So, the latest round of “let’s see just how many tests Alice’s insurance will agree to pay for!” is an endoscopy. I’m truly excited. The doctor had me sign one of those forms in which I agree not to sue if I die. He also told me not to take any aspirin, ibuprofen, excedrin, and probably water although I kind of zoned out for a while, because those things thin your blood and well, there could be internal bleeding, and the less bleeding the better, really. He also mentioned that he might accidentally tear a hole in some part of my insides, and then I’d need surgery for sure, although he really doubts he’ll do that. I might stop breathing or lose blood pressure, but they’ll have one of those fantastic gas masks and heart beating equipment on the ready, just for me. And I could get pneumonia after, only hopefully not, because I’ve had that already, and once was good, thanks.

I was reading up on the procedure (even though I called P. after the appointment and he said “don’t look it up on the Internet. No. Don’t. Do. It.”) and found that the anesthesia causes short-term amnesia. I’m very suspicious of this. What exactly are these doctors hiding that they have to wipe our memories clean? I also read that if you can control your own gag reflexes, you might be able to get by without the anesthetic. Sometimes, you learn things on the Internet that you didn’t really want to know. Just thinking about that sort of makes me gag, so I guess I’m not a candidate for an anesthetic-free procedure.

The doctor is planning to take some biopsies (in addition to taking pictures of how pretty I am inside). I hope he doesn’t take away anything I need.

I was working on a mix cd for an exchange when I was thinking about starting this site. I have always identified with that poor rabbit, late for a very important date. Overdue. In a rabbit stew. One of the songs for the mix was supposed to be about lyrics that you always get wrong. And although Elton John doesn’t have ennunciation troubles or anything when he sings Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters, every single time the line comes up, I think it should be “margaritas”. Possibly this is because I’m generally always in the mood for margaritas.

So, anyway, that’s the song I chose, although I used Mandy Moore’s version. What? I’m just trying to broaden the pop culture experience. I’m helpful!

The entire list, complete with liner notes, is as follows:

a song from your home town/state/county : Jesus - LAPD
As probably only die-hard KORN fans are aware, KORN was LAPD before it was KORN. And it’s probably only that set of fans that know that the guys from KORN are from Bakersfield, CA. Yep, the depressing place the Okies went when they fled the dust bowl. One of the guys went to my high school and so I knew them in a tenuous “I was friends with their friends so we ended up at the same parties” kind of way. They moved off to LA to make their fortune, but my senior year of high school, we’d go see them at really scary divey places when they’d come back to town. One night, a friend and I decided to drive down to LA and see them. They were playing at this funky place called Spanky’s Cafe in Riverside. I mean, talk about cool. Riverside, people! (By the way, we told our parents that we were going on a college tour and were staying the night in a dorm as part of a college invitation. We did actually visit a couple of colleges that day as I recall, so we’d have actual answers when our parents asked questions: USC, which we were surprised to learn is in the middle of the scariest neighborhood either of us had ever seen and thus we refused to even slow down, much less stop and walk around; and Pomona college at Clarement, which I actually later got a scholarship to and almost attended, but I digress).

However, the evening was not spent in a dorm. Rather, it was spent at a crack house. That’s right. I went to a crack house with the guys from KORN. Aren’t you so jealous? After the show, the guys in the band invited us out to party with them. Two of them crawled into the back of my friend’s dad’s truck (it was one of those mini trucks with the little shell over the back) and we followed the rest to the “party”. Which just so happened to be our first (and only) crack house visit. Needless to say, we were reluctant to even drink the beer there and risked our lives by standing around trying not to touch anything until we figured we wouldn’t look completely uncool if we left and then we snuck out as quickly as possible. We then drove straight back to Bakersfield and got back just in time for my friend to drop me off at work. A couple of days later, my friend borrowed her dad’s truck again and realized that one of the guys had left a bong in the truck bed. Oh those silly guys from KORN.

