I'm the type of person that if I do not put things back right away they tend to get misplaced. And not misplaced in the sense like it's never coming back. Oh it's coming back. It just comes back and I look at it and it looks at me and I'm like, oh...right...that's where I left you. Like the time when I thought I lost my Movado watch. I searched high and low but to no avail, I moved from Bay Shore without my Movado. I even went through everything when I packed and unpacked but the Movado was gone. It was gone up until the time I was packing for Vegas three weeks ago and needed sunglasses. I went through the jean drawer where I know I keep them and found a pair I had forgotten about as well as what was hidden underneath the pair of forgotten glasses....my Movado…in its case…where I would always put it when I was done with it.

Like "they" say: It's always in the last place you look.

But Steve and I say: It's always in the stupidest place to look.

So when I recently misplaced my marriage license, social security card, passport, and original birth certificate we knew we were in for it. The materials were in a manila envelope that came back into the house after my excursion with the social security office and did not leave again, I knew that for sure. But after the search of the century we gave up and I moped for days.

Last night, as I'm chatting with Moma, Steve makes me hang up the minute I come through the door. I'm told to close my eyes and he leads me through the house. I'm walking cautiously, knowing there's stuff strewn about the floor from the search and he assures me he'll get me there without a problem (since he's the one bumping into everything first). He sits me down in the King's Chair and tells me to cover my eyes. He moves the snack table in front of me and steps back. The anticipation of what this is about is killing me!

When I open my eyes I'm ecstatic! He found the manila envelope! He found it! Where was it?!

Under the fan?! We moved everything in this apartment five times but neither of us looked under the fan?! We moved the couches! COUCHES! But we didn't move a five pound FAN?!

But what really gets me about this whole debacle is today when I go to update my Facebook status message to happily share with the world [a few friends] that the important documents have been located, my eyes shift to the left to look at my profile pic. I pause. I squint. I sit back. I laugh. Loudly.




The manila envelope is in the goddamn picture!

I must have moved the fan when I played EA Active. I must have moved the fan right on top of the manila envelope without realizing it. And if I never moved the fan I wouldn't have lost the manila envelope and I wouldn't have been anxious for a week. I wouldn't have been angry at the drop of the hat, I wouldn't have fought with Steve over not putting the laundry away, Steve wouldn't have felt bad so he wouldn't have put the towels away and wouldn't have knocked into the fan while putting the towels away, and Steve wouldn’t have had to find the manila envelope.

So if I didn't move the fan, the towels would still be sitting in the laundry basket in the kitchen. At least something got accomplished!

I take the day off from the Surge so naturally I'm wracked with guilt about it. Therefore I have already set up a plan for each minute of the time I'm not at work to be doing something just as productive at home. I made sure to sleep until I would actually arrive at the Surge then proceeded to do a quick EA Active workout, successfully snapping my thicker resistance band during a shoulder press leaving a nice welt across my left foot. I then set to work collecting my stuff for the trip to the DMV to change my name on my license and my collection is halted when I realize I can't find four important documents. I break for a shower then start tearing my paper piles apart, reorganizing them into smaller paper piles to file away. After an hour long search I break for a dry cleaning run, bank deposit, CVS stop, and a Fatburger lunch. I dine with Steve during his midday break and he helps me tear apart more places. We're not successful in locating these misplaced items so finally I call it quits. There will be no DMV trip today and this makes me sad which is just pathetic. After a small breakdown of watery eyes, forehead pressing, and hand shaking, I set to work on a DSW bag that has yet to be unpacked since moving from Bay Shore. Yeah, that's right. I have a bag of miscellaneous papers that has been sitting in the back of my walk-in closet just waiting for it's time to shine.

2007. I find CVS receipts from 2007. Early 2007. I find my Lazy Days of Summer Reading Book Club list I did with Moma..in 2007. How sad is it that I read only five books in one summer? Then I find my journal from my CU sophomore year Creative Writing class with teacher, Star. Reading this drivel has seriously calmed my nerves to a mellowness I haven't experienced since living in Boulder.

Maybe this poem about how I prefer writing in black ink to blue might make you as comatose as I am right now.

Black
I will never stray from what is the norm
The color my hand most desires
Black as night
Black as the soul that burdens me
Black as my lungs, searching for the sweet crisp air
	that black sucks in
Black as a sea of gothics
Black as the stretched line of cars
Black as the death that descends upon all of us
I cry out to anyone who may respond
But all I get is
	Black.

1-16-2002

Why am I always drawn to the fictional relationship questions?

Lately, and I have no problem admitting it, I've been indulging in children shows. If ESPN isn't on when we power up the HD that means it's tuned into Nick. Go ahead, judge me on my new found love of Sponge Bob (though Preston thinks I'm a way cool aunt for watching this inspiring cartoon so there). I'll take in the occasional Fairly Odd Parents and the scarcely shown anymore Drake & Josh but I pretty much squee when I see that iCarly is on for the next three hours straight.

The show definitely has it's tween moments but it's offset by Carly's 26 year old brother, Spencer, that happens to be her caretaker in the sickest apartment ever (because this is so believable especially since he's an "artist"). The writing is actually very funny and the delivery of these teen actors is pretty spot on but of course I'm drawn to the antics of the not-really-employed brother. He's quirky and eccentric, tall and lanky, looks better in my wardrobe of talking tees and Converse than I do, and pretty much steals the show (and my heart) every episode.

I love Spencer.

I strive to be Spencer.

So let me take him to the Groovy Smoothie and then we'll create some kind of wacky sculpture together out of paper clips and troll doll hair. I promise if you grant me this one platonic dream date with Spencer I'll never complain about making charts again.



Because grown men on tricycles are funny...okay maybe not as funny as chimps.

