From the Journal of Delilah Amelia Fritz-Cottle:

Look, I know the Two-Leggeds are all thrilled about some rock on the Girl's finger. Whatever. There are a few things I want to clear up before anyone gets any ideas about my part in all of this.

1. I will NOT have some cushion tied to me so I can strut down an aisle and give those two another reason to coo at me. I'm sick of their patronizing natures as it is.

2. I don't care what anyone says...he's not my REAL dad.

3. Is there gonna be something in this for me? I could use some therapy, you know. This is a 'mixed' family, now.

4. Nah, I don't really look at it as LOSING a caretaker; I like to think of it as GAINING another sap who I can mutilate, abuse, malign, and manipulate. Poor sucker.

5. I expect some f*cking tuna in celebration. Either that, or a buffet with the house plants.

6. When asked if I'm happy for them, I say 'yes'. I'm about as happy as the day the Girl came to the Cage, picked me up, cooed at me, and squeezed my guts out of my ears for an hour. Uh-huh. That's how happy I am.

Look, sure, it's wonderful that those Two have decided to be Mates for Life. I just think they should take some hints from the feline world. Get as much play as you can, make a lot of illegitimate babies, and eat some children when possible. You know, it sure would have been nice if I could have had a CHOICE in the matter--ends up, I've been DE-sexed and humiliated, and now I get to watch THOSE two neck on the sofa. This is NOT how I envisioned my existence.

God, I just hope they don't REPRODUCE any time soon.

So, I got engaged two days ago.

Preface: Everyone should know: I'm a laid-back chick. If something takes hours of detailing and planning and stress and going without food, I'm not interested. If it requires dedication, window-shopping, price comparison, bidding with vendors, and centerpieces, I really can't be bothered.

Which is why Michael is so concerned.

Because for the next nine months of so, I'll ONLY be talking dresses, guest accommodations, flowers, centerpieces, catering, goody bags for guests, etiquette, registering (or not registering), money, honeymooning, lack of attendants, wedding bands, live music or DJ's?, spas, golf, colors, a-line versus empire waist, and how much weight needs to be lost.

I've already got the Planning book and etiquette book, but I get extra points because they are entitled as:

I don't know--maybe my lazy and procrastinating nature will set in, and relieve Michael. Right now, he's convinced he's created a monster.

And he has.

 

 

 

After returning home from visiting a client in the field, Michael and I finally got around to thinking about getting a Christmas Tree. After all, even Fritz can catch a bit of the holiday spirit. So, after watching a bit of the Speed channel and oogling the super-fast cars, we schlepped off in the Scion of My-on to find the perfect tree.


I convinced Michael to pull off at the 'Soldiers of the Cross' tree site. There was something oddly appealing about the gaggle of poorly dressed children racing through the trees and laughing. Even more appealing was the lack of a crowd and a very sturdy selection of live trees. Ah. The perfect tree!


And as I look about, Michael says, "I like this one." So, 'round I turn to investigate a plump and hearty fir.
"Yes!" I say. "Let's get it!"
"Well," he said, "Why don't you look through it to make sure it's okay?"
And so I do, and there, amongst the branches, I spot a box.
"Someone left a box in here!" I say as I pull out the gray suede box.
I look at Michael and he shrugs.
I open the box.

Michael gets down on one knee. I'm laughing and crying and staring at the ring, and look down at Michael. He's crying, too. Smiling, he asks me, "Will you marry me?" And I begin to cry and laugh even harder.

There is a smattering of applause.
Of course, I say "Yes!"


I call all four of my friends. No one is home. I leave messages. I call my mother, who laughs in excitement. Michael calls his parents and his best friend.
"Welcome to the family," is what his mother says.
"Give him my love," is what my mother says.
We are engaged.

WE ARE ENGAGED!


While shopping for a 'Wedding Destination' magazine, I tell the store clerk the story of our engagement. (Since my friends are remarkably absent today, I've taken it upon myself to tell absolutely every stranger I encounter of my wonderful proposal story). The clerk laughs and tells us, "Congratulations!"

