PSA Re: Finding Your Wii Code

Don't worry people who don't really like video games (like me), this isn't going to become a gamer blog. BUT, if you're like me and were looking for your wii friend code and all the message boards had people giving theirs out, but no actual instructions unless you wanted to page through ten roundabout pages of manual...here you go!

Easy-to-follow directions for finding your wii code!

• From the main Wii menu, select the envelope in the bottom right hand corner (This is the Wii message board...so-called)
  
• Select "compose new message" which looks like a notebook and a pencil (even though you are not really composing a message--but whatever, I didn't make this up. In fact, no [good] technical writer made this up, because no TW worth her salt would have made it so unintuitive in the manual or on the menu, especially on a game system that boasts ease of use through intuitive playing. Can we get a little QC here, people? Okay...next step.)
  
• Choose address book. The front of the address book will have smileys and say "this wii's console number is". That's your friend code: ta-da. QED, etc.

P.S. If you want to go back and find it again, follow the same steps, except note that when you select address book, your wii will autoflip to the first page of the address book instead of the cover bearing your console number, so use the left scroll arrow to go back to the front.

P.P.S. No, you cannot have my friend number, weirdo. We're not friends.

The News Bayou

I have surprised myself at how easily I have become one with the Nacogdoches piney woods vibe since we moved here in August, but still, sometimes I get really nostalgic for Houston. I miss my friends. I miss the restaurants. I miss the variety of shopping and fine groceries. But most of all, I miss daily interactions with the totally weird people that stuff like this happens to. Thanks to Bishy for bringing the article to my attention!

Jan. 30, 2007, 12:13PM
Internet sex chat leads to Houston robbery

By KEVIN MORAN

A Houstonian who invited two men to his townhome after chatting with them on an Internet site late Monday ended up bound in duct tape as the strangers hauled computers, jewelry and other valuables away in his Mercedes sedan, police said.

Eric James Mitch, 31, told police he went to a bedroom to have sex with the men he'd just met through the internet site www.gay.com and soon found himself threatened with a pocketknife, Houston police Sgt. Nate McDuell said today.

The men, identified as white males between 25 and 35 years old, identified themselves only as Ricky and John when they arrived at Mitch's residence in the 3900 block of Floyd, McDuell said.

After binding Mitch, the two spent more than an hour searching the home for valuables and loading them into the Ford F-150 pickup in which they arrived and into Mitch's Mercedes, which they stole, McDuell said.

The man who identified himself as Ricky apologized to Mitch for robbing him but told him they had robbed others in similar fashion, McDuell said.

Investigators had no suspects this morning, McDuell said.

I think my favorite part is that the robber apologized and noted that there were plenty of other rubes out there. "Hey, we're sorry we had to rob you, but you know, you're not the only one at least, so don't get down on yourself. Have a good day!"

My state kicked South Carolina's butt (and probably your state too)

After a few days on the open road, I have been bitten by the travel bug and I am angsty to get out to exotic locations and explore. But even so, I have to own up to a special kind of joy when I crossed into Texas. My heart did a little leap as I tapped my mom awake. "We made it! Oh thank God!" As if the wilds of Shreveport we had just breezed through had been some sort of internment camp. This happened last time I made the trip, too, although coming out of Arkansas, as you can imagine, was actually a huge relief.

First, our (I say like a boastful Texan, as if I built it myself) astoundingly large and high-tech visitor center completely knocks out the rest of the state welcome center competition across the South, which I suspect to be the most hospitable group of all U.S. states. Runners-up include Mississippi for the non-long, non-outdoor walk to the bathrooms and offering of cokes and Louisiana for the impeccably hot and fresh Community Coffee. All of you states that required a far, outdoor walk to the bathrooms from the rest of the welcome center: shame on you. It was damn cold. Have some decency.

My second point is really my trump card in the ass-kicking department. Driving East to West on the interstate (I don't think this works West to East) or North to South, the mile markers decrease, essentially telling you how many miles of a particular interstate are left within a state. So we drove into South Carolina and it was something like 110. Not too bad. In Louisiana, the first exit was 189. No problem. The first exit in Texas? Yeah, 635. Bam! Boo-yah! That's 5+ states right there.

So my point, aside from being bizarrely proud of land mass grandeur, is that despite my desperate urge to see the world and travel far and wide is that it might be hard for me to live anywhere else but Texas for too long. I'd be insufferable.

