R.I.P. Mortimer

So there's been a small crisis at the POC for the last couple of days....the HEAT. The A/C shut down for the second time this summer. Oddly enough, the problem seemed to be with the downstairs unit. The upstairs stayed reasonably cool, considering the fact that the upstairs unit was working to de-hell two floors. Poor Tonya, whose room is always infernal anyway, was forced to come upstairs and room up with the second-floor chicks.
So the A/C guy showed up today. Same dude that was here before. Looked like of like Gabriel Iglesias after Weight Watchers, very sweet. He announced himself and immediately went outside to look at the units.
It was a surprisingly short space of time before he came inside with a thunderstruck look on his face. "Um....miss, I need you to come see sumting....outside."
I immediately agreed and tried to walk to the front door, but he blocked my path, looking oddly uncomfortable.
"Um...I don' wan' you to freak out or nut'ing."
"O....kay?"
"It's jus' dat I never seen anyting like dis before...Its kinda gross."

I laughed at him. He obviously wasn't used to dealing with POC-grade girls. Outside of our little phobias, we're not fazed by much.

"It's okay. Let's go look at it."
We walked around to the side of the house, and he pointed into the A/C fan. For a moment, I didn't see anything unusual. Then I moved closer, saw what had him so looped, and burst into laughter.

There was a rather large chicken snake wrapped around the central axis of the fan and anchored by the tail to the safety grate, effectively stopping the fan from spinning.

Awesome.

I continued to stare at me as I laughed. Between the dissipating giggles I asked, "So is that what's gumming up the works?"
"Um...yeah, I tink so. I'll check it out. Do you...um..."
"Yeah?" I stopped in my trek to return inside. He had not ceased to look uncomfortable. His hispanic accent got MUCH thicker with his next words.
"Do you have....de rubber gloves? I'll get de sneke out, but...do you have de rubber gloves?"
"Aww! Of course!" I actually said "Aww" aloud, so startled was I that I didn't think about giving this poor fella protection for his hands against the nastiness of a two-days-dead snake.
"I'm surprised you're not frekkin' out!"
"Oh, this is normal for this house."
"Snekes in your a/c???"
"No, weird stuff happening."
"......oh."

So that was it! He unwound the "sneke" and cleaned out the fan axis. The downstairs immediately began to cool. It was like magic. Just before he left, he told me with a big grin on his face,
"I took pitchurs of it, 'cause ain' no one at de office seen anyting like dis before. We try to top each other after de jobs is done for de day. Tonight, I win!"

So glad we could help you, nice A/C man. So very, very glad.

So apparently, it was a poor chicken snake, about an inch in diameter, who decided that there were tasty chickens on the other side of our fan, and was in the process of trying to get him some eats when the fan turned on, sealing his doom. I have decided to name him Mortimer posthumously.
Before people start asking, yes, he was dead, and NO I did not take pictures of the two-day decomposed massive snake to post online and send some poor snake-phobic into a panic attack.
But I feel sorry for the little guy, so here I would like to present:

Mortimer's Lament

Mortimer slid up the A/C
Hoping to nab something tasty
It turned out so sad
His timing was bad
The fan turned on and made his head pasty.

Farewell, Mortimer. You have achieved an honorable place in the POC Annals.

Oh look, a blog!

*shakes the dust out of the POC Blog Editor*

So the Five Love Languages are kind of a big deal around the POC. We all live pretty intense lives, and if we don't love on each other every time we see each other, we get kinda stretched out. They're kind of a big deal in my circle of friends, too.
But we have gone so far as to invent our own love languages. Mine would be sarcasm. If I'm being sarcastic with you, it's just my way of showing love. The others are a little more interesting.

Lisa: Lisa's primary love language is "Coffee". Coffee (or tea) is, for her, the best media for conveying affection, whether it's meeting someone at Starbucks for coffee, making a cup at home, or just sharing a random cup at the end of a long day. Some of my best Lisa moments have involved coffee, especially when one or both of us have had too much of the stuff. She keeps decaf on hand, just in case. It's just as effective for communicating affection.

Tonya: As all of us around the POC know, Tonya's love language is "Here, eat this!"
If Tonya is poking food in your face, you can bet she thinks you're nifty. She's an amazing cook with a great feel for spices, and since she can't eat very much at once, the rest of us are easily pressed into service as Quality Control. Last night, our neighbor happened to knock on the door while Ton was cooking, and got her first taste of salmon as well as a bite of wasabi-encrusted lobster. The first time my dad came to pick me up from the POC, I went upstairs for FIVE LOUSY MINUTES, and when I came back downstairs Tonya was feeding my dad something (and Lisa was offering him coffee). When we got in the car, his first comment was on how nice my roomies were. He felt the love!

Corrie: I call Corrie mom from time to time, and not entirely in an ironic sense. Perhaps having younger sisters has given her a mothering instinct. This being possible, Corrie's love language is "Jewish Mothering," which is closely connected to "Here, Eat This." I went to work sick one night, and happened to mention that I needed to get lunch. Corrie immediately spoke up. "Do you want me to pack you a lunch?"
"Uh...sure?" Having a lunch packed for me was an entirely alien concept, but she crammed my thermos bag full of yummy foodstuffs and tucked a little note inside telling me that I was loved. It gave me warm fuzzies all night long.

Jen Berger: There are words of destruction, then there are words of affirmation. Then there's Jen. Jen's love language is "I'm starting the (insert your name here) fan club!" If Jen loves you, she tells you exactly why in a voice that gives you the impression that she would start a one-woman mosh pit if given half a chance. If it were socially appropriate, she would wear a vest covered with fan club buttons for each of her friends, and some of her family. If you need to feel good about yourself, call Jen and talk to her for a little while. Eventually, you will say SOMETHING that makes confetti and sparkles fly out of her ears and "You're AWESOME!" come out of her mouth.

Dave Berger: Rarely spoken of in this blog, I mention Dave only because he has truly invented a new love language out of an old one. One of the five primary love languages is "Physical Affection." Dave has refined this into the language I like to call *TOUCH*. Watch him around Jen sometime. He *pets* her. When he's talking to someone he's trying to show affection toward, he puts one hand on them. When I've said something that makes him giggle, he puts the tip of one finger on my arm. This is called the *TOUCH* (said in a voice an octave deeper than usual), and its cohesiveness was decided one night when Jen was staying over. She called Dave to let him know. When she got off the phone, the look on her face was slightly bewildered. "He wants me to come home so he can touch me."
"Like....pet you? Like, just put one finger on your arm?"
"Yeah..."

So that's it. As with the canon Five Love Languages, they may be mixed and matched to suit the need of the day, but they are there nonetheless.

Love you guys!

These are the voyages of the starship POC.

I' ve got something to say, boys and girls.
No, you know what? I'm starting with a history lesson.
In the middle ages, there was a sport that is little-known to most people. It was a brutal, horrible sport, and so naturally it was incredibly popular. It went like this: A group of men would chain a bear by a spiked iron shackle either on its neck or on its leg, confining it to a small area. Then they would take their hounds--not the floppy eared Mollie-esque squishy puppies that we see normally, but bloodthirsty dogs that had to hunt to stay alive and used their killer's instinct to please their masters--and set them on the bear. Then the men would sit back and place bets on who would win: the bear or the dogs. It was a horribly dangerous sport, mostly for the fact that whoever was chaining the bear down was putting their lives in mortal danger, but also because the bear could break loose and aim its frustration at the bystanders. This sport was called bear baiting.

Now, that being said, WHAT is the deal with all this blog baiting people have been doing? If you think acting purposely weird in front of me is going to get you blogged, you've got another thing coming! And if you DO make it into the blog, what makes you think you're going to like it? Most of the people I blog about want me to stop!

This is the reason for the rant: A couple of weeks ago, a bunch of us were supposed to get together to watch the extended Lord of the Rings DVDs. Everyone else was apparently lame (MICHAEL, I'm looking at YOU!) and backed out. It wound up just being me, Jen Berger, and Katina. A little while before we were supposed to meet up, Katina called to ask me about something, and mentioned, "Oh, by the way, I'm dressing for the evening."
"O....kay."
"I can't wait for you to see me."
"......?"
No further information given, but really, it wasn't that hard to deduce that she was going to come over in some form of Lord of the Rings costumery. My brain touched on everything from a simple LotR t-shirt to elf ears. But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when she stepped out of her car.
Little Katina....little bitty tiny short Katina...was wearing a cape. It was black, but it hit her right above the ankles. That, coupled with her curly hair, made her look EXACTLY like one of the hobbits. As if she didn't ALREADY look like a hobbit. It was like a bad fanfiction as she ran up the driveway, mimicking the scene where the hobbits run across the bridge from the Balrog.
Then later, come to find out she had been over at one of the alumni's houses (Kim Davis). Apparently, Kim gave her the cape, and somewhere in conversation someone said the words, "I bet THIS will get you into the blog."
Seriously? This is what we're doing now?
Don't play with fire, people. You'll get a satirical, possibly scathing blog written about you. Katina, the cape was adorable, but you must serve as a warning to others.
Don't bait the blogmistress.

