One hundred and twenty

12o? What's that, you ask innocently? That is the number of F-ing balloons I blew up last night while watching tv. An hour and a half of the heaviest breathing I have seen in a long time, pathetically enough. For what? For 32 whiny, sniveling little brats at day camp to play totally awesome and cool relays and games with, which I researched for two hours on the internet. Who paid for said balloons. That would be me. And Again, who blew up all those balloons by herself? Me again. And how were all my efforts received? Did the kids appreciate the gesture and fun games by listening attentively while I was explaining each totally cool relay and game? No. Did they enthusiastically play and enjoy the game with the attitude and spirit with which they were conceived (the games not the kids)? No. Did they continue to be the ungrateful, whiny, potty mouthed, complaining, life draining, pain in the ass kids that they have proven to be time and time again, all summer long? All signs point to yes. And why do I go out of my way planning way cool games that involve popping 120 balloons in the course of an hour when I could have done the same old boring games that all the other camp leaders do? Because I am a sucker. S-U-C-K-E-R. You might as well paint Hoover on my forehead and pay me for the advertising. I suck. Kids suck. I hate them. I am definitely reducing the number I am going to have to only 27. That'll teach 'em.

I do not heart spiders.

So, I am afraid of spiders... And I'm not talking a silly little childhood, funny little, "ha ha I don't like spiders" fear. I'm talking FOR REAL. For realsy reals even. They make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. If one is crawling towards me, or on me, I totally freak out, my heart stops, I freeze... usually scream. I cannot kill them myself or be anywhere near them. They have this, like, extra joint in their leg that makes me want to vomit... the way they walk... I just threw up a little thinking about it. Anyways, so this thing I have with spiders is very, VERY real. That back story was absolutely necessary for the story that is to follow.
So I am going to bed (head out of gutters please) and I'm all tucked in, got some nice relaxing music going, and I decide to read for a little while to make me sleepy. So I pick up my book from the night stand, which I haven't read in two nights because I was house-sitting and forgot it behind the last two nights, and I casually open up to the dog-eared page (bookmarks fall out and I always loose them). And there... inside my book... just waiting to jump out and kill me... was a reasonably sized spider. Now, by "reasonably sized" I mean definitely big enough to bite me, crawl all over me with its super creepy way, kill me and take over the world with it's pure evil. Hiding... in my book. So, I did what any grown up would do. I immediately threw the book across the room the first insta-second that I saw it's creepy little hairy legs. (Guess how fast an insta-second is... go ahead... guess... It's fast. So fast I made it up. Sucker.) It crashed. (The book, I mean) Apparently nobody else in the house cared, or even bothers to check my crashes anymore because they are so used to spider drama. And then, like a three year old, I watched the book for a few seconds, frozen in fear, and then quickly turned off the light, pulled the covers up and told myself that it was okay now, go to sleep. And I laid there... lay there?... I was there, in bed, unable to move, or sleep, or think about anything but this reasonably sized (tiny) spider that could be crawling over me at any second. I don't know if I killed the spider... I don't know if it crawled into my sheets that night and is still there, quietly waiting to make it's move... I don't know if it crawled into the nearby boxes that sit packed and is waiting until I take it away to Reno where it will kill me and then continue to take over an entire metropolitan area. Because I am three. And, clearly, the grown up thing to do when presented with a dilemma in life is to throw things... quickly... and possibly scream like a little girl... although I do not recall such events... I hate spiders... dot dot dot.

I have decided I am in love. With Justin Long. The name needs work... or does it? Hmmm... Anyways, he is the mac guy on the mac guy vs. pc guy commercials. He also happens to be in the movie "Live Free or Die Hard" which I went to see on the 4th of July. He is SO fabulously geeky and BRILLIANTLY sarcastic in the movie. BRILLIANTLY sarcastic. Fabulously geeky. Cracked me up. I want to marry him and have his ibabies and live in his little ihouse with a little white ifence all around the yard to contain our millions of ichihuahuas. And yes, I realize that he is an actor and therefore every word out of his mouth is written for him by other fabulously sarcastic people, but I firmly believe that anyone who is that funny delivering those lines truly is that sarcastic and geeky in real life. Which makes him strangely attractive to me. Perhaps I am icrazy, but I love him. For realsy reals.

So like these people decided I needed a blog... ahem... daphne*blue... ctrl.alt.destroy... because I am interesting... or something. I beg to differ. I have faith I'll prove them wrong. In case you haven't noticed... I like dot dot dots... a lot... and yes, that is what I call them... dot dot dots.

Right now I am house-sitting for the parents of my high school best friend turned sworn enemy-- dun dun dun... dramatic reverb. I am also best friends with my ex-husband's ex-wife. Top that. Oooh, snap. Anyways, so far I have only had a few fights with the house, which I have named Bessie. I like to name things. The first one was when I accidentally set off the alarm and in order to punish me the house waited until I drove out of sight and then left the garage door open all day. Passive aggressive, I know. In order to make sure there wasn't an ax murderer that had been hiding in wait for me all day (because coincidentally Bessie also left the door in the garage unlocked), I had to talk on my cell phone to one of my friends as I was walking around the house. Cellphones not only emit cancer causing rays that can fry rats in a single bound, but they also offer a sphere of protection from ax-murders who may be hiding in the closet. Betcha didn't know that. Sucker. Then last night I was trying to pimp this silly blogger page (for daphne*blue and ctrl.alt.destroy) and Bessie lacks wireless Internet, a major flaw, so I plugged my laptop into the DSL. She totally sabotaged me and refused to upload my banner, so I tried using their desktop, and again I was thwarted. Bessie clearly took advatage of my temper and lack of patience with all things technological. So all those who read this-- all two of you- must give me props for this boring page because it was a pain in the ass.

And no one should ever name their child Bessie or any derivative thereof, such as Bessina, Bessty or Bessatrude. It's just wrong. Hey, you know where there are a lot of Bessie's? In Vegas.