Anyway, this song is from they were still LAPD. It sounds just like it did then. That’s not necessarily an endorsement.

a song for when you’re feeling blue : Things Have Changed - Bob Dylan
At a particularly low period in my life, I was in a taxi with my luggage, crying harder than I thought possible. The taxi driver was playing Wonder Boys soundtrack. He saw me crying and asked if I wanted him to turn it off. I shook my head and he turned it up and I listened to it the whole way.

shagging music : Love - Paula Cole
This was tough, as I recently put together a CD of all shagging music. I originally was going to use John Mayer’s Your Body is a Wonderland, but I decided this was a little sexier.

the song you are most likely to sing/most tempted to sing at a karaoke bar : Dream On - Aerosmith
Right. So, I’m not likely to sing karaoke ever. Instead, I offer a song about singing.

why hasn’t everyone heard of _______? : Dreams I Left Behind Maybe Later - Lowen & Navarro
Some mixes may have Broken Moon on them. Actually, everyone has heard of these guys, or at least the songs they’ve written (for instance, “We Belong”. Also, Dan Navarro taught his cousin Dave guitar). (Ahem: Made a little song change when I actually started burning.)

music you’ve loved the longest, and still love : Rainy Days and Mondays - The Carpenters
I remember listening to The Carpenters and John Denver on eight-track with my mom when I was maybe three years old. At Christmas, when we looked at Christmas lights, we always drove by their house. It was known for being all decked out. You all are lucky I didn’t pick a John Denver song instead. I still like his stuff too.

a TV show theme song : My Life - Billy Joel
I never really liked Bosom Buddies, but I love just about everything Billy Joel. I’ve seen him in concert five times. I’ve even seen Movin’ Out, the musical.

song that keeps you awake while driving late at night : Pour Some Sugar On Me - Def Leppard
I was trying to think back to actual songs that have kept me awake when I used to drive late at night. I mostly remember drinking Diet Pepsi and rolling all the windows down. The only song I remember listening to on repeat was Just Like Jesse James, by Cher. An ex-boyfriend and I used to sing it really loud when I was in college. I would have included that song instead if I could have only found the CD. It’s around here somewhere.

a song that you like to sing the musical parts (e.g. the bass line or the guitar solo) instead of the lyrics : Moon River - Henry Mancini
Sometimes I feel just like Holly Golightly, with the phone in the suitcase and the one shoe under the bed and the trying to learn Portuguese. I didn’t marry Buddy Hacket when I was 14 or climb out bathroom windows after borrowing $50 for the powder room though. But when I hear this song, I always want to hum the parts that Holly did while she was sitting out on her balcony with that kerchief in her hair.

a song from the first album you bought with your own money : Like I Love You - Amy Grant
Yet another example of how the mix receivees got off easy. I think my first actual album was Amy Grant’s first album. She was also my first concert (at the Mabee Center in Tulsa, OK). I was originally going to include Grape, Grape Joy from that album, which includes the following lyrics:

I am a small and lonely grape
Clutching to the vine
Waiting for the day when I’ll become my Savior’s wine
Oh wouldn’t French cusisine just yearn it
I’ve eternity to ferment
But knowing me I’d end up rippled
In a cellar of chablis

However, I seem to have misplaced that album, so I’m including something from one of her later albums (Behind the Eyes) instead.

a song that you never get the lyrics right : Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters - Mandy Moore
Why Mandy Moore? Why not? She’s so cute!

a song with lyrics about history or folklore : Crow on the Cradle - Ceili’s Muse
This is a Celtic band from Texas. Well, was. They’ve broken up, and the singer started the Maggie Drennon Band. Other people have sung this one, including Jackson Browne.

favorite song by a one hit wonder : Cheap and Evil Girl - Bree Sharp
This isn’t her one hit, but I like it just as much.

a song that you’re ashamed to admit that you like : Making Love Out Of Nothing At All - Air Supply
I had so many to choose from for this. I was really close to including Milkshake by Kelis or Yesterday by Hillary Duff. But after looking over my NSYNC, Nick Carter, Britney, and sundry other CDs, I decided that it was just too tough to choose. So, I went with the song about knowing how to whisper and cry and shit.

a song to bust the car speakers : Time - DC Talk
I know, Christian Rap.

an old song, perhaps a song from before 1940 : Stuff Like That There - Kelly Clarkson
Betty Hutton recorded this song in 1944, so it misses the date cutoff a bit. Also, I’m including Kelly Clarkson’s version from American Idol, so it not only misses the date, but really belongs in the “ashamed” category.

a song that calms your nerves or reduces anxiety : Wonderful World - Louis Armstrong
I almost included the Ramones version instead, but it’s not quite so calming.

