It Came From Outer Space

I Think It's Pronounced "Zim"

So I've been hearing about satellite radio for quite a while now, mostly from people who mistakenly think the words "Howard Stern" are some kind of selling point.

Naturally, I've resisted, preferring to harvest the people's free airwaves with the highly advanced wire hanger that I almost don't notice anymore when I'm waxing my Gremlin.

I've resisted, that is...until now.

Yup, I am now a proud mobile satellite enthusiast, with more than 2 million (I may have rounded up) stations at my ears' fingertips.

I always wondered how the whole satellite radio thing worked...and now I know. Here's the inside poop on the set-up process:

• Go to XM website and begin entering contact information to set up account.
• Realize that the paper with the radio number you need is down in the car, two flights of stairs below.
• Curse.
• Stomp downstairs while muttering obscenities and retrieve paper.
  
• Stomp back upstairs.
  
• Complete account set-up process.
• Wait for radio signal to be sent to car.
• Per instructions, drive around pointlessly for 15-20 minutes waiting for radio to receive signal and unleash mind-blowing premium programming.
• Minute 21: realize that every single button on the radio does nothing but deliver non-stop commercials for XM.
• Per instructions, turn radio off for 5 minutes then repeat process.
• Drive around for another 21 minutes, marinating in a continuous loop of promos for sports, talk and medical stations, none of which you would listen to even if they were free.
• Minute 21: test the other radio buttons again and discover that they are mocking you with more satellite commercials.
• Call XM customer service hotline from car and become ensnared in verbal combat with automated robot receptionist girl.
• Angrily punch random series of numbers into phone resulting in miraculous connection to "live person."
• Answer series of questions posed without hint of irony by "live person," including the following:

Is your car outside?
Yes.
Is the weather cloudy?
No.
Are you near an obstruction, like a large building?
No.
Is your engine running?
Yes.
Are you tuned to Channel 1?
Yes.
Are you wearing Jean Nate Bath Splash?
What?
Never mind.

• Dangle on hold for approximately 10 minutes. Dig furiously at cuticles. Realize that neighbor is eyeing you from webbed lawn chair with that Neighborhood Watch look on his face. Peel out around block.
• Rejoice when "live person" returns to give detailed instructions. Instructions are as follows: turn radio off for 5 minutes and try again.
• Damn "live person" to the fiery depths of Escondido. Hang up.
• Fume in car for 7 minutes, inflicting moderate damage to passenger-side visor.
• Deflate with resignation as you accept that you're going to drive around for 21 more minutes.
• Drive around for 21 more minutes.
• Close eyes and poke at radio keypad while chanting saints' names.
• Discover that the keypad doesn't work with XM - you have to use the "forward" button.
• Convince yourself as you drive home that the signal just now reached your car; it was not, in fact, working all along while you drove around like a jackass pushing the wrong buttons.

See? Piece of cake.

I Am Nostalgic for the Delightful Circus Circus Buffet

I'm still exploring all the channels, which play specific categories of music and have names like "Spa," "Lithium" and "The Joint" (which, BTW, exhibits no connection to the expected BBQ rib joint, but rather plays non-stop reggae...hmmm...).

I've already noticed, however, that a couple of wedges of the ol' demographic pie have been sorely overlooked. Here are my suggestions for additional music channels, which I will be forwarding to the XM folks post haste:

• Milk Duds - Tunes tailored to the lactose-intolerant lifestyle.
• The Hammer - Non-stop music from "Smokey & The Bandit"
• Club Yoda - Trance/trip-hop music crafted from the motion-picture soundtracks of the "Star Wars" movies
• Buzzkill - 24-hour public policy debates
• The Cougars' Den - An invigorating mix of music, club listings and skin-firming tips for today's predatory female in the prime of mid-life
• Strudel - Hot polka hits of yesterday and today

Whoops, that's the timer on my toaster oven telling me my TV dinner's ready. I'm off to the garage now to spend me some quality time lounging in the ol' ride because nothing goes with Salisbury steak and carrot niblets like a couple hours of 80s hair bands.

