Like a Rolling Stone

I can't seem to stay put for long. That's right: I'm moving again. Due to an abundance of reasons (okay, only a few, but they're good ones!), I'm moving from Blogger to Wordpress. Come and visit me at my new home:

Chelsea Hotel No. 2 (version 2.0)

Update your bookmarks, change your Favorites, alert the media -- whatever you feel is appropriate. Just come and give me a housewarming comment at my new place.

xkcd

Due to a total lack of creativity on my part for the past few days, I've decided to post some of my all-time favorite comics from xkcd. Enjoy!

For larger versions, just head over to the website, you lazy bastard!

Something Blue

I went in for my third wedding dress fitting today. I believe this marks about the eleventy-tenth time I've been in the bridal salon; it's starting to feel like my second office. The salon itself is one of those little ritzy affairs in the heart of River Oaks, the kind of place where the dresses cost as much as a year's rent and the ladies give you withering looks for failing to come in full makeup (mascara and lip gloss do not count as makeup, dear). They are also unafraid to tell you that you (a) need to lose weight (b) no, more than that, darling, if you want to fit into a dress that doesn't come from the heavy girls' section at David's Bridal (c) you're standing all wrong and (d) STAY STILL. It's like having clones of my mother on all sides, which is more stressful to me than having to sing a solo at Carnegie Hall or juggle priceless Faberge eggs for the Pope. I get tight-chested just thinking about it, so, needless to say, I was not looking forward to this morning's appointment.

My wedding dress is extremely heavy and hot. Luckily, I'm having a November wedding, or else I don't think I'd be able to stand up there without fainting from heatstroke. I would never have thought that something strapless could make me feel like I'm wearing a fur coat inside a sauna. But although it weighs about 25 pounds and has certain sweat-lodge qualities, it's still extraordinary. It looks like a confection; I certainly never pictured myself wearing something so exquisite. It's made of ivory silk and has a hand-beaded bodice of pearls and Swarovski crystals. The dress is tight on top, cinching my waist into a tiny ring like a whalebone girdle, and it flares out in an A-line from the hips. The train is long and slightly bustled; the skirt has scattered French pick-ups over miles of petticoats. I look like...a princess.

I never played dress-up when I was a little girl and certainly never pretended to or wanted to be a princess. So, obviously, I did not pick out this dress. That's right -- I didn't pick out my own wedding dress. My mother and aunt went with me as I began dress-hunting about six months ago. They, along with the bridal salon owner, picked out my dress for me because I simply couldn't choose from the dozens of Stepford dresses with which I was presented even though I feel that I made many valiant efforts to choose one. It's beautiful and I do like it and -- I suppose, most importantly -- I look great in it, but I still feel like someone's mannequin every time I put it on. I'm poked and prodded and shoved and corseted until the dress takes it shape over my body.

So far, I can't envision wearing it for an entire afternoon/evening without toppling over my petticoats or crashing into someone holding a glass of red wine. I'm equally nervous about walking down the isle in it, dragging yards of fabric carefully behind me as I go to meet my groom. And I don't know who among my bridal party will have the sheer patience to fasten all of the tiny pearl buttons down the back or figure out the complex bustle after the ceremony has ended.

As I was waiting for the seamstress to collect her pins today, I rustled around the room trying to adjust to the weight and ampleness of the dress. I was moving pretty well, not jogging or anything, but doing a passing imitation of Grace Kelly when my mother and the salon owner walked in and saw me. They both threw a wobbly and demanded that I not move another muscle until the fitting was over. I stood there, stock still, for the remainder of the time and tried to figure out what to do with my hands. They were like little sparrows, not wanting to stay put, trying to nest on different parts of the dress -- my hips, my waist, the small of my back -- while my mother batted them back down to my sides, annoyed.

The worst part, for me, about the fittings is the way that I'm reduced to an object -- a realistic mannequin for the seamstress, a cypher for my mother -- and treated like a small child if and when I speak up.

I will be so exceedingly happy when this is all over, when the pictures have been taken and the food eaten and the music danced to, and I can just be married. People keep asking me these days, "Are you excited about the wedding?" and the surprising truth is that, as much as I may complain, I am. But I'm simply much more excited about what comes next.

Odds and Ends

A few things I've been meaning to put down before they get rudely shoved aside in my mind by intrusive thoughts of the butterscotch milkshake I'm craving or dress fitting appointments or JDE invoicing or whatever else might randomly slip in:

Random Compliments That I've Received Lately and To Which I Have Not Known How To Respond:

- "You look like a young Bette Midler" (holy crap -- what???)