Also, the winner of our first POC blog poll was for me to compare each of the POCettes to a Star Trek character. So here goes:

Tonya is, of course, a borg. Do not fight the POC. You will be assimilated. We will add your distinctiveness to our own.

Lisa is Deanna Troi: Dark-eyed, empathetic, and looks good in anything she puts on.

Corrie is Tasha Yar-an interesting female who does things that defy her body build, like throw grown men over the Enterprise bridge. Corrie's just longer lived than Tasha, probably because she hasn't tangled with some big black puddle. If you don't get the reference, ask a trekkie nerd.

Michael is Chekov. Every two seconds you turn around and he's doing something you had no idea he could do.

Jeni Graves is Lwaxana Troi, flamboyant, histrionic, hilarious, and absolutely endearing.

Jen Berger is Scotty. Practical, fun, always fixing stuff you didn't know needed fixing or that you didn't think could be fixed, and all the time being incredibly cute without meaning to be.

Me? I'm Guinan, Whoopie Goldberg's recurring character on The Next Generation. Witty, sarcastic, always trying to come up with a new angle to help someone with the problems they bring to me. Also, I like bald men.

I also think a new Honorable Mention needs to be added to the POCettes! Introducing now, Shari Walker. Shari is one of Tonya's nearest and dearest, lives only a few minutes away, and has two of the coolest kids I've ever met. But you'd never guess Shari was a mom. It's her super power. She would be Sulu--always at the helm, and never speaks unless something is worth talking about, but you know she could bust some mad fencing moves if given half a chance.

I'm bored with this now. LOOK, SOMETHING SHINY!

Rumors of my death have been highly exaggerated.

So I heard scratching on my door this morning, along with the sound of distant thunder. I love it when it rains outside(as opposed to raining inside--carpets are hard to wet-vac), but I couldn't really translate my joy at the pleasant weather because I was too busy trying to interpret the scratchy-door sounds and the text chime on my suddenly-lit phone. My cats were looking at me as if to say, "You want I should take care of all dis noise, boss?"
The text was from Corrie, something along the lines of "See about bringing Mollie inside. It looks like it might storm." I looked outside. The ground was soaking wet with deep puddles. Oops.
Then I opened the door, and in scrambled Buddy. There was also a puddle on the carpet just outside my room. Did I mention that Buddy is deathly afraid of thunderstorms? If anyone knows where the Resolve is, could you text me the location?
Mollie was indeed in the back yard, feeling incredibly sorry for herself. Never mind that she was probably about to self-immolate for want to get outside when Corrie went to work.
"Come on, Mollie! Come inside---AGH MUD BAD! *toweltoweltowel* NO MOLLIE YOU'RE NOT CLEAN YET COME BACK! Ugh! At least you stayed on the freaking tile. Poor thing, you must have-aaaaaaaand there's the mandatory wet dog shake. All over me. Im going back to bed."
Whereupon Buddie demanded to get in bed with me and proceeded to walk back and forth across my face. I've given up trying to get more than six hours of sleep in a night.

For those of you who were so kind as to notify me of the gap in bloggage, I would like to point out that Scarborough Faire has been going on, and I've been quite busy running around like the little nerd that I am. Hopefully now that it is over I can catch up on little frivolities like showering and laundry.

The teachers are about to be done with class for the summer. I can't picture getting a three month vacation every year. Not that they haven't earned it, but it just blows my mind. I don't know what I would DO with three months off work. Those are the times in life where you start to wonder strange things, like "What would the dog look like shaved?" and "Do I really NEED to wear clothing?"
In case those questions come up during the ensuing summer months, I am going to answer, absoutely, emphatically, YES, clothing is a necessary part of the daily routine. Please.

Also, that of which we do not speak has finally occurred. Laura moved the last of her posessions out of the POC today. I saw her new apartment last night, and met her new roomie. The place is cool, and the roomie is cooler. I warned her about some of Laura's stranger habits, like her shrunken head collection and her penchant for dressing up like a wildebeest and playing beer-pong when no one is around.
We'll miss you, Laura. A bunch. Please come visit us! A bunch!
Soon to come: A POC Rosetta Stone-Crack the code and find out just what the heck we're talking about!
Also coming soon: A POC room catalogue-complete with floor map to guide bewildered guests.

Im gonna go wash my hair now kthxbai.

H1N1---AKA "War of the Worlds."

Amazingly enough, things at the POC seem to be calmer than normal. I've been working all week, Corrie is wiped from being caught in traffic, Laura is staying in Fort Worth for the weekend, and the teachers are teaching. Even the pets are calm. Mollie has gotten exhausted from playing all the time (plus, her shock collar is here and I think the mere sight of it is enough to make her behave), Buddy has gotten bored of escaping under the fence, and the cats remain subdued because they are lazy.
But there has been a new development. Apparently, one of the horsemen of the Apocalypse has visited our corner of Texas, and plague is running rampant in our streets. It's supposed to be called the H1N1 virus, but because that requires using the shift key when I feel it unnecessary, I'm going to continue calling it swine flu.
James Herriot, the Yorkshire vet-turned-writer talked about swine flu in one of his books. He said (paraphrased, because I cannot find the passage to quote) "Modern vets don't understand how lucky they are. They should be getting out of bed every morning shouting 'Hurray! No more swine flu!'" He devoted chapters to the panic, destruction, quarantine, and other delightful endeavours that come from a diagnosis of swine flu.
Let me reiterate something about swine flu: The following categories are at risk from this or any infection:
THE VERY YOUNG
THE VERY OLD
THE IMMUNE COMPROMISED
Are you under five? Are you over seventy? Is your immune system weak? No?
THEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT FREAKIN' SWINE FLU! It's just the same as any other flu. Those of us in the medical community have been watching people sicken and die from regular old run-of-the-mill influenza for years, but do you see us running out to buy surgical masks during flu season? NO! Because common sanitary practices will pretty much keep you away from it.
The widespread "pandemic panic" has brought out an amusing side of humanity, not unlike the witch hunts of England and early America. If something new and seemingly unknown pops up, it immediately becomes the cause of EVERY PROBLEM KNOWN TO MANKIND.
I soon expect to see forwards like this in my inbox:
"PLZ FWD THIS 2 ALL UR FRIENDZ!!!! SWINE FLU, OR H1N1 IS EXTREMELY DEADLY! THE CDC HAS ISSUED A WARNING ABOUT THIS FLU THAT IT IS POTENTIALLY FATAL TO CONTRACT. REALLY, MY UNCLE'S COUSIN'S FATHER IN LAW'S NEICE TWICE REMOVED HAD A FRIEND WHO CONTRACTED SOMETHING THAT WAS PROBABLY SWINE FLU EVEN THOUGH IT HAD NO SIMILAR SYMPTOMS AND ALMOST DIED........"
At least we'll have a handy scapegoat for a while.
Too tired? Must have swine flu.
Headache? Probably the onset of swine flu.
Slight soreness in the legs? Oh garsh, better stay home, or you could be contributing to the wholesale spread of swine flu.
Overdraft at the bank? Swine flu!
Split ends? Danged swine flu!
Restless leg syndrome? Boo, swine flu!
Halitosis? More like Swine-flu-osis!
Low resale value on your car? Swine flu!
Static cling? SWINE FLU!
Shower mildew? SWINE FLU!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm tired, and going to bed. In my swine flu-infested sheets.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