Since I don't feel like explaining why XM is the Pepsi of satellite radio...

The retroactive posts are all up now, but just in case you missed some, I'm linking them below. It's all the things you like about me posting sequentially without my actually having to do so! Some of them aren't that great, so don't get too jazzed about this blogging windfall.

• Back to the iFuture
  
• KIA2LEX
  
• You, Only Butter
  
• Hey Baby!
  
• Home Sweet Hotel

The Naked Truth

Yes, it's a blogstravaganza.

Keeping my "blog" on post-its was weird (two to four more retro posts, depending on what the evil editrix in my head deems worthy, will be up later today and that will be it for the tomfoolery), and not just because they were small and awkward to write on. The intimacy between me and what I was writing went into the stratosphere if only because of pen next to paper. Even though I knew that everything I had written was put to paper with public viewing in mind, I got a little nervous anytime my mom or sister--people I tell my darkest secrets to-- stood near the little pile of pages perched on my suitcase. I wanted to guard the papers and whisper "It's okay. I will protect you, stuff I wrote! I will never betray your secrets!" to it. Of course, that was a lie, so shows you how good my word is--even to stuff that had no use for promises in the first place. :( Bah.

I guess this is why people are so protective of their journals. I was an inconsistent and fickle journal-er, never filling any volume and certainly not with any regularity, but switching as the pretty covers of another blank hardback appealed to my whimsy. Still though, even knowing that I never killed a man or done anyone so terribly wrong, I'd be horrified to think that anyone would find out that I had soup for lunch before attending the IMAX over spring break one year. I mean, that's PRIVATE.

Of course, had I written such a thing on a nice, sterile keyboard, my reaction to someone reading it would be more "don't you have anything better to do?" than shame or dread. I guess only Douglas E. Howser, M.D., keeper of computer journals not intended for public consumption, could shed a little light. Your thoughts, Doogie?

In a way, it would be nice if more people wrote their blogs (probably me, included) on paper first because then we might all be spared the ennui of reliving the minutiae that doesn't exactly add up to more. But then, maybe that is what appeals to us so much about that lost art of sending and receiving letters in the mail. One person becomes your captive audience, even when you tell them you spent the whole day shopping online for tights, and that's enough. And after that, it's private or at least forgotten. Thank God I'm enough of a megalomaniac to keep it all public for y'all, post-its be damned. :)

What Would Allah Do?

A little levity following this morning's heavier post--thank goodness.

I was just looking through some of the google searches people used to find my site (always good for a laugh) and though I was tempted to blog about the poor person who was veinly attempting to "clean cat pee off a yearbook" (just throw it away, boss) or the misguided soul looking for the apparently "famous" French farter poem, I would, instead, like to talk about this search:

"fantastic asshole drilling"

When I clicked on it, the search took me back to Google in Arabic (I think) and asked me if I was looking for a job in Saudi Arabia.

All I have to say in response to that is: fasten your berkas, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

All Dogs Go to Heaven

This morning I was headed down North Street on the way to yoga when I saw a small dog bolt across the street in front of heavy traffic. I gasped as I saw a speeding truck hit her hard on her back half and then zoom off without attending her. Traffic slowed somewhat as she limped to an abandoned business and I, along with another lady who saw what happened, immediately turned off to help the poor pup. Soon, my friend David joined us as we tried to assist her.

I was hoping that maybe she would just have a broken leg and that maybe the blood coming from her mouth was a badly bitten tongue. But as blood began to come out of her eye and nose and her bladder released its contents, her breathing became labored and it was apparent I was spending the final moments with this dying animal who had been left for dead and treated like garbage in the road only moments earlier. I cried for this poor sweetheart, who except for her fawn coloring, was the very image of my own Molly at about six months. We petted her and waited for animal control, who thankfully came within ten minutes. The woman who took her and laid her with a towel in a pet porter was kind, but told us the dog would probably be euthanized if it was determined she was bleeding internally--which anyone could tell she was.

I came home in tears to call Noonan and soon I was calm as we talked about soothing the scared puppy. But soon she was back in my head and I hope, really hope, that maybe the dog was sending me a message that she was okay and had gone to heaven. Even knowing that though, I feel very sad today.