Yesss.


Thanks to DiPaola Momma over at Chicken Nuggets of Wisdom for the Bag Tag. I'm supposed to show you a photo of the inside of my purse, but I can't 'till I file the serial number off my Glock which is floating around in there somewhere. You understand.

MuseSwings is in the middle of a mystery... Help track down the missing gemstone and win a gorgeous prize! Hurry...

And thank you to "Sunshine" at Writing Is Like...for this little gem:

I Have GOT To Get A Peephole...

...And Perhaps A Rottweiler

As we all know, in order to operate a blog, one must have a valid blog license. Or, in England, a blog licence which, now that I look at it, does come across a little more civilized - oops - civilised, yes? [Note to self: pretend to be British until next weekend, preferably someone royal because I could use the jewelry.]

Anyway...what you might not know is that this year the Blog Control Authority had added an interview component to the license-renewal exam. That's right - it's no longer just the usual mail-in scratch-n-sniff test we're all used to (which, let's face it, is a piece of cake for anyone who has even a passing knowledge of rodent pheromones).

Nope, now they are sending a "real person" to conduct personal interviews using a standardized questionnaire. You heard me - someone is going to ring your doorbell/beat on the trashcan lid hanging by your screen door and ask you a set of questions that you must answer in order to remain a licensed blogger with all the rights and privileges therewith.

My two cents: I think they could at least let a person know when they're coming so's not to bust in on a person's private eyebrow-dyeing, toenail-paring, nosehair-plucking, nether-waxing time for quiet contemplation, you know? I mean, if a person were to do such things.

I'm just sayin'.

So, as a public service to my fellow bloggers (seeing as how they've just implemented this new interview policy and I believe I'm one of the first to be processed), I'm going to share with you here the content of the questionnaire so you'll have a chance to bone up on the questions and you won't be caught unawares like I was and have to think on the fly which - let's face it - is never a good thing.

Note: my interviewer's name was Gilbert and, just to draw a mental picture for you, he was 5'4" and wore chocolate brown Sansabelt slacks, a yellowish-green short-sleeve dress shirt and patent-leather shoes. No socks.

Gilbert: How long has your blog been in operation?

Me: About 6 months.

Gilbert: Any nudity?

Me: Not on the blog.

Gilbert: How would you classify your blog?

Me: Well, I guess if I got a real designer to come in and spruce up the banner and put in a professional background it would classify it quite a bit.

Gilbert: [pauses] No, I mean in what category would you place your blog?

[Hint: watch out for that trick question! I bet he'll try that with you, too!]

Me: Humor. And occasional spiritual guidance.

Gilbert: Why do you operate your blog?

Me: Because...um...I can't get anyone else to?

[Hint: That was a toughie. I'd have an answer ready ahead of time for that one.]

Gilbert: If you were to own a vinyl jumpsuit, what color would it be?

Me: What do you mean, "If?"

[Hint: See! Another trick question!]

Gilbert: So you do own a vinyl jumpsuit?

Me: You make it sound like I only have one. Frankly, I resent that.

Gilbert: Let's move on. How would you characterize your readership?

Me: My audience consists of folks of all sexes who revel in sophisticated, high-brow entertainment and who never fail to stick their pinkie out super-far, even when drinking straight from the can.

[Hint: You're welcome.]

Gilbert: I assume you're a member of a bowling league?

Me: Naturally.

[Hint: Duh!]

Gilbert: Team name?

Me: The Pointy Gladiadettes

Gilbert: What's that smell?

Me: I'm baking a mock apple pie (no apples needed!). It's an old family recipe handed down from Ritz Cracker box to Ritz Cracker box.

Gilbert: Hmmm. Do you mind if I use your restroom?

Me: That depends. What did you have for dinner last night?

Gilbert: I tried that new place on the service road out by the airport, Jed's King of Siam #3.

Me: It's broken.


The Latest...