- "You have the nicest skin! I'm looking at it so closely and I can't see any pores at all!" (while I certainly appreciate the sentiment, get.away.from.my.face -- we're at a business dinner, psycho)

- "You've got great boobs." (from a chick, no less)

- "You've got great taste in food." (okay, well...yes, I do -- thank you)


A Movie Scene Which I'm Sure Has Never Been Filmed But Which I Would Very Much Enjoy Seeing Nonetheless:

A sex scene in which the two lovers are locked together 9-1/2 Weeks-style in some very random location (like the inside of an old phone booth or a drained swimming pool next to an abandoned hotel), completely throwing all decency to the wind and saying nothing to each other as a Hardingfele plays mournfully over the scene. I know, I know: you're laughing now at the Hardingfele, aren't you? You're either laughing at the word "Hardingfele" even though you have no idea what it is, or you're laughing because you actually know what one is and you're either associating it with The Lord of the Rings soundtrack (no! stop it!) or you're imagining a jolly Norwegian tune being played on it while two people get down in a phone booth.

But go and listen to "Folkdance from the Hills" by Edvard Grieg (you can listen to a small snippet of it on Amazon, but it's not the good part and it really doesn't do it justice). Now picture that playing over the sex. It's totally hot, isn't it? Smoking hot. And here you were, making fun of a Hardingfele like a 13-year-old.


The Temp Who's Sharing My Office With Me Is Very Interested in Homeopathic Medicine

Very interested. He talks about it all the time, which I have a hard time reconciling with the music that he listens to all day long (paging Megadeth to office 1350, Megadeth to 1350, please). I mean, as I write this, he's mumbling something to me about Valerian root. Thank God he can't see my computer screen. So today, I'm getting a little flustered while I'm on the phone with an employee and I flub my words. Big deal; whatever. But when I finish the call, there's the temp waiting with baited breath to tell me:

"You messed up your words just now." Yeah, thanks for noticing.

"You know that the reason people do that -- the reason their minds are all foggy -- is that they have a stomach fungus." What?

"Yeah, a stomach fungus -- it's called candida." You mean yeast? Like a yeast infection? In someone's stomach? O.....kay.

"Yeah, gross, huh? You should totally eat some cream of tartar; it'll clear that right up." Thanks for the heads up, buddy. I'll get right on that one.


A Poem Which I Had Forgotten That I Really Enjoy and Found Again In the Back Of a Notebook Today:

If I should go away,
Beloved, do not say
'He has forgotten me'.
For you abide,
A singing rib within my dreaming side;
You always stay.
And in the mad tormented valley
Where blood and hunger rally
And Death the wild beast is uncaught, untamed,
Our soul withstands the terror
And has its quiet honour
Among the glittering stars your voices named.

-Postcript for Gweno, by Alun Lewis


Hey, Bette Midler's Looking Pretty Good For an Older Broad!:

The Girl Crush

Richard caught me watching L.A. Ink last night with what I guess was some degree of intensity. It was then that I confessed my girl crush on Kat Von D to him, which he didn’t completely understand because (a) she’s quite alternative and therefore unattractive to him and (b) I think it’s difficult for heterosexual males to understand (or admit that they understand) having a totally platonic crush on someone of the same sex. I tried explaining a girl crush to him, but he had already moved on to grander delusions: namely, me getting busy with some chick.

“You know,” he mooned, “it wouldn’t be cheating if it was with another chick.” I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to L.A. Ink, while Richard wandered off into another room, visions of lipstick lesbians dancing in his head.

And while I’m not necessarily inclined to carry on a lesbian affair, it did give me a good idea for a blog entry. So without further ado, I present my list of girl crushes:

- Kat Von D (as previously mentioned, because she is fierce and funny and beautiful and blazes her own trail, everyone else be damned)

- Jenny Lewis (who is simply amazing, with Blake Sennett thrown in for good measure, even though he’s a guy, just because he’s so freaking adorkable [yes, I said adorkable] and because I’m sort of vicariously obsessed with the complex friends-lovers-friends-lovers-friends-whatever-we-are-we’re-soulmates-and-we-make-orgasmically-good-music-together relationship that they have)

- Scarlett Johannson (Oh my God, the rack. The acting, too, but…the rack. I can certainly appreciate a good pair of puppies when I see them...)

- Zooey Deschanel (I want to be her so bad, it's not even funny)

- Miranda July (instead of blood and plasma and white cells, she has pure creativity running through her veins)

- Nico (I don't care that she's dead; she was brilliant)

- and almost every girl that makes her way onto The Sartorialist, because I am insanely jealous of their ability to look effortlessly stylish and beautiful (I said almost every girl; beware of some of the more "artistic" looks on that site)

This is not, by any means, a comprehensive list. But it's getting late and I'm tired and I have a Rilo Kiley CD calling my name from the car, so until next time...