a song that makes you want to punch someone in the face : Stairway to Heaven - Led Zepplin
See, my boyfriend likes to listen to the classic rock station when we’re driving. They like to play Zepplin. But the only song they ever seem to play is Stairway to Heaven. Every time we get in the car, Stairway to Heaven! (They sometimes mix it up with Pink Floyd’s The Wall and a selection of songs by The Eagles.) The boyfriend claims that the station plays lots of other Zepplin songs, I just don’t know any of them. I say that he just randomly picks other songs that happen to be playing and tells me they’re by Led Zepplin. I looked through his box set last night (Me: “See? The song is so damn long that they need a box set for it!” Him: “You know, that song does make me want to punch someone in the face.”) to see if I could find a shorter version, but apparently not so much. In fact, it’s too long to even fit on the CD. Instead, I’ll offer a short bonus track.

a song that best describes this moment in time for you. Or the song you find yourself wanting to listening the most right now. : Walk On - U2
This was tough. I was thinking of going with the Indigo Girl’s Deconstruction, just for the line, “we’re sculpted from youth, the chipping away makes me weary”. But Walk On really resonates with me right now, for the idea that sometimes you keep walking, even if you don’t know exactly where the path will lead.

a been done wrong song : Song for the Dumped - Ben Folds Five
And since I couldn’t fit on Stairway to Heaven, I’m also including Fuck You And Your Cat by Goldfinger. It’s a want to punch someone who’s done you wrong song. And it’s only 1:19 long.

“Hey baby. Want me to pull on your big toe?

“Maybe.”

“I’m also supposed to wrap your penis in plastic wrap.”

“And then what?”

“And then I hum.”

“Hum what?”

He then threatened to buy a men’s magazine and try out all of their advice on me. We both figure that advice would be even worse than that from Cosmo. He’s thinking it might involve a live lobster. And at least we’d have the plastic wrap to tie his pinchers closed with.

I actually rarely read magazines anymore, panic-driven wild grabbing at the airport not withstanding, but last night I was reading Food and Wine. They had an interview with a woman about throwing parties where the guests drink wine. She seemed to be an expert mostly because she had given parties… and served wine. Anyway, one question asked (it seemed to be one of those interviews without an actual interviewer; possibly she made up her own questions) how she ensures that her guests don’t drink too much.

Is she serving wine at frat parties? Are her guests not reasonable adults who can manage their own alcohol consumption? Apparently not. She answered that she serves all the wine herself to make sure no one has too much and that she knows who’s driving, so she keeps that in mind as well.

So, if I went to one of her parties, I’d have to track her down and say “please ma’am. May I have some more?” while holding out my glass in a forlorn fashion? Or I’d have to wait patiently with my empty glass and hope that she would eventually make her way towards me? I also picture her gathering up everyone’s keys in a big bag a la Say Anything. Would I really have to walk into the party and say “oh thank you so much Gladys (not her real name. at least as far as I recall) for inviting me. By the way, I know that I was the one who put the car keys in the bag, but actually, Bob (not my boyfriend’s real name, and I do actually recall his) is going to drive home, since last night he had eight shots of tequila and I had to drive him as he sprawled in the passenger seat singing me the Thong Song. So it’s his turn tonight. Bring on the wine.”

Or was she simply saying, in a national publication, that her friends are all lushes who don’t know when to say when and if she didn’t control the wine bottles, she’d wake up the next morning with twenty of her closest friends wanting just a little quiet, just a little less light, and some bacon and eggs with toast?

I wouldn’t go to her party even if she invited me. We have wine at home. And plastic wrap.

This month’s Cosmo magazine proves what I have suspected for years. They ran out of actual stories long ago and now spend their days messing with their readers.

“Let’s see if we can get people to… wear live frogs as jewelry and carry old potato sacks as purses!”

“Awesome. Then next month, we can tell them how to recycle those old sack purses into skirts. And that the latest workout fad is hopping on one foot down a busy sidewalk.”

“If I see someone hopping to the subway stop next month, I’ll give you ten bucks.”

“You’re on.”

Actually, this exchange would never happen, because it’s too thrifty and focuses too much on crafts. The real exchange probably included a fashion designer who pays them to do a photo shoot with her $500 potato sack skirts.

Now, I have nothing against fashion, or spending money on anything you want, or working out in whatever way works for you. But Cosmo? Is messing with us.

