Today's illustrated definition

Creepy: adjective; having or causing a creeping sensation of the skin, as from horror or fear: a creepy ghost story.




photo: Amy Sussman/Getty

He's very polite

Sometimes, during the evening, Main Man will remember he needs to do something the following morning when he gets to the office. To remind himself, he'll call his office line and leave himself a voicemail message.

Without fail, he starts the message... to himself... with "Hey, it's me", and ends it with "Thanks. Bye."

Two fifteen

A coworker and I were exchanging some school-time stories earlier today, and it made me remember the very first embarrassing moment I've ever had in high school.

Early in my first year; sitting in geometry class; insanely cute boy sitting at the desk next to me. I'm not paying attention to the teacher, because I'm focused on the insanely cute boy. I hear the teacher ask out loud, "Berry, what time is it?"

I'm startled back to reality, glance at my watch, and proudly announce "2:15".

I hear a few snickers, and the whole class continues to look in my direction. I look at my watch again, just to double-check. Yep. It's 2:15 alright. So why is everyone still looking at me and smiling?

"Berry," the teachers says, "what kind is it?"

I'm now utterly confused, and my face shows it. More snickers and giggles.

I look past the teacher towards the blackboard, and my face turns beet red. He's asking me to name the geometric form he has illustrated on the board. It's not anything like a 2:15, it turns out.

The teacher runs out of patience and asks someone else. The classroom's attention is no longer on me, and I glance over at the insanely cute boy, only to find him rolling his eyes and shaking his head.... sharing a moment with the insanely cute girl in the seat behind him.

(sigh) I've always hated math class.

Dear Frito-Lay's people...

YUMMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!




Well done, my friends. Well done.

I love ya, tomorrow

I hear all the time that we should live for today; live in the now; stay in the present.

I get that, but I'm afraid it just doesn't work for me. I've tried to adopt this philosophy, and you know what I got out of it? Stress and anxiety, that's what.

Thinking about the future doesn't make me ignore the present. On the contrary. I am comforted by the future. Thinking about the future gives me the green light to enjoy today. It allows me to put off until later. If I was to list everything I'd like to get done today, I'd freak out. The projects I have in mind are overwhelming only if I try to squeeze them all into The Now.

Fuck that. I'm a way bigger fan of The Later. Especially on a day like today, when it's -20 outside, and Spring is..... well, later.

Open letter to internet optimization telefuckingmarketers

Dear telefuckingmarketer,

Hey. How you doin'. Here's a tip on how not to approach a potential customer: Don't call their toll-free customer service number. Seriously. That's just stupid. Did you really expect me to patiently listen to your scripted sales pitch while I pay for the call??

Besides, you found us because we're at the top of all the search results. Am I right? Yeah, thought so. That should tell you that we're doing just fine in the web optimization department, and probably don't need your services. Am I right? Yeah, thought so.

Oh, and did you actually believe I was going to pass your name and number on to "our marketing director"? Good god, you're stupid.

Sincerely,

Berry

A shocking new discovery...

Scientists (me and a friend) are gathering evidence (gossip) that K-Fed may be smarter than the public has been led to believe.

While Britney is busy livin' la vida skank, K-Fed has been lying relatively low. He's gotten his ex - the one he left high and dry and knocked up - to rally behind him and declare him an awesome dad. He's made sure every post-divorce-announcement quote from him has included something about how much he loves and lives for his kids.

He's actually starting to look like the better parent in the eyes of the public (me and a friend).

Either he's hired a brilliant lawyer, who then hired a brilliant publicist to place and polish a halo over his head before the custody battle goes to court, or he's thought it up all by himself, thereby proving our scientific theory of his possible smarts.

If nothing else, this post is at the very least an indication of a few painfully slow news days in Berryworld.

If I'm not back by Wednesday...

... send help.

I'm switching to the new Blogger format. I have no idea what challenges await me...

I'm a cheater

I have a confession to make, and by opening my big mouth, I may be jeopardizing something good. But my semi-guilty conscience insists that I own up to my crime.

I used to subscribe to a magazine. Let's call it "Folks".

Because I was a subscriber, I had access to tons of stuff on the Folks web site, including many of the mag articles and all of the celebrity photos. All I had to do was enter my account number once way back in the early days, and the site has always remembered me (as long as I don't clear my cookies!).

Thing is, I canceled my subscription to Folks late last year, and yet I continue to enjoy free access to the site.

