And you'd really like to get out of work and start your weekend. You already know the book you'd like to read, or the movie you're gonna go see, or the meal you want to make. You've got a sweet little weekend all planned out.

Maybe some gardening.

Maybe not.

You're antsy. You even dressed up a little nicer today because you were feeling good. Hey, nice waistline, you. That new exercise ball is really helping your abs.

And what is that incredible smell? I do believe it's you, baby.

Time is just inching by, though, because you know you're way too fabulous for this bullshit up in here. You're so fabulous, you're like, Ghetto Fabulous.

You know who else thinks he's Ghetto Fabulous?

Corey.


Aw, shit. He know he's Ghetto Fabulous. And he wants you to tell him so. Right here.

And just like that, your Friday's gonna breeze by.

From Kat:

I've noticed your recent helping entries and was wondering if I can ask a
favor as well. I'm not sure how large your following is in San Diego county, but a friend of mine needs some help. She is 23 years old and is suffering from kidney failure. Right now they are doing blood transfusions, dialysis, and platelet something or others to give her kidneys a break until they start back up on their own (with any luck). If this doesn't work after one more month she will be put on a list for a donor. The problem is her blood bank is low and can use some help. She is an A pos blood type (so she can take A pos or neg or O if I remember correctly). Her name is Sarah Burns and if anybody wants to help out, they can go to any San Diego Blood bank and give them her name.
(for more info).

Some of you might remember Michelle of Ask Michelle/Michelle's Mom from the old Squishy days. She writes:

My older sister's husband (brother in law as they say) is in need of a kidney transplant. They are having a charity auction slash fundraiser to offset some of the costs not covered by insurance. He's a great guy, they have a great family, and I just wanted to direct as much traffic as I could to their todo. The link to the auction and a better explanation of the situation...

My friend Kate writes:

I volunteer for an organization called Pet Orphans of Southern California, in Van Nuys. It's a non-profit, humane dog and cat shelter that specializes in not only rescuing, but in education about animals and the importance of spaying/neutering (that sounded like Bob Barker, didn't it?).

On Sunday, July 11th, from 2 to 8pm, we are having a huge event/fundraiser for our organization at Malibu Bluffs State Park (PCH and Malibu Canyon across from Pepperdine). There will be Pet Contests (w/celebrity judges), Pet Parades, Live entertainment, Food Courts, Dog Agility Demos, shopping for your pets, and of course, our dogs will be there, available for adoption.

Info can be found here.

Here's a conversation I keep having these days.

"How's the house hunt?" someone asks me.

"Good. We're in escrow."

There's a pause. The person nods, squints, nods again. Folds his or her arms. Then: "I have no idea what that means."

I didn't either, just a little while ago. I also didn't know exactly what it meant when people said, "Escrow's crashing all around us" or "Escrow's falling apart."

I do now.

We found a house about a month ago that we liked a lot, enough to spend lots of money to fix up and look pretty, enough that we didn't mind that it was rather small because it would be our own. It's not ours anymore. The owners pulled out.

I didn't want to jinx the escrow by talking about the house. Turns out it totally doesn't matter, and you lose the house just by owners going, "Hmm. Nevermind."

So. Escrow. Here's how we've been describing it. It's an engagement to the house. You're wearing the house's ring, and you're taking blood tests and the house wants to see your dowry and you're meeting the house's parents and there's all this pre-nup stuff.

You get the house inspected (which you pay for). You get the house appraised (which you pay for). You find out everything you can about the house. You dream about the house. You make plans for the house. You start looking at colors and decorating books and picture yourself drinking tea on the house's porch, even though you don't really drink tea. You imagine walking naked through the house. You picture yourself alone at night in the house. You wonder if you'll be safe in that house. You start to think maybe the house is a mistake. Haunted. The owners get scared. They worry they got ripped off. You worry you've gotten ripped off. Everybody's freaking out. Nobody's answering the phone. The house just stands there, waiting. In a perfect world everybody calms down and realizes this is for the best, and the house changes owners.

Not in our case.

The house broke up with us. Left us at the altar. And now we're trying to go steady with another house, one our realtor knew we'd love, and we do. We're gently approaching the house with our hands out, letting the house sniff us, letting the house know we're good people who just want to live somewhere and get married.

We put in an offer. We're sure about ten people will put in offers on this new house -- this sexy, single, ready-to-get-hitched house on the market. We can only hope that we're the most attractive buyers, and then once again, we'll get engaged to this house, with every intention of marrying it. Until then, we're totally going to see other houses on the side.

"This is horrible, but every time I see him on TV, it reminds me of when parents tape little hairbows to their babies' heads."

Can't...stop...laughing.

...you have a board at the front of the room. It's a corkboard, and on it are about forty notecards in different colors, each with a quirky title on it like "Make Up/ Make Out." (Hmm. There's another idea...)

See, everything during this process is an idea. Reaching into your purse for more than a minute, searching for the one lipstick out of the six different ones in your bag -- that's an idea. ("Purse Olympics.") You wonder if that's so stupid that if you tell the other girls they'll figure out some way to get you fired. Then you mull it over for a while, searching the Internet, looking for someone else who might have written about it. You try and find a way you've never seen that before on television. What if it's guys trying to find something in the purse? What if the purse is on a moving conveyor belt and about to fall off something tall and... What if it's not a purse but a... What if it's... What if... What... How the hell did I get this job?

You tell the others, and you work on it together, and someone says something perfect, and someone else tweaks it, and then you write it on a purple index card and tack it on the corkboard with the other hopefuls, the comedy embryos at the front of the room.

And then the producer enters the room. She sits down and listens. You pitch your fifty notecards, each one you're sure is as brilliant as the last. The producer asks questions, makes faces, and says words like: "Schticky." "Overdone." Or, "Too easy."

And then, right when you need to hear it, right when you feel the blood starting to rush to your face when you're sure you will never be funny again, you pitch something and she says, "That's fucking funny. I love it." And you love it too. And you love her. And you're the funniest person in the world because you thought of it and you knew it was funny. Fuck that "Purse Olympics" shit. You're way funnier than that.

Two hours later you're left with fifteen index cards at the front of the room. You lost the fight, the good fight, on one of your ideas you were sure was brilliant. You rip "Purse Olympics" in half and toss it in the trash. You sit in front of your computer and think. You stare out the window. You get a cup of coffee. You think and you stare. You will never have another idea again. Your brain feels like oatmeal. You are dry. You are nothing. You are wasting everyone's time. You are hungry. You wonder if you have time to post on your blog.

You reach into your purse for your lip gloss, the one that's not too shiny, and not too sticky. You search without looking for over a minute before you find it. You think, "I can't believe I just did that. Is there something funny in looking for a lip gloss? What if we..."

And it's only Monday.

You crazy Amazing Race types might be interested in the Urban Challenge.

...all of my best friends have blogs so in my late-night hours and quiet moments I can spend a little time with them, since everybody lives so far away and spread out across this planet. Luckily Andi has made dream that one blog closer to reality.