I took a shower, did some stufff around the house, and I’m SHOCKED that I wrote an entire post about glory holes. I am a shameless hussy who must be stopped.

But, it did lead me to remember something that happened last night that is clear evidence to me that this bullshit I lay down here, and the bullshit I say on stage and all the comedy bullshit with a sweet dollop of bombast ain’t me. It just ain’t. (Which, of course, is part of my thesis on how exactly did I get into the current mess o’ trouble I’m living in…)

I often close my comedy sets with a reference to Pandora’s box and its unleashed demons. Throughout my “act” there are allusions to the vagina I do in fact possess. After the show last night, a guy walked up to me and essentially whispered in my ear “demons.”

The comic persona me was amused, because he was quoting me as though he were listening. The actual, real-person me was COMPLETELY creeped out.

The good news is despite my sister’s recent hypothyroid diagnosis, what I suspect about my mother’s health and the tendency for thyroid problems to run in families, my tests came back normal. I’m at I think 2.6, which is about as normal as you can get. And, my cholestrol is a hale and hearty 188.

The bad news is I now have no excuse for my sluggishness and slothlike torpor. Clearly, it’s just because I’m a fat, lazy fuck. Fucking shit, now I have no excuse when my personal fitness instructor, the gym-loving M., marches me around town and demands I drop and give him 20.

I love my 10 or extra pounds. I would so hate to see them go.

So one of the reasons I switched to WordPress as a weblogging platform was to play around with security and access levels.

If you email me, I might send you the password for pass-word protected posts (which I imagine will be lame or personal for one person). (There’s an email link in the gray-bar, right-hand column.

If you register, I can set your access to read anything here, or some stuff that’s here or just the fully public junk. I guess it depends on whether I recognize your name and/or my untethered, unexplained whims. OK, it’s a pathetic attempt at power and control in a world in which I am buffetted powerlessly.

I’m in my room. Sheltered with air conditioning and a closed door. Inevitably I must leave, however. I must leave and check the mouse traps I set last night.

I don’t fear death, but I don’t embrace it. It is not my friend, and mice are not my enemy.

Getting a slow start to the day. Probably, because my main agenda item for today is/are vacuuming up mouse droppings, throwing bleach and disinfectant on every hard surface and setting the goddamn mouse traps I bought. As my sister points out, the central irony of the shit that’s plagued me this past month is I’m actually too much of a pussy to kill a mouse. OK, she didn’t call me a pussy, but still and all, she was thinking it. (Although, come to think of it, given the pun, if I were a pussy, I would eat mice.) Still, though, I suck at killing things, and lord knows I try.

Oh, and as symbols go, I previously referenced living with a mouse as akin to consorting with some of the vermin I’ve dated. Then, as by the magic of familiars, I ran into an ex-beau last night. He was driving through Harvard Square, and I was walking to a comedy show. The funny part is we dated a million and a half years ago, but we worked together in the past few years. He never quite fit into that workplace and left. I stayed, thinking I understood the place better than he. Oops, got that fucking wrong. Hugely fucking wrong.

Anyway, he seemed shocked that (a) I will likely be moving sooner rather than later and (b) because of a guy (or mostly to be with a guy, but also to expand my life). Nothing like that sweet feeling of talking with an ex who dumped you hard about your newer, better life and loves.

The comedy show was great. I saw Todd Barry, who mocked people who would write in their ‘blogs about the show and specifically told me not to link to him. So, fuck you Mr. New York Comic. You’re not the boss of me. Good show, though, and good reminder that high energy jumping around on stage, which is pretty common and over-hyped, is not necessary at all.

Other than that, it ain’t a bad day if it begins deciding what flavor Pop Tart you want. Even better, is getting a call that I’m in with this project. I’m doing what I can to help unseat the current power regime, even if it means the total humiliation of my acting.

