He's working his way up to those

Late night, long distance car rides inspire secret confessions.
"I have been to over six Backstreet Boys concerts." A friend told me as we discussed what the appeal of boy bands had been in the first place.
"I never saw the Backstreet Boys in concert." I told her. "But my best friend while growing-up did. She said she cried when they came out onto the stage. I laughed at her because I am sensitive like that."
I don't really have any secrets to confess. Not anything that is worth mentioning. The best I could come up with was confiding that I had taken flute lessons for 15 years. I lead a relatively tame life, there are no Backstreet Boys concerts hidden away with the skeletons in my closet. In fact, there aren't actually any skeletons in my closet, only a blow-up doll named Mr. Stud (one whom is not anatomically correct) who lost his legs in the war. He sits there, waiting. Maybe like R. Kelly, except without the golden showers for minors.

What do you want from me fish?

Months of neglect and yet Stephen Harper and Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note are still thriving.
I knew this would happen. The minute I no longer want something it seems to decide it suddenly wants me. Like Destiny's Child, my fish are survivors. They're not going to give up (what?). They're not going to stop (what?). They're going to work harder (what?).
They spend their days swimming around in circles and when I walk by they suddenly stop. Their eyes follow me, as I slowly make my way around the clutter of my bedroom, in a way that gives me goose bumps. I have started having nightmares in which Stephen Harper flings himself out of my aquarium and starts to suck my soul right out of my body. It's my own fault. All of it. I should have known better than to buy fish. I am not a fish kind of person. I like things that do exactly what I want, exactly when I want them to. The fish refuse to live when I want them to (even though I leave them inspiring notes about my love for them and desire for them to live), and then they refuse to die when I passively wish it on them (do not worry.. I still feed them and ensure their water is clean). Maybe I should place an add in the paper. You know.. One of those "free to a good home.. or someone who is hungry and is willing to eat tiny, domesticated tropical fish."

Brushing the Dog : Part One

No matter how much I vacuum, no matter how many times I sweep, my floors are constantly covered in dog hair. I knew my dog would shed when the weather got warmer, but I didn't think he would take it upon himself to lay me a carpet. So when I decided to brush the dog today I anticipated that there would be lots of hair, but I didn't really think there would literally be enough hair to create another dog.

Yet, that is exactly what the dog delivered. A pile of hair bigger than the cat. How is it that he still has any hair left? How is it that if I ran my hand over his back right this second I would still come away with more hair? It seems so unfair that there are some dogs who have no hair at all and yet the dog is walking around with enough for two (at the very least).
Basically there is still so much brushing required that I decided to take a break tonight and start fresh tomorrow. My arms are tired and the dog is about ready to smack me upside the head.

Bicycle of my Dreams

Just a subtle hint for anyone who may or may not be related to me.. Or someone who just would like to buy me stuff. I like it when people show their affection for me by buying me material things. It is the bicycle of my dreams, after all. If it were pink, it would be god sent. I love it. I want to print off a picture of it and put it under my pillow so that I will have dreams about it. As it is, I have to satisfy myself by thinking of all the awesome things I would do with it. First I would put a white basket on the front, and then a nice bell (mostly because it is law, but also because bells are awesome). And then I would take my bike and ride it every where. To school. To work. To the mall. To the houses of friends. It is the kind of bike I could ride while wearing a skirt (with a pair of bike shorts underneath for the duration of the trip, just to be safe).
It is made by this manufacturer.

Hottest Person Ever

It is past three in the morning and I am sitting in my bed, in my underwear, eating a tuna fish sandwich. On the night stand to my left sits a glass of water that has been there for at least a week. Worse than that is that sometimes, when I wake-up dazed and thirsty, I actually drink from it. On the night stand to my right there sits an empty jug of orange juice. I drained the last drops of liquid out of it a few minutes ago, and have since been staring at it as if it were the most interesting thing I have ever set my eyes on as I chew. While typing this entry with one hand, I dropped a piece of tuna into the bottomless abyss that is my cleavage. My immediate instinct was to look around me to ensure that I was in fact alone, and then dig right down there to retrieve the piece of tuna and pop it into my mouth.
It is times like these that I know without a doubt why I am still single.

