Oprah! Liz Lemon! Salt water taffy and sweater capes!

First off, a public service message. Are you watching 30 Rock yet? If not, you should be. That is all.

Moving on. Today's date story is a recent one. Like, last night recent. You know what? Not all of my dates are bad dates. Also, not all of my date stories are funny ones. This one was neither bad nor funny. Just so you know.

Last night was date number I-don't-even-know with AW, the man formerly known as "Arty-Looking IT Guy." We had dinner at a Colombian restaurant about a mile from my house (which is also, conveniently, about a mile from his house)--a restaurant I'd not yet been to, which means if I ever do decide to embark on the ridiculous goal of visiting every eatery on what is arguably Minneapolis's most (or at least second-most) international street, I will be able to check that one off the list right away. The food was fine but unremarkable. AW ordered a weird South American soda that tasted like a melted banana Popsicle. There were more TVs in the place than customers, and every one of them was showing Mexican soap operas on Univision at a volume level entirely higher than necessary. It all made for an amusing dining experience, but given my mere five hours of sleep the night before, I can't say I was on my "A" game. ("On my 'A' game? Is that the right way to say that?? Why do I even bother with the sports metaphors?)

Following dinner, we went to the same local bar where we had our first date, many weeks ago. It's a bar I've had many a first date at, so I made a mental note that Wednesday is Bar Trivia night (hence, for any future Wednesday night first dates, another of my "regular" spots is a better choice). I'd never actually played bar trivia before. This just in: I suck at it. A whole category pertaining to bass players? There was exactly ONE question in that list of ten that I was annoyed I didn't know. (I couldn't remember that Flea was the bass player with a cameo as a German Nihilist in The Big Lebowski.) For the rest, I knew I didn't have a prayer and hence, did not even guess. I did, however, correctly identify a song I'd never heard before as a Queen song, and I somehow remembered that Dan Patch was a race horse and not just an avenue in St. Paul, so there is that, anyway.

In all, we had a fine time... easy conversation, amusing banter... I genuinely like and have fun with this guy. And then he drove me back to my house, and I remembered I would have to kiss him again.*

People, I don't know what is wrong with me. AW is a smart, good-looking guy who is fully employed, owns his own home, and treats me well. He is, seemingly thus far, the perfect balance between the fun, carefree guys who unfortunately aren't fully grown-ups and the well-balanced men with their shit together who unfortunately bore me to tears. Fun AND responsible! Smart AND interesting! Why oh WHY am I not into him?? I do not know, but I have just not been feeling it, and I finally told him so tonight.

How did it go? Not all that well, understandably. I become a babbling, stammering idiot when faced with starting an awkward conversation, but I was determined to be a decent person and actually do this live in real time instead of taking the cop-out route of carefully composing my thoughts and explaining it in an email instead. He knew something was up, so I think he was glad I called, and I do feel immeasurably better right now than I have all day thinking about it, so despite those several minutes of awkwardness, I think it was the right decision. I do want to continue to hang out with him, but I'm not sure whether we both have the same idea of what "hanging out" means. We shall see.

So it's back to the starting line again for me, with only two short months left of what that damn psychic said would be the year I find my soul mate. Could it be she was a crackpot? IMPOSSIBLE, obviously. Year of Stef? So much for that. Time will tell.


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* Note: "Have to" sounds entirely too harsh and unfair. I meant not to imply that kissing him was some odious, awful chore. Not by any means. I meant only that the romantic chemistry... well, I was not so much feeling it. Surely you understand. You've been there?
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If I could just get a paid endorsement from NBC for this post, maybe I could afford even MORE shoes!

At the risk of being that girl who quotes lines from a TV show even when that TV show has been off the air for nearly half a decade, I have a Friends reference for you. Oh, who am I kidding? I am totally that girl. And I maintain that there is an appropriate Friends reference for nearly every situation in life, so I'm not even going to feel lame about this.

