Recently in Amusement Park Category

I was outside, standing on a chair and fiddling with my satellite radio's antenna, when my new neighbour rounded the corner.

"Biscuit! Biiiscuuuuiiiit!" He called. When he saw me he stopped. "Hey there! Have you seen Biscuit?"

Since this was shortly after the Great Arachnid Slaying of 2009, I was still a tad jumpy. I warily looked at him. "What exactly IS this Biscuit you are looking for?" I stood on my toes, already imagining and dreading his answer. A venomous snake? A non-poisonous snake? (I don't care. My terror doesn't know the difference.) A rat? A mouse? Or by any hopeful yet unlikely chance... a Biscuit as in Sea Biscuit? (Not that I'm all that comfortable around horses either, mind. There was that frightening experience with that volatile little Shetland pony when I was about ten years old which had left me traumatised for life. No, I'm not going to talk about it. Let's just say that, just because it is small, it doesn't possess any less horse power than regular-sized horses! Nasty little bugger...)

I knew it wasn't a dog, because NO dog gets past me without being petted and belly rubbed to within an inch of its life. And at the time, he had already lived here long enough that I would have noticed/heard a dog or a cat.

He ignored me.

"BIIIIIISCUUUUU... Oh, THERE you are!" I whirled around to look in the same direction of the garden that he was walking towards, just in time to see a huge light brown blur out of the corner of my eye. I froze. "Oh, hell..." I thought. "It's one of those mutant-sized cane rats... the same ones they put on leashes and use in Angola to sniff out landmines!"

Imagine my absolute relief when the blur morphed into a harmless, hopping bunny! A BUNNY!

"Oh, CUTE man!" I said (perhaps a tad too loudly and enthusiastically) and jumped off the chair.

He scooped up the utterly charming Biscuit and brought him over to me. "Yes, he can even do tricks. Here, let me show you." He put Biscuit down at my feet and snapped his fingers, while I looked on with great skepticism. "Circle, Biscuit! Circle!"

Apart from twitching one of his long ears and his trembling whiskers, Biscuit remained utterly motionless. "Oh, Biscuit! Come ON!" For a dude with big ears, Biscuit sure did not listen! My neighbour looked at me. "I PROMISE you he can do tricks. But..." his face fell. "Usually he only listens to my ex-girlfriend."

I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "Ooooh, ouch! Shame! That's gotta hurt!"

He also laughed, but not QUITE as heartily as me. "Yeah. He really really loves her. And he's possessive! When she's holding him and anyone dares to come near her, he actually tries to nip them!"

I knelt down and petted Biscuit. "Oh, you good boy, you!" I said and wished I had a large carrot to give him for displaying such loyalty and devotion towards the ex-girlfriend.

A few weeks later, I saw a gorgeous girl with long, blonde hair outside. She was sitting in our shared courtyard, a content Biscuit cradled in her arms. Seriously, that bunny was SWOONING. "You must be the ex-girlfriend!" I said, and promptly told her the story. Turns out that they now have joint custody, because Biscuit was pining for her too much. (I strongly suspect that he was not the only one, though! And what better ploy to keep on seeing her than to get the bunny involved... sneaky guy!)

Oh, and Biscuit can indeed do tricks. She showed me!  And boy, did that bunny ever show off...

 

Since returning to South Africa two and a half years ago, I have been spending most of my Saturday nights exclusively with one guy.

WhadoyouMEAN "poor guy"?!?

The lucky (LUCKY, I tell you!) guy is my now 5-year old nephew.

One Saturday night last year, just before he turned four, I went over to my sister's to babysit him.

My brother-in-law and sister had taken to sneaking out of the house, because sitting him down and explaining to him why he couldn't go along to eat at the grown-up, boring restaurant where they serve the EXTREMELY gross food, simply turned into infinite and exhaustive debates. ("But you make me eat the gross food here." "No, but it is SO gross there at the restaurant, only the daddies eat it." Etc.) Which usually ended in tears. (Mostly my sister's. Yes, the mommies always seem to crack first!)