Jeanette showed me Charlie The Unicorn awhile ago and I meant to post it right away but didn't (go figure). And instead of just showing it to my dad, I acted it out for him with the voices and all. I'm not too fond of the creepy letter song in the middle but the cutting to Charlie's face while they're singing is just priceless. I think it was the other unicorns' tones and repetitiveness that got me. I seriously can't stop laughing at some points especially when they're "on a bridge". I also find Charlie's voice resembles older Biff from Back To The Future Part II.

I think this is fun for the whole family! Enjoy.

Daniela has a spelling question and unfortunately for her the question is directed at me. My answer to spelling queries is to bring up WORD, type it in there, and wait for the red line to appear underneath. Today I actually know the word and air spell it with my fingers as I say it out loud. She says she's horrible at spelling and to make her feel better I tell her about one of my many spelling mistakes:


I tend to use the word frustrating a lot in daily talk. I use it so much that my roommate in junior year calls me out on it. But she doesn't call me out on it like, hey, you use that word too much, stop. No she calls me out because I've been saying it wrong for the past 20 years. Maybe it's my accent (or maybe it's my stupidity) but frustrating tends to sound like fuss-trating.

"This is so fuss-trating!" "God I'm so fuss-trated!" “Everyone knows how to fuss-trate me!”

It gets to the point Naughty puts down what she is doing one night to look directly at me. "You know there's another 'R' in there right, Kate?"

I pause as this information slowly sinks in. The blank stare I'm giving her finally melts away into comprehension as it dawns on me.

"So that's why I always spell it wrong in WORD!"

Two R's. Who knew?

"Now say something positive!" Christina shouts as we make our way along the Preserve, running in 90 degree heat. I rack my brain searching for something positive to say about our 9 mile run this fine Sunday morning but all that comes to mind is "Goddamn it's fucking hot!" Tying for second are: "my hips feel like they're dislocated" and "Goddamn it's fucking hot!" I consider saying something like, "I'm enjoying my utility belt of water" but instead I use wonderful grammar and report, "I'm doing good."

Christina is satisfied with my answer and lets out an encouraging whoop and we carry on down the shaded path. Christina is my running buddy from GLIRC and she has been pushing me to become a better runner since March. I've noticed an increase in my speed and my endurance has definitely picked up since last fall. She's training for a half marathon in December and that inspired me to up my weekly mileage. Last Saturday we did 9 and I felt great in our mile cool down and recovered by Monday with very little joint pain and no muscle soreness what-so-ever. Maybe I came cocky today therefore I’m unprepared but I'm just not getting to mile 9 and I can't figure out why. I have my spurt during mile 6 and 7 but decline rapidly upon hitting 8.

I fall short of our 9 goal but I'm happy with my result and we exchange goodbyes at our trucks and I head back home. I can't wait to open my Saucony's because my right foot feels like it’s about to tear the shoe apart by exploding. I probably tied it too tight but after release it still kills. I use this as an excuse to slather on Tiger Balm (which has a scent Steve can actually smell but does not like) and go my merry way.

Not so merrily once Tania spots my excessive swelling at work on Tuesday and insists upon wrapping, elevating, and icing my foot. Even my broken toe looks a little under the weather. This morning my toe pain is unbearable so I grit my teeth, sterilize the clippers, and dig into the dead nail trying my hardest to rip it away from my skin. I broke the toe at the Mineola Mustang in November and then on my birthday at the NYPD run so why it refuses to grow out is beyond me. As I dig and wince it begins to bleed. I give up, slap a band-aid on it, and race out the door.

Tania takes one look at my aching foot and marches me straight down to recovery to Dr. Delmonte, the podiatrist on the schedule today. She explains the situation and he looks at it then gives it a poke. "Hurt?" I ponder for a second as a shooting pain races up a nerve. I nod. "A bit." He calls his office and makes an appointment for me at 2.

2 comes and I find myself sitting in his office conversing with him and his assistant. He's a very likeable guy and really takes his time with all his patients which in turn pushes back all of the appointments. He asks me if I need to get back to the Surge right away. I reply, "I work for dad." which is a perfectly logical answer to that question. He nods in agreement. I must say, his waiting room is the calmest I've ever seen when on a thirty minute delay because this guy is worth the wait. And he's hot.

So he convinces me the nail has to go which didn't take much convincing since him shooting the toe with three needles and doing it for me is a lot better than leaning over the toilet trying to pry it off myself. They block my view of the surgery and I apologize for the grossness of my neglected toe. It's no longer broken but I severely ruined my nail bed with my constant running. Dr. Delmonte says the nail should grow back normal.

Should.

So they wrap it up and I look at it thinking it's going to be like Christmas tomorrow when I get to open it up before my shower.


Then the big news comes. My swollen foot is a result of a stress fracture from running too much. My first thought (and then) sentence to come out of my mouth doesn't surprise my masochistic self in the least.

"When can I run again?"

"Four to six weeks."

Next thought?

This. This is how I feel:



Though check out my cool "walking cast"! It's like as big as my ski boots and check out what I'm pointing to in the picture.



Yeah that's right. It's a pump. Like as in Air Jordan Pumps. Go ahead. Be jealous. I know you are.

So maneuvering in this beast of a cast isn't too hard as I soon find out chasing down a cab. I'm totally walking without feeling much pain and I'm still weaving in and out of people on the sidewalk because they're insanely slow walkers. I even call Steve to boast about how incredibly cool it is to walk in this moon shoe! I even so boldly state, "I betcha I could run in this thing!" to which Steve responds not very lovingly.

For once in my life, the people on the street are actually following me with their eyes as I pass. It's the first time I'm witnessing being checked out. Of course they aren't undressing me with their eyes but instead trail down to the clunker attached to my foot and just stare. They should wonder why someone injured is walking faster than them but they probably don’t.

When I make it back to the Surge the teasing starts. I’m thoroughly enjoying the barrage of comments being thrown at me from each nurse. After enduring the snarky remarks of my co-workers like, "Can't run away from the wedding now.", I head to the 4 and 7 trains to make my way home. The cast attention is in full force as I enter the subway as all eyes turn to the girl hastily pushing into the car wearing a cast. I gain so much attention from being pathetically injured that guess how many men get up and offer me their seat?

