Classmates.com

Liz breaks through:

Classmates.com advertises heavily on the sites that I most frequent. I don't know what classmates have to do with my searches for "strobe lights", "Focaccia bread", and "nude Bo Duke", but these ads are everywhere.

I'm so frozen in time that I frequently see a teenager and think I know him. This is because he LOOKS like someone I went to school with 20 years ago, and looks like the guy I went to school with looked 20 years ago. I'm doing this more and more often. I'll make eye contact and give that familiar, "Hey... don't I know you" sideways tilt and smile, and then the young man will freeze with terror and run away. I think kids around here think I'm a narc.

The opposite happens too. I'll see this old guy and think, "Hey... he kind of looks like my dad's friend, Catfish," so I'll smile and next thing you know, he's sitting beside me. He's sitting beside me and he's 2 years younger than I am.

What the fuck happened?

Everyone told me that once I hit 30 things would all start going downhill. Then, I made it past 30, to the surprise of some, and now I hear that 40 is rough and that I will forever be a "ma'am". But you know what? Some chick at the Shell station asked me if I was old enough to purchase the beer I sat on the counter just last week. Instead of being thrilled, I was sad. It's like I knew that was the last time I'll ever be asked that question. And someone should seriously do a drug test on that clerk. I'm 35.

And I will continue to be 35 for several more years.

I like to think of my wrinkles and gray hairs as my disguise. I can still drink with you until dawn, I still like to prowl occasionally, and I still listen to the best songs at full volume. I'm still considering getting my ears double-pierced; something I was forbidden to do as a teenager. Only now, I look like I'm a decent, upstanding, well organized early middle-aged woman who can be trusted. It helps when going through road blocks, trust me.

In a couple of years, we'll have our 20 year high school reunion. To make a long story short, I think I'm supposed to get the ball rolling on this. I have NO interest in organizing this thing this time. I was part of 10, but now I'm so over it. Besides, I see people I went to high school with all the time.

Only they're still 17 and I'm 36.

Another thing I've noticed: Yahoo! is my email service, so when I log on, the first thing that comes up is Yahoo! News. I've noticed that for the past week there is a headline story that Al-Quida is plotting attacks on U.S. soil. Ya think? I can't bring myself to click on that article to read more. I mean, I've just been assuming that they were plotting new attacks. Hasn't everyone? Haven't we known this was coming? How is this news? It's sort of like announcing that there is this thing called, "cellular phones".

I'm not being cynical and, of course, I'm scared over it all, but come on. Maybe it's just the way they worded the headline. Maybe "New Plots Discovered" wouldn't seem so... condescending.

So... should I read this article or is it simply more of what I already know?

Wine Glass Half Empty

Liz gets all negative and shit:

I've told you how wonderful Italy is. And it is. I've told you how great my trip was. And it was. But what I haven't told you is about one of my traveling companions. Her role in the adventure was to remind me that no matter how many miles you may travel, there is always going to be an asshole within 30 feet of you.

See. There I go judging and immediately trying to gain your support. That's so unfair. Let me just lay it out here and let you decide for yourself. Ass or not an ass? It's the blogshow everybody loves!

• When told we were going to the Coliseum, she crossed her arms and said, "I'm not going to look at another fucking pile of rocks!"
  
• Had her dad pay for a $350 haircut, countless souvenirs, a $375 Prada purse, and the entire trip, but moaned about toting SOME of her own luggage.


• Behaved like a boorish American jerk to the locals- and got chewed out by two of them.


• Sneered and asked a waiter, "Is this FRESH?"


• Made us very late for meeting someone at lunch after assuring us that she would be in a store for no more than 15 minutes. Was in the store 52 minutes and didn't come out until her dad went in after her.


• Ordered, but never asked, for most everything from all traveling with her.


• Stomped her foot twice, that I saw.


• Lagged behind always, even when asked to RUN so that we wouldn't miss things like trains and buses.


• Always got these convenient stomach aches whenever we were doing something she didn't want to do.


• Talked constantly about her daughter or husband.


• Wouldn't let us watch BBC CNN (the only English TV station) because her husband is in Iraq and they might mention it on the news.


• Talked about when her uterus was going to shrink back, even though I requested that she stop asking people about her uterus.


• Would SAY she'd split the cost (if her dad wasn't around), but would never offer to pay you back. I'd have to ask- even though her ENTIRE trip was FREE.


