In the Martin family, we like to say, "Looks like someone took the slow train from Philly." That's code for "check out the slut."

I just realized that I have been watching The Office for three hours straight. That's right, I came home (early) from work, sat my ass on the sofa, and have been watching The Office ever since. Luckily, Heidi just called and tore me away from the television. So now I am indulging another addiction and that is you, dear Internets.

Heidi's boss gave her a gift certificate to a restaurant in the fancy new mall they built right next to our apartment. So that's where we're going for dinner. Because it's free. While there, I hope to engage in some trash talking of our friends and coworkers because that's what we do. Not really. Ok, maybe a little.

After work today, I had to stop and get gas (at the gas station, not at Taco Bell BWAHAA, thank you thank you, don't forget to tip your waitress). As I was standing at the pump, I opened the passenger side door to put my credit card away, which I heard you're not supposed to do in case your door like, I don't know, makes a spark and the entire city ignites in a fiery ball of . . . um . . . fire. Am I making this up? I don't know. Well, anyway, it turns out that ANOTHER reason you shouldn't open your door at the gas pump is that a BEE might fly in and start buzzing around the car interior all, "oooh, look at me . . . I'm a bee and I like flowers and ooooh, maybe there are some flowers in this car," well, there aren't, bee! Get out of my car now please!

I suppose I should mention that of all God's creatures, bees scare me the most. Even though I am a grown woman, a mature (heh) ADULT, if I see a bee I am still tempted to jump up and run away shrieking like a little girl. I used to be afraid to go to the amusement park because there are bees there and BEES STING YOU. Maybe some of you remember my bee episode from last spring? So, yes, I am scared of bees. Ok? Suck it. The next time you see a big, fat, hairy spider and want me to kill it for you I will just LAUGH. IN. YOUR. FACE.

Today, however, I gathered my courage to fight with this bee because you see . . . I knew I couldn't just stand there and wait for it to find the open door and fly far, far away because I really wanted to go home and watch The Office. And my desire to lust after John Krasinski far outweighs my fear of a tiny, insignificant little bee that might sting me and then call its bee friends and make fun of how easy I was to sting and, oh, also how I cried like, again, a little girl.

So, I took off my shoe, bracing myself to smack the shit out of that bee when, wouldn't you know it, that little bastard flew right out the open door. And it didn't even buzz my head! Sure, I got some weird looks for standing in the gas station parking lot holding one shoe in my hand while hopping on one foot, but I think I took an important step today.

eat me

The butt sandwich:

Oh gravity, stay the hell away from me

I think God or Karma or The Flying Spaghetti Monster is trying to tell me something. It's been a shitty week. First there was the car, then the shitty work schedule, oh and then the car again, and did I mention work? Then I woke up yesterday and my right eye was swollen. Swollen. Like Heidi had snuck into my room and punched me in the face while I was sleeping. Heidi, did you? Seriously, tell me. I hope I didn't get pinkeye from one of the tiny, unwashed, germ-infested miscreants (patients) that come into our office. Gross.

But anyway, worst of all, this morning I walked out of the apartment and a squirrel threw a nut at me! It didn't hit me (squirrels don't have very good aim) but it almost did. And I know what you're thinking. Squirrels aren't malicious creatures who sit in their trees plotting to overthrow the human race with an extensive array of nut ammunition. Well, I'm here to tell you that YES THEY ARE. They are starting a revolution. You can say I'm crazy (you won't be the first), but I saw the look in that squirrel's eye after he threw that nut at me. It said, "that was a warning, bitch . . . next time, oh next time you won't be so lucky."

So consider yourself warned, Internets.

I am downgrading the story from "incredibly hilarious" to "still funny but a little sad."

Earlier today I was catching up on TiVo'ed episodes of The Daily Show, and when I got to last night's episode I could have sworn the guest was the fucking PRESIDENT OF PAKISTAN. Now, I'm pretty tired so I could have been hallucinating but WOW.