I'll give you a hint. It's between zero and none.

Delays to Exit 18.

That's perfect considering that's the exit I need to get to.

I'm just creeping onto the Southern State at Exit 30 and I have about 45 minutes to get to my race. Judging by the gridlock I'm stuck in at the moment, I don't think I'm making this Summer Series 4k. I contemplate calling Dadquest because dad knows everything about everywhere so he could probably give me a back way to Hempstead State Park that would take just as much time driving there as it would staying parked on the highway but dad looks at it like, we're moving so it's better than traffic even though it's a longer route. Though Dadquest is very handy (got Maeve out of a tight spot in Queens once) I'm not sure he knows the exact location of this park. Even Mapquest doesn't know exact locations of state parks which baffles me because they're STATE PARKS. They belong to the state which belongs to the country so one would think it would be easy to find directions.

I'm quite calm despite the approaching 7 o'clock start time which has magically dashed ahead of traffic and left me at Exit 24. Steve is quietly reading a manga next to me as I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn three shades whiter (if that's possible for my bluish skin tone). Traffic breaks up at Exit 18 which makes me both happy and scared. Happy that I have two minutes until start time, scared because that means they probably cut off traffic for the runners and I'm too late. I pull up to the jammed parking lot and I'm directed onto the softball field. I place Pedey in park and leave it running, letting Steve take care of shutting down the iPod and removing the keys. I jog towards the starting line with other late runners, thinking they might hold the race since more people are pouring in but instead I see a guy in front of me yell in frustration back at his lagging friends.

"Did we make it?" I ask even though I already know the answer by surveying his facial expression. I can't see beyond the trees but something tells me it's begun. He looks annoyed and tells me that they definitely started. I'm disappointed because all I think about is the 2000 people already running and how this will effect my time. I’m not even in control of my body because I’m thinking to go back to the truck but instead my legs take off in a sprint. I dart through the parking lot, past the BBQers, side step and practically jump over children eating hotdogs, fly through the camping area, hop the wooden fence, and shoot past the starting line and all of the walkers. I'm so far behind my nine minute milers I'm not sure how I'll ever catch up. I ignore the cones and barrel through the ten minute+ joggers but have to jump back in line because the leaderboard is already coming BACK the other way! I maneuver through more bodies and find the grass. Ignoring the rolling of the ankles in my street shoes, I take off on the uneven terrain to gain a better position.

When I spot my fan club on the sidelines on my way to the second mile, I'm in wall to wall people, sweaty bodies not moving fast, a massive roadblock of lacrosse shorts and tees. At this point there's no more hope for me. This is my pack, stuck behind an older man in a "Go Tell Your Mother" shirt that I'm not quite sure I even get. I kick it up before the finish but not much because it's such a narrow path the entire time. I feel I wasted most of my good running before the run itself but it's definitely a plus to make it back home before 8 pm. The Summer Series usually eats your Monday nights but today I have plenty of time for a shower, a breakfast dinner, and an hour of SPARCS.

Do I know how to pack a day or what?

I get the letter a few weeks ago, right before Lord Land stopped the mail for like EVER. The letter is from the higher-ups of the Farmingdale Village committee and they are happily gushing on about being chosen for the LIRR stop for all things US Open. This means that train riders specifically heading to the golf course are to get off in my town rather than the town the US Open is located in. They then are to board a bus which will take them to the next stop over. It completely makes sense when you break it down this way. Why stop in Bethpage when the tournament is in Bethpage?

When I get this letter, Steve tries to look at the bright side of it. "Kate, this is pretty cool having the US Open on Long Island!" There will be pro golfers just five minutes down the road so I can see how this would excite a sports fanatic like my fiancé.

So Farmingdale is elated that they are bestowed the honor of ruining the commute for their fellow citizens by taking over both station parking lots. Why do they need both lots you say? For unnecessarily huge vacant tents of course! So what does this mean for you, the troubled commuter, in this predicament of no parking for a week and a half? Oh no need to show me concern; the higher-ups have taken care of us! They so considerately found three other lots we all can park in during the time of the US Open. Never mind the fact all three lots are over a half mile away from the station. I am very grateful for this little hand-out, especially this morning when it's raining sideways and my umbrella is doing not much of anything to keep me dry.

In order for me to just not deal with walking a half mile and ruining my shirt with back sweat before I even get to work, I decide to recruit Steve into the mix. I'll just have him drop me off for the early train all week and not have to worry about the parking situation at all. This seems reasonable and he agrees to the terms of dropping off and picking me up everyday. He agrees up until the point of me shaking him awake at 535 this morning. He grunts and rolls back over, grumbling about getting up earlier than normal. I shake him again and remind him that the US Open is in town and we have to drop me off outside the station. As he picks himself up out of the comfy bed I can almost hear him cursing inside of his head. He then drags himself into the bathroom to groggily brush his teeth. He barely has his eyes open yet and I’m cheerily leaning on the doorjamb observing his misery.

"US Open in Bethpage not so cool right now is it, Steve?"

The look I receive says it all.

Us Open, you’ve got balls!

I fucking HATE Punch Day.

I do not see the need for the conductor to punch my monthly pass more than once a month. On the first day, yeah, they need to click off if you're male or female this way, only 50% of the population can steal my pass and actually use it. Other than that, I don't see the point in punching more holes into the thing. The LIRR also includes the numbers 1-5 indicating the weeks which is pretty much useless unless you want to look down and be like, wow, three weeks in June went by already? How did that happen? That was so quick! Oh my God time moves so fast! I've been commuting for seven years and have nothing to show for it! I'm so glad it's weekly Punch Day or else I wouldn't have been reminded how much of my life I'm wasting away!