A Voice for Choice

I was just now reading Chrissy's blog: Strange Fruit when I found out about how this year on January 22, the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade (the 34th, if anyone's counting), many bloggers decided to join together to write about why they are pro-choice. Now six days later, I felt a little sad that I had not participated and considered some more of my retroactive posting magic to make it so. Yet, I felt strange posting about abortion on the day my nephew was born, even though the goal of choice is to make every child a wanted child--which my nephew certainly is. But since my only retroactive posts are ones I wrote on paper before I got home, I shan't cheat; also Chrissy's amazingly eloquent entry on the topic was so outstanding and so close to my own views that I decided to thank her, second her inspiring words, and make a mental note to participate next year.

Thank you Chrissy! And thank you to everyone who keeps up the important fight to preserve a woman's right to choose.

Wii are family--get up everybody and sing (siing)!

More retroactive postings from last week are coming later today, but I wanted to take this opportunity to let you know that as of this morning Team MRT has, at long last, secured a Nintendo Wii. My experience with it has basically just been to create a "Mii" character named Roly (so cute!) and to watch the opening sequence to The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, but it is so awesome. I am so excited and I don't even like video games that much. Yay. I mean, Yii. Or maybe Yaa.

As I write this letter...

Hi fiends,

Long time no blog, eh? Well, it's not exactly true. You see, I have been in or en route to/from North Carolina the past eight days with many wonderful things on my mind--but I did not forget you. In fact, so devoted was your faithful scribe that night after night, though no computer was readily available*, I transcribed the remains of the day, whispering sweet nothings to business card-sized post-it notes with a Prilosec pen by moonlight that you might have a windfall when next you visited my site. I am so nice, right? I know. I know. I missed you, too.

Sooo...read back as far as you like. I have, due to retroactive posting abilities on google, dated and timed the events as though I had recorded them in real time. So get back on track with my life already. Time's a-wastin'!

*It's only partly true that no computer was available. Had I actually (really) wanted to, I could have used my sister's laptop, but checking one's email on vacation is a slippery slope and I, like Bartleby, prefer not to. I mean, seriously, the electronic leash of myspace is not so appealing, when I alternatively get to see my sister have a baby! For real, dawg. Read back to find out more!

Back to the iFuture

We just stopped for lunch in Douglasville, Georgia, home of the whopper. That is, we went to Burger King, which I often point out to MRT, does not have as delicious of french fries as either McDonald's or Chick-fil-a (it bears repeating). Or anywhere, really. I know there was a time when they made this whole huge effort to have better tasting fries than they did. There was a media maelstrom about this. And to what end, I must ask and further wonder: did they put their best minds into this? How hard could it be? They're still not very good.

But the wrapping is very jazzy and that's what I want to talk to you about. These "frypods" (no kidding, they are labeled as such) are kind of cuppy-shaped and according to the info on the side*, can fit into any cup holder in any car in America. How futurey of them. I don't mean to suggest that making trans fats more portable is the wave of the future (the wave of now: maybe), but more that they're called frypods. Which sounds like ipods. Which sell very well and now come in vending machines, I thank you!

So my next tip for entrepreneurs seeking to future-ify their products is add an i in front. iPod, iHome, iMac... iCash-by-the-bucket!

And my tip for Burger King is: keep plugging away at those fries, pals.

Finally, could someone develop some sort of tray-like piece of equipment (standard for economy cars, plz) that is a flat stable surface for ketchup and easily clean-up-able? Please call it the iKetchup. Don't even act like you haven't been faced with this no-ketchup dilemma before, people. If fries are being fitted to cup holders, it's for damn sure that we're all trying to stuff our faces with America's favorite sugary condiment on the road, too, okay? Do not judge me.

*Although, I feel that the frypod package is an unreliable narrator, since there are also boxes for "crispy," "hot," and "delicious," which are pre-printed to be Xed, as though jauntily marked with a sharpie by a pert little burger peddler. Boo! There was no box for "obscenely salty" though and if nothing else, they certainly were that.

KIA2LEX

I just *love* reading bumper stickers, as MRT routinely notes (complains). There's never such a great chance for enjoying the opinions expressed by others' vehicles as a road trip (except possibly a hurricane evacuation). As my mom and I set out on the open road, I was quite psyched by my sister's recurring lament that vanity plates in NC must be too inexpensive because *everyone* has them. I'm sure if I saw this everyday, it might irritate, but instead I experienced the opposite. From the moment we crossed the state line, my mom and I were treated to a bevy of opinionated motorists who expressed their love of NASCAR, Tarheel...ism, Duke, and assorted hobbies. Actually, BABYSMAN was with us throughout SC, but it was at the mall today that we met up with ISIPGAS on a Toyota Prius, and NAMASTE9 on a jetta trying to improve its "car"ma. My personal favorite had to be the one we were parked next to this afternoon though.