This has been a week of stupid. Not just normal stupid, like "I left the coffee maker on" or "I was ten minutes late to work because I lost my keys" or "I forgot to kill the chicken before I ate it." Nono! Because for me, apparently, normal stupid is not good enough! Apparently, God is so proud of how I handle normal stupid that He's decided to SUPERSIZE it!
Now, I've said before that I really don't want to talk about myself in this blog. This still holds true. But for various reasons that will become evident as you read, this had to go in the POC section.
Friday night at Homegroup, I was sitting on the floor as I am wont to do. The floor is so much more comfortable to me for some reason, even when the searing lower-back and sciatic pain starts. The couch just doesn't work for me. Violates my chi or something (Jen, forgive me for using your chi joke, it just fit in so well here). Anyhow, getting up off the ground, I felt my wrist pop a little bit. No big deal, happens all the time. Moved on with my life, didn't think anything else of it.
You see where this is going. Hang on, gotta tighten my wrist brace.
I've mentioned that Scarborough Faire is going on right now. Since it takes three women, a pair of neoprene gloves, and a freakin' TREE to get me, Jen, and Jeni Graves (another awesome friend that needs to visit the POC WAY more often than she does) into our costumes, we had all planned to meet up at Jen's apartment semi-early and head out together.
So my alarm goes off at 7:30. But before the soft, polite "meep! meep!" could wake me gently out of slumber, I attempted to jam my hand under my pillow and woke up.
"Ow...."
There was a pain in my wrist that was quite a bit beyond the normal "slept on it funny" pain. So I tried to flex my fingers.
"Ow!"
Okay, maybe I can get some more sleep and figure it out in the morning.
"OW! MOTHER OF BISCUITS OW OW!"
Okay, so, sleep is a no......
by this point it was 7:30 and time to get up. I was so determined not to be late to Jen's that I had showered and packed my stuff the night before, so all I had to do was brush my teeth, wash my face, dress, and go! Sounds good, huh?
NO!
First of all, everything took twice as long to do because my right hand was utterly useless. Now, I am left-handed, so I wasn't totally crippled, but you'd be surprised how many things it takes two hands to do. Toothpaste is an evil little invention, by the way. Takes two hands to squeeze and manipulate the toothbrush. Nevertheless, I kept trying to use that hand, hoping it was just some soreness that would work itself out. No such luck. The pain just kept getting worse and worse. But hey, I was running ahead of schedule, I could stop by Walgreens and get an ACE wrap, no problem! So I get ready to trundle out the door.
....Where's my phone?
....no, seriously, WHERE IS IT?
Corrie had to call it a dozen different times, because I, the genius, FORGOT TO TAKE IT OFF OF BUZZ! I can hear the little monster vibrating somewhere in the vicinity of my bed, tore apart my sheets, and found nothing. Well, with a car on the verge of falling apart on the road, not having a cell is NOT an option.
"KEEP CALLING, CORRIE!"
"Are you serious?"
"I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT!"
Then, I see a flash of light coming from under my bed. The side that's against the wall. That's right. Hurt wrist and all, I had to LIFT MY BED AND MOVE IT OFF MY PHONE!
Sometimes, you just gotta let the cuss words out. Holding that stuff in will give you cancer.
So, now I am in a tearing hurry, stop at Walgreens (thirty minutes late already), and make my way out to Jen's house. Between the loading and unloading, my wrist is throbbing, and I'm increasingly more mystified as to what this could be, besides a huge, peanut-butter flavored wad of OW!
Jen and Jeni got tired of my whimpering and made me go BACK to Walgreens for an actual brace. The brace worked like magic and took about 70-80% of the pain away. That fact was actually a cause for concern, since that started me thinking that it might be a stress fracture.
I got through the rest of the day okay, except for one stunning accident in the haunted house that caused me to CRY LIKE A LITTLE GIRL. Luckily, the medics at the front of the faire were nice and gave me a crapload of ibuprofen. But by the time I made it home I was in a lot of pain. Managed to get to sleep for only about four and a half hours before the pain woke me up. I was really worried by now, because the only thing I could think of that would cause pain like this would be a stress fracture, and since I don't have insurance right now, I CAN'T AFFORD A CRISIS LIKE THAT!!! AGH!
Despite that fact, I had to get Laura to take me to the ER. Poor, tired, "I just worked a twelve hour shift" Laura.
Just FYI, I may be a little impish in the hospital, but I am NOWHERE NEAR as bad as Laura.
FIRST she tried to put me on a bedpan.
THEN she pulled down the scopes and started looking in my ears. When the nurse came in, Laura actually JUMPED AND HID THE SCOPE BEHIND HER BACK!
When the words, "Ooo, I wonder what'll happen if I push this blue Code button" came out of her mouth, I near 'bout lost it.
I finally got Laura to sit down, and in walks the same doc that treated her for her fingers.
CRAZINESS!
So I'm waiting to see if he remembers us, and apparently I was looking at him funny, cause he raised an eyebrow at me. I raised mine in return.
"......what happened?"
"I dunno."
Not the answer he was looking for, I guess.
"You don't know?"
"Nope."
"....so why are you here?"
"So you can fix it." I could do this all day, Jefe.
"......okay."
He looked so confused, I took pity on him and actually explained myself, gave him the lowdown, the 411.
"Huh. Weird."
"I know, right?"
Did I mention this doc is kinda hot?
Oh, and he DID remember us. When he said we looked familiar, Laura held up her two injured fingers and yelled at him for not remembering us before. Have I ever mentioned how much I love Laura? He apologized, and apparently remembered me because I was "pretty funny." It's nice to be remembered for something.
Anyway, the x-rays made me cry. Again. I'm not a wuss, but by this point I was exhausted and stressed, had been put on a bedpan, and had light shined in my ears against my will, lost a staredown with a hot doctor, and was about to have to pay through the nose for them to tell me to keep doing what I had been doing until I felt better.
My spidey-sense always tingles when there are unnecessary medical bills being incurred.
So yeah, apparently I just ruptured a ligament. In Corrie's words, "I don't think there's any 'just' to that statement." I don't mean to sound ungrateful. A ruptured ligament heals much faster than a break. But a lot of people don't get that sprains can be more painful than breaks, and expect you to be able to get over it in a couple of days. Plus, all this fuss....for a sprain? GAH! I know how to treat a sprain! I didn't need the $200 ER bill! So when the cool doc stuck his head in to say that the x-rays were negative, my reaction was, shall we say...somewhat less than enthusiastic.
"Okay, it looks like there's no breakage, so more than likely you just blew a liga--"
"ARGH!"
"......."
"How stupid is this??"
"Hey, it happens. Lean on a joint just the wrong way at the wrong time, and it pops."
"*grumblegrumble*"

Now, three days later, it's sore but nowhere near as bad as it was. This is mostly because Darvocet is the coolest thing since peach smoothies. I'm guessing I should be able to get through tomorrow with just ibuprofen.
Thanks to the roomies for putting up with my drug-induced cackling....I promise I'm not doing anything stronger than pain pills. Thanks to the cute doc for putting up with my grouchiness. Special thanks to Laura for keeping me sane and giving me abovementioned drugs.

STUPID!!!!!!!!!!! GAHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This just in....

So I've been thinking about the POC identities, such as they are, and I've found I'm in danger of steriotyping the people in this house. I don't want to give the wrong impression---the people that inhabit this casa defy description. It's really given my literary skills a stretch to get them down on paper. Don't think reading this blog is tantamount to getting to know them. Come to our house and play for a while, and you'll see that I'm really just stumbling around and occasionally hit on a nugget of truth that may be funny. To be completely honest, they astound me every day with their unwavering faith, their honesty, and their love for anyone that darkens their doorway.
Don't get me wrong. We're all crazy.
But there's different kinds of crazy, and I think the POC et al may be the best kind.
Also, I'd like to issue a retraction on the post I made for the animals a few weeks ago. Buddy is not a pothead (OW! I said it! Leggo my arm, Lisa!). Buddy is a sweet doggie, but probably the most laid-back creature in this house. Really, it astonishes me. I wish we could bottle whatever it is he's got and use it for ourselves.

News Items:

• Mollie's pica disorder (look it up) is continuing at an unflagging pace. I sincerely hope she doesn't get her jaws on anything lethal. As it is, my cat's food seems to be the most delicious thing in the world to her, and my room is her FRIGGIN' SNACK BAR! AGH!
• Buddy has gotten out several times in the last week. It's getting a little nerve-racking. Seriously. Anyone know how to dog-proof a back yard?
• There was a "Tea Party" in Burleson Wednesday night. When Tonya and Lisa said "tea party" I was thinking, "Oh yay, cute old ladies in big floppy hats with crumpets." Yeah. Didn't know they meant more along the lines of THE BOSTON TEA PARTY! Taxation without representation, encouragement of government freeloading, and elimination of freedoms; these are all things that should be addressed. But I gotta say, all the confederate flags I saw and the "general lee" car horn that played Dixie Land made me a little uneasy. So did the story I heard about a law enforcement helicopter hovering over the area. Ever notice how many political rallies are perfectly peaceful until the po'po' show up? This one was perfectly benign, but people seemed kind of....twitchy.
• Michael is apparently suffering from zombie-death related to fatigue. What is wrong with you people? Sleep is your friend! It's going to happen whether you want it to or not. Don't fight it! Embrace the sleepy!
  
