dumbo iditty head

I’m one of those people who like to join Internet social networking groups and then never visit the site again. Let’s see, I’ve joined Facebook, Twitter, Metafilter, a snark board whose name I don’t remember, LinkedIn, and now I almost joined the P. G. Wodehouse Society in the U.K. Don’t ask, I don’t know why, I guess I thought it would be cool to be a member of a society in the U.K. Oh, and plus, I am an über fan of P. G. Wodehouse.

I almost bought an alarm clock with Stephen Fry’s, voice gently luring one from slumber with phrases like, “Good morning, Madam, I’m so sorry to disturb you but it appears to be morning. Very inconvenient, I agree Madam.” Then I remembered that British pounds and the American dollars are NOT created equal. The clock is £54.95 plus S&H (yes, a hefty amount), in the U.S. that’s $79.95 plus $7.55 S&H. Hmm…over $80 for an alarm clock I don’t need. (But really, really want.) I soon realized the error of my ways. Had the object also been shiiiny, I would now be listening to the dulcet tones of SF’s soothing voice every morning.

Oh, in case you’re wondering, the segue there was P.G. Wodehouse created the Jeeves and Wooster stories, which got me interested in Stephen Fry (SF plays Jeeves in the British TV comedy series), which led me to SF’s blog (which I joined), which then led me to the alarm clock that is for sale on his web site. Did you follow that?

Jeez, I’m not sure any of that made any sense. I make myself crazy sometimes. At least I didn’t buy anything or join the U.K. Wodehouse Society at $40/year. I wanted their quarterly newsletter “Wooster Sauce” for some reason; I think I just like the name. I did, as I’ve said, join SF’s ClubFry and am the better for it.

I took my big, fat, dimpled, white ass back to the gym. After sitting around on the aforementioned ass for the last six or seven months waiting for my sprained ankle to heal, I have become lumpy and lazy and lethargic. Spitting sounds.

Bob came with me this morning to help me put together a workout plan. Thanks Bob. However, he wanted to get an early start and be at my house by 6:30. That’s right,  I said six-fucking-thirty. Whatever. With this in mind, I set my alarm and went to bed a bit earlier than usual hoping to be well-rested for Dawn’s Excellent Workout Adventure, only to find, I was not at all tired. I got up, I went back to bed, I got up, back, up…sigh. Apparently, there was much sub-conscience gnashing of teeth and rendering of clothing (thanks for that Jen) and I believe I finally drifted off around 4 a.m. Craptacular. Bob said he was so worried about not getting up in time he didn’t sleep AT ALL.

I gotta tell you, the very first thing I did was put my water bottle on the front desk, bend down to tie my shoe, and the water bottle fell on my freaking head (and yes, it made a loud noise). Not an auspicious beginning. Seriously, I am so wimpy my spindly little arms were shaking after the first machine. I have the upper body strength of an elderly flea.  I did make it through Bob’s recommended workout routine, with the exception of crunches, I could only do ONE. Bwahahaha, stupid, weak baby!

The rest of the workout was uneventful, but fun, and now I have the energy of ten thousand burning suns! Yay.

Have you seen them? They look like this.

The cheeky little bastards got away from me somehow. Where do underpants go? It could be the underpants gnomes, you know how they are, stealing your panties, stock-piling them in their underground lair, doing God-knows-what with them.

Whoever has them, please bring them back, I will pay handsomely for their return. Provided they are unharmed and in the same condition you found them. If you’ve worn them, just keep ‘em. Ick.

That’s my little OCD quirk. Don’t we all have something we do that defies rational explanation? I don’t mean I just fold stuff that needs folding, I fold everything that can be folded, even against its will. I fold my underclothing, I fold paper, and I fold fitted sheets within an inch of their lives. I fold belts, not in half but I roll them into a tiny little bundle, I fold my tee shirts like they do in department stores, I fold my socks.

My pal Bob asked me once if I like to fold kittens (Where did THAT come from, Bob?), I told him, “Yes, but it’s hard to get a good crease.”

This isn’t a new obsession but it has reached epic status since I quit ironing everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. I’ve always blamed my mother for this, it’s a curse she put on me as a child. She never let me leave the house without being thoroughly pressed and creased. I was a slave to the curse up until the last few years, now I rarely bother. I used to iron the crap out of my jeans complete with a razor-sharp crease down the front. I quit doing that when someone told me it reminded them of Texans, big belt buckle, cowboy boots and creased ironed jeans. Yuk. Creased jeans are dead to me now, spitting sounds.

I’ve recently discovered an old British TV series, Jeeves and Wooster. Jeeves is a Gentleman’s Gentleman and while delivering his lines he is constantly folding and aligning everything perfectly. OMG, I think I’m in love! I need Jeeves to come to my house and fold with me.

