'Tis the season to be jolly -- and to get into a virtual fist fight with your virtual friends.

Don't act surprised... and don't act like you're above it. I'm not the only person in the world who has a friend they've never met. Please. This is the 21st century. E-Friends are human too!

And yes, like all relationships, you have your ups, your downs and your all-out-brawls.

Last night my friend and I had a little spat. Apparently -- according to Mr. Suddenly Turned Psychologist (who shall heretofore be referred to as Bob, to preserve anonymity) -- my disposition is "affected negatively" by Ryan’s absence. No, I couldn't get him to elaborate on that. Bottom line: he thinks I’m codependent. Well, duh Bob, duh. I’m a needy person with an unendurable hatred of solitude who requires constant maintenance and attention. I know it, and lord knows Ryan does too. Yeah, it’s a flaw – but you’re not supposed to point it out!

Anyway, my point is not to get into our fight, but to discuss why I believe internet relationships are more tumultuous than "real" relationships - especially ones involving me.

What it comes down to is really one simple word - sarcasm. Sarcasm, though an invaluable tool, must be used with extreme caution when carrying on a virtual conversation. It seems that it's a bit hard to determine when it is being applied if it is delivered in text. This puts me, a student of the School of Sarcasm, at a severe disadvantage when communicating electronically. I cannot effectively use my greatest weapon... and it gets me into trouble. It seems that sometimes when I'm being sarcastic, people don't know that I am not being serious. This leads to a cacophany of miscommunication, hurt feelings and other things you should not have to deal with as a result of an attempt to be funny.

My options are either to stop the sarcasm in its entirety, write [sarcasm] and [/sarcasm] around every sentence I type, or to just do it and deal with the aftermath. The first option would result in a very dull version of E-Allie, the second would just pour a cold bucket of water on all of my comedy and the third has turned out to be quite a lot of maintenance.

Hey… maybe this is what it’s like to be Ryan…

Maybe Santa will put Sarcasm Font in my stocking...

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Um... totally disappointed in you people. I know you lurk. Where are your slang sentences? Hmm???

Adam - dude. Appreciate the effort but your sentence made no sense. Nice work on the incorrect spelling though... that was right on.

Ryan and I are headed back to Oregon for the holidays... and I'm afraid. Not of being home. Of the drive. I fear driving.

I used to be a good driver - I swear I did. Driving around in lil' old Shadow I was outdriven only by Lauren and Mario himself (Andretti, not Kart). Then I got the 4Runner. And, let the record reflect, I loved the 4Runner. We were buddies, pals. All was fine and dandy until that fateful afternoon when I got in an accident. Man, was that a ride.

Picture if you will...

Me, Ryan and Ryan's girlfriend at the time, Kelly. Ryan and Kelly were in a fight. This made our little roadtrip up to Spokanne in the dead of winter even chillier. They were not speaking with one another, nor were they speaking with me. Ryan, however, paid me the courtesy of writing an apology on the back of a receipt. There we were, driving along... then ice, slide, cars... blah blah blah crunch.

It shook me to the core.

I couldn't even fully appreciate the cliched plumbers crack that the tow-truck driver was sporting.

That's how messed up I was.

Anyway, after that I lost all confidence -- a horrible thing to happen to a driver --the following years were filled with much jumping of curbs. (Never could handle those corners...)

This inability to drive has stuck with me, and as a result I have Ryan drive everywhere. Even if he's just running in somewhere and it would be so much easier if I just dropped him off and circled the block... he drives.

In an effort to get back into the swing of things we tried the circle-the-block technique yesterday. I drove the mile and a half to his bank and circled while he used the ATM. I think I got two, 'Um...go's, one 'what are you doing', an 'any day now' and one 'you honestly don't know how to get there from here' all before we hit the bank.

Stellar.

Needless to say he has decided we'll go back to him driving.

But this brings me back to why I'm scared. We're taking two cars to Oregon... and I'm driving one of them. All the way. Straight.

YAR.

/crosses fingers

Scared yet?

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Odds are you already know the meanings of the basics – w00t, brb, wtg, stfu, afk – so we’ll cut to the lesser knowns. If there are any words out there that I don't touch on and you'd like defined... just let me know.

ftw
abbr. for the win.
When something gives the winning edge.

Famous quote: “Cold milk ftw.” – David Basulto

gah
interj.
Used to express displeasure or disappointment.

Famous qutoe: “Gah!” – Ryan Carty

gank
v. ganked, ganking
To steal or take unjustly.

Famous quote: “Help tehy ganking me!” – Anon.

haxxorz
v.
To hack or cheat.
n.
A hack or cheat.
Commonly used when addressing someone who is frequently winning things.

*The xxorz suffix can be added to any words ending in ck. Suxxorz, Roxxorz.

heh
interj.
1. Used to humor people who like to talk. A filler.
2. A sarcastic laugh.

n00b (noob, newb)
n.
Someone who is inexperienced or makes a rookie mistake.

pwn
v. pwned, pwnage
To come out on top. To win.

roar (rar, wraa)
interj.
Used to express elation or excitement.

Famous quote: “Can I get a /ROAR?” – Thaddeus

soga
interj.
Used to express understanding.



Now that you have a bit more vocab… try applying it. Make sure to use abbreviations whenever possible – and for an added bonus try misspelling here and there. Grammatical errors a must. To express emotion, preface the verb with a backslash.

Example: “i r the suck. ganked by a n00b. /shame.”

Go ahead and give it a try in the Comments section.

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Hmmm…mmm…

Where are you, Christmas?
Why can’t I find you?
Why have you gone away-ay-ay?
Where is the laughter you used to bring me?
Why can’t I hear music play-ay-ay?

My world is changing,
I’m rearranging.
Does that mean Christmas changes too?

Where are you, Christmas?
Do you remember
The one you used to know?

I’m not the same one,
See what the time’s done.
Is that why you have let me go….

/drum roll
/crescendo

Christmas is here everywhere,
(Ohhhh…)
CHRISTMAS IS HERE
If you care
(OH oh ohhh…)

If there is love in your heart and your mind,
You will feel like Christmas all the time…

/sob

I’m getting old.

It’s two days after Thanksgiving, I’m sitting alone in front of the computer listening to Christmas songs and crying for god’s sake. (Okay, so I stopped crying when Wham! came on, but Faith, Diana and Kelly brought me to tears. Omg... even Clay Aken is getting to me! /shame)

Gah.

I logged on to blog about my horrible waiter at the Olive Garden (I was all ready to re-write Hoyt Axton’s Boney Fingers to incorporate Grimy Fingers) but now I’m in some weird funk. I can no longer find the comedy in the large chunks of cheese that slid from his hands as he placed the food on the table – or how he stuck his finger IN the water class and asked if Ryan would like a refill… it’s just not there.

It’s snowing in my head.

Maybe I’m crazy to suppose
I’d ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations
You receive.

Ah, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doing New Years,
New Years Eve?

…Ah, Harry… I love ya…

/tear

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Okay folks... the time has come. It's your turn to entertain me!! Repay your faithful blogger (okay, okay -- so I've been MIA... but there was a time last year when I was entertaining, right?) by helping her decide her fate!

[/cue dramatic music]

Here's the question: What should Allie be when she grows up??

Please voice your thoughts! All suggestions welcome!

Should Allie be a doctor? (Please no)
A hairdresser?
A dog-walker?
Manager at McDonalds?

????

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Oh... my... god.... I'M ALIVE!!!

Just thought I'd let you all know.

