And it was simply too damn cold to go out and play.

Which is unfortunate. The Super Bowl is always good for creating empty movie theaters and grocery stores. But, alas, we chose not to freeze our asses off to take advantage of it.

We did, however, stumble across this —> Puppy Bowl VI

Puppies going crazy on a fake football field. Bunny cheerleaders. A hidden camera in the water bowl. A blimp piloted by hamsters.

If the Super Bowl were this entertaining, I totally would have watched it.

So, a group of ambitious (and clearly awesome) Facebookers started a fan page to lobby for Betty White as host of SNL. How f’in cool would that be? I’ll tell you. Pretty f’in cool. So, if you have a Facebook, and I think most everyone does but me, and you would like to join this honorable cause, you can become a fan of Betty White on SNL. I have to admit, this is the first time I’ve really felt compelled to get a Facebook.

In the land of Teeneelegs live a band of  princesses. Bound by no laws, slaves to no morality, the princesses suffer only one rule.

Their feet must never touch the ground.

Transported to and fro in palanquins balanced on the shoulders of young, shirtless peasant boys, and attended by waiting maids willing to fulfill any demand, the princesses want for nothing.

But never shall they walk. For if, even for a single instant, they make use of their legs, the princesses will be forever banished from the land of Teeneelegs-

- where shoemakers from all across the globe go to take measurements and build prototypes for their knee-high boot lines.

Does everyone know that Redhead is going to be on Ugly Betty next Wednesday? Do you all know that she’s like the lead guest star in the episode? Do you realize that she was supposed to be on tonight, but that Ugly Betty was preempted last week because some people care about the state of the union or something, which pushed last week’s episode to tonight and Redhead’s episode seven days further away from me?

Are you aware that when you type “Redhead” into IMDB, it doesn’t actually bring up Redhead? I found this out by accident earlier when I momentarily forgot that the entire world doesn’t refer to Redhead as Redhead. Don’t worry. When you type in Aubrey Dollar, Redhead’s page comes right up.

So, it’s February 10th, ABC (not my fault), 10pm.

Charlie Brown Valentine is on at 8pm the same night. If you’re going to hop into bed with the devil, you may as well do every position.

This is a Sponsored Post written by me on behalf of Charter. All opinions are 100% mine.

My internet access at home has been lagging a bit these past few days. And it has made me realize that I really do not like waiting. I will click on a link and that little progress bar at the bottom of the browser will fill. Slowly. Very slowly. And then finally I will end up on the page that I want to be on. And really, I just want to stop waiting and get going already. You know what I mean? If you have some pretty slow internet access then I am certain that you know exactly what I mean. But guess what? If you are in a Charter Cable service area you can get a sweet high speed internet hook up from those guys. In fact, they are offering high speed internet access for the crazy low price of $19.99 per month! Yes, per month. That is like insanity, right? Well, that is that makes you happy you can check out Charter’s Facebook page and become a fan. Cause really, who is not a fan of super cheap high speed internet access? So go log onto your Facebook account today and have a look at the Charter page now.

Perhaps not as lofty as Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, but I’m convinced meaning lies within.

In my dream, I was at my Aunt Mary’s house (my real great aunt). But Aunt Mary’s house wasn’t Aunt Mary’s house. Her real house is an old two-story with lots of dark wood and antique fixtures. The dream house was a three-story house with the same dark wood and antique fixtures, but everything was far grander. The entire house just oozed Victorian beauty and charm.

When the dream started, I was running up the stairs from the second floor and I went into a third floor bedroom. My sister was sitting on the bed. I sat down next to her and we started talking about nothing important. Then, my sister suddenly mentioned that Laura was supposed to leave that morning.

I knew that Laura was our house guest, a classical or jazz singer who was famous, but not so famous that she couldn’t sleep over.

Upon hearing this reminder about her departure, I ran from the bedroom and back down the stairs to the second floor, where the Laura-in-question’s luggage was still in her room, and then continued on to the ground floor.

When I came off the bottom of the stairs, there was a huge parlor-like living area to the left, which had lots of windows and natural light pouring in, and I was facing the kitchen, which was also radiating with natural light.