They quietly left while I distracted him with a toy. As soon as he heard the garage door open, he realised what was happening and began screaming his head off.

"WHERE ARE THEY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING?" He angrily sobbed while flinging his tiny body against my legs.

Tears spilled from his big brown eyes and formed slick, jagged paths down his chubby cheeks. Dressed in his pajamas and clutching his raggedy toy lion, he was a heart-wrenching sight. I bent down and hugged him to my chest. Within seconds, my shoulder was soaked with his tears. "Shhhh, sweetie! It's okay, I'm here with you and I'm not going anywhere!" I tried to soothe him as I stroked the soft, baby curls on his head.

"Yes, I know," he said through his sobs, and just as I was smiling smugly at my super-human ability to comfort him, he wailed: "SO HOW COULD THEY LEAVE US KIDS HERE AT HOME ALL ALOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE?"

Of course, I'd like to think of that incident as a reflection of my youthful appearance and NOT my level of (im?)maturity.

And come tomorrow, I will proudly put the four in thirty-four!

Those who have had the great misfortune of knowing me in ‘real’ life (I wanted to write “in person”, but the jury is still out on that one…) subsequently also know about my many strange hang-ups some of the very few quirks I possess.

I am, for example, rather notorious for not answering my telephone. At first, new acquaintances find this odd; even funny or charming. Then - as their futile calls to me remain unanswered and unreturned -  their sentiments quickly change from being amused to mildly irritated to all-out infuriated. (This poor guy, for one, can attest to that!)

Yes, alas…now you know that I never write, or call...

What can I say? No offense, Mr. Alexander G. Bell, but I for one really could have lived without your invention. (Well, yours or Philipp Reis’s. The jury is apparently still out on that one as well.)

It’s not that I despise the device per se. Besides, these days, phones are so sophisticated, some of the high-end, pricier ones, I’ve heard, can even make, pour and bring you coffee!

So why do I almost go out of my way to avoid its intended use of spoken communication then?

There really is no simple answer to this, except… well… let’s put it this way: if you think my WRITING is bad? I am utterly HOPELESS when it comes to the spoken side of things. My speech is filled with fumbling mumbling and ums and downright huhs?  (All of which, I suppose, are basically the verbal equivalents of parentheses.)

Throw into the equation that I am a little hard of hearing (remember, it’s unheard of to refer to people as ‘deaf’ nowadays), and then you might have a somewhat better understanding of why I am hung up about speaking on the phone.

Turns out the phone has picked up on my feelings towards it. And apparently it doesn’t like me much either.

The first time I ever owned a cell phone was at the youthful age of 31. (And no, cheeky bastards, that wasn’t 700 years ago.) It was in 2006 and I had just returned to after spending (or wasting… the jury is pathetically indecisive) almost a decade in the United States.

Yes, I never had a cell phone while I resided in the wired/wireless/gadget-filled first world. The , you see, isn’t just the home of the brave, it’s also the land of the free local calls from landlines.

Not that I made much use of that perk. The boy was assigned phone duty and picked up a lot of Afrikaans swear words from our home answering machine courtesy of all the furious fellow South African expats who called, and called, and called me to no avail.

Upon my return to South Africa, I became the very reluctant recipient of a mobile. I really didn’t want one, but everyone assured me that I had little choice in the matter.

That phone and I despised each other from the get-go. It used to belong to my mom and to call it a vintage would be way too kind. It was an ancient, brick of a thing. According to my mom, it worked brilliantly, so no one was more puzzled than her when the battery promptly died on me and half the buttons simply refused to work!

This led my sister to bestow unto me a VERY nice phone. A phone the price of a small second hand car. So fancy, it didn’t even HAVE buttons. Oh, no, daahlings. So stylish was that phone, it had a STYLUS.

