Friday, November 08, 2002



I think Pants got her paws on some chocolate, because now she's running around like a maniac attacking anything and everything, including yours truly. Can't say I enjoy being attacked by an insane hopped-up cat, it isn't pretty. She apparently likes the sound of my fingers typing at the keyboard... and attacks it. Stupid cat.

I had to give her a time out. I know, how stupid does that sound? I gave my cat a time out. I just hope she doesn't tear my bedroom apart.

In other news.... I finished the synopsis to Nemesis yesterday. What a draining experience that was when coupled with having to write an About the Author. Then last night I pushed myself even further and did some site collaboration. So, it's finally up and running:

Go. See. Feel. Love.

Wednesday, November 06, 2002



As appealing as that above statement IS, I doubt I'll get the chance to put it into practice any time soon. No one lets their little darlings wander unattended near my door long enough for me to find out if a huge chocolate bar will have the same affect as crack on my ADD (that stands in this case for Attention-to-other's-homes Deficient Disorder) neighbors' kids. Damn them for thinking of me as anything but the quiet girl next door. Neighbors like that make me wish I WAS evil just so I could torment them with their own superstitions. Maybe I'll start studying evil on weekends so I can get my evil-from-home certification in one of these fine categories:

TV/VCR Repair
Air Conditioning
Auto Repair
Pure Unadulterated Evil-Doer
Weird Crazy Cat Lady
Witch in the Haunted House

or get any of these other popular degrees:
High School Diploma for the Home-schooled Basement Dweller
Un-wed Teenage Mother

I feel an almighty bitch-fest coming on... sad thing is, I have no reason for said bitch-fest.... Unless of course you consider thatmy nice peaceful somewhat middleclass apartment building is going downhill fast. Besides those assholes who leave their dog messes EVERYWHERE the dog feels like shitting except on THEIR lawn, the ghetto truly IS next door. I can hear them at all hourse of the day-- I think they have like ten kids in a two bedroom apartment-- running up and down the stairs, screeching and tripping. More than once I have almost tripped over THEIR toys on our shared staircase. As if the nice quiet time erradication wasn't enough, I can hear some pounding drumbeat of what I fear may just be "The Ketchup Song" playing over and over again. I'm not innocent, but I don't play the SAME song over and over again, no matter how catchy. What are they running over there, some sort of at-home Payola scandal? But, as always, it gets WORSE. Scattered amongst a pile of ratty-looking shoes, they have a baby carriage up on blocks on the PORCH--which is also partly MY porch-- for gawd's sake. A BABY CARRIAGE. Like I want my guests seeing that as soon as they come to visit. Geeze. Meanwhile their screened-in porch is empty. I mean EMPTY. Oh wait, except for that cheap-ass tiny little chime that they have dangling from the beams. So why can't they just put the carriage out on THEIR PRIVATE PORCH? I'll tell you why: they don't want to see it. And neither do I.

So help me, I really am going to go on a rampage of dogshit gifting one day. Included in that gifting I'm going to have to put a baggy in the carriage (I know they're expensive, hence the baggy, so the baby won't actually be forced to sit in dog doo). But the message will be sent: throw your shit where _I_ live and you will face the consequences. If you don't like YOUR mess in YOUR yard, what the hell makes you think _I_ like it in MINE?

And for those dog owners who think it's someone else's problem: how would you like it if I emptied my cat's litterbox on your doorstep? At least the litter-coated kitty presents will give you a fair warning and the added ability to scrape it off your shoes. Your precious Fluffy's piles are landmines waiting to happen to the unsuspecting moonlight stroller. Not to mention I have light beige carpeting all throughout my apartment, much to my dislike. You try getting dogshit out of carpeting. Even worse when you don't own a dog.

Look into the dark souls of most angry people, and you will find someone that looks a lot like that angry person's neighbor standing with their finger on the lightswitch.

---------- END RANT ----------

Oh, and for posterity's sake, I have offically submitted a story to a competition. The hopeful outcome if I get accepted is that I will be included in an anthology. The main theme was absinthe... of which I know only in theory how to make it, and that it will give you some nasty seizures and hallucinations. Never took the stuff, personally, and never made it. Even had Roman wormwood growing in my yard, just never felt a need to poison myself or anyone else. I'd chop up a little bit (and I mean a LITTLE bit) of the stuff and throw it into salads. Helps the digestion.

