hurry, hurry, here comes my stop

The Replacements are on. Bar band crack. It makes me want a beer. Makes me want to have my ears ring. Makes me want to smell like smoke and deep fried food. Makes me wish I was here and 21 during their Minneapolis heyday. Kiss Me On The Bus is playing. “Your tongue, your transfer, your hand, your answer.” I’ll kiss you, Paul. I’ll kiss you.

I glitter painted! Here are the results.

This one isn’t done yet – I have to get a marker to draw in some cute bunny faces! So until then, please pretend there are cute drawn in bunny faces where there are just empty circles in hoods right now!

Bunnies In Spaaaaaaaaace!, 2005, acrylic, glue, glitter and (coming soon) marker on itty bitty canvas board.


6th Grade Saturday Night, 2005, acrylic, glue and, of course, glitter!


That one is my new favorite. I have much pride inside me when I look upon it.

This one, however, kinda sucks!

Hummingbird, 2005, you know the drill.


Glitter paintings don't fotograph so good! SADNESS!

I figured out that to make the $20,000 we need to straighten out this mess, I need to make 1,333 glitter paintings – AND – I need to sell them ALL. Suuuuure. This’ll work. YET, I keep doing it so that I feel like I’m doing something.

SIGH!

And even though I just said I don't think it will work, a part of me thinks it WILL work!

Have I gone MAD?

Maybe Marlo Thomas or Isaac Brock will offer to buy just one glitter painting for $20,000. The roller skate one, of course! Then I could get on the horn and call all the people we owe money to and gleefully inform them that the check is, indeed, in the mail and this time I’m not lying! I would cease walking and only skip from that day forward. I would be entrenched in perma-smile. I would spend the rest of the afternoon doing good deeds and rescuing kittens. It would be a fine fine day.

I talked to M’s sister last night. She is sad and disappointed in M. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. Me neither. It’s such a mess. I’m so in the middle of it. It seems dream like. Disbelief. Doubt. Disdain. Disclaimers. Broken doors. Dirty dishes. Dank apple green rooms. Dust. Drunk. Disco. Don’t do this. Do that. Deaf. Distant. Dischord. Done. I throw my hands up.

What I just overheard some guy say: “you can’t tell the mouse.”

What I now think he does for a living: spy.

Before I heard him say that: mortgage consultant.

blop blop bloop

my night

hazy day dreams go
with his coke bottle glasses
blushing, knees touch

fourteen year old me
handing him a gift I made
when I was thirty three

my head

Bee. Be. Bea. Bursting bubbles clear. See through nightingale, heart beating, blood pumping, see how it works. Window boxes, clothes lines. Running through rows of sheets hung out to dry. Tiny pink percale clusters of flowers floating in a white white sky. Did you ever look at me and know all this? When I was 5 and running by. What was inside. I feel the hands of you on my back. I feel the Thursday bruise on my arm. I feel the hangover of my today sliding through my body. There is glitter on those chairs now. It’ll be there forever. A sparkle. A fleck. A piece stuck to his cheek. His eyes were big behind his glasses. His smile wide. He liked my painting. Matches a rug. Matches a wall. Matches his corneas. More beer than I could drink. More than I could spend. Who has my ankles? Who has my wrists? Have I even struggled against this? I forget that I don’t see the world like everyone else. Specialness gives way to none until someone says they’ve never seen anyone eat a donut like me. Reminded! Poked! There is just this one me. Safe. Slop soothe sanctuary scream so far so good. Scolded. Sink swim swoosh by. Sunday best. Isn’t best at all. Hover horse hang hop hop hopped up on goofballs. "Wanna see me disco? Wanna see me DISC-GO!!" Tongue sticking out. Bright eyes. Breathtaking breathless breathe deep. In and out. In and out. Close my eyes and remember the dream of glittery moons passing by. In the end I know where I land. Trees tall thoughtful tink tink tinkerbell! Thumbelina size of a button. Toss taste topsy turvy. Thank you for the trick. Run. Ran. Romper room. Rancid rain water ring ring ring the telephone rings. Doorbell. Church bells. Hand me my baton. Twirling. Practice. Again and again. Hits the driveway with a metal clang. Bouncing on it’s white capped ends. Punk rock paper airplanes paper beats rock. Scissors beats paper. He always let me win. Playful he knew. He use to know. Crisscrossed over. Water. Bridge. Brigade. Bounce. Rebound. Reborn. Redo. Redone. Reverb. Resonate. Release.