My grass

How to give tours of the house you are trying to rent

Start off by telling potential renters that you are sorry the outside of the house looks "nasty". Using the word "nasty" is key. Point out how you have carelessly tossed weeds next to the flower bed and have failed to pick them up for several days now. Upon entering the front porch, explain that you have not cleaned it for a while, but that you will clean it in the near future - probably. Start the tour of the interior of the house by saying "This is hallway!" Sometimes people need to be told that they are walking in a hall, don't let the fact that blind people are usually the only ones who need to be told this deter you at all. When you walk into the living room, point out that it is the living room. Make sure that you make a few false starts before getting out any useful information. "Urg... Ummm... Eeee... There are more chairs for that table only we keep them in the basement..." When renting out rooms in a house it totally matters where you keep the additional dining room chairs. When you enter the kitchen, tell them how you make poor organizational choices, but feel that you are capable of change. Especially for them. The downstairs bathroom wows everybody, so it is very important that you somehow make it slightly less appealing. Tell potential occupants that the lady next door has seen you naked more times than your own mother. Potential occupants eat that kind of thing up. When you go upstairs, show them the computer room first in the hopes that they will fail to realize the rooms you want to rent them are probably not as big as they would like. Then quickly usher them towards the upstairs bathroom and recall the time you thought you would be totally awesome at using drywall compound to smooth out walls. Explain that using drywall compound is much harder than it looks. They will both nod in agreement. When you take them down into the basement it is important to point to the bag of garbage you have carelessly left on the floor. "It is full of dryer lint" you say (with a smile). Tell them that you are working very hard to make the basement less creepy, then tell them how when you first moved in you were sure that a serial killer had lived here right before you. When you show them the backyard you will point out all the things you have not done, as opposed to all the things that you have. Tell them they can't go in the real backyard though because you sprayed it with weed killer yesterday.
Your sparkling personality will win them over, and maybe they will also like the house (if you are lucky). They will ask you if they should leave a deposit with you, or if they should call your Dad. You tell them to call your Dad. You told your Dad earlier in the week that it was now his job to pretend he is "the man". This way if someone tries to complain to you, you will say "I do not handle this stuff, call my Dad." To officially finish up the tour, allow your dog to jump on the potential renters. People love it when strange dogs jump on them. Especially if the strange dog smells bad and may or may not have mud on his paws. Walk the potential renters back to the driveway and tell them to have a good day. People like it when you show you care.
Almost immediately, run into the house and call your father. Tell him that you are the most awesome tour guide ever and that you were the major selling point, not any of the actual house.

Or it could have been that he was afraid of the sounds I was making

I brought the karaoke machine into my room tonight instead of doing the assigned readings for my class tomorrow. I plugged the proper cords into my TV, chose a CD at random, and then sang my heart out. At one point in time I serenaded the dog with heart felt words. I grabbed hold of his chin, and put every last ounce of emotion I could muster into each word. Apparently he doesn't care that he is the wind beneath my wings.
He breaks my heart.

It's true, I am a wimp

I am sure that I've mentioned it before, but I am not particularly fond of snakes. For many years I spent my summers knee deep in shrubbery along side my sister and best friend as we made it out mission to catch as many garter snakes as possible. We'd place all the snakes we captured into a big garbage pail and then stare at them until my father would make us carry the pail down into the woods behind my house and let the snakes free. You would think that someone who is afraid of snakes would not actively go out and try to catch snakes, yet I did. But the image of twenty snakes gyrating against each other at the bottom of a garbage pail is something that I still have nightmares about.. As is the image of all those snakes slithering away as we tipped the pail onto its side and set them free (we played rock paper scissors to determine who the unfortunate soul would be that would get stuck with that task).
Snakes are everywhere. They hide under rocks, or leaves, or in piles of wood. They show up when you least expect them, and it's always sudden. There is no snake, and then there are twenty snakes in the blink of an eye. Well, maybe not twenty, but the point is they appear without warning. My family has a tendency to be careless in the summer months, every so often leaving the back door open just a crack in their comings and goings. On three separate occasions I have encountered snakes in my basement because of said carelessness. On three separate occasions I have hopped up on anything I could and have yelled for someone while pointing at the snake. Pointing clearly sends the message to the snake that I am dangerous and have found it out. Eventually either another member of my family will appear to pick the snake up and return it to the outdoors, or one of my parents' cats will corner it so that I can make my escape - backing away slowly, all the while pointing.
I point when I run into snakes outdoors, too. First I utter a surprised gasp, and then I point at the snake until it slides away. Why the pointing? I do not know. Maybe it just makes me feel better to know exactly where the snake is. Up until a few years ago (back before I had my dog), my parents had a black cocker spaniel who would pick snakes up and remove them from my path, or restrict their movement until I could get by. My dog does not care about snakes, as I found out yesterday upon meeting my first snake of the season.
"I did not know you would be out yet!" I cried at it and pointed. Instead of defending me from the terrifying snake (it was actually a very small snake, but that did not make it any less deadly... Unless you take into account the fact that it is non-venomous), my dog bounded by with a stick - actually driving the snake closer to me. Eventually my mother noticed that I was standing still and pointing at something so she took a short break from her gardening to move the snake and chastise me for being such a wimp.

