My Unmentionables Look Like They've Been Screwing Magnum P.I.'s Moustache.

Let me explain.

It's Halloween.

I bought this cheap velvet medieval evil queen dress at the Halloween store. So I'm wearing it. And I discovered that since it's cheap crap velvet, it's shedding fuzzy black dust bunnies which have attached themselves all over my foundation garments. So even if I do make eye contact with some masked stranger today and the violins begin to swell, there's no way in hell this Medieval Barbie dress is coming off. No one needs to see the hilarity that is going on underneath this get up.

V. Bridget Jones enormous pants scene, only with black and red velvet and gold rickrack trim.

Christ, I'm A Collaborator.

Sarge pulled me aside today to thank me for being a team player, and that he couldn't say that for anyone else.

What happened to the pretty French girls when the Nazis lit out of Paris? Hey, a girl needs stockings and chocolate. I have a sick mother and I have to feed her somehow. Ow! My hair! Please don't leave me tied to the Pont Neuf! Didn't you see me singing La Marseillaise last week at Rick's? Vive la France!

A Crushed ReadBeckian Searches for Answers

I received this message today from a tearful little girl:

"Did you scare Uncle Tucker off with your rants in the Longhorn post? He never even said goodbye."

And to you, Faithful Readers, I say this. Sometimes men leave for no good reason. It's never you. It's always them. Or it's you, in a good way. It wasn't that Big had a fear of commitment really. It was that he couldn't break Carrie. And Hubbell's girl was lovely, just beige. And Edward was a shit.

And Tucker? He... does this. He still loves you. He just doesn't know how to show it. There there, princess. ReadBecca's here and she's going to take care of you forever and ever and never leave. Do you want a pony?

Another Jason Quote

DisRespecca: If I were a man, I'd be you.
Jason: If I were a man, I'd be me too.

Speaking of Getting People...

Jason gets me.

When he said "Fuck Boysenberry!" I knew exactly what he meant. He's tall. It's too bad he's so skinny. I would feed him pancakes every day to fatten him up a little. Men with smaller thighs than mine are not allowed. And yet he's still ok looking.

But brain-wise, the kid is aces. I've only met the dude like twice and he makes me laugh like few others. He's a writer. I'm an editor. It's like freakin' Felix and Oscar, only if they were alike. No, it's like Ashley and Mary Kate, if we were interchangeable. What are things that complement each other again? It's like... Salt and Peppa. I don't know who Spinderella is like.

Anyway, he's delightful. I highly recommend taking Jason with you if you expect to get snowed in somewhere.

Dude, do you remember telling me you wanted to go on the road trip when I visit Jane in Austin as soon as she's settled? I bet you don't. It was right after you told Stefanie you loved her.

Next time I see you, I'm so giving you a Rock N Roll McDonald's head butt. Also, somehow the rat ended up in my bag. His little red eyes are checking me out as we speak.

It Is Against the Law To Be Up This Late and Not Be In a Bar.

Oh, my rods and cones.

Kids, don't become a copy editor. You'll end up still at the office at 1 in the morning on a Tuesday and you'll miss Gilmore Girls and you'll never know what's going on with Rory and that Logan fellow who's so hot you don't even care if he's jailbait.

And Baby's mom is in that show so it's even better. And Gradpa was the head vamp in The Lost Boys, which you saw 17 times in the theater when Jason Patric and Kiefer Sutherland had yet to part ways because of Julia Roberts.

Gilmore Girls is so good, I don't even care I'm supposed to be identifying with the mom, not the daughter.

Why Is Tucker Up So Late? Discuss.

I think he's up trying the new flavors of Fresca.

I'm Not Always A Hater.

Things I love:

Ice cream
Mashed potatoes
My dad
My girlfriends
New outfits
Sunny fall and spring days
Drinking beer with my guy friends
Drinking wine with my girl friends
Drinking alone and talking to myself
Menthol cigarettes on a cold winter night
Snuggling
Pictures in which I look thinner than I am
Smart dogs
Soft sweaters that are slightly too big
Taking naps on the couch
Making out like it's high school
When a handsome man smiles at me at lunch
Writing nonsense on my blog
The way Corpus smells like petrochemicals and seaweed
When my Grandpa tells funny stories
When a boy takes my glasses off my face so he can kiss me
Holding hands
Dancing
Pictures of my friends' kids
When I make people laugh
When other people make me laugh
A really good turkey sandwich
A cool washcloth on my forehead when I'm sick
Tang
The way my hair smells after I wash it and it's half dry
When someone else washes my hair
Lounging
Clean sheets
Spaghetti
When the underdog wins
Wrapping presents
Unwrapping presents
Scenic overlooks
Maps
Private jokes
Strong huggers
That sound the tape measure makes when you let it retract
Remote controls
Books
Libraries
Ancient places
Old churches
Waving at traffic
Throwing it out and starting over
Going to the chiropractor
Facials
Going to the movies
U2
Green apples
Grilled cheese
Making love, not war
Pointing and laughing
Cocoa
Anything lemon-fresh
Boats
Being done forever
Calendars
Diaries
Poking things with a stick
Firecrackers
Popeye's Fried Chicken
Bear cubs
Rubbing my eyes when I'm sleepy
Goodnight kisses
Talking so long at a restaurant they have to ask you to leave
Complimentary valet parking
Vodka tonics
The secret smile
Sighing at old times
Cooking
The word "shifty"
Cool guys
Seeing through cool guys
Putting on my pajamas
Making up songs

How Bad Can It Get?

Good Lord, we all hate Sarge. He throws us under the bus every chance he gets, and it's only been about a month.

Out of five editors, four of us are looking to get out, and the only reason it's not five is because I haven't talked to him yet. How do you lose five editors in a month? You hire Sarge.

Please. Someone stab me in the eye with something sharp. We're either going to be here until midnight, or we have to come back at five. In the morning. It's so early, Starbucks isn't even open yet.

Sarge wanted one of us to come back to the office since she was already on her way home. With her baby. Seriously!

These are not the posts I planned. Mine were much more fun. I was really anticipating You Had Me At "Fuck Boysenberry."

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Blog.

Good job, Tucker. If I were Johnny, I'd invite you over to the couch.

There wasn't enough cursing, but there was a mention of drugs, which I'm so telling your kid about someday, so that counts. The suspense almost killed me, but I never looked at what you were up to. I kept writing CHARLIE DON'T SURF on a post-it pad every time I was tempted.

Not reading was hard.

I dreaded going home at night. I bugged my friends instead. I went over to Matt's uninvited. Watched Lost. I watched hockey with Stefanie and went to bed early. I bought jeans. I went to happy hour and discovered once again that yes, boys are THAT stupid. Every time I find that out again, it's like I'm fucking Columbus discovering the New World. I sat around on the couch for like an hour without the tv on and without reading and I got sleepy so I took a nap. I went over to Stefanie's. I tried to get her drunk. We went to the store next to the oyster bar where I lied to the clerk and said we were there for a friend. (Note to self: Greenville selection much better, but no punch card.) He had purple hair. I wasn't fooling him with my transparent story. Stefanie kicked me out of her house at 10 because she was tired. She watches a lot of CBS. I ate pancakes on Sunday. Joyce waits on me every time and never remembers my strawberry jam. Then I went shopping for a halloween costume. And now I don't like it but I can't take it back. Stupid seasonal holiday store. Monday I went to dinner with the girls for Stefanie's birthday, stopping off to pick up her gift. Saw bum being hassled. Possibly he was a hustler, not a bum. It was the gayborhood so who knows?

Not reading is interesting. I'm going to have to do it more often, like maybe twice a year or something. The hardest part was not surfing the Internet at work when I was bored. And I totally failed at not reading personal emails. My house is not any less dirty, but I do feel like I spent more time catching up with my friends this week. I have no idea what's happening in the news, and I don't really care. I stopped watching the news on tv a while back. But now I might have to stop reading it too.

Crap, I gotta go. Sarge.

Longhorns No. 1 in BCS

That's right, the horns are number one in the nation. Of course it will probably only last a week because these polls are crazy, but hey, number one!



Disrespecca will most likely kill me in the morning.

i unhate you, teletubbies

Once upon a time, long ago, I was adamant about not letting parenthood ruin my judgment. Clearly, parenthood had ruined the once flourishing career of Eddie Murphy. One day he was a fabulous comedian, the next, he was a hack willing to do anything that would get a laugh out of a 5 year old. And speaking of hacks, I swore on my soul that I would never foist onto my children that insult to humanity, that horrific agitator, Barney the dinosaur.