Of course, for the longest time, I couldn’t quite figure out where exactly said stylus was located!

I had my mother use her phone to call my sister. "Where is the stylist?"

"..!?"

“The phone's little stick?”

After a moment she finally realised what I was on about: “Oh, ha ha! The STYLUS!"

"Right, that's what I said."

She sighed. "It’s there, in the phone.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Maybe it fell out. Check the box.”

“I have. Nothing.”

“No, it’s there. Really.”

I finally had to go to a cellular shop in the mall. I’m very relieved to say that none of the employees in the first two stores knew how to locate the mysterious stylus. I’d like to believe that it was a sign that I’m not quite as dumb as I look, but it’s more likely that those employees and I enjoy the same superior level of idiocy.

Finally, a woman at the third store made the stylus appear as if by magic. In fact, I could have sworn that she even waved it around smugly, like a wand, for a split second!

I’m sure she was highly annoyed at the injustice that such a luxurious device could be wasted on the likes of me! I could almost TELL that she thought I was way too inferior to have such a sophisticated, sleek phone in my possession.

Thatinitial seek-the-stylus frustration should have served as an omen for the humiliating thingsthat were to come. Because right off the bat, that phone also went all erraticand stubborn on me - after having performed flawlessly for my sister, ofcourse! To this day, I’m still convinced that the woman in the shop had placeda curse on me when she waved the stylus around like that!

After ashort-lived but intensely frustrating relationship, that phone also came to amysterious demise. I swear it had nothing to do with the fact that it hadaccidentally slipped from my clumsy hands so many times… Surely it couldn’thave been that? It had seemed so sturdy!

Besides,I’m convinced it was suicide. I think it poked itself to death with its ownstylus!

When itdied, I didn’t shed a tear, but I have to confess that I really do miss thatphone’s ability to take pictures of dogs. (And here I would have linked to myfacebook page, but I couldn’t do that to you. Also? I really shouldn’t insultcanines like that.)

After all,isn’t that what phones are for? To take pictures?

But despite all those cell phones shriveling up and spontaneously dying in mypresence, I have sadly NOT been banned from owning one.

In fact, mylandlady was even brave enough to loan me hers. And that’s the one I stillhave. A vintage old Nokia. No bells and whistles. (Although it does make awhistling sound when I sometimes try to hear the countless exasperated voicemails my friends have left me, pleading with me to PLEASE, since I’m NEVERgoing to call them, at least have the decency to answer my own phone then!

I swearthough, sometimes, after I had spent hours staring at that very silent phone, Iget a beep informing me that I have just missed a call! And no, of course no one believes me... (Oh, and one of my friends is unable to send me text messages, because I never receive them. Only from that particular friend. And no, of course she doesn't believe me. And yes, she has the correct number!)

Recentlythough, it actually RANG! And I must’ve gotten such a fright from the unusualnoise of it RINGING IN MY PRESENCE, that I actually ANSWERED it!

Mysalutation must’ve conveyed my surprise, because a very apprehensive voicesaid: “Miss Redsaid?”

My heartsank. And then began beating furiously. I sensed that this person's tone was way too formal for this to bea social call.

“This isMr. K calling from ***** Bank.”

Oh, no! Thebank calling. That could NOT be good. I was suddenly very sure that he wascalling to inform me that it was a criminal, account-closing offense to be asperpetually broke as I am.

So when hesaid: “I’m calling to ask if you would be interested to purchase our exclusive, one-timeonly, funeral policy”, I was SO relieved, I immediately burst out laughing.

Mr. K’sstartled silence was almost audible.

“Um…” he said.

“Sorry,” Imanaged through the laughter. “I’m sure this isn’t the reaction you arenormally met with.”

“No,indeed.” Mr. K, the bank’s funeral policy man, replied in a suitably solemntone.