It makes me hungry just thinking about it

I don't know what most people day dream about, but I day dream about making pasta. There are so many kinds of awesome pasta that I have yet to make and I spend hours a day thinking about the day(s) when I will finally make it. I dream of pasta dough rolled out into perfectly rectangular 5" x 12" sheets, ready for me to slice into the noodle of my choice. I dream of adding spinach, or basil, or some other type of herb into the dough as to infuse it with a little extra flavor (and colour). Sometimes I even go so far as to incorporate making my own sauce into the same day dream.. Other times making the sauce takes up a whole day dream on its own.
I lead a wild life.. What can I say?

The cat is almost as big as the moon

The above picture is a drawing I made of a night this past week when the President escaped through the back door and tried to run away from home. My father chased him, for a reason unbeknownst to me, and this resulted in the cat running away from me when ever I approached him. As you can see from the photo, I have horribly mutated hands and feet, beady black eyes, and was only wearing my underwear and a hooded sweatshirt and I ran down the street (apparently the cat can hop 8 foot fences..) chasing after him. This picture may also offer insight into why the cat is trying to escape into the outdoors.. it would seem as though he could actually be a raccoon.

And now I take some advil

I woke-up in my living room on the couch in nothing but my underwear. I was freezing and confused. I went to bed last night wearing a shirt with a picture of a bass jumping out of water and I am not exactly sure when I made the journey from my warm bed to the cold couch, or when exactly I decided to take off my shirt.
It took me a little while to rub the sleep from my eyes and come to my senses.
After several minutes of looking, my shirt turned up in the bottom of my shower soaking wet. Evidently I had been in such a rush to shower that I did not even bother to take off my clothes.. Which may have been for the best, otherwise I might have woken up naked on the couch in the living room.
My computer revealed a message from my brother inquiring as to why I felt the need to call him in the middle of the night to see how my dog was doing. When I closed the message window, my essay magically appeared. To my relief, I had not in attempted to edit it, or write page after page of incoherent babble. I did, however, find one new sentence at the bottom of the page.
"Cinderella is a giant asshole." it declared in bolded letters. I am not going to lie to you, as I sat there, staring at the screen, I considered using it as part of my thesis statement.

Sad but true

I still have to sing the alphabet to myself every time I need to alphabetically reference something past the letter 'p'. Seriously... I sing it to myself starting with the letter 'q'.
My goal is to one day work past this.

Preventing teenage pregnancy

I dragged my Mom down to the lake front tonight so that I could use my newly acquired tripod to take some pictures without using the flash on my camera. I'd decided the night before, driving home from the bank, that I would dedicate tonight to camera experimentation and scrubbing old wall paper paste off of the walls in my parents' kitchen. I had wanted to take awesome pictures of dirty factories that blew fire into the sky at night, but taking awesome pictures is easier said than done (sometimes) and I wasn't able to focus as well as I would have liked to. My mom sipped coffee, by my side, and humored me as I took picture after picture of blurry buildings and abandoned benches.
"Why do these cars keep driving by?" she asked me.
"Oh, I am guessing that those are just people looking to park. This is a makeout spot. People come here, up the hill down the road, the park downtown. Pretty much anywhere there is a spot to park and the least bit of seclusion. They probably keep driving away because we're out here in the light, away from the car." I explained.
During our hour long stay, many cars did a tour around the parking lot before leaving. I picked the picture above because you can see a car near the middle on the left hand side and I wanted to tell all of you that the people in that car were having sex. They were there before my mother and I arrived, and stayed (presumably) long after we left. We may not have been able to help those people, but I'd like to think that we prevented a few teenaged pregnancies tonight... Even if, realistically, those kids just went to go park somewhere further down the street.

Highway Philosopher

My dog doesn't appreciate my singing the way I feel he should. As we drive down the highway, I sing of sailors, drugs and heart break. He just stares at me blankly as his nose begins to drip. My dog gets nauseated when he's in the car and lately I have been getting the feeling that my singing does not help. At one point during the trip, I stop my singing to explain to him that Hallelujah is less about prayer and more about surrender. I use car rides to lecture to my dog about lyrics and poetry. He doesn't understand, but I don't expect him to.