The Naming of Cats

"The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey -
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name."
--T.S. Eliot, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats

While T.S. is a wise man, I feel he may have missed the mark on the number of names a cat has. My cat, Zoey, has her singluar, commonplace everyday name. I will never discern her secret cat name, that I know. But as to the fancier names, she has many already. Ours are not so brilliantly fanciful as T.S.'s, but so far she morphs from Zoey into Tiny, Tweaky McGee, Batshit Catshit, Gollum, Gremlin Cat and Snoodles.

I am sure there will be more, as I have seen Marcus' cats morph from Jazz and Ruby to Jizz and Splooge. With Jazzy's death, her sister has become Ruby, sometimes Ruby Tuesday, sometimes Ruby Spoogeday, sometimes Spoo, sometimes Sploogy and, during episodes of Carnivale, Rubes.

Holly Golightly may have been on to something by simply naming her cat Cat.

I get drunk and sing showtunes.

This is Broadway fodder I'm stealing from my Manly Man. Non-theatre kids can ignore at their leisure.

Name 10 of your favorite Broadway shows

1. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
2. Cabaret
3. Sunset Boulevard
4. Urinetown
5. Last Five Years
6. Avenue Q
7. RENT
8. Man of La Mancha
9. Nine
10. Damn Yankees

Have you ever seen these shows live? On Broadway: 2, 4, 6, 7, 9. In San Francisco: 4, 7, 8, 10. In L.A.: 7, 4. Community theatre in Bay Area: 1, 2. Never seen: 3, 5.

What's your favorite song from show 2?
"Maybe This Time"

Who's your favorite character from show 4?
My favorite characters are usually the ones I want to play the most, so I'd have to say Miss Pennywise. She's a great character when played well. But at the USC production, it was definitely Hot Blades Harry. That kid was RIDICULOUS!

What's your favorite scene from show 5?
I haven't actually seen show number 5, but my favorite song is "Shiksa Goddess" because it always makes me happy to hear it knowing Marcus could be singing it about me. (Even though he never actually will.)

What's your favorite lyric from show 8?
"To dream the impossible dream,
to fight the unbeatable foe,
to bear with unbearable sorrow,
to run where the brave dare not go.

To right the unrightable wrong,
to love pure and chaste from afar,
to try when your arms are too weary,
to reach the unreachable star.

This is my quest,
to follow that star --
no matter how hopeless,
no matter how far.

To fight for the right
without question or pause,
to be willing to march into hell for a
heavenly cause.

And I know if I'll only be true to this
glorious quest
that my heart will be peaceful and calm
when I'm laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,
that one man scorned and covered with scars
still strove with his last ounce of courage.
To reach the unreachable stars."

So that was an entire song, but its just that good.

From show 10, which character are you most like?
I would say Lola, but really, I'm a lot more like the news reporter, Grace, you know, given the job and all.

Can you quote every line from show 1?
YES!!!! I am the worst person to sit next to at Sweeney!

How many times have you seen show 3?
That's one of the ones I've never seen but love the soundtrack . . . and the original movie!

If you could be anyone from show 6, who would it be? Why?
Princeton. Because he and I share a completely useless major. After all, what do you do with a BA in English?

What's your favorite song from show 7?
It used to be "One Song Glory," which is brilliant and moving in its own right, but I really love "What You Own" because its so incredibly true.

What's your favorite quote from show 9?
"My husband makes movies. To make them, he lives a kind of dream, in which actions aren't always what they seem."

Out of all these shows, which one is your absolute favorite?
Sweeney Todd, Sunset Boulevard and The Last Five Years. Sweeney Todd is a brilliant peice of work about the darkness in ourselves and the extremes to which we are willing to go for love. It is both dark, beautiful, and comic all at once. And I still want to see a certain curly-haired singer I enjoy singing the role of Anthony Hope, and telling a Joanna that until he's with her then, he's with her there, buried sweetly in her yellow hair. Sunset Boulevard is by far ALW's best work, and its because Billy Wilder gave him a good framework. Plus, I have a soft-spot for starry-eyed young writer Betty Schaeffer and can sing her alto lines. As to The Last Five Years, this show has kept my relationship strong. Our goal is to not end up like Jamie and Cathy, to not lose because they can't win. We can do better than that.

Who's the best Broadway actor?
I adore Alan Cumming and Norbert Leo Butz. I also

Who's the best Broadway actress?
Gotta go with the Bern. Idina Menzel is a true talent, though.

