:: Monday, July 26, 2004 ::
Still blocked.:: Thursday, July 22, 2004 ::
I've been reduced to making fish faces and rolling my mouse around the new Blogger interface to see what all the buttons do.
Click. Back. Click. Back. Click.
Huh.
Back. Click. Back.
It's not that I don't have ideas, you know.
Click. Back.
Yes it is. I have no ideas. Every time I think I might be getting an idea I just end up flinging my arms about in frustration because I. Have. No. Ideas.
Click. Back. Click. Back.
I mean, I suppose I could take GirlDownTheStreet's suggestion that I get pregnant, thereby generating sufficient blog fodder for all the rest of my life, but I'm not really the, "suffer for my art" kind of chick, I don't think.
Click. Back.
Also, I've read a little bit about the miracle of conception. I think the real miracle is that more people aren't divorced.
Click. Back. Click. Back. Back. Forward.
Apparently, there's a special thermometer that goes somewhere thermometers shouldn't go. There's paperwork. There's some pretty interesting early-morning self-touching, and more paperwork.
Click. Back.
Followed by a strict schedule of sexual intercourse during which the female of the species must lie on her back and not have an orgasm.
Click. Back. Click. Back.
Fuck it.
Click. Back.
Seems like it'd be a lot easier just to buy a chinchilla.
Click. Back. Click. Back. Click. Back.
This new Blogger thing is just stupid.
Maybe I can find some porn.
Click. Click. Click. Click...
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:49 PM [+] ::
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Writers' Block:: Tuesday, July 20, 2004 ::
If I concentrate, I can see my reflection in the monitor. My ponytail is almost sixteen hours old, which explains the spikes sprouting from my head at odd angles.
Sexy.
Sexy ma-ma.
The Sexinator.
Sexinaceous.
Sexalamadingdong.
I really don't believe this.
:: happy hour begins at 10:20 PM [+] ::
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A Note to My Fellow Bloggers:: Sunday, July 18, 2004 ::
As we all know, when I am confronted with a problem I tend to buy books about it.
So about a week ago I bought some books about writing. Three of them.
Well, four.
And went digging through the WWW.
So here's what I know:
1. 'Blogger Burnout' is a real disease. Like static cling and acne, it gets pretty much everybody sooner or later.
2. Only bloggers suffering from blogger burnout are writing about it so really, they're no help. And neither am I.
That's where Border's comes in.
3. Every book on writing says, in order to be able to write consistently, one must write every day.
Which is pretty much the problem here, so I'm not sure how that advice is supposed to help us.
4. Okay, there isn't a four because I stopped reading the books at number three. You see, 'they' say to write every day but they don't much go into what that's going to do for us. I think they're banking on the fact that nobody in their right mind is actually going to take that advice.
Freaks, we are.
So basically, as with every other entry I've posted (and there have been 588 of them, for the love of Pete), there is no real information here and I am sadly lacking in point.
But it still counts toward writing every day.
And someday, someone will tell me why I do that.
Best of luck,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:54 AM [+] ::
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A Chihuahua and Some Chicken:: Friday, July 16, 2004 ::
Since I'm sure I've given you all plenty of opportunities to absorb the fact that I am not tall, I won't go into it again.
Except, I will.
Because as much as you already know the story, it appears that I needed a reminder.
The incident started innocently enough. Speaksy, at my request, was dutifully experimenting with crushed pork rinds as a "breading" for chicken strips, Thou Shalt Not Ingest Flour being one of the firm commandments of my low-carb life. I said anything coated in pork rinds was bound to taste like pork rinds, but since everybody else is doing it who am I to argue?
Anyway, frying chicken involves heated oil. And a little bit of smoke.
Enter the new security system we'd had installed four hours earlier for the express purpose of having the fire department show up when the alarm goes off, to let the dogs and cats out if we aren't home.
I worry about the little bit of chicken-frying smoke, but it's no problem: Rich the Sales Guy left us some plastic alarm covers for just this sort of situation.
Juliet. Alarm cover. Rocking chair.
Can't. Reach. The alarm.
Juliet. Alarm cover. Ladder.
Can't. Reach. The alarm.
Speaksy. Alarm cover. Ladder.
Juliet. Left with. Frying chicken.
Is there anyone here who doesn't see where this is going?
In the end, Speaksy baked the rest of the chicken while I sat outside with the hot fog machine, making sure it didn't set anything but itself on fire. As I reflected on the day's events I realized we each learned a valuable lesson:
Speaksy got a stern reminder of the consequences of allowing Juliet to play with food.
Juliet remembered the harsh reality of her lack of tallness, even though she feels like a Rottweiler, most of the time.
We both learned that the plastic alarm covers don't actually fit on the fucking alarms.