Nate & Courtney over at Mr. & Mrs. Staley are collecting lapel pins as part of their work for the Special Olympics (what a fantastic cause). If you have any old lapel pins stashed away that you no longer need, please click on over and find out how to donate them for use by this year's athletes.

Thank you to that vixen Vodka Mom for laying the "Effing Fabulous Blog" award and tag on me! A huge compliment indeed, coming from this broad whom I admire greatly.

And thank you to The Retired One for tagging me with the "7 Random Things About Me" meme. My responses can be found here.

Poster Child

Coming To A Power Pole Near You

Regardless of your politics, you can't argue with the fact that a certain campaign poster was the hands-down winner in the recent Presidential election.

So, graphic arts enthusiast that I am, when I had the opportunity to create my own version of this iconic visual piece, I was all over it.

But wait.

What was my word? My message? My mission statement?

This would require some thinking, and anyone who's read even a couple of my posts knows one thing: I'd rather be doing something else (other than thinking).

So I borrowed a word from the hallowed tradition of advertising:


I don't know. It felt a little...forward.

So I tried another sure-fire advertising nugget (it shows up a lot in the Auto Trader, anyway):


For some reason, Jon Bon Jovi thought this was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. (You know, if he's got something to say, he should just say it.)

Morticia and Gomez came up with this one, apparently based on the phrase I use most throughout the day:


Naturally, I exercised my executive veto on that one.

So then I took a deep, meditative breath and went with the first word that came to mind:


Kind of a downer.

Seeking fresh ideas, I called a few friends and asked what word they thought best described my general position. The results were unanimous:


Fine. What the hell do they know?

The right message - my message - still eluded me.

It was at this point that I figured I'd fall back on a tried-and-true approach that's never let me down through relationships and parenting and a dog's breakfast of careers.

That's right, I hauled out a rigorous, scientific method known as "hit or miss." Because I can't always get my hands on quality...but I can do quantity 'till the cows come home:

* sigh *

None of these were working. Crunch time.

Dang it! I paced. I tugged at my hair. I chewed the hem of my jeans.

And then it hit me. Of course! It had been right there under my big nose all along!


* You can make you very own images here. (Prepare to kiss off several hours of your life.)


I have to share this post by the consistently hilarious Marinka at Motherhood in NYC. I laughed so hard I scared the dogs, who then bit me. She'll be hearing from my lawyers.

And thank you to VaBookworm at Confessions of a Bookworm for this little beauty:

She says she's painfully shy but she also claims to spend a lot of time shooting a bow and arrow in her backyard. A woman of mystery and contradiction. Visit her blog if you dare.

Crap, Thy Name Is Corporate Chai

16 oz. of WRONG

There are certain things I hold to be sacrosanct:

• Everything is, in fact, better when it sits on a Ritz.
• The love of a good beagle.
• The people in the J. Crew catalog are paid assassins.
• A votive candle really does class up the joint.
• If I order food or beverage from someone behind a counter wearing a silly hat and coordinating silly apron/smock, it will be GOOD.

Please take note of that last one, because I would like to lodge el complainto.

[ahem]

So I'm getting ready to settle in this afternoon for some writing (side note: I'm currently knee-deep in a rewrite of my novel, which is why I'm behind on my blog commenting - I'm so sorry!) and I figure before I get started I'll trot up to my little coffee satellite store which is conveniently tucked into my local Albertson's grocery store #1097 and get strung out on caffeine as is my routine.

Keepin' It On The Down-Low

Now, I don't want to blurt out the name of this coffee kiosk place because one day, when my name is spelled out in cigarette butts lights, I don't want any pesky Starbucks coffee empire lawyers on my tailfeathers complaining about how I hurt their little mermaid feelings.

So, in order to keep things nice and fuzzy, I'll call this place, say, Strawducks.

And, just to paint you a picture, imagine the people there wearing green (dammit!) yellow aprons and matching yellow hats.

I Am Victimized

So I'm standing in line, preparing to order my usual - a tall (dammit!) small triple latte - when it occurs to me that I might be in the mood for a little something different.

