Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me.

I am all about quoting these days. Other things I am apparently all about: WORK. I am currently at work, waiting to find out if this job I am working on has imploded and I can therefore 1) go home immediately or 2) never go home. Before I begin what I am really here to talk about, I just want to say one other lyric that I wish were true in my life. It's from I Think I Love You by the Partridge Family. "And if you say, 'Hey, go away!' I will." You will?! That is great news. Hey, go away.

Wait a minute. Where are you all going? Not all of you have to leave.

So today I was sitting at my desk at work for like 6 hours without getting up. I realize this was foolhardy, but I had junk to do, man. So when I finally got up, my neck was achey and my joints were stiff. And all I could think was: Pain? Discomfort? I'm only 23!

So then I'm thinking later about how old people get annoyed by stupid,young kids who think they're invincible. Now, if you say this to a stupid, young kid ( a la me), she'll be like "I don't think I'm invincible. Nobody thinks that except, like, the Croc Hunter." I mean, I don't do crazy, dangerous crap because I think I'll never die. That's not it. I know I'm gonna die. I mean, that and taxes are the only guarantees in life, right? But you really think bad stuff isn't going to happen to you. I mean, sure infants are sometimes wracked with monster diseases/problems, etc, but in general, kids dying is totally weird. Certainly, if you go to your 60th high school reunion, you expect more people to be dead than at your ten year one. When you're a kid, you talk about all the things you're going to do by the time you're 100, because everyone clearly lives that long. You don't expect to die at 23. (I'm not dying, by the way unless you consider we're all headed there, but anywho...)

I mean, if someone dies at 23, people are like-- oh, such a tragedy. So young! But if you die when you're 92, they're like-- damn, she had a pretty good run. What is the age when people stop thinking that your life was cut short? My mom is 63. My dad is 77. I actually don't really want to know the answer to that question (and clearly, there is no answer). (Btw, DAMN!, my dad is almost 80. Damn. In MaryT years, that is roughly equivalent to one MILLION.) It's never "yay! party!" when someone dies unless it's like someone really horrible, but seriously-- when does a life snuffed out stop being tragic and start being:" Well, homeboy was old."

I said I don't want to know the (your) answer, but I actually do. Comment away.

Oh, and apologies to the commenters who disappeared on the Mr. Nasty post. My stalker felt free to comment and I felt free to delete it, but it was my first time doing so and I deleted the two before it on accident. I wasn't being a nazi like: no comments for you!

The question: Do I think I'm invincible?
I don't know. I am a stupid kid with a stiff neck.

Do I need to go home from work?
Yes I do.

P.S. In all seriousness, this was a light-hearted look at death and I hope it did not offend anyone. I am very interested in death (I recommend the book: How We Die-- c'est incroyable!) and respect it. At the same time, its death.



Thank you and good night.

"If rhyme was a drug, I'd sell it by the gram."

I ask you to consider the following lyrics (I didn't make ANY of them up) and put aside your strong feelings for the power of poetic license:


" So happy togetheeeeeeeeer. So happy togetheeeeeeeeer. And how is the weatheeeeeeeeer?" ..I know a girl named Heatheeeeeer. I have shoes made of leatheeeeer.

"Copa Cabaaaaana. Copa Cabaaaaana. Have a banaaaaaana."
Well, she lost her love and her Tony and her mind, so I guess this makes sense in that it's nonsensical. I mean, let's cut Lola a break. She still wears that same ragged dress. Barry Manilow, you are excused.

"In the desert, you can remember your name 'cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain." Well, it's not like America was a very good band, but you'd think in their one big hit, they could have reached the people with something a little more....riiiight.

"He lied and he lied and he lied and he lied. He lied like a salesman, selling flies." Beth Hart seems to panic with her lyrics the way her song person did when she moved away from L.A. Even skeevy underhanded salesmen don't sell flies. There's just no market for it. I mean, what an analogy. Really. How often do you say something was like a salesman selling flies? Also note that Ms. Hart feel free to use flies in other contexts in this song to, once again, rhyme with lies. SheDaisy got it in "My Little Goodbyes." Lies? Goodbyes? Fries? Anyone?