And that anything coated in crushed pork rinds does, indeed, taste like ass.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 6:08 PM [+] ::
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Yeah, I Suck.:: Tuesday, July 13, 2004 ::
I know.
Fortunately you don't have to care - Wicked H has her own blog! Go check out Avert Your Eyes right now!
Shoo!
Juliet
PS - New blogger interface? Again? And it sucks? C'mon people. Get your shit together.
:: happy hour begins at 8:34 AM [+] ::
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The Box:: Thursday, July 08, 2004 ::
So I finally found the box of all my old college papers.
Been a few years for that one.
And can I just say, my writing totally and completely sucked?
I am paralyzed by this.
Also, trying to write in the morning? Not working out.
Why, oh why, couldn't a cat have peed on that box so I'd have had an excuse years ago to toss it out? Even the damn mice in the cellar didn't get it. What the hell?
Who does a girl have to grease to get a box destroyed?!?
(Don't answer that.)
Juliet
Oh, also, I've picked up a cheddar cheese fetish this week and we all know how I feel about cheese so I'm a little concerned about that, plus I have a presentation tomorrow that I am in no way prepared to give, and all these people keep asking, "dude, wheres ur blog" and I'm ready to wrap a lamp cord around my neck from all THAT stress, and my hair won't do right and I found out this weekend that I huff and curse in my sleep when my alarm goes off AND FOR 32 YEARS I DID NOT KNOW THIS!
Stupid squirrels ate everything down there but that fucking BOX!
Juliet. Again.
:: happy hour begins at 8:40 PM [+] ::
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Aquatic Discomfort:: Wednesday, July 07, 2004 ::
In the course of a normal day, there are several thousand things that may cause me discomfort. For instance, I wore a new skirt today that was a little too straight and a little too long, and as a result I spent the hours between 7am and 6pm shuffling around like a pissed-off geisha. (The fabric also made some sort of whoof-whoof noise when I walked, but that's more of a discomfort for other people so I don't mind so much about that.)
But lately, I have gained a new appreciation for the concept of a quality water fixture.
It started when I was in Chicago. Hard Rock Hotel, trendy as all get-out. Had a walk-in shower. Cool, right?
COLD. Cold, as in, since the glass wall was permanent I had to be UNDER THE NOZZLE to turn it on, and no Olympic sprinter can beat rushing ice water in the Naked Two-Foot Dash.
Nine mornings of cold.
Thank God for home, right? Especially since Speaksy had thoughtfully replaced the SeriousBeating shower fixture while I was away with a nice waterfall-inspired model.
Ahhhhh!
Here's the thing about waterfalls: they are sort of non-directional. I need soap rinsed off my elbow, I have to wave my arm around for a while until enough H2O cascaaaades over the soapy spot.
This can take some time.
Not that I'm not getting unfuckingbelievably wet in there. Just that the elbow's not seeing much action.
Then there are the other, ahem, less easily-manipulated body parts needing a rinse.
Shower dancing, is what this is.
End result: WATER UP MY NOSE.
Every Goddamn morning.
So we've got interpretive dance and tuberculosis sound effects and then usually some swearing, and this morning Speaksy happened to be in the vicinity for it.
So tonight, the old fixture is back. Yes, it pounds the living shit out of you and if you wave your arm around for too long it might take off a layer of skin.
But the soap goes, too.
Being careful what I wish for,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:48 PM [+] ::
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I'm Not Sure What to Say About This:: Tuesday, July 06, 2004 ::
I'm a parrot.
Apparently I also use mind control through hypnosis.
I'm not sure about the rest of it.
But damn. If I'd known about this before I went to Chicago you might all be thinner with killer self-confidence right now.
I just have to wonder what your friends think when you tell them to search Google for "Juliet Speaks" because you can't remember the URL.
And how many of them send money to Florida.
J
PS - The parrot thing has me stymied. New links and song tomorrow.
:: happy hour begins at 8:00 AM [+] ::
...
Probably Why I'm Good at Jeopardy and Suck at Everything Else
A four-day weekend. Four days of freedom. Four days of fun and relaxation.
So I shopped. And I read.
2000 pages.
Hardly a record for me, but with all the shopping and those itty bitty words in the first 1000 pages... My head hurts. My eyes hurt. And since I didn't sleep and barely ate, I feel pretty much like ass.
This is why I don't take vacations.
I'm far too self-destructive.
I'll spend today trying not to get coffee on me. I'll turn tomorrow to catch up on all the things I owe people (like new links and emails) and maybe to changing my damn song.
Fuckwit, signing off.
PS - I'm not hanging a condom from my boob. Just because I can't muster the strength to comment back to you all right now, doesn't mean I'm not in there. ;)
:: happy hour begins at 7:47 AM [+] ::
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