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Look what I found!

I finally found it! The Muro128 freaking ointment! I found a nice stock of it at a Longs Drug store in Clairemont. And it didn't matter that the tiny tube inside cost me $16.29 plus tax. I bought TWO of 'em.

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I redesigned my mainpage. Again. Take a look. I mean, it's nothing brilliant, but for me, it's seems quite an improvement. Especially with my limited Web skills. I've got to learn more HTML, dammit.

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MIND DIVER word count for Friday, July 7: a measly 206. Oh well. It'll get better. It has to.

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What am I reading?

Summer of Night  by Dan Simmons

Forty Thousand In Gehenna by C.J. Cherryh

Songs In Ordinary Time by Mary McGarry Morris

Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice

 

 

 

July, 2000

7/11/00

Oh, to be Darva Conger for a day. You can't possibly not know who Darva Conger is. Unless you've been living like a hermit in the woods somewhere with no access to media of any sort. The chick who didn't want to stay "married" to Rick Rockwell on Who Wants to Marry A Multi-Millionaire. And who could blame her? We San Diegans are pretty well acquainted with Mr. Rockwell, having seen his regular appearance as "Skippy" in a local half-hour tee-vee show called San Diego At Large in the mid-80s. We were all amazed to learn that Mr. Rockwell was an actual "multi-millionaire" (meaning: he barely qualified by possessing real estate "assets" totaling just a mere hair over the million dollar mark). A man who lives in an unglamorous part of Encinitas, California with broken toilets in his front yard. What a prize.

I can kinda understand why she participated in the show. I believe her when she says really didn't expect to win, that she just wanted to have some fun, be pampered, feel like a celebrity. I believe her when she says that she was fired from her job as an ER nurse because her presence might be "distracting." Which sounds logical. Think about it. Doctors, other nurses, becoming "distracted" with thoughts of Darva as she bends over to treat a trauma patient with a severe subdural hematoma. They'll be thinking: "Why did she agree to marry the guy?" "Did they sleep together on the honeymoon?" "I wonder if Rockwell saw her nekkid?" "I wonder what she looks like nekkid." Distraction. Oh yes. Quite. So I believe they fired her.

So what's a gal to do when she is considered a "distraction" in the workplace? Why, she realizes she now has fifteen minutes of fame left to her and so she has only one thing to do. Hire a publicist. Why the heck not? Wouldn't you do the same thing? I know I would. She's just an average, ordinary person who, but for a freak moment in tee-vee history, would have just gone on with her ER nurse job, living quietly in her condo with her pugs and her mom. Ordinary, just like you and I. But now she's got fifteen minutes of fame just ticking away. She also is in need of income to pay for the mortgage, car, upkeep of pugs and mom. If she'd have gone through the all the early media-frenzy crap and just hid away, I would have thought, "What a freaking idiot! Jeez, think of the opportunities: a book deal, tee-vee movie, appearances, Playboy..."

Ah, Playboy. We knew that was coming, didn't we? Nearly every chick with fifteen minutes of fame allotted her is inevitably approached by the Hef. And I don't fault Darva for accepting a deal to pose for Playboy. At least she didn't accept the offers from Penthouse or Hustler, where gynecological shots are de rigueur. Instead she chose harmless ol' Playboy -- a magazine whose nude shots are just a bit racier than the nudity in most fashion zines. Plus, they're giving her a quarter of a million freaking dollars! And she gets an additional bonus for every issue over a certain amount sold! She could earn an easy million herself! What the heck's wrong with that? Is she an "opportunist" for doing this? If she wants to survive and turn this mishegoss into a good thing, then she'd better the hell become an opportunist.

So, Darva, grab the money and save it for the rainy day that's coming when your fifteen minutes are up. And I think you're smart enough to know that.

Yes, I've been watching the new CBS "reality" show, Big Brother. Of course. You know me sooo well. I missed Saturday's episode, though. I've only managed to watch the live video feeds a couple of times. Then I only allowed myself about ten minutes of viewing at a time. It's just too much of a temptation and I really don't need to waste my time in that way.