so pretty

Last night was greasy bar food and quiet weird instrumental music curtsey the Tin Hat Trio, who just happen to be four strong. I much enjoy band names such as theirs. The food stuffs were had at the Triple Rock. I opted for a plain old grilled cheese and no kidding, it was the best fucking grilled cheese I’ve ever had in my whole entire life! (Sorry, Mom!) They work magic there with the bread and the cheese!

After that, we headed up the street for the show. My day of adrenaline induced bruising and 12 hours of work left me thinking sleep would be a really really good idea about the same time as the opening band left the stage. Half way through the Tin Hat Trio my head was on A’s shoulder and I was dozing off to strange eerie violin notes scratched out softly by a girl who could have been me and a melody of guitar, clarinet and harp filling in the gaps. The best part of dozing off and maybe even the whole evening (better listen up, what I’m about to say beats out the grilled cheese!) were these dreamlike images of notes and floweres and confetti and streamers circling around me and lifting me up. I was floating along in a world that looked painted by Chagall. There were stars and thick smudges of paint that wouldn’t dry and glittery moons making everything pretty. I had a sleepy smile on my face and watched my dream unfold like it was a movie.

How I later characterized my grilled cheese sammich when asked: triple rockin’.

What the Cedar Riverside Cultural Center always smells like: curry.

If I think that’s a good or bad thing: can’t decide.

I think the earliest layer of dust has settled. The first of many things are sinking in. The funny thing is that it’s what I’ve known all along. I would say it to myself in my clearest moments and yell it out loud in my most unclear. This wasn’t really about M. It was about me not wanting to give up on big things. Not big things like houses and coffee shops, but big things like life being fair and people being good. So many of my more practical friends say that I just have to accept those as true.

Life. Isn’t. Fair.

All. People. Aren’t. Good.

I think I’m going to respectfully disagree. This is fair. Not that I deserved this hurt, but I deserved growth. And I’m getting it. Growth always kinda sucks. Learning is hard. Learning life stuff is really really hard. But you are always better for it. And M. He isn’t a bad person. I wasn’t wrong about the boy I thought he was. He is still him. All that good and unique is still in there. But his role in this was the catalyst. If it was for both of us or just me, only time will tell. I know that inspite of some of my choices, I’m getting off this roller coaster a better person than when I got on. That’s what this really is about, isn’t it? It’s not who gets the boy or who gets the girl. It’s who gets themselves. And since that really is only up to you, isn’t it fair?

Donut time!

downside up

HOLY SHIT.

M and I just beat each other up. A low point to say the least. I started it. Things have been broken by me being thrown into them. M’s jacket is ripped. I kept holding onto his pocket. He was in a rage. Tossing me around, I kept holding on.

HOLY SHIT.

We have been dragged down by each other. We are no good right now. There is anger and hurt and rage flying all over. Hitting the walls. Sticking to the ceiling. I am embarrassed by my behavior. By his.

Apparently, this is my breaking point. My nerves are gone from the last 8 months of my choices. My common sense has been beaten down by my raging emotions. Us being trapped here together has done harm to each of us.

God willing we’ll both be ok. I don’t know much right now, but I know that this morning wasn’t us.

shaken

I asked M to move out. He refused. SIGH. Said that as long as he was at the store, he wanted to live at the house.

So I said, you need to do better. He said he needed to go.

4 years comes down to this.

I feel kinda better. Surprisingly. Amazingly. Astonishingly. It’s nice to have things in my control. To not be subject to his whims anymore. To not have to see him crying and saying that he is afraid to loose me but then do things that make it impossible to not lose me. To not have to hear him say how little she meant to him and that this new him is really him and then watch the new him be no better. The confusion of all this has made me feel like I live in a snow globe. Just when the glitter starts to sink to the bottom and cover the little scene in it’s pretty -- the giant hand reaches for the glass and with a quick shake sends it all up into the sky again. It’s not the snow globe that needs to go, it’s the giant hand.