• Asked, more than once, what Pompeii was and why we had to go there.


• Tried to con others into carrying her luggage (Kim turned this one on her once and made HER carry ours!)


• Cried twice.


• Stayed on her cell phone 50% of her waking moments.


• Incorrectly identified all male statues as "Jesus".


• Made it clear, on multiple occasions, that she had come to Italy for one thing and one thing alone- Shopping.

I know. You're thinking that I'm talking about a 14 year old, aren't you? Nope. She's like 23 or 25 or something. So, am I wrong, or is she an asshole?

To balance out the bitching, here are some more pictures:

Posting Fool

Liz says:

Have you noticed I've posted a lot since getting back from vacation, as opposed to lounging around the house, watching my Wonder Woman DVD, and sleeping and/or drinking as much as humanly possible as I had planned? I've observed that I have spent much of my vacation time in the States in front of this computer, doing one of three things: playing video games, fooling with pictures from the trip, or blogging. Let's closely examine these three behaviors, shall we?

The pictures are a short-term activity; they will be out of my life soon enough. Because I am a bit of an organization freak, I will have them all printed, filed, placed in a scrapbook and notated before the end of the next week. To Luxor, Aloha Tri Peaks, and Zuma: It was recently declared, after serious study, that video gaming is NOT addictive. I have to question this. I'm either addicted to the games or I'm addicted to the quiet time, sipping a drink, smoking a pack of cigs that goes along with playing the games. But, regardless, I didn't think about video gaming one single time while in Italy, so I can rest categorizing my game planning as "optional", rather than "necessary". That leaves blogging- specifically writing posts, which I organize and think about throughout the day. Blogging- an activity for which I looked for computers while in another country so that I could write. I bought a notebook so that I could chronicle. I told Kim events that I was going to post about when I got home.

That forces me to ask the question: Can you have an addiction to story telling? In other words, "Hello. My name is Liz. I'm a talkaholic."

I'm not sure blogging is healthy for me. I almost obsess about it. I'll be lying in bed, remembering the day, and think, "Oh! I need to blog about that!" I don't do rough drafts or anything, I don't make written notes, I just relate my real world to an opportunity to share the story. It's weird how writing for a forum can be so motivating. And now, I am blogging about blogging. Isn't that one of the signs; a cry for help?

One of the things I thought I needed to share with you was my new found old-person habit of waking up early. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE, yet it has been happening all week to me. As soon as the sun is out, I wake up, regardless of my bed time. I love to watch the sun rise- ON MY WAY HOME- not from my front steps after a good 5 hours of sleep. I'm highly distressed. What if it doesn't go away?

In other news, make sure you visit JesterTunes (link on the right, over there) to see recent photos of the boys on their big night out. I'm looking forward to the play by play!

Italian Stallions

This one is for Churlita.

Italian Stallions

My well-traveled friend, Killer, had warned me before I left that I would be accosted by Italian men. I was excited about this and packed plenty of perfume and wet wipes in anticipation. (Okay- although those two items could relate, they are simply just things I packed). On the plane ride to Italy, I was seated next to Luca. I thought, "Ummm hum. THIS is where it all begins!" It was a long plane ride, Luca was a cutie and he was an insomniac. This meant we had lots of fun with his lap top and his English to Italian program translating dirty sentences to each other. I figured that 9 and 1/2 hours in the air with Luca was the equivalent to 2-3 dates, so I was ready for whatever might come. The mile high club? Breakfast when we land? Snuggling under the Delta blanket? What ever. I'm on vacation.

About 5 hours into the flight, most people were sleeping. Luca got up, wearing his blanket as a cape, and wandered around the plane. His sleep mask was firmly gripped to his forehead. His 5 o'clock shadow was spotty and his skin oily. He looked like the Bollywood Batman. He strolled aimlessly around for half an hour, got booted out of first class and came back to his seat. It was like he had transformed. Instead of being this cute Italian guy, he was some wayward homeless man with poor communication skills, clinging to the discarded items of first class patrons. I was disenchanted.

Kim's sister, who traveled with us, is very pretty. Note to self: Don't travel with very pretty women. Stick with women who are at your level or below. Name the group "The 5-6 Rangers", even if it's just the two of you. No 8's or 9's allowed! 7's welcomed if they don't wear makeup. Even she only got looks, no groping as promised.

