TT: 13 Not So Momentus Events Wednesday, June 25, 2008, 7:20 PM  1. For AT&T, press button #2, then button #1, speak your account number clearly (for God's sake, don't laugh or say anything other than a number), then hold your breath until you get to talk to a living, breathing soul. 2. For Beauty & Hair-dot-com? You might as well pour yourself a glass of wine and kick back with a good movie. It also wouldn't hurt to send a thought like this into the cosmos: God, please don't cut me off after I've been waiting thirty minutes to talk to someone. 3. Anyone who isn't interested in talking to you willtalksofastyoucan'tunderstandthematall. 4. Wooo, I'm sitting here doing the jiggy trying to come up with number four. 5. I haven't won the lottery yet. 6. Nobody really wants to hear about the dream you had, unless it involves their significant other in a sexual way. 7. Yeah, I'm serious. 8. I wasn't hit by the car on Orlando, but I'll have you know, I escaped only by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. 9. Near-death experiences like this don't seem to be any help with inspiring my writing. 10. After three month's planning and brow beating of persons other than myself, we were finally all set to go to Opaque on July 12. But the hotel is under construction for the next three months. 11. Can we have a moment of silence? 12. Yummy.com mistakenly delivered a case of Figi bottled water to me. I celebrated my good fortune by cracking one of the bottles open. I'm a Sparklett's girl--they just recycle water here, they don't make trips to Fi-freaking-ji and bottle it off the Yasawa Coast. And wouldn't you know it, Yummy.com came back after the case not thirty minutes later and I had to confess one of the bottles leaped out the box and begged me to drink it. 13. I did NOT taste the difference. Scout's honor. A higher price, a prettier bottle, and I still tasted the same water. ~*~*~*~ My work is done.  
Engage in Unhingenosity
I'm not UNwell, thank you I must remember to say something of this variation tomorrow when I'm asked, "How are you doing?" because that question crops up at least twice a day. People don't care how I'm doing, dang it. They're just being polite and setting the ground work for the real reason for calling. Salute, Mr. Carlin.
Engage in Unhingenosity
Saturday's song: You sexy thing Well, I'm off to hop-skip-skedaldilly-jump after my own miracle.
Engage in Unhingenosity
What I write when I have nothing to say I think. Got speakers? Listen to this while you're reading. ~*~*~*~ Shaine’s knees were shaking so badly that she collapsed as soon as she ran head first into tree. It was dark enough that she couldn’t see six inches in front of her nose. Six months ago, she would have yelped loud enough to alert most of the forest’s inhabitants of her presence. Six months ago, she’d gone laser tagging with friends, in a maze of a building that blared Spybreak by the Propeller Heads from hidden speakers. Two girls, six guys, and she’d tagged them all while somehow eluding being tagged herself. Now here she was seeing yellow moons, blue stars and green clovers in her head, fighting for her life and shooting a gun with real bullets. Although she had yet to squeeze the trigger, but damned if she’d waste any bullets on a tree or a squirrel. Besides, shooting would reveal her hiding place. Oh, her frigging head. It was eerily quiet suddenly as everyone paused where they were to listen. Five bad guys, two good guys. Shaine prayed Priest’s goons would shoot each other. She held her mouth wide, trying to still the sound of her breathing. A branch cracked loudly in the distance and she swiveled, arms stiff and gun poised. Another branch cracked and fell and the silence became so loud, it reminded her of the movie The Blair Witch Project. Obviously stress was causing her some kind of meltdown. No matter how much she fought it, her breath kept coming in hard gulps. The urge to laugh was strong. How could she come from boring and sheltered to being hunted by the dangerous in the span of a few months? And why didn’t Daren tell her being shot at would cause this kind of reaction? Someone grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and her right arm. Shaine squeezed her gun’s trigger