What I’m wondering right now: could I get away with wearing roller skates ALL THE TIME like Tootie?

With all the whirlwind cyclone upside down trouble that surrounds us, I don’t trust these decisions. What I think is right for me changes with the clock. I don’t trust he knows what he wants. I don’t trust that I do. He doesn’t trust that he knows what he wants either. He surely doesn’t trust that I do. Again, Isaac Brock can sum it all up and put a bow on it: “I’ve changed my mind so much I can’t even trust it. My mind’s changed me so much I can’t even trust myself.” That’s from a Modest Mouse song called Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset. I love it when what you hear can help you see.

What I know right now: I feel a weight has been lifted. About 160 pounds.

My brand spankin’ new friend P is coming to my rescue! He has kindly agreed to make the Crafting Out Of Debt website. THANK GOD. I possess no website skillz. No form making skilz. No setting up a Paypal store skilz. But he gots all those and more too boot! So, let’s hear it for P! Three cheers to you, my friend! I owe you a beer or 200!

What kind of beer P drinks: Summit.

What kind I do: Newcastle.

Wow. On ward. Buck up. Brilliant. Boing boing. Boy. Beats me. Bus stops. Bang boip. Brummel bristle. Back away.

Hey, everyone, can we take a collective deep breath and hope that my evil plan of crafting out of debt works. Hope that I can run the store alone. Hope that handing over my lemons to the kindness of strangers will result in a tall refreshing glass of lemonade. Hope that in the end, the good guy wins. Hope that in the end, I’m the good guy.

lifetime money back guarantee

Today, I’m asking M to move out.

SIGH. Or UG.

It’s been another drama drenched week.

It’s his usual modus operendi. He’s confused, he says. Doesn’t know what he wants, he says. Covers me in the maybe of us, then does the same to her. Then says he wants to move to Chicago and be alone for a while. The back and forth, up and down, in and out of this has changed me. I’ll suddenly and sometimes realize that this isn’t me at all. I’m not a yeller. I’m not insecure. Or mean. I know this isn’t worth losing myself in. Things have to change so I can preserve what’s left of me in a nice little Tupperware container. A pale green one. Hey, if you listen real hard this afternoon, you just might be able to hear the burp.

The crafting out of debt continues. Forward ho! I finished two glitter paintings last night and they turned out way cool. Need proof? Feast your eyeballs on these babies:

Twiggy, 2005, Acrylic and glue and glitter on wee canvas board.


My 3rd Grade Feet, 2005, made from the same stuff as the other one.


I want to make one of aliens. And roller skates. Maybe aliens on roller skates!

:A: went to a bird conference this past week and there was a man who kidnapped penguins. Did you catch that - - he KIDNAPS PENGUINS! Something about blindfolding them and placing ‘em 200 meters away from their nests – then watching to see if they can find their way back. They can! But it takes a while. Cute! Next time you’re feeling blue try imagining a disoriented penguin who has just been kidnapped. That should cheer you up.

What I’m thinking about right now: a disoriented penguin who has just been kidnapped!

much much burp slurp! me no hurt you little girl.

I had never thunk myself as a girl in search of attention. I would have checked off the “wall-flower” box without much thought, but all of a sudden I want this read. Yes. This right here. My pollyblog. Read by people. Real live people! So I emailed my friend who has patented Advertising Access and told her to go ahead and advertise this little puppy and she said ok. It was that simple. Done. Fini. 10-4, good buddy.

In preparation for The Advertising, I’ve gone through and reread almost of all I’ve wrote. Changed a few things. Hid others away for rainy days or posterity or maybe never to be seen again. There are lengthy posts that I have no recollection of writing. There are crazy rants and goo drentched paragraphs of angst and woe is me. I’m not proud of it all. Some things kinda make me cringe but are still living on the information super highway for all to see. I guess they serve to make this real.. or realer. Like watching a dissection. My insides laid out for anyone who wants a peek.