What's the best musical they turned into a movie?
Chicago is a better movie than it is a stage show, but I think the best musical movie is Hedwig and the Angry Inch because film was able to bring that incredible story to more people than the stage production could access. And Hedwig needs to be seen. (Also, Reefer Madness makes a damn good movie, stoned or not.)

Is there a musical you DON'T like?
Yes. I've been in a couple bad ones.

If so, which one? Why?
I fucking hate Les Mis because its just plain bad. You cannot connect to anyone, the music is just a conglomeration of notes, and that stage can revolve forever and not make the show move any fucking faster.

Do you think the movie versions are better, or the original Broadway shows?
I think the movie versions allow access to shows that a good section of the country doesn't get to see, but there really is nothing like seeing a show live. Unless it sucks live. Like Chicago with Melanie Fucking Griffith.


This or That:

The Producers or RENT - RENT. The Producers is lovely and fun, but RENT gave me, and a lot of my generation, a new lease on life.

Wicked or Chicago: I hate Chicago onstage because it has no meaning, which I also think is Wicked's problem. That book is complex and actually very interesting. The show loses everything that makes the book good.

Fiddler on the Roof or Oklahoma: Fiddler, in the name of Tradition.

Thoroughly Modern Millie or 42nd Street: Haven't seen 42nd and I abhor Millie.

Hairspray or Grease: "Hairspray." It was good as a John Waters movie, and great as a show. Hairspray has a wonderful message that tells girls they can be any size, shape or color and still be loved. Plus, Penny Pingleton is a great role. And it's totally mine. And I will kill Amanda Bynes for it.

P.S. I am known to sing showtunes when drunk.

The best thing I have ever overheard.

"Do you have a throat infection or are you pregnant?"
--said in a slightly British, slightly bitchy manner by a man eating a sandwhich with his friends

Dear Man Creatures of the Santa Barbara Area and World in General,

Please stop feeding us lines.

If we have a ring on our left ring finger, you should abort your mission. Telling us how beautiful we are or that we are "works of art" is not going to make us leave our significant others. In fact, it's just going to make you seem like a douchebag.

Don't ask to be my fucking friend after a failed attempt at picking me up with a line. If you really wanted to be my friend, you wouldn't have wasted your time and mine trying to bed me.

Don't assume that because I am getting married I don't have any freedom. It really pisses me off and makes you one step closer to no longer having testicles. My stilettos don't know the difference between flesh and concrete.

To all of you who follow the advice in Neil Strauss's The Game, I hope that he gets a lot of money for each of his lines that you use. And I hope that Mr. Strauss laughs all the way to the bank each time you fail.

You would all be much better off just being yourselves instead of being sleazy bastards.

P.S. If a girl says she's gay, don't ask to be with her and her girlfriend, you fucking peice of idiot trash. She's gay. She doesn't need your cock, nor does she want it, nor does she "not know what she's missing," nor can you turn her. If you actually fucking think that, you really ought to rethink your entire construction of social relations.

P.P.S. This message is aimed at only a few Man Creatures, as most of the Man Creatures I know and spend time with are wonderful human beings. Which I think goes to prove my point that no woman wants to hang out with a fucking sleazy douchebag.

Thanks, News-Press.

There is craziness going down at the Santa Barbara News-Press. It would have only been better if someone defecated on the morning edition before being escorted out of the office.Sorry, News-Press.

My editor is quoted in that one.

And this is all the News-Press has to say about it. Way to make a statement, Armstrong.

Dance, dance. We're falling apart to half time.

Okay, before I get to the point of this, I must interject that the cutest thing in the world just occurred. Zoey, the kitten, just crawled up from my lap and sat on my keyboard. Disturbed by the noises, she is now hunting her Octopussy.

I love this cat!

Now I go on to prove the point that reality television is actually smarter than we give it credit for. On last night's Dancey Dance Show aka So You Think You Can Dance, Ashlee and Dimitry danced a crazy contemporary routine to, of all the horrors of the world, Fall Out Boy's "Dance Dance."

I, too, was suprised at how wicked awesome this was. The dance told the story of a doll brought to life by a wicked circus ringmaster, and the choreography was wild and violent and crazy. It was fantastic.

What was even better, and proves that I am actually learning stuff in school, was how uncertain Nigel Lythgow was about the dance. He told Ashlee that he wasn't sure "if she was Dr. Coppelieus' Doll or Frankenstein's Monster."

