When I was little, my parents had a succession of cars with which they were largely unsatisfied.  There was much lamentation about the sold VW Beetle–replaced by the unsatisfying AMC Rambler.  They replaced the Beetle because I was born.  The purchase of the Rambler was my fault.  So was the collapse of AMC.  You heard it here first.

The Rambler, in turn, was replaced by a VW 412 which overheated a lot.  The VW was replaced by a Buick Electra Limited, a behemoth whose soft steering was my comfort as I was I learning to drive.  Its landau top was forever the source of family drama because of the sparkler thrown onto it by my brother after an explicit warning not to throw sparklers.

I should note that this car lament/blame had a parallel in a story about the cat who died, because she was let out onto the busy street and run over.  As I was weeks old at the time, it was not I (in the Electra) who ran her down.  It was, nonetheless, my fault.  I was said to be the source of her “freedom” because the African-American woman who helped my mother care for me as an infant had warned that cats will “suck the life out of babies.”  Thus, cat outside on busy road, and a bad end.

Anyway, back to the cars.

Got the sequence?

Gave way (because of me) to:

Which wasn’t a good car, caused the downfall of AMC (my fault), and was replaced by:

Which overheated a lot.  Did I mention that my brother and I didn’t get along as children?  Thusly, one of us had to ride in the “way back” over the overheating engine one summer on a trip from Atlanta to New England.  I can still remember how hot I was.  Hotbox was replaced by:

There were more cars later, including the unfortunate car that became my first (handed down from my mom) and therefore the subject of my early driver accidents…

Have you ever noticed that certain cars never make people wistful for the past?  No one longs to have a fully restored 1980 Chevrolet Citation.  And that is why GM is failing.  You heard it here first.

Anyway…

Between the 412 and the Electra, my dad bought a used car, which he drove for six or nine months.  My excellent internets-based sleuthing has led me to the conclusion that it was a mid-70s Toyota Corona.  (I knew it was a Toyota, I knew approximately when we had it, and then I recognized it while looking at google images of mid-70s Toyotas.  See how clever I am?!)

That Toyota–while otherwise an ordinary car–had one extraordinary feature to my school-age mind.  The headrests of the front seats had openings into which the poles slid.  They functioned fine and the headrests were firmly attached.  Nevertheless, into one of these very small holes, someone had placed a dried bean.

Like that one in the middle there.  I saw very clearly how the bean could have been inserted.  Getting it out was another matter.

I could not, for the life of me, sort out how it might be extracted.  I spent hours contemplating.  I really wanted to figure it out.  Then, my dad sold the car and the bean was gone from my life.  I still thought of it occasionally for years.  The problem I could not solve.  The void filled with bean.

I thought about that bean today.

We spent yesterday with Teresa’s parents and their three dogs and our two dogs.  They have a small dog along with whom Biscuit does not get.  (Did you follow that?)  Anyway, Biscuit got into a fight with that dog and as a result, she smelled a little like the pee that dog emitted as a result of the fight.  I should note that non-Biscuit dog started the fight and I later said, “Lulu wrote a check she couldn’t cash.”  As a result of Lulu’s check, Biscuit smelled like Lulu pee.  Oh and chocolate chip cookies.  She smelled like pee and chocolate chip cookies.  We had a fresh chocolate chip cookie in the car on the way home (a result of a coupon at Black Angus.  Don’t ask).  So my car smelled of dog, urine, and cookie.

I was taking Biscuit to get groomed this morning.  I was traveling to a part of SoCal I generally avoid.  Biscuit’s groomer had moved from a store in the valley in which I live to another north of here.  I programmed my Garmin Nüvi with the address and set out.  When I arrived in far northern valley, I discovered that the store was on a new bit of road that wasn’t known to the Nüvi.  I got lost.  I found myself staring at the Nüvi, which was showing my car in a blank space on the map.

It looked like that except there were no roads.  I stopped the car and looked at it.  The Nüvi said I was nowhere.  And yet, I was somewhere.

The where was new space–not in a good sense, mind you.  There I was driving down a new road lined with faux-Spanish facade built around all the expected national chain stores.  Ex-urbs have no soul and may well be the reason for the bad economy.  You heard that here first.

But Biscuit likes Harvey and Biscuit doesn’t like many people and Harvey had moved to the PetSmart at the place unknown to the Nüvi.

