What are you looking at?

Be Careful What You Wish For

I start out the day with one goal: write a post honoring America's celebration of blood, guts, goblins, and the unknown. After reading Isabel's haunted house story, I'm inspired to share stories about the strange goings-on that've taken place in my own family's apartment building, specifically on the first floor, after its occupant, my grandmother, passed away in 2000. Only the thing is, those goings-on didn't happen to me but to my siblings, so I leave cryptic messages on Ryan's and Samantha's voice mails after work, soliciting their personal experiences for shameless exploitation and cheap thrills for all the Internet to see. I'm able to make contact with my brother Geo, who doesn't have any stories about Nana but is kind enough to remind me that a woman died in one of the first-floor bedrooms and a man killed himself in our garage via carbon monoxide poisoning. "You can blog about that," he says.

By this time it's seven o'clock, and two of our friends have arrived for a private showing of The Exorcism of Emily Rose, a find I was quite proud of, a find that confirmed my suspicions that the desire to take in a respectable horror flick on Halloween must be regarded as a top priority not to be delegated to the last minute. (I painfully learned this lesson last year when Luke and I waited until the night of to check out a movie and were forced to succomb to the mediocrity that is The House of Wax.) We watch the movie, during which the phone rings twice, both return calls from each of my sisters wanting to scare the bejeezus out of me with tales of my grandmother running through the hallway of the first-floor apartment she occupied for sixteen years prior to her death at the same time I'm watching a college student gorge holes in the walls with her fingernails and spit out various names of The Devil in foreign tongues. I get ahold of Samantha after the movie and share with her my new fear that I'll wake up at three o'clock in the morning with visions of spiritual torture and reprimand. I tell her I still have one more movie to go and am now debating the intelligence of subjecting myself to Saw II. "Maybe you should, so you can get the nightmares over with all at once," she says.

Thanks, Sissy. Happy Halloween to you, too.

It's moments like this in which I find myself thankful for having What About Bob? in my possession. Much to Luke's chagrin.

Well, shit.

I've officially been added to Mrs. Kennedy's list of participants for November's National Blog Posting Month. Words can't describe how nervous I am about attempting to post something halfway intelligent everyday for a whole month. I've started compiling a list of ideas that can hopefully be shaped into semi-interesting posts, and I'm seriously considering the purchase of Mighty Girl's new blog book. I suppressed several urges to update this weekend, each time thinking to myself, "Must save for November. Must save for November." I'm reminded of my high school theater days, when I'd spent a week in dress rehearsal prepping for opening night, praying to God for the stamina to make it through the entire run of just one show. I wasn't kidding when I said I'd need your help; for the bloggers who aren't jumping on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon, you all are encouraged to submit daily comments to the ones who are. In exchange for this commitment, I solemnly promise to avoid the evil seduction of the meme for as long as possible.

With only two days left 'til showtime, I'm hesitant to write about anything of substance ("Must save for November. Must save for November!"). However, I will say that on Thursday night I had a dream where I bumped into Kiefer Sutherland on the street and I called him Mr. Sutherland and he smiled and kissed me square on the mouth. That was very nice.

It's already been established that I do not have a top five--you know, being a married woman and all--but hypothetically speaking, just for the sake of argument, if I did have a top five, it might look something like this:

1. Kiefer Sutherland
So urgent. So scratchy with the vocal chords. So very, very hot.

2. Howie Mandel
But only as he currently appears on Deal or No Deal. I refuse to acknowledge he even existed before this show.

3. Peter Krause
Never saw Six Feet Under, but man, was he good lookin' in Sports Night.

4. Zach Braff
Did anyone see The Last Kiss? The movie was just meh, but his dorm-room sex scene with Rachel Bilson is quite the steam inducer.

5. ?

Help a sista out, ladies. If I were to, someday, perhaps in the near future, entertain the idea of creating and laminating a list of top five male celebrities permitted to court me in the biblical sense without engaging the wrath of my very tall husband, who should that number five be?

Apparently I'm Recovered Enough To Spend A Hundred Dollars At The Mall

Lately it's so easy for me to feel down about myself: less-than-stellar haircut, fifteen extra pounds in my trunk, ugly circles under my eyes from pushing bedtime to midnight or beyond.... Who knew all those bad feelings could be cured by spending some Benjamins?

