Last night, I had a dream.

I dreamed I walked through secret hallways, hallways filled with doors. Some of the doors were locked, and a custodian had to open them. The doors led to more doors, and hallways of doors, and L-corners of doors. The doors were white, black, wood, solid, glassed. Some of the doors were half-doors, tinted doors, swinging doors.

And eventually, all these doors led to a train platform, and I waited for a train to take me away from this lighted place of doors. The platform sat adjacent to the ocean, and the water was calm, and the sun was bright. And I didn't want to leave.

In dreams, doors symbolize changes of conciousness. One is entering or exiting different states of spirituality. Locked doors mean life has become stagnant. Open doors means life is moving. And while some of my doors were locked, they were unlocked by assistance. Friends. Co-workers.

In dreams, a sun symbolizes peace of mind, tranquility, happiness, and radiating energy.

It is strange when dreams point me in the direction I should be going. Perhaps I'll take this under advisement--move forward, open my eyes, open my soul, grow in and grow up. I'm going to find that place of tranquility, and it may just force this writing process along.

The writing is dying in the womb. I need to go open some doors.

The writing bug has bitten, and I'm prancing away at my notes and guidelines and outlines for NaNoWriMo. But a good writer (which I'm not) does research. And so in an effort to become a good writer, I wanted to do research myself. Without leaving my home. Or going to the library. Or stopping at a morgue. So.

I called The Body Farm.

And I spoke to Dr. William Bass, author of Death's Acre. He has worked with Patricia Cornwell and the like.

And he was very kind and very helpful and while I knew I was bugging him, I didn't get the feeling I was bugging him. He is a very warm person, and a very knowledgeable person, and he gets to talk about decay for a living. And he told me to call back anytime I needed more help.

So, I will share for you what I learned about decay:

• We decay faster in heat (I know, everyone knows this)
• We decay from the inside out, and scavengers work on the outside.
• We decay in one week on the surface, or on top of the ground. It takes two weeks for us to decay in water, and about eight weeks when we are buried.
• Flies are the first to come and start scavenging. If someone dies from a gunshot wound or a knife wound, flies will have a nice buffet and a body will go even faster. If there are no wounds present, the flies go for eyes, mouth, orifices...yeah. Okay, that's icky.
• Flies don't scavenge if it's 52 degrees Farenheit or colder.
• Rivers don't freeze in the South.
• Rivers used to freeze in the South, so I have to consider that for my novella.

I'm not going to say much else. A body, some water, and a story.
That's where I'm starting.

It has been a very long while since I have felt the need, desire, presumption, or creativity to truly write well. Blogging has become a chore--at least, writing for the blog has become a chore. I feel guilty when I read Stuntmother's and Monkey's page, because I cannot be so clever or tidy with my words.

Which has convinced me that it is time to up the ante. Throw out a stress test. Jump through a gazillion hoops of fire and small splinters. Stuntmother introduced me to the madness that is NaNoWriMo. It's as nutty as it sounds. The idea behind this insane collabrative is to write 50,000 words in November. If I'm lucky, I'll have a real novella by the end of it. If not, I'll have a ridiculous amount of blogging accomplished. Though I have to get clear on the details. I may be able to not share this others, but then.

It might actually do you all some good.

So, please. Go talk to Stuntmother about how insane this idea is, and yell at her for convincing me that this can actually happen. If you think that's inappropriate, then at least go read HER blog, which is insightful, well-written, and basically, everything that my blog is NOT. I simply can't wait to see what my novella comes out like. (A mockery of the art of literature, I'm sure).

But if you need further convincing that I can write, Spinning Girl would suggest you read my Symphony for Life.

Hell, when I read that, I almost think I might have a shot at this ridiculous thing called writing.
But I'm not hopeful, mind you, that I can accomplish what roughly turns out to be 1600 words a day for one full month. Not hopeful at all. I'm the Eeyore of this whole enterprise.

Join my ranks, and be duly disappointed. Go sign up. It'll do you good, and humble you. You need to be humbled. I'm positive of it.

Cat Head Theatre

Delilah approves. I laughed for a very long time. It is worthy, My Leige

White bread, that is.
(i don't know who half of these people are...)


That stupid site lies. I don't see Kate Moss on here. I don't see Oprah Winfrey on here. But who do I see? Paul McCartney. Yeah. I resemble Paul McCartney so much that people ask me to design clothes for them and inquire after my girlfriend.

And how come none of these celebrities have that deer-in-the-headlight look that I have so perfected?

However, polls indicate that I so much resemble a slice of leavened, processed Wonder bread that even mold ignores me. I think I shall go take these cheekbones and place them in a meat processor. Perhaps, I can then garner Elle MacPherson fans to me, and pass myself off as her.

