Dear My Blog,
It has been a long time since I've written, and for that, apologies. I have no good excuse. It's as if each passing day has increased the need for a rich, dark, excuse d'elegance, while at the same time the only excuses I can conjure have grown thinner and paler than Sissy Spacek's eyebrows. In retrospect, none of my excuses seem worthy of the neglect you have suffered at my (lack of) hand--Didn't want to. Forgot. Too busy. Maybe after lunch. Not feeling writerly. Computer is in the other room. Baseboards need Q-tipping. Can't get "Nashville Cats" out of my head--all the usual culprits that hinder a writer's duty. To write.
But now I'm back and I have some good news to share with you. We have received a rave review in the form of a fan comment! Some anonymous person, who shall remain nameless, sent us this comment: "You are hilarious and I love the blog, and will now be followed faithfully by me! I am a complete secret blog reader and love love love yours!!"
Well anyone can plainly see by the syntax and vocabulary that none other than Mr. Stephen Colbert has graced us with his fan fan fan-hood.
You're welcome, sir.
This is no surprise, as he follows me on Twitter...and by that I mean I follow him...so it is as if we were best friends, lovers actually, as what could be more intimate than tweeting on Twitter? He wrote me this haiku.
Short and sweet we tweet
Clandestined. Exposed.
In plain sight we never meet.
Let's just hope our other follower, Sarah Silverman, doesn't become jealous of our twysts. We could find her sneaking into our special drawer and replacing our batteries with Tootsie Rolls and replacing the tape in our boudoir camcorder with a deck of Old Maid playing cards. She's such a vengeful woman, that one, ever since the Matt Damon incident. Still we love her, don't we? I mean, how could we not? She's so not mental, or sex crazed, or self absorbed, or hilarious, which is to say she is all of those things.
"Not," it would seem, is the new "n'yuh huh."
Again my sincere apologies to you, my dear blog. I never wanted to starve you like this, and I never will again. Unless of course, I don't want to , forget, am too busy, need lunch, trying to dig Tootsie Roll bits out of Magilla The Thrilla, downloading "Bali Hai" from iTunes as an antidote to Nashville Cats, buying more Q-tips...and such as that.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Miseria, Rhymes with Nigeria
On March 2, 2010 an anonymous Nigerian infiltrated my Gmail accounts, both of them, and deleted all my emails and contacts. "He" (although to be fair and balanced he could have been a "she"...uh, yeah right) sent emails to my friends, family, acquaintances, associates, members, ex's, and even those random Craig's List reply coded emails like sale-2x7ocv-9276502@craigslist.org. Don't bother checking, the lawn mower has already been sold. In other words, everybody in my contact list...which numbered 2682+. I know this because I backed it up on March 1...thank you angels!
The scam, spam, phisher man email was sent as if it were from me, and he sent it from both of my Gmail accounts, so people got it twice, which in a way is good, because it gave it the subtle, if not over-salty, flavor of spam.
I feel bad for those poor victims, and you, if you are one of them. They received an email from "me" entitled "i need your help." It was signed "Lori" and the body of the email informed them i was at a funeral in England and i needed money. And if you're wondering why I don't feel "badly" it is because this event did not impair the nerves in my hands...but that's another hammer to pound.
As it happens, my friends who are least able to afford it were the ones who offered to send me money. I gained comfort in knowing my friends would do that for me, even though I probably would have spent the money on a round of black and tans for the whole pub, so if I'm in England, don't send me money...unless i use a capital I...because if I can't shift, I'm drunk.
I would NEVER use a lower case i when referring to myself. I can't even stand it when YOU use lower case i, but that's not my point. My point is I don't talk like this: "How are you today? I hope everything's alright. Please I need you to help me out with something. Can I get a loan from you very urgently? I`ll reimburse you under a week, I promise. I need to solve some personal problems at hand which have been giving me great worries. I`d also prefer if we discuss this through email as I`m presently in England for a friend's funeral. I`m sorry if I didn`t inform you about it, but please try and understand. I`ll let you know how much I need if you are willing to assist me. Thanks, Lori"
I`m "presently" at a friend's funeral?...problems "at hand"? Who talks like that? The syntax, the vocabulary, the staccato, it sounds like C3PO is translating for Yoda. And what's with those backwards apostrophes? They are much too left-leaning for my taste. By the way, it's that key on the upper left side of the keyboard, under the muy pequeño tilde. As far as I'm concerned that key's only function is to indicate THIS EMAIL IS NOT FROM LORI!