"WTR2WNE" it read.
"Sweet!" I said to my mom. "Jesus drives a fully-loaded Honda Accord!"

Just now, when I relayed this to MRT on the phone, he was not in full agreement with me when I explained how the Honda made perfect sense for J.C. I argued it was in keeping with the whole "everyman" image, but the fact that it was fairly new and fully-loaded meant that it was practically an Acura--a luxurious car fit for a king of the Jews. MRT countered that if it were really the Messiah at the helm, the car would either be a hoopty with great gas mileage (annoying bass optional) or would be a totally amazing luxury car never seen before with the smug license plate "KIA2LEX."

I don't know though; I still think my argument makes more sense, especially since I don't associate Jesus with being a smug bastard. Besides, anything has to beat the heck out of those tight leather sandals that Jesus tricks out his shanks pony with, namsayn? I could totally dig Jesus in a Honda Accord. He was such a liberal, after all and I think even Al Gore has to endorse the relative environmental friendliness of a Honda.

I wonder what a vanity play for Li'l Zippy might say. Possibly "LILZIPPY." Hmm.

You, Only Butter

This afternoon, my mom and I took my older nephew out for an afternoon of shopping, playgrounds, and of course--candy (a family favorite). Our usual stuff. What I didn't expect to find though was that the dessert case is now located in cosmetics departments. I noticed awhile back that "edible" glycerides were the trend du jour in products like chocolate body souffle, key lime pie bubble bath, and fresh milk shampoo, but I am kind of anti- where this trend is headed now. The flavor of the month is quite literally buttercream. I get that it's supposed to be like frosting: decadent, luxurious, and sinful, and hey! no calories in eyeliner or drawer sachet--except kind of gross. Not getting enough high fat in your Papa-John's-only diet? Put some butter on your eyelashes! Slather the trans fatty roll under your skin with some honest-to-goodness farm fresh fats--with sugar added--to the outside of your roly poly self. I am probably being dramatic, but didn't you get that from the Krisko's tanning post? Yes, I cook with butter, but I draw the line at generously caking it on my person, except in cases in which it is the only way to get a body through a doorway. And then it just becomes comedy...and tragedy. Oh well.

Hey Baby!

Welcome to the world, Peter Frederick ____! My sister, her husband, and our family welcomed a healthy 6 lb, 12 oz beautiful, baby boy this morning at 10:48 am. The long night preceding was full of labor pains (no kidding, I started sweating when my sister's water broke at 11:15 pm and began sympathy trauma), lost sleep, and much activity from warming towels to making breakfast for a brazillion people, but we got a NEW PERSON out of it. Wow! I am the lucky aunt to two precious nephews! Mom and baby are doing great and looking even better! Auntie Mary, however, is dragging a bit. Ha. :)

Home Sweet Hotel

After 625 miles on the road (including one of my bizarre little detours through impoverished, rural Mississippi--whoops), my mom and I are spending the night in a Holiday Inn Express (motto: sleep fast!) in Anniston, Alabama. For the second time in less than two years, I find myself trekking across the wilds (okay, the interstate) of the southern portions of the central and eastern time zones, en route to my sister's house in NC. A brazillion apologies to the friends, espec. in Atlanta, that I will pass along the way. I would love to stop for a quick bite and a kind word, but there simply isn't time. You see, a baby is nigh--eminent even and time is of the essence. I rather love this drive though (it's true!), so if I somehow end up an unemployed person (ermm...), I will surely make tracks this way often--*especially* if gas stays so inexpensive. (We got some for $1.84 today. Hot dog!) But back to my point about hotels (yes, I was headed that way.).

What is the deal with hotels thinking that their spruced up particle board-based luxury facade is something so lavish that you might wish to take it home? Have you noticed this? They've started leaving these little "look how hard we're trying" notices, inviting weary travelers luxuriating in two extra inches of bathroom space, less-than deplorable coffee, and the "ecru" sheets washed in essence of goat-spleen to re-create this total mind-body-spirit experience in their own homes by visiting the hotel web site.