Found my cell phone in the cubby today. I think it had been in there for somewhere around two weeks. Interestingly enough I only had two missed calls. I'll take that to mean that you all are aware of my phonephobia and don't want to put the effort into calling me when odds are I will hide under the bed until the ringing stops.

Well, lets see... what am I up to? I'm the Art Director for a film that may or may not actually happen. And, um... I'm a skilled relaxer. I think that should be a profession. I, my dear readers, would be highly qualified.

Hmm... I think I'll go off on a tangent now.

When I think of my elementary school Music Teacher, I think of various things. First of all, she is the only person I have ever known that is literally shaped like a triangle. Really, she is. Hips from coast-to-coast and the tiniest little ankles you've ever seen. She'd always wear stretch-pants too. The ones with stirrups. And sweaters with balls of yarn on them...

I also remember that she lived next to Stephanie. And man, did she hate Stephanie. Steph knew it too - and the dislike was definitely mutual. One time Stephanie convinced me that we should do something mean to Ms. Russem (Russom? Come on, I was in third grade... like I'm supposed to know how to spell her name). So what did we do? We put poop in a bag on her doorstep. Or, you know... faux-poo. Some odd concoction of Hersey's Syrup and cocoa powder. (That's the kind of criminal mind I have.)

But what really sticks out about Ms. Triangle is that she had a very limited repertoire as far as the songs she taught the kids. So, in my three years at McKinley Elementary School I sang the same damn songs year after year.

"Child of the Universe, let your spirit fly (ay, ay). You are the chosen one to try and touch the sky."

That's the chorus. Yap. It's a winner.

But what I've been singing in my head non-stop for the last few hours are the lyrics to one of the verses.

"I am only a grain of sand, tossed by water and wind... but there are many grains of sand... where do I fit in?"

It's almost poetic. You know, except the lame chords and the isosceles conductor I just can't stop picturing. Oh - and the strong stench of cheddar.

For those of you who have not heard -- Ryan and I have decided to move back to Salem. (Come on, that was a transition. We're grains of sand -- get it?!?)

Giving up? Maybe. Failed? Perhaps. You could look at it any way... and I suppose people will.

Some people have told us that we've had more success in a year than others have in ten. I believe it. We've done a lot. Worked on television, movies, commercials... behind the scenes, in front of the camera... I think we've seen most of the business. Enough of it to have a pretty solid grasp on what lies ahead.

And, in the end, a future in Los Angeles doesn't look like the one we want. Yeah, ideally Ryan would become a famous movie star so we could live in Oregon and he'd fly south for work. But even as I'm typing that... it doesn't sound so ideal.

Turns out we're not city-folk. Not happy in the mess of things. And the business too... we've found we're not as cutthroat, not as relentless. Not because we can't be, but because we don't want to be.

Truthfully, we always pictured ourselves ending up in a town like Salem. And it was fun to move away and experience Los Angeles... cause if we didn't we'd always wonder about what we missed. I think it's safe to say we know what we'd miss and we're okay with that now...

Except, of course ... Loren, Dave and Tim. OMG I WILL MISS YOU!

[/begins forming evil plan to make them move to Salem]

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Yeah, he's gone. And so's the show. Dead to me.

They not only killed off Vaughn, they wrote off Weiss. Knocking off the romantic lead and the sidekick in the first two episodes? Who thought up that stunningly horrendous idea?

JJ... I am ashamed to have touted your brilliance. Go back to Lost.

I'm going to watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy.

Maybe I'll watch a the Mamut a couple times. Yeah... that'll cheer me up.

...y que paso?

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Yup, that's right. There is a chance (some say it's more than a chance - it's a reality) that Michael Vaughn's character is killed off in the first half of the fifth season of that show that we call Alias.

The MV Shipper world has erupted into a state of mass hysteria, and terrible things are happening. Not the least of which is that my favorite fanfic author has ceased writing (mid fic!) and will only continue if the rumors are denied. Can you believe it? Not that I blame her...

So what does any self respecting Vartan worshiper do? Why, they launch a campaign, of course!

www.mvcampaign.com

That's right, The Safe House and VartanHos have combined with previously unaffiliated fans to form The MV Campaign. Which, as you can see by the main page, is three-fold.

When we do it we do it right.

Not that I'm an active member, but you bet your ass I'm cheering for them from the wings.

Some of my favorite war chants:

"Ask SpyDaddy: We Can't Lose Vaughn."

"If Vaughn's Not There, I'm Not There... And I'm Taking My Wallet With Me!"

The MV Campaign has been mentioned in the New York Post and Entertainment Tonight... plus numerous others...

But [/sob] it seems that all the efforts were for naught. Recent inside leakage confirms that August 17th was Vartan's last day filming, and that his funeral was one of the scenes.

*A moment of silence*

Many fans are hoping this is some big hoax, but most are accepting it as truth and vowing not to watch Season Five, or to stop watching after he is killed off.

As for me... I haven't decided. Guess I fall into the first category.

... I'm going to go cry now while I wait for the third season of West Wing to arrive in the mail. A show can't let you down if you don't have soulmates to root for...

[/sob again]

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I’m willing to guess that the ratio of stores to exhibits in Sea World leans largely in favor of stores. Each time you enter a darkened tunnel to survey the not-so-wild life you are motored through, told not to dawdle and promptly discarded in to the gift shop. And by “the” gift shop, I mean the penguin shop, the dolphin shop, the arctic shop, the Shamu shop, the shark shop. It is a 100% guarantee that if you just walked through the polar bears you will soon be faced with their fuzzy, beanbag miniatures. The children’s water park even has a children’s water apparel shop adjacent (in case you left your water-wings at home). There are shops by the restaurants that sell platters, glasses and assorted kitchen paraphernalia (in case … yeah, no clue). It’s quite obscene really. I’m surprised I made it out alive.

As Ryan and I walked through the gauntlet of Shamu miniatures at the “Shamu Shop” we wondered what might happen if Shamu were to pass on to the great blue beyond. Would they tell us? It seems like something the public has a right to know – but at the same time you have to wonder… what would happen to the sea of black and white plush? Would they dispose of it? Would they rename it? Would people want to buy paraphernalia riddled with the name of a dead orca? My guess is no.

Instead, the Sea World trainers would tearfully gather under the cover of night at the ocean shore as a giant crane lifted the gigantic hunk of blubber onto a makeshift raft. They would start the clap that is woefully choreographed and toss a match, igniting the pyre in a traditional Viking burial. Then they would return to work the next day to face the remaining whales. Through their tear-swollen faces they would be forced to decide which one can be spray painted to most resemble their beloved predecessor.

That was what we assumed, of course, until we were introduced to Shamu’s offspring. That’s right… the untrained calf in the middle of the pool is none other than… Shamu!

Shamu and Shamu.

So if I call Sea World and ask to talk to Shamu – which one would they put on the phone?

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I can’t sleep.

My brain just won’t – turn off.

And don’t get me wrong… I’m not claiming to be some super-genius whose brain won’t quit because I’m thinking of ways to alter the course of humanity. I’m just saying the damn thing won’t stop working long enough to give me a moment’s peace.

I’ve always had trouble going to sleep. I would lie in bed for probably an hour or two every night when I was growing up before finally drifting off. Throughout the years it really hasn’t changed much. There was a brief period during my freshman year of college when I managed to fall asleep within five minutes of hitting the pillow. I am told that was also a period filled with snoring, and can attest to the fact that it was accompanied by much drooling. I think I had a little trouble adjusting to college life and actually physically exhausted myself for the first time in history.

Although… I’m exhausted now and it’s doing me no good.