All of a sudden, staring at my virtual car in a virtual wasteland, I thought of the bean.  I also thought of my nine year old self staring at the bean, trying to get it out of the void.

Then I looked up.  Away from the blank, away from the bean.

I found the store and took Biscuit inside.

(Why does Biscuit’s hair cut cost twice as much as mine?  Never mind, I know.  It’s because I don’t nip and my hairdresser doesn’t brush my teeth).

Normally, when I defy the Nüvi’s directions, she says “recalculating” in a way I find judgmental.  Today, as she tried to find her way through the blank space, I found her recalculations less judgmental and more bereft.  She seemed (not that I’m anthropomorphizing AT ALL) relieved when I headed home.

When left to pick up Biscuit, I turned the Nüvi back on and directed her back to the blank space. Biscuit didn’t smell like pee anymore.  The blank space is now filled in my mind by the exubry stuff that’s actually there.

I was listening to Carrie Newcomer as I descended back to the valley that is my home.

I’m the fool whose life’s been spent.
Between what’s said and what is meant

Or so she sang.

That bean is surely gone now.  Dessicated enough to dry up and blow up and away from its void.  Maybe it’s still there.  It’s not a problem I need to solve.

So I will wander without fail
In circles that grow ever wide
The sky expands and then exhales…

When I arrived home, the Nüvi said, “arriving at home, on right.”  We both felt glad.

(Lyrics from The Geography of Light by Carrie Newcomer, “There is a Tree”)

So, Treecup has got herself a new passion. It’s great for her.  She looks good, feels good, has normal blood sugar.  Sly describes himself as “raw adjacent” and I feel adjacent to the adjacent.  On Saturday they were kind enough to invite us to their club, which I heart.  After working out we went to a large chain restaurant, and Treecup had cooked vegan food to be social.  It’s perfectly normal to go work out and then go eat chain restaurant food, right?

Once we reconvened at their house, I wandered into the kitchen to explore the raw zone she’s created.  I was being my usual forward self and smelling tubs of stuff and being perhaps more disparaging than I ought.  Treecup offered up “cheese” on a “cracker.”  Sly says that her food has entirely too many quotes.  The “cheese” was made of cashews and was a rough approximation of cheese.  Like, if we were in the cheese ballpark and cheddar was playing first base, this was in an obstructed view seat in the upper upper deck.  Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd, buy me some (raw) peanuts and cracker flax…

Anyway, if the cheese was in the cheese bleachers, the “cracker” was maybe standing on the street waiting outside cracker stadium to catch a long ball hit by a saltine.  When Teresa asked how the seeds could be made to form a “cracker” Treecup informed us that, when soaked, flax seeds exude a semi gelatinous substance and then can be made into cracker shapes. Handy.  (See, there I go again being more disparaging than I ought.  Still, I have anti-flax seed feelings just at the moment).

We departed soon after our raw experience.  (I should note that I demurred for us when Treecup offered up a viewing of her new raw dvd).  She claims it very inspirational and I think we may need to watch it next time.

Anyway, I kept pulling flax seeds out from my teeth with my tongue.  One of them got lodged in my windpipe just as I was steering the FJ onto the 10.  (Non-SoCal note:  Socalies use the definate article when referring to freeways.  I’ve lived here long enough that I do it too.  “The 10″ = “Interstate 10″ which stretches from Santa Monica to Jacksonville, Florida.  It’s 2460 miles long, which makes it longer by 270 miles or so than my high school distance.  I can code-switch well enough that when I go to Atlanta I switch back to “I-75″).   So, there I was getting on the freeway and needing to merge onto “the 57″ (aka California 57, which runs from Glendora to the Orange Crush for a distance of almost 24 miles) and I’m choking on this flax seed.  Coughing with watering eyes choking.  It persists all the way up the 57 until I merged onto “the 210″ (aka California 210/I-210 which runs from San Fernando to Redlands for a distance of 86 miles, it swiches from I-210 to CA-210 at the 57).  Choking and coughing so hard, I’m hoping not to vomit choking.

Teresa was very supportive during my coughing episode.  She offered my some tepid lemonade and offered to drive.  She also refrained from saying disparaging things about my Garmin nüvi, which was telling me to do things vis à vis the freeways.  Teresa vacillates between thinking the Nüvi is rude and thinking it might lose the will to live.  She doesn’t like that it interrupts her (which it does) or that I defy it (which I thoroughly enjoy doing ).  I agree wholeheartedly with my co-worker who says that all Nüvis (she has one, too) are “judgemental” when they say “recalculating” after you’ve defied their direction.