“Mr. K,it’s very kind of you to think of me for this exclusive, one-time-only offer,but you don’t understand. Right now? I need every single penny I have TO ACTUALLY STAYALIVE.”

“But Ms.Red, we actually have various plans. And the most inexpensive one we have is socheap, it works out to only xx cents per MONTH!”

He wasworking this sales call, so Mr. K was!

“Mr. K, IASSURE you. That minuscule amount? I often don’t even have that much left atthe end of the month.”

“NO!” Hesaid.

“YES!” SaidI.

“But, Ms.RED! What, if I may ask, is it that you DO for a living then?”

“Oh, I’mjust a working stiff.” (Sadly, my little pun seemed to be utterly lost on Mr.K.)  “I put the ‘free’ in freelance.”

“What isthat?”

“I write.”

“Wow.Really? Have you written anything I may have read?”

“Well, Idon’t know what you’ve read, so I wouldn’t know...”

“Right, haha!”

“Actually,Mr. K. The fact that I’m as broke as I am should tell you exactly what aterrible and very obscure writer I am.”

“But Ms.Red, if you purchase this funeral coverage that amounts to the minuscule amountof xx cents per month, your family won’t have any worries about your funeralwhen you die. And Ms. Red? You DO realise that you ARE going to die, don’tyou?” He added rather ominously.

“NO! Irefuse!” I cried… Okay, I didn’t really. “Do you know something I don’t, Mr.K?” No, okay, I didn’t ask that either. But I did tell him that luckily, afterI’m dead, I’m pretty sure that I won’t worry much about my own funeral either.Whether I have purchased the policy-for-mere-pennies or not!

“Ms. Red!Listen, I feel so awful for you, I almost want to buy you this coverage foryou!”

“I betthat’s what you say to all the girls.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s allright, Mr. K. Really. Very generous of you, but I assure you it’s fine.”

“You know,Ms. Red, it doesn’t even matter HOW you die. There will be no medical check-upbefore or after the fact.”

“Wow,that’s reassuring. So you mean to tell me that I'd be able to get this insurance even with a knife stuck in myheart, its blade piercing the last bit of life out of me?”

“Correct!”

 “So you’ll pay out even for writerswho have offed themselves by gnawing off their own wrists?”

“Indeed, wewill.”

“Even forpoverty-stricken writers who starve to death?” (Had it been video-calling, hewould’ve seen how tragically unlikely it is that THAT would ever happen!)

“Hahahahahaha.Ms. Red, you are very funny.” And suddenly, in a pleading, panicky voice, hesaid: “Please let me purchase this on your behalf?”

“Mr. K, nowyou are making me feel so bad about not buying this coverage from you, I couldjust about die from the guilt!”

“NO, Ms.Red! Please don’t!”

“Why shouldit make any difference to you whether I live or die, Mr. K? You don’t even knowme?”

“Becauseyou don’t own our one-time only, exclusive funeral coverage plan!” 

Indeed…

And that’salso why I hate the phone. Because when I DO answer it, it reminds me of allthe qualities that I lack/don’t possess. Like a pleasant speaking voice*. And yes,let’s not forget:

(All together now!)

Thatone-time only, exclusive, funeral coverage plan!

*As much asI would have liked for this rather lengthy discussion with Mr. K to have beenmy very last call ever? I’m afraid it might not be. You see, despite having been subjected to my hideous voice several times before, one of THESE cowboys still want to do a Podcast with thelikes of me!!! To actually put on their site!

And no, ofCOURSE I will never link to it if it does end up happening!

Good heavens. Is someone trying to tell me something? Because as a human (well... most of the time I pretend to be one anyway) of, I suspect (hope?), average intelligence, I am starting to develop an inferiority complex.

First I had computers outsmarting me. Then smart phones came along. Suddenly, that little device that I can hold in the palm of my hand has more marketable skills than I have!

And now, according to a recent article I've read, we are about to get smart clothes too!

By smart, they don't mean 'fancy' either.