and shot red lightning and thunder into the sky. Three bullets. One for oh hell, no. One for I’m dead. And one for eff you. Daren’s voice stilled her panic. “Don’t make me tranq you.” He pulled her back against his body, his warm, solid, hard body. And then they were rolling arse-over-elbow down what seemed like Mt. Everest. “Damn it!” she wheezed when they slammed to a stop. “Next time, you strip for the bad guy.” Daren didn’t have a sense of humor, though. She doubted he knew anything about The Blair Witch Project, that he’d ever eaten a bowl of Lucky Charms, that he’d even told a dumb blond joke. Those beautiful green eyes of his were like an animal’s—not cruel, not human, but uncaring. Ruthless. He was unafraid to die. It was written across his face. “Next time, take out the target as profiled,” he said, his words crisp. Frustrated and feeling teary-eyed again, she raised herself off of him by jamming her elbow into his stomach. Before she levered herself away, he caught her and dragged her back against his chest again. “More than one hundred children are lost tonight because we failed,” he whispered against her ear. “Next time, you’ll kill him with a kiss.” Shaine stilled. Nodded once. Screamed deep down in her soul. They’d never get as good a chance at Priest as they’d gotten tonight. Shame choked her hard in the throat. How crazy was it that she felt badly about not killing someone? A burst of air breezed past her temple and embedded itself with a thunk into the ground beside them. In the same moment, Daren rolled violently away and jerked her up after him. She ran with one arm across her face, the other arm caught in his vise-like grip, until her lungs burned and her legs felt like dead weight. Her gun was God knew where. He had to drag her the last few yards to the jeep concealed at the edge of the woods. And she wondered why he bothered.
Engage in Unhingenosity
Concentration, etc.  What do you write when you feel like the top of your head is going to explode from the force of the thoughts inside your head????\\\\~@# On the way to work, I spare a thought of glee that I took the time to shave my legs and make my hair look good. And I wish I had a pair of white wedges to go with the white dress I'm wearing, and non-funky feet to carry it off. When I glance down at my feet, I see I'm still wearing the ugly brown sandals. White wedges is a stupid thing to waste a wish on, though. It's lightly breezy. Sunny. Even at 8:20 in the morning. Los Angeles is always beautiful. There are three people walking ahead of me. I can tell the hospital/clinic workers from the blue collar folks because the hospital people wear loose-fitting green garb or a thigh-length printed shirt over loose green pants--and they wear comfy black or white shoes. Their stride is easy-going. I can tell they feel comfortable. The other people I see (two, in fact) are white collar workers. The guy is wearing a crisp white button-up shirt tucked into black slacks that show off a tight butt. He walks without swinging his arms almost at all, and I try to imitate the walk and can't. I spend a moment or two wishing I was a guy because I'd only need one pair of black shoes, one pair of brown. One pair of black pants, one of brown. The girl I see is wearing heels. Not stilettos, but she's walking like they are. Her steps are gal-lomp-like, like she's stepping over a pile of shit. Any girl wearing heels that high walks gal-lompily--it's not a smooth, carefree walk. Not at all like a runway model's two-minute trek down a strip (I'm almost positive the models ONLY wear those shoes during the dangerous runway strut). But this is West Hollywood and if you're under the age of 28, appearance is EVERYthing. You suffer the pain of heels, of a too-tight skirt, or an itchy scalp from hair tracks, extensions, pieces or wigs. The trick to surviving it all is a sense of humor. (And enjoying the man eye candy. There are quite a lot of them...) Liking who you are at that moment--because let's face it--what and who you feel yourself to be is chameleon-like. At least it's true for me. Sometimes I'm okay with the long-haired blond in the cat suit, sometimes I'm not. I see her and realize I used to be just like her. Only not in stilettos.