Speaking of The Daily Show (I will use pretty much any excuse to bring up Jon Stewart, but you should know that by now), I found out a couple of weeks ago that they will be in Ohio in October. Ohio. THE STATE IN WHICH I LIVE. Of course, immediately after I found this out I went to the website to see if I could get tickets. There was an e-mail address you could use to inquire about how to get tickets so I, being the obsessive fan that I am, did so inquire only to be told that because of the response they weren't giving tickets away anymore. I almost cried. Ok, I did cry a little. No, I didn't. That's a lie. I need to stop that. Lying for no reason, I mean, not crying.

Here is the thing, Internets. I really want to go. I really, really want to go. But I don't have any money. So short of begging on the street corner, where I may be confused with something OTHER than a beggar, I need you to help me figure out how to sneak backstage or onto the tour bus or something. Also, I'm going to need one of these shirts and they're not selling them anymore so that could be a problem.

If this proves to be impossible, I can only pray that they do a piece on Touchdown Jesus*, because really . . . the entire country needs to be aware of what Ohio has to offer.

Help me, Jon Stewart. You're my only hope.

*Do you know what's funny about Touchdown Jesus? Besides the obvious, I mean. When you get off at that exit, almost the very first thing you see is a Hustler store.

Whatever, dude, you kissed a guy

Because my friends and I all have the mentality of 5th graders, whenever any of us has any kind of boy in the picture (platonic or otherwise), there is a mad, immature rush to put his number into our cell phones and pretend we are going to call him and say something embarrassing. This doesn't really scare me too much, because I doubt my friends can say much that I wouldn't say myself after a couple of drinks. But it does explain why I just found a strange entry in my cell phone for someone named "petes." From what I can recall, I tried to put the name "Peter" in my phone last summer after one of my friends had a couple run-ins with a boy named, you guessed it, Peter. Not "petes," and I'm guessing I spelled it that way because it's hard to see the letters on your phone when you're in a dark bar and you've had one too many shots of tequila but ANYWAY moving on. I doubt I ever got so far as to call him, because this was the phone number I had listed: 757. That's it. Just 757. Ok. This is why I should not be allowed to operate my cell phone while drinking. I wish my phone had a breathalyzer on it so it would like automatically hang up if I was too drunk to be operating it. Seriously. I should probably take my boss's cell phone number out of my phone. That's just asking for trouble.

Also, some of you may find this number useful: 440-328-3382.

So, Phoebe is doing this new annoying thing where she stares at a window and meows until you open the blinds. And then when you do open the blinds, she keeps staring at the window and meowing because she's trying to figure out if her fat ass will fit up there. It will.

Most of the time, anyway. I know she only wants up there because squirrels keep running by on the ledge outside. And it's not like she's gonna catch any of them! They're outside and even if they weren't it wouldn't matter. They're speedy and would probably kick Phoebe's ass even though they are like the gay mafia of the nature world. Also, she hardly even tries to catch bugs anymore! So her skills? Not so sharp. Fucking lazy cat. I knew I should have gotten a lion.

I can say what I want - I still got Nazi bullets in my ass.

Yesterday, I was pretty distracted with other things, namely my bitch car from hell, but I didn't really realize it until last night when I was talking to Heidi. And now . . . Conversations With My Roommate Because I am Lazy and Don't Know What Else To Write:

Heidi: So what are you going to do about your car?
Me: Well, my dad said that we should probably . . .
Heidi: Um.
Me: . . .
Heidi: What are you doing?
Me: I think my pajama pants are on backwards.
Heidi: I wondered.
Me: I mean, I don't normally look down the front of my pants when I talk to people.
Heidi: I'd hope not. Hello, ADD.

My pants were not on backwards. In case you were interested and don't pretend you weren't.