Apparently some chemical engineers are figuring out how to combine their calculations or formulas (or whatever it is that chemical engineers make/do) with textiles to make fibres and material "that can genuinely act in an intelligent manner."

Does this mean that my shirt sleeve will be able to snatch the pen from my hand and complete the newspaper crossword puzzle if I'm taking too long for its liking to fill out the clues?

Or will we be able to have intellectually stimulating conversations with our Levi's?

Will future mini skirts have the ability to be sexy AND wax lyrical about philosophy and religion? Or will a piece of clothing's intelligence be determined by its length and size? (Actually, that might not be a bad idea. Plus sizes have suffered from discrimination for so long, a bit of respect might be long overdue.)

Or what about those trench coats always favoured by dirty old flashers in the park... will the coat take over and provide the unfortunate viewer with an informative news flash instead of... well, you know.

Could that funny jersey knitted by your aunt Martha have you in stitches with its off-beat, off-colour sense of humour?

Well... no. Not quite. Apparently the boring engineers want their potential smart fabrics be put to use "in the likes of healthcare applications, security, and display of helpful data."

Mmm. Helpful to whom, we wonder? *Cough* Big Brother *Cough.*

So much for relying on clothes to modestly cover up our flaws. Apparently our future wardrobes will be filled with Prêt-à-Porter traitors forcing us to literally wear our hearts on our sleeves.

Well, micro-chipped moccasins or not, we don't expect that too many things will change. Decked out in their green I.D. broek, women will probably still fret in front of the mirror and ask: "Does this bar code make my butt look big?"

The only difference is that it will probably be her ID broek giving her a reply and not her boyfriend/husband/partner.

Kind of gives new meaning to the term smarty pants, doesn't it?

As long as it can iron itself. THEN I will be impressed.

(For some mysterious reason I thought about you when I wrote this. No, I've no idea either.)

A friend e-mailed me this article.

Wondering if he was trying to give me a message?

Well, at least a lot of things make sense now, doesn't it? Like at least half of my ex-boyfriends... and the way my hair looks before I put a brush to it in the mornings... although sometimes it looks even more barbaric and untamed after having been brushed!

On the other hand, the article also states: "The study, published in the journal Science, comes a week after another set of researchers looking at a different gene said Neanderthals may have been capable of sophisticated speech."

That definitely rules mumbling me out as a descendant then. Unless the eloquence merely skips a generation now and again?

My real name - that one that I have loathed and despised since birth - was just mispronounced live on an XM and Worldspace Satellite Radio station which can be heard live around almost the entire world.

Does a sort of mispronunciation mean that I am famous? Or does it detract from the fame?

What if the DJ gets your gender wrong? What does THAT do to the fame factor?

The station in question is UPop and I've been listening to them on my Worldspace Satellite Radio (thank you again, Web AddiCT(s)! It is honestly the gift that keeps on giving.)

About an hour ago, while poking around on the Worldspace site online, I found the station and when I heard that they were broadcasting live from my beloved D.C., I immediately e-mailed them:

"Hey there,

Just want to give a shout out from Stellenbosch - a college town in the heart of the South African wine country near Cape Town - where I am listening to you on Worldspace.

I lived in and near Washington, D.C . for nine years until the end of 2005, so it helps to stifle the homesickness I so often feel for D.C. when I listen to you guys.

Keep up the great work!" -- Yes, I know, I know. I am SUCH a sad nerd, e-mailing radio stations.

Then I proceeded to sign off with my real name, and the usual primer for English-speakers of how it is pronounced and what English name it should rather be translated to. (I used to get so sick of filling out my name on forms when I lived in the States, because I always had to add "pronounce as" in parentheses.)

I didn't add a request, so I didn't think I would hear anything from them. So I carry on working, listening to the music and to the DJ, Ted Kelly, chatting about what they will be up to in D.C. this weekend, and suddenly he says my name... Or well, kind of.

