Thanks Jannie and JD!

Just so you know what to look for:  Laugh:   Boo:   Applause:   Crickets:

I was going to publish a live reading of this post in stand-up comedy format, but after several attempts and still not liking the sound of my voice, I nixed the idea and traded my microphone in for a keyboard.

I hope it reads like stand-up comedy, I even added a few interactive buttons for you to play with as you read along. So, please, sit back and pretend I’m on stage. I hope you enjoy the show.

Please welcome to the stage, Valerie Morrison. Applause:

How many of you remember the rotary phone? When the phone was just a phone. I think one of the reasons I don’t like the phone is because it’s complicated.

If the phone was a test, I would get an operator, a zero. I liked the phone back when all it did was make and receive phone calls, but now it has evolved into a call center. It can do things.

I think the phone has too many features, take for example, call waiting. When I was growing up there was no such thing as call waiting.  Back in the day, call waiting meant using a rotary phone and waiting for the dial to come back around so that I could dial the next number.  There was no clicking over, and for what? To tell the other person that I was on the phone and would call them back.

Personally, I liked when there was security posted at the door better known as, a busy signal.  If someone called me and they got a busy signal, they had to wait. Of course, there was that one person who could not and dialed the operator with an emergency and interrupted my call.  There was no real emergency, but an impatient person who never grasped the true meaning of call waiting.

The other feature I consider a useless overkill is three-way calling. Does anyone even use three-way calling anymore? It seems so high school. In my childhood home, three-way calling meant there was one line and two phones. One in the kitchen and one in the living room.

When a call came in two people picked up the phone at the same time and talked to whoever was on the other end; or until someone yelled, “I got it, hang up.”

And there were no games with phones without features. No screening calls and no avoiding people like there is today. The only Caller ID we had was, hello, who is this?

Now phones come with 100 features and voice mail. The phone has options. Press 1 for new messages, press 2 for voice mail, press 3 to set up your mailbox.

If you don’t know, I suck at following directions, that’s why I never took aerobics class at the gym. My brain shuts down. I can’t process certain information quickly and I start to panic. It’s the same panic I feel when I’m inside an elevator and I see someone running toward the closing doors.

Even though the buttons are clearly marked, open and close, I never press the right one. I panic under pressure and usually end up yelling ‘sorry’ as the doors close shut.  Once, I pressed every button, but open, and had to stop on floors, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10. When pressed for a decision made under a time constraint, I can’t cope and usually mess up.

Now a question for the audience. What is it about cordless phones that make people want to pace the floor? It’s like an exercise program with no jump rope. The cordless phone should come in a box with ankle weights.

Someone could be resting on the couch, but the minute that phone rings, and it’s for them, they start pacing the floor with the phone. I’ve watched people on the phone go from room to room – just walking – and I’m only getting bits and pieces of their conversation. It sounds like this: and she said…….never came home…the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Nothing makes sense! Not that I’m listening.

I’m just saying, I liked the phone better when it was attached to a cord. I could walk two feet, aaaand that’s it! Anything past two feet and the phone was snatched back and smashed up against the wall.

The cordless phone is never where it’s supposed to be anyway. It used to be when the phone rang, you reported to the wall to answer it. Now when the phone rings, if it’s not on that handset, well try and find it. The cordless phone was made to get lost. It says so right there on the base, find handset.

So not only is the phone lost, but after you press the find handset button, you have to locate the beep. It’s the same disorientation I get when I play pin the tail on the donkey. I don’t like it because it sucks.

I know this is a little long, so I’m going to wrap it up, but before I go I have to share a phone story.

A few weeks ago my computer at work was switched out and I was given another one, I guess you could call it an upgrade. Everything was basically the same, except one of the programs I use was not properly configured, the Message Manager.

The Message Manager handles voice mail message, it’s very simple. I launch the program, I click on the message, it rings my phone and it plays my message. I like it because it does not talk to me nor does it ask me any questions.

