much toilet paper as we do, it's kind of a big deal. I am a T.P. connoisseur, much as Martha Stewart might be if she actually used the bathroom (I'm working on attaining that kind of perfection, but I haven't reached it yet). It's very important that my bathroom tissue not make my bathroom look like a freak snowstorm just hit.


Smooth move, Costco.

When we were watching Scrubs last night, my husband remarked that I'm a lot like Ted. Go ahead, think about it. Ted is the guy who they call in for legal stuff. Yep, the sad bald guy. Out of all the people on that show, that's who's the most like me.


It got me wondering: Does everybody have people in TV shows/movies that remind them of the other person? Because in most of our regular shows, the ones we watch from beginning to end on Netflix because we can't stand most of the crap they're coming out with now and because nothing good ever comes on when we actually have time to watch TV, there is usually a character that reminds us of each other. This also happens with movies, when we've seen them a bunch of times.


Or maybe we're just weird. I'd vote for that.


So I thought I'd compile a list, for those of you who are curious, of the characters I am like. Or, at least, the ones with whom I share some dominant personality trait.


First, we have Roseanne. I realize that a lot of people who don't know me to the point where I'm comfortable around them would say that I'm like Becky, but I'm really not at all. We've decided that if Darlene and Jackie had a baby, that would be me. I'm about 50/50, although at the time the show came out, I was all Darlene. As I've gotten older, my neuroses have popped out for the world to enjoy.


Another show we like a lot is The Office. Yes, I'm Pam, but I was Pam before I ever started doing receptionist-type work. It's the whole not-saying-what-I-really-think part, because otherwise I'm not so much like her. At least my husband didn't tell me I'm like Phyllis. That's pretty much a one-way ticket to sleeping in the guest room for the next month.


Of course, as you all know, I'm Liz Lemon from 30 Rock. Of all the characters on all the TV shows we've watched, she's probably the one I'm the most similar to, except that in real life when you eat as much as she does, you get fat. So, unlike Lemon, I'm always on a diet, and I guess I'm okay with that but I do get mighty excited when someone mentions chips and/or cake. Or pretty much any kind of food, really.


Finally, as far as movies go, we love Harry Potter. Okay, I guess it's more accurate to say that I really love Harry Potter and my husband doesn't hate it. So I've seen every movie around 50 times and I know all the dialogue (books, too...don't judge). I'm also going to leave my husband for Snape if he ever comes to town to ask me to run away with him [it's okay, my husband has my permission to leave with Kate Winslet circa 1997 (you know, before she got skinny), so we're even]. You might guess McGonagall or maybe Hooch, you know, the one who has a short spiky haircut.


Nope, I'm Hagrid. 


That character, perhaps, is the most like me, except I keep my beard trimmed to a more manageable level and I have better grammar. Otherwise, yeah, really quite Hagridy up in here, what with my love of animals and my hugemongousness.


I certainly hope other people do this. It really makes one aware of certain parts of one's character make-up. If I was a psychologist, I would use this in some way, but since I'm not, I have no idea how to go about that. Plus, it's really amusing. Especially because sometimes a person sees a character on a show doing something that the person does in real life, and she realizes it's not a great thing to do. For instance, I no longer write extensive blog pages about myself that have nothing to do with anything, just to see if I can come up with a bunch of stuff that people will actually read. Wait, that wasn't on a TV show. Ha.

This is a pretty important topic. At least, I think it's important, and it's my blog so I can definitely choose what's important. No, it's not about Pegasus, but he is pretty important (there's just the one, and it's a he...more on that another time). Today, we will be discussing one's Facebook etiquette, or lack thereof, and what one can do to knock it off.


Or, I will discuss it and you will read it.


Facebook is a way to communicate with one's friends. However, all too often, I see a post that is what we like to call a "status killer." This kind of post usually doesn't pertain at all to the story the first person posted in his status; rather, it's a story about the person who is commenting on the status, and it completely diverts one's attention from the original posting. This kind of posting is everywhere on FB, but that's not an excuse. A person who did that in real life would be considered a jerk, and no one would invite him to parties because he would always have a bigger, better story than everyone else.


We all have stories. Post yours on your own page unless it's short and compliments the story you're posting on. Oh, and you're not fooling anyone with your big stories, Mr. Over-Compensation.


