Questions I Ask Myself

I was on the FOJG message boards (shut up, I'm bored) and some woman started a thread saying that she had a ticket available for tonight's show in Omaha. She couldn't go because she was having complications due to her pregnancy.

First I thought about feverishly mapquesting Omaha (if I leave right now, could I make the encores???).

Then I thought, "Wait. If it were me, and my pregnancy, and my unborn baby; would I miss a Josh concert?"

And I honestly think the answer would be no.

I am a horrible person who will rot in hell.

Christmas in August

FOJG.com released the cover art for Josh's Christmas CD today.

I was understandably squeeling and wigging out and maybe jumping up and down and drooling over my keyboard, and Colleen comes over to see what the craziness fuss was about.

"Isn't it like the hottest thing ever!?!?!?!"

"Um...it's a picture of Josh. With a light behind him. And snow."

*sigh*

Looks like we're back to my fandom being crazier but in no way superior to her fandom.

It is clearly so much more than a picture with snow and light. Gah. She just doesn't get it.

Also some major shit going down on the boards, because it looked like Barnes and Noble and amazon.com, who both offered the "special edition" for preorder, had sold out. *shock and awe*

But then people started getting e-mails from the websites that the distributors had decided not to release a special edition.

Even though the Barnes and Noble stores *are* still accepting pre-orders.

And nobody from Josh's camp is saying anything.

This is not good.

If there is something that these women like less than the thought that Josh is the same age as their grandsons, it is being kept out of the loop.

They are not amused.

Personally, I'm not too worried. These are CDs that aren't set to be released for a month and a half. If they know they can sell a million more copies, they'll make some more. It's a disc of plastic.

It left me with one major thought though---

Thank you God that Barnes and Noble and not Borders got the rights to this. The Harry Potter thing almost killed me. I couldn't deal with irrate Grobanites calling the store for the next month who want to know WHERE THEIR CD IS RIGHT NOW OMG. And I know that all the phone calls would get tossed to me. Because my fandom cannot be silenced, and everyone I work with knows that I would do anything, including commit perjury (You may think this is farfetched, but I've actually been asked to do this for someone---and not someone whose babies I want to have. I'm just saying.), treason, or mortal sins for Josh. (Well, maybe not the bordering-on-graphic last part, but I'm sure they have a pretty good idea.)

I'd have to quit.

I don't want to be one less.

Attn: Men of the Family. The following contains a discussion of Gardasil and cervices (is that the plural?) Proceed at your own risk.

My mom was at the gynecologist for me the other day (What? I don't like hugging people. You think I'm going to get behind anything that involves stirrups and a speculum??? I think not.), and the woman practically dragged me out of the waiting room in order to get my Gardasil vaccine RIGHT NOW BECAUSE YOU ARE BEING SO IRRESPONSIBLE OMG. *sigh*

For those of you who have been following butterflies in the rain forest for the past two years and have yet to see the pervasive commercials involving alarmingly young women playing jump rope and singing about cervical cancer, Gardasil is a vaccine that protects against HPV, a sexually transmitted virus that can contribute to the cause of cervical cancer.

I have a myriad of problems with Gardasil.

On both superficial and deeper levels, the advertising bugs me. I'm pretty sure that in order to get cervical cancer, you need a cervix. And I'm also pretty sure that that first person on the commercial (the one with the skateboard?) was born a man. But that's just me.

I think they're marketing it irresponsibly, as a cancer drug rather than something that prevents an STD. I know for a fact that there are some stupid women out there who think that because they had this, they're protected and can stop going to the doctor. That really bugs me.

Second, for me, it is entirely unnecessary.

Although everyone refuses to believe me, I am not having sex with anyone. My doctor practically chortles when I respond negatively to her constant "You know you should get screened, right???" before finally giving me a quick lecture about condoms as though I were not a twenty-year-old woman who has, in fact, been though health class and eats lunch next to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Society, the group that thoughtfully provides a bowl of them.

(Yes. My doctor thinks I'm a stupid whore.)