• I still think curling up on the trampoline wrapped up in a duvet would be the most nirvanic experience possible on this earth. Anyone want to have a duvampoline party? Let me know.
• Poor Corrie is apparently becoming weary of the extensive drive to and from work. Anyone know of a chauffer that wants to do some pro-bono driving?
• SCARBOROUGH FAIRE IS HERE! YAAAAAAY! For those of you who don't know, I am a massive dork that enjoys dressing up in costume and attending Rennaissance Festivals. if you want to come along, I've probably got stuff you can wear. I'm determined to get Lisa into either court wear or a gypsy costume, cause that amount of cute might just fix the hole in the ozone layer. Come play! It's fun, low-fat, and good for the environment.
• I got an e-mail tonight regarding a class-action lawsuit that was filed against Saturn on behalf of the owners of several vehicle transmissions, including mine! For those of you who don't know, I just had to spend upwards of $4000 on my car's transmission. Before you ask, that price is not a typo and I was not rooked. The transmission alone was almost $1500. Apparently, GM is no longer producing Saturns because of transmission defects, and I qualify to recieve a portion of my costs back. It may even be enough to pay off my poor blue baby and get a car that will actually get me to and fro.
• Laura is still here. We're very happy about that, but we know it can't last forever. Anyone who has ideas to sabotage her moving out, e-mail me at efergusonlvn@yahoo.com

I think that's all the news I have for today. I confess to not feeling very funny right now, due to several different stressors happening right now. But bed is always good. My mattress is stuffed with the down of virtuous geese, my sheets are woven from threads of awesome, and my pillows come straight from the Willy Wonka marshmallow division. Also, my cats have been specially trained to find misaligned and damaged areas on my body and curl up on top of or next to them to work as hot water bottles. When I turn my box fan on, I am basically in a perfect universe.
Okay, done now. Sorry for the utilitarian nature of the post. Next one will be about monkeys and electric toothbrushes set to Liza Minelli singing "Life is A Cabaret."
Over and out!

The following is a slightly jumbled chronicle of a slightly jumbled fifteen minute interval that took place in the POC tonight. Kimmy, one of the POC alumni (All hail her royal kimmyness! I think I have your old room, actually). She was over for book night, which I was unable to attend due to near-fatal fatigue. After the club meeting was over, Kim and Momzalez began conspiring over the computer and wound up at the kitchen counter with Momzalez showing Kim how to make a superb photo montage on keynote.
The following is a dialogue excerpt. It's only funny if you know that Beth G's maiden name is Ferguson, and my last name is Ferguson, and our family trees vaguely branch from the same backwaters.

Michael: Look at you go, mom! I can't believe you're showing Kim all this stuff! I'm so proud of you.
Lisa: You totally look like a Ferguson right now.
Momzalez: .....that's because I AM a Ferguson.
Me: What's wrong with looking like a Ferguson, Heifer?
Lisa: No, that's not what I meant!
MomZ: Oh yeah, I forgot about that...
Tonya: ....did you just call her Heifer?
MomZ: I guess you meant I look like your grandfather.
Lisa: Except he wouldn't have been smiling like you are.
Me: Momzalez is like a Keynote ninja!
Kim: Wait, I'm confused.
MomZ: *cures cancer with three well-placed keystrokes* no, do that.
Kim: Okay, can I show you guys my video now?
Tonya: You called her a heifer!
Me: These cookies are great! (nom nom nom)

Later, we all kind of oozed into the dining room (minus MomZ who had gone home with sweet Steph and the chubby mini-person), where we began two discussions: the first pertained to Tonya's foot, which she broke trying to step over Mollie and not break her foot.
Kim: Okay, so WHAT did you do to yourself?
Tonya: Well, I was trying to go up the stairs and Mollie ran under me (cue a long explanation which can be efficiently summarized by saying she tripped over the dog).
Me: ....Tonya, seriously? Sometimes it's okay to just step on the dog. She'll be okay.
Tonya: I know. Really, I love the dog. But I'm seriously hurting now, and I don't think I'm gonna sleep too well.
Corrie: You want some hydrocodone? Darvocet? Crack? Weed? H? (okay, slight exaggeration)
Tonya: ......Really?
Lisa: Darvocet is my FAVORITE!
Me: I had a friend one time that took Darvocet. He saw little green guys jumping around in loincloths.
Tonya: Why don't I ever see cool stuff like THAT?
Michael: ....You guys are TERRIBLE!
Me: Oh, hush, we know what we're doing.
Corrie: One or two?
Me: For Tonya? One now, one to keep by her bed if the first one doesn't work.
Tonya: *yoinks the pain pills*
(Editor's note: While we do not condone the sharing of prescription medication, particularly narcotic medication, I am currently Tonya's Home Health Nurse and responsible for overseeing her home care. Corrie is an ER nurse and knows how to dose people. No, we will not give you drugs, and no, we are not trying to turn Tonya into a drug addict. Poor Tonya has gone through a lot of pain with no meds whatsoever. Give her a break. And to be completely honest, she probably has an unused script for Darvocet floating around).
Back to our regularly scheduled program.....

The second conversation was regarding a duvet that poor Buddy pooped on some time ago after a bout with chocolate poisoning. We were scared to wash it, as a) we didn't know if it would destroy the down filling, and b) we didn't know if it would even fit in the washing machine. Of all people, it was Lisa who finally bit the bullet, got down to business, and charged into the laundry room with a plunger in one hand and a bottle of Resolve in the other.
Lisa: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Tonya: Go, Lisa. I have faith in you. You can do it. Yay. You're doin' great.
Lisa: *unintelligible grunting* I need some help with this!
Tonya: *leaning against the wall with sore foot propped up* Nah, you're doing find. I have faith in you. You're doing great.
Lisa: ARGH!
And with that she ran out of the laundry room. I attempted to take over, with a gutteral "MORTAL KOMBAT!" scream and managed to get the rest of the comforter in the machine. Amid several more episodes of freaking out, we managed to get the machine started. But a few minutes later, the most ungodly clanking noise started issuing from the room. Lisa slipped inside to check on the machine, but quickly ducked out again, shut the door behind her, and held her back to it as though the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were on the other side and could somehow be thwarted by the weight of the door plus her butt.
Lisa: Do NOT go in there!!! *CLANKCLANKCLANK!!!!!!!*
Me: But....the noise..............
Corrie: That bad, huh?
Lisa: It's frightening.
Me: The noise is really loud...........
Corrie: Just re-balance the load, Lisa!
Lisa: I'm not going back in!
Me: *whimper* noise!
Corrie: Someone do SOMETHING!
Michael: Pollen! That's what stained my shirt!

So I think the duvet is washed now, but we'll see.
Meantime, I'm sleepy.
Night!

When you leave the laptop unattended too long...

Okay, I think it's time for the animals to speak out. My name is Trippy, and I'm a cat. I know, I know, I was just declawed and I shouldn't really be typing, but Old Lady has arthritis, we can't find Buddy, and Mollie just keeps gnawing on the screen. She never could spell, anyway. I and the others (we, the cats, have a brief and uneasy truce with the dogs, the reason being that we felt it was time our collective voices were heard) are, after all the important ones here. Sure, the people might pay the bills, buy the groceries, and clean up after us, but consider it this way: If someone saw to all your needs, cleaned up your messes, and gave you affection and praise any time you wanted, what would you think: that they owned you, or that you owned them?
Now that we're clear, I'm going to take time out of my grooming regime to express some things, and I will write for the others as they follow suit.

Trippy Speaks:
Let's address this declawing issue first. I'm not mad. Really, I'm not. Oh, I wasn't happy about the hospital visit. The vet was cool, but the vet tech smelled like Armor-All. But I couldn't help the clawing, and (gauche as the ottoman was) I know it's not polite to destroy other people's furniture. If an alcoholic could have a surgery that would cure him of his alcoholism, don't you think he would take it gladly? Thank you. Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you something about my mom...she really spends most of her time trying to figure out what's going on. She hides it okay, but half the time when she's in here she's just sitting on her bed or a pile of pillows with a REALLY confused look on her face. Tonya is okay. I know she hates me, but nobody's perfect, and she usually leaves me alone. She did push me off the sofa a couple of weeks ago. That's all right, though, I pooped in her shoes. Can't wait for her to find THAT in a couple of months. Lisa and Laura are great. Corrie is okay, but I don't think she likes me much, and there's something funny about her....aren't humans supposed to be taller than cats?
Anyhow, it's time to let the others talk. As a sidenote: I'm going to render these dictations as faithfully as I can. I may have to take some liberties with grammar and punctuation.