I found that in Italy, your attractiveness depends on the situation. Usually, I was just another tourist in the crowd until I was shopping at the street markets. There, I was beautiful! "Oh! Bella! You are so lovely! This green leather handbag would accentuate the green sparkle in your eyes! Please, just try it on so I can watch you hold it. Please, pose like a statue. You look like a Goddess. You are Athena! You are so pretty, but with the handbag, you are unstoppable!" At first, it was fun, then it felt greasy and finally disgusting. "You like this statue of David, hee? He looka like your boyfriend back in America, doesn't he? No? Your boyfriend does not look like the David? But you are so beautiful! You should take the David home with you! It is what you deserve. I charge 12 Euros. For you, because you are so pretty, I give him to you for 10." The lesson form this? Euros are HOT.

Kim got felt up. We were on a train from Naples- which, from everything I read and heard, is a nasty, dirty, crime-ridden town. All I saw was the bus terminal. It was nasty, dirty, and crime-ridden. I saw the guys get on the train. I was watching the one in my car scan the passengers. He never made eye contact, he only looked at people's belongings. Kim was standing in the car ahead. The second pickpocket brushed his hand against her shorts front pocket 3 times before finally giving up. Before the train stopped, she had called me in there with her. She was guarding all of our luggage and felt like my back pack was in danger of being snatched. Hell, at that point, I would have gladly handed it over. My arms were shaky from carrying around a combined total of 95 pounds worth of crap! I knew why she was calling me in there and I was prepared to kick some nads if I had to. It's funny how I really honestly believe I could take on a professional criminal.

Other than staying in the hostile, which I am misspelling, by the way, the only other time I felt like I was being targeted.... let me rephrase.... that I was AWARE of being targeted, was also on a train. Kim and I had separated from her dad and sister. I've told you before that Kim is kind and thoughtful. Being kind and thoughtful, she was helping an older Indian woman load her extremely heavy and overstuffed luggage onto the train. That's stressful, trust me. In doing so, the wheel of the luggage got caught on the bottom of the train and damn it, the wheel came off of the bag! It would be impossible to carry this duffel around. It was the size, weight and shape of Danny Devito.

We did a lot of riding in the "taint" of the rail cars. I'm referring to that area where passengers load and unload on and off of the train. Usually, this was because of my enormous luggage, combined with sometimes overly full cars. So, here is Kim, trying to mail tape this lady's wheel back on her bag, it's 100 degrees in the taint, we have a long ride ahead of us, I'm not sure I had my Cappuccino that morning, and I'll be damned if 3 punks didn't get into the taint with us and start planning. Kim and I made eye contact. The two little ones wouldn't be a problem, but the big one, he was muscular and, you could tell, strong as an ox. They positioned themselves. So did we. Kim and I have instincts. I looked for alarms and started flexing my ankle for nad kicking. She mentally went over the karate moves she had learned from Ralph Machio. We weren't going down without a fight, and they weren't taking Granny down either.

Punks. One with a Mohawk mullet that looked permed in the back. He wore silver shoes and looked like he was born with water on the brain. Giant forehead, eyes wide apart. Fortunately, we intimidated them and they moved to another car at the next stop. They knew better.

So, in summary, I saw some very beautiful men over there, but none that made me look more than 3 times. I will say that most Italian men under 45 seem to be in very good physical condition. I think it's like New York, where you walk so much and there is so much fresh produce around, you exercise a lot and it's easy to choose to eat well. This is a concept I understand, but don't live by. I sometimes drive to get my mail on the way to Chick-Fil-a. Most people are very kind and very patient with Americans. I was impressed with the Italians and could certainly see myself going back for another extended vacation. Next time, maybe, with a group of hideously ugly women, so that I can bring back better stories.

You Should Wish You Were My Guest Room Mattress

Liz continues:

Killer has asked that I pick up blogging so that he can do nothing that uses his precious physical and mental energy while he is on vacation for the next 3 months. I reminded him that I am on vacation as well, and that I only get 2 weeks a year. He was not impressed.

I challenged him to a laze-off to see who can do the least this week. So far I've gone 3.5 days without showering and I haven't finished unpacking or doing laundry. I slept 15 hours on Wednesday. Yet I'm complying with his request to keep the blog fresh. I'm sure it's going to be the tie breaker in the laze off and he, yet again, will best me.