These days the one to two hour limbo time is turning into three or four. Last night it was five. Well… I say five only because after hour five I got up and out of bed so I could get on with the day.

I tried sleeping pills a few times – no luck. I think I’m just destined not to sleep at night.

I seem to have better luck sleeping during the day… maybe I really am a vampire…

Anyway.

As I lay in bed, mind churning, I wonder why exactly I must think of these things rather than go to sleep. I mean, there’s nothing really earth-shattering about any of them. Sometimes they’re reminders to myself – don’t forget to pay the rent, haircut Tuesday, you forgot to call Mom back, etc.

Those are the only ones I can rationalize as actually needing to be running through my head.

The others?

Last night I spent a good 20 minutes trying to figure out what Mary Chapin Carpenter meant when she sang, “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.”

Is one of these options supposed to be the pleasant one? It would seem from the next line (Sometimes it all comes together, then sometimes you’re the fool in love) that it’s a sometimes you win, sometimes you lose scenario. But who is the winner in the bug/windshield pairing? The disemboweled insect or the sheet of glass with bug juice smeared all over it? That’s like saying sometimes you’re the bird crap and sometimes you’re the head it lands on. Who wants to be either?

Why does this keep me up at night? Don’t I have better things to do with my time?

Are you listening, Subconscious??? Shut OFF!

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As I lay awake in bed at 6am, I am accosted by the sounds of morning routine.

Alarms beep faintly in the distance, only barely audible as the sounds echo on the courtyard walls.

My neighbor slides open her closet door.

A car honks to unlock.

The garage gate screeches open.

A lump forms in my throat as I thank whatever power has allowed me to remain in bed.

I have a deeply rooted fear of actually becoming a part of the workforce. The sheer horror of it hits me at least once a day. And the worst part about it – I know it’s coming. One day… whether next week or two months from now… I’m going to be listening to the radio, thick with static, as it shakes me from my dreams at an ungodly hour.

I’m not okay with this. Is it healthy to constantly fear the day reality steps up to the plate?

I got a letter in the mail a few days ago. It was from me. High School Allie, to be exact.

High School Allie apparently did not share the same apprehension as I do today.

On the day before graduation, my Physics teacher (Mr. Lampert) had the class sit down and write letters to themselves which he would send out in five years time. We were instructed to tell our future selves where we thought we would be, what we thought we might be doing and remind ourselves of our previous goals.

High School Allie obviously had other things on her mind.

Inside my letter are several pictures I vaguely remember Mr. Lampert printing off his desk jet. I cut out the ones of my friends and myself and pasted them across the notebook paper. Also included is a fortune cookie that reads: Pack your bags! You are bound for an exciting destination to the far east. Uhuh.

The text of the letter says…

Allie –

Hey there. It is one day until graduation. How exciting! I plan to go to Willamette and study abroad at least one year (Europe hopefully). Good luck! Become an actress!

Then I go on to list four people I should call.

Oh, High School Allie – did you not know yourself at all? Didn’t you know you have an irrational distaste for telephone conversations and an inherent fear of calling people? Shouldn’t you have told yourself to shoot off an email or two?

And “Good luck! Become an actress!” – is that for real? Did you honestly think that was going to happen?

The thing that really disappoints me (besides the guilt that comes with the acknowledgement that not only did I not go abroad, I did not become an actress, nor do I intend to call those four people) is that High School Allie, in all her paranoia about schoolwork and getting As, couldn’t take the time out to actually write a quality letter? For shame.

It appears I wasn’t the only one in a hurry to finish sixth period and get in line for a chance at good placement in the ceremony seating chart. Attached to my letter is another sheet of notebook paper covered in chicken scratch. I take consolation in the fact that my friends had science second period and the people I managed to convince to write something to my future self were little more than acquaintances. But still… the only thing any of them had to say was “good luck” and “I’m sure you’re still a great person.” One of them took the time to remind me my nickname was Shmallie. Man. My friends were creative.

The kicker is the message from Mr. Lampert. He wrote that he was sure that by the time this letter reached me I would be a student teacher making others smile the way I made him smile every day.

Oh ow. The guilt… it hurts… the shame of it all.

Oh Shmallie, what have you become?

And should you be disappointed?

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Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish.

The echo of the water as it slams into porcelain reaches her across the great expanse of mustard yellow. Each drop that lands chips away at her sanity.

Perhaps if it were rhythmic she wouldn’t be so irritated.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish splash splish.

Inhale.

Splash splish.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Water never seems to stop. She can think of nothing as tediously unrelenting as a dripping faucet. Something about its composition must make it so painfully persistent – but she can’t imagine what. What drives something to push forward?

The drop forms at the tip of the rusted metal spout. Time is not on his side, however… it’s only a matter of seconds before the next drop hurls itself down the pipe and threatens to overtake the first. The next drop may land somewhere else, or it may just pass him by. But he can’t take any chances. The utter horror of the third possibility is what causes him to plummet. To leap into oblivion. If he didn’t… he would lose himself. If he allowed the next drop to collide – to merge into one – he would no longer exist. And that is a risk no drop can take.

Splish splash splish.

Three heroic drops launch themselves forward. They don’t know how it will end… but they know it’s worth the risk. They know what lies behind them, and they’re certain that’s not where they long to be.

Splash.

She wishes they would stop. Perhaps if they realized the only thing that lay ahead was another pipe. Another dark tunnel. Another ill-advised leap.

Turning on her side, she finds herself face to face with a digital display.

3:27

It seems the only thing as persistent as a leaky faucet is the passage of time.

She carefully removes the blanket and slips silently out of bed. She doesn’t want to disturb him. Though she doubts any noise on her part will. If he can sleep through the pounding of water as it smashes into the tub – he can sleep through the next world war.

Padding stealthily to the bathroom she surveys her options.

Logic.

She can reason with them. Convince the drops that there is nothing to jump for. Nothing beneficial about moving forward. No hope for a future any different than their current, daily droll.

But then, when has water ever responded to a rational plea?

The second option seems more likely.

Clamping her fingers tightly around the chilled metal knob, she twists it clockwise. The knob resists.

Of course it does.

She wraps her left hand around the remaining exposed metal and leans forward before turning the knob with all the strength she can muster. It remains unresponsive. The only thing that appears to budge is the skin of her palm as it rips and burns.

The screams of the drops increase in volume, only to be outdone by the thud as they sprawl helplessly on final contact.

Releasing her death grip on the knob, she retreats into the sink. She runs the flushed pink flesh of her hand under the cool water before reaching for a towel. As it absorbs the moisture from her hands, a solution presents itself.

Throwing the towel beneath the spout of the tub, she finds herself uncharacteristically pleased. It may not silence the screams… but it will soften the impact.

One step at a time.

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The following is an excerpt from Black Eyes of Boston, an article on MSN Entertainment about Bostonians who give the town a bad name:

I've saved the worst for last. In the long and distinguished line of actors who have seen their careers crash and burn due to horrific role choices, Ben Affleck tops a list where the second-place finisher isn't even in the same solar system. At one time, he and his talented buddy Matt Damon were the toast of Boston, after winning the Oscar for penning "Good Will Hunting." But now, Ben has managed to fall so far from A-list celebrity status, he finds himself playing celebrity poker and competing for Hollywood roles with Steve Guttenberg and the guy who played Turbo in the "Breakin'" movies.

Through quirky, challenging roles, Damon seems genuinely sincere in exploring the craft of acting. Affleck takes such mind-numbing roles that they couldn't entertain a group of chimpanzees after they ate a batch of pot brownies. And I don't care how much fame or fortune he acquires, to me, Affleck was the clown in high school who joined the drama club in an attempt to make out with the chick who lacked confidence but appreciated theater.