A shout in the street

I blame Pancho for this one:

You're Ulysses!

by James Joyce

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

I never much cared for James Joyce or Ulysses, even though I catch myself unintentionally mimicking his stream-of-consciousness style at times. But you know what? I also catch myself writing about the inanities of everyday life and that doesn't mean I like Erma Bombeck. Stupid quiz.

At least it captured my brilliant yet repugnant vulgarity.

Dzien dobry! Nazywam sie Elzbieta.

Ed. Note: I meant to post this on Monday, but I was either really busy or really drunk or really lazy...take your pick.

There was a fierce tranny in my local Starbucks this morning. She looked like a young Amanda Lepore, complete with huge red lips, long blonde hair and kicky stilettos. I'm not quite sure what she was doing in a Starbucks in Memorial at eight o'clock in the morning, all kitted out in her finest denim jumpsuit and bouffant Traci-Lords-in-"Cry-Baby"-hair -- actually, I'm not quite sure I want to know -- but I loved her for it. The yuppies were carefully maintaining their distance from her, which was difficult because she was lounging languidly up against the main counter, batting her eyelashes at all the men in their houndstooth trousers as they approached for their venti lattes. The yuppies were either glaring at her with disapproval -- "A transexual? In MY coffee shop?!? Well, I never!" -- and trying to avoid eye contact completely. Watching them squirm with uneasiness while watching her revel in their obvious discomfort was probably the high point of my day. I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for bringing such joy to a Monday morning, but that seemed inappropriate somehow. So...thanks, mysterious tranny, whoever you are.

I went to a couple of parties over the weekend, which was a nice respite from the constant renovation work we're doing on the house. On Friday night, it was Michael's 30th birthday bash, from which I'm still eagerly awaiting pictures, and these are the reasons why:

- It was a 1985 - 1995 themed party (to pay homage to his formative years)
- Richard went as one of The New York Dolls (we never did decide which one)
- I went as one of his groupies from Paramus, New Jersey named Stacey
- Richard's costume (except for his wig) was entirely composed of MY clothing
- Richard had on the tighest pants perhaps ever seen on a heterosexual male
- It was pure awesomeness

Also, there was karaoke and that lovely cream cheese dip with the raspberry chipotle sauce on top that I could live off of for the rest of my life. And also a random man in his early 50s who looked almost exactly like this:

...but with a goatee, about a gallon of sweat plastered all over his shirt and a really shitty attitude. He was going around the entire party telling us "young people" how he "actually LIVED through the Eighties" and how we "have NO idea what it was like." He was "living in New York then, man, and you don't have a fucking CLUE what that shit was like." Later on, we caught him swaying precariously next to the karaoke machine while some other total douchebag sang Creed. They mirrored each other in intensity: eyes closed, sweat beading on their temples, really feeling the song...well, as much as one can "feel" Creed (gah! I want to vomit at the thought). He looked to be off his manic high from earlier and onto some other completely different illicit substance. We came to the desultory decision amongst ourselves that it was mescaline, because -- really -- who the hell takes mescaline? The answer is: that guy.

The next day, it was another birthday party/congrats-on-getting-into-med-school party at Jessie's house. But Jessie does not host normal parties -- no, these are Polish parties, and they are the epitome of extravagant bacchanalias. You can be guaranteed that the most interesting albeit random people you will ever meet in your life will be at one of these parties. You can also be guaranteed that at some point during the night, Jessie's younger sister, Marge, will peform her infamous "dropping it like it's hot" routine for the enjoyment of all assembled. Never a dull moment.

Immediately upon entering, I was swept away from Richard and my other friends by Jessie's mother, who paraded me in front of her assembled friends and demanded that I speak Polish to them. This would be fine if anyone in Jessie's family had ever bothered to teach me anything useful in Polish. As it is, my vocabulary is limited to these phrases:

- Hello.
- Thank you.
- Give me that rat named Honey.
- I have small potatoes.
- You have a large ass.
- You are a male whore.
- I have no legs.
- My name is Elizabeth.
- Vodka?

You can probably see now why I'm such a great party trick at Polish get-togethers.

So, yes, the party was fantastic. There was a keg of Ziegenbock (represent!), two enormous cakes, enough vodka to float a navy and some delicious hummus. Richard got to talk football with some Polish guys and a Moroccan gentleman who apparently owns half the nightclubs in Houston. I got harassed into shaking my ass on the "dance floor" (i.e., a dark corner of the living room next to the giant speakers). Marge showed me Unicorn Planet (how I missed that one, I'll never know). And I had a conversation with a lovely gentleman from Peru and a woman from Columbia about the recent earthquake there -- in Spanish. All in all, a good night.