So my message light is red, indicating that I have a message. I launched the program, but it’s missing an IP address and can’t access the server. Basically that means for two days I did not check my voice mail. There is a way of retrieving voice mail messages using the phone, I’ve heard people do this, I’m just not smart enough to do it.

Eventually, I got tired of looking at my message light and I dialed a co-worker who is used to my nonsense and whispered:

“I don’t know how to retrieve my voice mail messages, from the phone.”

“Val, what are you talking about? You press the little envelope that says messages.”

“There’s an envelope? Oh, right there. There’s 300 buttons on this phone, but I see it now.” So I pressed the envelope and this woman started talking. She greeted me with a welcome message and told me to enter my extension and the pound sign. I entered my extension, 2177 and #.

Next she told me to enter my password. My password is my extension backward. This seems simple enough, but to an instructionally-challenged dyslexic, it’s numerical musical chairs and I needed a minute to think about what she was asking me to do.

After several attempts, maybe I was nervous or stupid, I could not type 7712 and the woman on the phone kept telling me that I had the wrong passcode and to please try again. After three tries I decided I didn’t like her tone and hung up on her.

I know I’m not phone literate, but darn it if I don’t know how to work a computer, so I sent an email to the HELP department. Unlike most people, I can’t send a normal email asking for help, I have to write a little ditty explaining my situation. My last email message to Help read this way:

Dear Help,
Thank you for the new computer, I hope my old one is not being used as evidence against me. I would like to retrieve my voice mail messages using the program on the computer, and not the phone, mainly because the woman on the phone talks too much, I can’t follow directions, but I’m down with clicking. Thank you.

That’s my time for the evening. Good night.

Laugh:   Boo:   Applause:   Crickets:

The Wheel of Fortune we see today is not like the Wheel of Fortune of old when Vanna actually had to turn the square to reveal a letter. Now it’s computerized and we all know her job can be done electronically. To me, her job is the equivalent to when a contestant knows the puzzle, but they buy a vowel anyway. I don’t get it, but no hate here Vanna. It’s honest work and your job is not the only one I used to question.  Here’s two more:

Ramp Agent. That’s the person on the ground at the airport responsible for guiding the pilots with hand signals or orange flashlight wands into position next to the gate. Now if I’m the pilot, I’m thinking: I just flew an aircraft across the country, landed safely and there is someone on the ground the size of an ant signaling to me where and how to park my plane? Move out of the way, I got this, but that was before I actually searched a ramp agent’s duties. They do more than guide planes into parking spaces, but also perform a variety of maintenance activities. Who knew?

Conductor of an Orchestra. He doesn’t even have an instrument, but a stick. Actually it’s a baton, but stick is funnier. I used to look at the conductor and think, you have got to be kidding me.  He’s playing an “instrument” that doesn’t even make a sound.  That was before I knew his job was more than just waving a stick, but he has to:

• be intimately familiar with all of the musical pieces selected;
• encourage musicians to play louder or softer;
• be involved in the creative and business decisions long before the performance; and
• know precisely when each instrument enters the musical highway.

Thank you wisegeek.com

After reading the duties of a conductor, surprisingly, I felt a kinship. One of my favorite activities is cooking, and not your everyday cooking, but dinner parties. When I’m in the kitchen preparing meals for a large group, I feel like a conductor directing an orchestra of foods because:

• I too have to be intimately familiar with all of the foods I’m preparing;
• I have to encourage the food to cook faster or slower;
• I have to be involved in the creative decisions regarding the background music and selecting the right blend of guests attending; and
• I have to know precisely when each food has to enter the culinary highway to arrive on the table, hot, and at the same time.

Besides my attempts at humor, it’s one of the few times when I’m in a zone and I feel “on.”  Now, when I watch a conductor, I see myself standing in the middle of the kitchen, with my utensils raised, and I totally get it.

When are you on and what’s your talent when you are just doing the darn thing?