As I merged onto the 210, I finally stopped coughing.  I noticed at that very moment a Dodge station wagon (of the modern magnum/charger variety) that had a brown body and bright orange expensive looking rims.  It also had sepia tinted pictures painted across its sides.  Of Jesus.  Both sides.  Sepia Jesus on a Chrysler product.

WHY I stopped coughing is up to debate.  Some possibilities:

Chance?

The 210?

The biological dislodging of the flax seed from my windpipe?

The shock of the sight of the car?

Divine intervention?

Very hard to say.  Maybe if I had watched the raw dvd I’d know better.

Cracker flax, know thine enemy.

A couple of summers ago, as is my wont, I traveled to the beach with books I had carefully selected over the course of several months. As is also my wont, I didn’t find any of them satisfying as beach reading. The level of my restlessness at our annual beach trip with my family would rank high on any machine designed to measure such things. I’d love a machine of that type for myself. I could tune it on on various people and see how tense/restless/about to flay their skin off they were. It would be much easier that reading the tension in the corners of people’s eyes.

Anyway, the place where we usually go to the beach has just the one bookstore and prominently features authors from the South Carolina lowcountry. (It drives my copy editor Honey wild that there is no consistency in how one “styles” (as she would say) those two words referring to the swampy beachy part of the more southern of the Carolinas). I’m not a big fan of most Southern writing, post, say, Yoknapatawpha, so the lowcountry fare wasn’t going to do much for me. I chose, instead, a book called The Ruins. I didn’t like it, which was a pleasant serendipity for Honey, who promptly started it and then recounted the plot to me when she was done.

I liked her telling of it much better than the 30 pages or so that I read of the book itself. Now, if you pay any attention to the current movie releases, you’ll know that it has just been released as a film. The LA Times review described it as: “depressingly inert and blithely gruesome.” The basic story of the The Ruins centers around killer ivy that eats you inside out.

Killer ivy should not be confused with Poison Ivy.

That’s Poison Ivy.

That’s killer ivy that eats you from the inside out.

I think I ended up reading a Spanish novel whose name escapes me right at the moment at the beach that summer.

Flash forward to this morning. I sometimes read the Sunday paper in what we call “the middle room.”

Aside: does everyone have these kinds of labels for rooms? When I was growing up we referred to one room in our house as the “green room” even though it wasn’t. I do understand it had been at one point.

Anyway, Honey and I are two people with many more pets than we need. We also have more bedrooms than we need. The “middle room” is a very small bedroom that we’ve turned into a sort of denette. I like to use it sometimes to escape the various technologies in my life. So, this morning, I retreated into it to read the paper. I was finishing the travel section (always my last section–paper section preference sorting is important to me) and I rolled my head around on my neck as I sometimes do.

As I did so, I noticed a vine. A vine. IN THE HOUSE. Poking out from under the blinds. Killer ivy. In the retreat room. It had grown THROUGH the window. Ok, really, it had grown through the gap in our 50 year old windowsill, but still.

Ten minutes of mild effort and I pulled all the ivy off the side of the house and Honey got the inside ivy into the trash can.

I’m not sure what lesson to take from all of this Sunday drama. One, lesson to be learned certainly focuses on using the middle/retreat room more and scouting it for unauthorized plant life more often. Another is that neither Honey nor I should really be allowed to own a home if we can’t control our ivy.

Finally, for those of you who see me IRL, could you keep an eye out? If I start looking like that girl in The Ruins, help me somehow. Calling me “depressingly inert” might be a place to start.

Ok, a quick Friday thought…

I heart Lost. Really really heart it. Need to watch it again from the beginning heart it.

Also, I heart Elizabeth Mitchell. She’s so dreamy.

She’s my tv girlfriend. Teresa said it’s ok to have a tv girlfriend and she’s mine.

(To be clear, I have now claimed both Elizabeth Mitchell and Sequoia National Park. Entitlements that are meaningless=fun.)

I’m not going to write just now about having had a really nice lunch today with The Misanthrope and Bitch, PhD, which was very cool on lots of levels.

I’m not going to do that because I have little zingy feelings right now. Why? Glad you asked.