Hmmm...

And then I see the chai latte on the menu. I am intrigued. I've had chai once before - at an Indian friend's house when her parents were visiting from Bombay - and it was delightful. I mean, I really loved it.

Come to think of it, I could totally go for a chai right now! I could so totally go for one, in fact, that I order a grande (dammit!) gordo.

Sure I'd only had a chai once in my life and it was lovingly hand-prepared by a native-born, lifelong chai practitioner and enthusiast. Nevertheless, I just knew this drink would rock. I mean, the young lady behind the counter was wearing a jaunty yellow hat - how could I go wrong?

So now they are going to sloooowly bring the steamed milk to the ideal temperature of - what? It's ready? Oh. Okay, thanks. [Wow - it took a lot longer when my friend's mom made it.]

I walk out with my freshly assembled chai. I'm pumped. I'm psyched. I'm stoked.

And then I taste it.

Sweet Godmother of Wilma Flintstone what is IN this?!? Immediately my tongue dons a little turtleneck sweater of protection and I start doing my impersonation of a dog who's just been given a spoonful of peanut butter.

I sniff the drink and it yields the aroma of a pinch of bergamot sprinkled into a milky broth in which three [sniff] no, make that four lacrosse players have been simmering their feet for most of the afternoon.

WTH?!? I order a drink from a person behind a counter wearing a funny hat and it SUCKS? What's next - bad gas station hot dogs? Sacre bleu!
The delightful MuseSwings has done me the honor of creating a Mii that looks just like, well, me! And she linked it to my Wii Tennis post, which I greatly appreciate. Thanks so much, MuseSwings!


And thanks to The Rambler (who reports that it's a bikini-unfriendly 60 degrees in Hawaii right now - yow!) at My Rambling Thoughts who laid this one me - awesome:

10-S-N-E-1?

What's All The Racket?

As some of you know, I became afflicted with a mysterious case of tennis elbow a couple of months ago. I had my theory as to how I got it, but that's another story.

The update: I still have tennis elbow but now I know why:

Santa brought us a Wii for Christmas.


I Become Obsessed.

Yes, I'm the parent who sent a child to bed early just so I can have a turn on the Wii. I'm not proud of it, but I'm pretty sure I get honesty points for 'fessing up to it, no? (Anybody?)

[crickets]

Anyway...

At first I was all over the place. Bowling. Pinball. Golf. (That lasted one round - YAWN!)

Then I found Wii tennis.

YES.


This Can't Be Good For The Marriage.

Jon Bon Jovi and I start playing regularly. Let me point out that Jon Bon Jovi is perhaps the MOST competitive person in the continental United States, and I run a close second in that category. (Yes, we even compete about who is the most competitive.)

It starts out friendly enough. He's played more tennis in the real world (as opposed to the, um, "fake" world in my brain) than I have, so he crushes me relentlessly at Wii.

Fine.


I Have A Brainstorm.

So here's what I do: I practice by myself when Jon Bon Jovi's not around. When I get really good I plan to casually challenge him to another game and ambush him with my stealth tennis skillz!

Look who's hanging out in the Wii fake tennis clubhouse, ready to play a few practice matches with me:

Victoria Beckham
This is kind of heartbreaking because the poor thing can barely lift the racket with her little dental floss arms. I lose patience when the whining starts. "I've got bronzer in my eye." "I fell off my stilettos." "The paparazzi are in my way." Give it a rest, sister.

Lesson learned: I'm ready to move up from the wannabe league.
________________

Prince
Okay, this fella could teach Posh a thing or two about playing sports in high heels. Very impressive. Uses sequin-encrusted clothing to great effect by directing thousands of pins of purple light into my eyes during crucial match point struggles. Terrifying "Owww-WAH!" falsetto battle cry.

Lesson learned: Fierce hair, fierce back hand.
________________

Mahatma Gandhi

Wow, I do not see this coming. I totally fall for it when he lies down on the baseline in non-violent protest after losing the first game. The moment I drop my guard, he leaps up and drills one past me, then hops up and down and shouts "In yo' FACE!" so loudly you can hear it out in the parking lot.

