First up – Making great strides in the way my blog is read:

Michael has set up a PDA friendly version of my site. Even some of you without PDAs might prefer the stripped-down version of the site to looking at my usual purple background, which begins to look more hideous to me every day.

It may well be time for some turquoise blue or mint green here. I’ll have to sleep on it.

Next – A touching geek interest story that reminds us of how science fiction and reality sometimes intertwine:

While watching Star Gate SG-1 tonight we noticed that one of the recurring characters was using our television remote in a way that indicated it was a high-tech scanning device. It is a nice remote control, but so far we haven’t used it to detect Goa’uld bombs or anything akin to them…

Note to self: Read the owner’s manual and possibly save the earth from a hostile alien race.

My ten year old daughter is teaching herself how to forge my signature on documents…

Seems like only yesterday I was teaching her to write her own name and now she’s copying mine. They grow up so fast, don’t they?

My largest piece of luggage is much to big to be allowed as a carry-on, yet the airlines are forced to let me onto planes with it.

It is, of course, my mouth.

I use it to tote things around like I’m a golden retriever or something. If my hands are full, my teeth will suffice. What the hell is that about? You’d think I was raised by wolves.

Anyway, I’m not overly conscious of this habit, but sometimes I’ll catch myself in the act and it cracks me up.

While I was putting away laundry yesterday, I had my arms full of clean socks when I noticed a lonely pair of Michael’s underwear on top of the basket. Thirty seconds later, I had put his socks away into the drawer and I removed his freshly laundered underwear from my teeth.

When the full realization of what I had done crept up on me, I took a long moment to ponder how stupid I must have looked standing in front of the dresser with white Fruit of the Looms dangling from my chin.

I’ll bet that was quite a photo op. And you missed it.

Thank God.

I have memorized some things over the years to keep myself company when I get lonely.

The lyrics to the M.A.S.H. theme.

Yep, there are lyrics and I know ‘em.

The lyrics to Nena’s “99 Red Balloons” in the original German.

In German it’s called “99 Luftballoons.” The title actually translates to “99 Air Balloons.” In fact, most of the lyrics are changed in the English version so that they don’t translate closely at all. This profoundly useless knowledge is brought to you by my two years of high school German and two years of German at a community college.

“The Raven”, “Annabel Lee”, and “Alone” by Edgar Allen Poe.

The prologue to The Canterbury Tales in Middle English.

“The Heart” by Stephen Crane.

“Little Orphant Annie” by James Whitcomb Riley.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost.

The first paragraph of The American Crisis by Thomas Paine.

I tell you these things for two reasons:

1. You were NEVER gonna ask me about them, were you?…See? And that sucks, ’cause I’ve been waiting.

2. When I’m kidnapped and they put me into a sensory deprivation chamber to torture me, you’ll know that I still have my Poe and you won’t have to worry so much.

Oh, hey, by the way, do you have some things memorized that are useless and/or obscure that you’d like to share?*

*You can’t say I didn’t ask.

Dear dear dear Readers,

I feel so close to you all. That’s why I know I can ask you or tell you anything. So, here’s the thing. When I post something long and rambling like I did yesterday, could you kindly wait 6-8 hours before you read it?

You see, during that time, I’ll notice approximately 1,200 grammatical errors or details I left out the first fifty times I edited and revised my post.

So, if you could just promise not to read my stuff right away, I’ll be able to fix all 1,200 mistakes without worrying that someone already saw and took note of each and every one of them.

Thanks. You’re the greatest.

Rock On My Rockin’ Readers!
Debbie

ADULT CONTENT

This one’s for you, Jules:

Beautiful people abound in Hawaii. They are everywhere. I honestly thought almost everyone there was worthy of a full-color poster.

I admit I was more than a little enamored with my companion and with the island itself. Perhaps my good feeling transposed itself onto everything and everyone around me. But, whatever the cause, I remember telling Michael how pretty everybody was. All the men and women there seemed to have perfectly chiseled features, light brown skin that glowed radiantly, dark piercing eyes and bodies that would not quit no how.

