Once upon a time (two years ago, which is eons in internet years) I got the impression somewhere along the way that my beloved Diaryland was a piece of spinach on the teeth of a diarist’s url. The mood of the journaling community then seemed to be that if you weren’t Dubya Dubya Dubya Dot Something Dot Com, then you were just part of the Great Unwashed or just another thirteen year old girl with a butterfly cursor and love poems to 98 Degrees or something.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
However, I think the winds of change are coming. And no, I don’t mean a Scorpians cover band. Diarylanders have been honored with seven of the thirteen Diarist awards.
Yes, that’s right. Tygerchild received one for Best Collaborative Entry. The new girl on the block (last quarter, she was awarded with Best New Journal) Lizardspace took home the Best Rant trophy (ok, it’s just a jpg but still very nice just the same). Diaryland icon UncleBob was finally recognized as the comedy god that he is with a Legacy Award. Right Sexy Mutha Shut Yo Mouth I’m Only Talkin’ ‘Bout Disco The Kid was honored with the well-deserved Best Writing nod. Our lovely wangtacular Marn has dashed her hopes of being the next Susan Lucci when she scored not one but two of the prestigious awards, one for Best Comedic Entry and one for Best Journal Overall.
Is it possible that Diaryland has finally arrived?
And more importantly, will there be an Induction To Online Society ball in which we all wear white dresses and dance with handsome cadets from the local military school? Because damn, there’s just nothing like rug burn from a fresh crew cut.
I still have that ‘Hi’ voice stuck in my head. I think my brain has finally gotten tired of putting songs on random repeat. Or maybe there’s a parrot stuck in there. Hi. Hiya. Hi. Hey there. How ya doing? Hi! Or maybe I’m just insane and instead of having angry voices inside my head, I have perky friendly ones. Maybe it’s Julie Your Cruise Director.
So I think’. I don’t want to say it’ but I THINK’. We might not have a mouse problem any more.
It’s been like two weeks since the last Incident, and I did seal up the holes in the garage with squirty stuff (yeah, I’m just one tool belt shy of making someone a really good husband). The live traps inside the house are untouched. Tilly has been stalking in the basement but has come back each time empty-pawed.
I haven’t wanted to let down my guard on Mouse Attack 2003. Each time I let myself think that maybe there are no more mice, I hear that freaky-assed midget lady from Poltergeist say ‘This house’is clean.’ And we all know that was about five minutes before the big scary giraffe skeleton appeared in the hallway and the ghosts tried to get in JoBeth Williams’ underpants.
So if this page doesn’t get updated again, you know that the mice fought back and I’m stuck in some homemade people trap in my basement that has been baited with plus-size DKNY clothing and a shiny new laptop.
Attentive readers of Dumber than A Box of Rocks may remember that I got my sister a job my sister and I both work at the same company.
It’s not so bad working at the same company. It’s a large company, roughly 350 people. I hardly ever saw the little beast her because I work on one end of a very long building and she on the other. The only real detriment is the fact that my sister and I look almost nothing alike. She’s average height, has more of an olive complexion and a long straight nose and takes after my mother (think Cher) in body type. I, on the other hand, am tall, rather pale pink colored, with freckles, a sorority girl turned up nose, and take after some mystery ancestor in that I have big hooters and a total hourglass shape (ok, more like a three-hour glass, but still). We would be the classic ‘Weetabix is the smart one and Mo is the pretty one’ if Mo weren’t also very smart. And because we both have different last names, only a few people at work realize that we’re sisters. So we get the ‘you look nothing alike’ thing a lot, which is sort of like ‘Wow, Mo is thin and pretty and Weetabix’ is Weetabix.’ The alternate side of that is that they always think Mo is the older sister and I’m the younger one, which is almost like saying that Mo looks ten years older than she really is. (Heee!)
Mo just got a promotion. And has relocated her workspace. To literally twenty feet away from my desk.
Insert pained look of sibling proximity here.
But now’ now she’s in spitting distance. In fact, because I have this enormous wide open desk that encompasses the back corner of our department and sits right next to a tiny conference room, she can watch me work if she hangs her head into the doorway of her cube.
God, I’m 31.96 years old and I’m still stuck sharing a room with my little sister.
I predict that the greetings of ‘Hey Dork’ ‘Hey Loser’ will increase dramatically from this point forward.
OH! I almost forgot!
Have you ever wanted to be Weetabix for a day?
Well, here’s the thing… my birthday is next week and I thought it might be fun to take a few days off, but I had to let this page langor for that time, so hence, a contest. Mostly because I hate langouring in general. Langour, langour, bangor langston hughes, it’s all the same and it bugs me. So give a girl a break. Pen a Weetabix entry (sort of like what I did for UncleBob last year) by Tuesday morning. I’ll run the best ones (the ones that either sound the most like me or make me laugh). And then the readership will vote on the finalists.
Sound fun? I’m giddy. Really. GIDDY. Besides, you guys kicked my ass with banner ads last October, so I’m certain that you’ll put me to shame in the entry competition.
The winner will get…. something. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe a Bad Bar CD or somethin’. I dunno. We’ll figure something out.
So get writing! I can’t wait to read about what’s going on in my pretend life.