"Fell deep in love but now we ain't speakin/ Michael J Fox was Alex P Keaton
When I met you I said my name was Rich/ You look like a girl from Abercrombie and Fitch/Like the color purple macaroni and cheese/Ruby Red Slippers and a Bunch of Trees"

As A. noted earlier, this song also includes "Stole your honey like I stole your bike," and frankly, there's just no explaining it. And yet, this song was kind of a major hit one summer. Further proof that teenagers are a menace.

I think the lesson here is, even if it rhymes: why? If you have the power to reach people with your music, you'd think you might want to say something a little more meaningful. Especially if you're only going to have on hit.

On the other hand, I sure like rhyming. Kick it, Vanilla Ice.

P.S. Why? Seriously.

Two things I thought I had lost, but found-- and thank God!

1. My awesome pants. They're not dressy, but they're not messy. They go anywhere and do anything. They're kind of like yoga pants, but even better. They bend, make me look thin (relative terms here, people), fit perfectly, feel great, and are just the right amount of warm. I haven't been able to find them for like two weeks and I almost cried when I found them hiding this evening. I was overwhelmed.

2. My origins raspberry truffle lip gloss. Surprised? This is the most excellent lip gloss ever. Perfect color and tastes like chocolate mint, plus does double duty as a soothing chapstick. Man, i wear this junk every day and I haven't been able to find it for a few days. Usually it's in my purse, but I guess it fell out onto my car floor and I found it this evening as well. Chapped lips now rest easy.

I dare not get into the things I've found but wish I had lost...

I was a teen-aged Mr. Nasty

People don't think I'm funny anymore. They just think I'm mean. They may have a point.

I may perhaps hide out for awhile.

YOU SHOULD READ

...M!'s blog right now because 1) he is actually posting again and 2) I am way funnier there in the comments than I am on my own blog.

Baby steps people. Some day, I'll be funny again. Although, it may require a considerably higher amount of angst in my life and a possible dip into the cooling waters of depression, but oh, I'll get there.

God willin' and the barn don't burn.

Give me the simple life.

I was just listening to a John Denver song (Grandma's Feather Bed--shut up) on my iPod and I briefly meditated on how much I adore--and have always adored-- soft butter on fresh bread.

Heart vs. Hate

I know what you're thinking (M! in particular). "Mary hates something?! Get right out of town!" But I also (heart) many things. Here, the first in a series of hate vs heart. Of course, I always say that and I never really continue the series. Eh.

Today's death match: SuperBowl vs. Hyperbole. Guess which one I hate?

Okay, so the superbowl is here in H-town and I couldn't be more disappointed. In superbowls past, I have felt that warm feeling of schadenfreude as I watched superbowl go-ers in horror, knowing that some town was getting peed on.

Man, this was way funnier in my head this morning.

I don't want to talk about the superbowl. I hate the MF superbowl. I think the money thrown at it for player salaries, publicitiy, box seats, people renting out houses for this inconsequential event--well, it sickens me. And now my MF town is the host of this monstrosity. As if I didn't already project enough wrath at Reliant Stadium.

Onward to hyperbole, my favorite linguistic companion. You see? I am already veering off into hyperbole, or at the very least, the realm of the superlative. Words and phrases like "most awesomest," "bestest ever," "one MILLION," "11ty gajillion," "grossiest," and assorted other superlatives and gross exaggerations are frequent visitors to my speech and writing. Why? I guess I think none of you will be that interested in my life unless it keeps getting exponentially more whatever. Or most whatever, if you will.

I was in the car with S.* and I was telling her that I had gotten 10-12 emails/day from a certain person and she asked if it was "Mary's 10-12," (which is to say 1, maybe 2) or real 10-12. This is a very important question to ask, because while I was being literal, those who know me know that if I was actually talking about 10-12 items, I am much more likely to refer to them as 80,000-1 million range.