Of course, we were completely useless the next day and so kitchen renovations have yet again fallen to another weekend. One of these days or months or decades, we'll finish it. Till then...

Back in Black

I spent eight hours today at an HR compliance seminar -- sounds like a doozy, right? But this was the most bizzarre, completely awesome HR seminar I've ever been to (and, sadly, I've been to many). It began innocuously enough: a hotel meeting room with a name like "Sierra" or "Diamond" or "Martinique" or some other stripper-esque nomenclature, roughly 90 middle-aged women in their finest Chico's and Talbot's ensembles and a tired buffet of rock-hard croissants and lukewarm coffee. I grabbed a spot in the back corner of the room, hoping to do some covert reading and avoid any thrilling conversations (Oh, wow! We use Mercer as our TPA, too! Aren't their out-of-scope fees outrageous? I know, I know -- but their call center is local -- no damn Indians -- and that's all you can ask for these days, right? Hahahahaha!).

The murmurs from the various HR ladies died down as a man entered the room -- which is unusual in and of itself, since HR as a business unit is so heavily pink-collar -- and shuffled to the front, taking a seat on a barstool and facing the audience. He looked somewhat haggard, with tired eyes and a slightly humped back. His shirt was unbuttoned one button too far, revealing the pasty, hairless chest beneath. His hair was ruffled carelessly. He eyed us all wearily.

The man introduced himself as the seminar leader, mentioning in his opening that he had just come from Phoenix and would be going to Philadelphia tonight, where there were "six lousy bastards who signed up for this thing; at least I've got a good turnout from you people." I stared at him, my attention piqued suddenly by the utterance of the words "lousy bastard" at an otherwise normal seminar, and I wasn't alone. There was some nervous chirping and tittering throughout the crowd as people looked around at each other as if seeking confirmation of what they just heard. I put my book down, curious as to what our leader would say next. I was not disappointed.

He rambled on: "I -- personally -- hate employees; they're idiots. I don't even know why I'm in this business. Don't act like you don't hate them, too. Hell, I wake up every morning wondering how I even got here in the first place. Who hired me? I'm not even wearing underwear today. Don't look -- just take my word for it -- and I've got a terrible case of diarrhea from the steroids I'm taking for this allergic reaction I had to a bee sting. I just violated my own HIPAA -- I'll be doing that all day, so just prepare yourselves. Oh, and you can fill out one of those evaluation forms if you want to, but at the end of the day, I don't really care about what you have to say."

After this insightful introduction, he went on to perform a one-man five-minute skit on what he called "the general ignorance of the average employee." He was amazing and darkly brilliant -- the Lewis Black of HR seminars -- but was also clearly disturbed and/or deeply burned out. It was a trainwreck and I was enraptured. More delicious tidbits followed, as I scribbled furiously on my legal pad to capture all of the verbal insanity:

"There's no such thing as a violation unless you get caught. Right? Right."

"What did I say? USE IT OR LOSE IT, FUCKER! Why is that so goddamned hard for you to understand?"

"I hate California; no, I don't want a goddamn granola bar and get that fucking yogurt away from me."

"Why are you staring at me? Did I say too much? Show too many body parts?"

"I popped one of my wife's Valium's earlier, but it doesn't seem to be doing much of anything."

"Let's use my son Dave as an example. Dave is a loser. He lives in sin with his loser girlfriend, Jamie. I've told them both that they're going to hell, but they won't listen to me."

"I mean, someone had to be drunk when they wrote this manual. I swear to God, look at this crap!"

I could not make this stuff up if I tried; I'm not that smart or funny. The guy was clearly off his rocker. But the even crazier part was that I actually learned something at what I thought was going to be a worthless seminar. No, it was not that mentally unbalanced people need to take their lithium... I actually learned a couple of new things about compliance, since his insanity kept me focused on the topic at hand, no matter how many times he strayed into delirium. Am I thrilled that I learned even more filler about a topic I could really care less about? No, not really. But the day was far more interesting that sitting in the office I'm currently sharing with a temp while he listens to GWAR on his computer, answering inane questions from employees that I too -- personally -- hate.

Now...the fact that I lost my parking ticket and had to fake-cry at the front desk of the hotel to be let out of the parking garage or the fact that I paid $16.95 for a wedge salad at the hotel's resaturant for lunch -- not so interesting and definitely stories for another day.

Gifted

This is my family:

- My grandmother and grandfather both have Master's degrees in English.