Lesson learned: You never really know someone 'till you play tennis against them.
________________

Nicole Kidman
I find her panoramic forehead disconcerting in its ability to exert a planetary pull on my serve. Awkward moment when she puts Keith Urban on a time-out and makes him sit on a plastic chair in the corner of the court.

Lesson learned: I'm scared.
________________

Chewbacca

Two words: Killer serve.

Lesson learned: When your opponent is nine feet tall, it's okay to fake an injury.
________________

Jerry Seinfeld

Uses strategic sarcasm to get in my head. After every time he shouts "Out!" he holds up his hands and says, "Not that there's anything wrong with that..." I retaliate by sneezing on his water bottle spout.

Lesson learned: I must bone up on my mental game before facing Jon Bon Jovi again.
________________

And the lesson I've learned most recently:
Think it's impossible to play butt-kicking tennis in sandals?

Think again.

(P.S. I found the awesome Mii characters here. Lord knows I couldn't make those things myself! The website includes the instructions...)

I was both shaken and stirred when Vodka Mom over at I Need A Martini Mom posted a huge shout-out directing her readers to my PMS meme post. If you haven't visited her blog, you're missing out - she is one of the very best around. Thank you so much, VM.

Thanks also to the delightful Nikkicrumpet and her furry friends at Blah, Blah, Blah, blog for linking to the PMS post. Nikki never fails to crack me up - I love her sense of humor!

And thank you to the charming Adlibby over at Adlibby on the Loose for this gorgeous item:

The Meme of PMS

Potentially Murderous Situation

So are you familiar with this whole PMS thing? I mean, I doubt it because you appear to be an extremely rational and calm person - certainly not someone likely to be buffeted by hormonal whitecaps.

I thought not.

I'm not familiar with it either.

(Jon Bon Jovi - known for his infinite wisdom and instinct for self-preservation - is the first to say my mental state is steady as a zen master's pool cue, month in and month out.)

In fact, I don't know anyone who has actual, first-hand knowledge of this alleged "syndrome" [snort], yet it's everywhere in our popular culture, is it not?

Everything from bad performance reviews to women running their husbands down with their Eldorados is attributed by one gender or the other to Pre Menstrual Syndrome. (I'll admit that those women who not only run over their husbands but then throw it in reverse and come at them from a fresh angle have got some tall explaining to do.)

And yet...

What if there is something to this notion? Crazy as it sounds, what if there exists a regular, repetitive pattern of moods and behaviors that can be linked directly to a woman's cycle of menses? Mind you, I'm not saying I buy into that and I'm certainly not saying that the date of this post has any particular significance...

But what if PMS is real?

Well, then, I say it needs a meme.

Therefore, here's what I imagine a PMS meme might be like if, you know, I'd ever had it:

The Meme of PMS

1. I am at my most attractive when: my breasts feel like 50-pound bags of electrified rocks.
2. If I get any more bloated, I'm going to need to: be tethered to the driveway with steel cables like a Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloon.
   
3. It would be unwise for a bystander or passerby to: come within striking distance of my bag(s) of Chili Cheese Fritos.
4. When I have PMS, it can sometimes be difficult for me to: change ammo clips without frustration.
5. During times of PMS, it is imperative that no one: be stupid within 50 feet of me.
6. Why is my boss such a jackass? [Note: this is a freebie and can be used at any time during the month.]
7. It's always safe to: tell me I'm pretty and/or rub my feet.
8. Rule #7 can be revoked at any time without prior notice if: I think you're being insincere for personal gain and/or protection.
9. This month's raging question: "Which one of you touched my car radio presets?" (Last month's question: "Which one of you hid my hatchet?")
10. If you don't understand why I'm crying, then: You're dead inside, just as I always suspected.
    