(Say hello to my father-in-law, whose charming smile graces the (stage) left side of my new FREE make-up bag.)

Thanks to a little help from my friends, suddenly everything seems much brighter: my hair, which is actually growing out quite nicely, thank you very much; my skin, which is appearing to benefit from my mother's household stash of Proactiv; my weight, which wears much better when it's not being squeezed into clothing that emphasizes my mid-section.

OK, so these purchases don't exactly fit in with my quest to save money, but in my defense, I had an NY&C coupon that gave me thirty bucks off a total of seventy-five or more, resulting in five tops for under fifty dollars; plus, it was Bonus Time at Clinique. Who can resist the lure of delicious free samples for a minimum purchase of twenty-one fifty? Obviously not Frema. So what if I spent forty-five? I was still seven dollars shy of the amount I told Luke I would spend when I informed him this morning of the shopping trip that was sure to take place that afternoon.

(Edited to add: I have one gripe about Van Maur's Clinique counter: when I inquired about make-up removers, the girl tried to sell me a bottle of something that was already included in the Bonus Time package, a detail she failed to confirm until I carefully examined its contents and pointed it out; a detail that totally pisses me off. I'd already signed on for the All About Eyes and the Stay Matte Sheer Pressed Powder. You're getting my commission, woman! For cripe's sake, I'm shelling out twenty-seven Wendy's crispy chicken sandwiches for eye cream! Did you really need to extract another fifteen bucks from my debit card?)

Life is good. I'm feeling much better, I made it back to step class for the first time in two weeks, dishes are done, the checkbook is balanced, and once I hit "Publish," my blog will be updated. All I need is some sleep. I woke up at four o'clock today to deliver Luke to the airport in time for a seven o'clock flight, and since the lab is just another few minutes away, I decided to clock in two hours early. Of course, I left two hours early to make up the time. Such the dedicated worker bee am I.

And for the month of November, I hope to become a more dedicated blogger. When I heard about National Blog Posting Month from Kerflop a few days ago and the accompanying challenge to post once a day every day for the entire month, I hesitated to register. I can barely manage to update once a week; how can I possibly find something interesting to say thirty straight days in a row? Will writer's block resign me to cheesy literary devices like memes and sequels to my 100 things list?

There's only one way to find out.

People, I'm gonna need your help. Are there any topics you'd like me to address? Issues in my personal life you wish I'd explore more intimately? Embarrassing pictures you want to see? Then bring them the hell on, because OH SNAP. THIRTY STRAIGHT DAYS. GOD.

I have to pick up Luke from the airport now, so we can end this day and go to bed already, but before I do, I wanted to share some pictures I took during the Lost A Sock family's trip to Indianapolis this past Sunday. They are among the elite few who have dared to step foot in the Frema-Useless Clutter apartment, and their visit gave me a wonderful excuse to dust my picture frames and bleach my floors. In return, they provided two more reasons for me to speed up the childbirthing process. Thanks for making my ovaries ache, kids.

Doesn't Molly look fabulous? I'm drooling at the mouth over her hotness.

...And the utter coolness of KJ's glasses. My nine-year-old self is so jealous.

Recovering

Here it is, Saturday night, and instead of donning a mad scientist costume and accompanying my Charlie Brown husband to a friend's Halloween party, I'm in my Peace Frog pajama pants, alternating between the computer and some American Idol rewind segment on Fox, which I'm thinking is from the first season because Ryan looks as skinny as Clay Aiken and former co-host Brian Dunkleman is all up in his celebrity grill. Future plans for the evening include playing old Nintendo games and breaking into my first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD, which has managed to hold fast to its virgin state since last summer.

My immune system is doing much better than it was a few days ago, but I'm still pretty worn out, so I thought it best for Luke to go to the party alone, allowing me to catch up on some self-prescribed laying around time. And apparently some blog time, too.