The guy is a complete sham. He touts himself as a maniacal Red Sox fan, but I'd be willing to bet that before he became famous, Affleck never stepped foot in Fenway Park more than 10 times. Sure, when playoff time comes around, he escorts J.Lo or Jennifer Garner to their box seats wearing a glove, hoping to catch a foul ball and carrying on like a diehard, but true citizens of Red Sox nation know that deep down, Ben would rather be back at the Ritz Carlton catching the last 15 minutes of "JAG" and making an appointment to have his chest waxed.

Man, he drives me nuts.

Beautifully said, Chris Coakley - you have a way with words. You forgot, however, to add onto the long list of Affleck's major flaws -- HE RUINED MY SHOW!!

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This week on Alias – whoa baby. Two whole hours.*

*Yah… more like a whole sixty minutes – but hey – that ain’t bad.

OMG.

Irina is ALIVE???

/gasp

Yeah… we might have known that was gonna happen for oh – since we heard she was dead. But that’s okay, because it still rocks my socks. Lena Olin, you are a goddess. Nobody does it better. This woman is the mostest uberist in the world. Hullo… is she not sexy?

And well, Jack… I’m glad they’re working so well together, you know, considering that he murdered her with a direct shot in la cabeza. (Side note – Dear Editors, please do not show me the warped and bloody face of a dead woman, who I happen to adore, sinking into a murky blue swimming pool. Sincerely, Devoted Fan.) But, dear god… the makeout? Nuh uh. Jack’s cool and all – but not when it comes to the lubbin. Save that for the dvd deleted scenes so the Jack/Irina Shippers can have their fun, but please don’t subject the rest of us to that. It’s like watching Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton kiss. Who wants to see that?

/gag

Hmm. Was it just me, or did Syddie seem to be wearing a lot of buttoned up jackets? And was her “sexy dress” something similar to what I wore my first day of kindergarten? Hello? No more blue rubber dresses in the future. Just empire-waisted baby doll fluff. Gah.

[Tangent/]

If this certain woman, who we shall call… Trixie… ruins my show, there will be hell to pay. Just because Hairy McSkeeze happened to somehow convince her he was more than an halfwitted turkey does not mean my world should come crashing down. Season five is gonna be a lot of Michael Vartan looking depressed and close-ups of Trixie’s desk bound upper body – and I’m not going to approve. If the next season even remotely reeks of crap I am going to her Westwood estate and when I leave there will be eggs on her siding. Or maybe toilet paper in her trees. It will be something mildly destructive – I just haven’t quite worked it out yet.

[/Tangent]

He proposed and she said “ask on the beach”??? That’s not what you say when Michael Vartan offers you a ring, woman! You say, “Ohmygodme? Areyouaskingme? Areyousureyouhavetherightwoman? Evenifyoudont-YES! THEANSWERISYESDEARGODYESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!”

Duh.

Uh, the “rough” scene was so absolutely hilarious that it’s all I can do not to run back into the living room, rewind the VCR and watch that scene over and over and over and over… It was the first time in a long time that there has been real S/V Shipperdom and I speak for my fellow Shippers when I say – Thank you JJ. And thank you JG for actually looking remotely attracted to MV. Just for that moment. Next time, please try and apply a little of that to the proposal scene. Let’s make it believable people.

Another little note to the powers that be. PTB, who exactly is in charge of casting this thang? ‘Cause, while I congratulate them on Michael Vartan… isn’t the Derevko clan supposed to be Russian? So, uh… why is Elena Hispanic? And uh… why is Nadia? How on earth did the whitest man on the planet and a Russian princess combine to make a Latina? EH? And what’s with the Hispanic aunt? Is there something to that or were you too busy patting yourself on the back for snagging JG to realize that there was more casting to be done?

Not that I’m really complaining, because Mia Maestro is the best thing to happen to that show since… well… since they got rid of Whoren.

Next week on Alias – something’s gonna happen.

I predict:

The giant ball o’ sci fi is going to look even more unrealistic and be even less logical than it did this week.

Lena Olin will be dead sexy. And dead. Yes, I think she’s going to really die. But this time, instead of it being a – “I killed your mother during the summer break because Lena Olin wouldn’t renew her contract” – type of kill, it will be one of those dramatic encounters where Irina will throw herself in front of the bullet that is meant for Nadia… the one that comes from Sydney’s gun. Yup, that’s what I think.

Arvin will reveal that he’s not really turned eeevil… that it was “the only way” he could disable the device. He had to convince Elena that he was on her side. Sure Arvie. Sure.

Vaughn will take Syddie to the beach and she will SAY YES DAMNIT.

If she doesn’t – I will.

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“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

--

He sits parked across the street, staring blankly at her empty vehicle. He followed her there two hours ago, watched her get out, slip into the house and disappear.

Maybe it’s her girlfriend’s house. Yeah, that’s it. Just two girls in there, sipping on margaritas and talking about shopping. Silly of him to think otherwise.

But then – why did she tell him she was going to her mother’s?

The house is dark, with the exception of a small flickering spotlight illuminating the address. Twenty-seven five. The large black letters cast shadows across the faded beige siding, creating an eerie feeling deep inside him.

He rolls his window down, anxious to hear the sound of giggling and laughing… or a blender crushing ice.

His ears are met only with the sound of a quiet evening in a quiet neighborhood. Crickets chirp and children laugh in the distance. The peacefulness of it all seems to mock him.

He is anything but peaceful.

His stomach churns as he steps out of the car. The sound of the door closing echoes through the empty street, bouncing off two-car garages and alerting the sleeping masses to his presence. Stealth was never his forte.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes all his concentration as he slowly makes his way across the street and onto the walk. His conscience and his will continue an internal struggle. His heart clenches under the stress.

He halts his movements as he steps onto the porch. He could simply ring the doorbell. But then… he doesn’t want to interrupt her evening with his silly and completely unfounded concerns. No, he will just peek in the window, see her watching one of those stupid romantic comedies she’s so crazy about and drive back home. Simple enough.

The first window looks into the living room. Okay, so maybe she isn't watching a movie. There are still plenty of other things that girlfriends do together on an uneventful Tuesday night.

The second is the window above the kitchen sink. Well, of course they wouldn’t be in there. He wouldn’t expect them to. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

The third window is the one that shatters his heart. In the north east corner of house twenty-seven five lies the master bedroom. And in the master bedroom lies his wife.

He watches the pair only for a moment before turning and retreating to his car. The door that so deafeningly closed now soundlessly opens to envelope him.

He sinks into the worn leather seat and puts his keys in the ignition. Across the street, the small spotlight finally flickers out, swallowing the numbers in darkness and burning them into his mind.

Twenty-seven five…

--

…or something like that.

