OK…I have Dancing With The Stars on in the background. The first thing I heard was a strange, tango remix of “Roxanne” by the Police. I was only slightly displeased when I heard one of my favorite bands used in such a way. It didn’t take long until I heard Adam Ant’s “Goody Two Shoes” and got all huffy seeing them jump around to one of my 80’s favs. There was no way it could get worse. As if the show was mocking me, the cheesiest version of “Rio” was playing and I couldn’t even force myself to open my eyes. How could they do that to Duran Duran?!! Has enough time passed that the music of my youth can be turned into a hideous version of elevator music? Should I be grieving for my precious Duran Duran? I guess if Simon has given up, and can’t remember the words to his songs, maybe it’s time I recognize that the music I love is being played on the oldies station, and used for has been’s who want to learn to tango.

They have been advertising the Festival of the Book around town for a while now. They had cushy full color posters printed, and Pete Fromm and Jamie Ford were the festival rock stars. My hope is that the library would not want to deprive these authors of the biggest possible audience. Admittedly, I was not there at 7 p.m. on the dot. But, in none of the advertising or the Great Falls Library website did it say you would not be allowed in after a certain time. There was also no direction as to where in the library the reading would be held. I assumed when I arrived at the building, a friendly librarian would greet me with a smile and say, “Are you here for the readings? Well, right this way. Please enter quietly because it has already started.”

It looked dark as I approached the doors. There were cars parked in the lot, so I expected people inside. I try to open the front door, no luck. The next person tries, in case I wasn’t smart enough to open it on my own. Nope. If you pressed your face against the glass, you could read the dry erase board inside the entry that said there was a reading going on, as well as the poster. OK…OPEN SESAME. No, didn’t work. There is another book enthusiast trying to call somebody on the inside. That attempt was another failure.

Defeated and annoyed it was back to the car. One girl pulled up and asked where to go. Hell of we knew. Our last effort seemed to involve something criminal. Trying the back doors of the library. Sure enough, we went in the exit and had to sneak downstairs. From the look on the woman’s face behind the table, she was startled to see us.

There wasn’t enough seats for everyone so people were sitting on the floor like a confused kindergarten class. So, were they purposely trying to limit the number of people? It seemed strange to shun people who wanted a little literary culture. Especially after the effort they put into promoting it. Was putting a sign up that said Enter Through Side Door OR Sorry, Lecture in Session, Please Join Us Again Tomorrow too much strain? Anything would have been a help. So, to all of those that turned away before me, and those who tackled the door after I was gone, it will forever be Festival of the Locked Door.

I miss Gilda. This always makes me laugh.

I have to start by saying I am a total tool. I was sitting in an average, adult lecture surrounded by at least 55 people listening intently to the speakers. For an event that lasted two hours, I lost interest about 32 minutes into the presentation. The surrounding doors had been closed. I was too self conscious to walk in front of the others and try to make an escape. I didn’t want to be rude to those who felt they had something important to say. I was completely distracted by the woman behind me who insisted on gnawing on carrots during the entire production. Her chomp was all I could hear. I was approaching the moment where I was going to do the quick turn and shoot her the “I know it is you” look. As I was preparing my best evil eye…SHOCK HORROR, I hear a muffled “Sexy Back.” Oh God, are you kidding me? My cell phone was ringing!! I scrambled to find my beastly phone. Completely mortified and agitated, I could feel the heat shooting off my red cheeks. Once the phone was located all I could do was open it without answering. My friend on the other end of the line is wondering what is up as she is listening to dead air. (Later she informed me she was worried I needed help of some kind.) I handed the phone to my friend in the next seat because I as far too distressed to figure out how to mute it. I made a silent plea, “Please mute it before Donna Summer starts singing.” Lookin’ for some hot stuff baby this evenin’ would play for all, if my friend on the other end called back to leave a message. Please, no. This is far worse then the carrot nibbler.