Usually Punch Day is Wednesday but it didn't happen yesterday. I figure I'm in the clear of the annoying banging of the conductor's hole puncher against the metal pole and the obnoxiously loud, "tickets out! I need to punch them!" until next week. But no, it’s moved to Thursday for some reason.

Today I have a massive headache (and no it's not from the big ass pina colada I consumed last night though I could use one of those right now) so I choose to doze instead of read. I even bring my iPod and put on the slow song playlist and sure enough, right in the middle of I Dreamed A Dream I get CLANG CLANG, "I need your pass, Miss!"

With my head throbbing, I crack open an eye to glare at him and grumble as I slide the ticket out of what I like to call I-put-my-pass-in-this-thing-around-my-neck-so-I-can-blatantly-ignore-you holder. I hand it over and he joyfully punches a hole through the number one. He then moves on down the aisle constantly clicking the puncher to remind everyone he’s top dog of car 9745.

I don't know what it is about conductors that irritates me so much but I think it has to do with that annoying puncher and the self important click click click as they walk around the train in that stupid little hat.

Man, I hate Punch Day.

Lord Land!

He takes it again this week! Two weeks into the You've Got Balls! competition and he's already dominating the rankings. Mad skillz, dude.

So I filled you in on the whole left a note on my door instead of confronting us thing but did I fail to mention that he also stopped the mail? And not just his mail, OUR mail. In his letter he claimed he only stopped theirs but low and behold, we have not received anything since returning from Boston.

Now I'm paperless on most of my bills but there are some I need hard copies of so this week I will guess what I think my payment amounts should be. Also coming to us in the mail are our time sheets for the boys we tutor. Well, they came but are sitting in the post office which is the perfect place for them to be when they were due on the 1st. So that paycheck for June will not be seen until July. Because, you know, I'm rich and all so I don't need my money or anything. What else would I do on a Friday night if I couldn't work for free?

Then there's half a month of no Blockbuster Online movies because that's only fair, right? I mean, I guess I should just go spend more money on something else to do at night because if something I paid for already isn't available I might as well spend more precious dollars to entertain myself elsewhere. Makes sense.

Oh and that awesome imported CD I've been going on about to Steve for weeks that I ordered from Amazon is totally on it's way. I'm really glad I put a rush delivery on it. That was definitely money well spent. I can't wait to get in my car today and NOT hear it playing!

I understand I'm young and immature and unable to stack mail according to last name at the age of 26 but Lord Land could have at least given me a shot at collecting both of our mail. I know I wouldn't have let him down! I would try my hardest and even put their mail in a nifty shopping bag! It's a shame really because if Lord Land had a little more faith in my intelligence then maybe I would have that cool CD and my important paperwork and some movies and my PAYCHECK.

Lord Land, you've got balls!

I got a thing for voice actors. It's totally not obvious so I feel compelled to tell you.

The highest on my list of course is Billy West, I mean, how could he not be? The man's a genius! But after witnessing the new Hulu commercial, Seth McFarland climbed the list and pushed into the spot just underneath West.

I'm not a big TV fan; I'm more of a wait-until-the-summer-and-rent-the-box-sets type of person. I have my select few shows that are musts: House, Heroes, 30 Rock, The Office but everything else gets DVRed. There were times this year that I fell far behind in Idol which made it hard to be surprised five days later after someone got kicked off. But Steve likes watching ESPN so he's the lucky one to catch the Family Guy version of the Hulu advertising. One night when I’m actually home, he pauses the current station and calls out to me. I poke my head into the living room and he promises I will love this.

When the ad ends, I just stand there, absolutely in shock. Now I had seen McFarland on TV before so I picked up on the fact he voices Brian (my fave) and assorted others like the news caster, Tom Tucker and Stewie's doctor. But I had no idea he does Peter, Stewie, and Quagmire. I am so impressed, I continue to stand there looking at the TV until I find my voice again. I quietly whisper, "can I watch it again?"

It's one of the few commercials I'll stop fast forwarding for just to watch in awe and it seems to never get old. Talent like that is just simply amazing to me. So if you live under a rock and haven't seen it, it's posted below. Enjoy.

A lot of BLOGs have a niche or a certain format they follow. Kim has her American Idol theme that she cashes in on for 12 weeks give or take an Idols Give Back week. Once every seven days she gets to be funny and recap what goes down on the stage. I also frequent a BLOG that has a thing called Wii Fit Wednesdays which encourages me to share stories of getting in shape with other women. And then there's me, all over the place, the only theme present is how can I embarrass myself today?

Should I start a theme?

Let's try out this segment called:

You've Got Balls!

This week's winner goes to our landlord! Let's hear it for Lord Land! *pause for crowd cheers and jeers* Apparently I have been under the assumption his wife clamped down on those suckers years ago but he proves me wrong this weekend.

Some back story on their little bastard spawn: When we move in the kid is still in baby form. All he does is cry all day and night. Seriously. All day and all night. Every time he cries there are no footsteps that go over to him. They just let him constantly cry. It gets to the point Steve and I have to use a sound machine just so we can sleep through the night without hearing this baby cry on the hour. Then about four months ago they decide, “let's get our crybaby a bed so he can access us at any time of the night!” And when I say access, I mean stomp back and forth down the hallway at 430 in the morning.

I don't know about you but there was no running in our house growing up. I remember mom telling us to slow down because there were many surfaces we could have tripped on and cracked our heads open. These wonderful parents gate the stairs and let him run back and forth all day and all night. All day and all night. And this little annoyance starts his day at 6 in the morning. During the week, fine, Steve and I are already gone at 6 in the morning. On the weekends? Not so much. I don’t even set an alarm on the weekends anymore. What’s the point? I need to be at a run by 730? No problem. The kid upstairs is on it!

