That's What I'm Talkin' About!

Jenny Mac over at Let's Have a Cocktail has it all figured out. I mean, blogging is really like a cocktail party... except you don't have to shower and get all dressed up or anything like that... nobody cares if you show up in your pajamas looking and smelling like death warmed over.

Just think about it...

~You hang out with a whole mess of people.

~You listen to a lot of stories while sipping your own choice of cocktail.

~You engage in some witty repartee.

~You interrupt incessantly so you can tell your own obnoxious stories.

~You can claim that you know some really cool people and celebrities.

~You go home worried that you've said something really stupid.

~Your boss calls you up the next day to tell you you're fired.

Now, that's what I'm talkin' about!

Is that a good time or what?

Fortune Cookie Friday + Happy Hour Friday = Perfection!

Wouldn't you know, I wrote the post below and then went over to Otin's blog and noticed he was doing Happy Hour Friday, which coincided perfectly with what I had written... so I decided to link the two, which makes me happy!


Okay, so it's Friday and I clicked on my fortune cookie widget, which provided me the following words of "wisdom":

Remember, being happy is not always being perfect.

Hell, if that's true, I should be ecstatic. I should be gleefully floating on air. I should be dancing on happy feet. I should be cavorting in the meadow with Hickory the Wonder Dog.

Because I'm never perfect! I mean never! Really, I'm serious! I know you must find that hard to believe. But, the good news is... that means there's hope for happiness at the CatLady's house.

In a perfect world I would stay happy forever, but now I'm worried that the truth is exactly as the fortune says. If everything was perfect, would I know that I was happy? Would happiness be diluted if I was never UN-happy? Oh, no! WTF? This is beginning to sound like an exercise in Zen philosophy... ack!

My problem right now is that I actually am very happy. I'm happy not going to work. I'm happy reading blogs all day long. I'm happy drinking gallons of coffee in the morning and mainlining Dr. Pepper in the afternoon. I'm happy watching Dexter and other mindless drivel on DVD. I'm happy playing Apples to Apples and other games. I'm happy hanging out and drinking wine with Nanodance and my other friends. I'm happy having pajama day every day.

Sooner or later, though, I'm going to have to go out and seek gainful employment, which means there will be hassles and stupid people to deal with and long hours and waking up at night worrying about some project that's gone wrong. And then I won't be happy anymore. I can't help myself. Because I'm so disorganized, I have to over-compensate by being uber organized at work, which means I have to keep up the facade of being a competent person, which is so very exhausting.

Plus, I really hate perfect people. I hate people who have perfect hair and perfect children and perfect spouses and perfect houses and perfect pets and perfect jobs. They're just so annoying! It's like Lance & Melanie. We used to get Christmas letters from these distant relatives, whose kids were always perfect. They used up two pages of paper, telling us all about the awards and good grades and perfect teeth and perfectly polite manners of these perfect children. It got to be that at our house the names Lance & Melanie were synonymous with obnoxious prigs. (And since Lance & Melanie are so perfect, they would never condescend to read a blog like this, so I think I'm relatively safe from slander suits.)

So, why do we spend so much time and energy trying to pretend we're perfect, when perfect people are such obnoxious prigs? Happily, the answer is, I don't try to be perfect anymore. And none of my friends do either. Which is why I like my friends so much. And why I like my cyber-bloggy-friends so much. Because we're rude and irreverent and obnoxious and fun! That makes me happy... and happily less than perfect. Which means I'm probably going to hell, but that's okay. I'll have lots of friends there.

Getting My Inner Wench On

"Ye Olde Knights In Shining Armor", set to defend themselves on the Field of Honor

So, I went to the Renaissance Festival on Saturday. What is it about those things that makes you want to get your inner wench on? Perhaps it comes from reading too many steamy historical novels where the "Saucy, Yet Naive Wench" wins the unwanted attentions of her "Liege Lord", only to be saved from impending moral turpitude by "Strapping Young Serf Next Door" with a heart of gold, who loves children and in his spare time volunteers for Ye Olde Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Dragons:

And before you get too many ideas about my intentions toward yonder "Strapping Young Serf Next Door", calm down! I'm not going to go into details here. Besides, it's intellectually stimulating historical research I'm doing here to teach the kidlets at school about the Renaissance! Geez!

Anyway, one simply cannot go to a Renaissance Festival without at least trying to get with the program by looking the part. I'd already done the whole princess thing last spring when I offered up my "huge tracts of land" for a cameo in the middle school's rendition of Monty Python and the Holy Grail*. (Not to mention the fact that my princess outfit is still not back from the cleaners.)

*The audience at the play was so blinded by the awesomeness of my "huge tracts of land" that they were unable to take a photo of me in said costume, so I will substitute this photo of the comely "Queen of the Renaissance" for your enlightenment as to costuming.

Since it was a little hot for the chain mail, I resorted to the wench outfit.

(Note to "Scary Dude in Horned Armor": I think we need to talk... Seriously... even if you are my Liege Lord, that outfit is just wrong!)

It was also too hot to drape myself in wool tartan plaid to honor the Highland Games that were going on. Besides, I didn't plan on tossing the cabre anyway. Throwing trees around on a hot summer day is not my idea of a good time.

I'd much rather hang out with "Weird Guy on Stilts" who's pretending he's a chick riding a horse.

But, wait! What's this I see? They're having a tournament in which one of the prizes is for skill at archery?

Since "Ye Olde Knights in Shining Armor" wouldn't let me joust, this was the next best thing.

Bring it on!

Of course, I shall have to ruin the effect of my wench outfit by wearing spectacles, which are somewhat anachronistic, but sacrifices must be made. (In the interest of the safety of others.)

After 40 years, I still have the touch!

(Although, I should really lower my elbow just a wee bit.)

I was able to slay yon dragon with my fearsome prowess!

(Please just don't let "Strapping Young Serf Next Door" find out about the dragon.)

Zounds! Here comes the local constabulary! They seem to have discerned that I've been banned for life from archery for that unfortunate incident when I was a lass. Damn my wicked step-sister for reporting me! (She's actually my regular sister, but step-sister sounds so much better in this instance.)

Alas, I'm afraid that means the loss of the tournament crown, along with the affections of "Strapping Young Serf Next Door". It also means a trip to the stocks. I'm not sure which is worse... the stocks or the dunking pond.

But, not to worry... I vow to live to fight another day! (Especially as they forgot to lock me into the stocks very securely.) After all, you can't keep a good wench down! And there are always more "Strapping Young Serfs" where that one came from.