My previous post got a comment while I was at the aformentioned lunch from one of Miss Washington’s gay dads. I didn’t write much about her in my post, mostly because I don’t know enough about pageants to work up the right level of outrage over her not winning. But I’m going to go for it now.

One week on, I have to say I haven’t gotten less irritated about the outcome. Let’s start with some objective facts…

Miss Washington, Elyse Umemoto, and Miss Indiana, Nicole Rash, made the top three on both Miss America Reality Check and Miss America proper. (I should not that I just went to the Miss Indiana pageant site and had a hard time finding Ms. Rash’s last name. She’s not just “Nicole,” folks). At any rate, this suggests to me that if TLC and the Miss America people were really interested in a new kind of Miss America, that those two women should have been numbers one and two.

I don’t see much point in bashing the other contestants. Rather, I want to focus on why Ms. Umemoto should have won. Let’s go positive on this, shall we? Ok, I may have a negative moment or two. We’ll see. Stay tuned.

The notion that Miss America should be the new “it” girl seems perfect for Ms. Umemoto.

Why do I say that?

Well let’s start with her ethnic heritage. She’s Japanese, oh, and German, also she’s Latino and Yakama Native American. Got that? I like to think of America as an interesting place where people come together and influence one another in all sort of ways. Someone with a complex and rich heritage seems ideal for our new “it girl” don’t you think? We’ve done blond before. We’ve done Midwest before. How about Pacific Rim? Word to Seattle. Thanks for the coffee thing. Also, thanks for two Miss America posts.

Ok, next criteria–what does she stand for? Two things. Embracing diversity. Seems right. (Would someone tell Bill Clinton to shut about about race, by the way?) The other thing? Empowering women. The it girl gets it.

I thought she was funny and charming throughout the reality show. Then came the red carpet moment. She spoke out about her gay dads and called herself liberal. Word to your mom, dad, dad, and dad. You’re stunning.

As I said, I’m no pageant expert, so I can only say that she seemed fine in the various walks (swimsuit, evening wear). Her rendition of the Robbie Williams tune seemed way more, oh I don’t know, connected to the aughts than tap dancing or Judy Garland songs. She stayed in tune too, which I more than my ear said about the winner. (Yes, my ear can talk and yes that was a little negativity).

I have no doubt that Ms. Umemoto will succeed in whatever she decides to take on. (I gather from reading around that she won Miss Seattle in her first attempt at the pageant thing. Pretty impressive, if you think about it. A lot of the women she was up against have been competing in pageants their whole lives. Trust me, there are women in the South who have entire worlds revolving around the pageant circuit). I wish her nothing but the best as she embarks on her post-Miss America chapter. Still, I can’t help thinking that a Miss America with gay dads, a feminist bent, a rich and diverse heritage, and liberal politics would have been awfully nice. I know I would have paid attention beyond last Saturday.

Thanks, Gary, for prompting me to write this. All the best to you, your partner, and your daughter.

To quote Elyse (I hope it’s ok to call her that once), “how do you like them apples?” Quite a lot from what I can tell.

Despite The Onion’s recent headline and the general, shall we say, over-attention to the last season of The Wire on sites that I read frequently (Salon, Slate, etc.), I am going to write about it anyway. Don’t read if’n you don’t want to.

There is a trope in television that send me into little fits of apoplexy. An episode is devoted to a character. I spend that hour thinking about how much I love that character, how television can be really good, how it transforms itself from banality into, well, something a little more. Then the character dies and I feel really sad. I’m a sucker for it every time.

I first noticed it when they shot Tara on Buffy The Vampire Slayer. There’s plenty written on that death as well, so I’ll leave it there.

The Wire really likes to play me this way. The nexus of the problem is twofold. First, I find the “bad guy” characters on The Wire deeply appealing because they are complete characters, nuanced and complex. I could not shut up about how great Idris Elba was as Stringer Bell and when he died his clearly inevitable death, I was really sad and mad. Idris Elba didn’t die. The show ends in six episodes. Still, writing about it even now makes me cranky. The second part of the problem lies in their very identity. They’re bad guys. Bad guys die because they’re criminals and shoot each other. I really like Snoop for example, who’s long term health as a character I have no real confidence in. Ditto Omar. Killing people as a profession is not high on the actuarial tables.

Last night, they did it to me again. Honey and I watch this fabulous episode and I keep talking about how much I’ve come to like Prop Joe. Could I have seen his death at the end of the episode coming? Sure. Did I? Nope.

