Statcounter is a little evil and on occasion it plays tricks with my mind. I allow it, of course. It’s probably more appropriate to say I indulge it, much as I do my fantasies about Nutella and those men in the box under my bed. Every so often, when I can see from where someone is reading, like really where, like down to your GPS coordinates and that Sierra Nevada you’re drinking for breakfast, I wish for just a moment that I could show up to surprise you.
In one scenario, I show up as a three-legged cat. I plop down in your cube and start grooming my remaining back leg in long, involved strokes. Distracted from your appointed toil, you notice me, and after first thinking “Gross!” you then wonder, “Bug? No, can’t be.” Your boss picks this as a most inopportune time to stop by to ask inane questions like where is our microwave or how do I open an email attachment and he’s furious that there’s a cat in your work space. He grabs me as you try to intervene, and in a glorious turn of events I pee in his Staff Infection coffee mug. Your workmates clap and you’re the office hero. I later blog about it and you and I high five in an e-Mentos moment.
In another I show up at your house in Anytown and knock on your sliding glass back door. I’m waving frantically and wearing an all-teeth smile and am so excited to meet you, longtime reader and frequent commenter, and it’s quite possible that I’ve brought balloons and a bottle of cheap Pinot and some Laughing Cows. But as you approach the door your face clearly reads “Who the fuck is that?” You defensively tuck one of your children behind you, grab a broom that’s resting on the door frame, and with wide crazy eyes you yell something about Daddy’s shotgun and calling the sheriff. I leave.
In another I tap you on the shoulder to find that you are quite possibly one of the most beautiful human specimens ever created, and you can’t believe it’s me, it’s really me, and we know in an instant we are meant to be together because people wear sexual compatibility and the aversion to children on their faces. And we spend a week of splendor frolicking in tall grass in bare feet and eating wings at Hooters. Then suddenly your wall goes up. “I don’t think I can go back to DC with you,” you whisper, hot sauce collecting at the corners of your mouth. “My job at Popeye’s means the world to me. And I do get an hour lunch break.” This prompts me to pull my grandma’s handkerchief from my sleeve and dab the corners of my welling eyes. Eventually there’s an airport scene and one of us is stuck at security because Cheese Wiz is a gel or some such nonsense, one frantically trying to reach the other before he/she boards the plane alone. But we make it through quite literally. And we fly to our next destination, me in the window seat, you on the aisle, and a heavy breather in between us.
There’s another one involving moonlight and a clown mask and your work parking garage, but I best keep that one under wraps.
40 Comments
How I would love to walk around in that head of yours for an afternoon.
It’s like Ghost Busters. I want you to arrive in the form of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and I will eat your left leg.
You need to work with the therapist, honey. She can’t do it all alone. (Not that you aren’t entirely normal! Oh, no, you are terrific. Perfect in every way. Really. I’ll just be leaving now, OK?)
I always describe you to Chris like, “You know, that blond girl that drinks a lot and pets my head at the bar.”
You will always be welcome to show up on my doorstep with a bottle of Pinot, by the way. :)
Stat Counter is kind evil, huh? I make up stories about my lurkers….
Heh, I guess I’m mostly a lurker here, so maybe I should shut up. :-)
Isn’t there one where you have a bottle of wine and I have 2 empty glasses?
This makes me so glad that I only read you on the wireless connection at Popeye’s when I’m using my IP masking software.
Wrap that twisted mind around this: Hooters has a carry out menu. Wuh?
I’m loving these scenarios. Though I’m not sure I could indulge in your cheese whiz fascination, so I fear we’re not to be. That, and the fact I’m female. LOL
What if my work parking garage doubles as my home parking garage?
You’re f^?%ing crazy . . . brilliantly, creatively crazy . . . but, still, f^?%ing crazy! Where do you get this $hit?
p.s. I adore you!
I like Fantasy #3. And I got fired from Popeyes (just for you if you must know). But I like cats too. With however many legs. Just sayin’.
Please come in so I have someone to drink with!
If you showed, I have frozen glasses ready in he fridge and REAL CHEESE! Like made by real people and not in a squirt can! Bug is Welcome too…
hahaha. You will always know me as the non-lurker who says things like, “there is nothing scarier than a clown mask”. ;-)
I love you. For real.
“Eventually there’s an airport scene and one of us is stuck at security because Cheese Wiz is a gel or some such nonsense…”
LOVE IT!!