Old Lady speaks: Huh? You want me to WHAT? Oh, right, the computer. Listen, I got something to say to ALL of you....I may be old as dirt, but would it really be so much to ask for you to dangle a string every so often? In my day, a cat couldn't walk two feet without some moron throwin' a ball of yarn or ringin' a stupid bell. Now we've got these new-fangled automatic feeders, and the dang dumb dogs runnin' around like they hold the dang patent on stupid. Who ever said a dog was man's best friend oughta be spayed. And that's another thing! I'm pleased as punch they got Bob Barker off the air. Same catchphrase for the last 700 years, same suit even! Maybe they shoulda made him retire and kept the suit. HA! Where was I? Oh, right. I don't see much of anyone, 'cause I got this trick hip, and it takes me about thirty minutes to sit down. I mostly just stay on the bed. That girl that takes care of me, she's an idiot. Gets all mad when the alarm clock goes off and she's still tired, but it takes an act of congress to get her in bed. She ain't all that busy, either. Know what she does when she's holed up in here? Reads webcomics. That's right. Reads webcomics and watches YouTube. I don't hold with all this webcomic nonsense. I like Garfield, is what I like. I also like that Dave boy that comes over sometimes. Good boy, he is. Stops by and sees me like he ought to, respects his elders, like. Knows where to scratch, stays away from that arthritic joint in my tail stub. You know, I lost that tail in the Scratching Post Riots of '96...
Editor: Aaaand, we've lost her. She's going to sit under the coffee table muttering to herself for a while, now. We might not see her for the rest of the night if she dozes off. Let me see if I can find Buddy. He's should be done with his joint by now....I mean....................................

Buddy Speaks: Whoa....wait, did I just say that out loud? Maaan, I had some killer chocolate today. I'm gonna be poopin' blood for a week. Heh, gonna freeeeeeeeeeeeeak out my moms. Ate some ketchup too. Ke.....ketchup? Catsup? Caaaaaaaaaatsuuuuup. HA! Cat, 'sup? HA! Whooooaaaaa. Everything's real significant right now. Whoa. You know, they say that Erin broad couldn't pass that test....they say she's a druggy. I've been watching her, and I can tell you, she can't roll a joint to save her life. Swear, I don't even wanna touch her. Don't want my rollin' mojo to get sucked out. But danged if she don't make a grab at me every chance she gets...tellin' you, ladies can't get enough of me. They can't get enough of the Budster. Heh. Buds. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, where are you goin' with my stash? My dealer's outta town, I can't get more until....whoaaaaaa, you shouldn't spin in circles like that....

Editor: And he's out. He'll wake up with the munchies in a couple of hours. We tried to slip Mollie some Ritalin, but I don't think it worked. Let's find out.

Mollie Speaks: HI EVERYONE I JUST WANTED TO SAY HOW GREAT EVERYTHING IS HERE I HATE GOING TO THE VET BUT THEY'RE SO NICE THEY ALWAYS GIVE ME TREATS YOU KNOW PILLOW FLUFF TASTES KIND OF LIKE EATING CLOUDS ONLY SOMETIMES THE THREADS GET STUCK TO MY TONGUE AND WON'T COME OFF MOM SAYS THEY'RE BAD FOR ME YOU KNOW BUDDY SMOKES WEED THEY SAY THAT'S BAD FOR YOU TOO BUT I JUST SAY NO TO DRUGS ESPECIALLY WHEN MOM IS TRYING TO GIVE ME MY ANTIBIOTICS LOOK THAT THING OVER THERE IS SHINY AND PRETTY HEY DOUBLE A BATTERIES TASTE KIND OF LIKE PENNIES DID YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE A TUMOR UNDER MY NECK BUT ITS KIND OF SQUISHY AND I WISH I COULD REACH IT TO CHEW ON IT I SURE LIKE SQUIRRELS BUT THEY ALWAYS RUN FROM ME MY MOM AND I ARE THE SAME HEIGHT LOOK A BUNNY!

Editor: Um, Mollie? That's a....that's a shoe. Mollie? That's Tonya's sh....okay, never mind. Let me know how that shock collar works out for you. Okay, so I think that's everyone, sans the troll that lives in the closet under the stairs. I think all I have left to say is: Is it really necessary to vacuum so much? I know you humans have an obsession with keeping everything "sanitary" but the truth is, IT'S LOUD! Try cranking up your hearing a couple of notches and see how much you like that sound. And the headlight on the front? What's up with that?
Okay, I better go before I start sounding like the old lady.
Sincerely yours,
Trippy.
P.S. Spare a can of tuna every now and again? Maybe some Spanish olives? Oh, and Buddy wanted me to ask for some brownie mix.
P.P.S. I'm pretty sure he shouldn't have any...but we may wanna try giving hash brownies to Mollie.
Okay, bye!

Back away slowly....

This is probably the least formal blog I've written to date. My contacts are also dry, and I can barely see the screen. Should blind people type? I can't see anything dangerous about it. I can't see anything at all. HA!
Coming home to the POC when everyone is home is a lot of wonderful things. It's uplifting, energizing, and loving. But the one thing it is NOT is relaxing. That has to wait until at least one of us has gone to bed. That seems to kind of break the cycle of crazy that tends to permeate our gatherings.
Now I present to you:
Five weird things that happened to me when I came home tonight.
1. Corrie was standing at the back door. The only reason that was weird is that there was thunder and lightening going on outside on par with a Thor temper-tantrum. I'll never understand the whole "standing outside watching the storm" obsession. I can enjoy a storm just fine from inside where lightening is less likely to strike, thank you. A good summer cloudburst is one thing, but when electricity and piano-moving noises start coming from THE SKY, I gotta draw the line.

2. I stopped by Kroger on my way home, and picked up two of the Miso noodle bowls I've been into lately. On my way through the kitchen I threw them down on the counter. Michael thanked me. Way to have some manners, but seriously, dude, BACK UP OFF MY NOODLES!

3. The pile of trash bags in the garage is LITERALLY as tall as me. Awesome. And there's a bar stool in there for some reason. Double awesome. What else is in there that I didn't see? Pterodactyl fossils? The missing link? Paris Hilton's sense of taste? A dead sturgeon? A dead surgeon? I hate it when we miss trash days. The way we generate refuse, it's almost like five women live here.

4. There's foliage in the garage. I don't mean some lawn clippings or an old Christmas tree. I mean SIX FOOT TALL PALMS. Freaky....it was like Birnam Wood was advancing on the Kia, getting ready to storm the POC (don't get the reference? Shame on you! Read your Shakespeare). There were a couple of Ivy plants, I think. Also, that venus flytrap thing from the Little Shop of Horror was yelling at me to feed it. I just threw some organic marshmallows at it. If I can't eat meat, the creepy little shrub in the garage sure isn't allowed to.

5. Did you know that when Laura has her face pressed against a glass surface, it amplifies her already impressive voice like, sixty times? Corrie still can't hear out of her left ear. I shudder to think what would happen if I did that...Armageddon? Bone fractures? Another Resident Evil movie? Or maybe it would have the opposite effect, and cancer would be cured. Cool!

I spend half my time at home trying to figure out what the heck is going on with these people, and the other half trying to decide if I should try and extinguish that thing that's on fire.
Which brings me to Molly. We have previously discussed Molly's somewhat questionable IQ. But really, this dog has GOT to get some kind of smart-infusion or she's gonna die. Over the weekend she ate so many objects that were never meant to be eaten, I'm shocked she still has teeth. One of these objects was a AA battery that bent in half and yet, somehow, did not break. Another object was an electric trimmer with actual razors inside that somehow missed cutting her mouth. I guess God really does protect children and idiots. Technically, Molly is both!
The crazy part about all this is that when you find said destroyed object, and yell Molly's name out of a visceral instinct that says if you say her name loud enough, it will re-cohere the object, she runs up to the scene of the crime and grins (I promise you) up at your face like she's just done you the world's biggest favor.
It's kind of heartbreaking that you have to discipline her for it.

Anyway, I can't talk. My cats are no better. My eleventy-billion year old cat somehow finds it much more convenient to take her business behind the sofa than the litter box.

....what was I saying?

Walkin' on, Walkin' on broken glass!