Monday's "injured chicken" episode showed just how pathetic one can become when one begins to get cabin fever. And it's only been a week. I have to agree with William when he mumbled about how "these people are weeping over an injured animal that's gonna end up on a dinner plate somewhere. They slaughter chickens every day. You buy them in the supermarket, for crissakes. And they're all crying over a chicken that's hurt its neck?" (Not his exact words, but close.) Anyway, the others (George, Jordan, Karen and Brittany) justified their concern by saying that if the chicken were to die, it would mean one less egg-laying hen. So William nods his head and says oh so sarcastically, "Oh, so this concern is really for selfish reasons -- you're all sad because a dead chicken can't lay eggs for your breakfast. Okay. I get it." (Again, not his exact words, but close.)

For a while, though, the injured chicken got to have a cage all to herself. Pretty nice digs...for a chicken, that is. Message to George: They are HENS -- as in FEMALE -- so stop referring to them as "he" and "him," okay? Even those of us who've never lived on a farm know better. Sheesh! Anyway. It was funny when they pushed the cage up to the pen and the other hens came over to "inspect" their former roomie. I think it was either Brittany or Karen who remarked, "Look, they're happy to see her. They're all welcoming her back."

Oh come on. They are chickens. Chickens! Their brains aren't much bigger than their eyes, okay? If they had ANY thoughts running through their little chicken-minds, it was this: ...food? (Although, if one were to assign them a thought or two, it might be: "Hey, Hennie's got her own room, huh? So, hurt your neck, get a cage to yourself. Yeah, well, Hennie -- just don't show any attitude or the girls and me'll get ya...good.")

The roomates have to give the chicken medication now. So to distinguish her from the rest of the flock (once she's been reintroduced to the pen), Brittany and Karen have painted the hen's toenails. The color is called "Lucky," as observed by Karen. She thought this was so delightful. Ha. Ha. Ha. Speaking of delight, they both seemed to enjoy giving the chicken a manicure/pedicure. They were giggling about it. I guess that's something that only happens once in a lifetime. The chicken even seemed to enjoy it. WhatEVER.

I'm telling ya, these people will be at each other's throats...soon. A few weeks, maybe. Think: Rats in a cage. Think: Rats in a cage with nothing to do. No CDs, no tee-vee, no newspapers or magazines, no library of books. William was soooo bored that he pretended to receive "instructions" from the BB people to re-arrange the dining table chairs and keep a candle burning all day long. Then the other roomies found out that the "instructions" were bogus, contrived by William himself. At the end of the episode, the voiceover asks, "Can William regain his housemates' trust after this prank?" What was so bad about his "prank"? It was amusing, was it not? It was something to DO, was it not?   He was bored. He just wanted to have some fun. Sheesh.

Someone's gonna go bugf**k. Just wait. It'll happen.

Still faxing my résumé hither and yon with few responses. I'm sooo desperately tired of seeing the same stinkin' words and phrases used over and over again in Help Wanted ads. You know, like "personable," "detail-oriented," "good organizational skills," "self-starter," "multi-tasker," and my personal fave-peeve, "goal oriented." Yeah, my GOAL is to break out of Cubicle City. Blech! Oh, and how I so enjoy spotting the grammatical errors -- especially when "good communicative skills" are required. And they would be a good judge of that?

I dunno. I'm just sick of the whole process. From scanning the ads (in the paper, on the Web), to faxing or emailing my résumé. Then I wait. Wait for someone to call me. IF they call me, I then have to shlepp over to the interview wearing a suit (which I HATE) and have to pretend that I want to work for this company more than ANYthing else in the world. Oh yeah. It's always been my life's ambition to work at a boring clerical job for a pittance. If I have to always hover near the poverty line, I'd rather do something I like. Like writing. But I need a paycheck, no matter how dismal the amount. Lotto...Lotto...Lotto...please....?

Oh, to be Darva Conger for just one day.

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