And one day (still long ago), wanting to see what all the fuss was about, I tuned in to view the Teletubbies. I was freaked out by goos and gaas of the wide eyed aliens with tv's in their bellies. Even more so by the mind bending repetitiveness, and the giggling sunshine baby. Watching that show reminded me why I don't use psychedelic drugs any more, it was like a bad trip.

And for years, the Teletubbies remained of my "dont's" list. Then one day... i had a kid.

No wait, scratch that. Let me try again. Then one day... i had a kid that wouldn't stop crying and screaming and fussing for no given reason, while i was trying to feed it or clean it or change it, and it felt like the world had closed in on me and my life would be over soon because i hadn't gotten any sleep for 30 days since that dang kid was born.

And behold, someone had tivo'd and episode of the Teletubbies. And lo, the powers it beheld, soothing the savage beast. Suddenly, I loved the Teletubbies, not for their rhythmic dances or sprightly love for one another, but for the act of mercy they performed for me, the parent. Yes, it's a little sad to be using the television as a substitute for, well for whatever they did before television. But the truth is, I always said we shouldn't blame the television, it's done nothing wrong; it's the shows on television that wreak all the havoc. And if one can find a show that gently, kindly, and considerately introduces kids to this great big world of ours, and does so without annoying other adults in the room, then I'm all for it. Plus, Po speaks chinese.

So here's to the Teletubbies, may they continue to be beacon of tranquility. Incidentally, as far as I'm concerned, Barney can still keep it where the sun don't shine; he's not coming in my house.

fashionista? or fuginator?

Ok, so I also promised Disrespecca that I would write about some of her favorite topics, like shoes, work, and things to hate. Let's start with shoes.

The wife and I have been trying to stick to a budget lately, which is hard on a girl that loves her shoppin'. So when I recently fell into to some extra cash, I decided I would buy her a pair of shoes she had been eyeballing. Technically speaking, I gave her cash, which sounds kind of rude and impersonal, but I did make my own little note with a big shoe on it that said, "Happy Shoe Day!", with the intention of giving her not only a pair of new shoes, but also the shopping experience that goes along with it.

Time to spill the beans. She wants a pair of clogs. To be more specific, she wants a pair of slightly-fuzzy, pony-print, professional Dansko clogs. These shoes are not only interesting to look at, but also very comfortable; and with autumn just around the corner, make for a very seasonal set of chaussure.

Question is: Fashionable or Fugly?

Let's hold off a second. More beans to spill. It so happens that I personally own not one, but two pairs of men's Dansko clogs; one black pair, one brown pair, oiled leather professional. I happen to love these things and I look forward to the forthcoming clog wearing season.

Fashion or Fug?

But let's also consider that the answer to this question might vary greatly with geography. Like other departments of fashion, acceptability varies greatly between Dallas and Austin. Sort of a Neiman Marcus vs Whole Earth kind of thing.

So bring on the comments and confessionals. Are clogs hot or not?

tucker taking turn

Since DisRespecca is off cleansing her frontal lobe, I have hijacked ReadBecca (with her permission, of course). If I can't be served a daily dish of RANT, perhaps i can find some sustenance in serving it. Strangely, and perhaps regrettably, she made no conditions; she only claimed no responsibility for "anything offensive, repulsive or stupid" i might say. How silly of her, she left out imbecilic, asinine, balmy, and cockeyed. Yeah... balmy.

Let's begin with a disclaimer:
I have a casual disregard four spelling.

My brain just doesn't care. I am just as likely to write, "their was a time" as "there going to the airport". And phrases like, "disregard four spelling" will never be caught by a spell checker. Which is a perfect topic for segue.

I'm really annoyed with Microsoft's spell checkers. The heuristics they designed to make suggestions are pathetic at best. For instance, if I were to misspell the word "appendicks", MS would suggest "appendix"; but if I typed "appendics" (no k) it fails to come up with the correct suggestion. Better yet, try a really common mistake, accidentally using the adjacent key. "aooendix" causes the the spell checker to offer nothing as an alternative. Google on the other hand, is much better at stuff like this. If you search for "aooendix" the first thing it replies is "Did you mean: appendix". I love you Google.

Sarge: Not So Much

Not liking Sarge. No one is. Micromanager. Assigns self-directed projects. Also known as "busy work." Doesn't like people to surf. Posting becoming difficult. Also stressing me out by talking about how to reduce stress all the time. Would reduce stress if wasn't so focused on what time I come in and what time I leave. Resent having to choose between stopping for Starbucks and being at my desk at exactly nine. Who the hell is ever in the office at nine in advertising? No one. That's who.