And then, he says: "Somewhere in a forest, far away, there is a very unhappy squirrel!"
Michael and I laugh, and I thank God for the squirrel that nestled away his sweetheart's ring, and kept it safe in a Christmas Tree. For Michael discovered it, and with great pride and wonder and love, he proposed to me.

And I said, "Yes."


My God, I am in love and still in shock. Part of me can't believe it's HAPPENED! Part of me has known the answer since the third month of dating Michael. And part of me has known for my entire life. Miracles really do come true.
Oh, Michael. To you, I will always reply, "Yes."

If Bush is so concerned about the duty to free the world of Saddam Hussein's influence, then why isn't it a bigger deal that Death Camps still exist in North Korea?

And they have REAL weapons of mass destruction?

Sorry. I guess the whole LOGIC of the situation makes me wonder...
What the hell is Bush taking responsibility for if he isn't doing something to get America out of Iraq? Don't be placated.

His insidious methods of 'appeasing' the public is so plasticine, a blind man could see right through 'em. He is a liar, a thief, a con artist, and the representative of all that is wrong and immoral in the country. He is a despot of an malignant coup.

Sadly, he represents what happens when Americans get comfortable. If we had a clue, this crap would have never gone down.

(I am now going to soak my head in ammonia in order to calm down).

There's nasty. There's raunchy. There's down-right dirty and disgusting.

There's bestiality. There's sex with food, like cucumbers and gourds and bananas.

There's an entire library of strange sexual disciplines out there, and I can appreciate the breadth and width of human libido.

Now, I do not stand on a pedestal of virtuosity. I condemn not one among us who may occasionally submerge himself in the gooey extracurricular activities of genitalia. I find that I myself can entertain fantasies involving midgets, trapeze artists, and a whole slew of other sundry circus characters. I have a fetish for elephants, it's true.

But the entire thought of gingerbread men has been ruined for me, eternally.
I don't think ginger ale will ever make a place in my diet.
To be safe, I think I'll start avoiding Fig Newtons.

Because I have found this link--about figging.

Need I say more? Thank you for suffering through this post of sexual indecency.

As the Year comes to an End, I wanted to take an opportunity to recognize and thanks those celebrities that have truly made an impact. Not just celebrities that adopt whole countries or save old men from flooding or donate ten million dollars to Katrina survivors. No, no. I want to recognize those individuals that led me to question the integrity and grit of the human race.

Without further ado, I would like to give a mention to:

Seth McFarland. Perhaps one of the funniest, insightful, and crass men out there, he took a football-headed baby and a fatass idiot and made them palatable.

Paris Hilton: Proof that all the money in the world will not prevent white trash from being white trash. Additionally proving that the skinniest bitch in the world can still have a rather large vulva. Thank you.

George Bush: A special thank-you for degrading and humiliating Americans everywhere. Not only were you able to insult the entire world, demolish American morale, and do absolutely NO GOOD in Iraq, but you also were completely fucking stupid whilst committing your business. Yea, America!

Tara Reid: Thank you for helping me dis-appreciate the Feminist movement. After all, all that choice and freedom and equality awarded to women has enabled you to get a job drinking and having sex with random men. I'm so sorry your show got cancelled.

Madonna: Thank you for proving to the world that even if you're getting old and stringy and your voice sounds like a bag of nails trapped beneath the seat of an old Chrysler, you can still get paid.

Any and all fat actresses. I beg you: stay that way.

Kanye West: While your rhyming skillz are pretty pathetic compared to the likes of Nas, A Tribe Called Quest, and House of Pain, I like the way you roll. "George Bush doesn't care about black people."

Tyra Banks: Gosh. Your boobs are real. You are a total dumbass. You have two vapid and unintelligent shows on a huge network. You 'retired' from modelling wearing a thong and glitter. You are trying to be Oprah. I would like to see you and Oprah in a wrestling match. My money is on the old cow.

and last, but certainly not least:

Katie Holmes. Thank you, Katie, for bringing your skinny, scraggly ass to Tom Cruise and make him (finally) go around the bend. Nicole couldn't manage it, however, I am convinced she gave it her best. You've let the nut out, AND you're carrying the anti-Christ. Good job! I pray your child is not born with bi-polar (like its father) or ADHD (requiring Ritalin). I also pray that one day, you will stop wearing children's clothing.