Note to Vanna: I owe you an apology. You obviously do more than I realized on Wheel of Fortune.  Who knew that you would:

• be intimately familiar with all of the puzzles selected;
• encourage contestants to buy a vowel when the puzzle is only missing vowels; and
• be involved in the creative and business decisions long before the show.

__ __M       S__R R Y      V__N N__      W__L L     Y__ __

__ V__R      F__R G__V__      M__?

Wheel of Fortune picture by Wikipedia
Ramp Agent photo by Hawkeye
Conductor photo by Dugway

Maybe I shouldn’t use the curling iron on my hair everyday, but like Penny from Good Times, I burn it because it was bad.

So as I was saying, I was watching the Today Show with Meredith Vieira and a representative from Julien’s Auctions was on as a guest. Later this month, Julien’s will be auctioning off items that belonged to Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley’s personal physician.

The items aren’t even that desirable, but the hefty price tags make them nothing to sneeze at. Take for example, Marilyn Monroe’s umbrella. It’s being auctioned for $16 to $18,000 and it was only used in a photo shoot. Nobody knows for sure if the darn thing can even repel water.

It will probably never see the light of day. The potential buyer might as well take $18,000, cash, put it in a box and store it in the closet. Same thing.

I will never understand why anyone would pay thousands of dollars for stuff that belonged to a celebrity.

Sure, I admire people, but after they are dead that’s when I sever the relationship. They will not get any more worship or admiration from me.

I know it’s not unusual for a celebrity’s movie, CD or DVD, to see a boost in sales after they have expired, but if I didn’t want their stuff while they were alive, then I definitely don’t want it after they’re dead.

That segment got me wondering about my own personal belongings. In this article from USA Today, “three tablespoons of water said to have been touched by The King at a 1977 concert, sold on eBay for $455. Then, someone else paid thousands for a “guest appearance” by the cup that held the water from which Elvis sipped nearly 30 years ago.”

Shaking my head.

I don’t want people selling my stuff after I die, so I’m going to sell it to you now, below cost.

You can buy the Styrofoam cup I sipped water out of, not 30 years ago, but 30 minutes ago. I will throw in a 16 ounce of bottled water and if you want me to touch the water, please indicate your wishes when you pay.

Next on the lot is a wad of gum masticated personally by me. I’m no Britney Spears, but I have gum and I’m not afraid to discard of it. It can be yours, if the price is right. Please note: It does not come with the happy face. I had to dress it up to make it look more appealing to potential buyers for obvious reasons. It’s. A. Piece. Of. Chewed. Gum!

Justin Timberlake’s half eaten toast sold for $3,100? Well, I was running late yesterday morning and didn’t get a chance to finish my breakfast and I also have a half eaten piece of toast. Unlike Justin, I will throw in the napkin used to wipe my hands and mouth.

I don’t know if my piece of toast is worth $3,100, the loaf of bread was only $2.50, but I’m almost certain if you hold it up to the light, you can see an outline of the Virgin Mary. Check it!

That should get the price close to $2,500.

This watch was gifted by Elvis to his personal physician and will fetch as much as $20,000. Do you know how many watches you can buy at Wal-Mart for $20,000, and that watch doesn’t even have any numbers on it. I call that defective.

You can buy my watch for a fraction, of a fraction, of a fraction of that price, or for cheap.

Last on my list is an empty bottle of Women’s One A Day Vitamins. The empty pill bottles that belonged to Elvis may fetch $800 – $1200. At that price, I’m thinking, no….leave the pills inside. I’m going to need them after I write a check for something I could have purchased from the dollar store.

I’m not on any medication, although I probably should be, but these vitamins have been good to me and my vitality. Actually they were only good to me for 60 days, and then I had to replenish with another bottle, but I used it. Unlike Elvis, that’s me in the picture.

I don’t know what the obsession is with celebrities and their discarded junk, but if there is a market for it, then I want in on it. I know I’m not famous, but I could be one day, so why wait, buy now!

This empty bottle of Kaluah was used in the completion of this post. Okay that’s not true, but it is my bottle and it’s special to me. I’ve had it for over 4 years; I think that counts for something.