ReadBecca has to take a week off. I'm not allowed to read anything for a week. Google "The Artist's Way" chapter four. It's a thing. Technically, I probably should have taken a whole week off, but I didn't think it would fly with Sarge. So no Internet for a week. No magazines. No email. No books. No reading of any kind. You'll have to call me if you want to talk to me. I'm going to delete all personal emails so I can't read them and respond. God, what a week this is going to be.

See you next Wednesday.

The Weird Dreams Are Starting To Freak Me Out.

This time, my younger brother was about eight and I was how old I am now, which is old.

I know this is old because I went horseback riding for two hours on Saturday and couldn't get off the horse without a step stool (it was a big horse) and then I think I had a heat stroke in the parking lot because I couldn't see because of all the spots in my eyes and I was dizzy, which was only cured by extra-high, tundra-level AC and a cherry slushie. I told you I'm old.

Anyway, eight-year-old Brother was being abusively punished by my dad, which is totally not the case in reality. My dad's a peach. He can't even spell abuse, much less dish it out. My dad was making him sleep on a roll-away bed in the driveway of the house we grew up in on a humid, damp night. This is the pre-remodeled house. I remember the back door, which was in a totally different place after we added on.

So grown-up me went out there in the middle of the night to do something about it. Except crazy Linda was out there already with this annoying little dog, which I thought had gotten out of the backyard because the gate was open. She was consoling Brother and telling him to be brave and that he could get through the night all by himself. His head was facing down the driveway and I thought he would be safer facing the other way, so he could see the street and run if anyone came up from there.

I, of course, was pissed.

I demanded she do something. Like bring the kid inside. Or if she was afraid to do that, take him and leave. Only she wouldn't do either. She said she was still invested in her relationship with dream-bully Dad and didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it. So I gave Brother either my phone number or a key to my apartment or something and told him to come over anytime he felt unsafe. I don't know why I didn't just get him out of his pneumonia-inducing, damp, hotel-style roll-away and take him with me, but it wasn't an option in the dream.

And even though she wasn't actually smoking, I'm positive Crazy Linda was a smoker in the dream. She was also a blonde and crack-head skinny.

WTF?

I remember the driveway at night like I was there right now. Funny how the most familiar things turn sinister as soon as the sun goes down.

Longest. Day. Ever.

So. Busy. No. Time. To. Bloooooooooooaaahahahahahahhagggg...save...yourselves...it'...too...late. For. Meuhgharghauh...

Satan: No, Thank You.

People, the Devil is real. I don't have, you know, first-hand proof, but hey, I don't want any.

I had a dream that Olivia from Law & Order: SVU was possessed by the devil when Stabler left her alone in a Not Good place. She even told him she felt an evil presence, but you know Stabler. He went after the perp anyway and left Olivia with the great cheekbones all by herself. She didn't stand a chance.

So Olivia is possessed and somehow I turn into her, but I know the devil is there. But then Olivia/me is in a different body entirely. We're the devil dressed up like a priest. And for some reason we have to get in this cabinet and when we open it, we discover a tabernacle and we know there's a consecrated host in there and we're freaked out. You know, because it's the body of Jesus Himself we're dealing with now, and we know He could totally kick our ass.

And there's some sort of burning ember we have to put out so no one will know we're the devil but we can't touch it because the Body of Christ will burn us, since the ember is smoldering away on top of the host. We do it anyway and our hands get all blistered.

Then we're not in the devil priest, we're outside him and there's no "we" anymore because Olivia is off solving a crime or something and I'm on my own. And btw, the devil priest has hollow eyeballs filled with blood, so if you look into his pupils, you can see it sloshing around in there. It's super red when you do.

So what do I do? I start poking the devil priest in the forehead, who's laying on the floor for some reason – just chillin', and telling him I know he's the devil and that God loves me and will protect me from him. And I know it's pissing him off and I keep doing it.

I mean, who pokes the bloody-eyed devil in the forehead while he's trying to relax?

I woke up unnerved and repeating to myself that God will protect me. I almost got my rosary out of the box I keep by my bed to go back to sleep with it in my hands, but some rational, and very likely to get me possessed, part of my brain said No It's Just A Dream. But another part of my brain noticed that it was nearly four in the morning, which is the 3 a.m. hour, which I just learned from that Emily Rose movie is a perversion of the traditional time when Jesus died, 3 in the afternoon, so then I thought, Crap I Just Might Be Actually Getting Possessed Right Now.

