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Join the Campaign to Save Frema's Cable

Many thanks to all who showed compassion over my bold decision to eliminate cable. I thought I would receive at least one "Cable's a waste of money, anyway, just say good riddance and quit whining about it" rant, but no. My friend Gina was especially eager to talk this out with me. "Hold on, now," she said, genuinely concerned. "There's got to be another way." She suggested I get a second job to cover expenses, and I almost laughed. The idea never even crossed my mind, because a) who gets a second job to pay for extra channels on their TV? and b) I did not just earn my master's degree to work behind a cash register at Borders. If I had a family to support and needed extra money for food and soap that would be another story BUT I DON'T. So no. No second job for me. The three-month digital trial doesn't end until mid-August, so until then I'll continue to deepen the @$$ print on my couch and try to avoid thinking about my upcoming loss. (For Adam: I only signed up for the digital trial because it was fifteen bucks cheaper than the basic plan. Also, at fifty dollars, basic is only ten cheaper than digital. Do you see my dilemma? Do you?)

I remember the first day my family got cable; it was a cold, rainy afternoon in 1987, and the technician was there for what felt like ALL FREAKIN' DAY. But, when he was done? Magic! Suddenly I could watch Dumbo's Circus and The Mickey Mouse Club on the Disney Channel. That's all I needed to know about cable to know it was wonderful. It's how I was introduced to Dynasty. Jon Stewart. Bad movies with Meredith Baxter-Birney and this one flick starring Linda Hamilton and Richard Thomas as a married couple with a son who has AIDS and ending with Linda Hamilton giving him permission to "go towards the light." I was ten years old and never sobbed so much in my entire life.

Sigh. Enough about cable already, because honestly, it's not so important that two entries need to cover it. (I think.) Instead, we'll talk about how sad I was yesterday, when I went to the mall in search of bachelorette-party necessities for my sister's shindig this Saturday. I purchased some pretties for her at Victoria's Secret but not one stinkin' thing for me. Not even underwear, currently on a three-for-thirty-dollars only! sale. Emotionally unable to leave the premises, I found myself in stores once deemed too classy for my blood, fingering the material of several dresses, blouses, and skirts at Ann Taylor and Banana Republic, inwardly weeping over the fact that I have not added to my wardrobe since May and will not have the funds to justify a spree until (hopefully?) fall. I think about this, and my no-cable resolve strengthens. It's more fun to wear what you want than watch What Not to Wear.

Get Your Pee On

Here you go, folks! My first national sample, available right here, revels in the glory that is therapeutic drug monitoring, blood and urine specimen collection, and insurance billing! With a byline! Unfortunately, I had to forfeit my super-cool alias, but look! A comma with letters after my last name! Print your copy today! Also, !.

In other, non-fluid-related news, I was making out my own bills last night and realized some changes need to be made. My boss was generous with my starting salary, so that I can afford the cost of living in Indianapolis and dine on foods other than Ramen noodles and Spaghetti-Os. (Except I don't cook, so I totally live on Ramen noodles and Spaghetti-Os.) However, the little things are starting to add up. The cell phone bill I was hoping to eliminate but can't since I travel so much on the weekends; the landline bill I could have avoided if my phone had better reception; savings, 401(k) and money-market deductions; electricity; rent that is almost three times the amount of my $220 apartment back in Rensselaer (ah, those were the days!). And soon, the addition of student loan debt. If I ever want to shop again, I have to make some changes. There is only one bill that can afford to go.

That bill? Is the (gasp!) cable bill.

I hear that some people forgo (gasp!) cable by choice and go on to lead normal, productive lives, without the pure joy that is SoapNet, The Learning Channel, and USA. They are not interested in All My Children nightly recaps or marathons of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. They are not familiar with Monk. And yet, they carry on. They use the extra 60 bucks for more Important things like feeding homeless children in Africa and drinking beer.

I do not want to become "some people." I don't want to live life never watching another episode of What Not to Wear or a TBS-edited Sex and the City. They don't have SVU Labor-Day marathons on NBC. And is CNBC a cable station? Will I ever watch The Suze Orman Show again?

But the Adult part of me knows it must be done. The Adult part knows that cutting (gasp!) cable is the only way to get me off the damn couch. I will devour books in the lovely reading corner I've staged in my bedroom. Talk to God. Have money for DSL service since I'll soon receive a PC courtesy of my boss, who is eager to empower me to "bring work home." In one fell swoop I'll have established a Roth IRA, encouraged a pay raise and saved my very soul.

That is, until Luke gets to Indy and our financial incomes become one. But no pressure, sweetie. Honey. Love of my life. No pressure at all.

Musings on How Johnny Depp Took Over the World

Warning: This entry has nothing to do with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which I did see this weekend but did not very much enjoy. Gene Wilder will always be Willy Wonka to me.

At some point in my childhood, I began to dream about Judgement Day--that wonderful event where God determines if you're naughty or nice, worthy of Heaven or destined for Hell. How it happened varied; sometimes, all the lights would blow out and everyone would gather in their backyards, where lifespans of mistakes would appear on a huge TV for all of humanity to see. Others? Well, I can't remember others. Last night, though, I had a new version involving Johnny Depp and the Super Target near my house.

I think we knew it was coming. Luke was there, along with This Gal, Reggie from All My Children (apparently a good friend of mine), and dozens of other shoppers, all of us attempting to stock our refrigerators with supplies. Maybe in case It happened and we weren't armed with enough ho-hos to make it through the judging part. I was in the chip aisle (which of course is right next to frozen foods) when a huge wave of water suddenly flooded the aisles and started carrying people away. But it was a selective carrying away. The first wave went over everyone, but only certain people went with it. This Gal was one of the first to go (sorry, This Gal), and all I could was watch. Didn't reach out my hand or anything. Reggie? No more acting jobs for him. Luke was one of the last. We were holding on to each other when the water pulled him in. At that point I started to pray, but then it was over and only a handful of individuals were left. Then, suddenly, Johnny Depp. Coming up to me, holding on to me, his demeanor making it clear he was the cause of the water and the reason I was now alone.

His tone of voice was seductive, his eyes piercing, his sense was familiar. Not sensual, but hypnotic. Not what I expected of the Devil. He knew I was upset when he said I needed to go home with him, and he knew I was trying not to show it, though I did ask if it was OK to cry. He didn't answer. I didn't cry. I tried to act brave by pulling out bags of chocolate and peanut butter Nestle chips and eating right out of the package. I went home with him. Chris visited us. I remember wanting to escape and hoping he didn't feel it. And then I woke up.

My subconscious is constantly bringing to life the scenarios I am most afraid of. During the day, I do silly things like will for dolls to blink or smile at me, daring them to reveal their evil selves. In my dreams, I do these things and they happen. Last night it happened twice. One doll was as big as those life-sized Barbies popular about five years ago, but she didn't catch me. It also happened with a doll made of flannel. Luke grabbed her hands, and she didn't come to life until I started cutting her with scissors. Go me.

WHY do I freak myself out like this? Because my grandmother taught me I could go to Hell at any moment? I'm unsure of what God really wants? Early exposure to bad movies? If you have any ideas, feel free to pass it on. Or just say something funny so these images won't be burned into my brain.

Damn ALL the Peking Ducks!

Before you judge me for hating ducks, know that I do not hate ducks. I love ducks. When I was a kid, my mother would take my siblings and me to the nearby park and she would make popcorn and we would throw it in the water and the ducks would eat it. Hooray!

Peking ducks. It's the PEKING ducks I hate. Because I think they are out to kill me.

Last night, I thought for once I would get off my lazy @$$ and do something besides watch soap operas. "Feed the ducks!" thought me. "What a great idea!" So I grabbed two pieces of bread, which were sealed in an airtight plastic Ziplock bag because this gal has me terrified of these, and ran downstairs in anticipated glee. I would bond with the ducks. They would eat bread nuggets RIGHT OUT OF MY HAND and quack love ballads in my direction at night and wait patiently by my car for more bread every day. This scenario came very close to fruition until the Peking ducks charged towards me and the gourmet carbs I was tossing into the water. The last time this happened, it was with geese, and I just threw the pieces at their beaks and ran back upstairs. This time, I just threw the pieces at their beaks and ran back upstairs. But also this time, I came back. With my carscraper. For I was determined to feed the ducks. I thought I could raise the scraper, take a menacing step in their direction, and those beeotches would back the eff off.