Anyway, do you remember the episode where Phoebe decided to play the field and date two men at once? One was a fireman whom she liked because he was strong and burly, and the other was a school teacher who was all sensitive and gentle. And she couldn't decide between the two of them, particularly because they both just kept getting better and better (the fireman actually wrote poetry, and the teacher... oh, I don't remember anymore). But then eventually, the two guys found out about each other and it all blew up in her face?

I am totally just like Phoebe right now. Well, except that the two men in question actually do the same thing for a living (and neither is a fireman or a teacher). Oh, and that neither one is particularly buff and burly nor endearingly sensitive and arty. And neither really has me at all excited enough to rave about him, so I'm more in "trying to keep an open mind and not run away immediately like I usually do" mode than "how long can I pull this off?" mode. Also, neither has found out about the other yet, and I'm not sure either one would even particularly care (or have any right to care) if they did.

So actually I guess I'm nothing like Phoebe at all, save for the fact that I am dating two men and I don't know how long I can (or want to) keep doing so. Television is obviously JUST LIKE REAL LIFE, however, so what I really want to know is how Phoebe had TIME to date two men, while still going to work and playing guitar and hanging out at the coffee shop for three hours every day. I mean, I can skip the guitar and the coffee shop parts, but when am I supposed to get my blog time in? How am I supposed to (finally) finish that damn still-overdue third Twilight book? This is seriously cutting into my very important sitting-around time. I remember now one more reason I hate dating. Even when you're temporarily past that phase of fielding mundane, small-talky emails from multiple date candidates at once, the actual dating part takes too damn much time.

In other news, I did decide on a pair of red shoes. Thank you all for your very serious input on that. I went with Pair #1, which I was leaning towards from the start. Unfortunately, every online review I read was correct and there is something wrong with the workmanship of that shoe, because just as those reviewers reported, the soles on both of my brand-new red shoes were peeling away from the shoe within a mere three hours of wear. It's nothing a little shoe glue won't fix, but it's annoying nonetheless. Hence, I have taken a cue from Lara and fired off an email to the vice president of Steve Madden shoes (or rather, to whichever assistant to the vice president answers mail at the supposed V.P.'s address posted on their web site). If I'm lucky, perhaps he will send me a heartfelt apology and a coupon for some large percentage off another pair of cute but poorly constructed shoes. Fingers crossed.

Because one new pair of shoes clearly wasn't enough, I also bought a pair of brown flats, a pair of mary janes, and a new pair of brown boots, all in the same week. Apparently I've suddenly decided to pretend I have copious amounts of expendable income. (Disclaimer/Clarification: I do NOT.)

Perhaps I am just doing my own small part to keep the Global Financial System from crumbling. What's that? Oh. Perhaps you haven't heard about that. Apparently the world economy is in a state of ruin. Here's a tip from my friend Plump: Start stocking up on Beanie Babies now.

I thought perhaps I would give you a virtual fashion show of my new possibly economy-stabilizing purchases, but unfortunately I am nowhere near my camera nor its related photo uploading software (or, for that matter, the actual shoes in question to be photographed) at the moment, so that shallow and self-indulgent little project won't be happening. (Translation: I am blogging at work, though doing so on my lunch break, which I feel makes it only mildly unscrupulous.) And now that I've mentioned both "fashion show" and "lunch break" in the same paragraph, I suddenly hear Kelly Kapoor in my head, chanting "Fashion show! Fashion show! Fashion show at lunch!"

My apologies if you're hearing her now as well.

If you ask me, she decidedly did NOT "make it work"

Before we get started, a question for you. Was tonight some sort of Backwards Night on Project Runway? Those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, fear not. I promise this entire post won't be about television. If you don't watch Project Runway, I understand. I resisted for a long time myself. But there will come a day when you will decide the "No Reality TV" mandate you have adhered to for years simply doesn't apply to the fascinating circus that is Project Runway. That day will probably be some random Sunday, perhaps when you are nursing a hangover and unable to leave your couch or even be bothered to press any more buttons than necessary on your remote. And on that day, Bravo will be playing a marathon of back-to-back episodes of Project Runway, each drawing you in ever deeper than the last. And when that day comes, come back here and let me know exactly why a dress seemingly birthed from a tragic collision of a flamingo, a tutu, and the high-necked, pouf-sleeved, floral dress of which my fifth grade teacher Miss Stanel was so fond beat out several far less hideous designs that people I know in real life might actually wear. And after you've explained that to me, I have a few other questions for you about tonight's winners and losers and, in fact, about the entire strange and motley mix of wallflowers and drama queens the producers have assembled for this year's cast. But all of that is for another day. I could go on, but why? There are other people already doing that, and doing a far better job than I would. Moving on.