I am currently enrolled in English 165MM: Making Up Monsters and I not only just finished Frankenstein (for the 5th or 6th time), but I also just read the story from which the Coppelieus reference comes. That is a reference to the animated doll at the end of E.T.A. Hoffmann's 1816 story "The Sandman," the destruction of which drives the main character into madness because, not only had he fallen in love with this automaton, but he too was once disassembled and reassembled in this fashion by Coppelieus, his evil "Sandman."

My question is this: who the hell has actually read this odd and obscure story? Clearly British people remain far more well read than Americans, and I feel extra smart for getting the reference. Though, I had just finished reading that story before joining Magen in Dancey Dance Debauchery.

Though I do have a note for Nigel: Coppelieus is a lawyer, not a doctor. Oh, and by the way, he may be Nathaniel's Sandman, but the maker of the doll is the similarly named Coppola, whom Nathaniel only imagines to be the same man.

And I think I agree with America: Ashlee was more like Coppelieus' doll than Frankenstein's monster. But she still had her eyes in their sockets.

Isla Vista will not be missed.

My new apartment is awesome.

What is also awesome is that Netflix allows you to change your gender on your account. How progressive of them!

What is not awesome is that I hurt (and look) like my boyfriend beats me. Bruises galore from moving and my muscles have suddenly aged 30 years over night. Goddamn. That shit is brutal.

Oh, also, my booze (i.e. my Kaluha, Baileys, Jameson) got left behind, along with a gorgeous new bottle of absinthe that was sent to me for free by my "dealer." And the cleaners totally either stole it or threw it out!

I was so looking forward to drinking that. Boo.

Little bits of Hobbit.

I am never going to have to actually read the Lord of the Rings series because I continue to receive it paragraph by paragraph at the end of spam messages in my inbox.

Given the length of the tomes, this way is easier to digest.

At least I've stopped getting bits of Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

A Hobbit loophole.

A selection from Tolkien this morning.

dark-green hood. As soon a the door was opened, he pushed inside, just as if he had been expected. He hung his hooded cloak on the nearest peg, and Dwalin at your service! he said with a low bow.
Bilbo Baggins at yours! said the hobbit, too surprised to ask any questions for the moment. When the silence that followed had become uncomfortable, he added: I am just about to take tea; pray come and

It was in a Viagra ad. The sender: florie@burtprocess.com; which is an address that has obviously already been deleted. Because Burtprocess.com, which is a company that created pH neutralization systems, is definitely not selling Viagra in any way, shape or form.

The thing about copying from Bach and Tolkien is this: despite how well known both authors are, I think that the copyright on the works has expired. Avon is no longer publishing new copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and there are a variety of publishers who have attained the rights to Tolkien's work, therefore leading me to believe that the copyrights have a. expired and not been renewed or something else that would really piss off both authors, were they still living.

I'm sure that most people do not care. I myself was amused at first by the selections on these emails, but the Bach and Tolkien bits are stirring.

I don't see how its fair for their work to be unlawfully copied and distributed with the dastardly intentions of stumping spam-blockers. Is this really what we're coming to? A world without respect for other's artistic and intellectual property?

Bullseye here.

You can literally see the jealousy when Jennie announces that she and Sam are going to go shopping at the Target in Santa Maria.

This is why Santa Barbara needs a damn Target. They can stick it in Goleta, out in Ellwood. It doesn't matter. It doesn't have to be downtown, flaunting its contemporary architecture and hugeness over our mandated Spanish-style building codes. Stick it on Turnpike! On Hollister! Doze the now abandoned $3 Theater and repave it with the glory of a Target!

The seeds of a Target revolution need to germinate somewhere. And soon.

Richard Bach should shoot these people in the face.

This was todays spam finding. And I can sure as hell identify the work from which it was stolen because I've read it:

popular with other birds. Even his parents were dismayed as Jonathan spent from? Oh, probably from the last pylon. He's right, it wouldn't be further
this: though there are battles and fights and blood and death where the without question. If someone starts fumbling or asking questions I'll hit the moonlight. "You are learning again, Jonathan Seagull," he said.
"You probably mean stalkers!"

at the horizon itself, flew a few others. New sights, new thoughts, new
"Thank you. How do you feel about turboplatforms?"

I can't believe they were stupid enough to include the first and last name of the titular seabird, which I decided to make bold to emphasize my complete disbelief.

