Good old fashioned family fun...

Family-oriented and clean. This IS the circus has actually gone to the circus, and it was fun. I mean, really and truly fun. I know, none of us have gone since we were little, and let me tell you, it's truly a shame. Seriously. Afterwards, Cosmo, who really does exist, I swear, bought me the cutest yellow stuffed elephant. Cutest thing ever. Yay for stuffed dollies and sweet boyfriends who really do exist, I swear!

Anyway, the circus was so good, it took my mind off my missing Dead Like Me. What's the point in being in the States if I can't get Showtime, anyway? *sigh*

So, what I've learned from the circus is that I hate acrobats. I mean, not those trapeze artists, or even the tightrope walkers, 'cause no one really expects me to be able to do that stuff. I'm talking about the floor tumblers. They're on the floor. I'm on the floor. They can do that. I should probably be able to do that, too.

It makes me feel ashamed.

I mean, there I am, stuffing my face with Cosmo's niece's cotton candy, watching people spin on the tips of their noses. And all I can think is that, since I don't have to climb to where they're at, I should be able to do that. But maybe my nose is too perky. I don't know. It's just that I'm rather bendy, so I guess I should also be quite, I don't know, spinny.

Other than that, it was wonderful. Horses, tigers and elephants. And the clows. Cosmo and I have decided that we're going to run away and join the circus together. He will play clarinet in their orchestra, and I shall be a clown. I like the costumes. I'm a sucker for costumes.

This is Houston, kids...

So, this is Houston. Okay, it's about the umpteenth time that I've been here, so I finally feel qualified to comment on the flora and fauna. And there's lots of both.

Cosmo has conned me in to a 'Stros game. That's Astros for the uninitiated, thank you very much. Now, just like everywhere else, baseball fans are nuts. Not just kinda kookie, but really, amusingly crazy. It's a thing they've got and it works for them.

Houston, on the other hand, is technology-mad. This, I'm told, is normal. Nevermind that Cosmo's family have about six to eight computers all in a room that's about ten feet by ten, or that there's a phone in every room, even the baby's, excepting the bathrooms. I should've taken this all as a hint, because this isn't an isolated thing. Most people are like this here, according to the people I know.

So here I am at the now Minute Maid Park, which was once Enron Field. But I don't think we're allowed to talk about that. Baseball in Houston is fun, right from the train that goes down actual tracks at every home run, to the military guys recruiting in their t-shirts that say "Pain is weakness leaving the body," to the airconditioning. And, man, is it airconditioned. I mean, not just a little bit, possibly more than an actual home. AND I have laptop connection. It's a little bit of wonderful.

So there you have it. Houstonians love them their technology. But I've never been anywhere where I was so reminded that we're just borrowing this planet and the bugs and creepy-crawlies have just moved over for the meantime. The other day, I was sitting outside and saw a wasp so big that even from about six feet away, I could see it's stinger. And this is nothing. When you leave the house on warm evenings, which is pretty much every night, you see geckos. Which are really neat. They live in the brickwork and thrive on humidity. Lucky things. Let me tell you, it's more humid than... I don't know, a god's ass, or something equally quirky and gross. And the frogs. From morning till night, various little froggies call to eachother over distances. Some of them converse, some are just noisy. Some are the size of your thumbnail. Being the big not-quite-reformed tom boy I am, I still like hoppy things and things with tails that stick to walls. I can't help myself. The wasps, though, I'll stay away from, thanks.

Well, we've bought four hours worth of broadband, but we've only been here an hour and they're already at the bottom of the fifth. And although there are lots more interesting things to be said about baseball, Houston and geckos and the fans of each, I just can't think of anything more, mostly because the fans of baseball are reading over my shoulder... Maybe Cosmo will get me some of those nachos at the 7th inning...

Mmmmmnachos.