Many thanks to those who've participated in the name. my. BLOG! contest thus far. I'm pretty fond of one of the suggestions already, even though it doesn't really fit the "original but not long" criteria. However, after receiving said suggestion, I'm thinking length has less to do with it than a sense of general confusion. For example, http://www.whatreyoulookinat.com/ is much more in line with traditional branding standards, but what if somebody doesn't notice the contractions and types the "a" in "are" or "g" in "looking"? Where would I be then, Internet? WHERE WOULD I BE THEN?

Anyway, just to give everyone a fair chance to get in on the fun, I'm declaring an official deadline of October 31. Remember, there are fun prizes in store for the creator of the winning name, so hop to it, peeps!

Before I submit to the seduction of the boob tube, here's a meme Jenabeeb tagged me for a while back.

Three people who make me laugh
Zach Braff on Scrubs, Steve Carell on The Office, the contestants on Deal or No Deal

Three things I hate
My indecision on religion, lack of self control when it comes to food, the state of city public schools

Three things I don't understand
Smoking, Harry Potter critics, why apartment buildings get so few trick-or-treaters

Three things I am doing right now
Listening to The Insider, contemplating between Ninja Gaiden and The Legend of Zelda, waiting for my Reese's peanut-butter cup to harden in the freezer

Three things I want to do before I die
Visit a foreign country, have children, own a business

Three things I am able to do
Network, parallel park, see the forest for the trees

Three words to describe me
Self-deprecating, skeptical, ambitious

Three things I cannot do
Tolerate an episode of Dancing with the Stars, play an instrument, take apart our blender

Three things I want to learn
Balance a checkbook to the penny, Fertility Awareness Method, html code

Three favorite foods
Spinach dip, cheeseburgers, ice cream

Three beverages I drink regularly
Orange juice, milk, fruit smoothies

Three shows I watched as a kid
The New Mickey Mouse Club, Saved by the Bell, The Wonder Years

Three people I tag
Anyone who's interested

Sorry, Isabel, But I'll Probably Never Watch Veronica Mars or (Gasp!) Project Runway

For the first time since Friends went off the air and 24 and Scrubs were moved to spring premieres, I'm actually enjoying the new fall television season. If so inclined, I could theoretically watch one new show every night of the work week. The current Frema-Useless Clutter line-up is as follows:

Monday:
Deal or No Deal
Heroes

Tuesday:
Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit

Wednesday:
Bones (when we remember)

Thursday:
My Name is Earl (occasionally)
The Office
Deal or No Deal

Friday:
Law and Order
Deal or No Deal

Deal or No Deal. Oh, man, I love this show. There's something about wanting to win a shitload of money that everybody can connect to, that makes everybody root for the underdog, because if they can do it, by God, why not you? I love holding my breath as Howie instructs each model to "open the case;" I love trying to remember all the models' names, as it was just last week I realized each case is always opened by the same woman; I love imagining what I would do if I were the contestant and the banker was offering me two hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars to turn over my case, which, hello, the possibility of a million bucks can't compare to the reality of paying off my student loan debt and paying for a starter home in full.

Heroes is good. After watching the first episode, I thought the premise would've been better suited for a miniseries, because how can they maintain such heightened drama for an entire season? It's working so far, though, and I'm anxious to see what happens next. The characters are pretty intriguing, and I'm loving Hiro, the little Japanese man who can travel through time. I like Claire, but I can't look at her without pondering how much she resembles the snot-nose hussy in Roseanne who was always trying to get with Darlene's boyfriend and wondering if she's an actual blonde. I'm not sure what Nikki's heroic abilities are, unless you call stripping for the Internet in your garage and summoning a Sybil-like alter ego to threaten menacing gangsters heroic, and the young Dr. Suresh is without any supernatural abilities at all. It'll be interesting to see how this storyline progresses, that's for sure.

I've always been a fan of the Law and Order franchise, particularly SVU, and back when I had cable, it wasn't uncommon for me to succomb to the nightly four-hour marathons on USA. Once I cut myself off from the good stuff, I convinced myself that weekly prime time does could never be good enough. Now, a year later, I have returned to the show once again, finally experiencing the joy that is watching brand-new episodes on their original air dates. However, I have no idea what happened to Olivia, some blond woman whose cop husband was murdered by a couple of punks is posing as Elliot's new partner, and Munch is trying to get in the pants of one of the forensic pathologists. A little help, anyone?