I was walking down the streets of Studio City yesterday when I passed a forty-something man in worn clothes. He carried what seemed to be all his belongings and a heaping helping of emotional baggage. He repeated the words like a broken record:

“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

Every time he repeated himself, he said it with more emotion and more pain. It really was quite sad… and of course… I had to wonder what did happen at twenty-seven five…

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[Allie and Ryan are sitting at their respective computers… not two feet apart… and rather than speaking to each other –they’re typing]

Ryan: man this tool is totally spamming ooc
Allie: ya no kidding. rtfm already
Ryan no joke
Ryan: OMG
Allie: what?
Ryan: lol
Allie: wassap
Ryan: check out this toon.
Allie: brt
Ryan: hurry up.
Allie: bite mah. i’m omw.
Ryan: bah
Allie: kk which one? the swashy?
Ryan: no the de
Allie: wth? total twink.
Ryan: ya think?
Allie: pristine imbued steel on a 20 sk? totally.
Ryan: what a tool.
Allie: well he may be l33t but he’ll never be as uber as lady.
Ryan: uhuh
Allie: ladyfire ubertank PWNS
Ryan: lady = n00b
Allie: stfu
Ryan: lae would kill lady in pvp
Allie: my juggernaught > wood elf zerk
Ryan: uhuh
Allie: /sigh
Ryan: wheres dav?
Allie: otm from RV
Ryan: kewl. lets farm
Allie: nah nek harvests suck. shrubs the only nodes worth more than one cp
Ryan: wanna xp?
Allie: hey lets kite this dood. i need to get better at ranged
Ryan: kk. don’t forget to lotto you plooter. i still need my l&l.
Allie: hey I gotta afk. af on lae
Ryan: kk
Allie: ty
Ryan: np
Allie: watch that mob, i’m kos
Ryan: lmfao you got bigger concerns than aggro. imma drop you off a n’marr’s
Allie: yah rt. we’ve got no sow. i’ll be back before you get there.
Ryan: heh

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It’s official. Clio is not a threat to national security. At least for the next 29 days.

/Sigh of relief.

I know you were all worried.

In order to take your pet across state lines by plane, you need to have a signed health certificate by order of Homeland Security. Just to make sure she isn’t packing distemper. Biological warfare is frowned upon.

We actually had the pleasure of two pet visits today. Since, well – I’ll get to that. It was a bit of a last minute veterinary visit.

Being new to the sunny land of hell-a, we have yet to find Clio a vet. So, we did what all red-blooded-lazy-cheap Americans do… we took her to the vet attached to Petco. Yes, Vetco.

What kind of people take their pet to a place called Vetco?

While we were in the waiting room a man walked in the door with a paper bag in his hands. I assumed he was carrying canned dog food or something. It looked heavy and cumbersome. Well, of course it was cumbersome. It was a cat in a bag. A brown paper bag. A cat. In a brown paper bag.

Once admitted to the examination room we were helped by a lovely woman named Bridget. Who was a little less lovely when, after she shoved a thermometer somewhere things should never be shoved, grabbed an alcohol swab and dropped it on the floor. She picked it up and looked at it briefly before swiping it once over the thermometer and placing the thermometer back in the drawer. One swipe. Hmm. Thank god it wasn’t going up my butt next.

After that ordeal we were instructed to wait for the vet.

Two minutes later, Bridget returns to say that, oops – their vet isn’t certified to do health certificates. Oops. Should have told us that yesterday when we called, shouldn’t you have, Bridget?

So off we go to vet number two. At VCH the vet actually has the qualifications required to look at Clio for two minutes and deem her healthy.

We shall not return to Vetco.

So… why did we wait until the day before takeoff to get Clio certified? Because EQ2 has sucked in my brains and won’t give them back.

If you call me while I’m playing Everquest, even if I respond – I’m not really listening. If you email me while I’m playing Everquest, and I read it? I’ll forget it ever existed. If you’re Ryan, and you say, “Allie, Clio and I are going on a walk, we’ll be back in ten minutes,” I won’t notice you were gone, nor will I know where you have been.

It’s a disease. But Ryan has it too – so I don’t feel so bad.

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Over the course of this commercial, I’ve come to be chummy with the guard in the booth of the Anonymous Content parking lot.

Guard, whose name I really ought to have learned, is probably fifty or so, extremely skinny and harsh looking with a long ponytail, a baseball cap, a Slavic accent and a side of sass. (Please note that by Slavic, I really mean that it is foreign but not Spanish, French or Italian. You can’t honestly expect me to know any more accents than that. I’m a sheltered and elitist American, for heaven’s sake.)

Guard and I got off to a rough start, but over time we worked out our differences, and though I took a bit of mocking, became comfortable with each other. Every day I would drive in and he would ask if I was going to be parking for a while, or if it was just a delivery. Each time I would tell him that I did not know, that I was at the whim of Fate herself, and that I may very well see him in five minutes. He would shake his head, disappointed with the impending hassle, pass me a ticket and point to the second row.

“You can park over there. If there is no spot, you park in garage.”

Though the speech never changed, he did tend to vary the inflection upon delivery, adding a little variety where there otherwise would be none.

One afternoon I left the lot with a two dollar charge, only to leave later that evening with a six dollar charge.

“You see,” he said as he pointed to a sign, “that the maximum charge is seven dollars. You have paid more than that. But you don’t tell me how long you’re staying. I can’t help you.”

“It’s not a problem,” I said as I passed him the bills. “It’s not my money.”

He nodded his head in approval and understanding.

Today, as I rolled in past the guard, I found myself in the midst of a shoot of some sort. Three star wagons, as well as a few vans and a handful of people-looking-busy were cluttering up the lot. As a result, one row of parking was gone and the row I usually park in was full, save one spot.

Not wanting to hoof it to and from the garage, I attempted to park in the spot that remained. The cars on either side were hugging the line so closely that I’m impressed I actually parked there. Getting out was a tad embarrassing, as I had to slide sideways between the two cars. And, of course, once I escaped I realized I had forgotten something, so I had to shimmy back in and back out.

During a run to the dumpster (the life of a production assistant is nothing if not glamorous) I was approached by Guard.

“You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Alicia Silverstone is in that trailer. She comes in and says, ‘Alicia Silverstone here for the photo shoot.’” He shrugged his shoulders, “No big deal.”

I was inclined to agree. I turned my head just as she walked out of her trailer and was surprisingly unimpressed. After dumping the trash, I walked back to the building thinking to myself that I am over celebrities. It’s finally happened. The thrill is gone.

Of course, if I talked to Jennifer Garner or Michael Vartan, I’d still wet myself – but that doesn’t count. They’re not celebrities, they’re gods.

When it was time to make a drop-off, I shimmied back into my car and prepared to wiggle Bullet from the space unscathed.

This was a task.

I was so focused on getting out of the space unharmed by the cars that flanked me, I forgot to check behind me until well into the process. When I did, I slammed on the brakes, halting my .02 mph speed abruptly.

Not two feet from my back bumper was Danny Devito. My heart leapt into my throat.

The physical reaction could either be because it was Danny Devito, or because I was going to hit him. No one knows for sure.

I like to think it means I’m not over celebrities just yet. It gives me an odd sort of hope. It makes me believe that the Oregonian in me still lives…

It also makes me feel a bit sad for Alicia Silverstone.

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For the last week or so, I’ve been working as a production assistant for the art department on a Toyota commercial. The job – well it’s not one I would put down on my list of life experiences I’ve enjoyed.

There are few daily tasks in life that I don’t relish. The first is, of course, waking up. We’ll come back to that.

The second is showering. I don’t know why, but I’ve never been a big fan. I think it has something to do with the exorbitant amount of time I have to spend drying my hair. Or perhaps it’s that uncomfortable stage between wet and dry. Either way, I don’t look forward to showers, but I’ve learned to live with them.

Third would have to be talking to strangers. I don’t know if you all know this – but I am horrible with people. It’s something innate and I’m not sure what to do about it, but small talk is absolutely beyond me. I’m awkward and uncomfortable and probably put on quite a show while I grapple for something to say.

After that comes driving. I’m a horrible driver, and a good number of you can attest to that. There was a period of time where I couldn’t round a corner without jumping a curb. In trying to acclimate myself to LA driving, I’ve become some sordid combination of timid and don’t-give-a-damn. It’s dangerous.