Just an FYI to everyone, coming to the POC is dangerous.
Shattered glass happens regularly, usually on someone's person. Corrie learned that via a gash in her foot. The rest of the roomies have been a little more lucky to be exempt from the slashy, bleedy kind of education. Michael almost had the worst kind of education via a broken glass measuring cup in his lap, which Tonya had to hoover up while I helped him pick slivers out of his palms. Yeah, THAT was about twenty different kinds of awkward.
But shattered glass and band-aid cuts fail to hold a candle to the epic legend of Laura and the Juiced Fingers.
That's right. Laura juiced her fingers.
It all started one night while Lisa and I were winding down after a long day of work, and Laura was winding up for a long night of child-healing. She was about to leave for her shift, when she uttered the fateful words, "You know, I think I want some grapefruit juice."
Now, two items in her defense: Number one is that the juicer we have has always looked kind of evil to me. Sometimes it laughs in that strange Mephistophilic voice, and every now and again I'll swear two glowing red eyes wink at me from the counterspace it has occupied since the dawn of time. Also, I think it reads Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't tell me any wholesome creature makes a habit of reading that rag.
The second item is that she was actually trying to hold the blade guard on when it happened.
I'll also say this for Laura, she may be a sonorous firecracker at all other times, but when she is in pain and bleeding profusely on the kitchen floor, two of her friends, the dog, and most of the food, she is silent as the grave. Truly, it was eerie how quietly it all happened. All I heard was the juicer sticking slightly. Laura clutched her hand to her chest and ran for the sink. Lisa and I looked at each other, and I think at that point we both realized that this was NOT going to be a "stay in and eat bonbons" kind of night.
In reply to our urgent inquiries to her wellbeing (that, considering the squirting blood were really kind of frivolous) Laura produced the last two digits of her left hand. They were still attached, but both fingers from the end joint up were more or less ground chuck. And they were kind of....droopy.
At that point I think I said something along the lines of, "Hokey dokey, time to give 9-11 a little ring..." I was halfway joking, but really all I could think was, "Holy crap that's a lot of blood..."
Lisa found paper towels, we loaded Laura into the car, and I took off for the ER.
About ten seconds later, I pulled back into the driveway to run in and ask Lisa where the nearest ER was.
I would rather not describe my driving on the way there. Some things are best left to the imagination. A fiery car-chase would probably not be too far away from reality.
Luckily, they had a good staff there along with a VERY attractive doctor. He was totally into me. Anyway, poor Lisa could only stand it for about twenty minutes before she came to join us at the hospital. The X-Rays showed that the end digits on her ring and pinky finger had basically been finely ground into pesto sauce. Fortunately, there was a plastic surgeon on hand (hurr hurr, that was a funny punny). While he stitched up her fingers, I argued with him that Star Trek: The Next Generation was CLEARLY superior to the Original Series with Kirk and Spock. All three of us debated relative merits of the new Star Trek Movie. Laura kept asking for more lidocaine, Lisa tried to get me to let the surgeon focus, and Tonya kept desperately trying to reach someone via phone to find out HOW IN THE WORLD her juicer had killed Laura.
With a ridiculously large bandage and splint on each damaged finger, Laura allowed Lisa to tow her home. After a long and somewhat uncomfortable errand to CVS to obtain Laura's pain medication, I likewise headed in that direction. There I found all the POCers, minus Corrie who didn't exist yet, waiting with obscene amounts of food. Thanks, Mama Claire, for invoking the age-old female law: When in doubt, apply food to the wound.
To wrap up the story, Laura's fingers are now awesome. Although I believe the ring finger is still minus a fingernail, it's hard to really tell.
And we have this AWESOME blog! Let it serve as fair warning to all...don't trust sharp or breakable edges in this house. Especially not those that move of their own free will and read Cosmo.

Because I Got High (Supposedly)

I would like it to be known that I am writing this blog under extreme duress, including, but not limited to:
Teasing
Daring
Heckling
Guilt ("if it were one of US, you'd write about it!")
Wheedling
....and other forms of manipulation. Can you tell my roomies are back from San Diego?

I do not want to write about myself in this blog. That's why I have a MySpace account. You can follow a minute-by-minute account of my daily travails by finding me there and reading...This is supposed to be about the coolness pocket.
Nevertheless, here I am, for the abovementioned reasons.
My recent quest to find a job better than the Pit Of Sarlaac I was working in before led me to a nursing agency called Maxim (That's right. I'm a Maxim girl. It just makes what you're about to hear all that much more delicious). They offered me a contract with County Corrections in Mansfield as a Jail Nurse, pending the results of a polygraph (lie detector test).
You see where this is going, right?
A pretty nice guy administered the test. The kind of dude that wears perfectly starched and ironed cowboy apparel and has a baby handlebar moustache, but tries to pretend he's not a redneck. He was actually an okay guy. The worst part was the blood pressure cuff, which, by the way, has left a bruise on my upper arm chub. There were control questions (is your name Erin Ferguson, is your date of birth 8/31/84, does two plus three minus one equal four?) and then questions about previous employment and illegal activities.
Now, let me interject for a moment. I may be a little wild for my current group of friends, but back in College Station, I was the straight-laced one. I have friends that used recreational drugs, and they knew enough not to use them where I could see it. I always knew if I got caught with so much as a joint, my career as a nurse was over. I've never shoplifted, never falsified records, etc.
So SOMEONE PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS LOW-CALORIE, EXPLAIN TO ME HOW I FAILED THIS STUPID POLYGRAPH TEST??
I was super-confident when the test was over! Really! I was actually yawning while the test results were printing out! Then he gets all serious and says, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
"Uh...your fly is down? (okay, not really, but after what happened next, that would have been great)"
"Okay, you have a problem area here."
".....huh?"
"Can you think of anything on the test you might have failed?"
"Um....not really."
"Okay, well, you had a physical reaction to the questions regarding illegal drug use."
SERIOUSLY? REALLY???? All those years of being so careful to not so much as watch a joint being lit, and I FAIL that question? Why couldn't it have been something like the one about office supply theft? I'd admit to stealing paperclips! No problem! I can go to rehab for pen-jacking!
There was no point to getting upset, though. Homeboy was just telling me what his equipment said. Still, this was completely beyond belief. But I thought carefully, and replied to him in the most intelligent way I knew how.
"Look, I have no reason to lie about that question. I know that telling you I had used recreational drugs wouldn't bar me from employment provided my drug tests came back clean. I also understand that something like eighty percent of Americans have used illegal drugs at one point or another, and that it's nothing unusual. But I haven't, and I'm not going to lie and say I have."
"Well, some people are ashamed...."
At the word "ashamed" I started laughing. I couldn't help it. It was funny! The thought of me being ashamed of something like that was a little much.
Anyhow, it was clear he didn't believe me, so eventually, I gave up arguing and trying to find out if there was something that could have caused a misread. I didn't think of it, but as my dad pointed out later, I could have informed him that it was basically physiologically impossible for me to use illegal drugs, since my body can just barely handle over-the-counter medication. But I didn't. I was too busy thinking things like, "If I was going to get accused of using drugs anyway, I should have at LEAST tried pot when I had the chance!" I allowed him to broom me out of the public safety building (apparently potheads are not allowed on the premises).
I was stymied. I actually called my dad, and didn't get much out of him besides spittle-covered epithets about the inaccuracy of polygraph machines and stories about some of the stupid polygraph results he's gotten. He was upset for me, but there wasn't a lot he could say that would help.
As I pulled up to the driveway, I saw the Kia Van parked in the garage. "Oh, good!" I thought to myself. "Tonya is home. She always provides such a nice, clear picture of things. She'll have some suggestions."
To that end I ran inside, eager and full of expectation. When she asked, I very simply told her, "I failed the polygraph."
What followed can only be described as buffeting waves of non-sequitor laughter.
When she was finally able to draw breath again and had cleaned up the water she had spewed all over the kitchen, her first words were "I'm SO proud of you!"
I never got an explanation. I'm not sure there is one.
But my biggest comfort on coming home tonight was a soothing knowledge that my roomies loved me too much to make me feel badly about this. If they pressed the issue at all, it would only be out of concern, and they would definitely be supportive. So, after a little coaxing, I let the entire stupid, humiliating story come spilling out.
After the gales of utterly socially inappropriate cackling had tapered off, the cleverness began. Questions were raised about my honesty, my chemical dependancy, and even something about my doubt-ridden heritage that I don't think anyone heard. I'm not even sure who said what any more, but rest assured of one thing...
That was NOT the response that I was looking forward to.
Once they got done with the ridicule, they began ribbing me about putting this in a blog. I didn't want to, of course, but I wasn't given much of a choice. Really, guys, I'm so glad that you enjoy my writing, but being the Blogmistress has GOT to have certain privileges, one of which, I feel, should be that you don't have to write anything embarassing about yourself.
Just sayin'.
So now, this is your bogmistress.
Single, slightly dyspeptic, and apparently hopped up on every illegal drug known to man. And I'm a Maxim girl.
Anyone know a midget I can beat up? You know, complete the trifecta of shame and ridicule?
Rest assured, roomies, that because of my love for you and my gratitude for your supportive behavior, I will begin a plan of action for the next time you are in an awkward situation with the potential to have an unreasonably ill effect on your self esteem. In the words of Laura:
"Oh boy. Retaliation will NOT be pretty."
Got it in one, m'dear. It will be ugly, swift, and final.
And it'll make one KICKIN' blog entry!
Love you guys!!