It was bad enough when actually nice hotels, such as the elite Starwood resorts, like the Westin, on whose floral post-its your devoted scribe now keeps vigil, but the Holiday Inn Express? The Holiday Inn express of Anniston, Alabama located one block from IHOP is so self-important as to suggest that when in the confines of my sacred fortress that is my home, I might wish that my own, expensive and fragrant conditioner might be so trendily labeled as the one they offer, simply called "Tame." I mean, is that a label or a directive from the Queer Eye cast? (I much prefer my equally-annoyingly appelated, but lemonade-smelling and chosen by me "Sexed Up" Catwalk conditioner. Woo.)

I might also wish that my cuddly, soft, carefully-chosen, colorful bedsheets are replaced with stiff, faux-heavenly ones variously stacked in new and bizarre arrangements on the bed. As they explain, it will be a unique experience, not like the one that thousands of travelers wishing for their own beds will be concurrently experiencing nightly. No, not at all. Just visit hiexpress.com for details. Or not, thank you.

Bike Thief!

I forgot to post this a couple days ago.

When MRT and I went to Waco to visit his grandmother, I woke up in the middle of the night and sat straight up and asked MRT "did we leave my bike in the carport?" I was suddenly overcome with fear and frustration at my carelessness with a bike so cruisy and Pee Wee Herman-like, so stately--a true lady of the summer bike path, that if my car must be Li'l Zippy, this bike must surely be Mrs. Breezy. MRT told me to return to my slumber, but it was hard, thinking about the fate of Mrs. B.

As noted before, however, an ice storm chased us out of town fairly early the next day, getting us home almost a full day sooner than expected. As I had suspected, Mrs. B. had been left in the car port, but much to my relief--she was still there.

However, but a few hours later, as I was emerging from the shower in my bath robe, MRT was tromping purposefully outside saying "what are you doing back there?!" to some would-be bike thieves. Yes! Two teenagers were messing about in our car port attempting to ride off into the sunset with *my* Mrs. Breezy, which they quickly dumped (!) to the ground in the driveway while fleeing, foiled by the valiant MRT. I wonder if they were passing our house that night before and plotting her theft when I woke up? Who can say? I shan't be so careless with Breezy again. It was but a well-timed ice storm that spared us a sorrowful parting.

MRT says "Howdy, Folks"

After many a sudden ripped crotch, MRT finally said "to hell with overpriced Gap jeans!" and invested in some modestly priced Wranglers, which come with a year warranty (who knew?) and which consist of a color of denim so solid and uniform as though they were not flowing fabric, but merely a solid latex sheath MRT painted on his legs. I'm obviously not terribly fond of this look and MRT is not too keen on it either, so he has already washed them umpteen times. But to no avail. These jeans are in solid condition. So basically, MRT looks like this guy.



Yes, I am married to Big Tex (and if you don't know him, Texan person, shame on you. Go here). And in a way, I guess that's pretty cool. Yesterday, while wearing his favorite red sweatshirt and stretching his arms just so, I half expected him to direct me to the midway or tell me about a good deal on corn dogs or maybe even the winner of the butter sculpting contest. Ah, just another day of being married to an icon.

P.S. I will keep you informed of how these jeans progress, but I fear they may be this disturbingly uniform in color forever.

P.P.S. It's not that I am opposed to Wranglers, per se, but it's hard to imagine them on my urban, free-thinking, square-glasses wearing, liberal, sensitive husband--until you see them on him. And then it's ultra weird.

Weather of Doom

Unless you are very foolish (like me and MRT), you did not attempt to traverse the weather of doom that is blanketing the state. Yes, on Saturday afternoon, MRT and I hopped in Li'l Zippy in balmy Nac and nearly drowned my little Mazda somewhere around Mexia. We literally went over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house. Although they need to add a line to the chorus of that song which says something to the effect of "and 'neath the dark and stormy skies of icey doom." We did have a great visit with Grandmother, only to have to turn around immediately because of the ice storm nigh on our heels. Tonight, it's hot chocolate time because the high tomorrow is 34. Brrrr.

P.S. Do you care that this whole post was complainy about weather? I have a better one in the works (of my head). Stay tuned. It's far superior in the complainy department.

I wonder if he knows the history of psychiatry though.