Firstly, I would like to say the word apophthegm (ap·o·thegm also ap·o·phthegm). It is a smart-sounding word. It seems grammatically superior to the term 'saying' but not as confusing as 'colloquilism'. With that out of the way, I am pleased to present my dear boyfriend's famous apophthegms:

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me
than a frontal labotomy.

Here I sit brokenhearted
Tried to shit and only farted.

He's brilliant-a real Fart Smeller.

Well, I'm drilling him for more, but we can't remember any others. Have fun with these; I'll update them as I continue to collect them.

*And for a quick reference of things yelled in my car*:
"Assclown!"
"Asshat!"
"Rat Bastard!"
"Butt Leak!"
"VAGINA HEAD!"
"Damn Michiganders" (Sorry, Michael)
"Soccer Ball Sucker!"
"Fetal Raper!"
"Father Raper!" (Thanks, Arlo Guthrie).
"Chester Child Molester!"
"Fuckwad"
"Fuckhead"
I'm starting to think I'm not too pleasant of a driver.

Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Quiz. Lassies, you can take the Classic Dame Quiz here.

A recent transcription of communique between the Downstairs Neighbor and Myself.

Dear Downstairs Neighbor:
I've given you three smokes to date and you have yet to thank me properly. Additionally, you park that bejeezus beast right behind our driveway, making it very difficult for Michael and I to maneuver our so-cute eco-friendly cars out and in. Additionally, you listen to my conversations with myself while I'm smoking on the porch. I will begin a very interesting discourse with myself, and only half-way through do you make your presence beneath me known by clearing your throat. This is simply rude. There are certain by-lines you must adhere to when it comes to apartment living. Please consider these complaints and change these behaviors. I am not asking for much; I simply desire peaceful dwelling within these confines.
Yours,
Fritz

the response I received....

Dear Fritz:
I'll take your opinions under consideration, however, I too have a complaint. When you and your boyfriend are in the throes of passion, would you be kind enough to close your bedroom window? Even though the blinds are down, I can hear everything.
Thanks,
Downstairs Neighbor Dude.

and my return letter:

Dear Downstairs Neighbor:
Pervert! I should call the cops on you, you slimy intestinal track! Forget it! I'm never sharing a smoke with you again!
Yours Sincerely,
Fritz

and lastly:

Fritz:
It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the loud smacking sounds that sound A LOT like someone getting spanked. Often.
D.N.D.
***
I guess he might have a point.

Thinking about shutting this bad girl down and doing something different elsewhere.
Edit: Nah. Nevermind. I'm good.

Dear God:

You have not returned my last few emails to heaven.com. You refuse to answer my calls and keep directing me to call "666" on the landline where I'm placed on hold for hours listening to that creepy tone. I am growing resentful. There are a number of reasons why.
Apparently, you are talking to Tom Cruise and Madonna on a regular basis. It seems You've grown a little star-struck. While I imagine the champagne breakfasts and Yoga with Buddha is relaxing and beneficial for your chakras, I would like to remind You that some of us normal folks could use some help, too.

For example, the other day I could not find a parking spot at the mall and had to park at the sleazy used-car dealership five blocks over. When I returned, laden with packages, four or five salesman had grouped around the car, debating its worth. Someone was kicking the tires.
"Hey!" I yelled. "That's my car!"
I ran down the grassy hill only to trip and slide to a stop on my bum. I did manage to keep the packages aloft.
The salespeople got a chuckle out of this.

Oh, and remember that night in Omaha, God? When it was sleeting and a film of dirty ice had covered an entire Albertson's parking lot? I ran into the store to pick up my Zoloft. I was in a hurry because I had to pee. I ran back out to the car only to witness some guy drag his kid by the legs across the parking lot, the kid's head bouncing off of the freezing asphalt. Remember? And I had to call Child Protective Services? And after all that, I locked my keys in the Bean Machine and wound up peeing in my pants? Yeah. Where were You then?