The secret lives of gnomes....but enough about Corrie.

Okay, so Laura and I are counting down the last hours until the other roomies return. A short prayer session and a run to Rosa's in pajamas and unwashed hair didn't do a whole lot to fill the time, so we turned on Vantage Point with Dennis Quaid, Sigourney Weaver, and William Hurt. A brief synopses, the president is assassinated at a world summit in Spain, and through the viewpoints of several different witnesses, the conspiracy behind it is unfolded. One of the plot twists is that it wasn't actually the president that was shot from the podium, but a body double, which apparently they have been using since the Reagan administration for various reasons.
And that's when it hit me.
Mark is a body double for president Obama!
Don't believe me?











TELL ME that's not Obama sans the makeover. Still skeptical? Watch, in Obama's next public appearance, he'll be sporting dreds.

But it got me thinking...what if all the people we know from this blog have double lives? What would their alter egos be? I mean, in every superhero comic ever written, the mild-mannered side does something nonthreatening like feeding puppies at the local animal shelter or selling marshmallows to old ladies, and then during the switch to the superhero side, they shoot flaming razorblade bombs or poison bioterrorist livers from their noses. It could be that I'm living with a bunch of radioactive superwomen and don't even know it!!!
I'm pretty sure Lisa is a lounge singer when we're not looking. I could totally see her wearing a velvet evening gown, lying on a piano playing with a rose while belting out "Don't Know Why" by Norah Jones. Between shows, she sits at the bar drinking club soda and lime, making all the men feel good about themselves by judiciously bestowed smiles and well-timed laughter.
Tonya is, quite obviously, a vigilante superheroine. The reason she's gone on so many "international trips?" Either she's doing shakedown sessions in her secret underground lair (which is probably located under the very house we live in) or she's flying around in her leopard skin hero suit, cape, knee boots, and goggle mask, fighting crime as "The Organic Avenger!" That's right, declaring war on over-processed food and unexamined lifestyles, Tonya's superhero catchphrase is, "It's a not religion, it's RELATIONSHIP!" (as she throws copies of The Shack and jars of organic Kalamata olives at her enemies).
Laura is a stripper. Sorry, Laura, but you're a stripper. You just are. Now that we know it, we can start to examine the reasons why you feel the need to live this life behind our backs. In reality, I bet you're moving out because you can't stand living the lie or hiding your rhinestone ichthus bikinis any more. Just promise me you'll tithe ten percent of your thong-dollaz.
I'll bet Corrie is a female wrestler. That would be so great! Her stage name is Iris the Virus, and she throws folding chairs at women three times her size. I can totally see her bouncing on those ropes and screaming, "NEXT SUNDAY, IN THIS ARENA, ONLY ONE OF US WILL WALK AWAY!" She's hired a special flock of gnomes to carry around her prize belts, as they would make her tip over if she actually wore them.
Michael? Michael is the guy that tests the shark suits. His blood is like battery acid, therefore he is ultimately safe from being mangled by Great White shark teeth. One bite and they whimper and run.
Jen Berger is a hard-hitting NPR reporter, who ferrets out injustice in cookie packing plants and Canadian subways. They've actually casted her for the new TV series, "NPR: Kalamazoo." It's like "CSI" but with plotlines instead of dead bodies. Jen will play several main characters, including a nymphomaniac russian bomb technician and a black oil mogul.
And as for me? I'm actually a highly-paid female escort. In my time off my private jet flies me to New York, where I sit in bars with rich, handsome men in glitzy gowns where they pay me to make wisecracks and make them look like they have interesting thoughts. I'm actually more like a prosthetic personality for the very wealthy. And of course, they all send me roses.
Why do I get the best alter existance?
Because I'M THE BLOGMISTRESS!!! That's why.
I also think Mama Claire and Papa Lynn are secretly former President and Mrs. George W Bush, they just have Normal Masks on to enhance their retirement.

Okay, so I'm gonna go look for that secret underground lair now. I hope the secret service doesn't break down my door in a few hours and indict me for compromising the president's security. Mark, you won't let them do that, right? *sniffle* Right?
Please?

Dance, Dance Revolution, POC style!!

Well, I didn't think I would have blog materiel this week, as most of the house is in San Diego with...*sniffle* without...*sniff*...without me. *quiet weeping* Bring me a present from the SD zoo! I didn't expect to have any fodder with which to make a post. However, a good night's sleep and a grande mocha later, here I am.

People say "dance like nobody's watching." One of the great things about living in a house full of girls is that you can do just that, whether it's salsa, waltz, or the hokey-pokey. There is no fear of anyone watching, and the girls here are too loving and down-to-earth to make fun of you. Every now and again, one of us will push the furniture back against the wall and initiate a round of living-room dancing. Injury while this is happening is surprisingly rare.

With the atmosphere lending itself to uninhibited behavior, it's given me a chance to take a look at the personal dance tastes of all the girls. I've drawn my conclusions from what I've seen as well as what I know of the personalities of each girl.

Let's start with Lisa.

Lisa is the only one among us with any dance lessons under her belt. Even so, she only dances when it is the most dire of emergencies. She plays it off as though she's shy. I suspect the real reason is that she's to considerate to make the rest of us look bad. Not only does she have the unfair genetic advantages of a latin heritage and tiny little feet that don't get in the way of move-busting, she's got the hip mojo to make the simplest dance move look cool.

To dance like Lisa: Wait until everyone else is dancing, then bust a move in the corner out of view, breaking out in freakishly complex footwork. Occasionally take a break to try (emphasis-TRY) to teach someone else to get down with their bad selves. Repeat as often as necessary until fatigued. Rest while telling everyone else how cool they are and that "we didn't really NEED that coffee table you just fell through." Resume dance cycle.

Corrie is a little different. Let me preface this one by re-emphasizing just how white Corrie is. I do not mean that her skin is the color of sour cream. I mean that she is a CRACKER (keep in mind, Corrie, that this is coming from the Saltine Queen herself). That being said, she still manages to hold her own in our POC dance-offs. The reason for this is that as with everything else, any slight deficiency in badonkadonk is trumped by tiny-ness. She does have rhythm, but even if she didn't she would manage just fine by virtue of the cute little hops she executes at random intervals.

To dance like Corrie: Arms at right angles to the body, one palm up, one palm down, fingers slightly curled. Screw in the lightbulb, pet the dog. Every now and again, hop for no apparent reason. Follow this immediately with a giggle. Be sure to have airsick bags handy as overexposure to this concentration of cuteness may cause projectile vomiting and ocular meltdown in others. Please, dance responsibly.

Laura comes the closest to club dancing of any of us. She has pretty good rhythmic skill, and the sheer manic energy she has is translated to that. If you ever watch her shake her groove thing, I'm gonna need to ask one favor of you.....
Please don't tell her she's white.
Laura's universe subsists on maintaining the very fragile illusion that she is, in fact, black. If this illusion were to be ruptured, not only would she loose all ability to get down with her bad self, but her head just might explode. It's not something we like to talk about, so I feel it necessary to issue that warning to the general public. If you watch Laura dance beside a video of African tribal dancers, the effect is very similar. And so, we let her dream.

To dance like Laura: Never stand on two feet at the same time, unless you are wiggling your butt (in a very chaste and Godly manner, of course). At all other times balance must be maintained on one foot or the other with the other leg cocked in the air. Hands must always be in motion, either making circular patterns or beating on invisible drums. While dancing, pay no attention to the beat of the music, as it is immaterial to the movements you will be making. WARNING: Do not attempt a Laura dance if you are pregnant, nursing, or have a pacemaker, arthritis, clotting difficulties, or heart disease.