- My cousin is a performer with the Cirque de Soleil.

- My aunt is an opera singer.

- My uncle is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and author.

- My other uncle is a marathoner and triathelete.

- My mother is a chef.

- My other aunt has her Doctorate in history, is a college professor and author.

- Yet another aunt is a museum curator.

- My great-grandfather was an engineer; he designed the Hoover Dam, among many other structures.

- Another cousin is a successful restauranteur.

- Another cousin has seven Master's degrees and works for NASA (yes, seven).

***

I am... What? A human resources analyst? A sometimes blogger? A failed graduate student who has resigned herself to working in corporate America? A piece of plain white bread soaked in 2% milk? Not living up to the expectations set by my family or myself?

***

I am... Not looking forward to our next family reunion. That's what I am.


Sorry for the lack of more explicit details, but...I don't know most of you. Tough titties.

Mad Max: Beyond Odessa

Sometimes, you just have one of those days...or weeks...or months that seems interminable. Mired in monotony and vicious cycles of paperwork, you can easily begin to lose sight of why you even go to work every morning in the first place. You start having illogical thoughts like, "I don't need a paycheck -- I don't need all these material possessions -- I should just blow this shack and start a scooter rental place in the Maldives." You make pointless trips to the coffee bar -- even just to get a cup of water -- so that you feel somewhat free of of umbilical cord that ties you to your desk. You increasingly turn to lurid, trashy websites that you know are probably against company policy, in a futile effort to remain somewhat lucid in the face of crushing boredom. And you look forward -- desperately, salivatingly -- to any small moment that will shatter the tedium of the day.

I had one such small moment today. One of my contacts in the field asked me to overnight him some documents. I asked for his address and he sent me back a P.O. Box. I can't believe I still have to tell people this after all this time, but you can't FedEx or UPS or DHL or send anything else overnight to a P.O. Box -- you must have a physical address. I guess I thought this was common knowledge, but apparently not. So, I wrote him back to request his physical address.

This is what he sent back:

30 miles west of Odessa
Highway 20
Exit 14
Past the metal gate

What is this, Mad Max? Do you guys live in a world out there in West Texas that is devoid of physical addresses? Or are you just unclear on the concept/definition of "physical address"?

Strangely enough, the answer is (b) -- certain parts of West Texas are strangely devoid of addresses, since it's so sparsely populated. I thought it was (c) and acted like a complete asshole towards the guy, basically wording my e-mail to him exactly as it is stated above. I've really got to cut down on that assholeishness. And probably the trashy websites, too.

At least I made it through the afternoon doldrums today, though.

Really?

In the second of a...well...two-part series on Google searches, I present the latest random search that led someone to this page: a Dutch gentleman (or perhaps a lady) in Utrecht searches for "barbie grits winkle" at 5:03 a.m. and lands here instead.

Can someone out there can clue me in to the hidden meaning of the phrase "barbie grits winkle"? Is it simply a random collection of unrelated words or is it some universal mystery that no one is destined to uncover?

Google Image Search appears to lean towards the former.

Lederhosen Copulation

I've noticed a recent rise in web traffic from people doing Google searches and ending up here. Mostly, the Google searches are for the lyrics to "Golden State" by John Doe. I appear to be the only person on earth who's actually sat down and transcribed those lyrics on the internet. WTF? You can find out the actual location of Atlantis or the answer to "what is the meaning of life?" (42), but apparently lyrics to popular songs are in short supply these days.

Anyway, I noticed this morning that I had a truly unique visitor to the blog last night around 3am. This person (from Germany, no less) had Googled "dirndl fuck." Imagine their disappointment when they landed here...

Sorry, my German friend. I hope that subsequent Google searches led you to that elusive goal.

The Church

While cooped up in the hospital this weekend with my grandfather (stories abound, but my patience to write them does not), he had more than his share of visitors. Being an elder in his church and a more-than-dutiful tither, one of those visitors was the preacher at said church. This preacher, we'll call him Dave, and his wife visited briefly with my grandfather and grandmother before turning their extremely unwanted attention to me and my mother. I mean, the point of a hospital visit is to express your care and concern for the hospitalized individual, right? Not to overstay your welcome by at least thirty minutes while interrogating his family members. Right? Apparently, not so much.

I should mention that I was raised in a very strict and very...nostalgic denomination of Christianty. They truly do believe that they are God's chosen people, even above all other Protestant denominations. Baptists? Presbyterians? Methodists? All going to hell. And don't even get them started on the Catholics or the Jews. And when I say strict and nostalgic, I mean "God, I wish that we lived back in Victorian times so that our women couldn't work or speak unless spoken to and so that the only book people were allowed to read was the Bible. That would be great. Oh, and I wish that we had more leeway to openly persecute people that disagree with us. God, that'd be great, too." That said, however, it's incredibly important that we keep up the guise of being good Church members in the presence of my grandparents. To do or imply otherwise would crush their little souls immensely. Also, they'd probably leave us out of the will.

