It's been awhile since I've felt jealous about anyone, but these folks really got me. Now. Yes that's right, they really got me now. They got me so I don't know where I'm going. Actually, I do know where I'm going, but it certainly isn't to a tropical island with a husband and two little cute kids, all the better to live among the never-potted palms and shamefully beautiful foliage and sandcastles for the taking and errrrrgh, I could swear that my corneas are turning to a distinct shade of green as I type. For 'tis well I remember the days when I planned my future in terms of islands. And who knows? Maybe someday I'll truly get back to what's good and right and surrounded by water on four sides. I'll have my isle and eat things on it too, I will I will.

In completely unrelated scribbling, if I never see another TNN commercial touting the fact that it is "The First Network For Men," it'll be a rare and happy day. Take a look at the executive programming boards for 99.9% of all television networks, TNN, and guess what particular sex you'll find in charge of things. Go on, guess. Could it be . . . oh, wait for it . . . men? Aww gee, TNN! Now you'll have to change your commercials! But don't cry. It could be worse. Your advertising department's executive positions might just be filled with men too -- the kind of men who will understand all the inequality in this stinkin' world where women are forced to take all the high-paying jobs. It's shameful, really.

Every so often, I get a wild urge to run away and join a rock band. It could be a chick rock band, where we prove that girls can rock just as successfully as boys. Or it could be a band that is otherwise full of sexy mens. It doesn't matter to me. Any band will do. Either way, I'd get to hang out with some sexy mens: groupie sexy mens or musician sexy mens. (Did I say sexy? I meant sweet and treating me well. Sweet, treating me well, and sexy. And in the winter, just think of all the sweet, sweet snowball fights we'll have. You know, with snowballs shipped up from Hell.) If I were in a band, I could sing with a lot of angsty jazz-based growls and play my electric guitar and generally have myself a cool ol' bandtime.

First, however, I'd have to learn to play the guitar in a much more kick-ass manner. Sure, I can play now, but not in a very kick-ass way. To be a successful rebelbandlady, I'm pretty sure more ass-kicking will be required of me. I may even be required to kick some ass and take some names. Secondly, to run away and be in a band, I'd probably need to dye my hair purple, or maybe put in some purple streaks. This isn't exactly a requirement per se, but something about purple hair seems to contribute to the whole ass-kicking idea. Would you mess with me if I had purple hair? I think not, because me and my purplebandhair might very well kick your ass. And lastly, I'd want some boots. I'd want a lot of boots: tall boots, medium boots, short boots, boots of all shapes and sizes and colors. Boots are good for kick-ass bandladies named Christa. How, though, I don't know. Probably because I like them.

Then again, maybe I could make a real bandstatement and not deal in outward images at all. Talk about wild and rebellious urges.

Is it possible to be so lonesome that you forget what it's like to be . . . well, not lonesome? Is the opposite of lonesome, "lotsmany?" Or is the opposite of lonesome just picking up the phone instead of letting the machine pick up so you can avoid speaking with telemarketers? Bother. That doesn't make any sense. But neither does why I'm feeling so blue today. Of course, blue is really too good of a color to waste on being lonesome. It was my favorite color for awhile, but I think it's lately been replaced by red. (If you're shocked by that, I've got a timeshare in Florida you might be interested in.) Crimson red, sky blue, gentle grey with an "e," lavender, and yes, all right, I'll admit it at last: pink. A new appreciation for all things pink has been rekindled in my life, after years and years of avoiding it. It was my favorite color in the bloom of my youth, so favorite that I plastered my life with pink pink pink and subsequently got burnt out on the stuff. I even fancied hot pink best. Oh, those crazy eighties. They really ought to be kicked out of the decade pantheon.

You know, color therapy might be the opposite of loneliness. Or maybe I'm just making myself blue, giving myself the mean reds, turning a whiter shade of purple, and . . . uh, shearing pink, over nothing at all. Bother indeed.

For the last few minutes or so, I've been staring at a box of popcorn. We used to pop corn in an air-popped popcorn machine when I was little and wee. (As opposed to little and twee . . . I was never twee, darling.) The popper had a sort of spout, and you poured popcorn kernels into it, and then the lot would sit on the counter and bubble over with happy popping noises. But then they came out with these new-fangled microwaveable bags full of popcorn. Now you have to lurk around the microwave, skulking outside and listening to the popping sounds within like some kind of sick popcorn voyeur. If you don't skulk, your popcorn burns to a crisp, and nobody likes their popcorn Cajun style. Unless they're from Louisiana, maybe. I wouldn't know.

Anyway, I don't think I want popcorn for dinner anymore. I'm going to go with soup from a can instead. It's all well and good to complain about the world's lost Betty Crocker genes, but let's face it: mine have been hibernating since December. So sleep on, you little aproned Betties with your little trays of quiche. Sleep on.