I got up early this morning, and thought I’d do some Blog Explosion surfing since I had the time.

However, after SEVENTEEN political blogs in a row, and then four ads for web design, I decided to quit for a while and try again later tonight when the interesting blogs are in rotation.

Oh dear me, was there an implication up there that political blogs and ads are not interesting? Not at all. An implication is subtle. I’m stating outright that political blogs and ads are boring, repetitive, repellent, condescending, and did I already mention BORING?

And speaking of repetitive, can we still count on only one hand now, the many times I’ve gone off on this same topic? I bet we need both hands. And maybe both feet, to do it up right. I might need to borrow your hands, and your abacus, and a few calculators, to tot up accurately how often I think thoughts of hatred concerning people’s obsession with politics, their assumption that their opinion means jack to me, that annoying colored map, and feeble attempts to disguise an ad as a blog. AAAAAAAAAGH. SO BORING. Boring, boring, boring.

Please note that I am not asking to borrow your feet. Feet kind of gross me out. My own, yours, and even George Clooney’s. If you really needed me to care for your feet, I would, and I’d be happy to give you any help you might need. But be prepared to hear me make fun of your toes while I was trimming your nails. (I might not make fun of George Clooney’s feet while he was still in the room. For George, I might wait till he was gone.) But as a general rule, feet kind of make me say ‘ick.’

Aaaand, why am I up so early in the morning, when I don’t have to be at work until six? Good question.

Our phone number is one digit removed from the phone number of a big church in the middle of town. They must have someone on duty there 24 hours a day, because the same people are constantly calling me at all hours. Mostly the early morning hours. Mostly very old-sounding people. One old man, in particular, calls all the time. I hate to put my phone off the hook because we have two elderly mothers and two out-of-town kids, and if there was ever an emergency and they couldn’t find me because the phone was off the hook so I could sleep in, I’d feel really, really bad. And to see the caller id, I have to get up and squint.

So, dear sweet quivery-voiced old man who calls my number a dozen times a week in the pre-dawn hours of the morning: LEARN HOW TO DIAL THE DAMN PHONE. And stop arguing with me when I tell you, in the politest tone I can summon at that hour, that you’ve got the wrong number. Stop calling me Nancy. Stop that infernal cackling-of-disbelief when I tell you that I am not Nancy. Why do you get up at that hour when you don’t have to? Are you crazy? But then, of COURSE you are. Your consistent inability to dial a simple phone number proves that. Please, have your keeper put the church’s number on speed dial for you. Don’t call me ever again. Thank you very much. Till next time then. . . .

Sheesh.

I know what you’re thinking.

In person, though, I am really very kind and polite. Honest, I am.

In my blog, I can be myself. The self hemmed in and supressed by the kindness thing.

(Please note: Ed McMahon can call me at any time, concerning delivery of the big check.)

Oooh, cool, leftover pork tenderloin. At this hour? Well, why not?