Standing with her back to me was Laura, steeping a teabag in a mug. She turned around and, yes indeed, it was this Laura.

The sunlight shone upon her, giving her an ethereal glow… and making her hair look oh so shiny. She leaned against the counter and sipped her tea, carrying on a conversation with me in both English and Italian, which I amazingly understood.

Then a car came to pick her up and she left.

And I was sad.

And now I can’t help but wonder…

What exactly is the meaning of a dream in which an Italian is drinking tea?

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as really fuckin’ frustrating. (30/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never were. Never will be. No profit. Just love.

(Cindy’s POV)

Pulling up outside of Lindsay’s building and turning off the ignition, Cindy swiveled toward the backseat and was greeted by a look that was clearly pre-calculated, but, given the fact that Lindsay’s bed was only yards away, still had its desired effect.

Because here they were, there was Lindsay’s bedroom, plenty of hours remained in the night, and there was nobody around to interfere with anything that they might choose to do to each other during them.

“You are coming in, right?” Lindsay’s husk sent a shiver straight down Cindy’s spine that she was certain was visible but still didn’t bother trying to suppress.

Eagerness seizing her, Cindy fought not to bounce up and down in her seat and whirled back around, struggling out of her seat belt. Out of the driver’s seat and around the car in the time it would have taken the average human to sneeze, Cindy made it to the back passenger-side door as Lindsay was emerging.

One glance across the mere inches separating them and, as if the opinions and nosiness of her neighbors wasn’t even a fleeting thought, Lindsay pulled Cindy against her and Cindy found herself falling headlong into the kind of kiss people don’t generally recover from. Wrapping her arms around Lindsay’s shoulders to find some sort of balance, Cindy quickly realized that Lindsay was off her axis too. Wobbling away from the car, they stumbled onto the curb and Lindsay pulled away with a sharp hiss.

“What’s wrong?” Cindy asked instantly.

Stark pain unmistakably etched into every feature of Lindsay’s face, she shook her head anyway. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

Despite the blatant lie, Cindy let Lindsay take her face into her hands and kiss her again, deep and slow, until she was convinced. By the time Lindsay pulled away from her, Cindy would have bought anything that she was selling.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Lindsay whispered, the words at once command and plea.

With a small nod, Cindy reluctantly slinked away toward the back of the car, lifting the key to liberate the larger of Lindsay’s bags from the trunk.

“Leave it,” Lindsay waved dismissively. “We’ll get it in the morning.”

With one ridiculously long arm, she reached out and pulled Cindy back toward her, while she retrieved her smaller bag from the back floorboard.

“Pretty cocky,” Cindy said with a devilish grin.

In a heartbeat, Lindsay’s face softened and Cindy fell for it before the words were even spoken. “Please stay.”

Leaning into Lindsay, Cindy pushed the car door closed. “Good luck getting rid of me,” she murmured and pushed onto her toes to press her lips softly to Lindsay’s.

Her arm slid around Lindsay’s waist, Lindsay’s arm tightened across her shoulders, and they moved up the walkway. As much as she wanted to pretend that it was just an affectionate gesture, Cindy didn’t miss the amount of weight Lindsay let rest on her or the slight limp she tried to conceal.

She didn’t bring it up as they made their way inside or as they went up the stairs, despite Lindsay’s pronounced hobble with each step. At the door of the apartment, Cindy waited patiently as Lindsay pulled out her keys and let them in.

When the door swung open though and Lindsay looked over at her with a big smile, putting her arm out as if waiting for Cindy to step under it and act as her human crutch, Cindy held steady just out of her reach.

“After you,” she uttered, watching the expected flash of panic shoot through Lindsay’s eyes.

“Okay,” Lindsay returned, smile fading a little as she grasped the doorframe and shuffled over the threshold.

Cindy stepped into the doorway behind her, following Lindsay’s slow, stiff movements as she turned on the lights. Positive that the scolding she was about to give was well-deserved, Cindy trailed Lindsay inside and closed the door.