Yesterday, when MRT informed me that David Beckham was leaving Europe's rabid world of "football" for America's more, um, apathetic one of soccer, I thought "hmm, that's strange."

But now, thanks to this article from My Yahoo!, I see that it is not at all strange. After admitting that he spent two hours on the phone accepting counsel from Tom Cruise, the grand high wizard of craziness, David Beckham referred to him as "a very wise man." It was then that I knew. David Beckham didn't just make a marginal career choice, he's certifiably insane.

For Jessica, who likes whales

MRT and I agree that probably the highlight of our time in Maui was the time (hours and hours) we spent exploring the underwater wonderland that is the crystal waters surrounding Hawaii. But maybe the highlight of the highlight was the amazing whale-watching we caught while on a snorkel expedition to Molokini Crater on our second to last day.


Molokini Crater ahoy!

We saw turtles and amazingly-colored fish and even a very seasick man puking over the side of another boat and we felt we had seen it all. But, we were lucky enough to be in Maui when the humpback whales come down to give birth to their babies and we spotted some. Mostly, we saw some spouts from far away, as boats are required to stop 100 yards out from any sighting. BUT! On the way back to the boat dock, we saw some whales far out, stopped the boat (well, we didn't stop it, but Capt. Charlene did), and they came to us! The male escort whale swam under our boat, while the mom swam next to her baby, who jumped right out of the water and breached right next to our boat. It was amazing! I was very busy watching or I would have taken a better picture. As it is, this is what you get.



Whales!

Mahalo and good night.

So you still can't get the doe-eyed beauty queen out of your head

Some people have commented to me "Wow, your blog has received many hits," and I usually reply "Well, I have been doing this for a long time now and it's bound to happen." But really, I somehow stumbled onto a ratings booster. I was checking my referrals and of all my last 100 or so visits, about half of them were attributed to people (and maybe the person herself) googling a certain Missouri beauty queen that I have oft mocked here. (I dare not mention her name for fear of upping my status even *more* in the google rankings for her name. But I will say that one time, one of her outraged fans left a belligerent comment telling me how much smarter this master's degree holder was than a loser like me. Boo-hoo to the millionth power.)

And with a few exceptions, I would say a good 35% of the remaining hits were people with a lot of spite and bile directed at the french. "Rude french host can't stop laughing" and "EVERYBODY HATES THE FRENCH (yes, in all caps)" were popular searches. Well, haters, it just so happens that I rather like the French. Have you forgotten all that they've given us? The fry. The beret. The metric system. Where would you be without liters? Ugh, ingrates!

Melodramatic Update and Miracle Max

I almost posted this at 6 o'clock this morning when I was in so much pain, I could not sleep, but only cry. Yes, for serious. I was about to just give up the ghost and have MRT take me to the emergency room, when he suggested I take a whopper of a dose of ibuprofen. Well, four seems like a lot to me. Anyway, I did and within ten minutes, I got back in bed and when I woke up, I could roll on my side! I was still wincing, but at least I wasn't screaming. I am feeling a LOT better today and am icing this mofo to keep the swelling down. So in conclusion, swelling goes a long way to ruin your night and I am pretty sure that my rib isn't broken. Hooray.

Um, I think my rib might be broken

So as I noted on a blog a couple of days ago, I took a serious skate-to-ribs hit on Monday. Well, that hurt a bunch and it bruised up quite black-and-bluefully by the next day, but I think I made it worse this morning, maybe. It was already hurting muchly and maybe the muscles are just reaching full soreness potential, but I went to yoga today and after, I was basically incapacitated the rest of the day. It was hurting more and what not as the day went on, but by around 5 or 6, I could hardly breathe without inflicting further pain. MRT started making me laugh and it was horrible. Crap! I am always saying how health insurance (but really: sick insurance) is such a scam, but now that I don't have any, well, you know. It's not like you can do anything for a broken rib to mend it faster, but you may have heard of prescription-strength pain relief. I am in so much pain. I hope I don't die. Crap. Ow.

What. The F.

is this: Spoon Guard?

Grossy to the Max

There is a business in town called Krisko's Tanning that I pass all the time because it is three blocks from my house on the busiest of the only two thoroughfares that go all the way through Nacogdoches. And every time I pass it, I think of someone slathering themselves in Crisco (you know, the lardy butter substitute) and laying under a hot lamp and it makes me want to puke. Especially if I imagine someone doing this who also regularly eats a lot of lardy butter substitute. Tanning is already, in my highly cranky opinion, kind of stupid and quite gross, but the idea of doing it while fat rolls flounder about in lard is maybe one of the vilest images I have ever conjured from a single business's sign.