Monday, after being shaken awake by an incessant banging above our bed at 8 in the morning, Steve stomps the floor as loud as he can to get his point across. Lord Land then waits for one of us to leave the apartment to have a heart to heart. Ballsy Move #1: "If he wakes you guys up you can call us and we'll handle him. You know, he's hard to deal with. He wakes up and is ready to go."

Stop right there dude. He's hard to deal with? You don't deal with him so how would you know? You let him run rampant. You forget you have no carpeting so we know when you guys get up to intercept this wild creature and I know for a fact it's not as early as he starts his stomping. Don't play dumb with us.

"I don't want to have that kind of relationship where you bang on the walls. Just call us."

No dude. I'm not calling you when your kid wakes up. You know when he wakes up. Get your ass up and move him into his giant play room until an appropriate hour. At least give us ‘til nine!

So Steve tells him that after getting up to be at work at six all week, it's ridiculous to be woken up so early on the weekends. He tells Lord Land that he's grumpy in the morning and the kid is seriously pressing his buttons.

This falls on deaf ears because the kid freaking drops marbles on the floor or something as I'm getting ready at 515 this morning. I'm able to hear all three of them. They're not even trying to be quiet. It's a full out circus up there. As I leave I see Lord Land putting a suitcase in the car and I hope they're sending the kid away forever. So they'll be going on vacation which means their dad comes to stay at the house probably to make sure Steve and I don't get rowdy, if that's even possible.

And here's Ballsy Move #2: They leave Steve and I a note with a deposit slip. A DEPOSIT SLIP! Know where this is going? Can you freaking believe the gall?

"Here's a deposit slip for the rent. Please deposit the rent money in the bank for us."

...

...

...

What? You're kidding. You HAVE to be kidding. No one can possibly be so bold as to force me to deposit money in their account for them. Sure mom's done it for me but that's my mom! Steve's made some Apple runs but that's my fiancé! I've never even had a friend ask me something like this! Going to the bank is personal but this act is just so fucking rude I can't even fathom how he would think this is okay.

I think when they get back they'll find a post-it (a yellow one) on their door.

"Welcome home! Can you do me a favor and pick up my dry cleaning? It's all paid for so here's the ticket. Thanks! Oh and can you get me some milk since you'll be by Dairy Barn? Great!"

Lord Land, you've got balls!

Steve and I tried a real pet two years ago. One you can actually see. One that breathes and sheds and eats its own poop. Oh yes, Riley apparently knew something that all of us didn't. Poop is not only edible but it's so good he devours it before you can reach him to smack his bottom. Riley is a Puggle. He's cute but stupid, cuddly but spiteful and no matter what, un-trainable. Needless to say when the vindictive little bastard peed all over freshly cleaned sheets for attention; he was swiftly brought over to the Reed house and left there for good. And to this day, still has dessert after dinner so to speak.

So when Steve purchases Pokémon Platinum from Game Stop, he receives a promotional item with the DS game. He takes it out of the bag and places it on my dashboard. I take one look at it and immediately adopt him as our pet. I do better with imaginary pets anyway and at least you can see this one, unlike Sirius.



This Pokémon statue is properly named Giratina. We're not fans of this name considering it looks so bad ass in its Origin Form. And the more we look at the detail of Giratina, the more it looks like it just (pardon my brashness) splooged all over the place so we feel the need to crown him, Kabuto. At this point in 2009 we are currently obsessed with the YouTube videos titled Two and a Half Nin which some genius kid made that poke fun at the rebellious ninja group in Naruto called the Akatsuki. This is why Kabuto is named Kabuto. And this is why Steve and I insist upon using their version of Orochimaru's voice than the original casted member, Steven Blum.


(I love the Cocoa Pops reference and the fact that Word's dictionary has Pokémon in it with an accent mark. It actually corrected me on the spelling of it!)

So Kabuto has become part of the Reab family and he goes everywhere with us. Steve and Maeve both call him a "Flat Stanley" which they then had to explain to me what that was. Yeah, I should watch the news more often.

Kabuto goes for rides with me in Pedey a lot but this past weekend marks his first road trip. Here is a photo essay of Kabuto's trip to Boston:


Kabuto and Steve conspire against me and leave me in this frightening contraption a little longer than I would like.


He's a pro at navigation and catches on when Steve leaves out an important step to Boston...make sure to get on I-91.


Here he is loving the view from the Sheraton on the 22nd floor.


Steve and I are going to need to fight again on this issue. Pets should NOT sleep with you.


Kabuto's first picture with a celebrity!...and Travis Willingham will probably be the only one ever willing to hold him in a picture (let alone be silly with him). I was like, "hey, would you pose with my Pokémon?" Which Travis so eagerly responded, "Absolutely! Oh cool!" Gotta love Anime Conventions.


Steve tried so desperately to get this picture without Kabuto stumbling into it. Looks like we have another attention whore on our hands...

When Cameron discovers my new found love of anime and manga several months back, he proposes I come up for the Anime Convention in Boston. Before I even finish reading his sentence I'm already planning this trip. One night in January I ask Steve if he wants to go and he grunts in reply. I take this as a yes and begin registration for the weekend. I then hop onto the Sheraton site to snatch up a group rate hotel room for geeks since the Convention Center is literally next door. I end up calling a representative at one in the morning to book this room. It's a double but I don't care. I'm told this Con is bigger than the one in NYC so I want to check it out.

A month later the trip gets even better when I check the Anime Boston site for updates. Slated as a guest of honor? None other than Travis Willingham.

I'm stoked.

I make plans with Cameron and Julie for Saturday and of course a sprinkling of Maeve throughout each day. I try to convince her to sneak into the convention center with us because I have these visions of hooking her up with Travis. There's one point in our trip that Maeve goes to escort me back to the hotel from the gym, sees a hallway jam-packed with cosplayers, and flees the building stating, "yeah. I'm so not going down that way. I'll see you later." I heart Maeve.