I realize that by posting this information here, I am bound to somehow cause Folks to launch an intense and thorough investigation to oust me, and when they uncover my real indentity, they will block my online access. I'm sure I will also appear on a subscription black-list that will be rapidly distributed to all magazines world-wide.

If I see a car parked outside my home tomorrow evening, I will know why.

Furthermore, I will no-doubt cause the folks at Folks to pay millions of dollars to overhaul their online services and make sure this type of illegal access is stopped at once. Other former subscribers will know who to blame for this, and I will never again be safe. You can't just take someone's celebrity gossip away, and then expect to not have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. That's just naive.

But I must come clean. I must be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "Berry, you did the right thing."

And I must never, ever clear my cookies. Ever.

See? I AM important!

Get yourself a title too, and then I dare you to make restaurant reservations tonight under your new important name.

Thanks to Lys for the link!

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Excellency Berry the Weird of Durdle Door Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

The countdown has begun...

... for two things.

First, the 6th season of American Idol has begun. And yes, I will once again be offering my expert critique once the "real" stuff gets underway. For now, it's really just a freak show that makes me uncomfortable.

Second, Main Man and I have begun the process of building a house (!!!). This is my excuse for not blogging much lately... my free time has been spent in the throes of anxiety attacks. I'm sure there will be more to come. Attacks, that is. Christ, this house-building stuff is complicated. Oh, and expensive. Like, a lot.

But in the end, the universe will come together in the late Spring, when the newest American Idol is crowned, and we move into our new house. There will be much rejoicing all around.

And yes... I know, I know. I will need to fix the image in the post below, because it's way too big and forcing my links and archives to the bottom of the page.

Business must really be taking off

WANTED: Busy flight school seeks a flight instructor who can, you know, teach how to fly.

Have pillow, will sleep

We've finally done it. After years of searching, experimenting, and rejecting, Main Man and I have found the perfect pillows. And at Costco, of all places; twelve bucks each.

Yes, pillows are a serious thing in our home. Goldilocks would call us finicky. We have a closetful of rejects that we've accumulated over the years. Some too thin, some too thick. Some too soft, some too hard. Some too small, some way too small. Some, well... too stinky. We really should throw those away.

But anyway, we've never found a pillow that we were both completely pleased with.

On Sunday, we went to Costco on a completely different mission. It was only by chance that we walked by the pillow bin. We both happened to glance at the pile of pillows, and then both came to a screeching halt. We took two tentative steps towards the bin, never taking our eyes off the pillows. We each picked up a plastic pack and squeezed. We stopped squeezing, looked at each other, and then squeezed again.

Me: "How much are they?"

MM: "I don't care."

Me: "They're pretty good."

MM: "They're fucking awesome."

Me: "We should get them."

MM: "We should stock up."

Me: "Stock up?"

MM: "Yeah, stock up."

We didn't stock up. That would be silly. We brought them home and gave them a test run on Sunday night. We overslept on Monday morning. We overslept again this morning. Needless to say, the pillows have passed the ultimate test.

They're fucking awesome. We're stocking up.

Look to the boobs

Yesterday, I watched Michelle Wei struggle and miss the cut in yet another PGA event.

Observers are trying to figure out what went wrong with this girl-wonder. At 14, she played with the men and missed the cut by only 1 stroke. Amazing! At the time, her drive was ridiculously good, but her short game was costing her strokes. Now, at 17, her drives are landing her anywhere but on the fairway, and she's not hitting her irons quite the same way. Her putting's improved tremendously, but she's still hitting in the high numbers, and her swing just doesn't seem to be working for her anymore.

"What happened?", they say. "Has she lost her confidence? Her focus? Her drive?"

Nope, that's not it. I'm no pro, but even I can tell at a glance what's going on with this girl. She grew up. And she grew boobs.

I'm serious. Bring your hands together in front of you as though you're holding a golf club. Imagine learning to master a golf swing just as you are.

Now make some changes to your body. If you're a guy, go put on your girlfriend's bra and stuff it with a few chicken breasts... you know, something that won't easily squish like Kleenex. If you're a gal, imagine your chest has just expanded by 2 cup sizes (I know!). Now go ahead and try to make that same swing.

Not gonna happen. Your boobs just got in the way. Of course women with boobs can play golf. But if you're used to playing without boobs, then it's going to take some adjustment to play with them.

