Today I got this message from feedburner via my Google Reader:

“Your Source Feed, http://www.bloggerbingo.com/bitterwomen/feed/, is now working fine. Carry on! We will let you know if anything bad happens in the future.”

Wow, like my own little personal CNN.

Alert!  Jayne!  Hubby thinks you have onion breath!

-or-

Alert!  Jayne!  Son is eating cookies 30 minutes before dinner!

Because the regular CNN just notifies me of things that can’t possibly affect my life, like:

Alert!  Jayne!  Britney Spears has done something stupid again! 

-or-

Alert!  Jayne! Lots of people die hideously! Again today!

It’s always freaking something, but I tell you, I’m sort of liking the idea of this RSS alert telling me any time something bad happens.   As long as it’s all about ME, baby.

But then it might be more fun to have something tell me when something good happens.  Damn.  Even technology has gotten cynical.  3:-O

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I’m a bit under the weather these last few days, so short post today.  Apologise in advance for what promises to be a spotty week, post-wise.

Weird thing: I was reading a book today (this isn’t the weird part) and I realised that whenever I see the word “balaclava”, I pronounce it “baklava”.

I must be more pie obsessed than I realised.*

*Shut up. I know baklava isn’t pie.

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I used to think I liked spontaneity, and in truth, it was just impatience. I would think of an idea, like it, and want to see it implemented NOW. That’s not quite the same thing as being spontaneous. Unless it’s, of course, someone spontaneously doing what I want. Or spontaneous combustion (can’t quite get enough of that one.)

I wish I was one of those people who liked surprises, but I rather enjoy predictable. I like surprises in jokes. I like plot-twists , as long as the writers don’t cheat.

I’ve always wanted to be able to go through life asking myself “what if”. I imagine that doing so would somehow make me a better person. But in truth, I have more than enough on my plate dealing with “what IS”.

One of the funniest blog stories I’ve read was along these lines. You must read What Would Happen If You Bought 25 Bottles of Nyquil?

Because I tell ya, this isn’t one of those things I would ever have known the answer to if she hadn’t gone to all the trouble to find out. Now THAT is one dedicated blogger (or one slightly off-balance human being. The line between those two things are often difficult to see.)

It just makes me shiver thinking of all the things that might happen if I actually went around asking “what if”.  Like… hmmm… what if….

What’s your “what if”?  I don’t have any. (lie)  They scare me!

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Is it the cleavage that makes chicks with superpowers super? Would Wonder Woman have been so wonderful if she hadn’t gone around in a spangled high-hipped, low-cut bathing suit with bondage gear attached?

Bat-girl’s superpower seems to have been that she could ride a motorcycle.

If I had a superpower, I’d never change out of my jammies (that wouldn’t be my POWER, mind you, it would just be my POLICY). I don’t like to get dressed anyway unless pushed into it, but wearing jammies all the time is slightly eccentric. If you’re rich an eccentric, they invite you to parties. If you’re poor and eccentric, they put you on medication. I would think having superpowers, like being stinking rich, would also put you into the “she can do whatever the hell she wants” category.

So it would be jammies, a sleep mask, and my side-kick would be a teddy bear. Okay not really that different from now, except I’d be able to read your mind and shit too.

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Why do only women have guilty pleasures*, like watching Grey’s Anatomy or eating a cup full of peanuts with chocolate sauce poured over it, having sex with the UPS guy, spitefully viewing America’s Next Top Model?

Is it that men don’t feel guilty about pleasure?

Or am I wrong about the gender difference?

So what’s your guilty pleasure? What fun, food, cheap fiction or flight of fancy do you like to indulge in? (God, I love alliteration. Sorry about that.)

Me? I like to go into the kitchen and sneak marshmallows from the cabinet and pop one in my mouth when I’m passing through. I suppose what does it for me is the sneaky secretiveness and the eating something that has absolutely no nutritional value, real or imagined.

*I did a google search for “guilty pleasures” and found that a lot of people, by the way, are very close to mentally ill and I don’t think, technically, that being obsessed with weighing your own poop is a guilty pleasure. I was going to link to the place I found that, but on second thought… umm… no, I won’t. I tell ya… google is a scary place sometimes.

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