What I have to restrain myself from writing every time I pen the word PEEK: a-boo!

Last time I played peek-a-boo: Thursday.

I went to a fondue party. I had never fondued before! It started out innocently enough. An asparagus spear here, a chunk of bread there and before you know it I seriously think I consumed a POUND OF CHEESE. No good! It really sneaks up on you. I think I’ll invent a pedometer type device (a fonduometer!) to attach to the pokey fondue forks that will tally the number of times it’s dipped into the cheese. Sure to make your jaw drop at the end of the evening! I wonder what else you could stick to the poker and dip into stuff. Donut holes into coffee. Cock doggies into warmed ketchup. Lima beans into peanut butter. Fun size Snickers into bubbling tarter sauce. The possibilities are endless!

I can’t really hold a grudge. So while I should be hopping mad at M again, I’m just sorta whatever about it all. Apparently, I can’t deny a teary eyed boy a hug! I’m a sucker for trying to get to the smooooove. To the no stress. To the calm. To the smile. It’s my whole heart thing messing with me again. You know, the fact that I have one. Ha! Insert rim shot here, please.

Watched Freaks and Geeks last night. What a great show! They somehow figured out how to do the whole “feel-good” thing without throwing in a buncha sappy. There were dance scenes that made my stomach all googly with vivid memories of my own high school dances and first kisses and parties gone out of control when my parents were asleep upstairs. I think I woulda been more of a freak than a geek. Teen aged Wisconsin punk rock girl. Messy hair, punk t-shirts, tattered old cardigans, hand stamps from shows. I had band stickers all over my notebooks and published a fanzine called Scream with my friends. The only fanzine put out by girls in the whole city! GIRL POWER! I almost cried when I got to meet Ian McKay. I cut class and lied to my parents. Listened to poppy punk rock beats at top volume in my headphones. Never missed a show. Was kinda afraid of the Misfits. I remember taking the long way around to the door so I could avoid Glen Danzig, completely convinced that he’d eat me if I got too close. That seems like a whole lifetime ago.

I’ll end this with the wee little thought that’s been running through my head the entire time I’ve been typing away about fondue and big hearts and punk rock: I met a boy.

i heart lowered expectations!

I'm going to learn how to play the guitar. It's a critical piece of my most recent self-actualization day dream. In it, I sing somewhat out of tune versions of indie/punk rock favorites in front of real live people. Songs like The Sweater Song and Get The Time. People like real ones, possibly armed with rotting fruit. OH, and I'm wearing gloshes. And :A: is backing me up on the accordion. And I look really cute and stuff. HECK YES. That is a formula for success! Or SUCKsess! We'll see!

I love to sing. I sing ALL THE TIME. Mostly in my head. Apparently, I'm a wee bit tone deaf. But that's nothing some hard work and lowered expectations can't cure! I figure if I sing breathy enough no one will notice. Or maybe I could have Ashlee Simpson lay down a backing track for me.

I'm going to give myself a year to realize this dream. I gots myself a good teacher and that's like half the battle or something! I'll start drinking tea like Madonna. You know, for my voice. I'll do exercises to improve my diaphragm. The organ one, sillies! And most especially, I'll work on building up finger calluses so I can properly hold down the power chords !!! January 2006, open mic night at the Chatterbox Pub, baby. Prepare to be DAZZLED. *jazz hands*

rockin' in the free world

Back to work, and I’m not even itching to kill anyone! Thanks, Day Off!

I went to see M’s two band’s play their little hearts out on Saturday night at the way cool musician’s co-op. I was assigned the task of “Door Girl” which means I got to touch everyone who was there at least once. The hand stamp said PICK UP on it, like you were mail. Last time I was there the stamp was a pair of kissy lips. We stamped the lips on our hand faces (you know, the Mr. Bill hand faces…) and proceeded to make out with each other and feed them beer drinks all night.