As you can imagine, the other day when I drove my boss' boss from Santa Monica to Malibu was one of the more awkward experiences in either of our lives, I'm sure.

Another one of life’s simple pleasures I just can’t get into? Returning things. I am my mother’s daughter. I would rather have a $40 sweater rot in my closet with the price tags on than drive to the store and face the cashier. I’m not sure quite the logic behind it. Maybe it’s laziness, but I know at least some of it is the fear that the sales person will decline me and I will be shamed.

So what does my job entail? Waking up at early hours, driving ungodly distances, talking to people, and returning massive quantities of used and unused merchandise. While it may be good for character building – it ain’t pretty.

But I digress.

The point of this blog is not how freakishly uncomfortable I am with the most mundane tasks – it’s to tell you what happened this morning. And in order to do that – I must digress yet again.

When I was in high school I was part of the jazz choir. We would meet at six o’clock in the morning, which meant me getting up at 4:45. On one occasion I vividly remember rolling over and looking a clock which read 5:58. My heart jumped up into my throat then promptly crashed into my gut. The tears began to pour. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t think, but somehow I managed to throw on some clothes, grab my shoes and head out the door.

I am what was once called a goodie-two-shoes. I don’t know why or how that phrase makes sense. Maybe one day I’ll look it up, but until then I’ll just say that it defines me. I have a deeply rooted fear of disappointing people and/or failing. So when I showed up to class fifteen minutes late and haphazardly thrown together, I was ashamed and embarrassed. That ‘T’ on the attendance sheet was like a knife in my heart.

From then on I set two alarms.

Which, of course, didn’t stop it from happening. It’s happened several times in my life. I remember them each like they were yesterday. And they all were followed by a month of dual-alarm wakeups and nights of fitful rest.

Back to the present.

After a week of waking up early, my internal clock was reset. It’s usually set for ten, but working has thrown it out of whack. On Saturday, my first day off, my internal alarm woke me up every hour on the hour, starting at three. Each time I awoke I would begin to panic that my alarm had neglected to go off. By eight o’clock I decided to give up on sleeping and just get on with my day.

So where is this internal clock now?

It’s six o’clock on Monday morning and I sit here at my computer, choking down pancakes that Ryan has concocted with a mix of love and pity. I shouldn’t be here in my apartment. I should be an hour away at the California Speedway. But alas and alack, my alarm did not go off and I did not get up at four.

Those of you who know me can imagine that this morning, even at this early hour, has already seen four or five fits of hysterical crying and self-castigation. And tomorrow will see two alarms.

(I'd like to take this moment to thank Loren, my wickedly awesome boss, who is currently at the Speedway lying her ass off for me.)

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As I was creeping my way along the 405 in this morning's rush hour, my mind began to drift. I absently gazed at the truck in front of me and I was hit with an uncontrollable desire to right click on it and select 'follow'.

With autofollow on, driving would be so much more enjoyable. The invisible tether that bound myself and the truck would lead me along the freeway with no effort on my part. I could close my eyes, lean back my seat and just relax.

Instead, I sit upright, unblinking and staring into the horrors of Los Angeles traffic.

Last night Ryan and I were walking Clio in the neighborhood and out of the corner of my eye I saw a spot of white. As is the habit of my two-dimensional alter ego, I leaned down and gathered it. It was an empty cigarette carton (silly smokers... the ground isn't the trash can.) I picked it up and threw it away.

What I'm getting at is this - Life would be better if it were more like Everquest II.

The Top Fifteen Reasons Everquest II is Better Than Real Life

15. When you swim through a body of water, you come out bone dry.

14. If you get lost, press 'M' and a map will appear with your location marked by an arrow.

13. If you ever see anything lying on the ground, you pick it up.

12. No dishes. No laundry. No chores.

11. You can shoot balls of fire from your hands.

10. If you get tired of walking, you can hop a griffin and he'll fly you where you want to go.

9. You can carry hundreds of items on your person without it being cumbersome or bulky.

8. You can summon a soldier to follow you around and take hits that are meant for you.

7. You can talk to select groups of people without anyone else hearing it.

6. You get to pick your race, gender and physical attributes.

5. If you don't like someone, you can block them and you'll never hear a peep from them again.

4. You make money while you sleep.

3. With the click of a button you are transported to your hometown in thirty seconds - no matter where you are.

2. When you die you can revive or be resurrected. Then you get to go see the man without a shirt so he can repair your weapons.

1. One word - Autofollow.

Please god, invent autofollow??

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FISHBOY FOUND IN SAN FRANCISCO TOWN SQUARE!



Officials refuse to confirm the existence of what can only be described as part-man, part-fish, all-freak. Several eye and nose-witnesses report seeing this creature roaming the Ghiradelli Square, looking for chocolate. AllieInLaLaLand reporter Snark Squikerson managed to track down these witnesses and hear their tales.

It was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen! There was a definite stench coming from his person! - Ryan "My Nose Knows" Carty

Oh my lordy, it was terrifying! He was just standing there... breathing through those gills of his, and I... I almost died of fright! - Megan McClintock

Yeah. He stunk. And he looked weird. What's new? - Allie "I've lived with this freak" Saucy

I figured I could catch 'im. I'm quite the fisherman, you know. But when I was lookin' in my tackle box I realized - I don't have a fly for man-fish. - "Bubba"

If 'e was six inches lon-gah or I was six inches shor-tah, 'e woulda got me right 'ere! (Points to manhood) - Crocodile Hunter, Steve Erwin

It appears that the Fishboy has moved on and is no longer roaming the California hot-spot. Sightings have been reported in over twenty other states, however, and they continue to come in daily.

Please, lock up your children.

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Here are some pictures of our snazzy new apartment!


(Fancy, no?)


(Look... we even have a barbeque! Woot!)


(Nice Ikea space saving device on the wall...)


(I included this picture only because you all need to see the wicked cool cherry contact paper that I smothered the cupboards in)

Isn't it beautiful? I'm totally pumped - and would like to take this opportunity to thank my Mom, Dad and Uncle Matt for the assistance in creating this masterpiece. Thanks guys!

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Here’s the deal.

I have a little problem, and I’m unsure of the proper course of action. I figured I’d poll the audience.

So, my neighbors… are bunnies. Rabidly humping bunnies. This would not necessarily be a problem for me, were she not a screamer. And by screamer I mean that she emits the kind of cry you were sure was reserved for life and death situations or hard-core porn.

[Example]

Woman: Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. OH GOD!
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud.
Man: Ohhh…
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud, thud, thud, thud…
Woman: Harder! Harder! [A/N: No, I’m not kidding.]
Headboard: Thud, thud, thud, thud…
Woman: Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god! YES!
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud. THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD…
Woman: OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!!!

[/end Example]

This is no exaggeration. In the past three days I have experienced this four times, plus the one time that they did it in the shower. Which was the same, minus the thuds.

The man is a little on the quiet side. In fact, the first time, I was a little concerned that the woman was… well… you know. It wasn’t until quite late in the game that I actually heard a guttural moan that was a little too husky to be Señora-Screams-A-Lot.

Now, as I see it, my options are thus:

1) Go to the manager and have him request that they move the headboard a little further from the wall.
2) Slip a note under the door that reads, “Please just cover her mouth next time.”
3) Next time they’re going at it, pound my fists against the wall and shout, “This is God, now shut the f*** up!”

None of these options would make friends.

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It’s raining.

And I’m not talking Oregon rain. None of the good stuff… the light sprinkles and random downpours that make you feel like Gene Kelly. Oh no. This is LA rain.