Anywhays (and this is as good a place as any for me to introduce you to my little friend "anywhays"--the mutant spawn of anywho and anyways) as I was saying, it was apparent from the every first LETTER that this letter was not from me. Trust me on this, if I can't hit the shift key, it means I am at the funeral of my left pinkie. No amount of money is going to bring that finger back.
Speaking of fingers, I have a special one for GMail and the folks at Google...who I am presently no longer a fan of...dangle, dangle...because they let me down after I entrusted them with my cyber-journal-of-life which is not this blog, but my email archives. This blog is where I blather and flail in a way that gives us all a chance to chuckle about how life sucks, but my emails were dated and time-stamped correspondence between me and the whirled. I trusted you, Google, to store my precious letters in a sturdy box under the bed...or better yet, on a secure server with state of the art backup technology. I guess the box would have been safer, huh.
Now what? Now I wait. I wait to see if the lowly Niger goes the extra mile and steals my identity. And if he does, there WILL be a funeral, only it will be in Nigeria, not England. And it won't be a person, or a pinkie finger, it will be an IP address. This one: 41.155.83.93 or this one: 41.155.6.97, or this one: 41.155.102.137, or this one: 41.155.51.195. Or maybe all of them. They'll call it The Great 41.155-o-cide of 2010.
If you are a White Hat hacker, would you please take this Black Hat a-hole down? But first, grab the box under the bed and return my life to me. I am saying this most humbly, "i need your help."
The scam, spam, phisher man email was sent as if it were from me, and he sent it from both of my Gmail accounts, so people got it twice, which in a way is good, because it gave it the subtle, if not over-salty, flavor of spam.
I feel bad for those poor victims, and you, if you are one of them. They received an email from "me" entitled "i need your help." It was signed "Lori" and the body of the email informed them i was at a funeral in England and i needed money. And if you're wondering why I don't feel "badly" it is because this event did not impair the nerves in my hands...but that's another hammer to pound.
As it happens, my friends who are least able to afford it were the ones who offered to send me money. I gained comfort in knowing my friends would do that for me, even though I probably would have spent the money on a round of black and tans for the whole pub, so if I'm in England, don't send me money...unless i use a capital I...because if I can't shift, I'm drunk.
I would NEVER use a lower case i when referring to myself. I can't even stand it when YOU use lower case i, but that's not my point. My point is I don't talk like this: "How are you today? I hope everything's alright. Please I need you to help me out with something. Can I get a loan from you very urgently? I`ll reimburse you under a week, I promise. I need to solve some personal problems at hand which have been giving me great worries. I`d also prefer if we discuss this through email as I`m presently in England for a friend's funeral. I`m sorry if I didn`t inform you about it, but please try and understand. I`ll let you know how much I need if you are willing to assist me. Thanks, Lori"
I`m "presently" at a friend's funeral?...problems "at hand"? Who talks like that? The syntax, the vocabulary, the staccato, it sounds like C3PO is translating for Yoda. And what's with those backwards apostrophes? They are much too left-leaning for my taste. By the way, it's that key on the upper left side of the keyboard, under the muy pequeño tilde. As far as I'm concerned that key's only function is to indicate THIS EMAIL IS NOT FROM LORI!
Anywhays (and this is as good a place as any for me to introduce you to my little friend "anywhays"--the mutant spawn of anywho and anyways) as I was saying, it was apparent from the every first LETTER that this letter was not from me. Trust me on this, if I can't hit the shift key, it means I am at the funeral of my left pinkie. No amount of money is going to bring that finger back.