See? Done talking about television now. I promise. I have far more important things on my mind. Namely, National Night Out. Have any of you actually participated in any National Night Out shenanigans in the past? Perhaps "shenanigans" is the wrong word. We are talking about family-oriented block parties, after all. Block parties organized by strangers, in which we're encouraged to bring not beer or wine or something similarly party-crucial but cans of tuna for a local food shelf instead. Maybe the tuna was just on MY block's notice. Maybe your flyer didn't say "Let's build a 'tower of tuna'!" on the back.

I've never gone to a National Night Out event, but I've also never been invited to a National Night Out event before. I really don't think my block has been having one and not telling me about it for years--huddling in someone's basement rather than a backyard, whispering, "Shhh! Don't tell that weird spinster girl in the blue house about this!" I think my block is just a lot like my high school graduating class: reasonably friendly to each other, but not much interested in organized participation or group togetherness of any sort. And I don't think my block's attitude about that has changed, because the invitation that was hanging on my front door last night didn't even come from anyone on my own block. The address is for a house one block down. Maybe they've tried this before and found their own block's as non-participatory as mine? Maybe they figure if they cast the net a bit wider, they'll get a more party-worthy turnout?

Or maybe... MAYBE! Maybe they DIDN'T invite the entire block adjacent to theirs. MAYBE I am the ONLY house in the 3400 block invited to the 3300 party! Maybe they aren't a "they" at all. Maybe in that house is an attractive and single thirty-something man... a man with a good job, a sense of humor, a flat(ish) gut, and a full head of hair! Maybe even a man with all of those attributes and without a dog! (Seriously, WHY do they all have dogs?? BIG dogs! Dogs that lick me and breathe on me and stab me with their hard, pointy paws! This is a topic for another post and not for a parenthetical, but it's something I've been wondering about for quite some time.) Maybe that mysterious man in the 3300 block saw me out walking one day and said, "That girl! I must meet her! She must live nearby!" So he cleverly followed me (in an entirely non-creepy, non-stalkery way, of course) back to my house and has simply been waiting for an opportunity to extend an olive branch (or, in this case, extend an offer of free hot dogs and lemonade) so we can chat.

What? It could happen...

I'm pretty sure the house that left the invitation isn't home to a single thirty-something male, however. I made note of the address so I could look for it on my way to work today, and it's actually a house on the nearby corner of the next block... the house with the Little Tykes playset in the backyard and a "Get your AVON here!" sign in front. Perhaps the block party invitation is all a ruse: a chance to garner new AVON clients. Sigh.

Or! OR! Maybe the AVON and Little Tykes couple has a friend! A single coworker or brother-in-law! Maybe he visits all the time. He's probably great with their kids, an honorary uncle of sorts. (Er, actual uncle, in the case of the "brother-in-law" scenario. I can't even get my fake stories straight.)

So. It could happen. I could go to my first National Night Out block party and meet the love of my life. Or I could go and come home full of hot dogs and potato salad and with a new wrinkle cream to test out. Should I go or not go? Tricky. I have until next Tuesday to decide.

Speaking of upcoming events, do you all know what this Friday is? It's Choose Your Own Blogventure day! Yay! Clear your schedules, because much like Blog Share, getting through all the posts just might take you a while. Unlike Blog Share, however, there will presumably be no dirty little private secrets. There'll likely be zombies and dragons and possibly even forgotten teen heartthrobs of the 80s instead. I can't wait. See you there.

WWHPD?

Scratch what I said the other day about my future as a pioneer woman. Not gonna happen, obviously. When I pulled into my driveway tonight, my garage door opener wouldn't work. I thought maybe the clicker had died (which would be no great surprise, given that the Scotch tape holding it together may actually be older than I am). I got out of my car, unlocked the side door, and pressed the opener button inside. Still no luck. At this point, it occurred to me not that my ancient garage door opener was broken, but that my power might be out. I plugged in the work light above the table at which I do no work. No light. Yep, no power.

At this point, my thoughts went as follows:

1. Crap. I have to leave my car outside, tonight, of all nights? Tonight, when it's already rainy and blustery and unpleasant and when the "wintry mix" in the air is sure to turn into solid ice on my windshield, which I'll have to get up early to scrape, if I can even get out of my driveway anyway after the six inches of spring snow the weather people are predicting? I have a garage for a reason, and I'd like my car in it, thank you!
   
   
2. Crap. No power means no TV! And The Office is finally new again tonight! Nooooooooooooooo!!!
   
   
3. Crap. I just went grocery shopping yesterday. (Yes. Again. Eating healthy is expensive, dammit.) I wonder how long that chicken will be safe in my fridge.
   

And then I got inside and remembered something else that's rather important relies on electricity as well. My furnace. It may be "spring" (ha), but it was 56 degrees in my house. Brr.

I called the power company to report the outage. While I waited for the automated voice named Amy to confirm she had entered my complaint, I thought about Laura Ingalls Wilder. I considered that I might have to spend an entire lonely evening with no TV, no Internet, no furnace or microwave. I wondered "What would Half Pint do?" I was quietly resigning myself to a night reading by candles or flashlight, telling myself stories to pass the time, and going to bed at a reasonable hour for once, for lack of anything better to do. And then Automated Amy came back to inform me that my power would be back by 7:20. The one analog clock in my house said it was currently 6:15. I would have to live in a simpler age of no electrical conveniences for a mere hour and five minutes. And all I would miss was 20 minutes of My Name is Earl.

Five minutes later, just as I was pulling on a polar fleece and digging up a pair of gloves appropriately thin enough for indoor wear, my microwave started blinking its "Power Failure" light and my refrigerator started whirring again.

Five minutes. How did they even do that? Is there a little red "Reset" switch for my address on a wall in an Xcel Energy building somewhere? Is there an emergency team of electric company superheros who were able to whisk themselves to the power lines behind my house at a moment's notice? I do not know, but I do know that my car is safety stored out of the elements, I can still eat the chicken in my fridge likely without acquiring a bout of food poisoning, and I was able to see Michael and Jan's disastrous dinner party in real-time. And for all of those, I am rather grateful.

The simple life is overrated, I say.

Five reasons I know movies and television are embedded irreversibly in my brain

1. I first forced myself to remember which direction the sun rises and sets by singing in my head the lyrics to Movin' Right Along from The Muppet Movie. (Fozzie: "Hey, I've never seen the sun come up in the west!")
   
   
2. Every time I apply mascara, I remember Blossom talking about some of life's great mysteries... "like why women open their mouths when they put on mascara."
   
   
3. Whenever I use vanilla extract, I remember the Very Special Episode of Family Ties in which Tom Hanks played alcoholic Uncle Ned--so hard up for a drink that he downed a whole bottle of the stuff.
   
   
4. Nearly every day when I step out of the shower and the floor in my very old bathroom makes an ominous creaking, cracking sound, I think of Carol Seaver falling through the floor of her bedroom and into the living room because of a termite infestation and crying, "I am willing to get on a scale right now and prove this was not my fault!"
   
   
5. Whenever I see an oncoming car that should have its headlights on, I hear Julia Roberts, saying "Lights! Lights would be good here."
   

That's five, but honestly, I could keep right on going... When I pee for an unusually long time, I think of Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own, and how the women on his team counted the seconds he was in the bathroom, waiting to see if it was a new record. When I wash my hands, I think of Bill Nye explaining the science behind the lather: "Soap makes water wetter!" And whenever I walk past the unusually large, gaping street drain in a gutter near my office, I expect to see the demonic clown from IT peering out at me from beneath the concrete.

That last image in particular is one I wish I could shake from the movie screen in my mind. My sincerest apologies for reminding you of the horror that was Pennywise as well. (Seriously, I am warning you. Don't click that last link. Aagh!)

Please, please tell me I'm not the only one whose brain works this way.

My cat's breath smells like cat food.

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For an explanation of this alphabet theme, see my first NaBloPoMo post.
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W is for Wiggum. As in Ralph Wiggum, who is, hands-down, my very favorite character on The Simpsons.



I have been a bit lapse in posting my usual Friday Fives lately (I'm in the middle of a theme, people! And it can't always be enumerated in list form!), but I thought I would make this last post of NaBloPleaseNoMo* short and sweet (we're all weary of reading so damn many posts every day anyhow, right?) and finish the month off in brief five-point form.


Five of my favorite Ralph Wiggum quotes

1. That's where I met the leprechaun. He told me to burn things.
   
   
2. Oh boy! Sleep! That's where I'm a Viking!
   
   
3. Slow down Bart! My legs don't know how to be as long as yours.
   
   
4. When I grow up, I want to be a principal or a caterpillar.
   
   And my personal favorite, from my favorite Ralph-centered episode (This Little Wiggy)...



5. The pointy kitty took it!

Speaking of The Simpsons, know what else starts with W? One of Homer's favorite phrases. No, not "D'oh!" of course. I'm talking about Woo-hoo! And that is what I say to the end of NaBloPoMo. It's been fun, but I am done.

P.S. I'll still be finishing the alphabet. I just wouldn't count on it until next week. Peace out.


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* Someone else penned this (or something very similar to this) yesterday, and I'm very sorry I don't remember which one of you it was. Claim credit in the comments if you like.

Update: It was NPW! Thank you for that addition to the blog-lexicon, you clever girl.
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Olives and Turkey and Puffins (oh my)

Incidentally, if that last post seemed a little strange, please refer to my first NaBloPoMo 2006 post. Yes, yes, I know an important link in it is dead, but that is not my fault. That is the fault of the fabulously hilarious woman who goes by the name The Other Girl (I prefer to call her Notorious T.O.G.), who took down her blog for apparently no other reason than to deprive the people of what they want ("what they want" being more posts from The Other Girl, of course). Anyway, she warned that if she was going to do NaBloPoMo and write something every damn day, at least one post was bound to say nothing more than "I like peas." I'm more partial to olives. And I needed an "O" post. And Liz was patiently waiting for what she called "The olive post" anyway.

So that's that.

In other news, I took Aaron's advice and watched A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving last night. I thought I had somehow managed never to have seen that one yet, but in the middle of Peppermint Patty's angry rant at the dinner ping-pong table, I suddenly said, "Hey, this does sound familiar..." And then I remembered that every Charlie Brown special involves at least one angry rant directed at poor Chuck, so I may or may not have ever seen that one after all.

I'm going to have to agree with Aaron that A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving isn't in the same league as A Charlie Brown Christmas, but I did enjoy it nonetheless. My favorite part, hands down, was when Charlie Brown was fretting over how he could possibly make a Thanksgiving dinner for an uninvited group of friends all by himself. "All I know how to make is cold cereal! And maybe toast," he said.

Oddly, I was actually having cold cereal for dinner while I watched this, which means I am at least as good a cook as Charlie Brown. Yay for that. And also Yay for Peanut Butter Puffins, which I just realized could totally be my "P" post.

Could, but won't. I promise.

Where you lead, I will follow

I promise this entire post won't be about the last new episode of Gilmore Girls I ever get to see. I realize that not all of you ran into your living room this evening as soon as you heard the words, "Previously, on Gilmore Girls..." coming from your TV. I know that not all of you danced around your coffee table during the theme song for what will presumably be the last time ever.* And surely not all of you had to get up to grab the Kleenex box from your bathroom at approximately 7:45 Central time because that damn show had made you teary-eyed and sniffly for the third time in under an hour.

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* What? You think I'm really the only one who does this??
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I realize all of this, of course, but... Wait. What was my point? Actually, I don't think I had one. I did want to show you this, however. Just in time for the series finale, I got myself a shirt proclaiming my new mantra.



It's just in time, too, because I am finding myself more kayak than ever. Date #2 with the very nice man who I'm unfortunately not at all attracted to was last night (in case you're wondering, he was the guy I met at that "Learn to be a Liquorologist" class a while back), and that second date will be a last date. I'm just not feelin' it, all his fine points be damned.

On top of that, I have recently been Miked for the second time in less than a year. I suspect you might not be familiar with that term, since I just made it up myself today. My friend Amy would understand, as she's been burned by men named Mike so many times that she refuses ever to date one again. She has often encouraged me to adopt this same boycott, and I've always replied that it's ridiculous to write anyone off solely on the basis of his name. Well, unless his name is Barry. Or Larry. Or, maybe, actually, Gary. (Sincerest apologies to any Barrys, Larrys, or Garys out there. I've just never been a fan of the "-arry" names.)

Now, however, I am beginning to suspect some possible credence to her theory. Hence, the new vocabulary word. "Mike" as a verb could have many meanings, to cover a wide range of being jerked about and mistreated by a man with that unfortunate name. In my case, however, to be Miked is to have a man flirt with me, express interest in me, tell me how very much he likes me and would love to date me, but then follow it with a "but I'm dating someone else at the moment; so sorry about that, really."

So enough with the Mikes. Amy's a wise woman, obviously. Too bad I actually owe one of those Mikes an email reply yet tonight...

Since I'm in a bit of a funk about my second Miking and actually don't have much else to say, I thought maybe I'd try something that the Funky Brown Chick did recently. She writes about dates and dating even more than I do**, and last week she decided to put out a call for questions about her dating life. Anything we wanted to know, she would answer. Maybe it's presumptuous of me to assume you want to know anything about my dating life, but since I do from time to time get e-mails and comments asking, "What ever happened with...?" perhaps there might be at least something on your minds. So ask and I shall answer. What do you want to know about my dating life? Put a question in the comments or an email, and I'll answer it later this week.

By the way, it does occur to me to place some disclaimer here, reserving the right not to answer anything I deem just too personal, but I can't really imagine too many questions that would fall into that group. That wasn't a challenge, mind you. Go at least sort of easy on me, OK?

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** Which I would like to think is not all that often, as I never really intended to create a dating blog, but based on the number of dating-related search engine results I see in Sitemeter, it's obviously a frequent theme.
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RIP, Loreleis

It's official. Goodbye, Stars Hollow. Thanks for the memories.

Guess I'll need to find a new set of imaginary friends and neighbors to fill the void.




P.S. Rory, please don't marry Logan. You're too young.

Public Service Announcement

Just in case you're like me and you nearly forgot during its latest annoyingly lengthy hiatus that a show called Gilmore Girls even exists (and you're one of the few people remaining who actually cares that it still exists), I thought I would point out that there's a new episode on tonight.

I suspect that my regularly scheduled Gilmore Girls references will begin invading my posts again very shortly.

That is all.

4, 3, 2, 1... ElimiDATE.*

Earlier today, Liz left a comment on my blog seemingly implying that I was holding out on her--being stingy with the details about my adventures with meMarmony Search 2.0. The truth is, sadly, that I've had no particularly interesting details thus far. Wait a minute. I take that back. The fact that a friend and I recently discovered we were both in "Open Communication" with the same guy was pretty interesting... as was the profile I received for a man listing his occupation as Superhero.** Aside from those little tidbits, however, nothing too interesting to note. I haven't even met a single one of these men yet. This seems a little strange to me... maybe I'm remembering things through the same rose-colored glasses that made me re-join meMarmony in the first place, but I swear the invites came earlier and the activity was more regular the last time I played this little game.

Perhaps there's simply a three-week incubation period on dates this time around, however, because in the past few days, I have had two invitations for the standard introductory coffee-date and one suggestion that I let a guy buy me "a coffee, a Greenie, or a gyro at Holy Land." Add in the upcoming dinner with Index Card Guy, and suddenly it seems entirely feasible that I may have four dates with four different men in the same one-week span. (Again, in case it isn't clear, no, I'm not a whore. But thanks for asking.)

This is all very unique and potentially interesting, but mainly I just keep wondering how on earth I'm going to squeeze all these dates into my schedule and still have time for important things like finally replying to long-neglected e-mails and watching the many fine television programs to which I'm addicted. I need my requisite amount of sitting-around time, after all. Dating has this annoying way of cutting into that at times.

I was pondering this in a message to GG and Darren earlier today... I was telling them that four men want to meet me all at once, and suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps I really should meet them all at once. It would be like my own personal episode of ElimiDATE, and it could be an entirely amusing (and ego-boosting) experiment. (It would also save me a whole lot of time.) Of course, with my luck, the four eligible bachelors would not be clamoring for my attention and performing bizarre feats of strength to impress me in absurd ways... instead, two of them would bond over some shared appreciation for the Vikings or Nintendo Wii or the latest developments on 24 and would thereafter ignore me the rest of the night, and another one would find himself rightfully above the foolish game of competitive dating, leaving me with only the most fawning and desperate of the bunch. There was a reason I never applied to be a participant on ElimiDATE, after all, and it didn't entirely have to do with not wanting to be filmed in a bikini entering a hot tub on national TV. Still, it's an amusing idea nonetheless...



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* Please tell me at least one of you got the reference in this subject line (and actually heard the guy's voice saying it in your head as you read it). I cannot be at peace thinking I am the only one who actually got sucked into the trainwreck that was ElimiDATE more than thrice.

** This is actually sort of a genius move, I think, if you're looking to give the ladies an easy lead-in to all sorts of borderline-suggestive questions... you know, like, "So what kind of outfit do you wear?" and "Do you look good in tights?" and, of course, "What sorts of special powers do you have?" Surely I wouldn't be the first woman to go down that route, however, so I wouldn't even gain any points for creativity with any of those.

What about Who now?

It's been a while since I documented any of the bizarre little scenes my subconscious cooks up while I'm asleep. In case anyone was thinking that was because I'd actually started having nothing but normal and sensical dreams, let me tell you about last night.

Last night, I dreamt I was sitting around a large, circular table on a warm sunny patio with the cast of What about Brian. We were enjoying drinks and light snacks, and I was chatting with them about how I'm the only one I know who's actually watching their show.

I told them about how excited I was when one of the Fug girls also claimed to be the only person in America who's even aware of the show and about how frustrating it is to have no one to complain to about how very annoying and vile Brian's new girlfriend is (not to mention how creepy and unsettling it is for him to be routinely having sex with someone his father "bagged" as well).

I also told the girl who used to be Felicity's roommate how strange I thought it was that the cast was culled so heavily from the WB's pool of stock actors. She just sneered at me in reply, perhaps rightfully peeved that I referred to her as "the girl who used to be Felicity's roommate" instead of by her proper name. (Which is Amanda Foreman. Happy now, Meghan? I looked it up.)

I am pretty sure I can attribute this dream to the fact that I stayed up well past my intended bedtime watching last night's episode on tape, because I was detained in small-talk with a meMarmony match during the 9:00-10:00 slot when it originally aired. I've already realized I need to put a curfew on my Internet time, because when there is no buffer between when I turn off my computer and when I head to bed, somehow bloggers and e-mail friends inevitably creep into my dreams shortly thereafter. Apparently the same holds true for TV characters as well.

Of course, the other possibility is not just that I need some buffer time between TV and bed, but that I simply need a life as well. Let's just go with the former, though, OK?


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Edited to add: By the way, I swear this post was neither endorsed nor paid for by ABC. You know, just in case that somehow wasn't abundantly clear.

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