Public Service Announcement RE: Ways to Get Peops to Leave You Alone

For serious.

Some of you (probably most of you, if you're intuitive at all) know that I REALLY hate interruptions to my life, especially by strangers. I misplace my cell phone for weeks at a time (because it's not like I answer it anyway) and I considered the "Do not call" list to be one of the greatest coups by Americans since the Boston Tea Party. I testily reply "I don't give that information" to retailers who ask for my zip or home telephone number. I bear false witness on all discount cards for grocers. I fastidiously check all online order forms for signs that they might try to trick me into mailing me things and if there is a list I can be on that expressly forbids anyone from trespassing on my sitting around time and privacy cocoon, I *am* on it.

A couple of years ago, I was freaking sick of getting pre-approved credit card offers and having to open them, discard the fake card that says "YOUR NAME HERE" and then shred the pages with my personal info pre-filled out. (Oh, did I mention I psychotically screen/sort my junk mail for any indication that too many people know anything about me? I do.) And then recycling the rest of this time-waster. Sooo...I read one of the damn things (as most people certainly do not if they have any regard for good use of their time) and it said I can opt out (music to my eyes!) pre-screened firm offers of credit based on info held at any of the credit bureaus. EUREKA!

I had almost forgotten how annoying receiving those things was until I started getting all of MRT's pre-approved credit offers. I had had enough today and decided to opt him out (he let me, by the way--I didn't beat him up or anything), too.

So, if you have been too busy having a life to thoroughly read your junk mail, but also find those ever-forthcoming offers for credit cards to be annoying in the extreme and a waste of paper, please benefit from my obsessiveness.

Opt out by calling toll free 1-888-567-8688 or by visiting www.optoutprescreen.com. Also, you can write them a letter at TransUnion Marketing Opt-Out, P.O. Box 97328, Jackson, MS 39288-7328, but I'm not sure why you would want to do that. When you call (or go online), be prepared with simple info like address and social security number so they can verify it's you.

After that, enjoy the awesome freedom of being left alone for five years. Yay! And welcome to my peaceful world.

OW!

I had a fun-tastic night with Nacogdoches Rollergirls last night! We had a terrific practice and when we went to the bar after, I didn't get fully charged for my Blue Moon beers, which are highly delicious beers. But I hurt EVERYwhere, today. I was kneeling on the floor to use our paper cutter this afternoon and it took me about five minutes to bend my knees and fully lower myself to the floor, cringing all the while. I took a skate to the ribs, or more accurately, I delivered my ribs, at very high speed, to Red D'Vicious's outstretched skate AFTER I flew over her and, I think, kicked her in the helmet with my skate (sorry Red!). It's true what they say about roller derby though: it's the hardest thing you'll ever love. As my feet scream in pain from the many layers of skin rubbed off them by my new skates and the shining strawberry of a skinned knee and it's blueberry bruise sister develop on the knee due to my 11ty billion wipe-outs during suicides (appropriate name!), I think of how happy I am that I joined our league. The women on it are wicked rad, amazing athletes and super supporters.

And I am now on the way to Walgreen's to buy all sorts of first aid. MRT had to feed me ibuprofen all night so I could roll over on the one side of my ribcage or sit up without wincing.

Also, please let me know if I start talking about roller derby too much. It is rumored that ladies of roller derby are hard to stop once they start talking about this crazy rink action!

But ow. Ow. OW!

Ow,
MaryT

P.S. Now that I am officially on the International Rollergirls' Master Roster, I can tell you my skate name: Roly Ghost. I told you it was Scooby Doo-like!

Jack Bauer Pauer Hauer

Hi. I'm back. I'm sorry I haven't been available for awhile, but I was in a sort of hostage situation. You see, MRT and I were in a 24-hour coma for two consecutive seasons. We purchased the boxed sets of Seasons 4 and 5 of the television show 24 because it is the awesomest television show EVER. And while we thoroughly enjoyed every minute, I think MRT said it best when I hit "play" on the last episode of Season 5. "In one hour, we'll get our lives back."