I’m not generally a Cosmo reader, but when I’m in the airport waiting to board a plane, in my “must need something to distract me from hyperventilation. must not focus on idea of voluntarily getting into huge piece of metal so it can take me thousands of feet in the sky” phase, I grab just about anything. I also grabbed US Weekly so I could read about “Ben in love” and J. Lo flirting with P. Diddy if that tells you anything about my state of mind.

Actual things in the October issue

The “advanced sex tricks” article suggests that girls get into the “reverse cowgirl” position and then as he nears climax… pull on his big toe. No really. This is the actual advice. I asked my boyfriend what he thought. “I think that would ruin the mood really fast.” He also looked a little alarmed that I was reading a magazine with advice such as this, since what else might it be suggesting I do to him? And he seemed to get a little protective of his toes. I don’t really have to worry that he’ll try anything similar with my toes, since he just last week deemed them “disgusting” (and all I did was show him my blisters and ask him to massage my feet) and only this morning actually ran from my toe. (I had to show him how the toenail on my big toe has broken completely off. Well, I had to show him. I needed the sympathy! Of course, running away repulsed was not exactly the sympathy I had in mind).

In any case, feel free to give this a try. Then e-mail the Cosmo editors and let them know how it went so a struggling writer can get her ten bucks.

Katie Holmes loves “buying sweaters in the fall.” OMG! I am just like Katie! Like, in the fall, I get all cold and stuff, and so then I want to wear something warm. Like a sweater. Because, you know, they’re warm and all. Some advice from Katie for those planning to get married: “The woman should be in charge, definitely. You want the wedding to actually happen.” So the secret to marriage success is to be a nagging controlling woman with a slacker man? Let’s just move on.

The editor of Cosmo was a presenter as this year’s FiFi Awards (the Oscars of the fragrance world). Apparently, they give awards to the perfume that makes you cry the most or something. I mean, Oscars of the fragrance world? I just…

Oh! Here’s a good one. Ways to tell a guy is in love with you. He photoshops your sixth-grade pictures together to see what your kids would look like. So, they’re just blatently ripping off movies now? You’d think that if they’re going to give you crappy advice, the least they could do is make it up themselves. And speaking of crappy advice, another way to tell about the love is if, during a night out with the guys, he text messages you the lyrics to Clay Aiken’s “This is the Night.” Um, probably if he knows the lyrics to a Clay Aiken song? He’s trying to tell you that he’s gay.

We also learn that famous people get followed the paparazzi a lot and they actually don’t like it so much. The famous people that is. Cosmo is apparently trying to rebrand itself as a breaking news magazine.

The new fashion is to wear blazers that look like they belong to your toddler. No, I am not making this up, people. Seriously. The other new fashion is to wear knee high boots with jeans. Of course, you have to roll up your pant legs to right above the boot line. Which, yes, would be at your knee. Pirates are very hip, right?

It’s not considered classy to order a shot of tequila at the beginning of a date. I asked my boyfriend about this too. “Right. You shouldn’t order a shot. I get all the shots.”

Other relationship tidbits: let “your guy” shave you “down there”; get naked with him but skip the boring candles; relax with him and light relaxing candles; wrap his penis in plastic wrap (again, send those e-mails to the editors! they need that ten bucks!).

Cosmo isn’t just about sex and clothes though. They also suggest women buy those horrifying “right-hand rings”, but to wear them on a different finger than the ring finger, because some guys don’t know that it’s just the left hand that means married, so they might get confused. Also, there’s instructions on how to change a flat tire in stilettos (”call AAA if you’re a member!”) and how to save money (”you have to find a way to spend less or earn more!”). In work situations, they suggest being more aggressive by pointing a pen towards the person you’re speaking to and to stand with your feet seven inches apart. If someone points a pen at me at work and then looks down and counts the inches between their feet, I will definitely know they mean business.

If you want more details on how to wrap your boyfriend’s penis in plastic wrap for maximum pleasure or the angle at which you should point the pen, I think the October issue should still be available. At least at the airport. Where they figure if you’ll willingly get into claustrophobic container that hurls you thousands of miles an hour through the air, well, you’ll try anything.

I’ve been voluntarily injected with radiation twice in one week. However, I have not, as of yet, gained any fantastic superpowers that would propel me into comic book stardom. I’m still hopeful as the latest injection was only yesterday and it’s possible these things take time.