Even my eye doctor was surprised I wasn't on the pill. (Don't be skeeved out that I was discussing birth control with my eye doctor, it was a whole long thing about some prescriptions causing eye dryness.)

Supposing there were a reason for it, because it would be naive and ridiculous to think that no one was having sex, or if I bought into the whole "better good for the community" thing (Which I don't. I'll look out for my body, you watch yours, mmkay???), this is a brand new drug. The long-term effects have not been tested or proven.

My grandmother took some drug that they all thought was safe, and my mom wasn't sure she could have children because of it. Uh-huh. I'll have enough problems with that as it is.

And the whole maybe-making-it-mandatory thing? It just makes me get all Betty-Friedan-circa-197. I want to burn my bra and scream "keep your government off my body!!!"

*ahem*

Yes, I realize this may seem slightly incongruous for a girl who has, in fact, stood on the corner with an "Abortion is murder" sign.

Hey, you don't go to a Lutheran university for a couple years and not pick something up.

So there you have it. My multi-point treatise on why I will not be paying 900 dollars for the privilege of injecting myself with untested chemicals for something I do not, and will not, have.

Also, I'm pretty sure I embarrassed my dad. Again.

Why Jack Keruoac, Joel Osteen, and Marvel Comics can take all their books and shove them up their road-tripping, stupidly grinning, zombie asses.

AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE.

*ahem*

I worked yesterday. Supposedly in the cafe, and supposedly with people all day long, thus freeing me to drink free iced tea, play my cell phone, and debate the various shortcomings of UWM's Foreign Language Department. (And there are many, let me tell you. In one afternoon, Kim and I came up with like seventeen.)

But Pam was in a tasking mood, and instead I was pulled from the cafe and was shown to a display, handed a piece of paper with a bunch of titles on it, and told to redo it. Sounds easy, except there was no room on any shelves for the eighteen thousand titles currently on the display. Resolving that issue involved about an hour of me perched on top of a ladder up at the overstock shelves trying to alphabetize Jodi Picoult's thirty-second title (I swear to God, that woman is the most prolific not-that-great-author of our generation. Shelves and shelves have been devoted to her drivel.) while bemoaning the fact that Nicholas Sparks is allowed to live and write in our world.

Because Nicholas Sparks is evil.

He is everything that is wrong with women in general today. He is sappy, and mopey, and love-sick, but not in a good way, just in a way that makes me want to retch.

And I'm convinced he is a woman.

(Halfway through my hour-long internal tirade against Mr. Sparks, a sweet little girl who was probably about eleven or twelve came up and asked me where The Notebook was. I showed her the cheapest copy I could find, and tried desperately to find a way to let the clueless father accompanying her that this was a VERY adult book, with actual not just and-then-they-kissed sex scenes, and that perhaps a little girl dulled by the Ryan Gosling/Rachel McAdams cutsiness shouldn't be reading it, but there is no way to say that without sounding like a creep. So he's just going to have to deal with the questions later on...)

Finally, I got all the crap back on the shelves, and went off to find the new books that would fill the display instead of Nicholas an his ovaries.

This posed a problem. Because they were all graphic novels.

I don't read graphic novels.

When someone asks for one, I either pawn it off on somebody else or just point vaguely at the corner of the store that houses slim books whose names are in Japanese. I think that's where they are

Except now I was being asked to find twenty different, very specific titles in that scary section. And I almost cried.

And our graphic novels are not organized in a normal, alpha by author thing that I may conceivably have a chance of figuring out. No. They're organized by character. Character? You can't always tell the character by the title. Like something called Marvel Zombies. Not under Marvel. Or Zombies.

Two hours later, when I finished the damn thing, my tubes had tied themselves for fear that they would one day give life to something with a penis who liked to read graphic novels.

Task #2 was a 50th Anniversary of On the Road endcap. By Kerouac, whose last name none of us ignorant fools staffing the bookstore could pronounce.

Except we were out of all the books that were supposed to go on it.

Leaving me to come up with titles that go with it to fill the numerous empty spots.

Oh. Lord. No.