So the other night, I went out with one of my oldest friends. Well, not in the sense that he’s old, I’ve just known him the longest. We went to see Dodgeball and then snuck into White Chicks. (Yup, I’m a grown fucking woman sneaking into dumbass movies. There was some agreement that both movies sucked more often than not, but Kevin favored the overplayed racist and sexist cliches to the overplayed underdog, geek cliches.)

Anyway, after the flicks we got to talking about a kid we knew in elementary school and junior high (well Kevin knew in junior high and I knew in both). I can’t remember if he went to any part of high school with us, but I know he graduated from a private school.

We had both been collegial nerds with him; we were all on the math team together in junior high. (Yeah, I know, I’m a fucking tool. Later I discovered pot, as well as ultimately boys and sex, and since I have forgotten almost all math. It is so sad to stare at a differential equation and realize that there was a time when it would have made sense. Kind of like surviving a brain injury, but without the cool brain injury story.)

Both Kevin and I have distant guilt feelings for basically selling him out intellectually, denying association with him and joining in with some good, old-fashioned geek abuse with the other kids.

So, I did what any latter-day former math dork would do, I Googled him. Here is the man, the legend, Warren Madden.

In third grade we were like neck and fucking neck in the high stakes competition of top of the class. Now, he’s a hurricane chaser, army reservist and television personality. Kevin’s a math professor. I’m unemployed.

Did I mention I smoked more pot than those guys?

Wasted a bit of the morning already and it ain’t even 11 a.m. I wasted time in what might be the worst possible way, reading a godawful boring chick’s weblog. When I started to get into some recent non-disclosed woes, she linked back to me and wrote about how she would never do such a thing. That’s how I found her and good for fucking her and her merry fucking life.

So periodically I check her ‘blog and feel superior. She really is that boring. She posts affirmations about happy thoughts and chocolate. She has a boyfriend. She cries a lot because of her weight. He gives her healthy snack foods instead of chips. He apparently listens to her whine and cry a lot and is loving and supportive. I hope she gives good head at least. Give her something to do besides eating. (By the way, she has pictures on her website, and she’s not fat. Apparently, just whiney.)

I think if you ‘blog about how many cries you had in a week at your boyfriend’s house, unless someone’s recently died or been maimed, you’re a weeping head case.

Speaking of boyfriend’s and weight, apparently once M. and I are together I can anticipate the Bataan death march into health and well-being. I told M. my Body Mass Index from yesterday’s physical. He immediately jumped into action on keeping me active. Them weight-conscious Chinese are tricky. And didn’t his people invent torture?

According to him, I once told him he could kill me if I became obese. Kill? Hmmm. I don’t remember that exactly.

I don’t think I’ll tell him that the one absolutely tried and true method of weight loss for me has been getting my assed dumped horrifically by some guy. Nothing like going down in a blazing glory of asshole-induced, self-esteem-buckling body blows to keep me good and depressed and away from snacking.

I played with my style sheets some more, and I think cured most of the pages ills. I know one user is still having issues, but more improvements are due.

Meanwhile, I restored a few old posts that I know someone out there might have been seeking. Most especially, this post.

It’s probably just Sally looking at himself, but if it keeps him busy.

Other than that, as part of my clean slate and new beginning policy, I went to the doctor today for a complete physical. He showed me a graph showing that I had lost wait from a previous physical. Jesus Fucking Christ, that starting point was huge. I don’t exactly remember being in full-on bovine grazing shape, but there it was in graphical glory. Glad I didn’t decide to go to a nude beach then, someone would have tried to milk me. (’cause you know, people are always looking for a glass of milk at the beach.)

Anyway, this Thursday, July 22, there promises to be a fabulously rocking show down at the Comedy Studio in Harvard Square. The always saucy and sassy and fucking funny Kelly MacFarland will be bringing a bunch of chicks together in some estrogen-soaked comedy goodness for “Girls Go Wild.” OK, estrogen-soaked doesn’t really give you the flava of the ballsy level of funny this will be. And, it’s yet another chance to see Dee-Rob in the flesh (but like with clothes on.)