Incredibly, my willingness to be radiated was not, strictly speaking, due to my burning desire to be a superhero. The whole superhero thing might cramp my life choices, which tend to revolve around my laziness. Rather, the radiation is just one part of a series of tests that enable my doctor to scratch his head with a caring yet puzzled look on his face. And more specifically, the second injection was part of the nuclear medicine technician’s learning to do the test correctly.

Right. I had to be injected with radiation twice because the technician screwed up the first time. And I just may get those superpowers after all, as when I was leaving yesterday, I asked if he’d have the results for my doctor’s appt today and he said,

“Probably. And I say probably because, although it might be unprofessional to tell you this, I’ll have the results if I did the test correctly this time.”

So, I’m feeling rather confident about my medical care.

This all started a couple of months ago with a pain in my right side. At first, it was just sort of uncomfortable when I was in certain positions sprawled out on the couch. So, you know, I just changed positions. I figured I’d pulled a muscle or something and didn’t give it much more thought. But the pain didn’t go away. And in fact, it got worse. The pain was there even when I wasn’t lounging on the couch. It was there when I was walking around, and trying to sleep, and ordering take-out.

Doctors, tests, results. At some point, my gall bladder became the prime suspect. As no stones appeared on the ultrasound, the doctors decided to go for the more nebulous gall bladder disease, inflamation, owy, whatever. This was where the radiation came in.

So, I laid on a table, and the technician injected me. He also injected me with icy cold water, and I can now say, in complete confidence, that I much prefer blood running through my veins than ice water. Because that shit is cold. And it takes a while to warm up as it travels.

As I was being injected, my technicial mentioned that this was the very first time he’d ever done this test. He’d been at the hospital a year, and he was so excited to get to do something new! Woo! He was so bored of doing the same tests over and over. So boring. He knew how to do those tests. This was new and exciting! He had no idea what he was doing! Did I mention the woo? Did I mention it was not coming from me?

After a few minutes, he figured out how to work the equipment (you would think this hyperbole, only not so much) and the test was off and running!

I then got to watch the radiation travel around in my insides for 60 minutes. Hello liver! Hello gall bladder! Hello, er… Hello? Anyone else out there? Finally, my small intestine showed up within the last minute of the test and the technician was very glad because if it hadn’t have shown up, he’d have to extend the test for 30 more minutes and inject me with something else and that was a tedious process because he’d have to do it manually, even though other places he’d read about in books had machines and why didn’t he get this awesome machine, wasn’t he cool enough?

With a sad face, he told me that my gall bladder seemed to be working a little slowly. But what that meant? Well, I’d have to discuss that with my doctor. But the test was cool! He finally got to do one! Yay me for being diseased! It made his day.

A couple of days later, he called me. Er, can you come back and do the test again?

He had done everything right, but the doctors, oh the evil doctors. They didn’t tell him they wanted that second injection anyway. Even though my small intestine popped up and said “yo”. Wah. The doctors weren’t clear enough! How was he to know? He’d never done the test before!

Yes, my confidence grew right at that moment.

I went back yesterday for take two. He was so sorry I had to come back. They would pay for my parking. And not bill my insurance a second time. But it wasn’t his fault. He had only done this before on cadavers.

You see, my injection fraction was very low and it alarmed the doctors. Possibly I had something very serious, but they couldn’t be sure because he hadn’t done this other injection thing. And they had only seen my gall bladder start to empty into my small intestine, but not finish emptying. This, apparently, was a problem.

He also mentioned that:

-He hoped he did it right this time, because he always did well in school and people told him he was smart
-He had a bad week and was mad at his boss, but he would regroup during my test and be focused again tomorrow

My heart was filled with comfort, truly. Or possibly it was the radiation/ice water cocktail. It was hard to tell.

He was surprised that my progress on the monitor seemed about five minutes faster this time. Although, he may have started recording five minutes later… Hmmm… Did I think it took him five minutes after he had injected me before he started the test? Hmm.. perhaps, he thought out loud, he should note that on the report.

Confidence. Comfort. Medical safety.

Then he told me that the nuclear medicine doctor told him to give me the second injection over a span over twenty minutes. Otherwise, my gall bladder might go into spasms, and well, I’d probably have to go the ER then. But, without the nifty machine (which did he mention he did not have? Even though lots of other technicians did?), well, he didn’t think he could draw it out twenty minutes. But he was pretty sure he could go ten. And ten would be fine. Because he looked it up and read that mostly, the whole pain and spasm and rush to ER thing only happened if you dispensed the drug in less than five minutes.