There were two rather notable butt ugly exceptions to my rule of thumb, and apparently, God thought it would be like really funny if I walked in on those two people engaged in a sex act. By the way, God, if you’re reading this, I gotta hand it to ya, that was a good one, man! I didn’t see it coming at all!

Here’s how it happened:

We were in Honolulu and we had just found a good parking spot on the street and got out of our rental car.

Of course, we don’t want to leave anything important in the car. Let’s see, we have our maps, the camera, our matching gilligan hats, money to blow on souvenirs. Everything seems to be in order.

“Honey, you have the keys, right?”

Hey, wait a minute. What’s that humming noise? Could it be…the engine? NO WAY! Yes, that’s it. The car is still running. Fuck fuck doublefuck.

The best laugh is that, under this extreme duress, I actually ventured to ask Michael who has OCD whether he was SURE his door was locked. Um. Yeah.

So, one idiotic question later, we’re still locked out of the rental car. We easily found a phone booth, and I dialed Avis’ emergency help line. It would seem that Avis’ Honolulu branch saves money by not hiring anyone to man the phones. I called them repeatedly with no luck.

So, we were stuck wandering about, searching for a phone-booth equipped with a telephone book so that we might find a locksmith to come and rescue our sorry asses. Now, while there are more than enough phone-booths in Honolulu, there seemed to be a definite shortage of booths with both a book and a functional telephone.

That’s when the bike shop on the corner beckoned to me. Due to what some might consider my questionable upbringing, I have no fear of motorcyclists. In the 70′s my Uncle Bobo used to hang out with some of the Hell’s Angels, and I got to meet a few of them on my grandmother’s front lawn. My favorite of these visitors was a kindly bearded guy with a formidable beer belly. He was a big fellow in every sense of the word and was ironically called “Shorty.” To my young Catholic mind he looked just like Jesus, if Jesus weighed more than 275 pounds and rode a Harley. Doubtless, people who have little or no appreciation for tattoos, piercings and excessive body hair promptly urinated themselves whenever they saw him coming. Yet, to me, he remained a big Jesussey teddy-bear.

But, I digress. Back to my story. As I said, the bike shop beckoned. I even entertained a fleeting hope that Shorty might be in there and we’d be reunited.

Well, if wishes were dragons, no one would ever have to ask for a light.

But, lo! Shorty was not there. In his place was a biker dude who had no Jesus beard. This man had only a mustache that seemed to want to wrap itself around his head. The mustache frightened me in its seeming inability to be tamed or groomed and above it were eyes that held no kindness for me. These eyes were not of the lamb of god. They held no love, no redemption. Only a warning that I should go away
.

A second later I noticed that there was a good reason for me to do just that. The reason took the shape of a girl who was busy at the biker’s waist. Her arms needed shaving and she was bobbing up and down, administering a perfunctory blow job to Mister Mustache. It seems I was intruding on their…their moment.

There was little passion here. In fact, I suspected later, after I’d had time to think on it, that the girl needed a bike part and this was Mustache’s payment for installing it. But, all I could think of at my moment of truth, standing in the doorway of the bike shop, was that I should not over stay my welcome.

So, how should I bow out gracefully given my situation? What should I say? Perhaps something stupid? Sure, why not.

Without further adieu and without any semblance of composure, I spat out what was foremost on my mind, “Do you have a phone I can use?”

I expected and got no response from either of them, only the continuing stony glare of Greasy Mustache Guy.

I took that as my cue to leave.

To make this long story a little shorter, I’ll just say it all worked out in the end. Soon after I left the bike shop, we found a locksmith. Fifty dollars later we were back to enjoying our vacation. Perhaps I even learned something from the experience, but I don’t even want to know what that might be.

So, God, if you’re still reading, just watch out. Someday I’m gonna get you back for that. Still though, it was a good one.