Bones is good, but for some reason, Wednesday is a hard day to remember to flip through the channels. Plus, I have to catch up on All My Children sometime.

My Name is Earl. Back in college, I was a huge Kevin Smith fan and took weekly Internet quizzes testing the breadth of my knowledge regarding Smithsonian dialogue from Clerks, Mallrats, and Chasing Amy. ("I'm not even supposed to be here today!" "In the back of a Volkswagon?" "I brought a lunch, and a soda, and I'm not leaving until I see this sailboat everyone keeps talking about.") When I heard Jason Lee (aka Brodie/aka Banky) was headlining his own show with none other than the sailboat man himself, I was so psyched.

And then I watched it.

It's not that the show is bad, exactly, but there's no oompf. No spark. No clever wit. That's all been reserved for The Office, which rivals Scrubs as the funniest show on the airwaves. If you don't agree, either a) you've not watched the show, in which case you deserve to have a nine-inch stiletto thrown at your forehead, or b) you watched the show and didn't think it was funny due to the large pinecone hiberating in your nether regions, in which case, you deserve to have a nine-inch stiletto THROWN AT YOUR FREAKIN' FOREHEAD. I can't believe Luke and I didn't discover the series until the end of the second season, at the height of Jim and Pam's sexual tension. So riveting!

There's a lot of talk about television on the Internet, about shows I've never seen and probably never will. Veronica Mars? I have no idea what this show is about. Project Runway? It's like The Apprentice for fashion designers, right? Where's the fun in that?

Just another reason I'll never be an A-list blogger.

(Quick, somebody check on Isabel. I have a feeling she's clutching at her chest and shouting unmentionable obscenities in the direction of the Midwest.)

What are you all diggin' right now?

The End of The Ring Runs a Close Third

In the almost three years that I've kept this blog, the topic of scary movies has been addressed several times. Everytime a new horror film is released, I have to reconcile the conflicting emotions I have about the subject, because as much as I love to be scared, I hate dealing with the aftermath, which usually involves a determination not to get up and pee once the lights are out unless Luke escorts me to the bathroom or the sun is shining through the bedroom blinds. As a result of early exposure to religious folklore about devils breaking through the earth's crust to claim bad little children, I can't convince my heart these scenarios have no basis in reality and could never happen, even if my brain knows otherwise. It's not uncommon for me to burst into tears upon a film's conclusion, which is exactly what happened when we saw The Grudge on the big screen two years ago and The Amityville Horror remake in the comfort of our living room last fall. And yet, like a drug addict itchin' for a fix, I always want more. Whenever we're browsing through the aisles of a Blockbuster, gory rentals are the first ones that catch my attention.

Luke and I got to talking about scary movies last week, during which I was shocked to learn he'd never seen Carrie, one of the all-time genre greats. While it's not one of my favorites, some of those scenes are permanently burned into my memory: Carrie's mother being crucified with all those knives in her kitchen, with the Scary Jesus Cross looming in the background; the sole survivor of Carrie's senior class paying her respects at Carrie's grave site when Carrie's arm shoots up from the ground to undoubtedly pull the poor girl into Hell.

In honor of the Halloween season, which horror movie scene has left the biggest impression on you?

A New Level of Corporate Inappropriateness

It's official, folks: I'm sick. I woke up this morning to a stuffy nose, pounding headache, and total lack of desire to leave the confines of my bedroom. However, I dragged my infected ass into work, anyway, because I needed to get our client newsletter to the printer and my remaining sick days are already reserved for Christmas.

Hiding in my office with the door half-closed and my Office Depot space heater turned to full blast, I kept my sorry plight a secret until mid-afternoon, when my boss stopped by during his daily rounds. A couple of hours later, I received the following e-mail from a fellow coworker we'll call Jane:

Please forgive me for intruding into your personal life and I’m not sure if I’m correct about what I overheard. I thought I heard Doc ask if you were getting sick. Which led me to believe that you were expecting. If you are, I’d like to first congratulate you on the impending birth of your child. Next, I wanted to let you know if that if you needed someone to talk to about being pregnant and all of its’ “weirdness”..lol..I’m here. After having four children I could probably ease some of the initial nervousness you may be experiencing. However if you aren’t, please disregard this email….lol…and have a great day.

I suppose I should've seen this coming. After all, Jane and I did converse about the usefulness of Ramen's Cup O'Noodles line in the break room last week. The natural follow-up would of course be a note inquiring if my husband and I bumped uglies in a manner that left me with child.

If it was any other person, I may have shared a few choice words, but Jane just joined the company last month after an almost ten-year hiatus to raise her kids full-time, and I could see she meant no harm, so I simply set her straight and thanked her for her concern. But OH MY FREAKIN' GOD. Is this what I have to look forward to? Will every sniffle be interpreted as a sign of pregnancy? Should I be thankful she didn't ask me to pee on a stick right then and there?

Tell me, those of you without twigs and berries, what would you have done?

Don't let the hilarity of my predicament distract you from naming. my. BLOG! More about that later, I promise.

Blog, Resurrected

Let me start by saying that I am so mad at myself for not blogging on Friday the 13th, mainly for two reasons, the first being that Luke and I had started talking about my favorite horror scenes at Steak 'N Shake last Wednesday and the timing couldn't have been better, and the second being it was exactly one week since my last post, and I do so enjoy having a method to my madness. Now this entry has to do quadruple-duty on topics that could've managed just fine without any additional help, thank you very much. But both of us are up to the challenge.

Remember back in June when I talked about returning to my natural hair color without the assistance of professional dye products? Here's how far I got before I wanted to poke my eyes out with a pretzel rod, just to avoid being subjected to the train wreck that was my head. I like to mentally refer to this picture as Das Root:

 

This was taken on October 14, a mere hours before my cut and color at Enve--yes, the Chicago salon; yes, I've abandoned all hope of finding reputable hair care in Indianapolis; yes, I no longer care about exposing potential fetuses to harmful chemicals and dyes; YES, I AM OK WITH THAT. (But not really on that last one, since a number of Internet mommies informed me the probability of that happening is next to zero.) However, I did go the more practical route in terms of selecting a dye color, one that brought a little sexy back but wouldn't rat me out if I spaced out the length between touch ups. Here is the final result, which I'm pretty happy with, except the cut is still too short thanks to Magda the Racist Hairdresser and her equally bigoted texturizing comb.

Things around here are relatively tame. Last week I helped my boss write a book chapter for some chemistry association, and now I'm focusing on design for our client newsletter. Seeing as I spend the majority of my time at work devouring threads on AMC's message board, this recent flow of activity is a welcome improvement. I've also been on the verge of coming down with some sore throat/primal hunger/hot flash extravaganza that part of me hopes is an early sign of pregnancy but intellectually realizes is just a bug. Our Chi-town visit was fun, as we celebrated my father's forty-sixth birthday and hopped around the neighborhood to visit family and friends.

(Us kids chipped in to present my father with a gift certificate to his favorite Harley store, because he now loves that bike more than life itself. The poor man was accosted this weekend by Geo, who coated the inside of his ear with blue frosting, and Ryan, our hairdresser in training, who couldn't keep from running her hands through his Fantastic Sam's haircut and lamenting the unevenness of his ends.)

Here I am with Brooke and little Michael, now four months old. Though he was busy preparing for his baptism, he was still gracious enough to bestow a series of gifts on my right shoulder. In reply, I smelled his head and Brooke's arms received a well-deserved rest. Everybody wins!

We also saw my Uncle Chuckie and cousins Kenny and Stacey, who are on the cusp of experiencing their first month without my Auntie Debbie. It seems like my family can't get a break on the cancer front: my Auntie Donna, my mother's youngest sister and one of my favorite people in the whole world, was diagnosed with both brain cancer and breast cancer in the spring and is about to undergo seven weeks of radiation, five days a week. I keep thinking I need to address these topics with some lengthy, meaningful observations, but that whole post could be summed up in two words. Be kind. To yourself, to each other, to this unpredictable world we live in. Please keep them all in your prayers.

Still with me? Cuz there's more!