Speaking of fingers, I have a special one for GMail and the folks at Google...who I am presently no longer a fan of...dangle, dangle...because they let me down after I entrusted them with my cyber-journal-of-life which is not this blog, but my email archives. This blog is where I blather and flail in a way that gives us all a chance to chuckle about how life sucks, but my emails were dated and time-stamped correspondence between me and the whirled. I trusted you, Google, to store my precious letters in a sturdy box under the bed...or better yet, on a secure server with state of the art backup technology. I guess the box would have been safer, huh.
Now what? Now I wait. I wait to see if the lowly Niger goes the extra mile and steals my identity. And if he does, there WILL be a funeral, only it will be in Nigeria, not England. And it won't be a person, or a pinkie finger, it will be an IP address. This one: 41.155.83.93 or this one: 41.155.6.97, or this one: 41.155.102.137, or this one: 41.155.51.195. Or maybe all of them. They'll call it The Great 41.155-o-cide of 2010.
If you are a White Hat hacker, would you please take this Black Hat a-hole down? But first, grab the box under the bed and return my life to me. I am saying this most humbly, "i need your help."
Monday, March 1, 2010
Honoring the B in D.O.B.
Gotta love the Age of Technology! Today, March 1, I received an email reminder (from myself) that I was born on March 3, 1954. My Google Calendar has been instructed (by me) to remind me 2 days in advance of important dates. This started me thinking--does any date carry more importance than the date of one's own birth? Well, yes. And no.
I suppose my own date of birth doesn't matter at all--which is not suggesting my fact of birth is equally meaningless. If I found out my real birthday was March 2nd or March 4 because some random, tired-eyed clerk typed a number wrong on my birth certificate the revelation would not elicit much beyond, "Cool! I think I'll post a blog about that!"
However, if I were never born...THAT would matter a lot! Not to me, of course, since there would be no me to be bothered. It would bother my mom. She tried like the devil to get me to this place called life, and she sacrificed a lot of herself in the process.
My dad started smoking on the day I was born, right there in the waiting room...and subsequent to that he died of lung cancer. But if you asked him today, he would not trade my birth for his life even if you threw in a positive cash flow mobile home park.
My sister, Julie, might have been spared some personal misery if I had never been conceived. As it happens, she had a little friend who innocently shared what her adoptive parents had told her, "We adopted you when your mother died." which being a child and quite literal she took to mean when any baby is born the mother naturally dies. When Daddy left for the hospital he told Julie he would bring back a baby sister or brother, and she asked, "When do we bury Momma?" Safe to say my birth mattered to her if for no other reason than to give her a sibling to have her back while she kicked that adopted girl's ass.
My sister, Cindy, is another story. My birth preceded hers. It is impossible to say whether her life might have been better or worse or exactly the same had I not been born at all. If one were to guess, the odds are one would guess wrong. Do the math. There are countless possible answers to a what if scenario...and only one right answer.
It's safe to say my birth has had the most direct impact on Katie and Joey. I think we can safely say neither child could have been born if not for me...oh, and Bob.
I love thinking about the fact that I am the daughter of a daughter of a daughter...and Katie is my daughter. She may be the very last of our gender-kind. Or not. The arrival of her daughter will decide that. Just thinking about that long, long line that goes down to the corner, and around the block, all the way back to the first woman--hundreds of mother-daughter-mother-daughter pairings way back in time--it gives me the chills.
And my question is, if this is the end of the line, why does it feel like the head of the line? Could it be being born is like getting cuts in line? And does it matter if your tickets are Row 3, Seat 3, or Row 3 Seat 4? No, it doesn't. What matters is you have tickets to the show.
And what about Joey? He's a son. Where's the "oh, oh, oh it's magic" in that? I suppose you could say he's the son of a father of a son of a father-son pairing going around the block, too. I guess the fine line is mothers actually produce the show, where fathers are pretty much limited to executive producer credit.
And although we can't create our own mate, we can create a mate for another woman. And to do so is an honor, just so long as the little hussy is good enough for him.
So there you have it. My birth is important enough to warrant a reminder from Google Calendar, but my Date of Birth not so much. I can live with that.