11. What I love most about breaking out is: that it makes me appreciate my crow's feet.
12. The correct suggestion to help ease my atomic headache is NOT: "What you need is a little injection from Dr. Love."

Today's Specials

New at the bookstore... My friend Kerry Karsian has just published a hilarious guide for parents of young children called PLAY NICE: A PARENT'S GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE FOR THE PARK, PLAYDATES, PARTIES, AND PRE-SCHOOL. This slim and highly entertaining volume will have you laughing, nodding in agreement...and plotting which family at your school will receive a much-needed anonymous copy.

Thank you to Florinda at The 3 R's: Reading, 'Riting and Randomness for including my list of mommy gang signs in her Saturday Round-Up post this week! Florinda's pad is a friendly, intelligent and well-read destination in the blogosphere - a favorite.

And thank you to the delightful Divine Chaos for this tasty morsel:

Maroon = Quiet Desperation

I'm Sorry, But "Cement" Is Not a Color

I lovelovelove paper. And pens. And pencils. I'm powerless over fresh tablets and spiffy notebooks and crisp leads and razor-tipped felt pens. Yum.

I have my usual stores where I get my office-supply fix. If I'm really jonesing I can get by with a visit to Staples for bulk binging. I'm not proud of it, but when you need it you need it, yes? Then there are the really special stores, where I can spend hours poking through all the colored pencils and letterpress notes and little boxes to hold little clips and...well, you get the picture.

So the other day I was in one of these stores - one of the special ones - and I came across this piece of paper called a colorscope. It's beautiful - with a big grid of colors and a little description inside each one. The idea is that you stand back from the paper and pick your favorite color, then step closer and read what that color selection says about you.

So basically I get to indulge my paper passion and learn more about me?

I'm in.

But wait.

What is up with these descriptions?

Here's what the colorscope says about you if chocolate is your favorite color:

You are down to earth, comfortable with who you are and have a great ability to find joy in life. You don't take things personally, you rebound from failure, and you go for what you want.

Okay, do you know anyone who fits this description? Because I don't. And if I did, it would be difficult for me to form a true friendship with them since I'd be spending so much time wishing they would get gonorrhea.

A quick scan of the other boxes revealed that they, too, were peppered with annoying phrases like "easy to love," "inexhaustible energy" and "incredibly skilled at innovation."

What is that crap?

And where are they keeping this super-human race of color-coded kiss-ups designed to make the rest of us look like slouches?

I do not need this.

Therefore, I am blowing the lid off the colorscope conspiracy. Presenting:

The Crap-Free Guide to Favorite Colors and Their Meanings


You have a disturbing predilection for jumpsuits, made doubly so by the fact that you have a really long torso [ahem]. Your coworkers are pretty sure you've had work done, but can't figure out where, exactly. Your ideal mode of transportation is a Renault Le Car in electric green. Favorite Olympic sport: curling. Favorite animal: ocelot.


If given the choice, you would live in Des Moines. On the weekends, you often can be found in your garage, playing with your arc-welder. You have not yet broken it to your children that you lost their college money in offshore Internet gambling. You are known by all as a sympathetic listener - as long as the subject of roller disco does not come up. Favorite snooty art word: pointillism.


People admire you for your moist, healthy cuticles. Due to an FBI filing error, you have mistakenly been under surveillance since 1977. You would be a fantastic knitter, if only you'd give it a try. The guy with the mutton-chop sideburns and Sansabelt slacks who was always on your sofa when you were growing up is not really your dad. Secret fear: that the guy on the sofa is not really your dad.


When you hit 50, you will suddenly experience the uncontrollable urge to seal everything in your house with custom-fitted plastic covers. You like the idea of making the world a better place, but what's the payoff for you, really? If you are a man, your preferred footwear is the zip-up, tasseled bootie. If you are a woman: same thing. Two words: mood swings.


Seriously, enough with the make-up - you look like you're in the Kabuki theatre. You like to hide your sensitive side, to the point that children and animals both growl at you on the street. Yet people love to be around you because of your okra-cooking skills. You have a secret dream to be a podiatrist. Or a foot-fetishist. Depends on which pays better.