Another way of killing a status is by posting a gross picture or comment. Lots of people post cute pictures of half-naked babies on FB, but that doesn't mean anyone wants to see his 80-year-old grandmother in a tube top. It's also best not to write overly sexual comments or anything too detailed about personal time in the bathroom. One should also refrain from cussing on people's pages, especially if the person upon whose page one is posting is a teacher or has contact with a lot of churchly people. I've been know to drop an F-bomb in my time, but that doesn't mean I want it on the computer screen for the whole world to see. I have a lot of young FB friends that may get the wrong impression about me if there's a lot of profanity on my page. Plus, my mom's on there and, as I recall, she has a mean backhand. 


Keep it clean and don't ever ever ever post a comment with the word "panties" in it. Ew.


Finally, please don't get snippy with your FB friends' other friends about politics. It's fine to argue, but when you have to resort to name-calling and nasty personal comments about the other people on the thread, just because they don't have the same political ideology as you, it really just makes you look stupid. Every person has a different background; therefore, every person will have a set of political opinions and ideas that is slightly different from every other person's. That's why we should all be happy we live in a place where differences are not only tolerated, they're celebrated. Or they should be. Plus, a 40-year-old man calling another 40-year-old man names doesn't look awesome. I know, shocking, right? It mostly just looks like someone didn't get his nap in, or maybe he lost his blankie. In addition, since you don't know how your FB friend knows that particular friend, generally, you may be insulting someone that's a lot closer to your friend than you are. You may find yourself minus a Gardens of Time neighbor, and that really hurts. Especially when it's time to expand your garden.


Shut up. Grow up. People have different opinions, and that's okay. Go drink a beer or something.


I realize there are many, many more FB breaches of etiquette, but I just don't have the time to fix all of the world's problems. I am only human, after all. Well, mostly.

This morning, I took part in the epic battle between good and evil, which is another way of saying that I tried to pack my lunch for work. What's the battle part? Well, I know that I should take fruit and a yogurt and some almonds, but what I really want to do is take a Pop-Tart.


They are delicious and they have frosting.


I couldn't figure out what to do, so I decided to do my computer stuff and have my coffee while I was thinking about it. Distractions are a very important part of the epic battle. They're pretty much my first line of defense against The Evil Fruit and Veg.

It's not that I don't like fruits and vegetables; I just don't feel like being particularly virtuous this morning, especially because it's a Friday and I've done extremely well with my dieting this week. My brain keeps telling me it's time for a vacation, even though I have a goal to reach and those pants aren't going to just magically fit, unless someone out there knows how to get hold of a unicorn. I sure don't.


Also, I realize that I could compromise and have one Pop-Tart and the yogurt, and that way I'd have some healthy food along with my crap, but no. Eating only one Pop-Tart is like popping a bag of microwave popcorn, with all its delicious buttery goodness and eating just a few pieces before carefully putting the rest away for later. That's just not going to happen. I need to just go ahead and have both Pop-Tarts, because I know that I'll be thinking of the other Pop-Tart with all of its frosting sugary craptasticness all day long and I'll just go home and eat it anyway.


Poo. I can feel it calling to me. Evil toaster pastry, with your brightly colored sprinkles. Ack. Did I mention the sprinkles before? I don't think I did, but they are, indeed, brightly colored. Much as a rainbow is brightly colored, except you can eat this rainbow and it will live inside your stomach, making you feel happy and contented.


I can see where this is going. I guess today I lost the good fight. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.


Plus, it's the last Pop-Tart.

Normally, I'm the kind of person who can't go back to sleep once my eyes have opened in the morning. If I'm awake, that's it until the next night. This morning, however, I had a brand-new weird experience: I woke up 15 minutes before my alarm went off, but instead of lying there, thinking about what I'm going to wear or some other such nonsense, I fell back asleep. Me. I know, weird, right? Well, it was.


Anyhow, I didn't know I was asleep, and I was dreaming that I was going through my normal routine: Getting up, taking my pills, etc., all the regular things, nothing unusual except that my boss was there, and so was her assistant. They were sleeping in my guest room, so there was a huge line for our shower and I couldn't get in to my closet to get clothes because she kept trying to tell me this story about when she was a kid and getting annoyed because I wasn't paying attention to her. Maybe I should've caught on about the whole dream part there, but I didn't. Nor did I realize that it was a dream when I went into my kitchen and there was a big pot full of (I kid you not) boiling butter on the stove that my mom had put on at some point to make Chicken and Rice, which isn't really something that my mom makes, because none of us like rice that much. I don't know how I knew my mom had started it, but it was one of my mom's pots, not one of mine, so maybe that's what did it. So I still don't realize I'm dreaming, and my boss keeps trying to get me to take 2 Benadryl for some reason. I finally escape into the bathroom, where a blinding light starts flashing in my face...