I suppose my own date of birth doesn't matter at all--which is not suggesting my fact of birth is equally meaningless. If I found out my real birthday was March 2nd or March 4 because some random, tired-eyed clerk typed a number wrong on my birth certificate the revelation would not elicit much beyond, "Cool! I think I'll post a blog about that!"
However, if I were never born...THAT would matter a lot! Not to me, of course, since there would be no me to be bothered. It would bother my mom. She tried like the devil to get me to this place called life, and she sacrificed a lot of herself in the process.
My dad started smoking on the day I was born, right there in the waiting room...and subsequent to that he died of lung cancer. But if you asked him today, he would not trade my birth for his life even if you threw in a positive cash flow mobile home park.
My sister, Julie, might have been spared some personal misery if I had never been conceived. As it happens, she had a little friend who innocently shared what her adoptive parents had told her, "We adopted you when your mother died." which being a child and quite literal she took to mean when any baby is born the mother naturally dies. When Daddy left for the hospital he told Julie he would bring back a baby sister or brother, and she asked, "When do we bury Momma?" Safe to say my birth mattered to her if for no other reason than to give her a sibling to have her back while she kicked that adopted girl's ass.
My sister, Cindy, is another story. My birth preceded hers. It is impossible to say whether her life might have been better or worse or exactly the same had I not been born at all. If one were to guess, the odds are one would guess wrong. Do the math. There are countless possible answers to a what if scenario...and only one right answer.
It's safe to say my birth has had the most direct impact on Katie and Joey. I think we can safely say neither child could have been born if not for me...oh, and Bob.
I love thinking about the fact that I am the daughter of a daughter of a daughter...and Katie is my daughter. She may be the very last of our gender-kind. Or not. The arrival of her daughter will decide that. Just thinking about that long, long line that goes down to the corner, and around the block, all the way back to the first woman--hundreds of mother-daughter-mother-daughter pairings way back in time--it gives me the chills.
And my question is, if this is the end of the line, why does it feel like the head of the line? Could it be being born is like getting cuts in line? And does it matter if your tickets are Row 3, Seat 3, or Row 3 Seat 4? No, it doesn't. What matters is you have tickets to the show.
And what about Joey? He's a son. Where's the "oh, oh, oh it's magic" in that? I suppose you could say he's the son of a father of a son of a father-son pairing going around the block, too. I guess the fine line is mothers actually produce the show, where fathers are pretty much limited to executive producer credit.
And although we can't create our own mate, we can create a mate for another woman. And to do so is an honor, just so long as the little hussy is good enough for him.
So there you have it. My birth is important enough to warrant a reminder from Google Calendar, but my Date of Birth not so much. I can live with that.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The 9,007th Day
How do I say this? I am...um, er...single again. Dissolution, divorce, bifurcation...the legal terms are too harsh and too real, but the word "single" has an innocence about it. Virgins are single. Young people are single. Nuns are single.
This afternoon I found out that I have been single since February 16, 2010, one week ago today. Thank god the judge didn't stamp the document two days earlier. Had she, I would have had to live with a permanent, mental link to what would have been my second most brutal Valentine's Day ever. As much as I would LOVE to tell you about the first-most brutal Valentine's Day, I'm not going there. Let's just say February is historically a rough month for me.
What surprised me is that I cried when I read the email, but I'm kind of glad I did. I would hate to be the kind of person who would NOT cry at the end of a marriage that lasted 9006 days. Another thing that surprised me is how quickly I snapped out of it. You have to understand, though, this whole divorce process has been about as exciting as watching paint dry--especially if you're talking about the kind of paint that takes four years to dry.
Only the end-end-end came suddenly, in part because it left the building without saying goodbye-- much like the marriage.
Here's a funny story--my first divorce paper has a typographical error, Dave and I were divorced "...in The Untied States of America." It was a small but unfortunate mistake--much like the marriage.
Now we move on. But not now. And not we. A move, maybe. On for sure.