So Friday begins with...no wait...let me tell you about how the trip really begins. It begins Thursday night at 1030 pm when Maeve drunk dials me on her way home from a bar. This is the first time I've ever experienced her tipsy and she is even cuter and more loving than sober if that's even possible. We have this whole conversation about how I'm going to drive to her apartment first and we'll find parking together, how we'll get pedi's and hang out, exchange tales of the drama in our lives, and discuss that the hotel is literally five minutes from her place. We hang up and I stress that there's no way the hotel is that close. She must mean five minutes from her job. I finally finish being the Master Packer and I lie down and start drifting.

At 1130 Maeve calls again. I think, okay she forgot to tell me something.

No, she didn't. She didn't forget something. She forgot everything and then we proceed to have the SAME EXACT CONVERSATION again. Maeve is my hero because the next day she is laughing and cheery and remembers both our conversations. And I shouldn't have been stressing because she was totally telling the truth. Her apartment is seriously down the road from the hotel.

Maeve settles us in then goes off to work and plans to meet up with us later after we partake in our geekdom. Where ever we look we are surrounded by cosplayers. It gets to the point when I feel uncomfortable because I'm the only one NOT in costume. I feel like I've let everyone down. I had even planned to dress as three different characters because unlike everyone here, I would not sweat in a costume then proceed to wear it again the next day. I had dreamed of being Kakashi and Near from Death Note because that kid wears a white outfit and would need a white wig (simple). But no, nothing to show off how dorky I am, so I continue on in my You don't Gnome me! tee with a gnome angrily pointing off into the distance.

The first stop in the Con is Artist's Alley which is a place we intended to spend a lot of time perusing. We need some art for our walls in our imaginary house we have already laid out color schemes for and seriously plan on doing once we obtain this imaginary house. After going up and down the aisles we bicker and say a lot of, "I don't know. What do you think?" before we buy five pieces. Then it's on to the Dealer Room which is kind of sparse compared to the Comic Con in NYC which was wall-to-wall people and merchandise. We pick up two Death Note tee shirts to wear the next day and continue on our way to Panel A which is to house Travis at 830.

It's two hours until his panel but a line hasn't formed yet. The only line so far is for the panel before him which was supposed to be Got Yaoi? (which I intended to hit up if that stayed true unbeknownst to Steve) but it had been switched with Zombie Survival. I ask a staff member who can't be older than 18 that if I go into the panel before Travis' may I stay in there to see his as well? He answers, "Of course!" so Steve and I saunter onto this line and stick it out for an hour and a half.

It actually turns out to be a pretty hilarious panel with videos and demonstrations. They even have two guys come up and eat Jell-O brains as if they were zombies. It is very entertaining and worth the wait for Travis. When it ends we clap and move over a few seats to be on the end. Then a staff member comes up to us and the first three rows and tells all thirty of us to clear out.

Wait...what?

I look right back at the guy and simply explain that I was told I could suffer through a zombie panel and stay for the next panel if I chose to. He then explains to me that the ridiculous amount of people waiting outside for an hour and a half deserve to get first dibs on seats. I tend to disagree nerdy staffer man. I subjected myself to a panel I didn't want to sit in in order to have a seat in the Travis panel. I didn't care if I was in the back but I will be damned if I don't get a seat at all due to being misinformed by a member of the staff that I could stay in here. I'm petrified that I will be forced to leave this room to go to the back of the line and then get shut out of the panel I have been dreaming about for months. I would have had no problem waiting outside this entire time but he said I could go in. I hang onto the bottom of my chair and refuse to get up along with thirty other fangirls plus Steve and someone's mom.

At this point, dude that misinofrmed me tries to tell me I never talked to him. I'm sort of offended in that he doesn't remember me and I'm probably the only girl to ever talk to him EVER. I quickly make the fact know in front of his boss that he let me believe Zombie 101 was a ticket into the Travis panel. At this point the panel is now running five minutes late. And at this point Travis enters the room and is surprised it's empty.

He asks us why we're special and we explain the situation. He then whips out his iPhone and snaps a picture of us making silly faces and probably sends it to his friends with a message like, "check out these whack jobs that are pushing back my panel because they're crazy." He's way cool with us and seems to not care that we're causing such a ruckus. They begin to let the others in and he makes commentary as everyone finds their seats including a nifty, "props to the first three rows over here."

When Travis tells stories it's quite funny but the fact that he's constantly asked the same question is squashing his chance to be very creative with his answers. All these girls get to the mic and freeze up and just start shaking and saying things like, "oh my God I love you! I could die happy right now! I've had the biggest crush on you since I was 12!" Steve keeps raising his hand to ask a question but he keeps getting bypassed probably because they think he's one of Travis' frat buddies that's going to jokingly ask him a question and offend the mini skirt army.

The panel is totally worth the drama and the wait. I'm happy to have seen one of my fave voice actors up close and personal and I look forward to being all up in his personal space tomorrow at the signing!


(Our favorite part of the panel is when a Maes cosplayer catches him off guard. The best part about this is the look on his face mid sentence and if the girls weren’t screaming so much you’d hear: “Well played, Hughes. Well played.”)

The Boston Globe dropped by for the panel. News Article here.

I hear his little feet pad across the wooden floor towards the attic stairs. He stops at the bottom and peers up into the room above where I'm making the bed.

"Tinka!" he yells. When I answer he tells me he's coming up. I rush to the stairs as I hear him beginning the climb by himself and see that he no longer needs my help. It's been a few months since I've seen Preston and I'm amazed at how much he's progressed since Christmas time.

When he reaches the top step he tells me he wants to play with his Thomas the Tank Engine tent. As we go to get it and bring it into the middle of the room, he spots my laundry pile on the glass anchor table. With his starfish hands, he pats the blue long sleeve and demands that I put it on. I explain to him that I wore it yesterday and that it's dirty.

"It needs to be washed. It's stinky," I say.

Preston looks up at me with an understanding look on his adorable face. "Oh. Did you get poopy on it?"