He actually said: "I hope I'm pronouncing this right." And then he SPELLED IT OUT and continued: "HE is listening to us from Stellenbosch in South Africa on Worldspace..."

By that time I was roaring with laughter. He continued to read the rest of my mail on air (about being in Stellies, and having lived in D.C.) and then said: "Hopefully he will send us his number so that we can call him and chat some more about South Africa and about his time in D.C. on the air next week some time."

When I open my mail a few minutes later, there is an e-mail from them:
"Hey there (Hideous Real Name), glad to have you listening. When you get back to DC visit us in the studio! Hey send us your tele # and we will give you a call next week on air. Always love to chat with our listeners! Ted Kelly."

When I wrote back to send my number, I added: "Thank you! I just heard you chatting to me and about me on air! What a thrill!

And well done on the pronunciation of my name. Not bad at all! But as I've said, it translates to ****** in English. Which makes me female, Mr. Ted Kelly! You are forgiven though for calling me 'he' on the air. My parents, however, will never be for giving me such a hideous name. Which isn't even all that common in South Africa either."

Minutes later, I receive this: "Well Ms. (English translation of my name added here in all caps), didn't want to make the assumption just based upon pronunciation....glad to have you as a listener. If it alrigth (sic) we will call you Monday around this time... Have a great weekend...! Tell your parents sorry for the gender confusion! Ha. Talk soon!"

So if you have XM/Worldspace and you want to hear my awful, not-radio-friendly-at-all-voice, just tune in to UPop on Monday!

P.S. How sad is my life that this is considered a highlight?

As all three of my imaginary readers know by now... someone has actually been stupid gullible enough to employ the likes of me. To blog.

To BLOG!

No, not on here. Geez, I KNOW I'm lazy, but not even I am THAT much of a slacker!

No, I actually write a few times daily on that other blog. Besides, it's so much fun, it hardly even feels like work! (Better not repeat that "W" word again, lest my body catches on that I'm actually being productive and immediately seizes up.)

What's that? Oh, you want to know what I blog about?

Well... Oh, look! It's a nice day today, isn't it?

Okay, okay, fine. It's not THAT bad, even though the beat I cover is widely considered to be at the very bottom of the journalistic totem pole - although I have been (unconvincingly) consoled by well-meaning folk that it is definitely still higher up than horoscopes and obituaries.

That's right. I'm a celebrity gossip blogger.

Before you mock my profession, I want to remind you of all those times that you have sneaked a peek at the tabloids while standing in line at the grocery store check-out. And all those times that you have gone even further than that and actually paged through, for example, Heat (if you're in SA) and the National Enquirer (if you're in the States) while you wait. And all those times that you went beyond that and actually slipped it in with the rest of your purchases, to secretly read at home/work/wherever later on! Yes, see? I KNOW.

Well, rest assured that you are NOT alone. I know that too, because that blog actually receives more than 0 hits a day, and boasts more than three imaginary readers. (There are at least seven imaginary ones.)

Although I write a lot about the shenanigans of Britney and Paris and Lindsay and Nicole and the like, I do actually try to give some coverage to South African celebrities as well.

Now, keep in mind that many people in South Africa still don't even have Internet access. (Internet access here is RIDICULOUSLY expensive.) So needless to say, many people here don't quite know what exactly a blog is. (Or a blob. As my mom calls it when she tells people about her daughter, the blobber.)

Funnily enough, those South Africans who have come across the blog, haven't been shy about commenting on some of the posts. Especially the ones dealing with their favourite local celebs.

But don't be mistaken: their comments are not at all a sign that they actually like my writing. Or even, more likely, hate it! In fact, I might as well be chopped liver, because I am entirely ignored. Instead, all of them direct their comments to the celebrity I have written about.

That's right. I am actually getting celebrity fan mail! Only, it's not really mine, because it's not addressed to me. It is really, really strange. As if I'm a medium through which they can communicate with their favourite stars.