Wait, wait, wait, that’s not the end of this post, where you going? I have more items for sale here. These items will not last forever.

Don’t wait until I’m dead, buy now.

EDIT: Julien’s continues to mess with my links, if you get an error, go here and complain, but don’t buy anything from them, buy from me.

Sometimes my mom (hereinafter referred to as “E”) will surprise me and say or do something funny that gives me a glimmer of hope that we may actually be related. Blood related.

I often wonder about my ancestry and I just don’t see the connection.

Sesame Street used to have a segment – not sure if they still do – called One of These Things is Not Like The Other, I think. Anyway, a Muppet would compare four items, but one of the items doesn’t belong because it’s slightly different from the others.

There was even a jingle:

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Well I’m the slightly different object. Odd man out. The one that doesn’t belong. This is not a sit on the couch moment and E nor anyone else ever made me feel that way. I adopted the notion on my own and I wear it well.

She showed no favoritism among her children, just what we imagined, and we imagined my brother as her favorite. We add no animosity to it.  But since I’m the closest to E, in proximity, in my mind, only I can collect brownie points and that puts me at an advantage over what anyone else believes.

I’m just saying when E does flaunt humor, she’s playing my song. I feel a connection, where I belong. West Virginia.

Anyhoo, we don’t have too many conversations on the phone because I’m a low talker and I hate the phone. Occasionally we’ll talk after Jeopardy but we don’t engage in small talk. She can’t hear me and I can’t speak up.

Regardless of infirmities, young or old, everyone receives the same amount of decibels from my larynx, I show no partiality. I can’t talk loud, scream or yell. If I ever got mugged, I would have to Tweet a scream because no one would hear me. I’ve never had an argument, but discussions. There is no yelling to my kid down the street to come inside, I’d have to send a messenger. And my kid doesn’t go down the street.

So I use the phone for its intended purpose: to impart information and hang up.

One evening E and I spent at least 15 minutes on the phone and she told me about an incident that happened at work. E works in a department store and has to deal with the-customer-is-always-right-and-knows-better-syndrome. One customer in her line was giving her the run around, trying to find a loophole in the system and make a purchase without following the procedure. Until she met: By the Book E.

So the woman says to E, “You don’t know what you’re doing.” Now if I was in the store, I would have let out a low growl to indicate my displeasure in her speaking to E that way, but I wasn’t. Or I would have taken a step back and let E handle it, and she did. So she says to the woman: “I don’t know what I’m doing because I’m listening to you tell me what to do.” And she went off on the woman.

E is smart and good at whatever she does, once she learns how to do it. When she’s not looking for the glasses she’s already wearing or the pocketbook she left in another department and then frantically calling her kids claiming it was stolen, she has a brilliant mind. All cashiers are not obtuse – forgetful but not dumb – don’t assume people can be treated that way because of their job.

So, E completed the customer’s transaction and handed her the receipt. Then she says, “Hand me the receipt back so I can write my name on the bottom and you can tell Department Store who gave you outstanding service.”

I was tickled and proud at the same time.

She said the customer stood there with her mouth open, shocked, and the people behind the woman behaved like they were being served by the Soup Nazi. It’s nice to be able to control a crowd with an act of lunacy.

I think news of E’s going off spread across Department Store’s floor like wildfire. She was untouchable for the rest of the day. I could enjoy that kind of authority, when people get ready to disrespect you, and then they remember “the incident” and think better of it.

The funny part is, the people standing in line behind the woman said, “Aren’t you Valerie’s mother?” They were friends of mine from my side of town. I said, “You told them no, right?” Neither one of us wants to be embarrassed by the other, we value our reputation. Mine is slightly more tarnished than hers, but I still like to keep what I have left, “spit-shined”.  I’m sure if I was out in public causing a commotion, she would deny knowing me too. Nothing personal.

She answered in the affirmative, but assured me she did not use any profanity during her tirade. Like what was I going to do if she did. I still wish I could meet the woman who disrespected my mother, I won’t use any profanity either, but I do have a few choice words I’d like to share with her.