While I was in Italy I had a housesitter. Someone has to be here for the cats if I'm gone more than 2 days. I want to make sure they are mental stimulated between naps. Walking by them mentally stimulates, so that and throwing some food in a bowl is really all I ask of my housesitter. When I got home, I noticed a flat iron on my bathroom counter. Hummmm.... my housesitter was a domestic short-haired male, which can only mean one of two things: I either bought a flat iron while in a drunken stupor and don't remember it or he had a girl over.

I'm no prude. I understand that the human animal has a sex drive. But I'll be damned if my "guest" don't get more action than I do. So G and this unknown vamp had a sex romp in my guest room? No big deal, but I also know that that same mattress provided support for an unplanned pregnancy when another guest was banging on it. It saw a lot of action several years ago when it was being used by a girlfriend in college. I won't even get into the physics of the complaint I had from a couple that visited last summer. They said that the bed was too hard for sleeping, so they used it for other activities. I bought a feather bed and put it on the mattress that week. Now it's too inviting. I think it must be magic for all who lay upon it.

G's harlot has done me a favor. My suitcase had gotten up to around 75 pounds. That's A LOT, especially when you're rolling through terminals and getting on and off of trains. Several places we were didn't have elevators. That meant lugging that giant Samsonite and one backpack that weighed around 15 pounds everywhere I went. So I mailed some things home. I'm an idiot. I didn't even think, in my frantic obsessed unpacking haze, to ship carefully. Here's what I mailed home:

• One bathing suit
• A bottle of truffle oil
• Two leather purses
• One illegal, fake Prada purse
• Glass souvenirs
• Dirty clothes
• My favorite bra
• Chocolate
• Lemon candy
• A towel (from my house)
• A towel (from the hotel)
• Rocks
• A Chi flat iron

It's going to be A MONTH before the packages get here, if they even make it. I was told the Italian Post Office can be sketchy. What's even worse, maybe, is how poorly I planned the shipment. I know. I mailed ROCKS home. These free rocks costs me about $7 a pop. Idiot. But you have to understand my anguish. All I wanted to do was unload that fucking suitcase. I would have mailed home money or a baby if they were weighing me down.

The things I did bring home are great, but this cheap flat iron isn't doing the trick. I hope that shipment makes it. And I hope that lemon candy doesn't reek of the confined odors of sweaty clothes in a cardboard box. That was going to be my Christmas gift to Killer.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Liz is back, ready to update!

I had to pee on a plane. It wasn't that bad, compared to the bathroom in the hostile we stayed in on our last night before flying out of Italy. I'm too old, and admittedly, too prissy to stay in a hostile. However, after blowing through several thousand dollars taking tours, paying for nicer hotels, eating some of the best food I've ever had and gobbling up souvenirs, paying 25 Euros for a hostile didn't sound like a bad idea.

I think that Italy has the worst drivers in the world. There are lanes, just like in America, clearly marked and designated. They are ignored. To quote, "When driving in Italy, you must not only know the dimensions of your car, but the thickness of the paint as well." So true. Lanes made for 2 become funnels for 2 cars, a bus, and multiple scooters. I quickly learned to simply look out of the window and enjoy the sites.

We were able to do a lot in 10 days. My favorite excursion was a trip to Cinque Terra, the five villages, where Kim and I stayed in Monterossa. It was unbelievable. Here are a couple of pictures from that heavenly spot:

We were in Rome, Pompeii, Venice, Sorrento, and Florence. Ah.... so nice. I guess the thing that struck me most is that the ruins are just THERE- as in, you round a corner and bam! It's the steps where Cesar was killed. Or bang! Wow! That's, like, the Coliseum. There is no "reserved for old shit" section of town, as I had imagined. The city has grown up around the relics. It is an amazing mix of old and new.

Another thing I loved were Europeans and Asians in American T-Shirts. 1/4 of the time the shirts were way off base in their proclamations. For example, there was an adorable little pre-teen European girl sporting a shirt that read, in English, "Boys Liars Fat Big". I think it was supposed to say, "Boys Are Big Fat Liars". I got the point. I also saw, "Pinups I Love" on a metro sexual Roman. Cute. He loves pinups. That T had the mudflap girl in sparkly rhinestones. While I'm on fashion, I didn't see that many stiletto heels. Flat sandals are big. I must also state, however, that I saw nearly as many Americans and British as I did Italians. I guess everyone wants to go to Italy.

