So I installed this Geo Visitors thing (see little click-able box on right under links), and, in the grand scheme of things, practically nobody is reading my blog. Nobody! It's like I'm all alone over here, throwing up in my own extremely private bathroom with no hope of anybody walking in on me. And while that's kind of nice- while it's like I have my own secret diary where I can spit out anything I want to- it's yet another reminder that no one really gives a fuck.

That's fine, just fine.

I have, however, noticed the occasional foreign visitor, which is interesting. I know England is Xan, and Japan is Ocean (the dude, not the mass of water), but who the hell in Australia, Finland, and India is reading my blog? And, more locally, it is interesting to note that I seem to have a reader in upstate New York, and also one in Texas and another in Michigan. Hello out there! Can I crash on your couch if I'm ever in town?

Really, though, I'm only averaging about four or five readers per day. Which means I'm nothing, a tiny, imperceptible blip in the internet universe. Which has its pros, to be sure. But which also has its cons. Who will discover the utter greatness of my ramblings and offer me a book deal? Who?

Maybe my new Australian friend has a hook-up. But probably not.

*
Nobody loves me,
Nobody cares,
Nobody picks me peaches and pears.

We have a holiday at the Berger household that occurs every Tuesday. It's Garbage Day. Technically, it's Garbage Day Eve, but we just call it Garbage Day. We (usually I) take the garbage to the curb and celebrate that the garage will no longer smell like the trash that's been stinking it up for a week. At least that's how it started- now it's evolved into a day when we also sing Garbage Day carols, which are basically just Christmas carols with the words "Garbage Day," "trash," "smelly," and "bag" replacing the other, more traditional holy words. We also have a Garbage Day meal, which does not taste like garbage, but during which we give toasts and wish each other a happy Garbage Day. Chris joked that our future children- scheduled to arrive in about ten years- will think that Garbage Day is a real, official holiday because of the manner in which we carry on about it. I don't care if we do mislead them into thinking that it's a legal holiday- I'll just want them to help me haul the damn bags to the curb.

Chris and I ate dinner in a cave last week to celebrate my promotion and his raise. Granted, it wasn't a real cave, although I assumed that it was right until the moment that we pulled into the parking lot of "Cafe la Cave." Then it hit me that real caves might not exist in northern Illinois. Not like they exist in Kentucky, with their stalagmites and stalactites and low temperatures and drippy drippiness. "I don't think you'd want to eat in a real cave anyway," my father said ever so wisely when I told him of our trip to the pseudo cave. And, it turned out, we didn't want to eat in a fake cave either.

Sure, it was kind of cool to eat in a fake cave, but the food was overpriced and not really that good. Chris' salmon was salty, and my steak was just okay. Basically, we could have had the same meal at Applebee's for a quarter of the price. But, we wanted to see what the hype was about, and so we went. And I'm glad we did, because the couple sitting next to us was from New Jersey. I'm fascinated by New Jersey. I think a trip to Newark may be in my near future.

Life is okay. My new job will consume all of my thoughts for the next three months, but, other than that, everything's good. I have a husband who I love with all of my heart, I have season four of Six Feet coming in the mail, and I have Patti, who takes me out to lunch and makes me feel like everything will be okay. Also, I have Tara- becoming a freaking mother in seven and a half months- who will make her children call me "Aunt Jackie." That's all I need.

In today's news:

More name news: InterBusiness Bank in Alhambra, Calif., officially changed its name to TomatoBank.

"Tomatoes are bold, fresh, fast-growing, healthy and safe," co-founder Stephen Liu told American Banker. "So is our bank."

Oh, well, that makes sense. I think I'll petition to change our bank's name to Tampon Bank, because tampons are convenient, necessary, and tend to soak up my business. Much like my bank. It doesn't at all seem like a completely random naming choice.

Speaking of the bank, I think things are going well. I kind of like being insanely busy, even if it cuts down on all of the internet time I was used to having. I actually feel like I'm accomplishing something. And I think big things could be in my future if I succeed in this job. I'm rather proud of myself, you know?

Also, I'm sending out a call. I need addresses of fast food restaurants in the Chicagoland area that have been closed down. Don't ask any questions- I just need addresses. Basically, I'm full, and I'm looking for a place NOT to have lunch. E-mail ferclyn@hotmail.com today.

Patti's bachelorette party was on Saturday, and it was basically the exact opposite of my bachelorette party. Hers was rife with penis regalia- the penis confetti, the inflatable penis, the penis straws. She had a stripper named Sebastian who had tassles on his underwear. And we all wore matching T-shirts: "Patti-Palooza, She's becoming a Jew!" While I am pretty happy to finally own a T-shirt that says "Jew" on it, her b-party made me feel a little sick about the whole bachelorette party thing. I guess I'd better get used to it- there's only going to be more of these to come as everybody else starts pairing off. Just like God intended, only I doubt God would have intended for so many shots.