Yeah, so me and my big typing fingers. One hour = six innings. I'm starting to rethink my stance on baseball being boring, which is, of course, that baseball isn't that boring... Well, yeah, right after I think that, one hour begins to equal one inning. Of course this makes me wonder what I could've been thinking. I'm going to chock it up to the wicked amount of humidity that's been frying my brain for the past three weeks. Yes...

At least the nachos were good.

Silliness/Why Not...

Why not, indeed. Into every life a little silliness shall fall. I mean, otherwise, where would we be?

So, thanks to my beloved St. Teresa, appropriately enough, The Church of Spongebob. An absolutely brilliant site, it even details the best ways to pay homage to our square-bottomed friend.

Now, I don't know if anyone saw this guy on Conan last week, but he scared both Cosmo and Eddie at once, which is no mean feat, lemme tell you. Literally. Men scare so easily...

It has been brought to my attention that here in Texas is a tiny piece of heaven. So, yes, in case you hadn't already figured this one out, I'm also a (Diet)Dr. Pepper addict. This stuff is like mana from heaven. And they have shirts!! Is there any better way to show your love?

Speaking of shirts, dig this sweet little bit of fanciness I managed to pick up for myself while gift shopping for the girls back home. I love shopping for others, it gives me such a sense of fulfillment. And cute new clothes... Anyway,how can you not love Hot Topic?

And finally, I suppose, tell me this isn't the best version of Titanic y'ever did see...

Carded...

Well, kids, it's finally happened. Cosmo, my "silent" partner, has finally rigged up a laptop for me. That's right. I can correspond to my legions of, well... Possibly two of you, since I've sent out the link a few days ago, while being in my knickers. Anyone who knows me will tell you two things about my knickers:

1. They're clean, so don't worry.
2. They're really awesome. I'm a panty-buying freak.

So, last night I lost my cigarrettes in Eddie's truck. Yes, my adoring reader, your beloved Wanda smokes. I'm a bad pink fairy. Anyway, I lost them in Eddie's truck and I convinced Cosmo to stop at some gas station (Chevron) so I could replenish my stock like a good little addict.

Entering the gas station, I saw my would-be saviour. More bald than the day he was born and with only one more tooth than said birthdate, he smiled (I think) and, all Southern like, called me "Yung lahdy..."

I asked him for said fix, which he pulled out from those magcial shelves behind the counter. Then he asked me for my I.D. Now, most gurls can tell you, even at the tender age of 25, getting carded is a small victory against something. Okay, not that I think I'm looking old, but it gives me the giggles, like by being able to turn over my pretty blue I.D. card is a much bigger accomplishment than it really is.

So, anyway, I flip my massive wallet open to the clear plastic thingie that makes my I.D. safe and imposible to get at and flash him my wonderful picture (Honestly, only I.D I've ever had where I don't look too demented, tired or fat) and he says "Ontario? I ain't never seen a I.D. from Ontario." Which I get quite often down here. I mean, why would there be legions of Ontarians flashing their cards in Humble, Texas? Now, one of the last things a legally-enforced addict wants to hear is that their cards aren't valid. And this man had a whole book explaining why my card wasn't valid. And that is simply that as he hadn't ever seen one before, it couldn't possibly be valid.

Fun. And more than just a little confusing. So we went across the street to the nice little family run corner store and bought cigarettes for me and lotto tickets for Cosmo, never once flashing either of our I.D.'s.

This is the second time this has happened to me here. The first time was at a Krogers. I was buying wine, not even to drink, I mean, this was some cheap bottle of red, specifically so I could cook pasta for Cosmo's dad (He digs my pasta sauce, bless him) I got to the self-checkout counter and when I ran the wine through the machine, this 18 year old (I may be exagerating, annoying people all start to look alike to me after a while) comes running over to verify that I am, in fact, of age, and not trying to sneak a bottle of crap red out of the store on her watch. I gladly show her my license, just really wanting to be out of there, as grocery shopping is not exactly my forte.