American lit is NOT my thing. French, Russian, British, sign me up. I can even tell you who liked whose writing and who thought who was a crock. But anything written by an American I probably haven't read and if I have I probably hated it.

So do you know what's on my Jack Kerouac endcap??? The two solitary copies of On the Road that we did actually have, travel journals, and Kurt Vonnegut, who has nothing to do with anything except he's also weird and dead.

When I go in on Tuesday, I really hope someone has taken it down.

In the last twenty minutes before I got to leave, I had to do a teensy tiny Joel Osteen display. Which wasn't too taxing, except that I really, really hate Joel Osteen and his smileyness and his hot wife. Although with the number of his crappy books I've sold I think I know why he has a hot wife. There's a lot of money in faux spiritualism, apparently.

Just one link today, because I'm sitting outside (yay for notebooks!!!) and it's starting to get windy. Also, my tirade against the publishing world has taken up about half of my battery power.

Holy Christmas on an ocean liner, Josh sings Ave Maria on Noel. *is dead now*

ETA: My quest for correct grammar may be going too far. Our neighbor is teaching his son-in-law to use the dirt bike (don't ask) and just said "You're doing very good." And I had the almost uncontrollable urge to yell across the lawn, "WELL!!! HE'S DOING WELL!!!" *sigh* As though we aren't unpopular enough.

Lack of Title is Acknowledged, and Quickly Forgotten.

Today on Cuteoverload.com...no, no, I'm kidding, just cleaning out the icons.

Now please hold your astonishment, but I do not have a whole lot to comment upon today. Nothing terribly worthy has happened lately.

Except I went to lunch at Panera yesterday, and the power went out as soon as I walked in. So I went to Noodles instead.

With the literally unwashed masses from Bayside, Whitefish Bay, and Fox Point.

Teh Storms Of Teh Apocalypse (it's been a slow summer here in southeastern Wisconsin) had knocked out most of the electricity along those power grids. Lots of knotty hair and cranky kids.

Good food, though. And it was with my one friend who isn't getting married, having a baby, or doings something fantastic. (Not that Caitlin's life isn't fantastic, but you know what I mean...)

As I am living at home, alone, and probably couldn't get impregnated with a damn turkey baster, this was comforting to me.

Who knew I used to hang out with a pre-slutty crowd???



Mostly stolenLinks to comment upon in the absence of real life:

Missing Romanov bodies found? Dammit! *I* was supposed to find them! And write my dissertation on it! And set the historical world on fire! And probably run away with my hot, newly-rich-because-of-my-discoveries professor/advisor/colleague!!!

(Okay. I just added that last part. But it's very Indiana Jones, don't you think???)

*sigh* Fine. I guess if I can't discover them myself, I'm glad they found them so the Anastasia foolishness can finally end (It was Marie, dumbass. Vertebrae don't lie.) and they can all be laid to rest together.

More KidNation crap. Now, I'm not a mom, but I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't sign anything saying that the fruit of my womb could be harmed, screwed, and killed all for a TV show.

Even if it meant I would be invited to CBS events with all the CSI stars. No, really.

Well played, Luciana Bozan Barroso Damon. I love Matt Damon. So hard. Not in the way I love Johnny Depp or even George Clooney (we'd get along fine if he'd just keep his damn mouth shut), but I would totally marry him and have him donate some "killer DNA to my womb", as the girls on gofugyourself.com so astutely put it.

Oh honey, no. Alan. Darling. Do you know what I put up with for you??? The ribbing, the jokes, the "Oh, you wouldn't like him, you're weird? Why do you insist on continuing to make this difficult for me?!?!?!?

Gah. The things I'll do for love.

I have a burrito from Qdoba. I go to eat it.

Adventures in Staff-Picking

So I walked into work this morning. I was on time, which is about five to ten minutes earlier than I prefer to be when I open, because there is precisely nothing required to open a bookstore. (This could be why our morning meetings are like half an hour long, and today included "Yeah, this is the new book by this woman, she used to do Navy SEALS," "She did Navy SEALS? Really?" and "I'd like to go to storytime..." as well as I think maybe some sales numbers, but they were lost in the shuffle.)