I double over in laughter. Who better to have as your audience than a fellow member of the Toilet Talk Club?

I'm going on my seventh year of riding the LIRR daily. Sure there was a year of not doing it because I was at Genesis and also the few months when dad fired me from the Surge, but basically it's been seven years of commuting. The first year of commuting is done by myself but the second year I join my dad on the Port Jeff line every morning at 720. We would sit side by side in the comfy double-decker, him with the Post, me with Harry Potter, and we would ride in companionable silence.

One day on our way home from a grueling day at the Surge, dad spies a man asleep diagonal from us. Now this guy isn't just sleeping, he is totally passed out, head back, mouth open at an odd angle with drool escaping the side of his mouth. Dad rouses me from Hogwarts to look at the man. He tells me he is always afraid to fall asleep on the train like that because he fears he would miss his stop and end up in Speonk.

Speonk is a town on the south shore of Long Island that neighbors the Hamptons. It's properly pronounced Spe-yonk but we pronounce it much like the way we pronounce HOUSE! There's the "Spe" part said normally then the "onk" part shouted obnoxiously. It's done this way because apparently my father has heard a conductor yell it out in this manner before reaching the stop. Even though dad's fear is reasonable because no one wants to miss their stop, get off at the next one, go to the opposite platform and wait for the next train to take them back, it's also impossible considering Speonk isn't even on the Port Jeff line. Speonk isn't even on the north shore where we live. If dad's fear of ending up in Speonk were true, he would have to sleepwalk off the current train and change in Hicksville for the Montauk line or if he got onto the Babylon line instead would also have to absentmindedly transfer in Babylon to reach this destination of Speonk. I'm not sure if dad's fear is of sleepwalk-transfer or just missing his stop. I also think dad chooses Speonk because it's more fun to say rather than Port Jefferson.

Only 21 and still learning the ropes of the MTA, Dad leans in close to me to get his point across in a whisper. "You'd be sleeping soundly and then all of a sudden-" his voice changes to max volume "Spe-ONK!" He then pretends to jerk his body awake, look around with wide-eyed fear on his face, then make for the door. I laugh at his antics and our first private joke of train humor is born.

Almost six years later, I'm on the train home to Farmingdale, alone, different branch from when I used to ride with dad. Before hitting Jamaica I finish Naruto Volume 42 and instead of picking up the next volume, I decide to rest my tired eyes. I close up my reading glasses in their matching case and toss it into the Barnes & Noble bag. As I drift off to sleep, my last thought is to touch the bag with my fingertips because I am afraid someone might steal it or I'll leave it behind when I get off.

I'm totally out. I must have my head back, mouth open at an odd angle, definitely a line of drool pooling in my shirt collar, when I get this feeling I should wake up NOW! I look out the window at the opposite platform and blink away the sleep. Huh, we're in Bethpage already. That's crazy, I missed the Mineola and Hicksville stops too, I must have been really out-

Panic seizes my chest. A look of horror washes over my face and my body just reacts.

Spe-ONK!

I'm out of my seat in a flash, both bags in hand, darting down the aisle just in time to make it out the door at the Farmingdale station. As the train doors close behind me I laugh as my heart pounds in my chest. In my seven years of doing this everyday, I've never come this close to missing my stop. As I walk towards Pedey I whip out my phone and dial a number. I know he's flying from Miami to NY right now but there's only one person who could understand what just happened.

Beep. "Dad...I just totally had a Spe-ONK! moment..."

It's beautiful today. The sun is out and bright and warm, people are generally in a better mood, the snow is quickly melting down into street drains and I'm sitting inside for the third hour waiting for my truck to be finished with a routine oil change that turned into, "You need a new battery on your 18 month old car. And yes, we are definitely screwing you right now on this very nice morning."

On the fourth hour, my keys are returned to me and I head for home only to be stopped the second I press the B and 1 button for my seventh preset station in order to play my iPod. They were kind enough to reset my time but not my 18 music stations. I set to work not being too surprised I remember where every station exactly goes. I then plug in the adapter that I bought for my dad for his birthday even though he didn't have an iPod anymore but intended to pick up a new one and we needed to listen to music on our trip down to Virginia because the iTrip is only good for 30 minutes until my iPod battery dies so I have it in my truck for "safe keeping" until he purchases another.

I roll down the windows and put the volume higher because you have to, you know? The wind makes it hard to hear the lyrics so it warrants a max volume at 32. As I pull out Could've Been by Tiffany blasts out of my speakers and I do not hesitate to sing-a-long. I'm belting it out Carrie Underwood style until I reach the light and someone else pulls up, windows down. 9 years ago I would have continued to sing and rock to my music but today my hand finds the volume button, turning it down low enough even I can't hear, until the light changes and I resume my powerhouse voice.

At 17 it's cool to blast your music whether you are in a church parking lot, on the highway, in your development, or with a bunch of rowdy friends loitering outside a Sevs. At 17 I think I'm so cool, in Kim's hand me down Cavalier, playing a DMX mix cd at ear-bleed volume while I wait to leave St. Anthony's parking lot. Now, One More Road comes on and I shrink away from the stare of the person in the car next to me.

I want to have the windows down and listen to my music without the embarrassment of having to explain why Jordan Knight is on my iPod... and that I have a choreographed dance to Give It To Me...and that it's not stopping me from dancing to it one handed in my truck right now.

Yeah...I think I prefer cold weather.

I have the iHome right by my side of the bed but Steve prefers that I keep the face dim so the room stays as dark as possible. It's a normal request though when I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder how close it is to the alarm going off, I can't see the face. I also can't see the button to press to make it brighter and I fear I will end up pressing the music on instead. Who wants to hear Paper Planes blaring in their ears at 3 in the morning?... who wants to hear Paper Planes at any hour to began with (besides my sister and I)?