OK. My gall bladder was full. Was I ready? Er, is possibly that nuclear medicine doctor around? Maybe he could give the injection.

He started the injection. My, it’s hard to control the dosage. Look how little is in this syringe. How can he be expected to do this? How do I feel?

Well, actually, I feel like I’m going to throw up at any second. Oh. He didn’t answer that, or say another word. I concentrated on breathing, praying really hard that I didn’tt throw up all over everything, because then, I’d probably move (did I mention I’m not supposed to move during this test?) and I’d have to start the test over. With the radiation and the ice water and the how can he work under these conditions ranting. The feeling passed. He asked if I feel better. Yes, a little. Oh good, because he couldn’t draw out the dose for ten minutes. It was less than five.

Less than five like I could end up in the ER less than five? Yes, that five.

I smiled. Haha. That was so very funny. Really, really hilarious.

He wondered again if he was doing it right. Otherwise, the third time’s the charm! Haha!

Finally, he decided the test is over (”I think your gall bladder is empty”), and now, I wait. And I’ll find out today at my appt. if he did indeed, do the test correctly, or if the results are unusable. And I get to try again for superpowers.

As it turns out, you don’t need a photo ID to board an aircraft. So with all the watchlists, and taking off of shoes and walking barefoot on cold tile that a thousand other barefoot travelers with any number of fungus issues have passed through and little time for mopping breaks, and the queries about bags in your possession at all times, even when you got that latte and had to balance your bag on top of your cup as not to lose contact even once, you don’t actually need ID.

So, for instance, if you were on the “do not let this person even near planes, and in fact, it’s probably best to keep paper away, ‘lest he knows how to fold and crease” list, you could just book your ticket as “John Love Peace Yo” and not even have to go through the ordeal of meeting scary Soprano-type guys in diners that frankly, could use a better janitorial service, so it’s not like you were planning to have the pie anyway, to round you up some fake identification with the Peace Yo moniker.

When the ticket agent asks for ID during the boarding pass process, just say you don’t have it. No really. Simply say “I don’t have my ID.”

I know this because mere days ago, I boarded a plane after saying those very words. Although my words were a bit harder to make out among the hyperventilization that tends to occur just before I embark on a flight. I don’t think the hyperventilation is actually required though. That’s just my custom touch.

The ticket agent wrote “no ID” on my boarding pass and sent me over to the security checkpoint line, also known as the line stretching to all eternity, even down escalators and into sky bridges out to the parking garage and then back up escalators again, and you think I kid. But actually no. Hopefully they’re come up with a spiffy abbreviation or something.

Once I got to the stern woman demanding to see everyone’s boarding pass and ID (obviously, this was several days later, as in addition to the trudge back down to the parking garage, the up escalator wasn’t even working and everyone had to walk up them manually if you can even imagine), I gave her the same line about the lack of ID. She waved me through.

The difference is that she waved me through to that other line where the workers have better health care plans and can afford more up-do-date prescription glasses. Only, it wasn’t all that different for me, since I’m nearly always waved through to this line, as it’s also the line for anyone buying a one-way ticket, or who bought their ticket within the last week, or who has a last name ending in “y” or answered yes when asked if they packed flammables or asked the ticket agent where the flight attendants learn to waitress.

When you go through the heightened security line, you get to stand on little feet outlines so your legs will be outstretched just so, and you are supposed to watch as the security agent takes all your money out of your wallet. I guess you’re supposed to watch to see that he doesn’t take a tip for himself, and I’m not sure what he’s looking for. While this goes on, someone else waves a wand all around your parts.

My wand girl got a positive around my breasts.

“Underwire?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. I have to check.”

The latest in airport security. We make you feel safe and feel you up. No extra charge.

As my wand girl and fluffer walked off, the guy flipping through my purse muttered “drama queen”.

And then I was through. Hopefully, I will also be allowed back on a plane so I can return home. As my IDs whereabouts continues to elude me. Maybe I’ll even get dinner and a movie with my security checkpoint date this time.

Hi. I’m Alice. Well, Alice in the sense of names being changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, which leads to the reason for this journal.