I usually kill the first half hour hiding in the history section salivating over all the Alison!Weir!Goodness! or organizing the stuffed animals in the kids section by character. God knows what would happen if Big Bird and Elmo weren't in the same bin, across from Dora the Explorer, completely separate from Spongebob!

Le anyhoodles, today I am assaulted practically at the door by Pam, in a tizzy because they need to redo the staff picks selections.

Otherwise known as, The Corner With All of Kathleen's Books. Perhaps because I'm disarmingly sweet, or I read a lot, or I'm really good at bullshit (Debutante Divorcee? Sucked majorly, but you wouldn't know it!!!), Pam recruits me for staff picks pretty much every day I work. I don't really mind, but this led to the inevitable "Hmm. What shall I review today???"

I read such a variety of stuff, from chick lit fluff to Russian tomes, and I always struggle to choose.

See, part of me wants to pick a popular book and just be all annoyingly mainstream.

But another part of me wants to be all "No, you will read Bleak House and you will like it, dammit!!! Don't make me pull out my Tolstoy! You want fun? I've got 1300 pages of French Revolution for you courtesy of Mr. Hugo! How's that for summer reading!" *ahem*

I compromised and picked The Kitchen Boy, Girl Sleuth, and The Other Boleyn Girl. Kind of a mix.

So if you're in the neighborhood, please stop by and check them out. Of course, you'd have to know my entire name, because we have to use different names on each one to make it look like more employees are participating.

Good thing I have two middle names.

Things Today That Suck

I'm actually having a kind of good day. Went book shopping with Mommy, found a St. Ives clay mask that's supposed to firm my skin, got all my vacuuming done. All good things. There are some things that are bugging me, though.

1. Money

2. Textbooks

3. No textbooks. Even though the class is starting in a matter of days.

4. Cars that leak and have standing water in the back.

5. Crazy confusing bank statements that need to be figured out prior to buying (or not buying) textbooks. Refund from Qdoba wtf? I know I'm a good customer but...

6. Real estate developers.Yes, today I am all-encompassing in my hate.

7. The stairmaster that broke, forcing my brother to run up and down the basement stairs over and over and over again Rocky-style until I'm ready to wait at the top and shove him down. Kidding. Maybe.

8. Crazy mothers.

9. Crazy boyfriends.

10. Not being able to tell if your best friend is being plagued mostly by a crazy mother or a crazy boyfriend.

11. Having to drive an hour one way in order to pick up said best friend to find out the answer to #10.

12. The logistical impossibility of #11 due to #4.

13. Pharmacy technicians not being able to give me Advil without the care of the absent pharamacist.. Um. It's not *actually* meth yet. If I could figure out how to turn Advil Cold and Sinus into meth do you think I'd be a history major shopping at Target??? I have a headache. And I'm here with my $7.99 wanting Advil. Why do you have to wait for a pharmacist to give it to me???

14. No one donating books while I'm working at the register. *woe*

15. $40 for season one of Ugly Betty? WTF?

16. Running out of garbage bags fifteen minutes after I got home from the second trip to Target in one day.

*le sigh*

But all is okay, now, because I have another lolcat.

Thoughts on The Invasion

Just so you know, if Jeremy Northam ever wants to force me to the ground and projectile vomit all over my face in an effort to turn me to an alien?

I'm down with that.

Especially if Daniel Craig can watch.

Also? Nicole Kidman is a stupid whore who doesn't deserve to be a woman. You dump MY Mr. Knightly and are friends without benefits with Bond??? You disgust me.

I'm Going to Write a Book

So, I knew that blogging was a thing. Obviously, I have one.

I knew that Livejournal gave all the socially-disabled, heavily-medicated agoraphobics a place to pretend to have normal, real lives with normal, real friends.

I didn't realize that they all had book deals.

When I picked up Jen Lancaster's Bitter is the New Black at work one day (Because let's face it, it was pretty and I had very little else to do.), I was genuinely surprised that she had a blog. It's freaking hilarious, but I was surprised.