This all happened in like a millisecond so I didn't have time to process much before I went back to sleep.

Scary Epilogue:

Kidd Kraddick had a devil bit this morning. And I NEVER listen to Kidd Kraddick. Tilty camera angle commences. REEK REEK REEK REEK REEK REEK!

I Talk In My Sleep.

In case there's anyone reading who hasn't slept with me, I talk in my sleep.

Often, I curse in my sleep. I wake myself up with a good SONOFABITCH and GODDAMMIT more frequently than I suspect other people do. I also wave my arms around while talking in my sleep, waking myself up when I flail into the wall. I tend to talk in complete sentences as well and I'm usually yelling at someone who's annoyed me in my dream.

GODDAMMIT, BOHNEN! I'M IN THE SHOWER! is something I yelled during a work dream. Bohnen wanted me to edit something when I was bathing. She even brought me a pen like she was being helpful. I woke up hollering, pissed and simultaneously laughing because it was so ridiculous.

My dreams are pretty obvious and easy to analyze. I used to have this recurring nightmare that the government was looking for me because I knew about a secret plot to nuke the world. I was hiding in a deserted town, only the town wasn't real. It was only facades of buildings, like on a movie studio back lot set. I could hear the helicopters and see the searchlights and some Man in Black had a bullhorn and was telling me they had my family. If I would come out, they'd let my family go. But if I didn't, the feds would kill my family. I knew I could get away. So I would have to choose between exposing the plan to kill a billion people or saving my family.

Then I'd wake up.

I never dreamed the end and never actually made the dream choice, but that's not the point. The point was the anxiety of having to make the choice, not what I decided in the end.

See? Obvious dream analysis.

I kept waking myself up all night Monday, cursing and arms banging around. I remember thinking I needed to get my digital camera and take a picture of my dream.

I would have had to get an 8x10 of that action.

I Hate You, Not Hating Anybody for Three Weeks.

I haven't hated anyone or anything enough to mention it since September 22. I feel like a hate slacker. Maybe if I list the things that mildly annoy me, I'll work myself into a frenzy of hate like a shark. Sharks are bad. I hate them. See? It's working already!

Sharks
Baby blue minivans
People who don't let you exit the elevator before they try to get on
When Starbucks doesn't have any croissants
Years in which I do not leave the confines of the United States of America
Flying coach
That my broken foot still hurts
Being cold
Being hot
Being interrupted
When none of the movies at Premier Video appeal to me
Acne
Ill-mannered dogs and children
Noisy neighbors
Birds
That the radio controls in my car are slightly too far away
Being single on Sunday morning
Pumpkin guts

Pygmalion: Probably Much Funnier On The Stage

There's a reason George Bernard Shaw was the preeminent dramatist of his time and why people still produce his work. Only I didn't see it when I read Pygmalion. It's hard to read something that was meant to be acted. People have that same problem with Shakespeare. Professor Higgins was a horrible man. As Monica says, as a person, he's Terrible F. I think I need to see the play to appreciate it better.

I am going to start calling horrible men PigMaleon however.

I Am Extremely Pleased with My Outfit Today.

Crisp white shirt under a scoop-neck forest green t-shirt, denim mini, green tights and brown herringbone round-toe flats. Capped off with a gold sequin scarf tied casually prep school-style and my chocolate brown suede coat. This outfit is the perfect fall outfit.

Only I wasted it. I keep forgetting about the whole Texas-OU thing. (Go Texas.) So when I called certain ladies this morning at around 8:30 a.m. to plan a happy hour and was turned down due to plans revolving around being an alum (Go Texas.), I was bummed. I could have saved this outfit for a happy hour day. I can wear it again, but it won't be the same. My enthusiasm will wane. I won't feel nearly as cute as I do today. I'm cute, dammit! I'm in a boy-friendly mood! Stupid football game. (Go Texas.)

Go Team.

I share an office with a Sooner. Most of my friends are Longhorns. I do not care either way. But everyone is insisting I choose a side. GO TOE U! That's a combination of GO TEXAS and GO OU. Maybe I'll go shopping anyway.

Mmmmm...Hot Chocolate.

I'm having the first hot chocolate of the season as we speak. It's a bit rainy and chilly and windy today. I however am wearing the wrong shoes for that. It's the last wearing of the black patent t-strap sandals.