I have decided my relationship with Blogger should meet a timely and not-soon-enough demise, allowing me to explore a more emotionally satisfying connection with its for-profit counterparts. However, I refuse to initiate a courtship with Typepad until I can register for an account using a domain name that I thought of and paid for all by my own damn self. Except not really, because after months of scribbling on old drafts of my lab's clinical directory, I have yet to be inspired by a site name that's smart but not cheesy, funny but not embarrassing, original but not long, and relates somehow to my online persona or blog title. Thus, I have no choice but to call upon your own creative juices to name. my. BLOG!

(Insert TV game show theme song of your choice here and tell me which one you went with in the comments.)

You're up for the challenge, aren't you? Not only because you're savvy and charming, but also because Frema will put together a winning care package featuring a plethora of interesting and not at all Goodwill-worthy items straight from What're you lookin' at?'s headquarters? If I could, I'd arrange for some type of Deal or No Deal format wherein I fly twenty-six of you to Indianapolis, each of you armed with a case that bears your obviously fabulous submission, and I pick one of the cases for my very own and narrow down the list that way, but I'm pretty broke to be shelling out a trillion dollars on airfare for people I've never met, and besides, I'm nowhere near as captivating as Howie Mandel, whose newly bald head alone earns him a spot on my top five. If I had I top five, that is, which of course I don't, I'm a married woman for cripe's sake.

I'm counting on you, Internet. You're my only hope.

Official rules to come later, preferably when it's not one-thirty in the morning.

In Which I'm Given Two Reasons To Babble About All My Children

You know that a meme has gone totally sour when your blogging partner in crime says, "I totally forgot about those things!"

For your sake and mine, let's just get this over with.

At one point, but probably not so much now, Lizzy wanted to know:

Where is and what is in your "junk drawer"?

Both as a child and an adult, no matter where I've lived, the kitchen has always been home to the family junk drawer, and Luke's and my current apartment is no exception. For some reason, the kitchen is always the room with the leftover drawer space. Are they intentionally designed this way? Is anybody's junk drawer NOT in the kitchen? Inquiring minds want to know.

Behold, the evidence.

If I were more skilled in Photoshop I would've put numbers on each item and wrote funny captions enclosed in cartoonish thought bubbles, but I'm not, and there are too many thingamajigs to cover each one, anyway, so this is what you get. From where I'm sitting, I see candles we forget to burn, redeemable stamps from whitewater rafting trips with Saint Joe, batteries, scissors, paper clips used to seal half-eaten bags of chips, a glue stick, tape, an extra sponge for the George Foreman grill, the lining paper I used to address our wedding invitations, and other miscellaneous necessities. Nothing terribly exciting; it's not even that full, since I make a habit of cleaning it out every couple of months.

God, I'm boring. Why are you even here?

Ever have a celebrity run-in in which you behaved like an absolute ass?

Glory be, I actually have an answer to this question. The celeb in question is former AMC hottie Mark Consuelos. Let me 'splain.

While it's true my current soap habit started couple of years ago, it was first born at the impressionable age of thirteen, thanks to my Auntie Donna, who babysat two of my cousins when my Auntie Debbie was at work. In between diapering, feeding, and entertaining a newborn, she managed to keep up with Days of Our Lives, and on one of my visits, I came across an episode where Vivian had buried Carly alive in a desperate attempt to keep her from romancing Laurence and Marlena was frolicking about behind closed doors with John, who'd been brainwashed by Stefano to believe he was Roman Brady, Marlena's long-lost husband, who had just resurfaced to reclaim his life.

Thirteen was a hard age for me, and I kept to myself a lot, so it was easy to embrace this new world. I became so enraptured with the soap genre I eventually added three more shows to the roster, spending the majority of that summer glued to Days, All My Children, One Life to Life, and General Hospital.

Fast-forward to 1995, when I was a sophomore in high school and not so dependent on daytime television, though I was still a huge fan of Days, and had a newfound interest in prime time, mainly due to an attraction the entire male cast of Party of Five (minus Owen, of course). It was around this time I had a short stint selling fudge at McCormick Place in Chicago, and one particular auto convention boasted of a panel of small-screen celebrities who were available for personal meetings, autographs, and the like. It featured actors from both shows--Jason Brooks (Days's Peter Blake), and Michael A. Goorjian (Party of Five's Justin). There was also a third star, Mark Consuelos, but since I hadn't kept up with AMC and Mark had only recently joined the cast, I didn't have the foggiest idea who he was.