Then I followed some of her links, and they all went to blogs of women in their twenties and thirties who write books that are basically extended blog entries. Thanks to the privilege that comes with my entry-level position at Borders, I've had the chance to peruse several of these books, and they're kind of okay in that blog sort of way. Not F. Scott Fitzgerald by any means, but stick a pretty picture on the cover and you're good to go.

And THEY'RE BEING PAID FOR IT.

I could do that.

Now, I realize that most of these people are so popular that they have to disable comments because everyone cares so much about their lives. If I disabled commenting, my mom would have to call upstairs to tell me what she thought (which she does anyway because she never remembers her password), and Mickey would have to call me, but still.

Tuition's due, and I'm looking for anything slightly more respectable than prostitution. Not much, I'd strip if I thought anyone wanted to see it. But it's been a long summer of concrete mixers, so I'm thinking not.



I'm off to go see Invasion with Colleen and John, because um, Jeremy Northam and Daniel Craig in the same movie? sign me up I'm really an old sci-fi buff.

Reflections on Recent Vacations (or Why I Won't Be Having Sex on My Honeymoon)

We've been home for a couple of days, and I've been sleeping alone for five blessed nights, as opposed to being shoved into a glorified twin bed with a full-grown person.

It's not even so much the other person part that bugs me I mean, it's uncomfortable, but sh's my sister, so at least I'm used to her filth. (Kidding. She bathes almost every day.)

And it's not that we don't always stay at nice places, because we really have stayed at several very nice hotels, and they all suck.

No, it's the fact that OTHER PEOPLE HAVE SLEPT AND SWEATED AND DROOLED AND DONE GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE THERE AND YOU EXPECT ME TO FALL ASLEEP!?!?!?

Mostly that.

See, I'm a total bed whore. I have a huge comfy, cushy, CLEAN bed with nice, cool, CLEAN sheets at home. I love it. More than anything or anyone else in the house, really.

(Okay, maybe not this computer. I love this computer.)

I need to snuggle to sleep. I need to have the little blanket thingy over my head and preferably mouth, something that's hard to accomplish when you're trying to avoid someone else's drool spot. And you can't snuggle when the scary Blanket of Unidentifiable Fabric is folded down by my waist, in an effort to have it not touch any part of me.

I'd sleep on top of it if I didn't keep the hotel room at a bracing 58 degrees in a passive-aggresive power play with my landlords parents who prefer to keep the house at a balmy, Miami Beach-like tempreature that starts with an 8.

Ooh, and I like to shove my toes down into the corners where the sheets are tucked under, and hang my hand over the edge of the bed. Problem #1: God knows what kind of bugs live in the sheets down there. Problem #2: There could be a body underneath the bed that I might inadvertantly touch.

So, as of last weekend, I have decided that honeymoons and all their bed-centric activities would simply not be happening if I'm worried about dead bodies, bed bugs, and what the hell kind of fiber makes this blanket???, so I'm not having sex on my honeymoon.

Just thought you'd all like to know.

My entire family is going out to dinner tonight, and even though I said I'd be okay with that I'm little bit pissed that they listened to me.

So I'm making them bring me a sandwich. Because I will be hungry and annoyed when I return at ten-thirty, and then I may be forced to be baking brownies until the wee hours of the morning.

So there.

I give you- the Funniest. Lolcat. Ever.

Hehe. It's funny 'cuz it's French.

No estrogen-fueled craziness today. Although I was on the boards at midnight last night. So I think that counts.

Guess where I'm updating from?

My living room.

On my laptop.

Mine.

All mine.

I am pleased. Poor, but pleased. And also slightly faint from when I tired to make the internet work, but neglected to turn on the wireless switch and then I kind of had a slight coronary issue. With my complete and utter inability to make thing that plug in work, I was thinking that perhaps I spent a lot of money on a desk weight. I would not have been amused.



Now, some people in my family *cough*Spawn of Mickey 1*cough* received massively expensive laptops for graduation *cough*reaching the appropriate age*cough* from high school *cough*somebody's basement*cough* to use during their illustrious career at the prestigious University of Minnesota *cough*five weeks*cough* and then proceed to lose them *cough*stolen at an illegal poker game*cough*.