No joke. We have been watching that show from around 3 pm today until 11pm with only very, VERY brief breaks to eat or pee or so. But Jack Bauer has had hold of our lives longer than that. For the past two weeks, when we haven't been watching 24, we've been thinking about it, or talking about it, or wishing we were watching it, or encouraging someone else to watch it.

I fully intend to obtain a "Jack Bauer in '08" t-shirt to show my support of this American hero, but if *you* decide to jump on this bandwagon and undertake this show in the privacy of your own home: proceed with caution. Jack Bauer is not for the faint of heart. He is like Chuck Norris squared. If you don't believe me, examine the Top 30 Jack Bauer Facts--like this one. "Jack Bauer doesn't need to eat, sleep, or use the bathroom because his organs are afraid of making him angry." Whoa.

In any event, I know at least one of you wants to hear about whale watching, so maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow. It's good to be back.

XOXO,
Jack Bauer's Number one fan!

The future blue itself.

I was thinking about the future as I listened to some hilariously in-depth analysis of 2006's top films on NPR. "So, what does the popularity of Talladega Nights indicate about the current political climate?" I love NPR. But that got me thinking--wow! It's 2007! Isn't it about time we started living on the moon or something? In doing so, I hypothesized: the future, or at least that lovely future-y feeling, has something in common with Tobias Funke--namely: coveting blue.

Have you noticed this theme? It's not exactly a new concept. Remember: in the 80s, one might have made something appear cutting edge by using the "color" of day-glo, or by adding very pixelated graphics. The "far-off" year of 2015 represented in Back to the Future II showed that Jaws of the future would be a pixelated 3D piece of shark awesomeness. All the youngsters wore day-glo sunglasses and self-drying jackets. Here are some contemporary examples!

At DFW's future-y new airport terminal (F), everything is back-lit by blue, such as the flat screen samsung tvs in the lounge areas and even the--get ready for it--motorola and ipod *vending machines*. Oh yes. It's true. I have a picture of MRT next to an iPod vending machine for documentation purposes.



Notice the use of blue throughout the future-y robot-like machine and MRT's future-y bag!

Next up:

Blue tooth. I think this means something is wirelessly teleporting bodies and messages of peace between mobile phones or something of that future-y sort. Another nod toward the future is the juxtaposition of blue with a word totally unrelated to the function of the future-y product.

Don't believe me?

I give you: Blue-ray. Yes, it sounds like a shark cop from the future or so, but it is the present of DVDs. Actually, I don't even know if it looks like a DVD. I just report the news. But I have a feeling about Blue-ray that it's kind of akin to laser discs and the Nintendo Game Cube in that only about 12 people bought them, so they never really got off the ground the way DVDs and Wii have. Or what about those super audio CDs that help you listen better or something?

I had a boyfriend one time that told me if I couldn't tell the difference between his super audio cd and mine of regular quality, then I was not a conscientious listener. He was, of course, a butthole. In the future, he might be referred to as a blue hole, although as I recall, he wracked up a few "-hole" nicknames even in the past.

My point, however, is that blue-ray is to keep those psychos who have to completely overhaul their home theater systems every 30 minutes sedate until they actually develop something better than DVDs. You know what I mean--the people that bought computers the size of their bedrooms and CD players when they were $1200 in 1985.

So what would you like to make future-y? The key is to make it blue, I tell you.

Until next time, space fans. I remain respectfully,

Blue Awesome, pioneer of the future

With a Bang

Happy 2007! I have only been actively involved with pyrotechnics twice in my life now (both times thanks to MRT). Once was at a Fourth of Julystravaganza with my Houston peops, at which time we ran as fast as we could into my apartment when the loudest ones went off. And the most recent time was last night in Nacogdoches to ring in the New Year.

At which time and place do you think the cops are more likely to bust you?

In an urban area, with lots of cars and people and dogs going by and many houses in close proximity?

Or in a more rural area in which you have an entire ginormous parking lot to yourself, no cars or people or dogs (for the most part) nearby where one might assume that people generally don't care what you do with fire?

Well the answer is the rural area, I happen to know from experience. I blame the murder rate in Nacogdoches. It simply needs to go up drastically if MRT and I are to get away with any kind of misdemeanor-esque shenanigans. So fireworks were literally a bust. But we didn't go to jail and the police did not discover Chrissy's well-hidden adult beverage--so that's got to be a relatively positive start to the New Year.

Happy 2007!