So I tend to use the neon green numbers on the cable box for clock reference. Last night though I hear a click and my eyes dart to the TV. The cable box mysteriously shuts off. I think, okay, power went out, but my air purifier is still purring. I look back at the box and consider turning it back on when it clicks again and goes psycho.

All these numbers start flashing on it in no particular order and then it starts counting up to almost six hundred. I then watch it count back down adding in extra number patterns along the way that do not make sense. I watch this happen for several minutes until it rests on zero. Then it goes through the alphabet, then the alphabet with numbers, and then I'm convinced it's going to stop and display, behind you!

It's when it finally clicks off that I think about my choppy sleep every night. Could you imagine squinting off into the distance to see the time only to find it spazing out?

I think for the first time in my life I would actually wet the bed.

This is going to be a rough BLOG.

Hard to take. Tough to handle. Excruciating to write.

It's 1 am in the morning and I'm wide awake. This is the third time I've tried to go back to sleep. Third time I crawled back into the warmth only to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling. I wasn't even this awake at work nine hours ago. This is the third period of my life that sleep deprivation has run my body ragged. If I don't get a full night’s sleep soon I'm going to go insane.

Whatever you name, I've tried it, it doesn't work. Hot liquids, not eating sugar or carbs hours before bedtime, having a rigorous workout then taking a hot shower, knocking back Nyquil or Tylenol PM, reading a book. None of it works unless my brain decides it is and finally powers off.

Tonight before heading to bed I check my email which I normally wouldn't do but Michelle said she sent me something. Before I go into my mail I see it. It's a case that when I first heard about it it turned my insides out and I could not fathom what would propel a person to do this to someone else. Someone they didn't even know. It hit me deep in the pit of my stomach and I thought about it constantly, making me more alert on public transportation, making me wary of every person I passed on the street, and torturing my emotions to the point it put me into a rage at times.

I'm talking about the brutal murder of Tim McLeon.

The most upsetting news I've heard in awhile: a judge ruled this savage is mentally ill therefore he will go to a psychiatric ward and be reassessed every year, meaning this animal will have no criminal record and will most likely be released after the public forgets about it ten years down the road.

But I will never forget about it.

I'm an advocate for people with disabilities to be treated like everyone else but wrong is wrong. And wrong should always be punished. How come serial killers get locked away in jail or get the death penalty? They're mentally ill too just like this beast. I'm sorry but you have to be a certain kind of fucked up to stab someone excessively for no reason, gut them, behead them, and eat them. God told you to do this? God told you this guy of 22 was evil? This quiet kid with an iPod in his ears dozing in the seat next to you? He deserves to die and God told you to do it? Really? And did God tell you that you should feast on his body parts when you were done? This is highly unlikely and fucking ridiculous that people buy this shit.

McLeon was somebody's son. Somebody's nephew. Best friend. Lover. Acquaintance. How any of these somebodies can stand by and watch this animal go off to a ward that hard working people's taxes have to pay for is beyond me. Why are we keeping this man alive? Why one of McLeon’s somebodies hasn’t stepped forward and strangled this son of a bitch baffles me. Make him feel the exact pain his victim felt. Keep him alive for years and torture him every day of his life. If this thing really is a messenger from God than I'm sure He'll understand why we're doing it. After all, His Son went through an awful amount of beating and injustice as well.

I don't know about you but my God must not be the same as your God. He doesn't reward gruesome murders and he certainly doesn't have 72 hot virgins waiting for me either.

So here I am at 1 in the morning, trying to figure out why I can't sleep when the soundless tears come. They roll down my cheeks and over my nose and into my ears. I can't stop them, the silent tears. My mouth doesn't turn into a frown, my lips don't quiver. Just a stream of endless wetness flowing from my eyes.

This news story has made me completely lose faith in humanity. I feel so lost in this detestable world we live in, feel like the badness closes in on me every day. I'm surrounded by horrific murders and accidents due to drunken driving, I'm suffocated with stories of despicable acts towards children and I want to pray for it all to end, for it to get better, but I hardly believe anymore so who am I supposed to pray to?

And so I cry.

I cry for McLeon.

I cry for the countless victims no one could save.

I cry for the helplessness I feel daily.

I cry for losing the path God set out for me.

I cry for abandoning my religion.

I cry for not having empathy for others like I used to.

I cry silently in the dark by myself until I feel arms snake around me from behind. Every time a tear falls onto my drenched pillow he holds me a little bit tighter. I know he's in a deep sleep and has no idea I just started to cry out my frustration with this dreadful existence. Yet he holds onto me as if I'm falling. He holds onto me so strongly I'm convinced he knows I'm not sleeping. But he breathes deeply in his slumber and refuses to let go. And this is when I start to believe again.

The feel of his arm around me, the softness of just-washed skin under my fingertips, this moment restores a little bit of faith in me. Because for someone to sense in their sleep that you need them and to comply with a subconscious thought you didn't even know you had makes me believe that there is something out there.

Eventually the tears cease and within that minute of knowing it's all over for now, he rolls away from me and my eyes finally close. I fall into a deep sleep almost immediately.

When I wake in the morning I ask him if he knew I was crying. He admits he had no idea or recollection of hanging onto me for thirty minutes straight.

If I can't find the answers to it all or the meaning to life, at least I have something I can believe in. At least I now know.

I definitely have a soul.

For shits and giggles, I sometimes like to pull out my old writing and post it here to satisfy my masochistic needs. I choose this one, dated 4-17-2000, for the target today. I'm curious as to who this is written about, perhaps Weisman was getting on the nerves that morning? Regardless, it's most likely something every girl has encountered in one of her relationships through the years.

Because he said so:
	he did not really know the answer
	he chose not to listen
	he wanted to do something else
	he felt obligated to feel powerful
	he had the need to be right
Now I hate him.

I think I really posted this today because I just learned new code for the journal on how to keep original spacing so I'm totally just whoring out poetry to showcase it.