I am not one of those people.

Which is why the next time I see London will be when I marry Josh Groban and he takes me there for our honeymoon. Ha.



Other than spend my unborn children's inheritence, I didn't accomplish a whole lot today. I was totally going to clean and fold laundry, the my brand new widescreen is totally way more fun.

Oh, and I played Colleen's secretary for awhile, setting up advising appointments pretending to be her mom, and haircuts, and reordering contacts. You may all marvel at my display of sibling assistance. I rock.

Except then I realized that I would have to kill time at UWM for a hour while Colleen and her real mom were being advised. Crap.


National Treasure 2 trailer. I know it's cheesy, and totally not tru, but I. Love. This. So. Much. I cannot wait. It will be awesome.

I'm going to go eat.

More Estrogen-Fueled Josh Craziness: St. Paul Edition

Just so you know, this will be long. And rambling. And probably not too interesting. First, pictures. Album one. And album two. Enjoy.




So, Minnesota was amazing. Josh was amazing. The Steely Dan/Toby Keith/Halo music/Dana stuff we were forced to listen to the entire way there? Not so much. But I digress.


It took us forever to get there, probably because we stopped at every single bathroom between Milwaukee and St. Paul, and then drove around the UW-La Crosse campus for awhile. One of Colleen's prospective-but-can't-afford-it schools. There are a lot of those for us in the middle class.





We got to the hotel really late on Thursday, and were all cranky and tired and quiet (probably good because of the aformentioned crankiness), and just ate and stared in horror at the shower.

Oh. Was that just me?

Let's just say I came home and scrubbed out my shower. Yeah. Not pretty.


Friday we tooled around Minneapolis/St. Paul, crossing bridges despite my fervent protests that if God had wanted us to go to the other side of the river he would have put a nice little path of land across it and not expected us to come up with other hopelessly inadaquete ways to get across.


Went to a cathedral that was supposed to be like St. Peter's. Um. Except it's totally not.


I've had an issue with churchs based on European landmarks since I was forced to go to a Mass at the crack of dawn in Cincinnatti at one that was supposed JUST LIKE NOTRE DAME, OMG. Except IT WAS IN FREAKING CINCINNATTI. Does no one realize that all gothic and classical architecture is essentially the same? That in most ways, a gothic cathedral is of course going to resemble another gothic cathedral? That the whole thing that makes Notre Dame so amazing is that it's NOTRE DAME AND YOU'RE IN FRANCE? Not crazy, bloated, and ready to kill your family somewhere in Ohio (true story)???


Ugh. So in conclusion? St. Peter's without the Bernini/Michelangelo stuff but with a Hooters right around the corner? Yeah. Not as good.





The concert, however, was absolutely freaking amazing. Like I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. It made walking four blocks in the 100 degree heat only to return to our original dinner choice, seated facing the wall like we'd been naughty and given a choice between a burger and calamari at some faux Irish place and then standing outside in the aformentioned 100 degree heat for forty minutes until they finally let us in totally okay.


And for those of you who know how I feel about a carefully constructed makeup face (because, you know, I was in the 10th row, he could totally see me!!!) melting, is quite a lot.


Imladris and I obsconded with with good tickets, of course, after carefully trying both sets out to make sure that they were not, in fact, in the back row and would not get to touch him during In Her Eyes, thus making me mad. They weren't, so we took the closer ones. I'd forgotten in the two years since I've had really good seats how much fun it is to really watch a performer (especially one as pretty as Josh) during a concert, and not just the general thing. You could see faces. And flap during the hand-clapping part of Weeping, which is when I lost the capability to speak.


He sounded great, and the whole audience banter thing was mostly the same (at least all the canned stuff, obviously). The "learning to dance" part was a little different, with Angelique asking if they could get dirty now, and then putting dollar bills down his shirt.


Yes. I know.


I almost died.


And the karaoke??? So funny.