Everything you own is argyle. You once accidentally ate a sea anemone at the beach. Everyone admires your housekeeping, but then they've never opened the third door in the hallway, have they? You believe the glass is half full, but you also believe it has a lipstick smudge on it. It's time to learn to swim. I can't tell you why right now, but trust me: it's time. Secret fear: Disneyland.


You are overly proud of your tractor and your neighbors despise you for it. Don't worry, everyone else gets Ava and Zsa Zsa confused, too. Your are unlucky at love and even unluckier at cards. However, you kick ass at the dog track. Favorite song: "Turkey in the Straw." Favorite gemstone: CZ. It's all going to end in Vegas in the penthouse suite of Bob Stupak's Stratosphere, but it'll be pretty fun up until then.

In the Meantime...

...it's not too late to nominate your favorite blogs in all categories for the 2009 Bloggie Awards. Deadline for nominations is January 12 at 10:00 pm Eastern.

...thanks to Janna for the Lemon Drop Martini Award!

...and thanks to K at Interstitial Life for the A Hoy Award for Best Comedic Performance!

Auld Lang WHAT?!?

Party Like It's 1999 2009

Like most of you, we celebrated New Year's Eve in the usual way: flipping channels between coverage of the giant, glittering ball dropping in Times Square and MacMillan and Wife reruns, eating barbecued yogurt and wearing ornate, traditional crappenhatten - or hand-crafted headpieces fashioned from old copies of "The National Enquirer" and embellished with miniature horses and sugar packets stolen from restaurants throughout 2008.

What can I say? We're old-school.

When I woke this morning to my foot in the fireplace and the gentle, liquid rhythm of our beagle scouring the inside of my ear with his tongue, I was overjoyed. What stronger evidence could I have that 2009 is going to kick cosmic arse?

Right. Now down to business.

Resolutions.

I must become a superior, more aerodynamic and fuel-efficient version of my newly-marked-down-priced-to-move 2008 self. Oh, and with more torque. Tons of torque. [Note to self: find out what torque is.]

It's not gonna be easy, considering how settled I am into the jalopy that is my 2008 self. Nevertheless, I am resolved to do the following:

• Never allow myself to be caught unawares in a dance-off again. In 2009, I wear leg-warmers at all times and carry my own music. Bring it on, elementary-school moms.
• Go to professional driving school. (Not because that dorkwad judge told me to, but because it'll be fun.)
• Try to stop quoting lines from "Blazing Saddles," especially to strangers.
• Lay off the phrase, "That's total crap!" when volunteering in my daughter's classroom.
• Learn to cook. [Snixks...BWAHAHAH! Oooh, I'm sorry. *wipes eyes* I never can do that one with a straight face...]
• Inform children of their sacred Ninja birthright. On second thought - next year.
• Overcome something.
  
• Quit being so judgmental of others, especially the super-lame ones.

Ah, well there you have it. I don't know about you, but I feel like a marginally better person already!

No matter what your reservations resolutions may be - I wish you a happy, healthy, peaceful and, of course, silly 2009!

Hugs all around!


Now Accepting Nominations

The 2009 Bloggie Awards Competition is now underway! Nominations for the year's best blogs are being accepted here in all sorts of categories, including humor, writing, design, geographic location and many more.

Finalists will be determined in part based on the number of nominations they receive, so if you have a moment and feel inclined to nominate our little operation here (along with your other favorites), I'd really appreciate it!

The deadline for nominations is Monday, January 12 at 10:00 PM Eastern time.

Thank you!

Also...

Take a moment to stop by Rick's pad over at Organized Doodles. Rick's an amazing cartoonist (and a prince of a fellow) and he's running a contest - you could win one of his "doodles" or even a custom caricature! Good luck!

Thank you to wonderful Florinda at 3 Rs Blog for linking to my silly Christmas Mad Lib!

And thank you to the charming, amazing MuseSwings for this humdinger: