What do airplanes, ropes and Arabs have in common?

What do airplanes, ropes and Arabs have in common?

According to Oleta Adams, they're all ways to "get here."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at these horrid lyrics. Each verse just gets progressively worse than the one before it. Seriously.

You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by Trailway.
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind.
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man.
I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can.

You can reach me by sail boat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope.
Take a sled and slide down the slope, into these arms of mine.
You can jump on a speedy colt, cross the border in a blaze of hope.
I don't care how you gt here, just get here if you can.

You can windsurf into my life, take me up on a carpet ride.
You can make it in a big balloon, but you better make it soon.
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man.
I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can.

Come up with a moral lesson and win a prize!

Spoiler alert: I'm ruining the end of tonight's episode of Moment of Truth.

The premise of this television show: Contestants answer a series of questions while attached to a lie detector test. Then they go on the show and answer the questions on network prime-time television. The more questions the contestant answers "correctly," the more money she wins. The contestant may change her answer from what she answered while strapped to the lie detector machine (which is so accurate that it's inadmissible in court). If the contestant lies, all money is lost.

On tonight's episode, Contestant Laura won $100k. She decided to try for $200k because she'd already destroyed herself and her marriage. She had admitted to stealing money from an employer. She admitted to taking off her wedding ring when she went out with the girls. She admitted to believing that her ex-boyfriend is the man she should have married. She admitted to cheating on her husband of two years.

And then the question. You know. THE question. The question where she lost it all.

"Do you think you're a good person?"

She answered yes.

The lie detector determined that was a lie.

Oh, how The Saucy Vixen laughed and laughed.

The moral of the story? Hmmmm.... whoever comes up with the best Moral of the Story wins a prize, Saucy Vixen style!

On writing comfortably.

When I was in law school, a professor told my Constitutional Law class that Justice Holmes wrote his opinions on a writing desk that had no place to sit down. Indeed, it was a standing-up writing desk. I always pictured a black-robed, old white guy standing behind a lectern, penning old-school opinions; short and sweet opinions, opining, among other things, that three generations of imbeciles are enough. The standing-up desk was the reason why Justice Holmes's opinions tended to be short: it's no fun pontificating for pages when you gotta do it standing up.

Similarly, I generally write my blog entries while sitting on the futon I got for college graduation. While I do sit down, the futon is still not a comfortable place to write from. Which is why I'm so excited that I just purchased a recliner from the local Goodwill. It's blue and matches the carpeting in my office/den. I spent my afternoon today filing old utilities bills and pay stubs (in a filing cabinet; yes, I'm just that anal), and rearranging the room to fit my handy-dandy new recliner.

And now I am prone in my recliner, listening to Cyndi Lauper, and typing comfortably away.

Given this new development, I can only hope it leads to better bigger and better blog entries.

Look at my freakishly large hands.

In this photo, my freakishly small hands look freakishly large.

But for those who asked, it shows the engagement ring.

Scary.

People born in 1987 are old enough to drink. Legally.

Even scarier: People born in 1990 are old enough to vote.

Creepy.

Provincial much?

The reason I majored in print journalism as opposed to broadcast journalism is because I was never able to handle local news. Though there is local news in print, there's so much more in broadcast. And it happens to be on right now; it's all puffery having to do with random local people and their battles with the snow and freezing rain.

I swear, if the world were ever to end, the local headline would read thusly:

"World ends; Connecticut man sees it."

Sad.

It saddens me that Donald Sutherland's career has been reduced to being the voice on the Simply Orange orange juice commercials.

No matter what, I'll always love you, Donald.

Spirituality is yummy.

I'm not much of a spiritual person. I'm not into religion. The God concept tends to elude me. I just try to live well, hope for the best, and prepare for the worst. It's the cautious optimist in me. Maybe some day I'll write a post detailing my thoughts regarding spirituality a bit further.

Today is not that day.

Those who know me know that my betrothed, Chris, cooks for me. All the time. I love it. The way to my heart was certainly through my stomach, and Chris figured that out really early on. The first date was curry. The second date was tuna steaks. And so on and so forth.

While I am not into spirituality, and while I'm not into cooking, I am certainly into eating. Which is why I was rather tickled my Chris's most recent blog post in which he compares spirituality to cooking.

Engaged. (That was fast.)

I had a bad day yesterday. My medication gives me heartburn and it was in full swing. Chris and I were arguing about ridiculous things via text messages. Pathetic. I wanted to get home, eat an egg, and crawl into bed.

No such luck.

When I got home, I came in through the kitchen door. I saw candles lit in the kitchen and my first thought was, "Great. What the hell is my house-mate doing with my candles?"

When I got inside, I heard music. A song from a mix CD that Chris gave me on our second date. "I Want You" by Holly Cole. (Cue "aaaaaaaaw" sound.)

In the middle of the circle of candles was a huge chocolate cake with "Marry Me" written in green. It's pictured above in mirror image (because it was taken with a web cam). A ring was sitting in front of the cake. My mother's engagement ring setting set with my birthstone, a garnet -- semi-precious, just like me.

I found Chris upstairs, where I said yes.

Then proceeded to tell him that I had a stomachache; seems we got the married couple but down already.

The cake was delicious. We're engaged. I love him.

Gettin' hitched, but not "engaged."

My boyfriend has a Facebook account.

I refuse to have a Facebook account.

If I did, however (have a Facebook account, that is), I would know that he has listed his relationship status as "engaged."

Truth is, Chris and I decided to get married sometime back in December. In an effort to assuage my nerves prior to my spinal tap, we planned the hypothetical wedding. We will have no ceremony. Instead, we'll just do it up at the courthouse where religion won't be an issue. There will be no bridesmaids or groomsmen at the reception. I will wear purple instead of white. We will have a make-your-own sundae bar instead of a wedding cake. And so on and so forth.

I did not care much about a formal proposal. It's romantic, sure, and would be nice, I suppose, but it's never been that important to me. I figured we would elect to get married (which we did), tell the appropriate people, do the legal stuff, and throw a not-too-fancy, not-too-expensive, but fun-for-the-ages party when the time is right. That would be that.

But no. My betrothed wants a formal proposal. He wants a ring exchange of sorts (sans diamond, of course, since we're so socially conscious). I told him that so long as the proposal includes chocolate cake with green frosting, I'll accept his formal proposal whenever he decides to make it.

In the meantime, however, I refuse to call ourselves "engaged," regardless of what his Facebook profile says. If he wants to propose, then he's gotta play by the rules; we are not engaged until I say yes.