This is the kind of rain that happens when the sky opens up and hawks up the biggest loogie you could ever conceive, and continues to do so for days on end. The drops are the size of golf balls. You can’t stand outside for two seconds without drenching your clothing to the point that it takes them all night to air dry.

Plus, with the city’s poorly constructed drainage system – the streets are deeper than the LA river (I know, I know – no large feat… but with all this rain you should see it… it actually resembles a body of water!) I’ve seen countless residents who, either through negligence or lack of options, parked their cars on the side of the street at night and returned the next day to find them up to their running boards in liquid filth.

Get out your galoshes. This is not pleasant.

I blame LA for it. I reason that if this city were not so asthetically repulsive, there would be no need for heaven to attempt this drastic deep cleaning.

Perhaps we’ll get some greenery out of it?

Ah. Cue the thunder and lighting. Now that’s more like it.

Luckily, Clio has her raincoat.

.

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Recipe for Disaster:

1 Brand-spankin’ new laptop
1 cup chilled apple cider
A dash of stupidity
A pinch of clumsiness

Make sure cup of cider is filled to the brim in order to produce maximum damage. Place cup on desk between mouse and laptop. Add stupidity. Add clumsiness.

If successful, your disaster should include:

Immediate loss of power, complete with satisfying hiss
The grip of fear with a chokehold on your heart
Nervous sweating
Hysterical crying
Phone calls that begin, "I [sob] had [sob] an accident [sob]"

Once complete you will need to replace:

System Board
Video Card
CD/DVD Drive
Keyboard
Palmrest
Base Cover
Center Cover
Your Mind

Possible side effect:

Loss of taste for apple cider

Guaranteed result:

Loss of computer for two weeks
Unceasing guilt and self-castigation

A/N: Sylvester is now back up and running. Thank you to the beautiful people and the massive size of Dell. Without the labryinth that is the support line, I would be lost forever.

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So I just tried to eat my own finger. Not on purpose, mind you – so perhaps ‘tried’ is the wrong word. I came close to eating my finger. I was chowing down on fast food (because the only way to consume fast food is to ‘chow’), furiously stuffing fries into my gaping maw when I felt a sharp pain and my teeth bounced back. I wonder, in retrospect, why I felt the need to jam my index finger a good two inches into my mouth just to deposit a French fry. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

So remember Amazon Angie vs. Slamazon Suzie? Well, it aired tonight, and let me just tell you – I was pleasantly surprised with my screen time. I guess sixteen hours of staring at soft-core live-action porn has its rewards. There were four Big Bud scenes, and in the final one I can be found directly stage right of Big Bud’s head the whole time. Woot woot for the little people.

I didn’t see Terri, Danny or Renatta so I won’t be able to point any of them out to you all. Though I doubt you taped it, since I didn’t warn you and, well, (Lauren don’t kill me) since it’s JAG.

*WARNING* LAUREN STOP READING

So, during my hour of straining and squinting to try and find my face between the bobbing vus, I found that I was extremely disappointed with the show itself. I have watched JAG before and, while it is no Alias, I didn’t dislike it. I didn’t seek it out, or watch it again – but I didn’t dislike it. The problem I had with it was that it was too slow. But, as I know it is geared toward an older audience, I accepted it. (LAUREN, I SAID STOP READING.) After ten years of being on the air, the series has acquired a regular fan-base which is invested in the characters and doesn’t need anything more than UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension… you would know that if you read fanfiction) to keep them intrigued. This time, however, it was a struggle to sit though it. Apparently, since last I watched, they hired the Director of Photography from the Blair Witch Project. What in the heck is with the freakishly-shaky-pseudo-documentary-almost-stills with random camera flashes? It reminds me of some movie, which I can't recall, where we see things from the perspective of a person-turned-wolf. I had to close my eyes to keep from getting nauseous.

Note to the producers: accept that your viewers are older. They don’t like the weird camera crap. And frankly, I don’t think the younger viewers like it either. You’re not gaining anyone, and you certainly won’t be keeping the housewives and their mothers-in-law for long.

Note to the producers (part two): I recently found out that you produced Quantum Leap. I also recently found out that when the series ended, you didn't have him leap home! What is up with that? Have you no souls?? I rarely watched the show, but the one thing I do remember is that the poor man only wanted to get home. Wasn't that in the narration during the credits? "Always hoping the next leap will be his leap home" or something like that? You're breaking my heart here people, breaking it.

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It is Wednesday and I am sad.

You might wonder how it is possible for these two words to be in the same sentence. Wednesday? Sad? NO!

Yes.

Alias does not air today. I waited four extra months for this season to air, and in return I, Allison Jane Saucy (the first), was PROMISED an episode EVERY WEEK. Wuzzup wit dis?

Here, I will sum up Bush's State of the Union without even seeing it.

"Mah fella amercanz. Mah nayme iz Georguh Dublya tree. Ah meyan Bush. Dayum. Tricky fole-ee-age. *Clears throat* I aym thuh prezdent. Now put Alias back awn. That Jack fella is hawt... ah meyan... down with homosexuahls."

Now let's watch Nocturne. I think Vaughn is going to admit that he LURVES her! Woot. (Okay, maybe not, but a girl can dream - can't she?)

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Apparently Loren told some producer that I had the hots for Ben Affleck. So, yeah. HOW FREAKING FUNNY IS THIS??



Yes, Ben. I lurve you so. I'm desperately jealous! That body hair is just SO hot! I change my mind - Jennifer Garner hasn't gone crazy... you're totally desirable. I want to have your love child too!

I wonder what would happen if Loren told someone I was madly in love with Michael Vartan? *Sigh* One of these days we will meet and he will be mine.

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So did you all watch Jon Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) on Jay Leno way back when? If you did, you recall that he mentioned moving to LA. When he told his Mormon mother that was his plan she warned, “You be careful. That’s where Satan resides.”

So, I had this boss. Well, my boss had this boss, I suppose… but I took direct orders from her, so for all intents and purposes, she was my boss. To preserve the anonymity of all those involved, I will call her “E”. Which is fitting, because I think she was high on something the entire time.

Note: There is no possible way for me to describe to you the timbre of her voice, but I can tell you this: it is saccharine sweet, grating, sing-song and nauseating.

-Thursday Afternoon-
[Allie’s first day working with people other than Loren. She’s been running all over hell and back making deliveries and doing personal errands for E. Her phone rings while she is mid run.]
E: Allie? E here!
Allie: Hi E.
E: Listen, I need you to call this guy and lie to him.
Allie: Excuse me?
E: Just a white lie. No big deal.
Allie: Okay…
E: So, you know how I had you drive to Venice and talk to that realtor?
Allie: Yes.
E: Well, that’s the apartment I really want, but I have another one on hold, in case I don’t get the one in Venice.
Allie: Okay.
E: And he told me I had to give him the checks by this morning, cause he was going on vacation or something.
Allie: Okay.
E: But I don’t want to. I just would rather not live there. He’s, you know… very gay. And nitpicky. And I just wouldn’t want him being my landlord, you know?
Allie: Okay.
E: Anyway, I want you to call him and tell him you work for me. Tell him you have the checks and you need to know when the latest you can drop them off is.
Allie: I don’t have any checks.
E: I know, I won’t really have you drop them off. I just want him to think you are.
Allie: Okay.
E: Great! Thanks!
[Allie makes the calls to his home and cell, leaving a message on his cell. Her phone rings.]
E: Allie? E! Did you call him?
Allie: Yes.
E: What did he say?
Allie: He didn’t answer. I left a message.
E: At which number?
Allie: His cell.
E: Did you leave a message at his home?
Allie: No, just his cell.
E: Call him back and leave a message on his home phone.
[Allie does as instructed. Her phone rings.]
E: Allie? E here! Did you do it?
Allie: Yes, I did.
E: Has he called you?
Allie: No.
-Twenty minutes later-
[Allie’s phone rings]
E: Allie? E! Has he called you?
Allie: No. I’ll tell you if he does.
E: Did you leave a message on his cell?
Allie: Yes. And at his house.
E: And he hasn’t called you back?
Allie: NO.