I got home and checked the boards (immediately, because that's just he kind of crazy I am), and actually, the Grobanites are not too amused the turn these concerts have taken. He's gotten way more popular, the fan base in younger (for the first time, I wasn't the youngest in my section), and they're far more aggressive. They rush the stage like all the time, and apparently disturb things.


This is kind of a load of crap. Yeah, the women in front of me kept jumping up every time he came over, which was massively distracting, and I wish people would just sit down because it's way easier for everybody to see. But it's not that big a deal. And certaintly not as big a deal as some people make it out to be. Really, totally not a reason to not think the concerts are God's gift to people.


Some people are even whining existentially about how Josh is taking a new direction and it's different, and this just smacks of old women who are incapable of processing new information (as my sister, the AP Psych student, would say). Like when he did an interview and joked about booty calls and they all went batshit crazy.


No, really, that happened. It was freaking hilarious.


Also a load of crap. It was awesome. He was awesome. I want to go back. How far to Winnipeg??? I have a passport...



The final part of the trip merits it's own estrogen-fueled section, but estrogen-fueled for a totally different reason.


We stopped in Mankato on the way home- the Deep Valley of the Besty-Tacy books. Or, the Most Adorable Books Ever OMG. We found Betsy's house, and Tacy's (although we originally mixed them up), and what we think was Tib's, although that was privately owned so it did not have a convenient sign on it saying "Tib lived here". I would totally put one up, though, if I lived there.


We got to go into Betsy's house, which was unexpected because they're restoring it, and Tacy's had been turned into a little gift shop.


There was a bench up at the top of the Big Hill, but some rat-fink bastard vandals knocked it down. I'm sorry, but there IS A SPECIAL PLACE IN HELL FOR WHOMEVER KNOCKED OVER BETSY AND TACY'S BENCH!!! *ahem*


It was just the cutest things ever. I loved it. I'd like to move there. I'm totally naming my first daughter Tacy.


I even let Mom take my picture. *That's* how into it I was.


Whew. I'm tired. And I need to go school-supply shopping. I'll do a real update, not just ranting, tomorrow.

More Estrogen-Fueled Josh Craziness: Milwaukee Edition

First, Imladris would like you all to know that she is not repressed. *snicker* At least not any more.



If you would like to see part one of the craziness, scroll down. And be prepared to never see me the same way again.

Le anyhoodles, last night was amazingly awesome.

So awesome that I can't even really describe it. It's one of those things where if you were there than you know what I'm talking about and if you weren't you probably don't care/won't get it.

Except to say that he has spoiled me for every other male on the planet. If Johnny Depp propositioned me right now? I'd probably decline.

Okay. Maybe not.

Still. Normal guys? I'm sorry. You no longer hold any interest for me.



The music was absolutely amazing. Beautiful, moving, everything that his stuff is normally but like ten times better because it's FREAKING LIVE.

He's so adorable, and funny, although significantly less self-deprecating this time around. I'm kind of ambivilent about that. He's probably just getting tired of the crazy fan-grandmas.

The dancing thing? So cute.

And MY MOM TOUCHED HIM!!! So did Mary, but I was too far away. That's okay. I'd actually be kind of devestated if I met him in real life, because then in the Real World (unlike the Beautiful World In My Head Where We Have Lots of Sex and Babies), our relationship would be nonexistant. Which is a totally different than the nonexistant-by-reason-that-he-hasn't-fallen-in-love-with-me-yet that exists now.

Stop looking at me like that. I'm not crazy.



Bought tons of stuff, too. You know that Awake hoodie that I previously poo-pooed people buying because it was so expensive? Guess what I'm wearing as soon as it gets colder???

Also? The poster with him sitting on a bed. Hell yeah.

The one thing I didn't get was a t-shirt, and now I'm regretting it, because it was 85 degrees today and wanted to wear a Josh thing, dammit. I'll have to buy one on Friday. My problem with concert t-shirts is that they aren't fitted, and prior to last fall when I lost weight on the Live-At-Home-During-College Diet (works wonders, let me tell you), I wore such huge sizes that they didn't look good in public. But this time I want one I can actually wear.

