i'm so not going to hollywood, dawg

Last night I dreamt I auditioned for American Idol.

I don't know. Just bear with me.

So there I was sitting in a big ass holding room along with all the other hopefuls at some hotel. I can't say for sure but it might have been the La Quinta in Secaucus, New Jersey. But don't quote me on that.

Then, suddenly, I was whisked into a smaller room where I was told by a production person that I was going on in a few minutes.

There were about four people ahead of me waiting to perform, Kenny Rogers and Paula Abdul among them. Like, Paula actually had to audition to be a judge and stuff. FYI, she and Kenny both got cut and Kenny looked positively devastated. I don't remember what happened to Paula. I was too transfixed by Kenny's sad face.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I tried to figure out what song I would sing... 'cause I'm well-prepared like that. I considered singing "Happy Birthday" because, apparently, my subconscious thought that timeless tune would really wow the judges. I suppose I would have had a big finish with an elongated and dramatic "to yoooooooooooooooooooouUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" at the end.

Other options I considered: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and that song that goes "Down down baby, down by the roller coaster."

Because I'm five.

Anyhoo, I was led into the room and there sat Randy and Simon Cowell... right next to the hotel reception desk. I voiced my concern about having to sing over the din of people checking in and out but I was ignored. And then I asked where I should stand because there was no "X" on the floor marking the spot. Simon got all sorts of bitchy with me and threatened to throw me out and then he made me stand in an area where there were a ton of hanging plants which were swinging back and forth in a most precarious fashion. Naturally, I totally whacked my head on a terra cotta planter. That shit hurt. He was a real dick about things, that Simon.

And then it was time to get down to business. Randy asked if I was ready and I responded in the affirmative and let fly with a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I don't remember making that decision to change up the song but in retrospect, that was quite the daring impromptu move. Go me.

Granted, I mangled the words at times but neither Randy nor Simon cut me off so I really started getting into it. I actually believed that I was quite possibly going to Hollywood.

I finished up my number and waited to hear my fate. I don't remember what Randy said because, well, he's Randy and I never pay attention to him. But I'm sure he used the terms "pitchy" and "dawg." Just a hunch.

And then Simon said, "I quite liked your lower register but no. Sorry." And then he put his arm around me and walked me to the door. That was nice of Simon, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. However, my voice today is a bit hoarse and ragged which leads me to believe that I actually sang a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in my sleep.

Thank God I don't have a roommate.

knockers

A knock on the door at around 7:30 this morning startled me from my semi-conscious state. My alarm had gone off about 30 minutes prior but I was enjoying that half-hour lazy grace period I always allow myself.

I didn't quite register the knock on the door at first because, at the time, I was entrenched in a very vivid dream. I can't for the life of me tell you what happened in that dream now because it's long forgotten. And for that, I'm certain you're all grateful because, really, is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else's dreams? I think not.

But as I was saying, the first knock on the door fell victim to the disorientation that ensues when I'm unceremoniously rousted from my slumber.

I lay in bed all confused, my eyes darting from side to side trying to figure out if I actually heard a knock or just dreamt it.

And then came a second knock on the door. It wasn't the same violent pounding and aggressive bell ringing I experienced during a carbon monoxide false alarm a few months prior so I ruled out the New York Fire Department.

After the third knock, I got up to inspect. My plan was to look through the peep hole and assess the threat level of the person on the other side. If the person looked like a potential murderer, I was going to pretend I wasn't home. Even if the person didn't look like a potential murderer, I was still going to pretend I wasn't home because I certainly didn't want to deal with whatever bullshit this person deemed important enough to address at 7:30am. Fuck that noise.

Anyhoo, I tiptoed gingerly across my apartment taking great pains to not step on any squeaky floor boards. I quietly lifted the latch on the peep hole and cautiously peered through.

On the other end was a young guy in a t-shirt and from what I could tell, shorts. He didn't look like a potential murderer but I was still uncertain as to whether I should alert of him of my presence.

As I was pondering my options, he yelled, "Tricia, let me in!"

And for reasons I still don't understand, I responded as such: "Um... I think you have... the wrong apartment?"

You know, if there was ever a scenario where it would be completely acceptable to respond, "You're in the wrong building, dumbass!" this would be it. However, for reasons I can't explain, I haltingly responded in the form of the question as if there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, this Tricia lived in some hidden alcove or wing of my tiny wee studio previously unknown to me.

Fortunately, he didn't pick up on my uncertainty because he was too busy hauling his embarrassed ass out the front door.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to find this Tricia.

off with his head

For reasons I can't quite explain, I thought it would be a good idea to watch Halloween H20: 20 Years Later tonight... Alone in my apartment... In the middle of June. Just 'cause.