With all of the calls that she made to me regarding this guy, one might wonder why she didn’t just call him herself. It would have been a lot easier, and it would have required fewer phone calls. Oh wait! But then when the check she never intended to deliver never showed up at this guy’s place she would have had to take the blame herself instead of blaming it on her incompetent assistant. Silly me.

-Friday, 8pm-
[After a long day of sitting by her phone with her heart in her throat, because she was told she would be called in to work at any moment, Allie’s phone rings.]
Allie: Hello?
E: Allie? E here!
Allie: Hi E.
E: What are you doing tomorrow?
Allie: Saturday? I have plans.
E: I need you to come in and do research.
Allie: I’m sorry, E, but I really can’t. I’ve made prior commitments.
E: I need you to come in for a few hours.
Allie: Well, I don’t have that large of a time block. I can get the research done on my own time, but I can’t commit to a chunk of time.
E: What do you have?
Allie: Plans.
E: I need you to come in. This needs to be done by tomorrow night.
Allie: Well, if you tell me what it is, I’ll get it done by then.
E: I need you to come in.
Allie: I can’t come in, but I can get it done. Just tell me what you need researched.
E: I can’t tell you over the phone. It’s too complex.
Allie: Then I’m sorry, E, but you’re going to have to find someone else to do it.
E: Can you come in tomorrow morning?
Allie: I’m sorry, I really can’t.
E: I need this done by tomorrow night.
Allie: Then tell me what it is.
E: Call me tomorrow.
Allie: I was actually planning on doing most of the research tonight, so if you could just tell me what it is now…
E: No. I need you to come in. I need to supervise.
Allie: Then I’m sorry, but it’s a little late. I’ve already made plans.
E: Call me tomorrow morning.
[E hangs up the phone. Allie dies a little inside with fear that she’ll actually have to go in to E’s tomorrow.]

-Saturday, 8:30am-
[Allie has been up for an hour and is fully showered and ready to go to E’s place for all forms of torture and emotional manipulation. She calls E. No one answers.]

-Saturday, 11pm-
[Allie’s phone rings. It’s E. She doesn’t answer.]
Voicemail message: Allie? E here! So I need you to research images of train cars, tour buses, luxury yachts. I just want to know what the interiors of these would look like. Just send them to me whenever. Bye!

So this terribly important research that couldn’t be explained over the phone and had to be done by Saturday night under direct supervision? Not for the commercial I was hired to work on. Not the commercial she’s currently designing, it’s for one she hopes to design. So not really a rush and not really something she can supervise, unless she wants to sit next to me while I google image search. If that’s the case why the heck wouldn’t she just do it herself? The general consensus is that she just wanted me at her apartment so that she could send me on errands to get her toilet paper and groceries. Poor E misses her personal assistant and can’t seem to cope without one. *Sob*

I met her old personal assistant. A cute girl named Annie. When she handed me E’s key she tentatively asked how I liked working for her. I said, “She’s… uh… well…”
Annie: Crazy?
Allie: I was going to go with psycho.
Annie: I hated working for her. It was horrible. I had to take this job I have now just to get away from her. I came home every day after working for her and cried. I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

E called me this morning at nine to ask me if I did something that no one ever asked me to do. I told her I hadn’t. Then she asked me what I was doing this week.
Allie: I have plans.
E: What plans?
Allie: Plans.
E: All week?
Allie: All week. Yup. Very busy.
E: Well call me.

Not a snowball’s chance in hell. I’m seeing now why Annie couldn’t just tell E she didn’t want to work for her anymore. You have to have another job, some hard evidence that you are no longer at her beck and call. I’m looking into it.

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*R.I.P.*
Inspy the Inspiron
She was loved and fingered daily

We come together today to mourn the loss of a dear friend, companion and … well, that’s pretty much it. She was a hard worker and a reliable source of facts, fiction, fun and pharmaceutical refills (close enough). I loved her. I loved her with every bone in my body – especially the phalanges. She stuck with me through my weekly reviews, my senior thesis, and my obsession with fanfiction. I stuck with her through bad LCDs, malfunctioning keys, poor connections, the loss of the “i”, the down, the touchpad, and finally, the power button. Her death came swiftly, though she hung in there long enough that I could jam a chip in her and suck out all necessary information. I thank her for that.

I wrote this little poem in her memory, which I would like to read now.

There once was a purple Inspiron
Everyday over her I would fawn.
I loved her like a child
The abuse, it was mild
But now she will no longer turn on.

Deus spiritus suckmytoos please keep her safe.

Amen.

*Cue Eva Cassidy singing Songbird*

For you there'll be no crying
For you the sun will be shining
‘Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right

And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

(instrumental)

To you, I would give the world
To you, I'd never be cold
‘Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right

And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

Like never before; like never before.

[Allie starts sobbing and must be escorted to the limo by Ryan and Lauren (who just blew her nose in the handkerchief). As they leave, Adam and Dad (in their scout uniforms – as a sign of respect) carefully fold the flag and lower the lid to the recycle bin.]

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I assume all of you watched the season premiere of Alias and are now, if you weren’t already, huge Alias fans. *Cheers and applause* I will now go into my review of the show, since we can discuss this as intellectually stimulated individuals.

I’ll admit I was a little nervous at first – the beginning wasn’t as great as I had expected. I’ve seen better fights, and there’s been more suspense at a pie-eating contest. And let me just ask - why the hell do they keep putting Jennifer Garner in bob wigs? Seriously. The woman is drop dead gorgeous and would kill in a paper bag, but a bob? No one looks good with a bob! And two of them in one episode? I thought they were trying to attract viewers!

And the 72 hours earlier thing works when they show the same scene from a different angle, or reveal something new – like in Phase One where they do the scene again but add in what Vaughn and Weiss are saying in her ear. This time I could have done without the recap of Syd in the nighty. We should have just watched Vaughn the whole time. It really didn’t add anything.

APO? Dumb name. But, on the upside – wicked cool new call signs. Phoenix? Shotgun? Love it.

Marshall is HILARIOUS! Eggs with Sark? What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall of that scene. And the whole not recognizing anyone bit? And when he said, “Am I dead?” and “Syd… Sloane’s here.” Oh my god I almost wet myself I was laughing so hard. That guy pops my cork.

Weiss as the new Will doesn’t really work for me. He’s too smart and in-the-know to have the wool pulled over his eyes on this whole thing. And her cover is at a bank? Are we supposed to think he’s an idiot? I hope they’re not planning on continuing that charade.

And I’m really over Irina dying. We all knew it was coming. Lena Olin just wasn’t going to come back to the show. So all you people who are upset you need to move on. You can do it, I know you can.

List of things that need to change:
1. Weiss needs to be in the loop.
2. Vaughn needs to act less like a cold fish.
3. Sloane needs to stop touching her. Heebie Jeebie.
4. The intro needs to go back to how it was. This shouldn’t become the Sydney show. And who slapped that together? JJ’s kids?

But even after my critiques I want the world to know, I still love the show from the depths of my heart. I will watch it every week and SO WILL YOU!

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