I was way impressed with M’s bands, as always, but kinda more so this time around. Something about M looking so at home on stage, something about how his hands move so fast they are blurs, something about their music being really really good, something about where we were, too. I use to play violin, I like to sing, but I’m not a musician by any stretch of the imagination. But there, I was surrounded by musicians, people who were pretty skilled in their own right and in bands that didn’t suck and they were all in AWE of M’s bands, especially his baby. I over heard dozens of praise-filled comments on their level of musicianship and music ADD sound. It’s gotta feel pretty dang good to be praised so enthusiastically by your music-nerd friends. Good for him! He deserves it. It’s been a long road to there.

OH the other thing that impressed me – they didn’t go on until after 1am and the place was PACKED still. AMAZING. Usually the last band plays to a third of the crowd, if they’re lucky. They gots the sticking around power!

The co-op is BYOB, which apparently stands for "Get Drunk - Real Cheap!" in some other language – and OH - that’s what I did. I did whisky shots. I had lots of beer drinks. I was having to think real hard when people born in the 80s handed over their IDs. Don’t drink and do math, kids! It leads to no good.

Sunday morning was cartoons and pancakes just like I had wished for. Dreams really do come true! I guess the key to that is to start wishing for things like pancakes and cartoons. Mental note! No more world peace crap – I wish for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch! Hand it over!

The only plan I had the whole Sunday was attending the Women’s Expo with M and his sister, L. You know, cuz I’m a woman and all. Roar. I have never before been in a place so drenched in estrogen! We mostly waited in line for free things and each left with two fully stuffed shopping bags. Good people watching and more free samples of food stuffs then you could shake a stick at. You don’t believe me? We started keeping a list of all we ate – you’ll be in AWE! What’s even more impressive is that there was plenty we DIDN’T eat. Read on!

Things consumed at the Minneapolis Women’s Expo:
1 and a half nacho chips
Ice cream
FUZE green tea beverage
Pre-spooned spoonful of key lime pie
Roasted corn thingies
Nacho cheese protein chips
Brownie
Ritz cracker with soynut butter on it
Potato soup
Uncrustable grilled cheese (fucking DELICIOUS!)
Jam on a cracker
Diet Pepsi
RADIANT soda beverage
2 small pickles
Zesty ranch rice cake crackers
Bite of a oatmeal raisin Kashi bar
Honey glazed carrots
Taco pizza slice, wee
V-8 Splash smoothie
Apple chips
Turkey pepperoni
Banana
Pear wedge
Cookie
Jelly donut, tiny

No wonder we skipped dinner! SHIT!

The weekend ending watching Desperate Housewives under blankets in the blue light of the tv. Perfection!

I’m all happy inside and stuff.

next thing you know there will be parades!

I work a lot. Nearly all the time. I even sometimes dream about it which really makes me mad. But tomorrow, I have off! Believe it or not, it’s my first day off since CHRISTMAS. Remember that holiday way back when, when you got the fuzzy socks and ginormous popcorn tin? YEAH, that one. I’ve worked 20 or more days in a row and have only killed two people and eaten one toddler. So, good for me!

I’m pretty excited about my day off and was thinkin’ about all the fun things I'll do tomorrow. Fun things like lay in bed and watch cartoonz and eat breakfast without regard to crumbs and where they may land when the strangest panicked thought raced through my head - - I thought that I needed to hurry to the grocery store for the breakfast foods before they closed for the holiday at 6pm. The holiday? There is no stinkin' holiday! I have equated having days off with holidays. Yikes! Or yay! Or something!