Most of my cohorts can vouch for the fact that half of the time my cell phone is either sitting at home when I need it, or the battery is dead. Of course when I would prefer to sit in a crowd anonymous, I have a fully charged phone with me, ready to serenade the group of fake intellects. I can’t tell you how many times I have looked at others with disgust when their phones rang at inappropriate times. If you know you are going to be at a get together that requires quiet to show respect to others around you, why aren’t you genius enough to shut off your phone? It was pure stupidity on my part. The person who calls me 95% of the time was sitting next to me, so I never imagined I would get another call. So, what is everybody else’s excuse?

I’ve committed a crime. In my book, I would consider it a felony. I don’t have a mugshot, only because I have never endangered the public with my delinquency. My crime? Owning a pair of Crocs. Just like other criminals, you try to carry out your wrong doing in a way that you will never be caught. I have secretly worn my Crocs behind closed doors. If I am positive nobody will spot me, I will venture outside in my Crocs to pick up all the treasures my little dog has left behind in the back yard. But, NEVER the front yard, that is too risky. Just like a 16 year old hoping not to get caught with a bottle of Mad Dog, you would hide in a basement, not chug it on the front porch.

I don’t delight in admitting I own a pair. In fact, it makes me feel a little dirty. My only refuge is knowing that I did not pay for them. They were a gift purchased from QVC. (That makes it feel even filthier.) How could it get worse? They are hot pink. I love pink, but seeing these shoes in that color seems like some sort of pigment abuse. People drone on about how comfortable they are, but if I wear them more then 45 minutes they hurt my feet. Even if they were like walking on a cloud, is it really worth looking that ridiculous?

I enjoy breakfast at a good dive every now and again. I don’t need linen napkins, ceramic coffee cups, or an attentive wait staff. Periodically I can endure the “uncivilized” for a good piece of bacon. One of my favorite spots to hob nob with the “plain folk” is the Double Barrel. On a recent pop in, it seemed the patrons were more colorful then usual. At the table behind my boyfriend sat a mother and daughter, the daughter carrying a baby basket with a new human in it. From what I could overhear, they were arguing about what a loser the baby daddy was. To the right side of me was a table of old guys who looked like Lyle the chicken farmer from Napoleon Dynamite. (Please go the the Lyle link for the perfect visual.) They were hygiene challenged, missing many teeth, as well as leathery and weathered. Their booming voices suggested they were all hearing impaired. They were having their own version of coffee talk, and enjoying their chat. Up trots the waitress with her side-swept eighties ponytail held together with a green scrunchy, and the appropriate amount of flair for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day celebration. She poured the group of “Lyle’s” a fresh cup of coffee and asked if they would like to hear a joke. She made no attempt to mute her brazen voice so she didn’t offend any of the surrounding customers, but proceeded in full bravado. “What do you call a homosexual in a wheelchair?” The Lyle’s look puzzled. “Rolaids!!!” She laughs at her own joke. Before the Lyle’s had a chance to digest the homo joke they just heard, she started joke number two. By that time I was in full on, red faced, throw down the napkin, offended mode. At the same time I was questioning if humor from 1991 was funny, or completely ghastly, I hear the punch line of the second joke. My rage made me foggy when the words “butt-load of semen” came out of her mindless chapped lips. The Lyle’s had not a clue what the jokes meant, and didn’t even offer up a courtesy laugh. But, our unpolished waitress was proud of herself.