I'll write more, and upload some more photos, this weekend. In the meantime, I thought of you while I was gone and couldn't wait to get home to tell you that it's true- Europeans have BO. Considering that I haven't showered in 3 days, I'm not going to judge them.

This Post is About Nothing

I don't wish to rub any of you cubicle monkey's faces in this fact, but I am off work for at least the next two months.

What do I have planned for that time? A lot of nothing. Some of that nothing will take place in America, some will take place in the Philippines, but nothing still the same.

I love doing nothing. In high school when we had to do a video interview stating what we would be doing in ten years, mine really said, "nothing...I hope to be homeless and surviving by doing absolutely nothing at all."

I can now say that I manage to make that dream come true at least three months out of every year. Sure I might have to work really hard for a few months to achieve this, but nothing can match the sheer happiness I feel when I wake up that first day and think to myself, "What do I have to do today? Oh yeah, not a damn thing."

I will even set my alarm clock for the first few days, just so I can happily hit the snooze button a hundred times, or even slap it off the table and keep on sleepin' on.

Hell, I'm writing this post while still in bed. I think I am going to hire a private nurse to come in for a few days to give me bed baths and clean me up when I go to the bathroom in the bed. I really want to take my nothingness to a whole new level.

If someone happens to be in the area, could you stop by and bring my cell phone to me? I hear it ringing in the other room, but I'm not getting out of bed to retrieve it. I figure if it is really important they will drive over here and tell me.

I Forgot Who I Had Breakfast With This Morning

Killer has no idea what is going on

I have mentioned that my time is drawing to an end here in Sacramento. After leaving so many hospitals, I have become immune to the sadness of goodbye. Yes, I have worked closely with you for six months. Yes, I am an awesome guy. No, I don't need a tissue.

The people I work with are always saddened at my departure, but I, being an ass, am usually just wanting to get away clean, with little or no emotional attachment. They give me their phone numbers, tell me to call them, ask me to send them postcards, and inform me, "you'll be back. You'll miss us too much."

Little do they know, in a few hours, I will have forgotten the vast majority of their names.

I don't know if it is a deep emotional protective mechanism provided by my fragile psyche, or if maybe I am really just a complete asshole; regardless, I slip away into the night, unfazed and unaffected by the parting of ways.

Sorry, whatever your name was. Life is cruel sometimes.

I was taken to breakfast this morning by a group of coworkers. They wanted to spend one last moment together before I leave. I was touched. I rather would have gone to bed, but I felt it necessary to give them one last chance to soak in the Killer goodness.

Unfortunately I was the only one at breakfast who was not Filipino. I don't begrudge the ethnic diversity of California, but it is less than exciting to sit and listen to a hour long debate about the pros and cons of buying a Toyota mini-van, especially when the entire discussion is in a language I don't speak.

The only Tagalog I know is in reference to my testicles, and due to poor designs by Toyota, that doesn't relate well to their mini vans.

Soon I will be free.

The End Is Nigh

Killer heads for the door.


I have a serious case of short-timer syndrome. This is a critical condition that is common among people who only have a few days left at a job. It is characterised by a severe lackadaisical attitude and frequent mutterings of, "I'll quit this shit-hole right now!" or "I'll burn this place to the ground."


It is not an uncommon disease, but I, being a person who can change hospitals several times a year, have it more often than others. Since I am usually very upbeat and humor laden, it disturbs my soon-to-be-ex coworkers very much.


I already want to be gone so bad my mind starts to play tricks on me. Tonight a lovely Filipina nurse approached me and innocently asked, "Would like to try one of my Filipino crackers?" My brain heard, "Shove these up your ass, Cracker!"


I immediately became enraged and picked up the small lady and flung her across the room, knocking over a gaggle of Hmong people who were there to visit their Grandfather. I did not really do that, but man, I wanted to.


I realized a Filipina would not know that she could refer to me as "cracker" and calmed down. I calmly accepted the Filipino cracker; it was delicious.


This condition is usually worse in the first few hours of my shift. I am freshly removed from my comfortable chair at home, where I was enjoying the back log of "Dirty Jobs" on my Tivo, so I really did not want to come to work. The fact that I only have three shifts left heightens any feelings of unhappiness and despair.