“Alright, what’s going on, Lindsay? And don’t say nothing.”

Lindsay turned to her with such a disbelieving look that Cindy thought she might actually try to deny that there was an issue at hand. Instead, she sharply motioned with both hands toward her still-mending ankle.

“Ryan did this.”

Thrown by the unexpected response, Cindy’s eyebrows reached for her hairline.

“Ryan did what exactly?”

“This,” Lindsay motioned more emphatically. “She put a hex on me.”

A giggle escaping, Cindy tried to rein it back in when Lindsay looked rather miffed.

“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff,” she reminded Lindsay.

“Oh, I believe in it now,” Lindsay declared. “This is clearly some sort of ‘Cindy is mine, stay away from her’ voodoo curse.”

Biting back another round of laughter at Lindsay’s conviction, Cindy sighed instead. “While I would be more than happy to let Ryan take the blame for this, if this is anyone’s fault, I think it’s mine.”

“It’s not your fault,” Lindsay’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m pretty sure it was my hurdle over the seat back that did it.”

Silently agreeing that the seat jump was the likely cause and inwardly cursing the fact that their inability to control themselves earlier was about to cost them a fantastic night, Cindy slumped too.

“But it’s nothing we can’t work around.” Lindsay’s low drawl drew Cindy’s eyes back up.

With a positively sinful grin, Lindsay crooked her finger and Cindy went to her automatically.

Wrapping one long arm around her waist, Lindsay drew her in and kissed her deeply. The Earth tilted and they had to take a small step to stay on their feet.

“Ow,” Lindsay mumbled.

“I’m calling Claire,” Cindy announced, pulling away.

“No, don’t do that,” Lindsay insisted, dragging Cindy back toward her. “I’m fine. Let’s just get to the couch. As soon as I’m sitting, I’ll be fine. And if you’re sitting on top of me, I’ll be more than fine.”

With an infectious grin, Lindsay kissed Cindy again and moved toward the couch. Breaking from the kiss, she hopped backward on one foot, pulling Cindy along behind her, until she fell messily onto the cushions.

“See,” she said, yanking Cindy down into her lap. “All’s well.”

“You’re sure?” Cindy asked.

Lindsay leaned in and captured her lips again and, lost somewhere inside the kiss, Cindy forgot that she’d asked a question. At least until they made a slight shift in their positions.

“Ow.”

“Lind-”

Seemingly having figured out what worked the best for her, Lindsay cut off Cindy’s protestations with another kiss. Sliding backward off of Lindsay’s lap, Cindy felt herself falling slowly backward, Lindsay leaning down over her. Until Lindsay had to resituate.

“Ow.”

“That’s it!” Cindy declared, pushing back on Lindsay’s shoulders and slipping out from under her. “I’m calling Claire.”

“Oh, come on,” Lindsay whined. “Don’t do that.”

In a desperate search for Lindsay’s phone, Cindy ignored her appeal.

“Cindy,” Lindsay tried again.

Not finding the receiver anywhere in the living room, Cindy punched the locator button on the phone base with her finger and followed the beeping to Lindsay’s kitchen.

“Cindy!” Lindsay called after her. But staunchly holding her ground despite her mutual desire not to invite anyone else over, Cindy dialed the number.

As she waited for Claire to pick up, a low, pained groan issued forth from the sofa.

“We’re never gonna have sex.”

Proven. At least for me.

Tuesday morning I did an interview for Creative Screenwriting magazine. Basically, it consisted of the interviewer being very nice and patient while I blundered like an idiot for 50 minutes. I think she’ll make me sound good, regardless of how much it may have seemed like I was puffin’ away on the ole crack pipe while trying to answer her questions. Bless the editorial team for giving me someone who seemed so genuinely gracious. Left to anyone else, I’d be seriously concerned that the article would begin “Riley LaShea, what a douche.”

Anyway, knowing that I am now limited on time to have my site back up fully, I did a little work today. For anyone who is interested, the “About” page has been updated. And for those of you who have editor-like tendencies (you know who you are), please let me know by comment or email if you find any mistakes. Grazie.