I did, however, get to ride the mechanical bull at Hogs and Honeys. Holy cow, that was cool. While I certainly didn't break any world records, I lasted much longer than I thought I would. I think it was a blend of my body feeling extra flexible due to the aforementioned shots and the fact that I have surprisingly muscular thighs from all those deep knee bends. The BEST, however, and the moment I will take with me for the rest of my life, was when this huge, totally mean looking woman with a tassled T-shirt (again with the tassles?) took a turn on the bull. She pumped her fist in the air and made a face akin to an orgasmic growl. Then, the bull moved ever so slightly, perhaps one inch to the side, and this big old woman keeled straight forward, toppling off and landing right on her head. Oh, it was wonderful, to see this woman so clearly ready to dominate just totally fall over before the damn thing could even get started.

I was extremely uncomfortable when Sebastian the stripper arrived. I was even more uncomfortable when Sebastian the stripper decided to stay for a bit and have a few drinks with us. "I'm working my way through college," he said, and, while it may have been true, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. It could very well be that I'm jealous that I couldn't work my way through college making money off my sexuality, but I suppose that's something I should discuss with a licensed therapist or a fitness expert. "I just kind of fell into it," Sebastian went on. "Some guy in a suit approached me at the gym one day, and I thought, 'What the hell, I don't mind working nights.'"

Yesterday, to recover, I watched approximately six hours of "Six Feet Under." I dust-bustered the stairs, I washed the dishes, I took a long hot shower, and I played Word Whomp. I made lemon butter tilapia and zucchini for dinner. I cleaned the toilet, put on an acne mask, folded the laundry, and I rediscovered one of my favorite poems. So nice to get back to my normal dull life.

The Fortune Cookie Man
Ron Padgett

Working for ten years now at the fortune cookie factory and I'm still not allowed to write any of the fortunes. I couldn't do any worse than they do, what with their You Will Find Success in the Entertainment Field mentality. I would like to tell someone that they will find a gorilla in their closet, brooding darkly over the shoes. And that that gorilla will roll his glassy, animal eyes as if to cry out to the heavens that are burning in bright orange and red and through which violent clouds are rolling, and open his beast's mouth and issue a whimper that will fall on the shoes like a buffing rag hot with friction. But they say no. So if you don't find success in the entertainment field, don't blame me. I just work here.

I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed at work, which is nice, considering I haven't felt that way in some time now. I switched desks over to the other side of the room, and as if sitting at a bizarro desk wasn't enough of a mindfuck, I've had a taste of what I'm going to be doing and have already started taking over certain reports. I'm in for it. Gone will be the days of idling surfing the net or meticulously gluing all of my co-workers business cards together during a slow afternoon. This is going to be serious work, and, while I'm pretty sure I'm going to welcome it, I'm feeling a bit apprehensive.

I did quit my second job in preparation for the nights after work when I'm going to need plenty of time to rest on the couch with a wet washcloth on my forehead, a glass of whiskey in one hand while contemporary jazz plays softly in the background. I'm anticipating a lot of stress, at least at first. I think I want to buy one of those foot massager tubs, the ones that you fill with water and then roll up your jeans and turn on the jets . It's not that my feet are going to be stressed out, because I sit all day (secretary spread, anyone?) but, honestly, who wouldn't welcome a foot massager tub? And whiskey?

All in all, I'm mostly sure that I'll be okay. I just hope I don't feel confused. Also, I dislike that my new desk is closer to the bathroom and further from the coffee machine. But I'm still the same distance away from where we keep the magazines, so I guess it's a draw.

*

In other news, what's up with not being able to bring a Sprite or a tub of lip balm onto an airplane? Terrorists ruin it for everyone.

One of my top ten favorite things to do is to bitch about the weather. I love complaining about the weather. Actually, truth be told, I love complaining about practically everything. I don't like raisins in my Trail Mix. I can't believe gas prices are so bad. There should have been a better warning on my expired mayonnaise. Blah, blah, BLAH. But weather. Oh man. I don't like it when it's cold, and I sure as hell do not like it when it's hot. And humid, don't even get me started on the humidity.

The heat has been downright oppressive, the kind of thick, boiling heat that makes it hard to breathe, the kind of strong, heavy heat that negates twelve full coats of anti-perspirant. It's been pretty bad lately. I've spent the last few weeks praying for Autumn to hurry up and arrive- praying for thick sweaters, a chilly breeze, the ability to drink hot coffee in the car without feeling like an idiot.

And I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I can't stress how much I hate summer clothes.

So, I've felt trapped indoors, and I've been avoiding being outside as much as possible. This has led to a lot of at-home activities, such as drinking, watching movies, playing video games, doing a little online gambling, and re-working my manifesto. Since we're renewing our lease for another year, I've also decided to clean our dump up a little. I think it's about time I bought a mop. And a broom. All I have now is one of those little handheld broom brushes... and a sponge.

Gotta go.