Just this past week again, an Afrikaans guy left me (or rather, a local female singer) a lengthy ode about how he absolutely loves and adores her and how he thinks she is the absolute BEST singer EVER in the ENTIRE South Africa. After buttering her up with compliments (and he really lay it on thick!), he abruptly changed his tune: "Look, I just happen to also be a song writer. Here are just some of the songs I have written for you to sing..." and here he proceeds with a lengthy list of titles so sappy, even Mills & Boon would flinch and possibly throw up from it. If you don't believe me, I have taken the liberty to translate some of the titles he sent: The Orphan (Sweetest gift), Lonely without You, Another waltz with my father and - because singing songs that don't contain actual words are huge in Afrikaans circles - Ting Tong Tingeling Too (Deceased Soldier).

I am totally not even kidding about the parantheses and its contents. Just when you think: Ting Tong Tingeling Too! That sounds like a really cheesy but upbeat song! Then you are instantly deflated and brought down to earth by the Deceased Soldier bit.

Now, usually, I let those Dear Celebrity-in-question comments slide, because who am I to burst their bubble? So I allow them to think that their comments probably reached their desired targets.

This time, though, the guy just seemed to have so many career aspirations riding on his comment. It is also evident from those song titles that he is a really sensitive type, no? So I took the trouble of sending him a personal e-mail back:

Dear *Guy's real name inserted here*

Thank you very much for the comment you left at Jetstreaker.com We wrote the article about Afrikaans Singer that you had commented on. Unfortunately, we are unable to relay your comment to her, since we do not have her personal information. Who knows though? One day she might just stumble on to your comment and get in touch with you!

Good luck!

Sincerely,
The Jetstreaker Team.

As you can see, I stopped just short of telling him: She does not actually live in these pages...

But I have to admit, I was rather charmed. I mean, it's probably the closest that I myself will ever come to being adored by legions of fans, and to see how devoted some of them are is really touchy AND creepy at the same time!

So my job? It is totally akin to being a celebrity.

I suffer from every single ailment under the sun, except...

Don't avoid black cats today...

Last Thursday night ("Thursty Thursday"), my beloved Bookstore Diva came to pick me up in her trusty chariot for a Night on the Tow... 'burbs.

It was all part of a brazen effort on her part to Save Red from Herself, an intricate, complex process requiring gallons of medicinal drinking.

So I made very sure that I was suitably "Thursty."

Would you believe that I actually blogged about my night out immediately upon my return?!? (Apparently the procrastination part of my personality loses strength when my drunk slightly inebriated and therefore very spontaneous and impatient self appears.

Luckily for all five of you and for everyone else involved, I forgot to press "Publish."

Today, as I was aimlessly wandering through the cluttered back corridors here at Redsaid's, I stumbled upon a dog-eared file marked: "Drunken Blogging equalsh DLOGGING! YEAH! DLOGGING! That'sh BRILLIA...zzzzzzz."

It reeked suspiciously of alcohol.

Most of the file's contents were, if not completely incoherent, unreadable from being covered in liquid stains and lipstick smears.

Here is some of what I managed to make out:

"Ociffer, Ociffer! I shwear that I will NEVER drink and drive! Naaah! I jusht pull over when I wanna take a shwig."

"Let Go (of the wheel) and let God (drive)! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Shouted into the dark field surrounding the bar's parking lot in the direction of a suspicious rustling sound which we hoped was being caused by a deer (although Bookstore Diva insisted it could quite possibly have been a gigantic bat): "Be a deer and if you were born here and not in Canada, marry her so she can get a Green Card!"

That Bookstore Diva girl has the most amazing super powers, because not only did the dear deer agree to elope, BUT ALL THE DRINKS WERE ON THE HOUSE!!

Hey, Diva girl! It's Thursday and I'm THURSTY again.

Don't look at me that way! YOU have created this monster.