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate that time when I got to the hospital just in time to have an infected hair follicle removed from my ass before it poisoned and killed me. That was great, and all, but c'mon, God. An ASS hair? Didn't You remember I was 17, and totally embarrassed about my bottom as it was?

And now, my parents are blowing through my inheiritance like ants in a dead cadaver. Can't you PUH-leeze convince them to leave well enough alone? I realize the importance of having knee surgeries, but the matching pair of Rascals? It's just gone too far.

I'm starting to think You made me into the female version of George Costanza. And that's not very funny.

I honestly thought my brain was shrivelling thanks to the lack of comments.

I went to this site and took a free Verbal IQ test*, designed to be 'more challenging' than normal IQ tests.

I scored 126--for those of you who don't know, that means 'Gifted'. And I automatically qualified to be part of the High IQ Society.

Of course, THAT meant paying sixty dollars for a membership. Since I DIDN'T pay, I lost proof of my score because I didn't 'Print Screen', either.

So, you'll just have to take my word for it.

I'm freakin' smart. Gifted, even.

*I took the all-encompassing IQ test, too, but didn't fare as well...only 118 (significantly above average).

Chicago
I lived in an apartment
shaken daily by the el train
There's a blue cloud over the lake over
the whole city.
The fog rolls off just like Sandburg described.
The cathedral stands tall against bleak
winter,
the pizzerias number nine on one block
the graffiti changes each year.

There is only the sound of the train
on the tracks, the rattle of old doorframes
Years and years of history.

walk down to Navy Pier and watch
the tourists glaring at Oprah's penthouse
watch the tugboats hooting to each
other over the water, screaming like
the gulls.

The Chicago of my parents sounded of
blues, jazz, riots, sadness, dogs barking,
men falling.
The Chicago of my childhood is filled
with sunlight, zoo walks and the timidity
of first steps.

And now, there is a rough beat
pushing us forward through these urban
streets, no longer mine, someone else's.
thump throughout the foundations
of cities, moving like stampedes,
angry, fighting, possibly praying.
We can't even see each other anymore.

Chicago of my dreams, you filter
through to me in this rainy Georgia suburb.
I miss the truth of cities, dirty old cities.
I miss the exact nature of humans
dwelling too close, living every minute
in the beat and shaking of elevated tracks.

the honesty of the streets
is the juxtaposition of where I sit.
But I know where I come from.
And we come from dirty streets of smoke
and graffitti and blended skins
and hope, and life, and something
bigger than either one of us.

Let's go back, baby.
Let's go home, baby.

Ah. We're gonna ride that train together.

Skinny pubescent girls are over-running the streets. It concerns me. Half of them seem to idolize Paris Hilton's (lacking) wardrobe. Many of them look like punks, only to be confused when asked about The Ramones or Dead Kennedys or The Pixies. I think Green Day is as punk as they get.

I live very close to MallUtopia. This is my term describing not only a mall, but all the outlying strip centers that satellite the mall. I live between three Starbuck's, a Babies R Us, Circuit City, and Rooms to Go. Across the street is about five Targets and One Enormous Soul-Destructing Wal-Mart. Not only do these strip centers provide hours of shopping pleasure but also give ample opportunity for 'hanging out' in parking lots for teenagers with extremely fast cars and nowhere to go.

I was thinking about these kids and fell into that horrible trap of wondering if it was THAT bad when I was a teenager (about a decade ago). You know what? It WAS as bad.

I went to an ludicrously wealthy public school where many of my peers drove BMW's and Jaguars to school. Ridiculously enough, I found myself in a tight spot. I was not rich enough to hang with the popular kids, I was not thin enough to be an athlete, I was not pretty enough to be a sweet loner, I wasn't smart enough to hang with the Beta Club (I got kicked out for lacking in community service), and I wasn't weird enough to hang out with the grunge crowd. I wasn't gay enough or egotistical enough to chill with the drama club, although I'd taken about five acting classes from theater companies, and could sing like a lark back then. I never got good roles when auditioning for musicals because I hadn't sucked up to the theater teachers who are (inevitably) also track coaches. Man, my life sucked as a teen.