“Woe to them that call evil good and good evil.” So said Prop Joe last night (on a flower card for a dead man). I’ve always thought of Bunk Moreland as the character most likely to tell the truth about the totality of what happens in the Baltimore of The Wire. Joe’s quote from Isaiah comes as close to the worldview as anything. Marlo’s unwillingness to see anything as evil does not bode well for the happiness quotient as the series comes to a close.

I can be suckered in by television on several levels. On Saturday, I watched the Miss America pageant. Yes, indeed, you read that right? Why? Well, I had watched a couple of episodes of Miss America Reality Check and was rooting for Miss Washington, Elyse Umemoto, she of the gay dads and the liberal politics. She came in third to a woman who sang one of the cheesiest rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” I’ve heard. That’s saying something, too because that song will cheese up without much help. Two hours of my life I don’t get back, that pageant.

So, David Simon, et. al. didn’t need to do much to lure me in. I guess I should also feel grateful that they didn’t kill Kima Greggs when they could have in season 1.

Speaking of Sunday night television…if someone wants to kill Jenny Schecter, feel free.

In the meantime, just a little sporks shout-out to Robert Chew as Proposition Joe Stewart.

Sometimes you see it coming. Usually I don’t. The good news is that it’s just tv and if the writers don’t come back soon, I can just watch sports. But then, that doesn’t always go like I want it to, either. Ok, never mind, I’ll just stop watching.

Or not.

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are (warble) blue…

Honey and I were watching “Everest: Beyond the Limit” the other night. The narrator noted that the Nepalese were born to climb the great mountains of their country. Their hearts are bigger. Their lungs are bigger. It reminded me (and I said out loud) of the piece that I read in the L.A. Times last week about Disneyland redesigning the “It’s a Small World” ride. It seems that the boats keep bottoming out. Disneyland, not wanting to alienate its visitors, has refused to blame the expanding American (and non-American) waistlines on the problem. Instead they argue that years of fiberglass build-up on the boats and water channel have made the ride less functional. The problem, apparently, is so acute, that they’ve built a platform near the Canadian Mounties to help people out of the boats so the ride doesn’t get held up too long. Listening to that song a few MORE times than the ride normally requires may be too much for people.

At any rate, I remarked, upon hearing the narration about the Nepalese, that Americans are born to bottom-out Small World boats. My Honey laughed. I like making my Honey laugh.

I liked this Shakespeare thing. It has nothing to do with what we’re born to do. Still. Macbeth would have been way different with sporks.

Is this a spork which I see before me,
Its handle toward my hand?

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Get your own quotes:

I am well aware that the SkyMall catalog is simply a distraction that the airlines provide me with on the plane. The companies that populate it are hoping I’ll buy something.

Treecup and I once played a game on the way to a conference where we opened the SkyMall catalog. Here’s how it worked. I’d open the book to a particular page and pick out the item I most thought she would want, even if it was a page full of NFL pool balls. There couldn’t be anything less suited to Treecup than NFL pool balls. Then she picked out the thing she would buy on that page.   Then we’d switch and she’d try to guess my preferences.  (The answer couldn’t be “nothing.” In our imaginary SkyMall world, you had to buy something on every page. Delta and Hammacher Schlemmer would be so pleased. Them and the NFL pool ball people.) It was an amusing and interesting exercise in how well we knew one another.

My father travels a lot and when I ask him for gift suggestions, he is likely as not to come up with something from the SkyMall like a shower squeegee. I don’t feel compelled to buy him the actual shower squeegee from the catalog, nor is he hoping for it. He just liked the idea of the shower squeegee. Thusly, he is now able to squeegee his shower at will.

Anyway, when I flew home on Wednesday, I noticed a product that made me sad in the SkyMall. Not sad like the anti-gay freaks protesting at soldiers funerals. Not that sad. Still.

Here it is:

It’s described as:

“Safe laser beam toy keeps your cat entertained for hours on end, so you can do other things.”

Ok, I will admit that our four (how did that happen?) pets always often sometimes drive me crazy. But they’re our pets. I brought them (or helped bring them) into our home. I should play with them. If the cats like laser pointers (and boy, do they), I should wield said pointer and move it around for them. Really.  With my own hands.  Even though I hurt my shoulder the other day bench pressing my honey.  I have a left hand.  It has a wrist that works.