So it's pretty simple, really. Just make way for the boobs, Michelle. Like every woman eventually knows, once you learn to master the boobs, the balls become easier to control.

It's time for you to go now

I've got myself a freeloader virus.

You know the type: He shows up unexpected and unannounced; completely disrupts your daily life. You bend over backwards to accommodate him and are forced to focus all of your attention on him and his demanding needs. You do it, because you're counting on this being a very temporary situation.

He drains you of all your energy, and eventually robs you of your patience, too. Every time you think he's about to finally leave, you discover that he seems to have made himself a little more at home. Dammit.

Well I've had it. I've played host to this rotten cold for 2 weeks now. 2 weeks!!!! I'm officially evicting it. I don't care how much it tries to manipulate me, I'm putting my foot down.

This weekedd, I'b takid back codtrol, butherfucker!

He's just not that into you (or your girlie parts)

Note to the poor clueless tweens who repeatedly land on my blog while googling "Emanuel Sandhu girlfriend":

Dear young thing,

Well, I hate to do this, but someone needs to tell you: When you see a guy who's more beautiful than you, who dresses better than you, who dances better than you, who wears more make-up than you do, and uses more hair removal products than you do, rest assured that he does not have a girlfriend, no matter what he or his handlers might say or imply.

Also, the figure-skating thing kind of seals it.

It's okay. You're not alone. There are still hoards of your kind out there... just look up any Clay Aiken or Ricky Martin fan club. But I'm here to tell you the truth, because clearly, your gaydar has not yet fully developed.

So to recap: Emanuel Sandhu + girlfriend = Santa + Easter Bunny.

Okay? Cool.

Berry

F-f-f-f-f-f-ore!

Okay, so it's a little chilly out there today. But it was sunny. And yesterday's rain and balmy temperatures have washed away the little snow we had.

I have spent the last 7 days getting my ass kicked by a combination cold/flu. Today, though I'm still hacking and popping decongestants, I'm feeling 90% stronger. And god knows I've been going stir-crazy inside the house all week.

So it made perfect sense that the universe would conspire to make this... today... a pretty damn good day for Berry. I've paid my dues, afterall.

My hands nearly froze off, but holy mother of god it felt good to hit some golf balls!

Main Man and I threw a few loose clubs into the trunk of the car and went driving around town in search of an open driving range. Surely, we thought, there are some enterprising folks out there who see an awesome range day upon us. Surely, we were convinced, somebody would open their doors and make a few bucks off idiots like us.

We were very discouraged after approaching 4 places and finding them closed. But when we drove up to our last hope, there it was, hanging above the door.... "Open". Wooo-hooo!!!

We were the only ones out there, but it's right next to the road, and I knew that the minute people driving by noticed us swinging on the range, they'd start to gravitate. And they did.

(sigh) This was way better than New Year's Eve for me.

They're calling for more rain and snow this week. But that's okay. I've had my little fix. I should be able to hold off for a few more weeks, if need be.

For now, my clubs are staying out of storage, and it's looking more and more like my skis are gonna be going back in. Poor things. They never stood a chance.

Oprah sends relief

Siphiwe Sibeko/Reuters/Landov

That Oprah. She's something else. Here she is at the grand opening of her new South African private school, The Pepto Bismol Academy for Girls.

You go girl.

So this is what 2007 feels like...

2007 for me is off to a bumpy start, but at least I know it probably won't be a boring year.

I rang in the New Year with a small family party at home... food, games, and more food. I looked really hot that night, but that's because I had a fever. I had really been looking forward to our get-together, and then this snuck up on me, and I didn't really get to enjoy myself.

I spent New Year's Day nursing a sore throat and dry cough. I'm spending today nursing a worse sore throat and dry cough.

At 5am this morning, Main Man and I were rudely awakened by the phone ringing. It was the security company calling to let us know that alarm had gone off at the office and police were on their way. We jumped out of bed, dressed, de-snowed the car, and were down there in 15 minutes. Turned out to be nothing.

So far, the message I'm getting is that I had better be on my toes this year; to expect the unexpected, and then deal with it as best I can.

I'm gonna need some extra peripheral vision, because I'm not a terribly big fan of surprises. Unless they're the fun type, of course.

And some toe shoes. If I'm gonna need to be standing on my toes, I'd better get some toe shoes.

And some pain reliever. For my throat. And maybe my toes.