This afternoon I found out that I have been single since February 16, 2010, one week ago today. Thank god the judge didn't stamp the document two days earlier. Had she, I would have had to live with a permanent, mental link to what would have been my second most brutal Valentine's Day ever. As much as I would LOVE to tell you about the first-most brutal Valentine's Day, I'm not going there. Let's just say February is historically a rough month for me.
What surprised me is that I cried when I read the email, but I'm kind of glad I did. I would hate to be the kind of person who would NOT cry at the end of a marriage that lasted 9006 days. Another thing that surprised me is how quickly I snapped out of it. You have to understand, though, this whole divorce process has been about as exciting as watching paint dry--especially if you're talking about the kind of paint that takes four years to dry.
Only the end-end-end came suddenly, in part because it left the building without saying goodbye-- much like the marriage.
Here's a funny story--my first divorce paper has a typographical error, Dave and I were divorced "...in The Untied States of America." It was a small but unfortunate mistake--much like the marriage.
Now we move on. But not now. And not we. A move, maybe. On for sure.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Product Idea Could Sell Millions!
What a great idea! I think this is the big one that will make us all millions!
It's a plastic lined paper bag that you wear around your neck when you are reading the Singles Wanted ads on Craigs List.
After reading a dozen or more posts from horny, hard up, jobless, narcissists you are bound to hurl, but thanks to this bag you won't mess up your robe.
When people call the 800 number to order the "Gag Bagger" we'll offer them today's special--the "Wrist Razor Guard". It prevents you from accidentally on purpose slitting your wrists when you realize the Men Seeking Women who post things like "I'm jobless, no car, but 420 friendly" aren't remotely interested in you because you are not <27. I'm not sure if that's age, pounds or IQ, the point of course being this tang-seeker is just not remotely interested in you!
But wait, there's more! Act by midnight tonight and we'll throw in our special "Sight Savers" absolutely free. Sight Savers have a special lens that prevents you from seeing photos of tatooed genitalia, headless six packs, beard pride, and more.
Our R&D department is working on a Spelling Translator that turns ordinary MSW speak into English. Turn this: "u don't need a creditcard or jump through hoops just reply I no how 2treat a gurl rit" into this: "I will need the cash up front if you want me to do you."
You think I'm joking. Check out Craigslist PostingID: 1601940799.
I am joking about the products, but seriously, if I put this blog entry as an ad on Craigs List, I will get orders.
Dare me.
It's a plastic lined paper bag that you wear around your neck when you are reading the Singles Wanted ads on Craigs List.
After reading a dozen or more posts from horny, hard up, jobless, narcissists you are bound to hurl, but thanks to this bag you won't mess up your robe.
When people call the 800 number to order the "Gag Bagger" we'll offer them today's special--the "Wrist Razor Guard". It prevents you from accidentally on purpose slitting your wrists when you realize the Men Seeking Women who post things like "I'm jobless, no car, but 420 friendly" aren't remotely interested in you because you are not <27. I'm not sure if that's age, pounds or IQ, the point of course being this tang-seeker is just not remotely interested in you!
But wait, there's more! Act by midnight tonight and we'll throw in our special "Sight Savers" absolutely free. Sight Savers have a special lens that prevents you from seeing photos of tatooed genitalia, headless six packs, beard pride, and more.
Our R&D department is working on a Spelling Translator that turns ordinary MSW speak into English. Turn this: "u don't need a creditcard or jump through hoops just reply I no how 2treat a gurl rit" into this: "I will need the cash up front if you want me to do you."
You think I'm joking. Check out Craigslist PostingID: 1601940799.
I am joking about the products, but seriously, if I put this blog entry as an ad on Craigs List, I will get orders.
Dare me.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentater's Day
I've been joking with certain friends, that I'm going to slit my wrists today, Valentine's Day, because I am haplessly, hopelessly out of love. Let me comfort you, or possibly win (or lose) a bet for you, I am not slitting anything today. To be on the safe side, I might not even floss, lest I slip and slit my gums.
The fact is, my suicidal quips are so far removed from any actual intention of offing myself I think we can safely say, "Joking about suicide is not funny."