Anywho, if you are a regular reader of my craziness blog, then you know that forever for the past several weeks months I’ve sporadically written about trying to lose weight. Just a few pounds, 20 to be exact.

Before I continue, I’m not obsessive about my appearance, “I’m [just] trying to keep the drywall intact and the rooms neat and tidy.”   Side story: A coworker noticed¹ that I was wearing my pedometers² and she said, “What is that?”

I told her.

She said, “Don’t you think you’re getting a little too carried away with this sh*t.  Everything is about how you look.” Now this is coming from a woman who won’t take out the trash unless she is wearing make-up, but I’m vain because there’s a tire growing out of my waist that I need to deflate. I said, “That’s not true, I don’t wear make-up.”  She concurred when I put it that way.

<

From Blog Photos

I’m not on a diet, but I do exercise 5-7 times a week, I made a few minor food changes and I’m drinking more water.  Herein lies the problem.  My stomach is comparable to a cow’s stomach, it has four compartments that need filling.  So what are we told to do?  Drink. More. Water.

Well that’s the least I could do.  Easy enough. Heck, if I go to work everyday, the water is free.  I think I can handle 8 to 10 cups of free water.

I really don’t care about the health benefits of drinking water either, I’m trying to drown food and stave off cravings!  Come what may.

So I thought.

One day last week, after cup number 5, my bladder turned on me. In a 15 minute time frame I went to the ladies room three times; water was passing through my urinary tract system like a defective and hollow Baby Alive.

From Blog Photos

The urge to go was ever persistent and I had to share the going ons with someone.  Every time I walked past my co-worker’s office, I would shout my number of trips to the bathroom. Four! Five! Sometimes I just held up a number using my fingers.

For some reason my body suddenly increased production in the Water Department, informed my kidneys to “speed it up,”³ pissed off my bladder and caused a tsunami!

Some time that afternoon, production finally came to a halt, the Union was called in and everybody calmed down.  On one of my trips to the bathroom, I seriously thought it would be easier to just pour 8 cups of water into the toilet, bypass the middle man and call it a truce.  I can’t go through this again.  I haven’t had 8 cups of water since, but I have come pretty darn close, fortunately, without repercussion.

*******
This post is true, but only meant to be funny.  I have since stopped using the bathroom like a Betsy Wetsy doll, honestly. Please don’t tell me I’m dying.  I’d like to believe that I will live to the ripe old age of 204 and a half and if that dubious hallucination is all in my mind, then let’s leave it there.

Jeopardy Logo by Someone on Flickr TBA
Cow picture by Clover
Angry Watermelon by  Sebastian Niedlich

1. okay I showed it to her
2. one on each hip
3. watch the video

A little over a week ago I started feeling a nagging pain in my right index finger, especially around the joint area.  The pain went away and then a few days later it returned.  I thought it was kind of weird for only one of my fingers to be hurting, but okay.

Then I thought, maybe the pain had something to do with the graph below.  I’m not an EntreCard drop master, yet, but do you think the repetitive clicking and scrolling has anything to do with it? ¹

Of course, I can’t tell anyone why my finger really hurts.  The real reason would seem so silly or too embarrassing that it’s just not worthy of the truth.  Surely, I can come up with something a lot more colorful that will leave a crowd of listeners on the edge of their seats.

Here’s my “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it” reason for the soreness: I hit my finger on a tree branch while parachuting out of a plane. Much better.  I’m a brave daredevil not a repetitive mouse clicker.  A sore finger from dropping?  I don’t think so.

Meanwhile, my finger continues to receive lots of TLC, massages and stretching. If that doesn’t work then I still have one more digit that is capable of clicking until I have to use my left hand.

What’s your most unbelievable injury story?  I know it’s funny, so spill it. Did you fess up or did you paint a colorful picture?