Maybe we should all observe my day off and MAKE it a holiday. Hallmark can use another excuse to print up some cards. Everyone could use another excuse to make green bean casserole! So tomorrow, Sunday, is Haiku-girl’s Day Off Day. I will be celebrating by eating breakfast in bed and watching Invader Zim, Season II! So please everybody, raise your cereal spoons or orange juice glasses and toast my day off while still in your jammies! And who knows, maybe one day soon Congress or Dear Abby or General Mills or whoever is in charge of holidays will make it official!

imagine him in plaid

Last night I spoke of my idea for a squirrel quilt. Started out talking about a tree that was in the front yard of a house where I had babysat a skinny baby. The house smelled like mothballs and had a socially anxious brother-in-law living on the top floor. He’d come down to make lunch and slink around the kitchen like I would pounce on him at any second. He was in law school, too. Wonder how that’s gonna work out! I digress. So I said that in their yard was a tree that had a hole in it and in that hole lived a squirrel, I know because I saw him go in there without knocking -- which signifies that he lives there full time. And when I mentioned this tree and the squirrel house it contained, I said that I wanted to make this squirrel a quilt and stick it in that hole. I got strange looks! My mom said that when I was a kid I wanted to make squirrels clothes, so at least I’ve matured a little. I mean, a quilt is much more practical than a shirt. Especially one that would have buttons on it. But the strange looks continued. And when it came time for me to go, I walked to the car feeling like I was something special.

mine had a lemon on the end

I’ve been away, cornflake boy. Upside down in my tree house. With woodpecker roommates and a squirrel named Estelle. Dreaming of pirates and swashbuckling good times. Eye patches and peg legs. Red striped shirts. Or are they white striped? Come along Suzy Lee. And sit beneath the elm tree with me me me. We’ll read picture books and watch the kids roll by. Afternoon sun and blue blue skies. Guitar that I play in my sleep. I strum along and sing real loud in my awake. I am Milo. I am Isaac Brock. I am the girl who sings the roller-skate song. I don’t have no car. But I go pretty far. It’s covered in ice and unable to move. It’s creaky, squeaky, old time creepy. Like a Halloween night when you were 8. With a harvest moon hung low in the sky. Big. Orange. Ball. When the sun no longer shines. Running fast, you turned the corner of your block and it stopped you dead in your tracks. Moon so big and close. You reached out your hand and were surprised when all you felt was autumn night air. You would have bet bubble gum that you coulda touched it. Do you remember being third grade small? I remember my Dorothy Hammel bowl cut and navy blue jumper with the apple on the front pocket. I remember Free To Be You and Me. I remember being free to be me. Running on the playground, hearing "Red Rover, Red Rover" yelled at me from atop monkey bars and aluminum slides. 4 square and tether ball. Pop rocks and kabangers. Little kid legends about crooked houses and evil old women. I remember waiting for Ross LaHay to walk me home. He’d sometimes carry my books. Sometimes throw these hard orange berries at me from across the street. Chase me around the playground then kiss me in his basement. The berries: red-orange clusters growing on trees with bright green waxy leaves. The kisses: child like. I remember a lemon on the end of a black plastic loop that fit around my ankle. I remember spinning it around and jumping over it as it slid under my other foot. I remember wondering why it was a lemon. I remember wanting to grow up. I remember being afraid of the 6th grade boys. Imagine seeing 3rd grade you. Time machine. You are a playground volunteer and you go running past yourself. In the jumper you remember, with the apple. With the hair you’ve seen in your class pictures. You’d want to reach out and grab yourself by your tiny little waist and hug away. Say the few words that you think might right some of the wrong things floating around your sweet 3rd grade head. Things about being special. And smart. And perfectly you. Twisting topsy turvy tinkerbell tulips. Twilight tornado tuning in your radio. Tangerines and Twister. Right hand red. Left hand green. Twinkle twinkle turn around so I can see you in that dress. Treasure true truth think thought thunk. The end.

work and hour, get a dollar

It’s Saturday. I’m at the store. Knitting away like a child in a Malaysian sweat shop. Knit knit knit! Now that I knit here, in public, I have learned some things. One, I cast on incorrectly. Two, I knit “weird.” Three, I can’t purl. Four, given the weird way I knit, it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to purl. OH WELL. Texture and cables and ribbing is all sooooo passé anyhow. Right? Well, no. It’s not right. Good knitters are to be worshipped. Worshipped I tell you! If you know someone who can knit a sweater, go to them immediately and give a big ‘ol hug and a hand massage.

Most advanced thing I’ve ever knit: a striped scarf.

What I would like to knit: a womb.