What else isn't funny is this: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. It's just a silly phase I'm going through. And just because I call you up, or launch a chat, or send an ecard, don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made. I'm not in love. No, no. I'd like to see you...but then again...that doesn't mean you mean that much to me. So if I call you, don't make a fuss. Don't tell your friends about the two of us. I'm not in love. No, no.
If you ARE in love, even if it's the pretend kind (and for some of you I can see it is) bask in it, because on this side--let's call it the Not in Love side--even your transparent pretense of being in love is better than this hollow, sad, lonely, pathetic, worthless, miserable, did I say hollow?...hollow side.
You, the truly in love, genuine, heartfelt, soulmate lover types out there, can suck it, because I'm totally jealous of you. Are you happy with yourselves? Oh that's right, you are happy. Love will do that to you. It also makes you stupid. It also makes unattractive people attractive. It makes dumb jokes funny. It makes bad food yummy. It makes rain romantic. It makes ugly jewelry special. It makes silk, conversation heart covered boxers not ridiculous. It turns French Toast into French cuisine. It compels men to put the seat down. It compels women to...oh never mind.
I'd almost rather hate someone than feel this hollow. May I hate you? Will you be my Valentate?
The fact is, my suicidal quips are so far removed from any actual intention of offing myself I think we can safely say, "Joking about suicide is not funny."
What else isn't funny is this: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. It's just a silly phase I'm going through. And just because I call you up, or launch a chat, or send an ecard, don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made. I'm not in love. No, no. I'd like to see you...but then again...that doesn't mean you mean that much to me. So if I call you, don't make a fuss. Don't tell your friends about the two of us. I'm not in love. No, no.
If you ARE in love, even if it's the pretend kind (and for some of you I can see it is) bask in it, because on this side--let's call it the Not in Love side--even your transparent pretense of being in love is better than this hollow, sad, lonely, pathetic, worthless, miserable, did I say hollow?...hollow side.
You, the truly in love, genuine, heartfelt, soulmate lover types out there, can suck it, because I'm totally jealous of you. Are you happy with yourselves? Oh that's right, you are happy. Love will do that to you. It also makes you stupid. It also makes unattractive people attractive. It makes dumb jokes funny. It makes bad food yummy. It makes rain romantic. It makes ugly jewelry special. It makes silk, conversation heart covered boxers not ridiculous. It turns French Toast into French cuisine. It compels men to put the seat down. It compels women to...oh never mind.
I'd almost rather hate someone than feel this hollow. May I hate you? Will you be my Valentate?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Selling
I can't sell.
There is something about asking people for money that rubs me the wrong way. I can encourage, suggest, demonstrate and help you decide if you want to buy a thing, but I can't sell in the classic sense of the word.
So let me encourage you to try You Mail. I use it, I like it, and it's free.
This is the hard part. If you end up liking it so much you opt to pay for the upgraded, premium service...which I myself do not...then I would encourage you to click through from here: (or if the link doesn't work, copy and paste the URL)
www.youmail.com?src=8315949494
because when you do, they send me a spiff.
I know, that's horrible for me to suggest, isn't it? But to look at it from another perspective, I really don't care that much about the 10% spiff. I care more about you having a decent voicemail service, and You Mail is the best.
So give it a try and see for yourself...and you don't have to act by midnight tonight or anything. You don't have to act at all.
In fact, I'm sorry I even mentioned it. You're doing fine with the voicemail you have now. Nevermind the fact that it is designed to be awful and boring. No matter.
Who cares that you can't customize the outgoing message a zillion ways to Sunday? So what.
Do you really need email alerts letting you know you have a message? I don't think so.
Yeah, right-- like you are ever going to need a written transcript of a voicemail, or the ability to save it on your computer, or share it with others. That's just crazy talk.
Who needs yet another so-called useful service? Life is hard and it should stay that way.
Forget I said anything. Your retarded voicemail system is just fine. Don't change a thing. I'm serious. Sure, it's lame, but we are all used to it. Change is bad. Even when it's a change for the good.
Don't try You Mail. I'm sorry I even brought it up.
But if you do, link through from me. If you want. I don't care.
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