Ah, here is the somewhat discombobulated diatribe from Sonora that merely mentions my resemblance (is that a word) to the rodeo queen. The rest is pure blather. Is blather a word?
Subject: squash for days
Good evening loyal readers and Happy Belated Father's Day to those dads on the list, of which I think there are at least two, one of whom is my own.
Things have mellowed down a bit as far as strange happenings in Sonora, which is why this letter comes two weeks from the last. Or, maybe I'm just becoming immune.
I did, however, sing karaoke the other night.
My good friend Gen wanted to go eat some tapas at our new hangout, so five of us, including the new intern, Liz, and a new reporter, Josh, ate some tapas and everyone had a little wine, except for me, of course, because I try to live a sober lifestyle.
I've consulted my notes and see that Josh wore a T-shirt that said "I love Mother Goose" on it and another fellow, an ex-boyfriend of our education reporter, Claire, showed up in a shirt that said, "Mujer Rubelde," whatever that means.
Moving right along, some of the group decided to saunter across the street for a little amusement at the Sonora Inn aka Days Inn aka the Victoria Saloon aka that karaoke bar.
Suffice to say that four of us sang the Spice Girls' "Tell Me Whatcha Want." It was a rather embarrassing evening.
The rest of my notes have no order whatsoever, so you'll have to excuse their jumbled nature.
Firstly, I keep cooking the same thing. I shove all my favorite vegetables and some chicken in a wok, stir fry them and eat them with brown rice. I am either too lazy or to stupid to think of something else to make. It's to the point where people at work are making fun of me for constantly bringing in the same leftovers. I'm open to suggestions.
Reminder: My cell phone rarely works over here. It has to be a full moon or something. If you've called me and I never called you back it's not necessarily because I'm an evil, horrible person, although certain people would attest that I am, it's because it sometimes takes two weeks for the cell phone to tell me I have voice mail. So if you want to call me, call my house: 209.588.8504 or work (it doesn't matter that I am at work, please call anyway): 209.532.7151. Or e-mail me because I check my e-mail once a day, usually.
I have a new coffeepot. It's a stainless steel Mr. Coffee no-drip coffee pot, all shiny and pretty, black and silver. It has only two faults. It drips and it beeps. Yes, I did say it is a no-drip coffee pot, but alas. This pot is a hand-me-down from my parents, who shunned it quite harshly because it does, indeed, drip. Every single time. There is no way to make this coffee pot not drip. There is also, apparently, no way to make it not beep. When the coffee is done brewing it beeps loudly, five times. Like a construction truck backing up or something. It's SO annoying.
You've all heard of Gary, Indiana? Birthplace of Michael Jackson? I was reminded of it recently from a news report about the Gloved One going bankrupt (he's not, by the way) and returning to his hometown where they gave him a key to the city or something. Ever seen The Music Man? Matthew Broderick redid the Music Man and there was this HORRIBLE song called "Gary, Indiana." It goes something like this, "garyindianagaryindianagaryindiaaaanaaaaa!" I like to sing it to drive my mom nuts. Just thought I'd throw that out there.
This struck me as funny the other day; Our crime reporter, Amy L. (there's an Amy A.) answered the phone like this: "This is Amy. (slight pause) Aw, shit. Thanks." And then she hung up.
Changing the subject again, my editor Patty told us a friend of hers called some family with the last name Whitehead and asked, "Is this the Blackhead residence?" and the people said, "No." And so the friend said, "Oh, I must have the wrong pimple."
The other day I was in the grocery store and noticed a father and son shopping for beer. The boy was probably 4 years old and the both of them were singing, "Daddy is great! He gives me chocolate cake! Hahahahahaaa!" Now, the hahahahahaaa part is essential. I'm thinking some poor mother somewhere is cursing her ex-husband.
So we know Nick Nolte is nuts. I watched some program about the new Hulk movie coming out that he's in. I guess he showed the director some microscope he's got set up where you can stick your blood under the lens and project it onto a screen on the wall and watch all the cells float around and stuff. He's a certified freak. And he knows it. Because then he said, and I quote, "I am crazy. I'm a liar, too."
Last but not least, I am apparently the spitting image of an ex-Roundup Queen. I've been told this by at least three people. This girl's name is something like Taleeza or Sharooza or Kareema. I can't really remember, except I know it was weird. I am quite curious to meet my cow-herding twin.
Well, breathe a sigh of relief because it's over and you can move along to much more titillating e-mails about stuff like how to lose 300 pounds in 20 days.