I found myself more comfortable with senior citizens or blind dogs or the smelly kid who peed in her pants on the bus. I journaled during classes, only to get in trouble for not paying attention while four or five jocks were comparing toe fungus or dick length or whatever it is that jocks do three rows back. Ironically, when I did pay attention and do well in 'hard' classes, the very same jocks called me a bitch for not allowing them to copy my homework or a suck up because the horrible green-teethed teacher actually liked me and thought I was a hard worker.

Gradually, I moved into the Advanced Placement classes (by a lark--I had no clue what I was doing), and my peers then seemed to conditionally accept my existence while in class--mainly because I was chatty about society and history. You think any of them were caught dead walking down the halls with me? Hell, no.

I was pushed into lockers by jocks all the time. At first, I thought I had done something horrible enough to some soccer players to deserve this treatment, but I learned it wasn't me they were pushing, it was the underdog. Those guys didn't know my name, but they saw my face and big butt and lonely shoulder slump. That's all they needed-a target. BOOM! Into the lockers I would go without a comrade to protect me. I even lost the courage to flip them off, because some damn teacher or (worse) coach would glare at me as the jocks would run off, as though my very existence caused the ruckus.

Don't get me wrong. There were some moments of vindication, though limited.
One included Algebra I, where the dumb-ass football teacher actually made copies of my equations to turn into overheads so that the dumb-ass jocks in the back could finally figure out how to balance equations. Another one was when I correctly translated an entire paragraph of English into Latin on my own and did so perfectly to the great acclaim of the oft-discouraged Latin teacher. Thirdly, when I lost fifty pounds in my junior year and Ashley B.-one of the prettiest, popular girls with a boyfriend in college-was kind to me, and even ate some carrots with me in math class under the tutelage of the single Ms. Cleckler, a friendly warm woman who had fun with the students.

For the graduating class, the school would hire one of those archiving studios to come and film all the activities and set it to trendy music, probably to leave a decent taste in the mouths of teenagers and parents, alike. It was a cloudy day when we practiced walking across the stage (yeah, four years of conformity training and they had to make sure we could get the whole walking thing down). I'm so afraid of cameras it's ridiculous. Add this to the lovely hives I had been stricken with thanks to stress about walking across that damn stage alone in front of the jocks, I did everything I could to dodge the camera. Plus, I stood in between two kids who were as disassociated as I was. I saw that camera coming and I turned away. I did my dumb little walk and went home.

Later, I bought the video tape to torture myself when I was feeling penitent for numerous crimes I WOULD be committing in college. I slipped it into the VHS about a month after graduation, alone in the living room, bags getting packed for the trip to Omaha, 800 miles away. I fast-forwarded through the cliche pictures of those same pretty cheerleaders and gorgeous jocks, searching for friends. Needless to say, I was fast-forwarding quite a bit, because I had about four friends. Suddenly, a girl's face came up, her hair blowing long and yellow into the wind. Her face turned away, sad and lonely but beautiful, was so striking the film was stilled on her. The cool air seemed to be tossing her hopes to the wind.

That was me. I was that girl.

So, as I drive throughout the MallUtopia and see these consumer teens, acting stupid and dressing like mini-sluts, I remind myself, "They aren't the only ones. The others are at home, with their parents, doing homework or drawing or dancing or laughing, just like you did at that age. Life is not without hope."

Through a blog loop, I found this interesting journey of sexuality. Being a smallish prude, I was affronted and intrigued, all at once. Of course, I was also jealous of chelsea girl's physique. Regardless, it got me thinking about sex.

Something else that got me thinking about sex was ligers and tigons. Maybe you think I'm kidding, but Napoleon Dynamite was correct. There are such things as ligers and tigons. Where was I when this happened? Regardless. It got me thinking about sex.