...and I wake up. My alarm clock is one of those ones where it flashes a light for five minutes before ringing the loud bell that scares the crap out of a person. I wear earplugs most nights, so the bell doesn't always cut it, but the light's not bad. So, anyway, I wake up and realize that I was actually sleeping, and there's no boss or butter on my stove or Benadryl. This is all pretty good, because it was kind of stressing me out.


Then I start getting ready, and everything I'm seeing and doing feels like déjà vu, which is just creepy. At least I got that extra 15 minutes of sleep. Thank goodness I could check my computer to make sure I hadn't already made this post today. That would've really freaked me out.

When I was a kid, my family used to go to this little New Mexican restaurant near our house for dinner a couple of times a month. At least, I think it was that often, but my sense of time when I was little was really skewed so it could've only been a few times, but I don't know. Anyway, I used to bring a stuffed animal with me, and we'd get to have either a Shirley Temple or a virgin Piña Colada. In my little brain, I decided that when I grew up, I was going to have Shirley Temples and Piña Coladas with my dinner every night.


What happened?


I had a Piña Colada-esque smoothie-type thing at work last week for Copacabana day, in honor of our upcoming Barry Manilow concert, but that's it. I haven't had either of those drinks in ages, which is lame. When I grew up, I was going to go shopping every Saturday, wear dresses every day with matching pretty shoes and have fancy underwear (like the frilly-butt ones I had when I was three, but those kind of look like diapers on adults, so never mind) and have either tacos or pizza for dinner every night with my fancy drink containing fruit slices, an umbrella and a plastic zoo animal.


Where did I go wrong?


I realized something just wasn't right when I was at the doctor's office last week, waiting for them to check my allergy shots, and I realized that I not only had Kleenex in my purse, but also two bottles of hand sanitizer and a ball of yarn and a crochet hook. That is not the fun purse I dreamed of as a child. For crying out loud, there is absolutely no candy in my purse. None.


I need to remedy this immediately, and yes, it's pretty much an emergency. Time for a trip to the grocery store for supplies: candy, piña colada mix, grenadine and Sprite, lots of maraschino cherries and plenty of drink garnishes like plastic swords and animals and paper umbrellas. The rest of my week is going to fly by.


This is going to be awesome. I think my 6-year-old formed life plan is going to work out splendidly. Having candy in my purse is going to save the world; I can just feel it in my bones.

Why, why, why do some people think it's okay to poison my eyeballs with their plucked-off eyebrows? I want to pop up and say, "Surprise!" every five minutes because I know they'll look surprised anyway, and at least that way it would be funny instead of being creepy.

And it IS creepy. Ever so much.

Sometimes, I am encountered by these ladies (and this may be a NM phenomenon, I'm not sure) that have plucked or shaved off all of their eyebrow hairs and drawn new ones on. They didn't draw them on in the usual place, though; they decided to give the brows a huge arch to put them way up there in the realm of the forehead. So all the time they're talking to me, it looks to me like I just said something surprising, shocking, or questionable to them.

When one asks them questions, do their drawn-ons raise up so high that they disappear into their massive bangs (yeah, these things almost always go with an impressive set of bangs)? I don't know; I'm afraid to do it. I have to ask questions in a way that avoids the eyebrow lift. Sometimes this extends the conversation to a point where I wish I had a supervisor who could take over, because in case you weren't aware, when I think something's funny, I can't hold in the giggles. Once I start, I can't stop, even in the most inappropriate situations.

This one is a doozy. 

I've tried not looking, but I'm pretty sure they had eyeball magnets surgically implanted above those things. So I pretty much have to look; it's not optional.

Can we all get together on this? Can we just all agree that there's no situation in which you should purposely draw on crazy-looking eyebrows? For example, we all know how nice and cute Betty White is, but what if she decided to get wacko with her eyebrow pencil? We'd be dealing with this:

Scary, right? And I'm not talking about people who draw on nice, sensible eyebrows. That's every person's choice, and I'm not saying I wouldn't draw on a pair if my eyebrows decided to vacate the premises. I'm talking about the senseless brow that can make even Betty White look a little like Satan.