This must somehow be plagiarism. Even though these people are copying only lines from random parts of the books there must be some way to put an end to this. These texts, while kind of amusing when they're bits of erotica that I can try to string together, belong to their authors, not spam stock-porn-pharmaceutical email jockeys.

Words, words, words.

I have been following Shelley Jackson's Skin project for some time. I am, in fact, writing my thesis on it. And only when I got up the gumption to finally stick to a thesis on tattoo fiction, did I apply to become one of the author's words. I have not (yet) been chosen.

However, Jackson has recently updated the map of where all the words live. When I saw the map, I found the poetry of the thing so overwhelming that I was choked with tears. While I am not officially a word, I feel like I'm part of this community somehow, in some abstract way as I watch it evolve and I document it and analyze it. Seeing who belongs in these sentences is a fascinating study in connection and isolation.

And I just found out that the word "look" lives in Isla Vista. "look" if you read this, I want to meet you. I am not in your sentence, but I want to know who you are. I met "floating" a few weeks ago at the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I hope that you will be able to further my understanding of what it is like to be a literal text.

And Tom squeezed the Horchata.

I got part of a legitimate story today amidst my porn/erectile disfunction emails.
this doesn't sound like a rule for a loop.
So I went to the locker room, pulled on my lab clothes and lit up. All
"I say you are free."
So I decided the hell with it. The last time I had gone into the Zone at
"I'm ready " he said at last.
"Once the time I spent thanks to you was over, I went straight. Quit

forgotten its insanity, but Fletcher had not. "Jonathan, remember what you two copper disks the size of a saucer, -about a quarter inch thick, with a

That's all they gave me.

I can't tell if it comes from some peice of gay male erotica or not, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it might be. I imagine it involves a jock, like E. Lynn Harris' Invisible Life and The Front Runner (a.k.a. the greatest gay love story of ALL TIME) both do, pinnacles of traditional masculinity, and some sort of geek-jock hybrid who wears his lab clothes in the locker room and smokes a lot of weed. Seems like the kind of narrative that turns on the ideas of "straight-ness" and "gayness." One of these boys, probably the jock, and I can't tell from the punctuation if that's Jonathan or Fletcher, has a life changing experience with the other and can no longer tell if he is gay or straight. And the point, after all, will be that sexual identity is fluid, and just a label, and it doesn't really matter who you choose to love.

I'm finding that my spam filter's malfunction gives me something to do in the mornings before I can start hounding people for stories and information like the hard boiled Girl Friday I am quickly becoming.

Porno Poetry

I find that my work email is continually spammed by porn offers and stock tips. Thanks for you consideration, but I can find hot Russian teens on my own, now that I speak Idiot Level Russian, and I'll choose my portfolio based of non-emailed tips. P.S. I have no penis, therefore, don't need Viagra.

However, these clever bastards have figured out a way to get past spam filters by filling their secondary messages with strange, Exquisite Corpse poems like the following:
onion smudge mid-block painter stainer moon-mad Opus anglicum
oil cup nymph pink noble-natured omnibus train passage boat
pale-looking narrow-leaved Old bactrian osmund brake

Nov-esperanto mug-wet over-and-over stitch moisture-absorbent pari-mutuel morphological botany muscle-kneading
offhand position old-womanish out-of-bounds
oven furnace number field new-mown neb-neb olive acanthus parti-mortgage pearl-encrusted Paris yellow Non-european para red palm marten old-bachelorish mithridate mustard
never-twinkling moon-mad organ gun mis-sing northern redtop
peacock-feathered naked-flowered miter clamp narrow-breasted

one-flowered Non-quaker oval-figured omnium-gatherum mill-headed Mocha stone morass ore modern-practiced morning-winged old-clothesman paper-stamping Mongolo-turkic open-timber
Panama congress nine-point oat-fed openside planer passenger locomotive
micro-movie nose dive oblong-leaved one-pounder

midnight sun ox-eyed orange berry needle valve mint sauce narcissus fly milk-condensing
newel stair nerve stretching opus pectineum
navigating officer Pan-america nitrogen balance Mont blanc ruby naked-bladed ovate-cylindraceous mist-shrouded mood phrase

I thought that one was pretty good. It's called "open-field ;)" or, at least, that's what my email was called.

I also like this one:
"paper plant Moon type nigger pine ore-roasting mill-run
nut-shelling palm reader Non-semitic morning-winged middle-rate
mix-up mild-mannered oyster-shell bark louse otter brown

oven-dried oak-wainscoted news agency orderly room new-built paint-stained Mid-november
paint brusher ore body Mid-african
moth blight Non-germanic peace guild Moeso-gothic paroquet bur paraffin paper navigation act Nodus secundus old-field lark overhead price mole catcher Mumbo jumbo monesia bark
open-endedness own-rooted mole catcher pearl-bearing Nankeen porcelain
palm branch mind-set obtuse bisectrix mustache monkey

old-worldish Monmouth cock navy yard night-filled paper works open-chested old-bachelorish mis-send miter box neoza pine meter-kilogram mulct law ovate-deltoid
nake-footed Neo-kantism muzzle ring mind cure ovate-subulate
palm-shaded off-turning pan fish Mogul empire

Non-asiatic palm grub open-breasted night-wandering mis-humility movable-do system midsummer daisy
near-coming out sister passion-fraught
nose ape olive dun Non-zionist nutty-brown moisture equivalent mud house mine-run mile-ton"

That one is called "Your money, nonre-eligibility."

These people are on to something. They should be submitting to literary journals, not my inbox.

This is our emo band name.

The Teapot Fire.



Or The Fiery Teapots?

I can't decide which is better, but both of these pictures can barely do justice to the flaming mess my teapot became. Negligence. Plastic handles. Hot metal. You do the math.

I am now short one teapot. But it's okay. I got it in Dad's garage, where everything is free and comes in bulk.

I will purchase a new teapot tomorrow after work. Preferably one that won't do this:

A Vendetta Against Fruit

And those who throw it.

As I sit down in my vehicle this morning to drive to campus, I notice that there is a large, semi-circular crack beginning around the area where my rear-view mirror is and arching perfectly down into my field of vision and my passenger's.



How the fuck did this get here?

According to the pulpy goodness stuck in the middle of this crack, I blame some sort of citrus fruit, thrown, clearly, at such a speed that it might crack a windshield.



Who fucking throws fruit at that speed? Who fucking throws fruit? This is what I want to know.

As I drive to campus, I find the rogue peice of produce wedged in the crack between my hood and window, held in place as I drive by my windshield wiper.

The offending fruit has since been placed in my evidence locker. My evidence locker being the wineglasses I stole from Bryna's wedding two weeks ago and still haven't taken out of the backseat of my car.

I can dust it for fingerprints if I need to. Because I've decided that I'm fucking Veronica Mars and I can do this kind of thing.

I am considering taking my "evidence" to the manager of the building behind me, over whose fence the projectile lemon was launched, and telling them that their residents need to stop throwing things over fences with such blinding force because what has happened to poor little Lola (my car) is technically a. vandalism (if intentional) and b. destruction of personal property.

(The fence: intended to keep fruit off my fucking car.)


The Good News is that my insurance will replace my windshield, as long as I tell them that the projectile lemon came off a lemon truck as I was driving through the lemonfields of Goleta one day.


(An accessory to the crime.)

Jean Blues

I am so certain that designers create these concoctions out of denim and have no idea exactly how they are supposed to fit anyone who isn't straight as a fucking board.

I have 36" hips, which are massive compared to the 32" bust line, small shoulders, and 29" waist.

I went to 6 different stores downtown today and tried on tons and tons of jeans, only to realize that every pair fell into the same problem categories:
1. If the jeans were low rise, they just make me look short. And I am not fucking short. I am on the tall side for a gal, so fuck you for cutting me down to hobbit size, LEI and Paris Blues.
2. If the jeans were a flare leg, or a wide boot cut, they also make me look short. That helps fucking no one. No one wants to look short.
3. Gap jeans has tried to make a series of jeans for "curvy girls." I thought I would be one of these girls. However! I argue that Gap's curvy jeans just make girls look fatter. Why, oh, why would you put a wide waistband across the hips of a girl who calls herself curvy? You're emphasizing the biggest fucking part of her body, and no shirt seamed along the ribcage is going to make up for that. Tilt jeans are guilty of this crime as well.
4. Any midrise jeans I tried on somehow gave me a "front ass" out of denim. This was also Gap's problem. Apparently, a size 8 gal, albeit I was told that was the national fucking average, comes with a front ass of her own. I'm not there yet. And I hope not to be until I have children and have an excuse.
5. Pegged jeans are fucking everywhere. No thanks, I'd rather eat that ice cream cone than look like one. They've even crawled into Express, which makes me wonder exactly what the world is coming to.
6. Another trend that fucks over girls who were designed to bear children: fucking whiskering on the thighs. Really? Please, just further emphasize the part of my body I hate the most. I fucking love that.

So I pretty much cried in every dressing room and blamed myself for being a model discontinued in 1954. But then I remembered that there's technically nothing wrong with my body, and a whole host of things wrong with modern design.

I finally found some good standard bootcut jeans in Robinsons-May, of all places, and I was a fucking quarter of the age of everyone in there, so I don't know what business the store has selling jeans in the first place. And Calvin Klein and DKNY, at that. I bought a pair of CK, at $70, and a nice pair of Levi's at $36. (To these people, and this is the phenomenom that happens with high-end stuff, I am a size 6. And that makes me feel nice, although I know they are lying to me just to get my to buy more from them. But you know what? It's a smart marketing scheme and it's fucking working.)

And I will not go jean shopping again for a long, long time.

I don't need to put myself through this kind of fucking self-loathing on a regular basis.

And while I am still mad about fashion, fuck leggings. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck these stupid skinny-ass girls who wear this shit and think it looks nice. You look like dirty street trash. Comb your fucking hair. Get some clothes that actually fucking fit you. Stop putting your fucking dogs in purses. Congratulations, however, on being part of a trend I hate even more than mini skirts with Ugg boots and trucker hats.

It's time for more Deadwood, which explains all the expletives.

Four Funerals and a Wedding

On the way to Josh and Bryna's wedding in Aptos, CA I witnessed the most macabre traffic accident I have ever seen.

Traffic comes to a stop just before I get into the civilized (re: no farmland) part of Salinas. I wait for about 20 minutes in traffic, before the highway patrol merges the two-lane highway into 1 lane. As I drive take a gander at the car turned on its side by the center divider so that I can see what the hold-up's been.

Not only is there a car turned on its side, a large open-backed truck, but there is a dead cow on top of it. And two dead horses on the roadside. And another dead cow in the middle of the lane.

No human driver was found in or around the over-turned vehicle.

A bizarre sight for a wedding-bound drive. (Not an omen.)

On another note, Josh and Bryna are now wed. Lovely, simple wedding. Short and sweet. Lots of old friends. I salute Josh and Bryn for forging a new path for all of us. I think we're next.

I stole new wineglasses. Marcus caught Bryna's garter. Josh somehow managed to shoot the cork from his champagne right at us. (Omen.)

Holes in my ears and head.

I have had a string of bad earring luck lately.

On Thursday, I somehow managed to spend an entire day wearing two completely different earrings. One was a thin chain of green beads, maybe an inch long. The other was a crazy dangle earring with many strands of purple beads and glass that is roughtly 3 times the length of the other. Why did no one tell me this?

This second instance is more proof that Heather is Jesus.

We're up in the bay, chillin' at Target and purchasing goodies because we in Santa Barbara are sadly lacking in the Target department. I go try on a ton of things because my mommy was going to buy me a sweet new suit to celebrate my getting of an actual job (no pleasing suits to be found in my 36 waking hours at home, hence why we're buying other goodies at Target). Somewhere along the way, I evidently lose an earring--a favorite of mine; a vintagey-looking pair with lots of blue beads on 'em--which I don't notice until I get home and look in a mirror.

Heather comes into the computer room where I'm hanging out with Cassie and have sadly set my lone earring by the printer. She sleepily rubs her eyes, and pulls my other missing earring out of her jacket pocket.

Heather: Oh, Stevi, I found your earring. I saw it on the ground in the dressing room and went, "Oh, that looks like Stevi's." Lucky I happened to go in the same dressing room as you, huh?
Me: You are Jesus.

Computer, Earl Grey, Hot

I hate automated answering systems that are designed to be friendly and warm-sounding and have speech patterns approximating a real person, or, at the very least, a female version of Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. They make me say ridiculous things to them, and consistenly mishear whatever I say because the linguist that designed the damn program must have failed phonetics.

These are the bane of my existance. There is a reason Rachel Dratch does impressions of them on SNL.

It's because they suck.

I'd really rather just press buttons on a cold, distant machine, thanks.

Oh, and please don't make your hold music crappy pop music, Hollywood Video Corporate and Technical Support.