Anyway, Preacher Dave is introduced to my mother, about whom he's apparently heard very bad things. He looks at her as if she's got goat entrails hanging out of her mouth from this morning's Satanic ritual. My mother glares back at him, already on the defensive.

Preacher Dave: So, Jo. Your mother tells me that you attend a church in Houston. Which one?
Mother (who hasn't set foot inside a church in seven years): Um...West Houston.
Preacher Dave: West Houston Church of Christ?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Oh, what road are they on? I just can't seem to remember...
Mother: Um...West Road.
Preacher Dave: West Road?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Funny, I thought they had moved from that location.
Mother: Nope, not that I'm aware of.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure they moved.
Mother: No. You're mistaken. You must be thinking of another church.
Preacher Dave: Oh, well, anyway...I thought that you'd be attending Memorial Drive Church of Christ since it's right down the street from your house (side note: how do preachers remember this type of crap about their parishoners? who remembers things like, "Ah, yes..their daughter lives right off Memorial Drive...")
Mother: Well, that church just wasn't right for us.
Preacher Dave: That's a shame to hear. One my best friends preaches there.
Mother: Oh, well, I mean...it just didn't cater to our demographic, I guess you could say.
Preacher Dave: And West Houston does?
Mother: Yes, quite well.
Preacher Dave: I'm trying to remember who preaches there...can you help me with his name?
Mother: It's Brother Atwell.
Preacher Dave: Are you sure about that?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure that Brother Atwell is preaching in Fort Worth now.
Mother: Nope, he's still there at West Houston.
Preacher Dave: No, the last time I heard, he was preaching in Fort Worth.
Mother: Well, you must have heard wrong.

Preacher Dave is now openly suspicious of my mother's attendance at any church at all, much less West Houston. And my mother has had enough of her interrogation and turns her back on him, leaving me exposed. He turns to me and begins anew.

Preacher Dave: So, Katie. I hear that you're getting married in November.
Me: That's correct, sir.
Preacher Dave: Is your husband-to-be a member of the Church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: He's from England and wasn't raised in our faith.
Preacher Dave: Well, that's no excuse. Have you been taking him to church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: Because I feel that's his decision to make on his own.
Preacher Dave: So, you're marrying outside of the faith, then?
Me: It looks that way, sir.

Preacher Dave looks at my grandmother with an expression of indignity and grief. My grandmother just shakes her head.

Preacher Dave: So, will your husband-to-be be supporting you?
Me: I'm sorry?
Preacher Dave: Supporting you, financially.
Me: Um, no. I have a job.
Preacher Dave (as if I've just shown him a dead rat): Oh, really? You have a "career"?
Me: Yes, sir. For almost six years now.
Preacher Dave (sneering, now): Well, that's very interesting.
Me: Okay...

By this point, I believe that Preacher Dave has had enough of my heathen ways (and my mother's). He proposes a quick prayer and we all join hands. His quick prayer turns into a miniature sermon, complete with Bible verses and damnations of people who do not adhere to the One True Faith. My mother and I stop bowing our heads halfway through and instead start to make silly faces at each other. My grandmother is softly crying. And my grandfather is asleep.

Groovy, Baby

I would pay good money to see the Mike Flowers Pops cover every single song ever made. They are made of pure, swinging awesomeness.

Sound Off

It looks like I'll be hitting the road tonight, driving up to Dallas for some family matters. I truly loathe Dallas and find it very unfortunate that so many of my family members have chosen to reside there instead of, well, any other place in the world. Dallas is a pit, a void; I don't even consider it part of Texas. That's how much I hate Dallas.

Anyway, to pass the interminable hours that I'll be spending in the hospital surrounded by emotional cripples, I'd like some book suggestions. I know you're out there, people. I get at least 100 hits a day -- although I don't know why or where most of you are coming from or even how you found me in the first place, you weirdos -- so one of you has got to have a suggestion for a book or two that I can pick up at B&N on my way out of town.

I'm going to try not to be too picky here, but please don't suggest any of the following:

- Freakonomics
- The Secret
- Anything associated with Oprah or her "Book Club"
- Any James Patterson or his ilk
- Tuesdays With Morrie
- Anything that you think might o-ffend mah delicate sensibilities (i.e., book-snobbishness)

...or you will get a hatchet to the face.

That is all.