I broke out the pink coat this morning. It was fun unzipping the Banana Republic bag and choosing amongst all my outerwear. Which reminds me, I need to get a New York coat for the big trip. It's going to be as cold as a witch's you know what up there in February and my Texas-appropriate coats will not do. Note to self: You do not need a purple fox fur-trimmed number, no matter how freakin' fabulous it is.

So I've got my cocoa, my favorite pink coat and my summer shoes on and all is right with the world. It's a great day, people. Appreciate it.

Love and Autumn kisses,

ReadBecca

I Forgot About You, The Indigo Girls.

Ah, jangly guitars and lesbians. So soothing.

I heard you on the radio this morning. It was one of those songs that's not Galileo. It was still good. Sorry I couldn't sit in the car and listen to the whole thing. I really needed a coffee.

It was awesome how your song was followed by Led Zeppelin. It reminded me of Fast Times at Ridgemont High when Rat was trying to seduce Stacy. "Side two, Led Zeppelin IV."

Anyway, it was nice seeing you. Keep in touch!

Cherokee People, Cherokee Tribe.

Y'all remember that tune from the 70's, right? (Oh, google it, you whippersnappers.) I also remember Cher's "Half Breed." And when those dudes decided they wanted Alcatraz back. Everybody had something to protest and the Indians didn't miss the boat.

Let's just get this out of the way. I know it's Native American, not Indian. I'm aware of the PC implications. You're lucky I don't take after Grandpa Tex. But then again, he might show some respect seeing as how it's rumored his family comes from the same line as Quanah Parker, whose mother Cynthia Parker was a famous captive. I don't know how much of all that is true. Everyone is one sixteenth Native American and has a dead Irish grandmother.

I do know that my dad's family goes way back in Texas. A lot farther than I ever thought, and killin' injuns was apparently a big tradition with them. Dig deep enough, and there's an atrocity in every family.

Any way, I finished my latest homework assignment from Tucker. (Why am I always talking about that guy? Discuss.) I read "The Education of Little Tree." It was a big tree-hugger, Native American rights, young adult reader, children's hit back in the 70's.

I didn't like it at first. It's written in dialect and I'm prejudiced against books that are written that way. I used to work at a university press and the managing editor told me that whenever she saw a manuscript and it was written in dialect, it was pretty much a given that it was going to suck. Most of the time, dialect manuscripts don't even get read. They might get thrown in the slush pile for some junior of the junior editors to read, maybe. So my expectations were in the basement.

But it grew on me. I read it in two sittings. I enjoyed it more in the second sitting. Maybe because it got pretty emotional at the end. It was honest and moving. I'm sure it was inspired by the times, but it's a gentle voice. It's not a strident protest that just makes you want to shove a home-made poster down somebody's throat. GET A HAIRCUT, HIPPIE! The book is at its best when the dialect is at the minumum.

It's logical and lets you go your own way. It doesn't fight to convert you. It tells the story simply and allows you to come to your own conclusion by directing you quietly. It's compared to Huck Finn, which makes sense. I think Huck Finn is a much better book, though. It's a good book to pack if you're going camping or if you are like me and have camped enough for a lifetime and now you just want to get a massage and a cocktail at the Four Seasons.

I like the idea of unspoiled wilderness and I think we should preserve as much as possible, but I don't ever want to live in it. Scenic overlooks are a fantastic way to experience the great outdoors and avoid chiggers. So is concrete as far as the eye can see and the Discovery Channel.

Pick up "The Education of Little Tree." ReadBecca gives it thumbs up.

Conversations with Sarge

New Boss Guy is henceforth known as Sarge. The cool kids in the creative department gave him that handle because he used to be a marine for like 20 years or something. I'm reporting this exchange verbatim.

Sarge: It's good to be hydrated.
ReadBecca: Yes, it is.

Tivo Is Tucker.

He got an unearned shout-out and I'm not nearly the princess of the blogosphere as I had hoped, attracting random readers like bees to sweet, sweet honeysuckle. But still, I have Patt and Anonymous. And WritingGal linked ReadBecca. I can't figure out how to make links work. It looks easy, but I have failed.

Everyone give Tucker a dirty look.

Also, I dreamed about cigarettes this weekend. Someone had a whole carton. I did not dream-smoke or for-real smoke, but I can't stop thinking about it. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to bum one off somebody so I can remember how gross it was. And yet there is a 7-11 just seconds away from the office and they are chock full of tobacco goodness. So close, and yet so far.