Note to readers: I do know how to pronounce hyperbole, but it's a visual play on words.

I really was funny once. I had a lot of ideas in my head this morning to write down, but instead I went to Target and sort of meandered around town doing nothing and repeatedly listening to "Love Me Do." Apparently, the Beatles are a funny-killer. Or so you could infer. Becuase none of these rants has an end or a point. Again, my response is going to have to be: eh, because I need to go do more laundry and delete MP3s from my computer that I once rocked out to but can't imagine why these days. See ya, Britney, Shakira, and Nelly Furtado!

*I lately realized that there are two Ss with whom I am friends and I fail to distinguish them from one another when I am telling stories, but, they know who they are and adding 1s, 2s, !s, etc would only confuse everyone. I could S.C. and S.S., but why would I do that? Forward!

The irony is, I'm not going to use a floopy font here. Even if you think it's funny. No, I shan't.

In this digital age, I am unable to take you seriously if you choose an absurd font.

Remember in the early 90s when ink jet printers were coming into their own and the days of dot matrix and those perforated strips of holes on the sides of computer paper were on the way out? People thought (correctly!) that font and color experimentation on documents gave them a hip and exciting edge.

But people. It's 2004. The age of personal jet packs, moon boots in the guise of basketball shoes, and an abundance of interoffice instant messaging.

Do you honestly expect me to take my boss seriously if he emails me a request in wingbat zapf chancery to have a report to him by that afternoon? Of course, you do not.

So here I am working on all of these documents for a mjor law suit involving chemical contamination and I come across this official application in Comic Sans MS. Yeah, that font was awesome for about the first five minutes of college. I even had my web site in that font, back when my site was purple and included frames and flashing lightning bolts.

I think you get the picture here. Please refrain from floopy fonts, unless the occasion calls for it (i.e. never). This is not to say that any font aside from Times New Roman is never acceptable (I'm actually quite fond of Georgia and plain Times, myself), I just mean to say that some of those fonts have no place ever. Unusual fonts definitely have their place, but guess what that place is? Away from me.

I remain, truly yours, disgruntled.

Oh my God, STOP! There are *balloons* at this one!

It's a beautiful day for a head cold. So beautiful in fact, that it's keeping me in my pajamas and out of my cubicle. Since we all know I can't sleep when I'm sick (did you know? I can't. The congestion keeps me awake.), here I am to present to you a thought which will no longer hold humor for most of my friends because I've been saying it for so long.

Okay, so you're going to rent an apartment or buy a home. What's the the first thing you look for in such a dwelling? Why balloons, of course!

Yes, the correct response at this time is :WTF?!

Have you ever noticed that when realtors have open houses that they always tie some balloons to the open house signs? If you've ever lived in an apartment complex, have you ever NOT seen balloons flying out in front of your apartment? Have you ever been to an 8 year old's birthday party on a quiet suburban street? Amazing, the similarity there.

When I see balloons flapping around on the breeze, first, I think: FEAR. The resemblance between birds and balloons is startling at times (noisy, flappy, etc.). Second, I think: ice cream and cake and perhaps a three-legged race. Never, at any time, do I think: Oh. Balloons. Right! This must be a *great* place to live!

I realize of course that for birthday purposes, the balloons are sometimes so parents can find the right house. Seems reasonable. But have any* of you ever driven down Brompton Road? There's Waters on Brompton, Camden (formerly The Park at Vanderbilt), and whatever M!'s complex is called (ahem, Colonial Williamsburg La Quinta). They ALL have balloons. And that's just a short street with three complexes. What about the streets with oodles of complexes? Too many balloons to fathom. Now if we're talking about residential neighborhoods and houses for sale, a good indication that you are at the house for sale is that there is a sign that says something confusing like "House For Sale." I mean, pretty bamboozling I know, but if you're such a mental midget that you can't figure out which house you might be buying unless it has balloons, I think it might be a bad idea to pony up the kind of dough required for a down payment on one of these babies.

And finally, if you really are lost in the sea of city dwellings, I am posting here a few guidelines to help you spot an apartment complex, even if there are no latex landmarks:
1) guy with dog walking along perimeter of iron fence looking guilty for not scooping the poop
2) 1-4 cars parked outside the gate, waiting for a resident to follow in
3) a Houston specialty (but to my great regret, not exclusively): the "gated community"**
4) if within 20 minutes of Rice or UH, a sea of little green commuter lot stickers or rearview mirrors with white hang-tags. Watch your back, Buster-- there's a Cougar in that car!
5) rentable "clubhouse" with nothing to offer (save those grossy blue mints), which despite the property management's insistence to the contrary, no one ever rents
6) these aren't very funny, so I'll stop

*and by any I mean, "You have been down that road, Neo," because I have probably driven you down it
** does anyone else find it hilarious that you might be gating the criminals IN? Yeeees, a gate that opens every 5 minutes to let 4-5 cars in is certainly secure! No bad people in here! No one in this apartment megalopolis or any of their sketchy friends has ever even sinned. The gate at M2's apartments sort of sums all this up nicely in it's bold-faced message: DO NOT CHALLENGE THE GATE!

A head cold brought me back, but health can't keep me away. My job can! Huzzah!

Hanszen Stole My High School Cheer! (ooh, aah)

Another post in which I lament my fate as an artistically stunted "scientist" and my inability to make F-R a less-kind, unhospitable, and hilarious place by whipping up chicken poop for the soul. Alas.

So for ages I didn't have my site meter up because, as you may recall, my whole site was not itself. I had no idea how many people were visiting F-R, but figured it couldn't be many because of the lame, new look and lack of fresh content.

But no. You're still coming in droves. Why? I mean, you can visit as often as you like and tell all your friends, but really, the freak show is infrequent and unpromising at that and mostly involves me lamenting my friend across the ocean (love you, E.).

I have had quite a few (mis)adventures in the last few months and I *have* been writing but unfortunately, I have been posting my best stuff at Craigslist, where it is not only anonymous, but also expires in 45 days. I am a sucker for a good cause on when I arrived on the CL scene, well, it was kind of pitiful. The posts are up now and my interest in it is waning, so hopefully I taught those poor bastards how to fish and didn't just spend my last three months feeding them gourmet fish dinners.

Wow. That sounds extremely cocky. Oh well. I think I self-deprecate enough so it balances out. (Although if I'm going for balance, I need to find the anti-thesis to pontificating STAT.)

In any event, I am going to un-post some of my funny stuff from CL and re-post it here, after putting it through the grinder and shining it up some. I hope you'll be pleased.

And if all else fails, I have some new material that began evolving in my head on Sunday while watching M! run the HP Houston Marathon. Mad props, M! You did great and we are so proud of you!

The Importance of Being Consistent or Why I (heart) E., Part Nine Gajillion

In the last few months, more people than ever have called me, ahem, a control freak. My neighbor, B., laughed at me when I said to him, "You know how I like things the way they *have* to be."

Admittedly, I do like everything just so, but I have never in my life been called this before now. Perhaps it's because I have become more particular with age and for the previous 4ish years, I had my sidekick, E., who, unlike me, is accused of being a control freak constantly, covering for me.

There's something to be said for living in the shadow of one who is the boss of everyone and everything. For one thing, I seemed easygoing by contrast (it's all relative here, people). For another thing, I had another person* who I would allow in my kitchen because I knew that no matter how anal my habits already were, hers were moreso. And what's more, she knows where everything in my kitchen goes better than I do (which is sort of a miracle when you consider that even the condiments on my refrigerator door have their specific place).