When I actually took the menacing step, though, they continued to charge at me, and I didn't use the scraper because I was afraid it would egg them on. Plus, my neighbors might think I was trying to butcher "helpless" animals and then hold their children close whenever in my presence. So I ran back upstairs again, throwing all bread in the dump on my way to the complex. (It was getting moldy anyway. When will The-Grocery-Store-Powers-That-Be make loaves small enough for a single person to actually finish?)

I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. Brutal pecking, probably.

In other news, the magazine with my pee article came out today. So happy! If I had a scanner, I'd scan the whole article and post it here, or maybe just my byline, because, who are we kidding, nobody but your gynocologist is ever going to read it. But I am proud just the same.

Reunited (And It Feels So Good)

I was a fool to ever leave your side

Me minus you is such a lonely ride

The break-up we had has made me lonesome and sad

I realize I love you 'cause I want you bad

I spent the ev'ning with the radio

Regret the moment that I let you go

Our quarrel was such a way of learnin' so much

I know now that I love you 'cause I need your touch

Reunited and it feels so good

Reunited 'cause we understood

There's one perfect fit

And, sugar, this one is it

We both are so excited 'cause we're reunited

Booking My Time

Turns out I've been so busy watching TV that I neglected to properly prepare myself for the arrival of this book. I've barely started The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and I wanted to wait until things settled down before I delved into Chris's masterpiece. Plus, I was hoping to re-read The Order of the Phoenix so that I wouldn't be all, "Huh? When did that happen?" for book six. This dilemma wouldn't seem so gigantic if I liked reading three or four novels at a time. But I don't. I like to savor a book I'm reading, the page I'm on, the universe I'm lost in. I like to go back and review chapters, stew over a plot. In other words, take my sweet time.

So, my options are to keep on as I've been (complaining but doing nothing), drop everything for Harry, or dive into all three universes with a vengeance. I'm sure option number two will win. I hate the idea of missing out on all the hoopla, and if I wait, I just know that all the secrets of number six will be revealed on the Internet, thus cheating me out of a proper Harry experience. C.S. Lewis and Chris will just have to understand. This is the only situation where it's perfectly appropriate for a twenty-five-year-old woman to surrender herself to a (now) sixteen-year-old boy.

Samantha's wedding shower is this Saturday, and I am trying my best to wrap up all the details. Centerpieces, menus, RSVPs, touching up my roots and deciding what to wear.... It's going to be a long week.

Beware the Fury That is Frema!

That's what somebody should have told the car insurance guy who followed up on my complaint this morning, because I was P*SSED OFF. (OK, not a great curse disguise, but whatever.)

On July 8, I will celebrate TWO MONTHS of being without the precious, precious car I didn't realize I loved so much until some nitwit smashed into it--with both Luke and I in it--on Mother's Day. Since then, there have been tons of Problems and Situations, mainly because the model is so damned new there are no spare parts to fix the ones in need of repair. I may possibly go down in history as the first girl to smash up her Cobalt. Hooray for me.

While the body shop waited for parts to arrive from God knows where, GMAC must have been counting the days until my 45-day rental insurance expired, because starting June 22, they stopped paying for my Grand Am. Only I didn't find out until July 1, and I got to hear it from some poor schmuck at Enterprise, not GMAC, who told me in our last conversation that though I was nearing the 45-day max, they would file an extension. So. I called my agent, who left word on his voice mail that he was off for a week's vacation and apparently didn't think it necessary to inform me about this latest development, a development that slapped me with $267 in back fees to Enterprise and counting. PLUS, I had never let go of his reprimanding me for my choice of vehicle when the whole parts thing came up, "because, you know, even though it's nice to have a new car, this is what you get." Maybe the GMAC agent didn't remember that I have a GM CAR.

P*ssed OFF.

And I let the manager know it today, who kept trying to skirt around the issue with, "but 45 days is all the policy will cover" and "but he told you the limit was coming up, right?" until I unleashed my inner rage, after which he was magically able to extend payment until today. Damn straight.

Yesterday I was in Rensselaer and saw my baby for the first time since the accident. She's so close to being done; they estimate this Friday. Can't wait. The body shop and car dealer, who has some airbag and seatbelt work to do, have been wonderful throughout this whole process. Hopefully, the Fury can remain dormant until the Cobalt and I are reunited.