1. Can you say class action?

anywho, i’m happy with my current hair stylist, but since we both moved, it’s no longer convenient¹ for me to travel to her shop. i’ve been doing it myself² because having someone else do my hair feels too much like cheating.  call me crazy, no call me loyal. as if she would know.

however, one friday, the urge hit and i had to have my hair done now.  i ran out of the house like i was late for an appointment, only i didn’t go to my regular salon, i went to where my SIL gets her hair done. maybe it was my job location but i’ve always gone to a dominican hair salon and this place was a dominican hair salon. great.

i walked in and asked for a perm, cut³ trim and a color rinse.  i was told to have a seat and someone would be right with me. uh huh. right.

now in some dominican hair salons, your name is gender based.  if you’re a female, your name is mommy, if you’re a male your name is poppy.  after years of answering to Bah la rie, calling me mommy now is like taking two giant steps backwards in a game of mother may i.

while i wait on the next available stylist i pretend to read and then I hear it, “mommy come”. i know someone is talking to me because i’m the only one who doesn’t have a towel on their head.  i’m so anxious to get started that i want to run and strap myself to the chair and say, “put it in” ⁴, but instead i do the “you talkin’ to me i’m so surprised hand on my chest gesture”.

i calmly walk over to my assigned station and about 25 minutes later i’m moved from the operating chair to the recovery area. the perm was a success, it just needs to be washed out.  the shampoo girl preps me by stuffing towels around my collar and then she drapes a cape around me from the back, only the velcro doesn’t hold.  so she tells me to do the job the velcro won’t and hold the two openings tightly around my neck.

like an obedient fool, i’m holding on to those two ends for dear life and a dry shirt, but i’m slightly gasping for air so i release my death grip and take a few breaths (when she wasn’t looking of course…i’m sure i said something about me being too old to be sneaking oxygen).

so as she’s washing my hair, i’m leaning back in the most uncomfortable position and i realize i’m doing all the work.  she’s not even supporting my head and it’s heavy.  (support the head, support the head). um, my neck gets enough exercise, but after wash no. 4 my head becomes a burden to my neck and i’m ready to drop it.

you want to know how difficult this is?  david blaine won’t even attempt it.  he might be able to hang upside down for 60 hours, but he cannot lean back in a salon chair and hold his head over a sink for 9 straight washes. endurance artist my foot!

9 washes? was my hair really that dirty? with each wash my message was the same: support the head, support the head.  of course, she doesn’t understand english too well so i could have said night of the living dead and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

while she was scrubbing my scalp she was kind enough to say in english, “okay“? from my past experience this means: am i hurting you or am i scrubbing too hard. i’m like no, in fact, if you don’t scrub harder i might hurt you.  of course i don’t say that, but next time, i’ll have to bring my piece of paper that says “please scrub harder” written in spanish with me.

next i was told to go and she pointed in the direction of the operation station.  i’m thinking what happened to my color rinse?  i look into the mirror and there’s more gray hair coming out of my scalp than my black permanent sharpie marker can handle. i don’t mind gray hair, but this time i wanted it colored.

“what happened to my color rinse”?

“let me see your receipt”.

“see, it says right here: you are obligated to wash that gray right outta my hair“.

“come”.

i get up and we go back to the baptismal pool area.  i have to wait on a translator, but i decide to go with my natural hair color, a medium brown rinse, just to fill in the gray.  after she’s done applying the color to my hair, she slaps a plastic bag on my head, nearly covering my eyelids and has me sit under the dryer for about a half-hour.

after my half hour is up, i have to get my hair washed yet again! support the head, support the head. oh forget it!  i slide down in the already too less of a chair to get my neck to rest on that groove in the sink and I use all my quivering neck muscles to hold my head over the sink like a champ.  3 more washes and i come out of the pool looking for my gold medal.  with my glasses off, that outstretched hand could have been anything, instead it was my signal to go.

after the foregoing process, the rest was easy. my hair was trimmed, rolled and dried. 3 hours and 45 minutes later i had cooperative, bouncy hair and i was happy for a first time visit.

do i have a point? oh yeah, my hairdresser.  we have to break up.  i like her because she’s familiar and i like the way she cuts/styles my hair.  i’m just no good at long distant relationships, especially when i found someone who, with training, has real potential in becoming my new hair stylist.  she’s much closer to my home and my job, is less expensive, there’s parking and they are open 7 days a week. that’s a lot to be ignored.

so how do you feel about people who serve you on a regular basis.  your stylist?  your barber?  do you feel a sense of loyalty toward them or are you okay with trying out new people?