Engage in Unhingenosity
Saturday's Song How 'bout getting off of these antibiotics How 'bout stopping eating when I'm full up How 'bout them transparent dangling carrots How 'bout that ever elusive kudo Thank you India Thank you terror Thank you disillusionment Thank you frailty Thank you consequence Thank you, thank you silence How 'bout me not blaming you for everything How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you How 'bout grieving it all one at a time Thank you India Thank you terror Thank you disillusionment Thank you frailty Thank you consequence Thank you, thank you silence The moment I let go of it was The moment I got more than I could handle The moment I jumped off of it was The moment I touched down How 'bout no longer being masochistic How 'bout remembering your divinity How 'bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out How 'bout not equating death with stopping Thank you India Thank you Providence Thank you disillusionment Thank you nothingness Thank you clarity Thank you, thank you silence.
Engage in Unhingenosity
TT: 13 Reaons Why I Won't  Cripes, how can it be allamost Thursday? It was just Wednesday. Friggen Gods of Time. ~*~*~*~ Herewith, I give you 13 Reasons NOT to do the Thursday 13. 1. Because the coffee machine is broken. Duh. 2. I didn't have enough cheese. Or enough cookie cutters. 3. I'm a bitch. 4. Because 13 is an unlucky number. 5. I couldn't write the words on my lips. ::smooch:: 6. Or in my head. 7. I can't believe half the year's passed. 8. Won't, dammit. 9. The words that and which and lie and lay are hindering-ith me. 10. Jodi won't play. 11. I'm Too Sexy for TT. 12. Nature calls. 13. Ohhh. The Pressure.
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A call to arms  In the last three weeks, an online LiveJournaler by the user name Silverwerecat has taken in two stray kittens that were abandoned by their mom cats. One of the kittens had a severely broken foreleg and a horrible injury at the base of her tail. And this doesn't count the the other two kittens she took in at the beginning of the year. I've been reading Silverwerecat's journal for almost two years now--her LJ is my kitty-fix--and in that time, I believe she's taken in (and kept) four or more stray kittens, a tortoise she's named Penelope, at least one budgie birdy that I know about, found homes for numerous other kittens, and lost one of her own cats--a ginger cat like my boy, Buddy. She already has Sylvester, Miss Margie, Fluffa, Jasmin (a new addition this year), Phrixus, Gandalf (another new addition from last month), Lugh and Luna. And it looks like now Junior--who she found living under a car, starving to death and crying for his mom; and Calypso--the girl with the broken foreleg and now-amputated tail--will be added to the family.  All of her cats have been rescued. She has a big heart for helpless kitties. She does what she can for the outdoor wild kittens and cats, but obviously there are a few special cases every year who become part of the family. But taking in and taking care of these fur babies costs money and like most single women, she isn't made of it. This post is a nudge for you animal lovers. Especially cat lovers. It's kitten birthing season in Greece, and I urge you to visit Silverwerecat's Journal, to get to know her and the cats. They're worth knowing. They're worth helping. At some of her reader's  prompting, Silverwerecat set up a Pay Pay account for anyone who wants to help cover the costs of taking care of these fur babies.If you can't help now, I hope you'll visit and continue visiting. If you do, I believe it's only a matter of time before you'll want to. (This last photo is of Calypso. If you click it, you can see her blue stitches, poor little girl.)
Engage in Unhingenosity
Bad. It has to be BAD. It's like using an Epilady for the first time trying to write a cohesive, entertaining and grammatically-correct blog post (not to mention intelligent and thought-provoking) when I'd really just rather kill my pain in the ass neighbor. How many times can you open and close your door with a WHACK before you become scum? Ten. Ten. Okay, Five. Kinda sorta relating to the idea of this post? It KILLED me using the Epilady the first time. I yelped, whined and gasped. Oogie was a witness. She was sitting in the dark brown leather vibrating chair--the chair that used to tickle my privates and make me go ooooh! And she said, amidst my 14-year-old wailing, "You have pretty legs." I was really surprised at the time. And pleased. It never occurred to me that I had pretty legs, or that Oogie would say such a thing to me. But that's when I started believing it. And now I believe I must ...kill .........the ....................neighbor. With a Karaoke machine. Because I sing really bad. So bad that it might as well be cataclysmic. What should I sing first?
Engage in Unhingenosity
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