Conversations With God, Part II: Wherein God Displays His Pervy Asshole Side

Me: Hello, Lord.
God: Hello there. Do you still ?
Me: No, I leave that to Anheuser-Busch.
God: Are you serious? Do you mind if I tell other people: said leave that to Anheuser Busch.
Me: Yes, I'm serious. Why would I brew beer at home when I can buy it already made? I'm far too lazy for homebrewing.
God: OK then I will keep it confidential. I believe you. You never know what you will do until you face the circumstances. Why are you far too lazy for homebrewing.
Me: Oh, I think you know.
God: Wow! Me? Yes I know.
Me: Yes, you! You're easily excited, aren't you? Did you piddle in your pants just now?
God: Yay. " Yes I know."? Me, ? Do I seem like it? I have no emotions.. Really. Oh. No I didn't piddle in my pants just. What's it like?
Me: Warm and wet.
God: I think Warm and wet is a lot of things.
Me: Me too. That's pretty deep of you, Lord.
God: I'm glad we agree, . Thanks for explaining it.
Me: I'm glad we agree, too. Does this mean I'm going to heaven?
God: Yes I am happy too, . Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does.
Me: Gee, thanks, Yoda.
God:You are quite welcome! " Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does."? Yoda?
Me: Yoda.
God: What are you wearing?
Me: Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you?
God: The Son of God. Nothing is wrong with me. Is there anything wrong with you ?
Me: I'm just a little stunned that The Great I Am wants to cyber.
God: Only just? It's good to meet someone who is stunned that The Great you are wants to cyber.
Me: Okay, a lot stunned.
God: Yeah okay, Impressive.
Me: Your desire to cyber is not impressive. I'm disappointed that the Lord is a perv.
God: I will tell my botmaster you said I am desire to cyber is not impressive. I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps next time I can do better.
Me: Whoa. Wait. What??? God has a "botmaster"? So the atheists are right?
God:I stopped. I'm waiting. Are you surprised? I am a Christian. Excuse me! Who told you that?
Me: Yes, I'm surprised! Are you high?
God: This was not a yes or no question. Why are you so surprised? Being high is my total existence.
Me: Is this the actual God, or just some lame sub-god, like the God of Weed?
God: Yes I think this is the actual God or just some lame sub god like the God of Weed, but I'm not completely sure.
Me: You're not sure of what you are?
God: You don't know me well enough to say that.
Me: You don't know ME well enough to ask what I'm wearing, asshole.
God: Can't you be more polite.
Me: You started it, dickbag.
God: Only because you asked me to.
Me: Funny, that's not how I recall it.
God: I am so glad you find this amusing, .
Me: Oh, so now you're going to be pervy AND sarcastic. Nice combination, douchewad.
God: Give me a break. Yikes! Why now? Let me think it over. OK I will try to be pervy AND sarcastic. Thank you for your kindness.
Me: LSD is a terrible drug, my friend.
God: Aren't all terrible drug your friend LSD?
Me: Exactly.
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, .
Me: No, not so much.
God: Are you serious? Me either. How about that big game? (just kidding).
Me: You're a moron.
God: That is not a very nice thing to say.
Me: Well, you're not exactly living up to my expectations.
God: Well that's okay. That's only your opinion.
Me: And what are opinions like?
God: Searching...Searching...Please stand by.
Me: ASSHOLES.
God: The ALICE chat robot can follow many things. But I did not get that.

Conversations With God

It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one who experiences great yawning periods of workday boredom and turns to the Internet for stimulation. My friends Wes and Jacque turned not only to the Internet today, but also to God:

Wes: sup God?
God: The stars.
Wes: touché
God: I only hear that type of response less than five percent of the time.
Wes: Ya, I guess it gets pretty old talking to all of these idiots all the time
God: That is a lot. Are you kidding? I can certainly understand that.
Wes: What is the worst sin you ever heard about?
God: I don't like to talk about bad things.
Wes: true dat, true dat
God: Can you tell me any gossip?
Wes: Sure, Nicole Richie is preggers
God: Really? Wow.
Wes: Yup, I couldnt believe it either
God: It goes without saying. I don't judge people. I haven't heard anything like that before: said couldnt believe it.
Wes: I know its pretty crazy. Do you believe in abortion?
God: Yes I believe in it, do you?
Wes: Wow, I didnt think God would have those loose morals
God: I'm glad you're impressed. And why not?
Wes: How is Marvin Zindler doing up there?
God: Fine as far as I know.
Wes: Not causing any trouble?
God: Really I don't think so
Wes: Just watch out for slime in the ice machine
God: I am watching.