Photo of Neon sign by By Shira Golding
Photo of salon chair by VeecoManufacturing.com
Photo of hair dye DrugStore.com

1. i would drive, hop a subway and then walk
2. and going bald in the process
3. wait, i don’t know her
4. the perm!

It’s been a few days and I’m still moping around like somebody drained my retirement account and sucked the life out of me right along with it.  I think the term used to describe my demeanor was “out of character“.  It’s true. First of all, I have nothing to say, no punch lines, no jokes, no nothing. That’s not me.

I haven’t felt like doing much of anything either, I’ve been on strike.¹  Every living thing for itself.

Sleep seems to be the only thing on my mind these days.  I hate to admit this, but earlier this week someone became ill at work and I was told that they were resting in the other room on the couch. After they finished giving me additional instructions, all I could think was: “There’s a couch in that room?”

I’ve been so pathetic that I even went on the internet and typed in a search for ways to get out of a bad mood.  How lame.  I should do what?

Listen to music and dance, I’m not a cast member of Fame.  Breaking out in a song or dance in the middle of an attitude does not happen in real life.  Although doing The Carlton Dance always makes me feel better.

Take a bubble bath.  Ahhh, yes, that sounds nice.  Get a massage?  Pamper myself?  Tell me more.

Get a make over?  Do I really look that bad?  I know it’s been days since I combed my hair and yes my appearance is connected to my mood.

Okay, fine.  I’ll do it, but before I go for my extreme makeover, to all those who have been putting up with my attitude, I just want to say one thing: You should be used to me by now I’m sorry and thanks for not bailing. Send cookies.

Writing, laughing, etc. is therapeutic and it’s free.  What gets you out of a funk?  Thanks to [http://slam101.blogspot.com/] who gave me the idea to use meez.com in this blog post.

1. actual picture of my kitchen

If your life were a movie right now, what celebrity would get the lead role and what type of movie would it be? A drama? Documentary? Comedy? Science Fiction? Action? Thriller?

If my life, right now, were a movie it would be a tragedy¹ and based on personality and comedic likeness, Ellen Degeneres would play me.  I know, I know, she’s not as tall as I am, but there’s make-up for that, otherwise, perfect match.  It would go something like this:

Synopsis: For the past 17 years of doing the 9 to 5 grind at less than fulfilling jobs, the frustrated and wanna-be writer, Valerie (played by Ellen Degeneres) decides to take the advice of friends and submit her work to several literary agents.  After many attempts, rejects, no response and one false hope, self-publishing seems like her only option, that is, before she is introduced to the world of blogging.

Soon Valerie finds herself swept up into Blogosphere with not just one, but five blogs.  Testing the waters at what comes naturally to her, she decides to write incognito as a wisecracking blogger and quickly gains the following of a small group of loyal readers who demand more.

Meanwhile, her real world is in jeopardy when D (played by Will Smith)² stumbles upon a blog that seems to be an open book of his life and demands to know the person behind the name.  Watch Valerie in this hysterical comedy go to any lengths as she tries to keep her two worlds from colliding and destroying the house that Jack built.

Now, it’s your turn, maybe you don’t have a synopsis right now, consider this a meme,³ but if your life were a movie, what celebrity would get the lead role? According to this site, Ellen isn’t even an option for me based on looks, click here to see my celebrity look-alikes.

I really have to upload some new pictures of myself.

Photo of movie reel by sillyjokes.co.uk

1. turned comedy
2. sorry Portia
3. or is it one already?