Not joking

The ExMr Stapler is a very funny guy. He always said that when he died, he wanted to be buried in a Krispy Kreme donuts box and have "Papa Ooh MauMau" and "Katmandu" ("If I ever get out of here, I'm going to Katmandu") played at his funeral.

That idea gave me plenty of laughs then, but now, with my dead sister cremated but not yet disposed of, I am having a much harder time.

I am not handling the idea of "scattering" her ashes at the beach later this month very gracefully. (Edited to add: the family is coming out the weekend of the 23rd to do this.) You might say I am being the opposite of graceful. Not clumsy - more like "a great big hysterical ball of snot and wetness." The term that keeps coming to mind is that I am handling this "with extreme prejudice" which, though technically inaccurate, appeals to me somehow.

Oddly and coincidentally, my new long-lost brother, Kevin Charnas tackled this very issue today.

And I also hope that they bury me in gold lame, with an afro stapled to my head, hot pants riding up my crack and roller skates glued to my feet.

After all, I would like to roll in on Judgment Day with a little bit of style. And I have a distinct feeling that god likes disco. She'd better, or there's gonna be hell to pay.

I know that my sister would like something like that. She was always down with the flamboyant, the wild and the fun. She bonded with Liberace immediately upon meeting him.

But this is me we are talking about now. She is off cruising the galaxies and I am stuck here dealing with the remnants. Every time I imagine myself at the beach where we played as kids, scattering...ah, see, I'm crying again. I just want to puke at the thought of it.

I know it isn't her. I know it has nothing to do with who she was, what she is, what her memory means to me. But I just don't think I can do it. People do this stuff all the time. Why can't I? I just really, really don't want to.

Me hav a problem

The problem with this blogging thing is that it is an endless black hole of time suck.

So many great bloggers, so little time. I am just at a comfortable level in my Bloglines feeds, then I go to an LA Bloggers party and find people like Kevin Charnas and Sweatpants Mom that I simply HAVE to read from now on.

Meanwhile, people already on my feed list keep rocking the house. These are just a few:

I am Bossy on condom usage. Made me snort several times, which is always a good sign.

Y at Joy Unexpected makes me cry about 3 times in one post. Stop it, Y.

I am following Mainely Madge's trial with more fervor and dedication than I ever felt for OJ or Michael Jackson's court proceedings.

And the shameless thief Kristen of Motherhood Uncensored is now trying to profit from her life of crime. For shame.

Obvious

It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out how I deal with stress. At the first sign of tension, I wonder "Hm, what's to eat?"

At work whenever things get crazy, I find myself scrabbling through my desk for change and heading off to the Evil Snack Machine. I always hope I am wearing something with big pockets so that I can hide my snack and don't have to make the Walk of Shame across Cubeland with the evidence showing.

Yeah, like no one would ever suspect a size 16 woman of buying junk food. No, they probably thought I was doing isometric exercises in the break room.

I don't even LIKE milk chocolate or Pop Tarts, and I have found myself eating both at my desk when the workload gets crazy and the customers are yelling about something we did.

Then there has been the past few weeks. First the monotony and terror of sitting around the hospital was broken only by trips to the greasy spoon diner ("Dessert is free with that entree, hun.")

Then the sorrow and the pity and the cold comfort of stuffing my face and of drinking too much.

Then the invitations from friends to keep me from sinking into my sorrow alone. And the lunches out because I was so worn to a frizzle that making a sandwich seemed like summiting Mount Everest.

I made brown butter shortbread cookies last week when I was off work. I was going to give them to friends and take them to church. I gave a few away and ate the rest. Yes, I ate all the rest. A LOT OF DAMN COOKIES, people.

Now I am large and fat and bloated. Like I wasn't before? But now for reals. I look like Prince Fielder after a trip to the all-you-can-eat buffet. Naw, that's a lie. Prince is svelte compared to me.

Being addicted to food kind of makes me wish for a real addiction, the ones you can give up and not have to deal with being in your face every day. You can avoid heroin. You can avoid cocaine. But the snack machine shall ever be with you.

You say macaca

I am kind of reluctant to wade into this morass, but maybe my faithful readers can help me get through something that has been bugging me.

You KNOW I'm a lifelong bleeding heart liberal, don't you? My roots may be redneck but somehow I turned out to be a pinko. Jane Fonda? Eleanor Roosevelt? Both a little conservative for my tastes.