'cause, you know. Me and Elle. We're like two freakin' peas in a pod.

If you don't remember this post, you should read it.

My new adventure was emailing the man who conducted art/media exhibits highlighting the plusses of having a plus-sized rump, akin to the Venus Hottentot. I asked if he ever used white women. He said he had not, but was interested. He asked for some photos. I sent them off. He said he'd call me. He never did. And that's fine, because really I just wanted some blogging material.

I got an email yesterday. Apparently, while in discussion with a television company out of Toronto, they asked this man if he ever had used white women, and he said he had not but had been in discussion with a few ladies. They want to use me in the documentary.

I've got a 'photo shoot' on Friday.

Ubermilf is my undisclosed agent. I might just get (in)famous, after all. If anything, I've got some new blogging material.

And because it fits the theme, please, go check out this clip.

I have a client who has a sibling.
His sibling is named Trixie.
Trixie drives a semi-truck.
Trixie is a transsexual who does not attempt to disguise the voice.
Trixie is a baritone.

Trixie does not have a sense of humor.

This is a shame. People like Trixie should have senses of humor.

So, there I was, perusing Miss Kendra's birthday shenanigans, and I had a moment. It went something like this: "oh-shit-I'm-old and can no longer wear my latex platform boots and purple wig for any decent reason--and while Miss Kendra is having girl nights involving hot wax and loud music, I'm planning out the colors of my living room and trying to figure out how to tackle grout with acrylic nails and oh-holy-shit-I'm-old." Scary.

Anytime I start to doubt my coolness factor (never exceedingly high), I combat it with Flogging Molly and The Dropkick Murphys. And anytime I listen to drunk Irish, I think about drinking, and when I think about drinking, I hearken to college, and simultaneously think of the Air Force situated near my college, and then I think about getting drunk with air force boys. And that is never a good idea.

So, in Omaha, there is a club called Guitars and Cadillacs, and it is as absolutely dreadful as the name would imply. I could not be convinced to patronize this particular joint without having several shots of Goldenschlagger, but once evinced of this liquid poison, off I would be dragged to Guitars and Cadillacs, and forced to dance to 'Cotton Eyed Joe' and poorly mixed Vengaboy songs. And this ludicrous activity would wear my soul thin and usually lead me to throw up in the corner of the dance floor before being dragged outside by my dorm 'friends'. Ah. How many cheap camisole shirts did I ruin? Countless numbers. Yet, I never competed for the obligatory Wet T-shirt contest, though why is beyond me. I mean, at this point, my cruft and intolerable behavior would have best served me as the dumb-ass college girl getting sprayed with cheap American microbeer. Whatever.

It was on one of these evenings that I wasn't so drunk as to not attempt a conversation with some poor, sad loser at the back of the bar. Skinny and a little malnourished looking, this kid had the weathered look of a dog that had been left out too long in Chernobyl. I was instantly smitten. Numbers were exchanged as were drunken flirtations.

Funny how liquor does that crap--makes you think someone is attractive, and the next day you rave to all your friends, "Oh, I met the cutest guy last night at Guitars and Cadillacs!" Uh-huh.

Brian had a 1990 Mustang. You know the ones. The cars that scream "I'm a fast piece of shit"? He was from Alabama (warning sign #2) and stationed at the Air Force Base in Omaha. He smelled weird. His smile was nothing short of lecherous. His breathe was kind of fetid. He smoked Marlboro Reds. I bypassed these issues--he had a car, a loud speaker system in the car, and a bad attitude. Plus, he had friends. My friends plus his friends? Instant drinking buddies. It all fell apart about three weeks later when I fell out of a folding chair in Brian's bunker (or whatever the hell they call military dorms) and hit my head on his shitty half-refrigerator. As I lay on the rug, blinking at the stars and the furry mice produced from the four shots of Jose Cuervo, I wondered what in the hell did a guy like Brian see in a girl like me? I was eventually hauled off the floor by a guy who weighed about a third as much as I did, and I was unceremoniously dumped in the bathroom for the remainder of the night. I'm pretty sure I won some money at a poker game prior to this, but alas, I lost out on that hand. Thank goodness, I vomited up enough sense on that particular evening to avoid such a mistake again. The next time I wanted to date a loser, I would do so while SOBER.