The “you don’t have to play with you cat” laser thingy is yet another example of our continuing slide into desperation.

I should note that, as I wrote this, Biscuit had cornered Halo under my desk. Biscuit is now outside and I have tried to coax Halo out of her lair. I’m not sure where my laser pointer is, though. So she’ll have to make do with my petting her should I be successful in the extraction.

Yesterday, Honey and I were done with our lunch. We had stopped at a restaurant in Ventura on the way back from a nice weekend away up the Central Coast. I had bidness at the branch of the system of which my university is a part at which I most covet a job. Did you follow that?  I would like to work where we went.

One of my students asked me last week, in reference to the midterm, whether I would “write the question in really hard professor language.” Another said, rather quickly, “don’t give her any ideas!”

Anyway, nice weekend to be ended with lunch in Ventura.

We had good sandwiches but were both struck by how loud the place we had chosen was. They had four teevees going. Two with football and two with bull-riding. They were also playing music rather loudly. Our waiter was taking a bit getting us the check and I heard Honey singing “Help Me Rhonda” along with the music. I should note, quickly and vigorously, that Honey isn’t a big Beach Boys fan. She can articulate this better than I. Indeed, she did so as we drove back to the freeway, explaining that, while she liked some Brian Wilson songs, the popular one were ubiquitous and not appealing to her. That’s a paraphrase, but I think I got the gist.

I have other reasons for not liking that particular song. The good news is that I see my therapist tonight and “Help Me Rhonda” could well come up. Once I’ve processed, I may share out.

Honey and I agreed, and, indeed, have discussed and agreed on this before, that music in restaurants, well, sucks. It’s loud. It interrupts both conversation and contemplative silence. It panders to the worst in music. It’s either noise (pablum pop stripped of lyrics) or intrusive (Beach Boys). Either way, I’d like modern America a wee bit quieter. Ok, a lot quieter.

I know that there are undoubtedly studies that show that people are happier when they have music while they eat.  It fills lulls in conversations and give those (theoretically) poor souls eating alone something to think about.  But I think focus groups of this type have caused more harm than good.  I like the sound of people talking and of dishes being moved around.  I like these sounds whether alone or with people.     I also like to be able to hear my dinner companion(s).  And to read when alone.

I’m sure there are people who want to be the bringee in a world that is far too loud.  Count me as not among that group.

Somebody turn down the damn music.  I’m never, ever, going to help Brian Wilson or Rhonda, so no need to implore me to do so.

Ok, here’s the deal. Scout and I had never watched The L Word before this season.

Scout doesn’t so much like the lesbian cinema/tv thing. I’m always trying to convince her to go to the new lesbian movie because “this one is supposed to be good.” Don’t get her started about the various ones we’ve gone to. She doesn’t like them. Name one. We’ve seen it. She hated it.

So…tv seemed safer and she’s much more indulgent. She watched Buffy with me during the Willow/Tara greatness and indulges my Elizabeth Mitchell fixation which dates back to the Kerry Weaver coming out storyline on er. Lost is back soon. Sigh. I love me some Elizabeth Mitchell. Anyway, I’ll go low on tv. I watch South of Nowhere on The N. Yep, The N–that’s Nickelodeon’s teen channel. Mmmm Hmmm.

Why not The L Word then? I can’t explain it, really. We’ve always been HBO people and just got Showtime recently. We were earlier Netflix adopters and I could have queued it up. There are Showtime preview weekends. There are ways. For three seasons, no L Word for us. This despite the fact that scout works to promote the Gay Agenda™. We’ve had opportunities. Hell, we live in Southern California. We could be living the show if we wanted. (Not). When is that damn radio show on KCRW anyway? I listen to that station a lot.

So this season we have Showtime and we’ve been watching. I have to say that we are enjoying how badly written it is more than anything else. (No offense to big fans).

Here’s what’s pleased me the most, though…

We were watching last week and I said, “Alice is the hottest.” (Scout is particularly anti-Shane, so I figured Alice was an ok preference to state). Scout said, “that’s Liesha Hailey and she’s actually a lesbian.” I was so proud of myself. Spot the gay girl in the cast and think she’s hot. How many points do I get? Wait, have I lost them all before I said something for never having watched the show before? Or for loving a woman who hates lesbian movies and tv? Ah well, we’ve got this week’s episode on the tifaux. Scout, I’m sure, can hardly wait.

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