I have my very first guest blogger today, none other than my own Icky Child. Take it away Dani…

I was looking forward to have a whole day to myself. Thoughts of pampering, shopping and freedom filled my very small head. The pampering consisted of a long-awaited massage which left me both relaxed and bruised in some very strange places, but that is a story for another day. Anyway, I had a gift card burning a hole in my pocket. Foolishly, I decide it might be fun to pick out a new swimsuit. I know, right, the dread “S” word. I take a handful of one-piece suits to the fitting room. Now, I ask you, is the mirror in the fitting room actually a fun house mirror? Why is it once the even most beautiful swimsuits look hideous on me? I am not (much) overweight or grossly disfigured in anyway, but yet when donning said swimsuit I look like the elephant woman, complete with strange lumps, dimples and an extra butt I didn’t know I had. WTF? So I have decided it must be the mirrors. I know I don’t look like that in my own house in front of my own mirror. That is my story and I am sticking to it. I think at this point it is needless to say, I walked out of the store with my gift card spent (and then some), but sans-swimsuit.

but doesn’t.

• I was only 18 years old when I had her. I was still very much a child and didn’t know a damn thing about “birthin’ no babies.”
• I was a single parent with no job skills. I worked factory jobs on second shift for four or five years.
• Says she grew up in the back seat of a Volkswagen. This is more or less true.
• I tried to choke her by rolling her head up in the car window when she was about four.
• One time she was in her little car seat (not like today’s car seats, think folding chair) and it folded up with her in it. I was driving along the freeway and I hear these muffled cries from the back seat. I turn around to find her folded over with her face pressed against her knees and her skinny little arms flailing about. I couldn’t stop to help her until I could pull off on the next exit. Sorry Kid, but after 38 years this is still funny.
• I smoked.
• I drank.
• I read all the time. “Mom, will you STOP READING and pay attention to me!”
• Made her play Scrabble with me incessantly.
• Forced her to listen to the Allman Brothers music. Hey Dani, do you still remember all the words to Whipping Post?
• Worked full-time and took classes full-time. For a few years I only saw her on weekends. Sorry Dan.
• We visited some friends in Arizona for a couple of months when she was five. She was in the sun so often she looked Hispanic. I am sooo not exaggerating. Dani refers to this as her “baby melanoma” phase.

Holy Crap! This could be like the never-ending list. I better stop before I get all depressed and filled with self-loathing.

I’m a science fiction geek; I freely admit it, although I’m not as geeky as some. I’ve never been to Comicon or a Star Trek convention, for instance, or written fan fiction, played role-playing games, dressed up like a character from Star Wars, worn a cape, or or carried a phaser set on stun. Maybe a more accurate term for my involvement is geek-lite.

All that being said, I love to talk sci-fi with anyone who will listen. I frequently meet my brother for lunch and the conversation ALWAYS turns to our favorite classic sci-fi movie, Forbidden Planet, our favorite Star Trek episodes, favorite books, movies, TV series, characters, blah blah. Two recent sci-fi movies that can’t be ignored, Avatar and Star Trek, are a must-see for every geek and indeed should be seen more than once. My brother, Pakweek, waited until almost the end of the theatrical run of Avatar before seeing it for the first time and then saw it over and over and over. He saw it in 3D and 2D and then saw it again in 3D to erase the image of the 2D version from his brain. My kid loved the Star Trek movie so much she said she wanted to marry it and change her name to Dani Star Trek. Bwahaha, do it, Dani, what a great idea!

Oddly, I don’t read much science fiction. I get all bogged down in the workings of warp drive, or how to bend space, the architecture of ring worlds, disk worlds, futuristic weaponry, robots (I do like an occasional robot, but as a general rule, not so much), and galactic war. My idea of a good sci-fi read is Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy; it’s funny and imaginative and there are no boring, techy parts to skip over.  I prefer sci-fi movies and TV; I like all the pretty images of space and contrasting futuristic civilizations. On one hand, you’ve got your very orderly society, beautiful architecture, and clean, scenic green spaces, and then you’ve got your Blade Runner or Fifth Element future where the earth is overcrowded, polluted, and ugly, the seamy underbelly of planets if you will. 

I guess I really DON’T fit the usual description of a sci-fi geek, but with a daughter named Dani Star Trek, I’m sure I’ll get a few nods from the diehards.

I have two distinct memories of kindergarten. One is having the teacher grab the ends of the little rug I was lying on for our nap, and dragging me across the floor to an isolated spot where I couldn’t disturb anyone else. Apparently, I was being disruptive. The other is running into the tiny playhouse, yelling, “FIRE!”  and throwing all the dolls out the windows, thus causing all the other pansy, whiny-ass little girls to cry. Bwahahaha

You are the love of my life, the apple of my eye, and your birth was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I couldn’t love you more.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZ5N4-X_HWU

Happy Birthday Icky Child!

So I had a dream a few nights ago that I was supposed to marry some guy named Daniel. Bwahaha, I know, right? I showed up for the event in jeans and a t-shirt because apparently, I forgot all about it until that very moment so there was no wedding dress, no bridesmaids, no flowers, and, well…no bride. Suddenly amidst the confusion in my head I realized that I soooo didn’t want to get married. I remember thinking I can’t get married, I won’t be myself anymore if I’m married.

I made up my mind to tell the soon-to-be jilted bridegroom that that I was most certainly not going through with this ill-conceived wedding. I spotted Cindy in the crowd and asked her to help me look for Daniel to break the news because, surprisingly, I couldn’t remember what he looked like. Cindy was all like, OMFG, what’s WRONG with you?

I never did find him. So Daniel, if you’re still waiting at the altar anticipating the delights of your wedding night, dream on, Daniel, dream on.