Why exactly are you starting this journal? Don’t you have three million other places to write online?
Note, the part of you is being played in my head as a very naggy voice. I’m sure the real you is much more pleasant. I do have a lot of other places I write online actually. I have a food log and an angsty journal and a regular journal and a pop culture site, and another… Well, never mind. Yes. I do have other places to write. And I’ve found that despite all those promises of yore, you aren’t anonymous on the Internet. And I realized that although I have all of these places to write, I never really write at any of them without thinking about who might be reading them. So, I thought I’d try writing in a scary new place, a place where no one knows me. We’ll see how it goes.

Well, OK, who are you then?
I like coffee a lot. Alton Brown is my TV boyfriend. [Note the details originally here have been changed, in a “life is a journey” kind of way. Not the band. Although they were a fine, fine musical act. So, the details have been replaced with this note, and you can make up any journey for me you would like. Sort of choose your own adventure. But it’s more my own adventure, and I don’t actually have to do what you say.] I have cats. I’m terminally lazy. I don’t like umbrellas. Or lumps in my mashed potatoes.

So, what’s with the sparse Web accouterments?
Web design and I are fast friends. But in this case, Web design was keeping me from just getting started already. I had to design a layout, and then code it, and then make images, and then… well, I just decided to get started already. I found the kubrick v1..2.5 layout (isn’t it lovely?) and went with it. I suppose one day, when I’m looking for ways to procrastinate something important that I should really be doing, I’ll add a bit of spiffiness or links or something, but I’m liking kubrick for the moment.

I think I’m becoming addicted to online investing. It’s like playing craps in Vegas, only you can do it in your pajamas and there are no scantily-clad waitresses offerering you watered-down drinks. Come to think of it, I would like the cats to offer me more coffee, although the scantily-clad part would be a little disturbing. I’m much too chicken to try anything like day trading, so I’m getting my stock market fix through an IRA. I don’t know why I never paid attention before. It’s fantastic!

I checked my balance online, and found that I had made $48 in three days. By doing nothing! And yesterday morning, I found that had grown to $100. $100 profit in one week. It’s brilliant! As of this morning, I am giddy to report that the gain total is now $119.71. This $119.71 is the careful result of 1) watching TV; 2) complaining about work; 3) doing very little actual work; 4) logging into my IRA account and clicking “Gains/Losses Summary”. Who knew investing could be this awesome.

I’ve been keeping P. informed about my mad investing skilz. Last night he said, “you really shouldn’t check your balance ever day.”

“I know. One day, my balance will go down $100 and I’ll be all depressed. And I’ll want to pull my money out immediately, only I have to keep it in there for like, 30 more years. I need to take a more long-term approach.

“No, you need to stop checking your balance because of the gloating.”

My 401k is equally thrilling. Get this: every time I put money in from my paycheck, my company adds half that much in too. And I know that’s a common thing these days, but why have I never done it? I get a 50% return right away. Well, as long as I keep working there for whatever the requisite number of years may be, and as I’m full of inertia these days, that just might happen. I have only made $14 in the last month in my 401k, so while not initially as exciting as my IRA, I’ve also made $248 in matching contributions. Which is truly exciting, because unlike my $100 gain in my IRA, which could turn into a $100 loss at any moment, that $248 gain is guaranteed twice a month!

It’s amazing, this investing thing. And I’ll even tell you my secret to picking winning mutual funds.

1. Look at the list of mutual funds your IRA offers for which you are not charged a fee to buy.

2. Compare that list to Money magazine’s list of the 100 top funds you can buy.

3. Buy funds that are on both lists.

4. Sit around, watching TV and reloading your online brokerage account page.

However, I’m plagued by the $55.21 left in the money market account portion of my IRA. I can’t put it into a mutual fund, because they all seem to have minimum investment restrictions and I haven’t found any with a minimum investment of $55.21. I should have bought $55.21 more of a fund back when I was doing the buying, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention. Possibly, I could sell a fund, move all that money into the money market account, then use the combined funds to buy the fund again. Or, I could contribute more money into the IRA to get to the minimum investment amount.

But I don’t actually know anything about funds, or if there are fees when you sell, or how the taxing and legal stuff works with contributing to an IRA when you’re already contributing to a 401k. I’m more the “reload the page” kind of girl. And so the $55.21 continues to plague me. Just sitting there. Making its .03 to .11 annual return (past returns no guarantee of future results, obviously).