On one of my breaks I stood in line for twenty minutes, waiting eagerly to participate in some inappropriate snuggling with men ten to twenty years older than my awkward, freshly dumped self.

I was not disappointed.

It's the second shot that gets me the most, as I remember throwing a quick nod in Mark's direction before promptly helping myself to Michael Goorjian's lap. Mark was the only one of the three who didn't receive my request for an autograph, as I wasn't sure his John Hancock was worth another three bucks. See how jealous he looks? And now he's the only one who still has a career. I sure know how to pick 'em.

What's your favorite joke to tell?

Anybody who knows me even a little bit will tell you I suck at telling jokes; thus, my favorite joke to tell is also the easiest one to remember, thus eliminating the possibility of forgetting the punchline.

Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine!

I first heard this joke from my parents when I was nine. We were all amazed at its cleverness, which possibly explains where I get my sense of humor from.

Eight years ago, Lost A Sock wondered:

What is the current color on your toenails?

Part of the reason I put off answering last round for so long is this very question. The last time I sported paint on my toes was August, but I didn't want to admit to the Internet that I waddled through the end of the summer with bare feet, so I vowed not to post a response until I had properly rectified the situation. Well, weeks went by, with my toes still shamelessly naked, so this morning I made the executive decision to skip the polish and go for the funny, mentally drafting an answer along the lines of "While I'm lacking in the personal pedicure area, my feet aren't totally neglected. I do shave the hair on my big toe from time to time," imagining everyone would enjoy a hearty laugh in appreciation of my comedic skill.

Then I read Amalah's latest post, after which I could only assume Amy called upon her trusty mind-reading powers to steal my toe-hair thunder. Thus, my new answer is:

Nothing.

If not a writer or a SAHM, what's your next career choice?

Something that allows me to interact less with my computer and more with living, breathing human beings, like a teacher or a career counselor. A friend of mine in Saint Joe's English department once brought up the idea of me presenting a course on online writing in an adjunct capacity, so I'm curious to see if that ever comes to fruition.

In a perfect world, if Erica Kane could marry any man and live happily ever after, who would that man be?

The answer to this question requires some major soul-searching on my part. Currently on her tenth husband, there's been no shortage of marital bliss (and unbliss) in Erica's life. The roll call is as follows:

1. 1971- Jeff Martin
2. 1975- Phil Brent
3. 1978- Tom Cudahy
4. 1984- Adam Chandler
5. 1987- Travis Montgomery
6. 1990- Travis Montgomery
7. 1991- Adam Chandler (fake)
8. 1993- Dimitri Marick
9. 1996- Dimitri Marick
10. 2005- Jackson Montgomery

The writers approach the show with the philosophy that Erica and Jack, the brother of the father of her youngest daughter, have been soul mates all along, and now that they've finally made it to the altar, I'd hate to see them break up, even though Jack has the sex appeal of a coat rack. I like her better with more seductive, more vindictive men, like the evil David Hayward, who once drugged an entire yachtful of people with a libido-inducing drug to set the stage for Tad's one-night affair with the resident psycho while he was attempting marriage for the third time with Dixie Cooney. She also has wonderful chemistry with Zach Slater, a casino manager who hired her as a showgirl for his Vegas number a few years back and went on to marry her oldest daughter, who was once engaged to his son. Maybe one of them will become husband number eleven.

Who let the dogs out? (Who? Who? Who? Who?)

This one's easy. Your mom!

The questions, they are done. Now we can talk about more important things, like your favorite scary movies and the difficulty in determining your cervical position. Good times.

Questions? What Questions?

Bet you thought I forgot about these, didn't you?

Isabel wonders:

What was your best family vacation, ever?