We have accumulated a whole lotta debt in the last 7 or so months. Here is the story, short form, if you’ve been reading my pollyblog for any amount of time, you probably have the long form forever etched into your psyche… but for the newbies (awww, aren’t they cute!) here is the Cliff Notes version: Don’t buy stuff in just your name for you and your fiance to have like houses and coffee shops. Kinda can put you in a pickle if things go south.

So, my life is calmer now. I’ve made lots of good financial decisions the last month or so and I think that I finally have things to where we can meet all the monthly expenses going forward but that doesn’t really leave anything to pay off the bills we’ve racked up. Which is a problem. And a kinda big one.

How much funner would it be had instead of racking up lots of debt on what basically amounts to a really expensive bad taste in our mouths, I had spent all that cash on cool stuff. Like original art and 1950s lamps and liposuction and a pony! YES. A pony. Then at least when the mean mean world of bill collectors comes a knocking on my door, I could ride off into the sunset on my very own VISA charged pony. That would be so awesome.

But. I have no pony.

So here is the wacky idea. We're gonna start a website, and advertise it in the local alternative weekly (I use to work there and get free ads! Yay!) where we sell crafts for donations to pay off the debt. A combination of “Hey Dear Abby, if everyone sends me a penny I can go to college!” and a little elbow grease. Right now, all we have to sell are our glitter paintings and my knit wrist cuffs (which are super cool, mind you) and M’s jaw droppingly good acoustic guitar CD - - but we’ll build up some inventory and unleash this wacky idea on the world, or at least on the metro area. It’ll even have a swank Jerry Lewis telethon style tally board, except it’ll count down instead of up. Countin’ down the debt! Kinda like Sweatin’ to the Oldies, just completely different. Heck yes! I hope this evil plan is a good one.

What I have eaten for dinner 134 days in a row, or so it seems: vegetarian chili.

Who you don’t want to sit next to for a long time in a confined space: me.

wait, wait, don't kill your television JUST yet

Today, I was nearly catapulted to stardom. I would have been offered book deals. People woulda been contacting me for production rights. Big people, people like Oprah and Drew Barrymore. I would have received a really sweet e-mail from Isaac Brock saying something like "Saw you on TV and read your pollyblog and sure, I'll be your boyfriend. Do I have to work at the coffee shop?"

But I said no. I had to. I can't be interviewed for the local NBC affiliate story on Pollyblogging. No. I can't. I mention the sex, the drugs, the rock and roll in my pollyblog and all my lovely customers and M's awesome nephews and niece don't need to be reading that kind of stuff about the girl who makes them glitter paintings and knits them scarves or makes their morning latte.

But not wanting to let the opportunity go to waste, I offered to interview the interviewer instead. Gleam insight into this blogging phenomena from a pro who has researched it, who has a sense of humor and sports a nice smile. So without further ado, here are my questions and her answers to better understand this weird cyber world we live in.

Interviewee: Jana, Kare-11 News. An ACTUAL reporter. She does not just play one on tv.

1. Do you have a blog (excuse me, I had something in my throat...)?
Nope... I just learned what they are.

2. On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being DORKY and 10 being UBER DORKY, where do you think most bloggers fall?
I'm a 10... so you all might be off the map.

3. Who's blog did you like the bestest?
Yours... of course I say that to all the girls.

4. Aren't girls better writers than boys?
Girls are better everythings (yes it's a word) than boys. Duh.

5. Of all the blogs (excuse me, I had something in my throat...) that you looked at, how many were Hot Diggity Blogs... if you know what I'm saying *wink wink* ?
Again, clearly, only your blog was diggity in my schmiggity.

6. Do you believe in love at first read?
Oh yeah.

7. What did you have for breakfast? What do you wish you had for breakfast?
Coffee. Sleep.

8. On your keyboard at work, which letter is the closest to being rubbed off due to heavy usage?
The ? key.

9. What's it like always having to look pretty and stuff when you leave the house?
I wouldn't know... I was going to ask you the same question.

10. On average, how many times do you slip and fall during a winter?
Before moving here, never... since moving here you'd think by seeing me I were a battered woman.