Conversations With My Roommate EXTRAVAGANZA

While watching America's Next Top Model:

Me: Miss J is kind of unfortunate looking.
Heidi: That's because he's stuck between being a man and a woman.
Me: He's walking the line. Just like Johnny Cash.
Heidi: Only Johnny Cash's line goes to StraightLand and Miss J's line goes to . . . aswirl aswirl!
Me: I never thought I'd bring up Johnny Cash during an episode of America's Next Top Model.
Heidi: Yeah, I think I just heard him roll over in his grave.
Johnny Cash: Seriously, girls, I'm tired and you talk about me all the time. Leave me alone.
Heidi: This is all Joaquin Phoenix's fault.

Fun in the kitchen:

Heidi: Did you pack your lunch yet?
Me: No.
Heidi: Oh, I'll get another loaf of bread out of the freezer.
Me: I think we're out.
Heidi: Already? Well, there's enough bread for one more sandwich.
Me: That's it?
Heidi: Unless you count the butts. And one of them is really little.
Me: I'll eat the butts.
Heidi: I don't like the butts.
Me: I'm too cheap NOT to eat the butts.
Heidi: My dad likes the butt.

That's when I laid on the floor for five minutes laughing and then I think I passed out a little.

And finally, today at work and totally not while we were supposed to be working because that would be wrong wrong wrong and no I DO NOT spend my work day e-mailing my friends, chatting on Gmail, and posting things to my blog and if you think otherwise I have just one thing to say and that is ERRONEOUS! Erroneous on both counts! Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about either so anyway:

(this was through e-mail, obviously, because Heidi and I do not work at the same place . . . probably a good thing)

Me: Do you think I could be a flight attendant?

Heidi: Um, no. You have to wear heels, push a cart, and serve drinks to people while staying on your feet and not spilling anything on yourself.*

Me: Haha! But can you imagine the pratfalls? Maybe I'd meet someone famous. Like John Krasinski!

Heidi: You might, but then they might be angry that you got them wet.

Me: No, I really think that if I spilled something on John Krasinski he would think, "my, who is this charming klutz of a girl! I must impregnate her immediately!"**

Heidi: You are dreaming big today.

Me: Well, I need something to occupy my time.

*I really think she's implying that I might be clumsy and I'm not sure where she's getting that

**I'm not really delusional, I just love me some John Krasinski and no I am also not stalking him***

***I'm not doing the footnote thing all the time to be cute, it's just that I'm too lazy to work this stuff into a proper entry

And I take maple syrup and put a little bit in my hair when I've had a rough week. What do you think holds it up, slick?

So I was wondering where the random bruises on my arm and hip came from, and then I simultaneously tripped over Phoebe and sideswiped the doorjam and I remembered that, oh yeah, I'm a fucking klutz. I run into things. I fall down a lot. I hit myself in the head with golf balls. And I don't think I'm alone in this (except maybe the golf ball thing).

I was going to start a club, but I think there already is one, and anyway, I think if we all got together in one place the building might collapse. So, you know, enter at your own risk.

I'm not together but I'm getting there*

One of these days I will be a responsible adult, right? Right? Did you guys ever do those senior superlatives in high school? Like Most Likely to Succeed? And Best Hair? And Biggest Slut? I actually don't remember if we did it or not, but if we did it now I think I'd be voted Most Likely to Set Self on Fire or Most Likely to Die in a Freak Gasoline Fight Accident. Seriously.**

I spent this morning (and when I say this morning, I mean after 11 because that is when I dragged myself out of bed) inhaling coffee and talking to "Katherine" (yeah, right) at SBC's Tech Support because our Internet wasn't working and if I am without the ability to check my e-mail I start to go a little, how to I put this, batshit crazy. Katherine was really helpful, though. She even asked me how the weather was here and if I'd had a good weekend. Thanks, Katherine! Oh, and thank you for spelling everything for me veeeerrrryyyy slooooowly and TWICE even! I know the American school system isn't the best, but I do know how to spell config. Really. Thanks.

Oh, guess what. My car is sucking more money out of my checking account. Thanks a lot, CAR.

I don't really have anything to say (obviously), I just really wanted to make sure the first post people see when they come here isn't about poop. Actually, I wish I hadn't even mentioned poop again. Shit.

*Dear My Sister, thank you for burning me a copy of John Mayer's new CD, even if it makes me a bad fan I don't care because JOHN, seriously, I have no money. How about you give me a Grammy to sell on eBay?

**I need to stop saying this IMMEDIATELY.

the one where I am borderline inappropriate . . . yes, again

Me: Dad, do you poop at the same time every day?*

Dad: Excuse me?

Me: I'm just curious. Cause I don't even poop every day.

Dad: Well, I'm not telling you or it'll end up on your blog.

*Yes, I did ask this question out of nowhere and no, I don't know why

The company has made it my responsibility today to put an end to 100,000 years of being weirded out by gays.

Last night, while watching The Office and Grey's Anatomy and after making the following comments:

"Do you think Jim even knows that Pam didn't marry Roy?"

"I can't believe Pam didn't marry Roy."

"Seriously. They didn't get married."

and

"God, has Izzy gone to the bathroom? Is she like . . . peeing on her dress, cause if so there's no way she can ever wear that again."

I finally admitted to Heidi that sometimes I forget that TV characters aren't real people. I don't think she was too surprised.

Michael said, “We must deceive them, so as not to hurt them. And in that way, we honor them.”*

Last night, while I was alternately fixing dinner (and by fixing dinner, I mean wandering around the kitchen trying to figure out what I could fix that would take the least amount of time) and watching Dancing With the Stars, Phoebe went batshit crazy and ran wily-nily around the apartment. This eventually led to her knocking over the lamp, which spilled my water and knocked a bunch of shit on the ground. Then, with a look at me that seemed to say, "fuck you, human," she jumped from the soaking wet endtable to the half-wall overlooking the stairs and knocked over the pile of magazines and mail, creating such a loud ruckus that she was forced to meow loudly and hightail it under Heidi's bed. And now our lamp isn't working. Goddamn cat.

Oh, and Heidi told me I forgot about this one . . . so now, Conversation With My Roommate That One Time We Took a Walk After Eating A Lot of Pizza Oh and Also I Had Had a Beer As If That Is An Excuse For Anything (It's Not):

Me: I ate too much pizza.
Heidi: Me too.
Me: Uhhhhh.
Heidi: I should have gone to the bathroom before we left.
Me: Gross. You could just go outside.
Heidi: Talk about gross.
Me: That's what the pond is for!
Heidi: Then we'd get another notice with our newsletter.
Me: Yeah. "Parents. Please make sure your children are wearing diapers when you throw them into the pond to swim."
Heidi: Do you think they can tell the difference between adult poop and baby poop?
Me: Um, yeah, it's different sizes.
Heidi: How do you know?
Me: Cause when we used to go to the pool when we were little, if anyone found poop on the bottom of the pool we'd put on our goggles and go look at it.
Heidi: Ew!
Me: What? We were like ten! Poop is funny when you're ten!
Heidi: Well, I would just poop on the sidewalk like a goose.
Me: Hahahaha!
Heidi: I'd be all, "hold on a second . . . PLOP!"
Me: Hahahaha!
Heidi: Are you OK?
Me: No, I can't breathe, really.
Heidi: Sorry.
Me: Do you find it disturbing that we talk about pooping outside when we're dead sober and yet that one time when me, you, and Mary were wasted we spent an hour on the balcony talking about the Holocaust?
Heidi: Kind of.
Me: Ok. Glad we're on the same page.

*The Office starts tomorrow, bitches!

avast, me hearties

I have been waiting for this day, dreaming about this day, and practically holding my breath ALL YEAR until it was acceptable* at work to say, "yo ho," after everything.

That's right, land lubbers . . . it's Talk Like a Pirate Day!

I can't believe I forgot my sword.