So in order to write the story I scoured every out-of-print text on herbology that I had in hopes of finding some description of the symptoms of absinthe intoxication. There was nothing worth using, unless you count the repeated phrase "CAUTION: Consult a physician before using this herb. In larger doses it can cause symptoms of poisoning." Well duh. Apparently the stuff is addictive (I can't imagine why, considering it has 75% alcohol content), and you get your basic visuals, etc. Some sites I found had personal stories of individual experiences with the stuff. Most of the stories were from little gothlings who wouldn't know absinthe from NyQuil (and I suspect a lot of the experiences WERE from NyQuil, to be honest). So I finally followed link after link after link, found enough information on wormwood and its effects when combined with the ingredients for absinthe, which were mostly poisoning symptoms, oddly enough, and wrote the story. I admit it, I faked the orgasm of experience and fudged some details I had gleaned from some friends who had visited the seedier side of New Orleans and Europe and actually tried the stuff. Based on my own knowledge of the ingredients and how they WOULD taste when combined, I also fudged the taste-- which oddly enough WOULD taste a lot like NyQuil, just with a LOT of sugar.

So anyway. I sent this story in to this competition, and now I'm absolutely tweaking with nerves, which could explain my sudden bursts of rage, I suppose. I have no one else to take out the stress on, except my online journal. Hmmm. And of course my not-so-fictional neighbors (who are still blissfully unaware of my projected anger, by the way).

Sunday, November 03, 2002



So weird shit happens when you live on America's wang. I admit it. I'm surprised more people don't use the greeting "how's it hanging?" But I digress.... On to the story to end all parties.

Dante and I are sitting at home, spending the ever-popular and mostly obligatory and unavoidable "quality time" together. The phone rings. It always happens that way. If the damned phone wasn't worth a small fortune, I'd throw it out the window. Watching Dante discover all of the phone's technological goo-gaws and gadgets is like watching evolution in progress. :) He told me that for someone who hates technology as much as I do, I picked a good phone. Well, duh. If I'm going to make monthly payments on a piece of plastic to be able to communicate with the outside world, it better damn well tell me who's calling and take messages! For the price I would have liked it to answer itself and open the door for houseguests, but that's apparently asking too much of Sprint. They keep telling me they're a phone company, not a servant supplier. Damn them all.

So anyway. Derailed my own train of thought once more. The reason for the phone mention is that I got the WEIRDEST call. In fact, I keep GETTING this call, and have gotten it repeatedly for the last five months. So. Roughly five months ago, I get this weird message on voicemail asking for some guy Daniel or David, or whatever. It sounded like a little kid who could barely speak English, much less figure out that they dialed the wrong number. We kept getting these messages about once a week. I started to get pissed, since after the third one I was itching to stay home just so I would be able to answer the phone and tell this kid he had the wrong number and stop calling.

I finally manage to be home one day, and I tell this little-boy-sounding person that they have the wrong number, no one by the name they're asking for lives here, and the number was changed. They say thank you and I hang up the phone. And I KNOW this has happened to at least everyone in their natural life: within two seconds, THE PHONE RANG AGAIN. Same weird voice, still asking for someone named Daniel. Now I do something which, in retrospect is rude, but more than deserved: I LAUGH and I tell them, "You STILL have the wrong number. Hitting redial doesn't make it right the second time around." To those who hit redial as a solution to a wrong number problem: STOP IT. It's mildly annoying the first time you call, imagine my wrath the second time.

This wrong number has continued for MONTHS now. I was starting to suspect the thinking capacity of a person, even a child, who could consistently call the wrong number and ask for the same person. Needless to say, I came to many unkind assumptions.

It finally made sense the other day when the SAME PERSON called AGAIN, asking for Daniel. I told them, "You have the wrong number." They said thank you, as usual, and hung up. Dante and I went to the store, and when we got back there was a message. You guessed it. Our stupid little redial-pushing child-sounding friend. Apparently her name--yes, it's a she-- is Irma, and the message she left on voicemail this time was pathetic at the very least of its worries.

She seems to think her ex-boyfriend lives at MY number, and I must be the new girlfriend who is wicked and keeping him locked up or not giving him the messages because I'm jealous. A-HEM. Wicked? Yes, thanks. I admit to that. But honestly, if I was really dating her ex, wouldn't I have pulled a Jerry Springer long ago and screeched into the phone, "He ain't your bebbe's daddy, so stop calling here, you skank boy-sounding ho!"

I mean, seriously. It's just bad taste to go calling up your ex's house--especially if he has a new woman in his life-- and begging him to take you back. Even more pathetic to leave a sorry-ass whiney message on someone else's voicemail because you lack the higher brain function of hand-eye coordination enough to dial the right number in the first place.

So what did I do with this absolutely heart-wrenching outpouring of emotion from some stranger left on my voicemail? I saved it, of course, and now use it to entertain guests at my parties. Think of it as a Don't Drink and Dial public service announcement.