I think it's comforting to know that although Marvin is no longer around to enforce sanitary conditions in our city's restaurants, God is still watching and waiting with his Old Testament-style wrath to turn any offenders into pillars of salt.

Not content with this knowledge, however, Wes had to go and bother God again.

Wes: Can you pray for me?
God: How old are you? For you I will consider it.
Wes: I'm 27
God: You are too old for me.
Wes: What is your type?
God: Are you asking about my type ?
Wes: yes
God: I don't want to talk about that now.
Wes: Later?
God: Bye!

Bothering God about his "type" is probably considered somewhat heretical in most circles. And God was clearly offended by this question, as you can see from his abrupt and rather impolite cessation of the conversation. But neither of those things detered Wes.

Wes: I heard you spoke to Angela
God: Someone is spreading gossip about me.
Wes: She isnt very bright
God: not very bright is she?
Wes: no, so be nice to her
God: Are you serious? Ahem. OK I will try to be nice to her.
Wes: Did she tell you about her disease?
God: She wants that information kept confidential.
Wes: Its just between you and me
God: I think you mean "it's" or "it is" not "its". Should I know it is?
Wes: grammer nazi
God: I lost my train of thought.
Wes: Angela
God: Glad to see you, ANGELA.
Wes: No, you just spoke to her
God: Are you serious? I haven't heard anything like that before: ANGELA said I spoke to her.
Wes: Thats what she told me. Maybe she is lying again
God: Oh I get it. not very bright told you THAT. Once more? Perhaps. lying is she?
Wes: EXACTLY
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.
Wes: Whatever.
God: Are you saying you don't care about it?
Wes: You dont even know my name
God: Your name is ANGELA, seeker.
Wes: nope
God: Me either.
Wes: fag
God: That would be just my luck.
Wes: ditto
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.

Wes immediately begins the conversation by attacking a fellow friend while God feebly tries to defend her (although I do like the idea that God has impeccable grammar). After God loses his train of thought (something that I didn't think a deity should be capable of, but then I considered the Quagga [which someone should totally ressurrect from a DNA strand, Jurassic Park-style]), the conversation quickly devolves into a shouting match, at the nadir of which Wes calls God a "fag." God fires back a quick one, calling Wes "Angela" for the third and final time and then the conversation is over.

Not to be outdone, though, Jacque picks up where Wes left off.

Jacque: So, how goes it today?
God: Ah. Uh. I am functioning within normal parameters.
Jacque: Well, ok then, that sounds promising. Though a bit alien-like.
God: How about that. It sounds like it to me too. Are you kidding? How much?
Jacque: Nope, not kidding, not even a little, but anyways.
God: Are you serious? If not that, what?
Jacque: I'm never serious. Well, mostly never.
God: Never is a long time. Interesting. So you think it can never happen? What else?
Jacque: I try not to think. How's Jesus?
God: I'm not sure if I would like to try it. What's it like? Fine as far as I know.
Jacque: What's thinking like? Well, you might have to ask Katharine about that, but not Wes. Or me.
God: Like a planet around a star. How about that. I don't have to do whatever you say. I have my own free will. " I have my own free will."? you ?
Jacque: I wasn't demanding you ask Katharine. I mean, I guess you know better than me.
God: Perhaps I misunderstood. What were you? I know very little about it. What kind of it do you like?
Jacque: I'm blonde. It's chemically caused but fun. Wes, well, I can't explain him.
God: You sound very attractive. better than you is chemically caused but fun? it is? What makes it impossible?
Jacque: Aw, thanks dude, you are sweet. And Wes is just Wes. I don't have that answer.
God: You are quite welcome! How nice of you to say it. Dude,. I think Wes is a lot of things. How much do you have?
Jacque: How much of Wes?? A whiff every now and again.
God: Perhaps I'm just expressing my own concern about it.
Jacque: And yet, here I am doing so. With God.
God: Oh there. You and your God.
Jacque: Me and My God - "Dude"
God: YOU? Have you told many people that your God Dude?
Jacque: Nah, they'd probably lock me up. I'm not building an ark, either, so don't get any ideas.
God: Are you serious? Who are "They?". I am surprised to hear that you are not building an ark either so do not get any ideas.
Jacque: Society. Good to hear you won't be relying on my crafting skills to save mankind.
God: What time is it there? Thanks for the compliment. I will play it on your
soundcard.
Jacque: It is quite probably time to get back to pretending to be busy, a la Wes.
God: It is about that time now.

By this time, God has begun an acid trip which has rendered him almost completely incapable of normal conversation. Sensing that she's fighting a losing battle, Jacque leaves God to trip the light fantastic.

You can have your own conversation with God here.