I hardly ever remember to check my site stats, and when I do it’s usually because Gorjus has bragged about his, and then I check mine and weep silently. But this last time I checked them, the searches were awesome, and also will be the titles of my forthcoming volumes of poetry:

— steal shrimp lie about it (sound advice if I’ve ever heard it)
— bobby flay is a douche (true that — a ginger one at that)
— what to do with broken crockpots (give them to Mrs. Floon for her mashed potato bar!)
— the worst thing sally did (uh. I’m pretty sure I’ve not written about this)
— hilarious story about chili (I totally want to read a hilarious story about chili!)
— i love cheeseburgers (me too!)
— my brother is a liar (my own brother is actually incapable of lying. really)
— names for gray kittens (the specificity of this one is especially funny to me)

The most common search, overwhelmingly, was for Gary Soto’s poem “Oranges” (hi! you can read it here). I am overwhelmingly proud that the top search term is a poem and no longer a variation of “suri cruise port wine stain.” Second place is the lyric “I know your plans don’t include me” from the Bob Seger song “We’ve Got Tonight,” which I mentioned here. I feel sorry for all those people who end up at this site expecting a full explication of the song’s deep and important Christ imagery, and end up with a rundown of two-year-old reality television.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. Floon served on jury duty, and one of the people in the jury with her spoke with an affected, obviously fake Scottish brogue. On the last day, someone asked him where in Scotland he was from, and he said that he wasn’t Scottish, he just had Parkinson’s disease. Um.

Also, one of the witnesses in the case exclaimed from the stand, “And if I could’ve seen the rest of those divorce records, I could’ve stopped that black market baby ring!” How jealous am I that I wasn’t there?

While I was at my mother’s I was just going to take a peek at my scrapbook from middle and high school, but when I opened it I found that everything was beginning to rot (hello, I am old enough to have rotting memorabilia) so I took it apart. Most everything I remembered, but there were a slew of notes from this boy named Doug who was in my English class, and all I have to say is: wow. Doug, wherever you are, you were a comic genius and I was too dumb to notice. I also found an intriguing envelope marked “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE YEAR 2000 — PUT IN IN 1984,” and guess what super top secret awesomeness was in it?

Actually, yeah: you’ll have to guess. It’s one of the following:

1. A play, written by me in 6th grade, about how one day David V. and I will get married.
2. David V.’s name written over and over. For three pages.
3. A game of MASH in which I marry David V., live in a house, and have 2 kids named Tad and Jenny.
4. A journal entry in which I predict that one day, David V. will have a Parkinson’s-induced Scottish brogue.

Today is actually the 27th! And I am at work! And hardly anyone else is here! And therefore I am quite unproductive.

The holidays in general were happy and festive, and I got a ton of loot. My mother makes the best dressing in the world, and before we left she fixed us up an insulated bag of awesome, which included an entire pan of dressing, a whole baked chicken, mashed potatoes, 4,000 cookies, and one ton of peanut butter fudge. Also, a package of bologna and some bacon. (I think she was cleaning out the fridge.)

I am kicking myself for not requesting the rest of this week off, but being at work today is almost like being at home, except I am sitting upright at my desk and not horizontally on the couch. I think I could probably bring a television up here tomorrow and no one would notice. No one would notice because no one is here to notice.

In closing, before I get back to reading every word of the internet, here is what’s written on a post-it affixed to my computer:

“Them old crabcakes ain’t doing nothing but being crabby.”

Today is not the 26th, but on the 26th Larry and I came back to Jackson, and then unloaded the car, which was packed to capacity, and then I managed to put 95% of the stuff away, which is actually a Christmas miracle.

Today is not the 25th, but on the 25th we opened presents and ate and napped and basically did the best kind of holiday nothing.

Today is not the 24th, but on the 24th my mother and Larry and I did crafts. Yes. Larry did crafts. He painted and decorated a charming ornament, but as I am a better crafter his ornament was mocked. A lot.

Hello!

I’ve finally gotten out of the Denver airport and — ok, I was never really in the Denver airport. But I have been at my mother’s house for a couple of days, and her keyboard is working sporadically. So have a merry Christmas and I’ll see y’all next week.

Today is not the 21st, but on the 21st I went to eleven stores. My mom and I counted.

Also, it was gclark’s birthday, which I failed to acknowledge.

Today is not the 20th, but on the 20th I worked half the day then flew to Dallas. I lost my luggage for a few hours but it eventually turned up, and I decided that keeping that luggage tag that lists my address seven houses ago is no longer funny or nostalgic.

Yesterday was my friend J. Bubba Cots’s birthday. Sometimes he is e, but to me he is J. Bubba Cots, because that is the name I gave him.

In the long catoptric/ohreally/prettyfakes birthday tradition of telling a story about the birthday person, here is mine about JBC. (more…)

Two signs that the end of reality television’s reign is near:

1. Armed and Famous, where the semi-famous (Erik Estrada, LaToya Jackson, et cetera) become cops.

2. You’re the One That I Want, where people compete to star in a new Broadway production of Grease.

Look, I love reality television when something good happens at the end: Top Chef, Project Runway, Survivor (speaking of, yay Yul!), Top Model, et cetera, so the Grease show might not be terrible. But I am OFFICIALLY TIRED OF FAMOUS PEOPLE DOING FUNNY THINGS. I’m looking at you, Dancing with the Stars and that ice skating show I never watched.

Last night Larry and I were at Hamil’s, home of the $7 ribs-fried-chicken-mashed-potatoes-black-eyed-peas-sweet-tea-banana-pudding, and I saw a couple leaving who looked familiar. I looked at the woman, then the man, and thought maybe that they were Wendy’s parents — and then I realized who they were: they were Poobou’s parents. I recognized them from her wedding pictures! By the time I figured this out they were already outside, and it was dark, and I didn’t want to harrass them as they were getting into their van. Plus, what would I say that wouldn’t freak them out? Hey, hey you! I’ve seen you! On the internet!

• I would like to formally start an internet rumor that Jayden James Federline, the thus-unseen Spears baby, has a port wine stain. Thank you.

• In high school, when hamburgers were served in the cafeteria, they were not called “hamburgers.” They were called “meat and cheese,” which is scarily vague, although technically correct. My friend Mike used to enthusiastically ask the lunch lady for “met and chezz, plezz!” which at the time was hilarious. Actually, I still think it’s hilarious. It’s fun to say out loud. Try it.

• Also in high school, my friend Jason thought that “leggo my Eggo” was just something you said to someone who was also eating Eggos, like “high five, man! leggo my eggo!” Therefore, I am fond (still) of saying, “Let go of my Eggo brand waffle” to myself when I have the occasion to eat an Eggo brand waffle. Such as this morning.

• I really want this book. This is why:

You’re a brunette, 6′, long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4’10”, have the looks of Hervé Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.