Now, this tiny, underaged wonder takes one look at my card, and you can literally see the wheels turning as she realizes that she hasn't ever seen one of these cards... Next thing I know, she's asking me if I have Texas I.D. As if I've got it secreted away behind some other card and am just screwing with her. I point out to her that if I had State issued I.D., wouldn't I have shown it to her? She then notifies me that I'm "lucky" that she believes me, otherwise she wouldn't have to give me the wine. Her words, not mine. I asked her if I were say, from Louisiana, would she hassle me with this, too? She replied that she could, and repeated how lucky I was that she believed me and could now walk out of the store with my semi-legal bootie.

I've said it before, and I stand by it: god bless the small business owner!!

Friends...

Now, honestly, where would any of us be without our friends? Well, some of us would be Beavis and Butthead. Yes, there are two of them, but in case you hadn't noticed, they're sharing a brain, and I've got a good working theory that they're just two halves of the same person, but that's another post altogether.

Luckily, Cosmo and I are lucky enough to have a slew of friends. Friends who are semi-respectable contributors to society. Most of the time. Friends who have strange dinners where we all gather round the television to watch really bad shows. Friends who brunch. And the brunching is what this is all about.

Weekly, we gather at this lovely restaurant, The Only Cafe. It's not the only cafe, but it's The Only Cafe for us.

At The Only, we talk. Sometimes louder than others. But the people who work there are wonderful, and let us talk. Loudly. In fact, they're sad if we don't show up.

It used to be okay. But one weekend, all the men overpowered the women and started speaking louder than us. About Corey Haim.

Who is Corey Haim? Well, if you happen to be, say, five (In which case, you shouldn't be looking at this anyway, I'm sure) or maybe have the memory retention of a five year old, you can always look here and take a walk down memory lane.

Anyway, through no fault of my own, except that I (regretably) mentioned a rumour I recently heard, the boys realized that Corey, like us, was currently living in his native Toronto. Somehow, one thing led to another, and the men decided that something had to be done about this. Corey must be made to pay for his sins, whatever the men imagined them to be.

I'll not be going into it too deeply, in case anything happens, because I don't want to be held responsible. The actual moral of this story is that we all need friends, and baked goods for breakfast are a good idea, especially if you're surrounded by said friends. But mentioning former child superstars of the 80's at a brunch filled with testosterone-crazy men may not be the best idea.

In short:
Brunch = good.
Mentioning Corey Haim at a table full of resentful men who were teens at the time of his fame = Not good.

Remember this, kids, when you're bailing your boyfriends, fiances and husbands out of jail for abusing the unfortunates who represent the 80's.

Courtney Love...

It has come to my attention that Courtney Love may be the widow of "deceased grunge rocker Kurt Cobain." I mean, love her or hate her, there are certain things the woman must be credited with doing. Topmost on the list, of course, is being a one-person car-crash. Other than that, despite the fact that she can't sing, she does. I mean, I used to dream as a child that there would one day be a musical "movement," if you will, of women who can't sing. That would make me much more marketable. It finally happened, but on a completely different coast from where I was living, while I was 14, and by a bunch of women who could kick my ass quite easily.

Seriously. Have you ever seen the women in L7, Babes In Toyland or 7 Year Bitch? In fact, if any of these bands were still together, they'd probably hurt me just for talking about them, even if it is with awe and admiration.

Despite any of these facts, not least of which is her ability to generate news for herself, every article written about her must at some time mention her relation to Kurt.

My personal favourite would have to be this one. Of course, if you don't believe me, you can check one or this one (Which, at least doesn't have much to do with her being arrested or in hospital).

This is the only one I've ever found that doesn't seem to mention Kurt at all.

What love can do...

It's just ridiculous the stuff that love can do. Although, in this case, it's really more what booze can do. Still, everyone deserves their fifteen minutes, and I feel it necessary to give this guy his...

It was bound to happen...

Now we just need to think of something worth saying.


This could take a while...