*Ok, I realize that saying "ho" at work is probably** never acceptable. Leave me alone. It's Talk Like a Pirate Day!
**Ok, not probably. Never. It is never acceptable to say "ho" at work.

for real, I almost peed myself

Check out how cheap gas was in Mason today*:


Take a moment for your eyes to adjust. That is gas . . . under two dollars a gallon. I know! Of course, I had already filled up my tank in Dayton before I left at $2.11 and then when I got back to Dayton this evening the price had jumped to $2.24. It's OK, though. I've given up trying to make sense of it.

You guys, it's Monday again. I just can't understand how and why this keeps happening. Actually, I'm just whining for no reason. I had a very good Monday, but don't tell the universe.

*between this photo and the picture of the pimps** I took Saturday night, my new camera phone has already paid for itself AND THEN SOME

**Ok, I'll share a picture. It's not the one I took with my phone, but it is the best picture I have ever been a part of:

The pimp dressed in black was at least 70, had no teeth, and told me I looked good holding his cane.

Dear Internets, I have a problem

Not a mental problem. THIS time. I think something is wrong with my coffeemaker. OK, I know something is wrong with my coffeemaker. The on/off switch, when turned to the on position has a little orange light that, well, lights up. Lately, however, I'll go out to the kitchen expecting to see a freshly brewed semi-pot of coffee (not a whole pot, unless I plan to run to work that day) and instead! The pot! Is empty! This makes me sad on several levels. One, because I'm usually on a very tight schedule in the morning as a result of hitting snooze 78 times and there is no room for error and I ESPECIALLY do not have time for coffee shenanigans and TWO, because I love coffee! And where is it? Seriously! Coffeemaker, why have you forsaken me!

Anyway. I've found that if I flip the on/off switch back and forth a couple of times, eventually the orange light will come back on and my coffee will brew. Or, if you hold the switch in a certain position, like halfway between on and off, the coffee will start brewing again. Unfortunately, I don't have time to stand there with my finger on the switch and watch the precious liquid drip sloooooowly into the void of the coffeepot because usually I'm standing there in a towel with my wet hair dripping all over the linoleum. So I've come up with a temporary solution. I took a piece of scotch tape and very gingerly placed it on the bottom of the on/off switch to hold it in the proper position while I run away and frantically get ready for work. And while I'm proud of this solution (I feel it proves that my dad's engineer genes, the ones that enable him to MacGyver problem appliances in the easiest way possible using ordinary household items, haven't completely been nurtured out of my body), I would like to be able to fix it permanently. You know. Without having to spend money on a new one.

On a completely unrelated note . . . is this week crawling by for anyone else? Seriously. I'm pretty sure they added a couple days. All Mondays.

Being nice when you say something pricky is even prickier.*

You guys, today was almost complete and total shit. Aside from a short reprieve earlier this evening, today has been a total shit sandwich. Wait, that doesn't work because the good part of the day was in the middle. Ok, today was like a big, fat diamond rolled in shit bread. Or maybe not a diamond, because that would probably hurt if you tried to eat it. Anyway. Today was shitty. I don't want to talk about it.

I will talk about the big, fat diamond, though. Tonight was my first official night of volunteering. Maybe not official because I was technically "observing" but little kids don't just let you sit there and not do anything. I mean, they're at least going to use you as a prop. I was pretty excited because I got to go with the Littles, meaning kids 2nd grade and younger. I would prefer to work with the youngest kids because I feel, maturity wise, they are more on my level and will probably laugh if I say "poop" or "pee." ANYWAY. There were only three kids in the group tonight and instead of doing any of the planned activities, they wanted to play doctor and patient. I was quickly reminded that little kids have no boundaries when one of them, a little boy who was maybe 6, came directly to me and stuck a stethoscope down the front of my shirt so he could listen to my heart. I immediately thought, "oh god, I'm going to get kicked out when they walk in and see a little boy's hand down my shirt," but it was barely there for a minute when he exclaimed, "Hey! This thing actually works, I can hear your heart!" and ran away to give a stuffed bunny a shot.