True to my word, I met the next guy sober as the day is long at a music store. After that, nothing much was different. Malnourished and jaundiced, Randy had a partial bridge in his twenty-year-old mouth. He asked for my number--I gave it blithely. A date was made. He would pick me up. Seven o'clock came and went--no Randy. Seven-thirty and I started to call friends for alternate plans when a call came.
"Hey, uh, it's me. Randy. I'm on my way. I just wrecked the Camaro at the gas station. I had to go back home and get another car."
(wrecking the Camaro didn't dawn on me as a problem--just then...)
So, obligingly, I stated I understood and would wait for him to come by. And so he did.
Driving a Plymouth Acclaim missing two windows, conveniently remedied with plastic and duct tape. And Randy? Drunk as a skunk, missing his two front teeth.

I claimed a headache.

Man. I love being married. And I think it will be awhile before I get sad about being a silly college student.

The seller took the offer. We have a house. We have this house. It is ours, and we belong to it, and in less than one month of being married, we have been gifted with this terribly wonderful thing. A home. 1/2 acre, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, two car garage, stainless steel appliances, and best of all...a place to call our own. What luck. Thank you all for happy thoughts. Someone Up Yonder must be looking out for us.

More later! Just had to share the happy news... 

We have found a house. Not even a month married, and we have found the most adorable home in such a nice area with great big trees and a nice level lot and a two-car garage and stainless steel appliances in the kitchen and it is oh-so-affordable and in quite good shape and now, all we have to do is come up with extra dollars for earnest money, breaking the lease, and paying for a house inspector.

Which comes to over two grand.

Why does everything have to be so difficult? Why can't two hard-working individuals be able to afford things like this? Why can't someone just accidentally erase credit debt? Why did I go to such an overpriced school? And harkening back to Ubermilf's discussion, why am I considered middle class if I am living hand to mouth? I want aid, dammit. Financial assistance. Some kind of government subsidy.

"I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby testify to support my community, pay my taxes, and encourage young people to be responsible. I also give my word and pledge that I shall take care of my yard, only buy outdated iPods, and limit my vacation trips to camping at local parks. I shall work long, hard hours at a job that does not pay nearly enough, and I shall have a child, as is expected, and shall raise that child to also fit the mold that I have fitted--the mold outfitted for me since my birth as a very middle middle-class woman. In turn, I would like a discount on a house."

Please send happy thoughts, if not money. Money, however, would be good.

How does ANYONE afford these things--houses?

I got a new haircut. Mom, don't shoot me. She was trying to convince me to grow my hair out. I grew it out long enough for an up-do. I couldn't take it anymore. I also couldn't take (gulp) being 'just another ding-bat blonde', so I did some color. You know, brunette, burgundy...a little purple. Why not?
Okay, you can't see the purple. It's subtle. And it beats that stupid poem. You know the one.
When I am Old, I Shall Wear Purple. Blech. 

I'm not going to go into detail. Tits McGee's boyfriend has made things unbelievably clear.

An idiot does not run the country. An evil dictator does.

So, you knew that. Okay, nothin' new there.

But the REAL plot..the so-unbelievable-it's-believable truth has recently been exposed. Michael figured it out in the car an hour ago in rush hour traffic.

Remember these two innocuous figures?

Remember the whole episode where The Brain builds a robot and climbs in its head and becomes an evil dictator? Well, I may have spliced in my own perspective, but essentially, that episode was released. Essentially. Okay, so in the episode that I can't track through the internet because Dead Like Me is on and I want to focus on it, Brain is the one in the robot head, being diabolical and whatnot, and Pinky is bouncing around Brain saying, "Narf!"

In real life, this is what happened. Pinky and the Brain got out, built the robot, and built a second, secretive robot that has some problems with its mechanical circuitry but is a decent stand-in. And Brain, in his scheming, diabolical way, said to Pinky, "Pinky, now GO to the robot and make it talk and walk, and make it convince people that you are a good-hearted dictator with certain folksy foibles." And Pinky said, "Narf!" and followed Brain's directions to a T.

Narf!

Of course, the real question is: "WHAT DID BRAIN DO WITH THAT SECOND RATE ROBOT NO ONE EVER SEES?"

There. I figured it out. Ha! We RULE!

One of the best parts about getting married (aside from eternal love and combined credit scores) is getting presents. And on of the best presents one could receive is one sent to you by a Goddess of the Mutual Admiration Society.