Let's just all agree not to do this. Unless it's Halloween, and then all bets are off.

A friend from work and I went to see Barry Manilow on Saturday. I enjoyed his music before, because for some reason it reminds me of being little and riding in the back seat of our Ford station wagon while my mom played his 8-tracks (John Denver does that, too). It's a pretty happy kind of music. Now that I've seen him in concert, though, I am much more of a fan. 


The man is 68 years old and he's still really involved in putting on an excellent show. Like his music or not, Manilow actually has the voice that you hear on his recordings, which is kind of a big deal to me. There's nothing more annoying to me than paying all of that money for a concert ticket and then getting there and hearing a voice that only vaguely sounds the way it did on the recording, and is flat and screaming the whole time (do you hear me, Gwen Stefani?).


Even with some dry throat scratchy type issues (which he acknowledged, and, come on, it's the freaking desert, what could he do?), Manilow sounded great. Yes, I'm pretty sure he's lowered his songs a bit, but the quality of his voice is really outstanding. Plus, I guess he just had hip surgery and he was moving around on stage really well. A bit stiffly, but what do you want? There were even (ugh) some pelvic thrusts. The best part was that while he was singing Weekend in New England, a lady screamed really loudly after he sang the "When can I touch you?" line, and he started laughing so much, they had to stop the song. It was pretty funny.


Also, the obligatory pair of underpants was thrown onto the stage close to the end of the concert, which was hilarious. Really? You think he really wants your underpants? I don't think he's super into chicks, but even if he is, what good are your underpants to him? You realize that some stagehand probably has to get into hazmat gear to pick those up and throw them away, right?


Troublemaker.


Anyhow, if you ever get the chance and you like his music at all, I'd highly recommend going to one of his concerts. It was so much fun and one can tell that he really loves performing. The audience was also outstanding (except you, Miss Underpants) and there was lots of singing along. Even the people with terrible voices got into it, which makes me happy because that's probably the only time they feel un-self-conscious enough to sing, what with being covered up by all of those other people.


Bring earplugs, though. There's a lot of screaming. Also, mind the flying panties. Ick.

When your morning goes as well as mine did and you decide, "Hey! I'm going to wear my favorite shirt and shoes!" you know the poop's going to hit the fan.

In case you're wondering, that's my day so far.

I woke up early after having slept really well and keeping my nightguard in all night, which is quite a feat for me. I usually have to get under the bed and retrieve it from where it was thrown and then go soak it and brush it so it doesn't have dust bunnies on it. I'm also pretty sure I didn't wake my husband up in the middle of the night to ask him any stupid questions, or to tell him to stop tapping me on the head, so that's good, too.

I didn't have to be at work until an hour later than usual, too, so I had lots of time to sit at the computer, doing nothing. That's my favorite way to wake up , because my brain is usually not capable of any complicated thoughts for at least an hour after waking.

I should've known that, the way my morning was going, putting on my favorite shirt and pair of shoes was almost going to guarantee a crappy morning at work. Of course, that would require more thought than I'm usually capable of before 10 am, so I guess that wasn't going to happen, anyway.

Still, though, can I not just have one perfect morning, unbesmirched by screw-ups? I have on red wedge sandals, for crying out loud. Red wedge sandals. I only get to wear them twice a year or so because they don't really match most of my clothes, even though I love the heck out of them. Psh. Blergh. Ack.

At least it seems like the storm has passed and things are running smoothly. Wait. I shouldn't have said that.

Yikes. I screwed up again, and crazy just walked through the door. Touché, Friday.

Some days, I have time to look through the window into the hall that is the view from my desk and watch people go by. This is turning me into an expert on human behavior. For instance, I know that every day at 8 am, 11 am, 1 pm, 2:15 pm, and 4 pm, the lady that works into the office down the hall is going to go to the bathroom and be in there for 10 minutes. This means that if I'm going to go pee, I have to make sure to do it before those times so I don't have to go in there after she's been in there. It's not any fun. It also makes me very happy that I don't need to go spend 10 minutes in the bathroom that many times in a day because it must be hard to get anything done.