Which, thank god . . . I hate shots. Tequila being the exception.

*Do you hear that, nice guys? Seriously, just be a prick. It's easier and it looks like more fun. Own it.

Conversations with my Roommate: Dancing With the Stars Edition*

Me: Holy shit, Mario Lopez is hot!
Heidi: I know, he's gotten better with age.
Me: Yeah, he has! Look at him!
Heidi: And Zach Morris used to be the dreamy one.
Me: Although, he got better with age, too.
Heidi: True.

Me: I'm gonna pee my pants.
Heidi: Um.
Me: Calm down, I'm walking to the bathroom.**

*shut up, I don't wanna hear it
**I realize that had nothing to do with Dancing with the Stars, but it happened during the show so it still counts. Shut up, it does.

five years feels like yesterday

I don't know about you guys, but I breathed a little sigh of relief when I got out of bed this morning and saw it was cloudy and rainy.

gay, not interested, girlfriend

I really think my radar is broken. Or missing. Or something. Because, seriously? Seriously. Sigh.

Anyway, I found out this morning that another one of my friends will soon be engaged. I can't tell you who. It's a secret. Until later. Then I'll tell you. Stop bugging me, I'm not gonna tell you who it is right now. For real, you sound a little desperate. Leave me alone. God! You're pathetic, stop asking! Go away! Seriously! I hate you!

Right, so this one was less of a surprise than the last one. And while I am really happy and excited for each and every one of my lovely friends and their lovely fiances, and as much as I really, really don't want to get married right now (seriously, maybe tomorrow, OK? mama's tired) I can't stop that little, niggling thought in the back of my stupid brain that says, "Why doesn't anyone want to marry ME?! What's wrong with me?! Seriously! Marry me, assholes!"

Oh. Maybe it's because I call people assholes. Eh.

So. Phase Whatever of the Craigslist Project starts tomorrow. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. There is another little thought in the back of my stupid brain that keeps insisting that this is NOT HOW IT'S DONE. You don't meet that "special someone" (I hate that phrase with the fire of a thousand suns, so I'm still not sure why I keep using it) on the internet (no offense to my male readers, I heart you . . . you, too, female readers). The only people I am going to find on the Internets are psychos and pedophiles*. Nerdy pedophiles, at that. And they're the worst kind.

*I know that's not entirely true and it's a really outdated way to think but I'm tired so SHH.

this will all make perfect sense someday, i'll be ok

Right?

Sometimes, I wish that I was the weather, you'd bring me up in conversation forever and when it rained, I'd be the talk all day

Remember the other day when I declared this a good week and didn't care whether or not I was jinxing myself? Yeah, I'm an idiot (no surprise) because I think I did jinx myself and I got a little jinx on everyone else I know, too. Almost everyone I have come into contact with is complaining about not being able to sleep. Myself included. I'm sorry!

I'm afraid Heidi has had it the worst, though. She was in such extreme pain yesterday because of her KIDNEY STONES (Joey? Friends? Anyone?) that she couldn't go to the concert with me. I mean, it worked out well for my sister, because she got to go, but I'm guessing that is little consolation to Heidi. And, I'm sorry to say, that since Heidi was going to be my accomplice in the Get John Mayer Away From Jessica Plan, I did not get a chance to have a Very Serious Conversation with him. She didn't know she was my accomplice (I couldn't risk her going to the authorities) but SHE WAS. So, I'm sorry. John is still trapped by that waxy, blonde bimbo and her magical vagina, which must transport people to the land of Narnia or something. Seriously. Why do men like her? Am I missing something? Besides a penis?

ANYWAY. Don't you worry about Heidi, because I made up a sweet, get-well-soon basket. I hope she doesn't read this before she gets home tonight. HEIDI IF YOU ARE READING THIS . . . UM, STOP READING AND GO AWAY. SERIOUSLY.