I arrive at work and they immediately tell me that I am going to have to work on a Medical floor tonight. I am an ICU nurse. I prefer my patients comatose and near death. It makes for a pleasant work environment when I can put on the Cartoon Network as I scramble around to keep someone alive. On a Medical floor a lot of the patients should be at home, and they don't want to be there any more than I do. Both patient and nurse have a palpable level of animosity towards each other; both feel it is the other's fault they are still there.


I enter the room. The patient, a very healthy appearing 68 year old man, is laying in bed watching an infomercial for the Ionic Breeze. I look at him. He looks at me. We both quickly surmise that the other does not want to be here. I check his vitals as he quietly stares at the television. "You know there is a "Futurama" marathon on the Cartoon Network." I inform him; to which her blandly responds, "I hate cartoons. Can you get me some fresh water?" I pick up his jug and walk out of the room muttering to myself, "I should just quit this place right now." I am pretty sure I heard him mutter to himself, "I should just leave this place right now."


It is ironic that we should be enemies. We actually have a lot in common. Neither of us wants to be here, and could leave if we really wanted to. I should just go back in there and tell him, "Get dressed were blowing this joint." I could give him a ride home.


If someone does not let me watch the Cartoon Network soon, I am going to quit this shit-hole.

Sub Contracting

I am guest posting at Fringe's place today. She is on vacation from life and blogging. Come on over and check it out. Sarcastic Fringe

Don't worry, I'll be back here tomorrow.

Killer

It's Official, I'm Going to Hell

I noticed today that I had fifteen separate google hits with the search, "May the Lord Bless You and Keep You." I blame this on Liz. She wrote a post in June called May the Lord Bless You and Keep You as Long as You Forward This.

Every time a good upstanding believer clicks on this site expecting to receive religious affirmation, and instead sees all the posts about my balls, I just know I am being added to a Go-Straight-to-Hell prayer list. I have heard about prayer lists where whole groups of people will pray for the well being of fellow church members, so it only seems obvious to me that they would have a list for the opposite effect.

My plan has always been to pull off the old death bed forgiveness move and squeak into Heaven, but the more prayers sent up requesting a Hell bound outcome will make that more unlikely. I prefer to fly my soul under the radar. I don't need all this added attention.

Thanks Liz, you are off gallivanting around Italy, not even bothering to post, and I am inching my way to eternal damnation. You need to get back here and write a letter to everyone saying it was you. If I end up in Hell, I am so going to haunt you.

Proud To Be An American

Killer weeps red, white and blue tears of joy

I am usually not sentimental. I am usually not very nationalistic. Recently both were displayed as I was moved by a return to American dominance. Dominance in a field that seemed to be impossible to NOT be dominated by Americans. The field of competitive eating.

I mean we are the fattest nation; the most gluttonous nation. Shouldn't we also be the fastest to eat anything under the sun? Well, we have not been for six long disappointing years.

The pinnacle of the competitive eating circuit is the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog eating contest in New York. Every year the best of the best come from around the globe to stuff as many hot dogs and buns into their gullet as humanly possible, as fast as possible. The last six years have been won by the same man. A Japanese man named, Takeru Kobayashi. Not only is Kobayashi not American, he is not fat; not even a little chubby.

Here is the whole article: American Hot Dog Champion

The least a man can do if he wants to be a great competitive eater is allow himself to get obese. Come on, who wants to celebrate a skinny guy eating a lot? I want to watch a fat guy get fatter. I want to cheer him on while secretly thinking, "What a fat ass, he is going to die any second." Nobody wants to see a skinny guy eat 65 hot dogs in record time then go jogging, unless he is going to get hit by a city bus and have his hot dog laden intestines splattered all over the pavement. Americans definitely want to see that.

Thank you Joey Chestnut for melting my cold, cynical heart on the Fourth of July and making me a proud American again. And thank you for having an extremely American name in the process.

Summer Itinerary

Well, I only have one week left here in Sacramento. I did not really take much time to enjoy Sac Town however, since I worked all the damn time. You know the old saying, "what doesn't kill you, makes you much richer."

I have big plans for my post Sacramento time. I am planning to hang up my Travel Nurse shoes, move back to Mississippi and be like the normal folk; stationary. Maybe buy a house, coach a soccer team, and stare longingly at the road, wondering, "Is there a better time to be had in Boise?"

First I have more immediate plans. I am rolling over to the Bay Area to spend an evening with some fellow bloggers, Jester and Othurme. I really enjoy reading their blogs, so I hope they can live up to the expectations.

Then I am going to rocket down to San Diego and hang out with my old Travel Nurse roommates Corey and Cathy. We will spend many hours arguing about who's turn it is to pick the place to eat and then go get drunk to forget why we were arguing. Life is grand.

Finally a mellow saunter across the Southwest to Mississippi, where I will get to spend some quality time with my family, including new nephew Kade. But in a month, I will join Chad in the Philippines for a four week "do nothing, while doing everything" extravaganza. I hope to drink lots of cheap San Miguel Beer, eat a lot of Chicken Adobe, and run through the streets yelling, "Masarap ang bayag ko!" Which is Tagalog for, "My balls are delicious!"

Hopefully I can start an international incident and make the news.

What are you plans for the summer?

The Truth Behind Killer's Balls

Liz is still gone, and I had several requests to really let me balls hang out.

You asked for it.

Killer's top ball facts:

I don't really know when my balls became my unofficial theme. I think I made a few off hand comments and someone commented, "You talk about your balls a lot." So then it became a challenge, and then it snowballed. I don't discuss them much in real life.

The Environmental Protection Agency has listed my balls as Protected Marshlands. Apparently there is a rare species of Albino Cave Crab that has made it's home down there.

I was going to wax them recently but some hippies chained themselves to my balls, in the back near my ass crack, to protect the Albino Cave Crab habitat. I had trouble sleeping, because they kept singing and beating bongos all night.

I rub expensive facial creams and sleep with a mud mask on my balls to prevent wrinkles.

I like to lay naked outside in the early morning, because when the sun rises over my balls the views are magnificent. The crabs enjoy it also.

My balls have contemplated moving several times because they hate their neighbors. One is a dick and the other is an asshole.

There are legends that in the deepest foliage on my balls a small flower grows that can cure cancer. A few years back a team of scientists went in to find it. Only one returned and he has never spoken since.

When Liz is Away Killer Will Play

Killer posts in the nude

By now Liz should have landed on foreign soil. She has probably inhaled a couple bottles of fine Italian wine and molested at least one Italian waiter. I have no doubts that the prior 6.5 years of damage to America’s popularity in Europe will be vastly improved with one week of Liz’s presence there. It is the kind of place that was made for her. Everyone drinks, smokes and is not afraid to show of a little Moose Knuckle.

As for the Liz-less Killer Rants, well, I am enjoying the privacy. I can finally stroll around in here with my pants off. Not that I wouldn’t do that with Liz around, but now there is no annoying giggling and pointing going on.

I have noticed that things don’t seem to smell as nice without all the fancy candles she keeps lit, not to mention the constant barrage of air freshener she sprays every time someone (IE. Me) expels a little flatus. I did not realize how unpleasant I can smell. Not so unpleasant as to stop, but enough that I might help her pay for the next batch of Yankee Candles.

The big question is, will Liz post from Italy? I hope she is so enthralled with the ancient runes and Italian beef cakes that she doesn’t even think about us, but there is always the possibility of her getting tired of being with her travel companions and seek solace in a quiet internet café. Even your BFF can become annoying after a few days of constant companionship.

I just hope she doesn’t catch sight of the Pope. She will probably get arrested for throwing things at him in an attempt to knock off his funny hat. She isn’t anti-Catholic, she’s just anti-funny hat.

Random Survey

49%

Mingle²

^{I could have sworn I would have done better. I think I get a poor rating from being a in a large city (more zombies) and not owning a gun. I do own Shaun of The Dead on DVD, so that should count for something.}

Ciao!

Liz says her goodbyes:

I can't believe it's here. Sometime early Saturday morning I'll be boarding a plane, only to arrive at the Atlanta airport for a 7 hour layover. No worries. I have a friend picking my BFF and I up and we'll be escorted around town and taken somewhere for lunch and drinks. Then I'll start my regime of Tylenol PMs and Adavan- some sedative I BEGGED to get from the doc to help ease the travel discomfort. Doctors are so stingy with the good stuff.