I am not the demographic that Hot Topic is aiming towards. But, once in a while I have to venture in there to get my Hello Kitty fix. I was rifling through the bargain bin, trying to block out the noise of the music. There was a girl next to me with piercings and colored hair. (I am not the kind of old lady who is offended by the floppy haired punks.) I hear this girl say, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I ignored her, and went on with my business of ransacking the sale items. She says it again, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I dismiss her again, hoping I can avoid a conversation if I don’t look directly at her. She decided to try another route, “I like your shoes.” Dammit, she got me. I said, “Thank You.” Then like a broken record I hear, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I take the bait. “What is on Sunday?” She proceeds to tell me it will be her 14th birthday, and she is getting her tongue pierced. My thought was, “Wow, your Mom is going to let you do that?” She said, “My Mom is paying for it.” I had to wait until I was 16 to get my ears pierced. Even then my Mom thought I wouldn’t take care of them, they would get infected, fill with pus and fall off. This was a little girls tongue we are talking about! Our little rap session continues with the 13 year old telling me her boyfriend was mad at her. I ask why. “Because I think I am pregnant and he wants me to keep the baby.” Ahhhhhhhh, I see. That could be a problem. Her friend from the dressing room yells, “You are keeping the f***ing baby!” To which my new little friend said, “Yeah, but you were older when you had your first one.” I soon found out that the 19 year old trying on the whore corset was on her 3rd kid.

Lesson is, never ask somebody why they can’t wait until Sunday.

I was making one of my weekly stops to the local St. Vincent De Paul store. I always seem to find a treasure there. It is expected that you have to file through alot of smelly, dirty things before you find the prize that you want to take home. The hunt is part of the fun. When I entered the side door, I was surprised to see the staff in hustle mode. (No offense, but they are never in high gear.) I looked around and noticed that glasses were aligned on the shelf, clothes were straightened, and things were organized. I couldn’t stand it, I HAD to ask. “Why is everything looking so uncluttered and fresh?” The woman told me they were cleaning for the people who will be traveling here for the C.M. Russell Art Auction. At first I thought, that is smart for a business to freshen up for tourists. Next thought…are people who fly here from cities to don their Stetson hats, Tony Lama’s and Wrangler’s for one weekend a year going to run to the local Vinny’s store? They come here to spend thousands on works of art, yet they want to touch all the second hand, chipped merchandise from a junk store? It is nice the crew at St. Vincent’s were making the effort, but c’mon, really?

Admittedly, I am not sure why I started a blog. I’m not trying to sell anything, I don’t have a target audience, and I don’t have any special talents with secrets that I would like to share with the world. What I do have is a big mouth and an opinion. You don’t get 50 hours of detention in 9th grade for sitting quietly at your desk and being attentive in class. I figure if people can write about what they ate for lunch, how to knit a sweater, or their screaming children, I can share my own musings. I was talking to somebody who dropped the hint that I might want to tell my close friends how to locate my blog. Hopefully, they will show up here, and with any luck leave some smart ass comment. It felt like the “hint” should have been accompanied with a special pat on the head. They were quietly saying, “Awwww, poor newbie, nobody will ever visit your blog.” I got the same look from my Mother when I was dressed like an ear of corn for an ice skating show. When she gave me a pat on the head it was saying, “Awwww, poor honey, you will never make the Olympics, but it was a nice effort.” Just for that, I am determined that somebody, ANYBODY will drop by here and read my ramblings. I might eventually find my niche. If not, it will just be another thing in my long list of stupid that I have attempted. To the Master Blogger with the hint, you know who you are, with attitude I say, “WHATEVER!”

Out of support for a fellow Montanan, I thought I would give Zipfizz Energy Drink a try. My first shot of the Citrus flavor made me pucker. My only justification for finishing the drink was out of necessity. I was fighting off the burn of super duper hotty sauce on my burrito. I can safely say my Zipfizz experience was tainted by my flaming hot sauce lips. So…I gave it another crack. This time in Berry. I was awaiting the euphoric, energetic feeling I had read about. Wait for it…wait for it…nothing. My best descriptive word for the taste is ick. It has a slight medicinal taste, with a hint of kool-aid (minus the sugar). I couldn’t finish it without making a face every time I sipped. On the positive side, I don’t hate their packaging. It is admirable that a local boy is making millions and can now afford new teeth, a Hummer, and a wife with big fake boobs. More power to him. I wish I could say that I was endorsing the product, but I can’t give phony approval. I won’t be trying it again, no matter how much B-12 I can get out of it.