Yipe! Statcounter scares me because I read my blogroll in sections every day, and I always forget who I’ve gone to… so if you see me click on three times in an hour, don’t be afraid. I’m just a moron. No clown mask.
Dude, you are nuts. I will eat hot wings with you, though.
Brilliantly random. Love it. Come save me from my cubicle!!
You’re welcome at my sliding glass back door with Pinot anytime & I have no children to tuck anywhere.
Just an excessively ornery cat who thinks Cheez Whiz is the greatest snack ever.
I am blissfully unaware about what a statcounter can do. I’ll leave it at that.
In another I tap you on the shoulder to find that you are quite possibly one of the most beautiful human specimens ever created, and you can’t believe it’s me, it’s really me, and we know in an instant we are meant to be together because people wear sexual compatibility and the aversion to children on their faces. And we spend a week of splendor frolicking in tall grass in bare feet and eating wings at Hooters
I’m flattered. Really, I am, Kris, but I don’t do wings. Sorry. It wasn’t meant to be.
I see you coming up the driveway with my mail in your hand, like a good neighbor, and I pop the door open while holding the dog. You slide past me and overly enthusiastic dog, plop on the couch like you live here. I crack open your favorite wine before you even ask because friends always know.
Sometimes, when you’re looking at me, I’m looking at you looking, so you’re looking at me looking at you looking,… and the fantasies come one right on top of another in almost infinite variety.
The men in the box? They’re alive right?
Mentos moment — priceless
Now *that* is pure hilarity. I’ve always considered myself kooky, but I am in awe of your kookiness. :)
Hey, I’m eating hot wings now!
Lmao, I’ve always wondered about the frequent commenters (via email, of course). The compatibility, etc. Don’t you just wonder?
You really are good if you can figure out the GPS coordinates from Stat Counter. I can’t figure out shit.
Yeah.. why is it that you can only find the “cool kids” on the computer.
Around my house all I have are squirrels.
Can you show up at my house as Falkor, the blue flying dog from The Neverending Story? I don’t know why, but I’ve always wanted to ride that dog….
tap, tap, tap… Here’s Johnny!!!
(hee hee hee)
*snorting Diet Coke out my nose*
Thanks for the fit of giggles you just caused – - I really needed this today . . . :-)
kris, new site = lovely (i like the header!).
What the hell? You’ve known my gps coordinates all this time and you have not knocked on my door yet!!?? Women. I don’t get you.
I’d open my door and lure you in waving that $100 bottle of wine. Muhahahahaha (evil scientist laugh)
My interactions with StatCounter are more freak outs every time I see Chicago and I’m like “shit! Work found my blog. They now know I have a blog and a penchant for swearing.”
And then I remember I tend to swear at work and I calm down.
“…There’s another one involving moonlight and a clown mask and your work parking garage, but I best keep that one under wraps.”
Holy crap woman, that one really did get my knickers in a twist,
drop by santa barbara anytime !!
By the way … Colorado ? Don’t wave a $100 bottle of wine at Kris. You’re wasting about $93.
Great post. When I had my first blog, I remember having a dream that I was at a party with my commenters and some blogger friends (that I had never met, of course, most of them not even through pictures). I was freaked and thought I was crazy. It seems we all have our blogger fantasies anyhow [relieved].
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have StatCounter. I spend way too much time wondering who the heck the person is who lives in Kentucky and seems to spend hours on my blog, but never comments. Who *is* that person?!?! It’s driving me nuts.
Well, I suppose after more than a year of lurking I should probably introduce myself, I know how much the lurkers niggle at you. So lets get this out of the way, my name is Suzanne, I’m from the UK, I’m 20 in 6 days and I’ve been clean and sober for 3 weeks now- crap…wrong meeting…
May I just say that I think you are possibly the most wonderful person I have never met, I share your crazy sense of humour, your dislike of children (I swear I’m never having ANY and I detest it when others say “oh well you say that now…” and look at me with that bloody irritating knowing smile as if they know better), your love of cats (I currently have 2 and plan to share my life with a feline family), use of the word “murr” and apparently similar luck with the opposite sex (although I tend to acquire obsessed stalkers rather than normal relationships)
I have enjoyed sharing you life with you in blog form at least, so it’s only fair that I share a little back if only to ease your rabid curiosity
*purrs* – Suemoo
That’s why reading via an rss reader rocks, you don’t know how often I stalk you. :)
Kidding! I hope I run into you in a bar one day in DC.
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