Oh darn, I left the baby on the bus.

Good Morning!

Am a allowed to be this chipper when it's so early that I haven't even had coffee yet?

I say yes.

It is Sunday after all, so cut me some slack bitches. I can't help it. I'm naturally perky damn it.

I've been tagged by the lovely Gwen over at Everything I Like Causes Cancer for Splotchy's story virus. How thrilling! I'm going to give it a whirl and hope to keep it moving by tagging Linka over at Stop Looking at My Screen... Nosy! I've never tagged Linka before so I don't know if she's game. Are you game Linka?

Directly below, italicized and slightly tiny, is what I assume is the nugget of Splotchy's original idea and then below that in blue is the story:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

- The story begins -
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I hunched down to see what it was, but as I did, the bus violently veered to left. I was thrown up against a heavyset Asian woman with blond hair. I pardoned myself, but she faced forward with no reply. Just then, a man wearing a jumpsuit of silver and gold stood up at the front of the bus. He was holding a megaphone and a box of graham crackers. He held the megaphone up to his face and began to speak... (Some Guy)

"Yukon Cornelius was the greatest prospector that ever lived!" Waving the box of graham crackers over his head, "And the silver and gold nuggets in this box were mined by him at the North Pole!" It was then I noticed the box under the seat was also filled with graham crackers. Not name-brand ones made by the tree-dwelling elves, but the generic kind that come in white boxes meagerly labeled in big black letters: GRAHAM CRACKERS. Probably made by a guy named Butch who masturbates at lunch and doesn't wash his hands.

"And I had a whole bunch more right here on this bus until one of you misfits stole it! Gimme back my silver and gold!"

As I contemplated the man's sanity the bus stopped at a red light, throwing the woman next to me into a fit of rage. Before I knew what was happening she had tossed me out of her way onto the floor and was lunging for the kook with the microphone. Her wig flew across the aisle as she jumped on the man's back and sunk her toothless gums into his shoulder. The two of them went down like a pine tree headed for a Boy Scout lot.

The driver, startled by the commotion, looked up into his overhead mirror, accidentally removing his foot from the brake, and the bus rolled into the busy intersection. (Gwen)

He jammed his foot on the brake as soon as he looked up and saw the traffic coming at his bus from all directions and although he escaped the horrors of causing a multi-car pile up he was only mildly relieved. The driver was far too pissed off with his rowdy passengers to even notice that he had narrowly missed plowing over a woman pushing a baby stroller filled with kittens across the street.

It was just as well because had he noticed he might have been very disappointed. The bus driver really hated kittens, but he had bigger matters at hand. He parked the bus and stormed his way back to Yukon Corneilius and the wig-less Asian lady who were currently engaged in what could only be described as a combination of Sumo wrestling and the Foxtrot. (The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch)

20 Questions - Part One - C'mon people...

Well perhaps I was a bit optimistic yesterday when I said that I would only choose 20 questions to answer. I was cock-sure that my inbox would be filled to the brim and nearly bursting at the seams with your inquiries about the glory and wonder that is me. Umm... maybe I have already given away all the goodies on this blog and lost your curiosity completely as my inbox is quite flaccid. I've only gotten 10 questions asked so far and one of you (Thanks Gwen!) asked two questions.

I'll start with Gwen's questions because not only did she devote a great deal of her post to me today and I'm a huge suck up, but also because it's a topic that causes great debate between me and my mom.

Gwen asks:

Are you particular about the direction your toilet paper goes on the roll? You know, the end of the paper on top of the roll vs. on the bottom of the roll?

Yes Gwen. As it happens I am quite particular about this. My mother thinks that the paper should go under, which is clearly insane. Have you ever been drunk and spinning and spinning that goddamned toilet paper roll all around trying to find the end until you're dizzy and ready to cry? Then you end up all angry, scratching and clawing at it like a wild animal? My mother is quite the lush so I'm puzzled that she continues to place the paper in the dispenser this way. She says the end of the roll is "unsightly". (Cu-koo!)

I am a firm believer that the toilet paper end should be prominently displayed for the next potential wiper and not hidden away like some secret treasure. It should go over. Go to any hotel worth a damn and you will find it displayed this way, sometimes in a tidy triangular fold. Some of the swankier hotels will even fold it in a festive and easily grasped fan shape. This pleases me greatly.

We don't argue about it anymore. She goes her way and I go mine, but secretly I know in my heart that I am correct because if the Four Seasons is doin' it my way, then it cannot be wrong.

Gwen also asks:

How did you and YDH meet?

MDH (My Darling Husband) and I met on Match.com almost 9 years ago, before most people were calling themselves McLovin* or putting pictures of themselves on their profiles. You can read some of our correspondence during the early days of our budding romance here.

Speaking of pictures, Linka72 over at Stop Looking At My Screen. Nosy, a frequent commenter and very funny blogger, asks:

Have you ever taken a photo such as that for your husband (or any man for that matter)??..

I'll assume that you are asking if I've ever had a sexy-ish photo taken of myself in some kind of nudie, glamour shot type of situation and I'll start off with the short answer which is - not on purpose.

I normally don't give out a lot of information about things that occurred of a sexual nature before I met my husband, but I'll make an exception, because I promised I would. Here is the dirt:

Once upon a time when I was single and in the throes of a serious drought I deigned to go out with a man who was a total cheese ball. I gave him a break because he had a cool job as a photographer for a local newspaper and he started to look a lot more appealing after I let him get me shitfaced. Fast forward to what was probably only an hour or two later, in a whirlwind of desperation to get laid, I allowed this man to whisk me back to his place where we proceeded to make out on his sofa.

One thing lead to another, as can happen sometimes when an unattached young lady hasn't had even the slightest prospect of a high hard one for several months, and I found myself sobering up and nude in his bedroom. In the nick of time apparently, as we had broken ranks for a moment so that he could dig around for a condom - so there wasn't yet any penetration. I trotted hazily off to the bathroom to collect my thoughts and along the way discovered a hallway plastered with framed photographs of kittens.

Kittens in baskets, kittens in teacups, kittens wearing tiny straw hats and overalls. There were photographs of kittens all over the fuckin' place. It was a kitten decor from kitten hell. I thought maybe it was his idea of kitch, so I yelled out "Like kittens much?", to which he replied in a completely serious tone, "You know? I really do."

Needless to say, after some witless blathering about having to get up early the next morning, I started to high tail it out of there. I rushed back into the bedroom to scoop up my clothes and as I was doing that jumping dance, trying to get dressed and run away as quickly as possible at the same time, I bumped into something.

It was a tripod.

With a video camera on it.

The red light was blinking.

For all I know there is some horrifying video out there showing all of my pink giblets to the world, making out in the nude with some random shithead. I don't know. I don't care. I never looked back. I never returned his calls. The end.

Stay tuned for more of your burning questions answered (that is a clue for you Pistols). Meanwhile the comments box is open folks - let's see if we can't get to at least 21 questions asked - so that I will feel as though I have some options here. Humor me.

*A friend at work just joined and is continually disgusted by the overwhelming number of men using the handle "McLovin". If a McLovin sends her a message she automatically assumes a lack of personality and imagination and deletes it.