I'm so looking forward to Friday night, but also kind of dreading it, because then it will be over. Hmmm. Going to have to pack a bunch of booze. Because we all know that's how I deal with Josh-related depression.

Just because I feel like it? Panda sex song.

I probably won't update until Sunday when I get home, so everybody have a good weekend!!!

Dear Josh Groban

Author's Note: Please God, Dad, don't read this.

Hi! I just saw you in concert, and while I will post a full, undoubtedly caffeine-fueled recap tomorrow, I felt the need to write.

Because I want you.

Really badly.

Right now.

Anything that will hold us.

So please, before you consider my sister- who went from being a repressed Catholic schoolgirl (And not in the dirty way- although, if that works for you, I probably could find a uniform. I did go through the second grade, you know.)known for screeching "Bad touch! Bad touch!!!" to a filthy whore in the span of like ten seconds when you can onstage, or Mary- who said that if she had gone with her boyfriend she would have had to dump him because there's no way he could ever be good enough, or, God forbid, one of those fat, post-menopausal women who wanted to grab your ass during "In Her Eyes", PLEASE CALL ME.

I'm young, not hideously disfigured, and yeah I guess I've put on a little weight since the gymnastics days, but at lease my ovaries still work, unlike the majority of your fans.

Also, since you sang Weeping and said "I'll be damned"??? I've aquired incredibly flexible morals. Just so you know.

Anyhoodles, looking forward to Friday. Love you. Bye!!!

5 Days. For the next four minutes.

Gurgh. (Yes, that is a sound.) So. Freaking. Hot. It was 82 degrees when I left work at quarter after ten. 82 I TELL YOU!!!!

The parentals and owners of my house have discovered that I have been covertly lowering the air conditioner temperature under cover of night and they are, to put it lightly, rather annoyed.

And I have been forbidden to touch it again. Under penalty of being thrown out. I have no money. This is a scary thought.

(I kid. They didn't really *say* they were going to throw me out. But they really hate that air conditioner.)

So haven't done ANYTHING for tomorrow yet. Like pick out clothes, make my bed (in a burst of industriusness, I washed the sheets. Yeah. That backfired. Now I have to put them back on.), or pack. Instead I worked until after ten, and then ate my chili rice that I hid in the crisper to prevent other people from eating first. I'm an evil genius. No one in my house goes in the crisper. Ha!

I'm choosing to ignore this, and am instead watching Frasier on Lifetime and eating baking chocolate chips (only chocolate in the house), and 11:28 at night. That's healthy.

As mentioned above, I did have to work today. Supposedly in the cafe, but ended up in books reshelving self-help and erotica.

Yes. We have a sex section. And a Gay/Lesbian/Transgender section, a Lesbian fiction section, regular erotica, and special erotica series sections.

After twenty minutes of shelving that stuff, I may never feel clean again. Mary stopped by to pick some stuff up, and when she saw what I was holding she just went, "Oh, God. What the hell is that?"

They're so not paying me enough.

Also not paying me enough to work in the non-air conditioned store. It was so freaking hot. I had a ton of overstock, too, so I was up by the ceiling all night (except when I was in sex...*shivers*), you know with all the hot air and lights. Grrr.

Totally changing subjects, Mickey's house is coming along well. Apparently she's taken to driving by and watching the workers, because she gets off on people doing work for her.

Her words. Not mine.

I have so many different comments, I'm just going to shut up.

Entertainment Weekly is doing a thingy on the top 25 tearjerkers ever. (26-50 are here.) Or, My DVD Shelf.

Because I think that unless a movie a.) has Alan Rickman/Johnny Depp/Whomever I Am Secretly Obsessing Over That Week in it, b.) makes me cry, or c.) Johnny Depp ever even looked at someone who is in it, then I should not buy it.

And, OMG NUMBER 45!!! This one fulfills like, ALL of the requirements above!!!

One more link for you---adorable!lily and arrogant!james from an OOTP extended scene of Snape's worst memory. I cannot wait for the DVD. Meanwhile, pigtails? Um. She's not nine.

Okay. I really need to go find something to wear. Have a good weekend, and I shall see you all on Monday.