Once we leave Atlanta, it's around 7 hours, maybe 8 or 9, in the air. I quit paying attention to details involving any plane ride over 4 hours long. I'm going to have to break my lifelong streak and use a plane restroom. I'm already feeling icky. We land in Rome at 8:30 am. The day begins.

Now that I think about it, I'm going to be going on something like 36 to 48 hours without a shower. Well, when in Rome...

While I'm away, Killer has total control of this blog. How long has it been since he's had to run the company solo? I know they're capable hands, but nonetheless, I feel I bit sad and nostalgic. Make me proud, Killer. I promise to bring back some great stories and will do my best to find an international example of mooseknuckle that will make my time away seem well spent.

Look for updates on July 11. If I can blog from Italy, I'll try to get at least one in. If not, I will toast one glass of vino to you, blog friends, in hope that you too one day have the experience of weaving with intoxication and vomitting on the Spanish Steps.

Japanese Game Shows Kick Ass

Liz sent me this. It is an awesome example of the strange and hilarious game shows on Japanese television. You don't even have to know what they are saying to find this funny. I now want to fly to Japan to be on this show. This one and MXC on Spike TV.

My BFF

I almost forget to mention that today my BFF is officially one year older than me. She will continue to be one year older than me for the next 3 months. Don't try to do the math. You'll hurt yourself.

Here she is:

Doesn't she just LOOK like she'd be nice? She is. She's the one who saved me from growing up to be a bitch-slapping thug and I saved her from being the "crazy" one in the straight-laced bow-head crowd.

I did her the bigger favor.

Don't tell my parents, but I love her more than anyone else on the planet. We've been best friends for over 20 years. Regardless of who we are around, we are the same Kim and Liz. For some reason, I like the vibe from the Kim part of that equation and she is quite fond of the Liz. It started pretty much the day we met. Sort of like we were destined to be a set.

Everyone who knows us sees it- it is friendship in it's purest form. It's a respect and a joy. It's something special. When we are together, there is a chemistry. Sometimes others are envious. I feel sorry for them. Not everyone has a true best friend. Most people like when we travel as a pair because it's a good show to watch. She's funny. I'm quick. She's loud and oblivious. I'm loud and bold. We're both likely to surprise, if for no other reason than to see the reaction from the other.

We know secrets and dirt on each other and we also know it's safe- forever- or until the 4th mixed drink.

We don't do a whole lot of BFF, girly things. We hang. We play cards, guzzle beer, take road trips, go to concerts. We delight in making the other one laugh. We seldom shop together, mostly because I can marathon shop and all she wants to do is see if the Birkenstocks are on clearance. We talk about the things that matter in life and have an oath that prevents either of us from speaking when The Office is on. I love her. And I hope that you, too, have someone in your life that you consider your best friend. It's a good gig. I highly recommend it.

We'll be leaving for Italy on Saturday. I'm packing flashy clothes and she's packing hand sanitizer.

Here's to the trip of a lifetime with my BFF.

Rubik's Cube

Rubik asks:

Do you remember how obsessed you used to be with me? Now I sit like a jilted lover, watching you delicately open your laptop and caress the keys with your fingertips. Those same fingers that once danced around my body now roll over a keyboard. You whore.

Liz treks back to 1983:

I remember telling a lie. My dad's friend, Clayton, had a rubik's cube that I peeled the stickers off of. I tried to reposition them carefully, but I was only 12 and did a sloppy job. My dad knew it was me, but he asked both me and my brother who had done it. I lied. I said I didn't know how the cube got desecrated. I stuck to the lie too. I was resolute. I could have gotten spanked, grounded, and denied water and I would have proclaimed my innocence. My dad said he simply wanted to know who had done it, no punishment would follow the confession. NOT ME! NO SIR! I stared him in the eyes and told a flat out lie.

I still feel bad about it.

I have my original rubik's cube. I came across it about a year ago and sat it out as a novelty. It's sitting right here looking at me now. I took it to a poker party and had one of the engineering savants fix it. Then a friend brought his son over and now it's all fucked up. I'll never be able to get it back to its perfect form. I know the kid had no idea how painful his game would be for me, and I guess I can always track down the savant and have it fixed again, but it's the destructive nature of humans that is the real issue. Why take a beautiful solved puzzle and ruin it?

Now, Rubik is unorganized. He looks tired and sad. Only one row, not even one side, is completed. And I haven't touched him in months. It's like I don't even love him anymore.