I rarely stop and look at anything on Xanga‘s front page.  For one thing, it’s usually running that ad for Milk-Squirting-Grams, or whatever the heck they’re called, and I really, really dislike watching that ad, so I try to just leave the area as quickly as possible.  For another thing, the Featured Content just doesn’t grab me.  Just a bunch of hotheads spouting off, keyboard-wise, about one thing or another and eh, I’m just not that interested.  Usually.  Today something in Featured Content grabbed me, and it was this:

“It’s my last night with the ferrets.”

I didn’t follow the link to the actual blog post because I figured, you know, it just doesn’t get better than that.  Sometimes the best stories are unresolved.  Think Gone with the Wind.  Think Casablanca.  “My Last Night with the Ferrets” evokes such haunting melancholy with only one sentence.  That is storytelling, my friends.  That is blogging.


My name is Madhousewife and I’m addicted to internet radio.

You know what the best part about internet radio is?  The part where I can ban a song from my playlist FOREVER.  I can’t tell you how much satisfaction it gives me to hear the opening strains of “Shout” by Tears for Fears and immediately click on a button and see the message:  “Song banned from this station.”  Damn straight, “Shout” by Tears for Fears, you are BANNED!  You sucked 22 years ago and you’ve sucked each of the 47,000 times I’ve heard you since then.  Henceforth ye are silenced!  Same goes for you, Katrina and the Waves–BANNED!  “Tainted Love”–BANNED!  “Crash” by Dave Matthews Band–BANNED!  I haven’t had the opportunity to lay the smack down on UB40’s “Red, Red Wine” yet, but you can bet I’ll be relishing it when the time comes.  I only wish they had something more dramatic than a button with a circle-slash mark on it.  I wish there were sound effects, like a nuclear bomb exploding.  Or even just a needle scratching a record, or the voices suddenly getting all distorted like someone shot them with some kind of laser gun.

I have me some strong feelings about Hits of the ’80s, ’90s and Today.


Elvis’s new words:

“I’m sick.”

“Gonna barf.”

“Throw up.”

Don’t feel too sorry for him.  He’s not actually sick, and he’s not going to barf.  He’s just really in tune with his gastro-intestinal system these days, and he likes to let us know about every burp and gurgle.  But this is his best new phrase:

“Poor Elvis…poor Elvis.”

Okay, now you can feel sorry for him.


I burned some vegetables in my favorite saucepan last night.  Not on purpose–it just, you know, happened. Because I left them on the stove too long, but this isn’t really the time for blame, now is it?  My favorite saucepan is ruined.  It’s my favorite saucepan because it is a) versatile and b) is the only cookware I have that will cook rice properly.  I don’t know what the deal is with all other cookware products, but they could never hold a candle to this saucepan, rice-cooking-wise.  Is it counterintuitive that a saucepan should cook good rice?  Is it my fault that it’s called a saucepan and not a rice-cooking pan?

It was a Farberware saucepan I bought at the Pic ‘n Save for maybe, I dunno, fourteen bucks.  It’s a crazy good saucepan.  Or it was, until I killed it.  [Insert choking sob here]  Now how will I cook rice?  Oh, yeah, in a rice-cooker.  Whatever, cats.  You just don’t understand.  It cooked spaghetti sauce and oatmeal, too.  It was a valiant soldier in the kitchen army.  Now it’s gone.

Yeah, I know, I should be in Featured Content with my “Last Night with the Saucepan.”  Fine.  Mock me.  I don’t care.  Nothing matters anymore anyway.

Yesterday was Columbus Day.  I think there’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere.  Some kind of cruel irony which I in my grief cannot fully articulate.

I really need to do some work now.

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