I'm kind of jealous of the basket, because there are coloring books and crayons in it. Lucky! Would it be rude to color a picture before she gets home? Yes? Ok. Good talk. There is also a recorder. A recorder! And it was less than a dollar! I might go back tomorrow to get one for myself.

Oh. Today after work I went out to my car and saw my rearview mirror lying in my passenger seat. Which is weird because I rarely leave my rearview mirror in any of my car seats, passenger or not. So, while I was shopping for goodies for Heidi, I bought some rearview mirror glue. The cashier lady (man? I really couldn't tell) almost didn't give it to me, until I proved that I was over 18, which is retarded because why are people over 18 allowed to huff glue but people under 18 aren't? I mean, I can drive a car (theoretically) so you'd think there'd be more restrictions on me purchasing something like that than a 14-year-old who only has to take an Algebra test tomorrow. Because seriously. How hard is Algebra? More importantly, can you kill someone with Algebra? Geometry, maybe, because you could whip a protractor at someone and slice their neck open, but Algebra? Come on, Algebra is like Geometry's bitch. My car, however, can easily be used as a murder weapon. Do not make me demonstrate. Again.

Perhaps the most frightening thing I saw during my trip to the store was in the parking lot. I was walking behind an old man and noticed, TO MY HORROR, that his shorts were slipping down. Luckily, he noticed too and hiked them up but not before I saw that he was wearing PURPLE, LACY UNDERWEAR. I'm not making this up! I wish I were! My only regret (other than actually witnessing this atrocity) was that no one else was around to corroborate my story.

Right now I am waiting for my computer to explode or Phoebe to take a giant crap in my purse or something equally bad and disgusting but I can't complain. After all, as I said above, I brought this on myself.

what my sister really thinks of me

Last night at the concert*:

Mindy: Ew, what's that smell.
Jennie: Marijuana.
Mindy: Oh.
[slight pause]
Mindy: It isn't yours, is it?

Nice, really nice. And no. It wasn't mine.

*Which, by the way, was awesome but I'm too tired to talk about it. Tired and also lazy.

I'm going to need a ski mask, a copy of Newlyweds, and a jetpack

I may be jinxing myself but I don't care, I think this week is going to be a good one. I'm declaring it good RIGHT NOW. Because there are only four days. And I only have eight hours of work and an hour drive to get through tomorrow before the concert. And I really think, if I just get five minutes alone with him (can anyone help me with this?), I can talk John Mayer out of this whole Jessica Simpson Debacle. Although, if I can't, I can wait it out. I mean, if we got through the Jennifer Love Hewitt months, I think we can make it past Jessica Simpson who, let's face it, is really just Jennifer Love Hewitt with blonde hair and a creepier father.

Ladies, I'll see what I can do.

also, I think Brooks and Dunn are gay for each other . . . you should have seen their shirts

Last night I went to a Brooks & Dunn (Dunne?) concert. I know. I KNOW. But my roommate won free tickets (on a sidenote, how lucky have we been with the free tickets lately? I know. I KNOW) and the woman she was supposed to go with bailed on her so I went. Even though, I don't really like country all that much and wouldn't know a country song if it bit me on the ass. Which turned out to not be true, because I forgot about my brief affair with country music in junior high and it turns out Brooks & Dunne (Dunn?) are really old so I DID know some of their songs. A fact I didn't know whether to be ashamed or proud of.

You guys know how I hate everyone, right? Well, this concert was a gathering of some of the people I hate most; Republicans, Bengals fans who yell "who dey" at every opportune moment, rednecks, drunks, and drunk rednecks. Add the rain and the fact that we were on the lawn in drunk redneck central, where there was an abundance of dirty dancing grinding and LINE DANCING (sometimes all at the same time), and it could have been hell. But it really wasn't that bad.

That was the most anti-climactic story ever. You're welcome.