Vacations? Ha! While we took plenty of day trips to museums and the zoo and the park, the only time we ever went "away" was in the summer of 1995, when my father borrowed a camper from a guy at work and all seven of us spent two days on Lake Michigan, where my aunt and uncle have a cabin. (There were two reasons for my family's lack of travel, one being my mother is deathly afraid to ride in a moving vehicle for longer than eight minutes at a time, and two being that five children ranging in age from fifteen years to twenty-seven months can take a significant toll on the finances of a single-income unit.)

It was a nice time, but that was the first summer of Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, and playing in the sand or touring the lake via paddleboat couldn't compare to bawling my eyes out in the confines of our bathroom at home, wailing over life's injustices and what was wrong with me and why wasn't I prettier and why would he want to smoke pot when he could be making out with me and please just caaaaaall me already.

Obviously, I was a delight.

Which sibling do you get along with the best?

When I first read this question, I assumed this translated into "Which sibling are you closest to?" A hard question, to be sure, but it was on the second reading I realized it has more to do with the meshing of personalities. Truth of the matter is that I get along well with all of my siblings. I can spend forty minutes on the phone with each one of them and cover as many different conversations, without uncomfortable pauses or small talk about the weather.

I will say the age difference between Samantha and me is such that it allows us to have a unique relationship. We're so often in the same place, so often able to support each other on equal footing, without the mentoring aspect that sneaks into our relationships with Ryan, Geo, and Donna.

She's also the only one I can talk to about sex without feeling dirty.

The worst? And why?

This question is harder because it deals with the clashing of personalities. I end up rephrasing it as "Who do I have the worst arguments with?" and reflecting on my many faults as a sister.

With that in mind, I say Ryan, our middle child, the brave soul who abandoned traditional college this year to pursue her dream of attending cosmetology school. It has nothing to do with how close we are (because I think we are close) and everything to do with our individual cores. My core begged my parents to let me have a job when I was a sophomore in high school and join nine different clubs. It revels in maintaining categorized to-do lists and outlining bill schedules months in advance and thinking about Christmas budgets in September. Ryan's core is more exploratory and less concerned with details. Ryan's core liberated her enough to attend two different four-year colleges in two years. It doesn't worry about reading the full terms of her apartment lease or submitting her loan papers on time, even if it delays the receipt of her reimbursement check from August to November. And when she does get it, her core has no problems spending it on a week-long stint in the Bahamas.

Pair that with my mother-bear instinct to steer all cubs from harm's way and it's easy see where the source of our conflict lies. Why can't I shut my trap about the logistics of responsible lending and just be happy she enjoyed her freakin' spring break? Especially since I spent my own loan surpluses on Saint Joe sweatshirts and Pantene Pro-V. She actually made the better choice.

I'll wrap up with Lizzy's and Lost A Sock's questions in my next entry, and then we can all rejoice in the fact that it only took me A MONTH to put this damn meme to rest. I'm nothing if not punctual.

Bringing Stupid Back

After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal. "Pork and vegetables" was originally slated for last Monday, and since the main ingredients had already been purchased, pork and vegetables it was.

With a few dishes under my belt, the whole cooking thing is becoming much more enjoyable, thus making it easier to navigate through each step. It took just twenty minutes to cut the potatoes, slice the carrots, and "wedge" the onions, and according to my Pillsbury cookbook, the whole sensuous ensemble would be ready in the same amount of time it would take to recap the AMC episode of the day. Just stick the meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat to verify it cooked all the way through, and the triumph of another successful dinner would be mine.

True to Pillsbury's word, the time went off just as Zach and Dixie's murder trial came to fruition. Hurriedly I ran to the stove, eager to show off my mad housewifery skillz to a husband who graciously launders ninety-eight percent of our clothes, and became dismayed to find the face of the meat thermometer glued to the top of the oven. "Oh, well, at least the meat is done!"

"What do you mean, 'At least the meat is done?'" Luke jumped up from his seat on the couch in time to see me extract a now-ruined thermometer from the pork's caboose. "You're not supposed to cook that with the food!"

"But the book said to stick it in the thickest part of the meat!"

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

"Then why did they include it at the beginning of the directions?"

Luke: Bangs head against wall, wonders if this incident provides sufficient grounds for divorce.

Frema: Doesn't blame him.