Tonya! Now, TonTon may be tall and long-limbed, but I don't think anyone has ever noticed even trace amounts of gawkiness during our random dance episodes. Our Tonya has an excellent sense of rhythm, and to her, dancing is just keeping rhythm with your whole body and throwing in a few flourishes for flavor. Not only that, but she has so much confidence that I think if she were having a seizure on the floor people would think she meant to do it and try to copy the "crazy new move." This carries with it the danger of being unhelped during a seizure and is probably why she surrounds herself with medical personnel while she is getting jiggy with it.

To dance like Tonya: Own it. OWN THAT FLOOR! The music don't run you, YOU RUN THE MUSIC! Jam like you mean it, and the tune and meter will CHANGE accordingly. Moves are unimportant, and an entirely unnecessary and troubling little detail. This dance is best performed to "When I Ruled the World" by Coldplay, which can be converted into fast-paced pop song with if you do it right. The only disadvantage to this style is that there must be other boogy-downers in close proximity. Dancing alone is like kryptonite to the Tonya waltz.

Now we come....*sigh*....to me.
I really don't want to talk about this.
But I will.
You ever seen a turtle try to turn itself over from being on its back? Ever seen a really, really fuzzy golden retriever puppy trying to run across a linoleum floor? Okay, combine those two images, and you've pretty much got my dancing. Not that it matters when you're in a group of awesome girls wearing pajamas in the living room of your own home, it's just awkward when I get into public.
To dance like Erin: Fake a back injury to try to explain why you are samba-ing like a sick camel. Break into the funky chicken at LEAST every fifteen seconds, or whenever it gets awkward. Whichever comes first. Because when you're doing the funky chicken, people are too busy laughing and thinking you're clever to realize that you really have no skills. Allow Tonya to do that spinny thing with you. Stub your toe on something and try not to say bad words. Repeat.


So there it is. Now you all know what we're doing when no one is here. Rest assured, though, that if you should try to sneak up and catch a glimpse of us doing all this, we will immediately push the furniture back in place and pretend to go about our business. Until you leave. The only person that has been allowed to watch our tribal ceremonies is Jen Eggers, and she was forced to participate. HER style, if you're wondering, is a montage of the other dancers'. She's so eager to please!

Coming soon, POC action figures!

Deep in the heart of Crowley, there is an unassuming little house in an unassuming little suburb, with an unassuming little lawn in front of it. There is nothing remarkable about the outside of the house. The only thing you may notice about it is that there are sometimes an insane number of cars in the driveway, around the driveway, on the curb, on the neighbor's curb, and basically anywhere but on the roof. Other than that, there is no indication as to the joyfully insane kaliedescope that is the POC Household. Together a varying number of roomies worship, work, pray, and grow together, usually dragging scores of others into their gravitational field.
What is the POC, you may ask?
Read on.

Okay, so I shouldn't really even be the one doing this...I'm a relative newcomer to the POC (Pocket of Coolness). But seeing as how the other girls here are about as busy as it gets, besides the fact that I enjoy expressing my opinion on EVERYTHING, I decided to get the POC blog started. Here's where we're going to record news updates, POC random quotes, and the continual development of our plot to overthrow the world and institute our own key policies.
But maybe you don't know all the POCettes, or perhaps know one of us but not all. Fear not, dear reader! The following is a catalogue of the female wildlife that inhabits this household, some honorable mentions, and the menagerie of critters that we own or tolerate.

Tonya: The official owner of the POC, Hurricane Tonya is pretty much the same thing as a superhero. The driving force behind most of the activity in the house with a gianormous heart for African missions, she draws on a Divinely bestowed bank of energy and a LOT of coffee to perform her physics-defying feats. Thrusting aside childhood ambitions to be a black singer, she has managed to be involved in just about everything under the sun. And what she hasn't done, she has definite plans for. Seriously, she's purchased the plane tickets and everything. Always ask what book she's reading, because that's the book you need to be reading too.


Lisa: We would call Lisa Tonya's sidekick if she weren't basically a superhero in her own right. This salsa-dancing, guitar-playing, Jane Austen Movie Watching short stack is deceptively quiet when you first meet her. Don't be fooled. You'll never see the sass coming. Double-timing as a teacher and a music minister, Lisa somehow still finds the energy to be all cute, all the time. There may be quiet moments, but they're thoroughly interspersed with explosive faux-arabic, TV jingles, snippets from musicals, and the occasional "HOT!" She's our favorite fun-sized friend!


Laura: LIMITED TIME ONLY! THIS OFFER ENDS SOON! Laura is one of the three POC nurses of the Pediatric bent. If you think Lisa is explosive, wait till you hang around this one for a while. With cockatoo hair and a penchant for chaste interludes of booty-dancing, we're pretty sure God invented coffee just so He could keep up with her. Her battle cry of "Who would NOT want this?" (usually screamed while gesturing to her own robe/pajamas, slippered feet, and faux-hawk) has been repeated broken-record fashion by all the POCettes at one time or another. Unfortunately, this little firecracker is slated to leave our little abode in a matter of days in favor of a greatly shortened drive to church, family, and friends. It's okay, Laura. We forgive you. Kind of.


Corrie: Nurse # 2 (we have a sneaking suspicion that Tonya collects us, snowglobe-style). Her specialty is Tropical Diseases, so if you happen to get Ebola, you're covered in this house! She's been designated by the blog mistress as the FTP (favorite tiny person). If she gets cranky, feed her. If she gets giggly, film her. If she gets sleepy, put her to bed. Careful, though! She's tiny, but she's fast, and she can lift a freakishly large amount of weight. This basically means that if you anger her, she'll run around behind you and drop a grand piano on your head before you realize what's going on. Just don't interrupt her quality time with Jesus and Starbucks and you should be okay, though.

Erin: We'll keep this short, as you readers are probably going to get to know me all too well. I'm the blog mistress. I like cartoons and fuzzy things. I'm obnoxious. I'm the third in the nurse triad here, and I deal with the old people. Between the three of us, we have the entire lifespan covered.

Honorable Mentions:

Michael: The Bosley to our Charlie's Angels, Lisa's brother SAYS he likes hanging out here because we're fun. Actually, we're almost certain that he just likes surrounding himself with attractive women.

Mama Claire and Papa Lynn: Tonya's parents, and darn near parents for the rest of the girls here. If you need food for someone that's allergic to everything but air, Mama Claire is your woman. If you need to move and have no truck or manpower, Papa Lynn is your go-to man.

Mark Chin: Okay, Mark, you got an honorable mention. Mark has been hanging around here a lot lately, probably for similar reasons to Michael, but he seems to like Tonya an awful lot...hmm.....Anyway, he fixes stuff and laughs at our jokes, so...yay!

Jen Berger: Formerly Eggie, Jen is actually an honorary POCette, and usually comes over here on Saturday nights to watch movies, make powerpoint slides, and generally be saucy with us! Plus, she cleans the rec room when she stays over. Jen is made of awesome. End of story.


Menagerie:

Buddy: We're not really sure what Buddy is. The vet is adamant that he's a dog. The Animal Rescue place swears he's a Shih-Tzu mix. Tonya insists that he's a sweet widdle boy. I think he's a mobile teddy bear with a wagging tail. Whether he's none or all of these things, Buddy is quite possibly the cutest, most laid-back house pet ever. We love our Buddy.

Old Lady: This cat probably used the Garden of Eden as a litterbox. She is only a couple of years younger than Methusela, and so she spends most of her day curled up on my bed where it's warm and there is relatively little nonsense going on. If she were human, she would sit on her front porch in her rocker. If she had a yard, she would yell at kids to get out of it.

Trippy: There have been attempted murders on this cat more times than I can count, by people an animals alike. With that in mind, it's no wonder she's a little twitchy. She and the other dog have a continuous drama going on that Corrie and I desperately try to moderate. Which brings me to....

Molly: Molly is an idiot. I'm sorry Molly, I love you, and you're an awesome dog, but you're an idiot. So determined is this monstrous dog that she's going to be friends with my petrified cats that she has braved vocal threats, swipes, and one incident with a claw-mangled cornea. She likes the food that is not in her bowl and the little gaps under beds that are far too small for her to be in.

So that's it! My hands are tired, so I'm bringing this blog to an end, but at least now we're all on the same page. Things around here might get bonkers, and it might be a mess, but it's OUR mess, and we love it.
Check back for further updates. I'll try to send out notifications on Facebook when it's updated. I make no apologies for the potential erroneous or grossly exaggerated content. If you doubt all this stuff is actually happening, come over and see for yourself. The reality-defying occurances here are all part of the ride, so get in, sit down, hush up, and hold on!
But let me know if you're about to get motion-sick, cause I've got some dramamine.

Wait, was I still talking? Okay, check back with us! See ya soon! Buh BYE!


~Grace with you
Erin