But one thing I have trouble understanding is these white liberal flipouts over certain "racist" language. Senator George Allen and his macaca comment. Tony Snow refusing to hug the tar baby. And most lately, today, John Gibson and ooga booga fever. I saw at least two blog posts today ripping him for this.

Macaca sounds like a made-up word. Chances are Allen had no idea that it was a francophone Belgian term for certain African groups. It makes me worry because it sounds like something I might make up. Kind of a mehshugeneh/caca mashup.

And isn't the tar baby a familiar term from American folk tales that makes perfect sense in the context - that you don't want to get stuck with something you can't get rid of? Because the Uncle Remus tales were made up using broad stereotypes, does that negate their whole value and make it racist even to use parts of them?

And now ooga booga fever. Is it racist? It seems interesting that the objectors assume that Gibson was talking about a particular racial group when he used a nonsense term for a made-up disease.

I just think these arguments make liberals seem like intolerant, uptight, humorless idiots who don't have anything better to worry about or have any real problems to work on. Are we protecting anything by having these arguments over and over? Do we ferret out real racists with this language policing?

Hit me with the comments.

(On the other hand, I was happy about Imus getting fired. Calling a bunch of college women - oh, I'm not going to repeat it - was way out of line and blatantly racist. Since the airwaves technically belong to the people as a public trust, I see his removal as a benefit).

Moment in the Sunset

I went to a blogger party last night and took the Red Stapler as my inanimate date, the only kind that appeals to me lately.

The event was the L.A. Blogger Bash, hosted by L.A. Daddy.

That's L.A. Daddy, himself, bravely manning the outdoor bar.

It was at the charming Mulholland Drive casita of one of L.A. Daddy's entertainment industry friends. The friend wasn't present - this is his spare house, his party house (must be niiiiiice) and he was kind (and crazy) enough to lend it to a bunch of rampaging bloggers.

I assumed the friend's name was "Oscar", because that's what this backstage-pass-looking thing hanging up in the living room said. It didn't occur to me until this morning that the pass was to the Academy Awards ceremony and that it was very unlikely the man's name is Oscar. Don't make fun! I am just a simple country girl.

I barely knew anyone, but that was OK. Bloggers are a tribe.

I was happily reunited with By Jane whom I met at BlogHer last year. She didn't let me take her photo, because she insisted we wait until we meet again at BlogHer in Chicago. It's a deal.

The beloved LeahPeah and her dear husband Joe were there. Anywhere LeahPeah is is a fun place to be.

I always want to call Joe "Art" because his site is Artlung. Sorry, Joe. In just a few more years, I will probably start calling you by the right name.



Stefanie Wilder-Taylor of Baby on Bored. Also author of "Sippy Cups are Not For Chardonnay." She will have a big announcement on her blog sometime soon. Keep checking back. Hee hee. I know a secret!

I got to meet a bunch of cool people and to talk them into taking photos with the stapler:


The hilarious SweatPants Mom and Mr. Sweatpants


Sarah of Sept. 10 and fiancee and lasagna-making genius Donald.


L.A. Mommy and L.A. fetus. L.A. Toddler had the night off.


Justin of JustinSpace who seemed like a long-lost cousin. He even has a brilliant book, Obscene Interiors, a collection of online male personals ads with the men blocked out - Justin critiques the interior decorating. Hm...sounds familiar for some reason. NSFW!!


I loved meeting my charming neighbors to the north, Kevin Charnas (on the left) and partner Will.

Ok, that's not everyone, but I'm tired. There are more photos up on Flickr and I could use help labeling some of them. Your assistance would be appreciated.

Sorry about all the editing, you feeders, but I had to fix names and captions. And now I am back to say I am so dang jealous that Domestic Slackstress wrote such a great account of the party and mine is so dry. Jealousy, thy name is Suebob.

Something prettier than my bruised rear

If you were looking for photos of my backside, you missed it.

I couldn't stand seeing that bruise one more time, so as an alternative to my butt, here is a lovely spring flower - the Matilija (mat-ill-UH-ha) Poppy, also known as the Fried Egg Flower.



Check out Linkateria. There is a government story up that is so wrong that I can't stop shaking my head.

Blogging is a sickness

I fell the other day. I was filing and had papers spread out all over the floor. I was wearing socks and slipped on a paper and came down hard on one of those metal desktop baskets.

Yeah, ouch.

The bruise on my butt is the most impressive one I have ever gotten. Black and purple and bigger than my whole hand.

What does it say about me that I have been fighting the impulse for 3 days to post a photo of my butt on the internet?