My peculiar just-so ways are not new, even if my expressions of trouble and rage at deterring from the are. In my high school days, I always sat in the same seat in classes, even though none of us had assigned seats. For the most part everyone sat around the same area or at least with the same people (not hard considering there were only a handful of us anyway), but one girl with a devil-may-care attitude was a threat to my little world of perfect consistency. She sat wherever she wanted, which changed dramatically from day-to-day: last seat, last row ( a la Bradley Chalkers) to front and center ( a la MaryT). This girl was dangerous and out-of-control, and I lived in fear for the day I would not be the first to the classroom and I would find her nonchalantly enjoying the comfort and safety of my God-given seat. In my nightmares, instead of being naked, K.H. was looking smug in my seat, taking that safe zone and somehow making it into the free-wheeling, rebellious zone, her school skirt not quite regulation length, her doc martens with names and numbers of other troubled teens scrawled on the sides of the rubber soles. Oh she was terrifying, alright. But by God, she didn't ever get the pleasure of sitting in my seat. I may be irrational, but damnit, there was a time in my life that I was punctual, and not a little smug, myself.

In conclusion, I am particular, but so what? Maybe you're a slob** (you probably are) when it comes to...everything. And we can all live together in harmony, provided you don't take my seat, or then we'll have to have words, you indecisive, rebellious little punk.

*Interesting to note that I would also allow S. free access to my kitchen (even when it wasn't also her kitchen) because I can trust her to be anal also. Strangely, I have never heard S. called a control freak. Maybe in the grand scheme of control freaks, E. constantly one ups me, but I constantly one up S. in this department and therefore she does not have to live with this painful name-calling by our peers, who I have a short message for, but first I need to answer the phone.

Oh! Hello Mr. Pot! Sure, they're right here. Let me put them on.
My friends, the phone is for you.

On reconsidering, maybe S. just hides it better. She admitted to me that she re-copied her 6th grade geography notes post-six weeks just so they'd be neat and orderly. I did the same. It was a special time for us. There is a reason I am best friends with these two ladies.

** E. is, and I think she'll admit this, a bit of a slob, but this is something about her personality that makes her so fascinating. Who ever heard of a completely anal slob? I (heart) E.

The Business of Fear

Okay, so in case anyone wondered (*yawn*), our national terror alert level has been lowered back down to mild panic (or whatever) today.

So, that changes your day and the way you'll go about your life today a lot doesn't it?

Yeah, not so much. Not for me, anyway.

Maybe I'm being naive here, but do we REALLY think that the terrorists who expertly planned September 11th in such a way as to fell an entire country and compassionate international community are going to try the exact same junk again?

Please.

This summer when, at the airport, I had to remove my FLIP FLOPS for airport security I was at last convinced that W. and his band of monkey handlers have no problem whatsoever with dissolving any shred of dignity that we, as private citizens, may cling to.

I am sick of the government's lame attempts to motivate with me fear. When my number's up, it's up. I'm not looking forward to death anytime soon, by any means, but if you want to take an extremely pessimistic view of things: it's not like we weren't all dying since the day we were born. (On the other hand, it's sort of optimistic because you know, you're not worried about the inevitable actually hppening.)

What I'm saying is: Mr. Bush and your people*, I'm sick of your war. I'm sick of your stupid duct tape and your outrageously ridiculous policies, but mostly, I'm sick of you robbing people of the quality of their lives because you're hellbent on instilling the fear of God in them. It's a business for you and Dick Cheney with your Halliburton contracts and whatever else, but for the rest of us, it's our lives.

*I am aware that some of you will fault me for scapegoating a particular person, but seriously, who is the one who championed this alert system as a way for Americans to prepare themselves with sheets of plastic and duct tape? Yeah. Exactly.

And just to throw another log (or two) on the fire: There's never been sufficient evidence to show that September 11th could have been prevented by any amount of security and that making airports veritable body-cavity search stations was necessary, nor is there much evidence to refute that our excellent president was not FULLY aware that there was going to be a disaster on 9/11. Now, if he knew and didn't tell us, why the hell should we care if he tells us now?

George Bush, you're a filthy animal. You were never my president.