I adore the original and am completely pissed that a perfect story was dicked around with in a series of sequels, one more atrocious than the next. But I watched it anyway and yes, it completely sucked. However, I did have one moment of satisfaction during this monstrosity and I would like to share it with you.

Some background...

It's 20 years later and after yet another run-in with Michael Myers, Laurie Strode has had it up to HERE with his bullshit and decides to confront him once and for all.

You know, I'm not sure I understand her logic because he's survived coat hangers to the eyes, bullet wounds, several story falls, fire balls, suffocation, etc. I'm not sure why she suddenly thought she could magically do him in but, whatever, I was willing to suspend my disbelief.

Now, before heading off to face her psychotic brother, she had the good sense to grab an ax... conveniently located within arm's reach, of course. She searched high and low for Michael bellowing his name and then she finally found him as he was slowly descending from his perch on the ceiling.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyhoo, before Laurie could swing around with ax in hand, I offered her a bit of advice: "DECAPITATE HIM! DECAPITATE HIM WITH THE AX!" My reasoning was as such: Obviously, Michael Myers is immune to straight-up causes of death but we haven't seen him really tackle dismemberment yet. Let's give it a whirl.

But did Laurie Strode listen to me? No! The best that dumbass could manage was a harsh chop to the sternum where the ax got stuck, which, of course, Michael easily extracted and flung on the floor. So weak.

Side note: I'm not sure why Michael didn't hold onto that weapon for added backup since he's had a history of being stabbed and poked by the ever-feisty Laurie. Clearly, common sense does not run in the Myers family.

Fast forward a few more stupid scenes and now Michael Myers is pinned between a coroner's van and a tree branch after he freed himself from a body bag in the aforementioned coroner's van being recklessly driven by his sister, Laurie Strode.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyway, so here's Michael Myers in a position just ripe for decapitation, in my estimation, but I wasn't holding my breath because Laurie sorely disappointed me the first time with her hack hacking job.

But then she picked up the ax -- once again conveniently located within arm's reach -- and she sliced that motherfucker's head clean off, sending it rolling down the hill, William Shatner mask and all.

So there you have it... Evil was defeated. Personally, I like to think it's because of that bit of sage advice I offered Jamie Lee Curtis just a few scenes earlier.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

helpful hint #4

When approached by a blind man in Brooklyn Heights and asked where Joralemon Street is, it's wise not to point your finger in the proper direction and say, "That way!"

You know, so I hear...

anatomy, explained

Despite my sickly ways, I managed to hoof it across the Hudson River to visit my family for Mother's Day. Fear not as I made sure to steer clear of the new baby so as not to infect her with my funk.

The So-Fucking-Cute-I-Could-Just-Smush-His-Head-One-Year-Old Nephew has a cough as bad as mine so he and I were quarantined together. I sat him on my lap and talked to him... and he pulled my hair. I tried reading him a book... and he tore the pages. It was so sweet. The fact that he's a destructive beast only endears him more to me.

He had a dirty diaper at one point and well, that was not at all endearing and I wanted nothing to do with it. I summoned his mother and she took him aside to change him. Despite the courteous distance, the changing was still within the line of sight of those of us congregated in the family room, particularly the nosy, prying eyes of The Adorable Seven-Year-Old Niece.

She's seen her cousin get changed several times and by now, she's begun to notice a pattern, in particular, his hand movements and where they tend to... uh... roam when he's diaper-less.

Today, she took her observation a step further and emphatically stated a cause-and-effect theory she had been working out in recent months:

"He's always picking at THAT THING so that's why it's so squishy."

I don't know that I completely understand her logic but, regardless, it's still brilliant.

So let that be a lesson to you boys... If your THING is squishy, we'll all know you've been picking at it.

thank you!!!

Thanks to lots of shameless shilling on my part and some possible voting irregularities, it seems that Ham & Cheese on Wry is the 2006 TLL Lesbian Blog of the Year.

Lori of Hahn at Home technically received the most votes but she removed herself from the running because she felt some people voted for her site more than once.

Wow. That takes a lot of integrity and class and Lori deserves high praise. And my sincere gratitude... Thank you, Lori! You're truly awesome.

Thank you to everyone who nominated and voted for my blog. And thanks and a big welcome to all the new readers who stopped by and patiently read through all of my posts from the schmoopie to the insane. I'm happy to have you here.

And finally, thanks to Kelly at The Lesbian Lifestyle who organized this whole shebang. I know it was a lot of hard work and I know I speak for everyone involved when I say your efforts are much appreciated. Thank you!

I hereby promise to honor and uphold the duties of my crown and not pull a Tara Conner. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to tie one on in celebration. Uh... with a non-alcoholic beverage, of course.

Thanks again!

the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple