My friend Clay compared it to a cross between Friendster and Google, but I think it’s more like TiVo for the web.

What is it?

It’s Stumble Upon – a rating and referral site for anywhere on the web. There’s a special extension for Firefox users, which is just nifty.

Do sign up. :)

I’m in the middle of a mailing for work. I’ve reorganized the database, designed the item being mailed, and set up the file from which I will print labels. Today, we stopped at the local Kinkos and dropped off the flyer, because even though it’s $20 less expensive for me to stand there and run the copies, it’s better for my sanity if they do it.

Our next stop was at Office Max, where I found labels (Buy 2, get one free, yay house brands), and Fuzzy spent fifteen minutes drooling over the LCD monitors. ViewSonic’s 17″ model is down to $299 after rebates and such, and we really need two of them – one to replace the monitor that was lost in our move, and the other for a server we’re planning to set up in the garage.

He was standing there, slack-jawed, staring at the images, and nodding mutely while a salesperson with too little to occupy his time chatted amiably, apparently not noticing the total lack of response.

“Fuzzy, are you having monitor lust?” I asked as I entered the aisle, showing off my yellow-packaged labels. “Or do you need some more alone time with the techy toys before we go.”

He didn’t answer, except to shrug, and the salesperson made a few jokes, then wandered off to actually make money from another customer. “The prices have dropped,” I was told.

I glanced at the tags under each monitor. “The ViewSonic has the nicest color saturation of all of these,” I said. “That one,” and I pointed at some other, somewhat more expensive brand, “looks washed out.”

He nodded, and I smiled, and said, “It’s time to go now, dear.” But by the time I’d paid for the labels and left the store, he’d disappeard again, only to emerge a few minutes later, announcing, “I was looking at the clearance display. There were cd’s.”

But we didn’t buy any.

Later, he escorted me to Starbucks, where I watched a woman in a cowboy hat fondling a pair of mugs. As mugs go, they were kind of nice, really, white, with a red line around the inner rim. Vaguely heart-shaped, they would fit nicely into the curve of your hand, if you’re like me, and wrap your fingers through the handle of a mug, instead of around it. The handle was a decent shape as well – and large enough for three fingers – which is my personal requirement for cafe-ware.

“Those have a nice shape,” I observed aloud, as I waited for the purchase to be completed so that I could place my order.

Cowboy-hat woman grinned at me. “They do,” she said. And she picked one up, wrapping her hand through the handle. “And they’re not too heavy, but they’re solid. And kind of pretty.”

I smiled and nodded.

“They’re also on sale,” she pointed out. “Only $5 each.”

“Tempting,” I said. “But I don’t need any more mugs.”

“I just got rid of all my old broken ones,” she told me. “I do that sometimes. If the glaze gets too badly scratched inside, if I get bored, if my mood changes.”

I grinned, and nodded again. And even though I said nothing else, the two of us had a moment in which we were connected by our mutual appreciation of the Perfect Mug. The mood was broken when the barista handed Cowboy Hat Woman’s caramel frapp across the bar, smiled, and asked me what I wanted.

But I’ve been thinking about those mugs ever since. Not really lusting after them, just thinking. Envy maybe. But not lust.

For the first time since the end of November, I’m not in the mood to write ANYTHING. I’m not blocked – there are ideas brewing – but I’m not in an actual writing mood.

So today was a blah day.

I worked on a loan, I baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (froze half the dough for use later), and took my dogs for an abbreviated walk because they were so bratty that it wasn’t fun for any of us.

I’m alternately too hot and too cold, and feel kind of dehydrated, even though I’ve had more than a gallon of water today, and am mid-way through yet another 16-ounce bottle of the stuff.

I’m in the mood to play in TNG’s fanfic sandbox. A fanfic writer whose work I really admire, wrote in a mailing list (a few years ago) that she didn’t see any way that even EmotionChip!Data could ever have a real romance, and suddenly I want to write a story that both a) gives a reason for the absence of his chip in Nemesis and b)addresses the issue in a non episode sort of way. I think it might BEGIN with someone divorcing him/ending a relationship because of it. Definitely AU…but something to play with, because writing fanfic is better than nothing at all, and it keeps the juices flowing.

But not tonight.
Tonight I’m not writing.

No, really, I’m not.

I am faded, baggy, v-neck sweatshirts over lacy tank tops, and comfortable sneakers. I am strong coffee, dark chocolate and red wine. I am bagels with cream cheese, and I am croissants with bitter dark marmalade. I am funky hats and dangly earrings and hair color subject to change without notice. I am pen and ink and 0’s and 1’s and words and music and rhythm. I am jazz and blues, old standards and folk music – music of conscious, they call it now – a cup of classical, a peck of pop and rock, a glimmer of gospel, and just enough country to make things interesting. I am purple and faded black and forest green, alternating with fiery orange and red. I am eggplant and tomatoes and garlic and olives. And I am also grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of chili. I am the scent of damp earth, and I am the essence of freshly -cut flowers: irises, calla lilies, and sunflowers. I am books and quilts, cuddly dogs and mugs of tea. I am a little bit techie and a little bit traditional. I am good grammar, mostly, and proper table manners. I am coppery lip gloss and fuchsia toenails. I am dark eyes, and a light heart. I am a daughter, a friend, a lover, a woman, someone’s muse. I am the darkest hour of the night, and the first ray of morning sunshine. I walk in the moonlight and dance in the rain. I am shy in large groups, with bouts of situational extroversion. In my head I visit other worlds, but in my heart I am always home. I am funny, caustic, sarcastic, and snide. I tease with affection, not malice. I am water and fire. I love and I am loved, and I am both yearning and happy. I am verbal snapshots and mental images. But most of all, I’m just Melissa.

…until your mostly-white dog rolls in a foul-smelling brick-colored substance that was at first mistaken for just another patch of dry leaves. I know this, because on the homeward leg of our walk today, Cleo found a patch of…something…and immediately flipped herself over and began wriggling in it, making moves that can only be described as doggy orgasm.

I am not making this up.

I’ve rarely seen her roll in anything. She used to love to run around in freshly cut grass, thus turning her legs green up to the knee, but other than that the only thing she and Zorro ever flipped for (literally) was Eukaneuba.

Yes, the substance that most dogs understand is meant to be eaten, my dogs think is either a sexual stimulant, or a coat enhancer. Either way, even one kibble of Eukaneuba on the floor was enough to send both of them into paroxysms of canine ecstasy.

But at least THAT was behind closed doors.

Cleo’s display today took place in broad daylight, in the middle of the curb strip near the sidewalk, in the suburbs. I am not making it up when I share that even Zorro was embarrassed by her display. He turned his head away from her and gave a little chihuahua snort of utter disdain. (The only thing worse is when the snort is offered in combination with his famous slitty-eyed look.)

It took tugging, clapping, pleading, and – I am admitting this here – bribery with a bit of rollover kept in my pocket for just such emergencies, to get Cleo back on her feet, and marching toward home, where she was rewarded for her behavior with banishment from all furniture until after her bath.

Now, it is a fact that Cleo loves water. She’s jumped into the bathtub (while one of us was bathing) on more than one occaision. She ventures into the swimming pool from time to time. She has special white-dog radar that tells her where the deepiest, muddiest, grossest mud puddles are, and how best to approach her entrance to them. Today, however, she acted like the furry version of the Wicked Witch of the West – warbling with distress when I plopped her in the kitchen sink, and whining like a puppy when I brought forth the Sprayer of Doom.

It should come as no surprise that, once I had pronounced her CLEAN, and released her to go outside and shake off, more water was found soaked into my clothing and apron, and splashed across the kitchen floor, than had possibly gotten onto the dog.

“Oh, well,” I thought, as I looked down at my black shirt and pants, now covered with doggie bathwater and stray hairs (I think dogs share the trait that tarantulas have, of flinging hair when they’re stressed), “everything’s washable.”

And so, for an encore, I gave Zorro a bath as well.

And now, both dogs, having been bathed, brushed, fed, and cuddled into toasty warm dryness, are sleeping peacefully in their usual spots near my desk, though they’re still NAKED, as their collars were also washed, and haven’t yet dried.

And me?
I’m going to bed.

Tomorrow, though, we’re taking a different route on our walk.
One without any curb strips.

Onesome: All– all the world’s a stage… So what types of issues put you on your soapbox?
I don’t generally talk about politics in my blog, but I do have strong opinions. My biggest personal issue is reproductive choice – it’s NOT about being for or against HAVING an abortion. It’s about individuals being able to choose what is right for them. Beyond that…social justice, peace, animal welfare, though not to the extreme that organizations like PETA go to.

Twosome: Things– what sort of things are you most likely to purchase “spur of the moment” when shopping?
Books, pens, cool stationery, hats, the perfect lip gloss, earrings, and shoes.

Threesome: Girl– sugar and spice and everything nice? Come now, what are YOU really made of?
Me? I’m baggy v-neck sweatshirts over lacy tank tops, and comfortable sneakers. I’m strong coffee, red wine, and dark chocolate. I’m pen and ink and 0’s and 1’s and words and music and rhythm. I’m jazz and blues and standards, old folk songs, and songs of consious, a touch of classical, a peck of pop and rock, a glimmer of gospel, and just enough country to make things interesting. I’m funky hats and dangly earrings and hair color that is subject to change without notice. I’m books and quilts, cuddly dogs and mugs of tea. I’m the scent of damp earth mixed with the essence of fresh-cut flowers: iris, calla lilies, sunflowers. I’m eggplant, garlic, tomatoes, and olives. I’m purple and forest green and faded black, alternating with fiery orange and red. I am one in the morning, and I am the morning sun. But mostly, I’m just Melissa.

I’ve changed my template yet again, another one I didn’t create, but one I like. I really should consider implementing skinning, but when I get bored, it means I don’t want ANYONE seeing previous incarnations.

And I know it’s completely ridiculous, because I don’t see the template when I’m writing, but how it looks affects the voice in which I write.

Sometimes.

Anyway.

Read the credits and footer, and enjoy the new template.

I don’t generally watch commercials, having become addicted to the concept of starting to watch favorite shows 15 minutes into the hour, so that TiVo is just enough ahead that I can fast forward through the commercials.

But I was watching live tv last night (during Gilmore Girls, I think?) and had to laugh at the Diet Pepsi commercial using the old Sesame Street song “Manamanah.”

Yay, nostalgia.
Except now I have the song stuck in my head.

Last year, when I was still an employee of a mortgage company in California, and not a contract processor and wannabe freelance writer, my friend Jeremy, acting in his role as Uber-Cool Assistant whose admin skills are second only to his hugging skills, created an up-to-date mailing list for the company.

I KNOW that I have a copy on disc, and I KNOW that he emailed it to me before either of us had left the company. In fact, I sort of vaguely remember deleting the emailed copy, in a fit of ‘housecleaning.’

Can I find it? No.

So, since I volunteered to do a mailing for said company (for a hefty fee, paid in advance, of course), I’ve had to re-create the stupid mailing list.

ARGH.

There are times when my “delete” key really should be taken away.

Someone at OpenDiary challenged her readers to pick 10 things that represent them. She mentioned using a photo album or scrapbook, or some such, but because I’m a purist I’m eliminating those as possible choices. If you feel like playing along, please leave a comment or trackback ping.

1) A fountain pen. My favorite one is green and blue glass, with a metal nib. It represents words and writing, and my fetish for pen and ink.

2) A cake of rosin. Because it represents not just my cello, but also the work involved in learning to read music, and sing, or play an instrument. On a broader scale, it also represents my love of music.

3) Black western-style boots, which I’ve owned since I was 18, actually. They represent my new life, here in Texas, and also my love of horses, even though they’re not really riding boots.

4) The jaws of a baby white shark, that I’ve had since a trip to New Jersey when I was 12. A slightly gruesome object, I guess, but an important one. They represent my love of the ocean, and the danger inherent in taking nature for granted. In a more abstract fashion, they represent my hot temper.

5) A red candle in a glass and pewter candle holder, the flame for the people I love whom are either no longer within visiting distance, or no longer alive, the concept of a candle, as functional art, the color red for power and prosperity, in my personal interpretation, not based on any specific spiritual leaning.

6) My wedding & engagement rings, for the obvious, my committment to Fuzzy, and for the less obvious, the tiny sparkle of the diamond reminds me that good things come in small packages (trite but true).

7) A stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh that I’ve had for almost thirty-four years now. It stands for innocence lost, delights treasured, and the pleasure of imagination.

8) A small rubber duck. This represents my self-indulgent side – bubble baths, pedicures, and foofy hair salons, but it also represents my love of whimsy.

9) Bubbie’s quilt. My step-grandmother hand stitched this for my mother, as a sort of wedding gift, and when my parents came to visit this year, they gifted it to me. It represents the tradition of fiber arts in my family – my maternal grandmother never stopped reminding us that ‘a gift of the hand is a gift from the heart’, as well as the notion that families don’t have to be made only of the people who are connected to you by blood. It also represents my appreciation for history. Quilts are stories, as much as books are.

10) A black velvet beret, with a diamond poodle pin on it. It represents my love of hats, and the concept of having personal style beyond whatever is in fashion. Someone once said, “Blessed are those who know how to accessorize.” Hats are my favorite accessory. This hat, though, brings us back to my love of words, because I started wearing it when I was a kid, and wanted to be Jo March, up in her garrett, eating apples and scribbling madly.