A Little Something Funny

When I'm reading rather dry legal documents and I come across a place where the word claims has been substitued with the word clams, I can't help but think of the Flintstones trading things for clams and running around in their feet-powered cars. (S. and I might refer to these vehicles as "Shanks Ponies.")

Does anyone else find this hilarious?

Well shut up.
I do.

Point of Clarification about Edward Nygma

Wanting to be anonymous does not stem from some insidious desire to bash my friends/family/acquaintances on this site. Rather, it is this urge I get every so often to become this intensely private person.

I want to change my cell phone number, my email, even something dumb like my AOL IM screenname. I want to dramatically cut my hair (and did, but not resulting from this), move without telling anyone and only contact a very few people.

Sometimes I wish this blog were anonymous, too. I don't know that I would write a lot more than I do now about people, places, things I see, things I think, but I don't know that I wouldn't. I could, in any case, without intense fear of comeuppance.

Yet, at the end of the day, I'm really quite relieved and comforted by the fact that you, my readers, some known, some unknown remind me of who I am. Your presence insures that I am true to myself, mindful of my actions, and of no lesser importance, my thoughts and feelings.

When all is said and done, being myself is a lot better than being some mysterious entity with no past and no future. My successes and my failures and mistakes, the people I have encountered have brought me where I am now and made me who I am and I can say truthfully that I am proud of that person.

Simultaneously Awesome and BAH!some

Everyone in the goddamn universe reads this blog.

And by everyone, I mean everyone I know or someone who knows everyone I know.

Nothing is sacred and therefore, there are holds barred. Whatever that means.

I'm wiggedy-BACK!

For months now, this : "<" instead of this ">" has been the minute piece of code throwing a monkey wrench in my well-oiled web machine. I had to pour over the stupid code for hours and when I finally found the problem, I felt kind of like an internet reject. Oh well.

MaryT is back, yo! And now that I am my old self, I'm gonna feel like blogging.

Oh yeah: and Molly is back, so all is right with the world. Yay.

Trying to fix the problemo...

This site is gonna be wack (wiggedy wack? nope. just regular type.)for a good portion of the day, as I am trying to get the F-R you knew and (maybe) loved back up.

Ok, let's kick it.

Love,
MaryT

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

I am now going to make a statement that will surprise exactly none of you.

I adore my dog. I love. Love. LOVE her.

I boarded her at the kennel for New Year's so I could wear a funny hat on the Riverwalk with M! and Angela (which was totally fun, by the way), but the stupid kennel didn't let me pick her up today because they had the damned nerve to be closed on New Year's Day. I mean, for God's sake, they better be there taking care of my dog today, so why can I not pick her up? Grrr. Okay, that's me being an overprotective mom. I know those hard-working people deserve to be closed. I just miss my tiny girl. I've never been in this apartment without her being here before.

And as Al Green would say: This house just ain't no home, anytime she goes away.

Be still, my beating cursor!

I love a good sentence. I mean, I *really* love them. Succinct sentences which speak volumes more than the sum of their words make me weak in the knees. If I can turn the words over and over in my brain over the course of a day or a week or a year or a lifetime (!) as one might inadvertently flip an especially delicious lifesaver (red, of course) hoping to extract just a little more of that certain je ne sais quoi that you can't get enough of, I'm a veritable pile of mush.

And that, right there, my friends, makes the internet a dangerous, dangerous place for a girl like me.

Today I got an email from a man who correctly used a semi-colon and I must admit, my pulse quickened.

Rudyard Kipling once said, "Words are, of course, the most powerful drug known to mankind," and sister, you know it's true.

I'll concede that I'm just shallow enough that attractiveness is still in my top two requirements for a romantic relationship involving me, but my number one requirement is smarts, especially if those smarts are of the eloquent vocabulary, sentence-wrangling, word jockeying variety. (Inarticulate pretty boys might get my notice briefly, but if a bunch of bunk spews forth when they open their gullets, it's all over.)

So, in conclusion: will I fall for an old line?
A: Yes, if it's well written.