Familiarily, she goes by Spinning Girl, and she presented me with this lovely gift of feral fruit from local Oregon farmers Harry and David. And not only did she bless me with such fruit (of which I encourage you to read about the inception of Muthana's love affair with pears here), but she gifted me with this profound poem, as well. I read it aloud twice, because the words are delicious and eloquent and awfully true in the case of Michael and I. Also, I had to read it a second time because Michael was washing dishes and didn't hear me the first time around. Needless to say, it is quite wonderful, as is Spinning Girl, and I simply must say that I know Spinning Girl is following as the stars, as it were, in a patient and noiseless way, and so she shall also reap those stars on some moonlit night, and we shall rejoice for her.
As it is, the pears have yet to ripen fully, and so I stash them in their box and await their blossoming, and drift by them, sniffing them for ripeness, waiting, constantly waiting for the chance to sink my two very large front teeth into the juicy meat and flesh of the tenderest, sweetest fruit available.
So while I cannot be in Spinning Girl's presence in the flesh, so to speak, I will do the following:
-Take a sip of hot apple cider spiced with cinnamon sticks
-Bake two caramel apples in the oven
-Smile and dream of falls up yonder in the Nor'east.

Thank you, Spinning Girl, for your delightful present, for your delightful words, and mostly, for the delightful way you have made my life more pleasant. Truly, you are a friend, and I will forever admire you.

Plus, you send fantastic presents. 

It is not a coincidence, I'm sure, that ninety-five percent of my closest friends and family prefer autumn to any other season. I don't have many friends or a large family. What I do have is a small collection of dreamers and wishers surrounding me. Those of us who love fall are a special breed.

Granted, I'm sure ninety-five percent of the world's population prefer fall to any other quarter of the seasons. How can anyone resist the crisp breeze, the mellowed tones of leaves, the blue skies, the gentle gliding into winter? How can anyone resist the chipperings of squirrels and bluejays, their teenage feathers laid to rest as the bright plumage emerges? How can anyone resist the smell of apple cider, the sight of sweaters and bright pumpkins, the cornucopias of harvested wheat and corn? The bright fall moon and the subtle sunlight? The dreary rain of open-window weather? Fall is a most ridiculously beautiful time.

Fall is heralded as the harvest season, the season of equinox and fallow fields, the season of descent. And we marvel in the gracious death to which the earth surrenders, revealing her white shoulders and black bones of tree trunks. She is a maiden laid to rest in gentlest wools and timbers. We are spinning away from the sun and nearing the cold side of the universe, and Earth graciously pushes off towards her destiny like Aeneas pushed toward Italy.

In the South, fall is most kind. Autumn lasts for two or three months before the somber rains of winter begin. It does not turn the kind of cold many of our Northeastern counterparts tell of--football games require sweatshirts, at the most. There is plenty of time to marvel at the subtle colors of trees dying while motorcycling. There is ample opportunity to sit on porches and read magazines, sipping coffee and hot tea. There is still enough warmth to set people off on paths of errands during the weekends. And this is a kind fall.

The falls of my childhood are a bit different--suddenly, one awakes to fall! and many leaves of the many hardwoods have fallen in the space of one night. Crisp air brings on the steamy exhalations of playing youth, bonfires spark the dry air for a perfect atmosphere of eeriness and comfort. And then, one is piled into down coats, woolen hats, thick mittens and oh-heavens those BOOTS that every mother is entitled to stuff onto the feet of her offspring. There is a store, I'm sure, that caters to these mothers. It sells pairs upon pairs of unsightly and desperately warm boots. These are the boots I resented so much--and came to rely upon. But it is not time for those boots QUITE yet--we have another four weekends of splendorous fall to imbibe upon. Make your costumes! Stitch your hats! Pick out your brooms and superhero capes, for Halloween comes near!

And Halloween, as we all are well aware, was the DAY GOD GAVE CHILDREN TO RULE THE EARTH! Don't mind what anyone says about Druids or Celts or ancient ceremonies or Roman Gods. Halloween is the day adults are absolutely SUBJECT to the powers and ministrations of miniature witches, goblins, and Power Rangers. Watch your step; tread carefully--there might be a ballerina waiting on your doorstep with a can of Silly String and a fundamental desire to see an adult panic in terror.

So, yes, fall is easily my favorite time of year. It is the time when we reminisce, and think upon life in a slower manner. Take a breath. Take a walk! I encourage you to roll your windows down as you drive about in your car. Thank the Earth for Autumn, and bask in the firelight of her slow death. She is beautiful in her decay. She is absolutely enchanting in her golden, ochre, orange, burnt and bruised flowers. To fall as gracefully as Earth does in autumn--that is the true blessing to consider during this season.

The wedding times have come to an end, and during my honeymoon, I was a little saddened with its passing. The hour of the ceremony was so beautiful and fuzzy in my mind; there was the beach, and my family, and Michael, and a sort of loveliness every bride must feel. And so it came and went.

I realize this morning the wedding may be over, but I have my entire life to begin anew. And it is made even sweeter with Michael as my husband.

The cake, by the way, was delicious.

PS: I'm now FRITZ-COTTLE, but for the sake of brevity and blog identity, I shall remain--
Fritz