I also know that every other Thursday, a lady that works in another office down the hall is going to walk right past my window, remember she has an envelope to bring me and then have to walk all the way back and drop it off. She forgets every time, and this has been going on for as long as I've been here, which is over two years.

My favorite, however, is the nose picker. Apparently, he's not aware that our window is two-way. Yep, buddy, I can see you standing out there, digging for gold. In your suit. Every day, right around 1 pm (I'm guessing he's coming back from lunch) he walks past the window absentmindedly picking his nose. Every single day. I want to wave at him so he knows I can see him, but it's too entertaining/disgusting and I can't bring myself to ruin his happy time.

All of this raises a question in my brain: I go on a walk with my husband most evenings at around the same time, and we follow the same route and my exercise pants almost always give me a wedgie which I must attend to. Am I the 7:30 wedgie lady to somebody?

I certainly hope so. That means that I am providing free entertainment for my fellow citizens. I know, I just solidified my status as your hero.

Yesterday I was in Albuquerque, stuck on the on-ramp to I-40, which they had completely closed off because, apparently, Michelle Obama was coming through. Now, I'm all for people getting to hear the President's wife talk, but it kind of sucked.


No, wait. It really sucked. It was hot and the sun was shining directly into my side of the car. I sat there for 45 minutes. Forty-five. I couldn't just leave the car running because I didn't want to waste gas, so I rolled down the windows and listened to my iPod, all the while having no idea why the entire interstate was empty.


It did, however, provide ample opportunity for people watching, and I got to see something I've always wanted to see: The guy who thinks he doesn't have to follow the rules and wait like everybody else got into trouble!


He decided to just start backing up and turning around to try to get on the highway elsewhere. I guess he didn't notice all the cop cars with their lights on in a line across the interstate. So he pushes his way around (in a ginormous SUV), drives the wrong way up the ramp and tries to go out into traffic, which fails, so he then drives back down the ramp on the shoulder, and just goes out onto the highway. 


Yeah, they stopped him. Pulled him out of the car and searched him. Then they had him pull his car onto the shoulder of I-40 and just sit there. I know I was applauding on the inside, and I would bet everyone else was, too. 


He was still sitting there as I drove away 15 minutes or so later. Ha ha ha.

I have been inundated with prom pictures on Facebook for the last week or so. Not that I have any objection to prom or anything like that, but I never went, so I'm not quite sure what the big deal is. I have decided, therefore, to make up an imaginary prom story to tell future generations. Sort of like a parable, in order to teach the kids about the dangers of what could happen at prom. Here it goes:


When I was in my senior year of high school, I was the prettiest girl on campus. All of the boys wanted to be my date, but I knew that my education was much more important than impressing some silly guy, so I stayed at home and did my chores, while being respectful to my elders and always finishing my homework and getting all As. Close to the end of the year, however, I decided to accept one special boy's invitation to the prom. He wasn't the captain of the football team, and he didn't drive a fancy car, but he was on the chess team, and academics were important to him, too, so I knew we'd have a lot to talk about. I picked out the prettiest dress I could find. It was important to me that I not show any skin at all, so it had a very high neck and was long to the floor. I didn't want to risk looking like I wasn't a nice girl, after all.


The day of the big dance arrived, and I was very excited. After finishing all of my homework for the weekend, I got dressed in my new dress, making sure to wear a slip underneath, just for that added bit of coverage, and I lightly applied makeup. As we all know, too much makeup tends to change one's appearance, and not for the better, unless one is interested in a career on the streets or at the circus. My date rang the doorbell at the agreed-upon time and came in to meet my parents and have "the talk" with my Dad. You know, the one where he agrees to limit his physical contact with me to a polite handshake at the end of the evening, and he promises he'll have me back home by ten p.m. sharp. Just the usual things.


We drove to the dance and had a lovely time, talking about physics and the probability of life on other planets. It was just super!


Then, I made the mistake of drinking a cup of punch that contained alcohol. I woke up several days later from a coma, and was informed that I was pregnant and had herpes and gonorrhea and I would have a bad case of facial hair for the rest of my life. Oh, and I was fat, too. Really really fat. I had syphilis, as well. A terrible case of syphilis. My date also died from liver poisoning, which can totally happen if you drink at the prom. Did I mention I pooped in my prom dress? Yeah, that too.


All from drinking one glass of punch. Think about it, won't you?