Then, I watched Discovery channel (again). A show was on about...you guessed it. Human sex. Here are some facts that should be purged immediatley upon consumption:

1. Proportionately, the human male's penis is largest among mammals. This has something to do with walking upright and being able to sustain erection and other sorts of biological amazements.

2. The human male is the only mammal that does not actually have a bone in the penis. It becomes aroused thanks to nitris oxide and blood rushing to release tense muscles. A limp penis is actually a tense penis. Also: the shorter the limp penis, the longer it will grow. Perhaps George Costanza was onto something when he blamed the shrinkage.

3. The clitoris is the only human organ dedicated for one purpose: sexual pleasure. There are approxiamately 8 thousand nerve endings in a clitoris, double that of the amount found at the head of a penis.

4. Thank goodness for my fat deposits. You know--those things on my chest, the big round melons? Yeah, they can save my life, and that of my baby, during lean times. But we knew that. Anyway. Onward.

***
There are scientists in this world that don't only want to capitalize on the hybrids of lions and tigers. No, no. Some scientists would like to push it a little farther. How about humanzees? A human has 46 chromosomes. A chimpanzee has 48. We share close to 99% of the same genetic, DNA material as a chimp. Some lonely scientist out there is thinking about it. He hasn't gotten laid...ever. So what's his idea? "I'll show them! I don't NEED a human female to mate! I've got all sorts of lovely female monkeys at my disposal!" How many hybrids are out there, folks? And what are the moral implications of this? And can we soon expect to supercede sex with science?

Yeah. I didn't think so, either.
***
So, I borrowed Michael for some experiments. They were quite successful. I proved my OWN point, which is that Michael and I enjoy sex at EXACTLY the same rate...quite a boisterous amount of activity followed by quiet time spent speculating about our perspective positions in the universe. This covers all the bases.

I don't need to really go into the details of our sex life. One, I wouldn't presume you enjoy the same things we enjoy. Two, I don't really know if that's fodder for good blogging, because it goes to the basest of human intellect. Truly, sex is facsinating by its anthropological and biological aspects, but smut is smut is smut.

So, while I encourage you, dear reader, to think about your role as a sexual beast, I would also encourage you to remember why we are greater than the scientist wanting to mate with a chimp. While our bodies make harmony and pleasure, our minds are rife for a different kind of harvesting. I'll leave you with a one thought from Jay of "Clerks."

It's almost here
Blog-Crap-Swap is near!
The Girl is Spinning as we speak
and I have many plans to tweak!
But tho' the time is long and weary
Trust me!
The gift shall be QUITE eerie!
I, myself am turning pale
Of what may come in the mail.
Rest assured, dear readers, thee!
You too shall know the final glee!
The Swap will come
not soon nor late
But just in time, declared by fate.
And you! Athena! Spinnerroo!
Be MOST careful what thou do!

(cackling in Lady MacBeth way...) 

My idea? I post my wishes. Then, I tag someone else to post his or her wishes on perspective blog. Maybe it will fly. Maybe not.

1. This Perfume
2. A Haircut from this Place
3. A freakin' massage *edit: earlier, I had spelled it 'message'. You live 26 years and then POOF! spelling right down the drain.
4. Any peice of this jewelry
5. A gift certificate from here
6. These shoes
7. An island
8. Maggie
9. This facial product
10. Scion Accessories

Any of this is subject to change. Really.

I tag: Michaela, Spinning Girl, Madge, Kimberlina, Freiya (whose name I probably misspelled...again). GO TO IT, LADIES!

Didn't have too much time for this one, so pardon the blurred photo. You are glancing at the top part of my lotus flower. Again, another traditional style tattoo. The colors are really deep. I'm very proud of this tattoo. It took over six hours to complete, and I fainted during one coloring session (talk about a spinal tap). The lotus flower is a symbol of enlightenment. The flame is representative of faith, or life power. Maybe one day, I'll get a really good shot of it. But in the meantime...here's my HNT.