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okay, gammie

Look. I see you staring at me in the produce store. I see you. Don’t think I don’t. And, you know, Gammie, just because I have produce stickers stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, it doesn’t make me a weirdo.

I’m a weirdo because I have produce stickers deliberately stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, okay, Gammie? I have plans, and, yes, they involve produce stickers and what of it anyway and maybe you just need to CALM DOWN about it, Gams.

Really. Please. It’s not polite to stare.

You’re a gammie. You should know this.

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ai: the difference

The American Idol finale just ended. Or, I should say, the final night of singing just ended. Adam Lambert vs Kris Allen. And I have to say, I’ve kind of fallen in love with Kris Allen because, over the course of the season, he’s surprised me more than anyone else. (Last week’s version of Kanye West’s “Heartless,” anyone? I’ve listened to that repeatedly.)

Adam is Adam: a diva, a great singer, a glam rocker, dramatic, a bit much, all that. Fairly static in what he’s going to do. I’ve known what to expect. Yet, I still don’t know what you do with him as a solo artist. Kris, for me, has been the more surprising and versatile of the two: playing piano, guitar, changing songs up in fresh ways, without those soaring vocals of Adam, yes, but with an accessibility factor that should not be underestimated.

For me, the difference is this: Adam invites you to stand there and watch him. Kris invites you in. I admire Adam’s performances, but there’s no room for anyone else, if that makes sense. He doesn’t want to share the moment; it’s always his. On the other hand, I feel what Kris does. He shares. There’s a warmth there that makes room for the audience to join in.

Adam says, “Look what I have.” Kris says, “I have this, want some?”

It’s the difference between just standing there drooling with envy over my friend’s 1965 Mustang convertible with the Pony interior and my friend smiling, tossing me the keys, and saying, “Wanna take it for a spin?”

That’s the difference, to me.

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for nightfly

For your iced coffee needs!

Here’s a link to a toddy maker very similar to the one we used at The Beanhouse when we made smaller batches of toddy — usually for decaf. This would be good for home use, I think, just looking at it. I have not personally used this, but I’ve used ones that look nearly identical.

If Ladybug likes iced coffee so much, she might really like to have this on hand.

In fact, I think I want to get one, now that summer’s almost here. YUM.

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snippets

~ Well. You look very Love Boat.

*****

~ He has a conspiracy mustache.

*****

~ You know the man with the Midas Touch? Yeah, that’s not me.

*****

~ Don’t you think that going “k-k-k-k-k-k” to yourself as a kid is a little OCD?
~ No. I think it’s winning.

*****

BANSHEE: Mommy, they talked about idols in Sunday School and the teacher asked us why we shouldn’t have them. I said because idols would make us unhappy with God and she said I NAILED it.

BANSHEE’S MOM: Well, I think you got it, sweetie.

BANSHEE: But, Mommy, do you think I NAILED it?

BANSHEE’S MOM: Yes, honey. I think you nailed it.

(Okay. Pardon the interruption. This is Tee Tee. Uhm, Banshee? Precious performing monkey? Could you please give Tee Tee, your favorite auntie, your Sunday School teacher’s phone number and/or email address? Tee Tee is just wondering why five year olds are even being taught the concept of idols. She just finds it rather …. odd. I mean, shouldn’t you be coloring pictures of Joseph’s many-colored coat and stuff like that? So, yeah. That’d be great, Banshee. Don’t worry. Tee Tee just wants to have, you know, a friendly little chat.)

*****

~ I hate you when you’re driving.
~ No. You hate me when I’m backseat driving.
~ But now you’re driving and you’re telling me how to backseat drive.
~ So I’m front-seat driving?
~ You’re front-seat and backseat driving and I hate you.

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look, starbucks

All right. I admit. Since I no longer have my own coffeehouse, I’m now a coffee whore. I patronize whatever-whichever coffeehouse happens to be closest to my hot little hands at any given moment. Seattle’s Best, Peet’s, independent coffeehouses, and, yes, even Starbucks. So, whatever, I drink around. A coffee slut with no deep foundational principles or steely moral core; that’s me. This, because I started to feel sorry for Starbucks since they now suck so bad and because I evidently thought my personal patronage would make ALL THE DIFFERENCE in their sucky bottom line.

But there are ongoing customer service problems I’ve encountered that go beyond their typical bitter brew. I’ve experienced these two issues at multiple Starbucks locations now, so it’s not a fluke or something unique to a particular location.

And I must address them.

(And Katie, I know you work at Starbucks — please don’t hate me.)

All right.

1) The way Starbucks handles the simple purchase of a cup of coffee is totally whack.

Here’s how they do it:

~ You order your cup of coffee.
~ They take your money.
~ They give you change.
~ (You leave a tip for, um, receiving nothing at this point.)
~ Again, they have your money, they have a generous tip, YOU have nothing yet.
~ So your end of the transaction is over — the cashier has moved on to the next customer, even, — but you must stand there off to the side, trying not to be in the way, while someone is back there, pouring your coffee. You hope.

No, Starbucks. NO. This is lame. It’s rude. It’s awkward for the customer. It creates a traffic jam. Not to mention it’s just flat-out inefficient. It happens EVERY time I go — in EVERY Starbucks I patronize. It’s like they’re told, “Get the money first and maybe the customer will just wander off and forget they ordered coffee.”

I understand, of course, that when you order a latte, a cappuccino, any other bar drink, you need to wait for it. But for a simple cup of coffee? No. NO.

Here’s the way to do it, Starbucks. The right way. Uhm, the way I did it, which — this cannot be overstressed — is THE RIGHT WAY:

~ Customer orders a cup of coffee: “I’ll have a small coffee.”
~ Cashier punches in the order and says, “That’s going to be $1.60” or whatever.

This next part is the key:

~ Cashier then steps away and actually gets the customer’s coffee for her.
~ This brief moment allows the customer time to dig around for the cash to pay for the coffee.
~ Cashier places freshly poured coffee in front of customer and repeats the amount due.
~ Customer pays, gets change, leaves a tip, and most importantly, her end of the transaction is over AND she has her coffee, simultaneously. Imagine that!

See that? That’s an even, simultaneous exchange. Coffee for money, money for coffee. No one stands like a poor lost soul in no man’s land waiting for her cup of coffee. No one gets the sense that you care more about her money than you do about her satisfaction. It’s beautiful is what it is.

Moving on.

2) The way Starbucks handles its paper coffee cups is whack. By that I mean, the way the barista grabs the cup into which they pour the coffee. (Yes, I notice even this tiny detail.)

Before I describe how they do it, I need you to picture your typical stack of paper coffee cups at your local coffeehouse. Picture it in your head right now. They’re stacked like a little paper pyramid, right? Stacked upside down, one on top of another. (Or they should be.) The bottom of the coffee cup is on the top of the stack, closest to the barista using it. You’ve got that in your head now, right? Okay.

So you’ve ordered a cup of coffee and here’s what Starbucks does:

~ Barista grabs a coffee cup
~ Barista grabs a cup sleeve
~ Barista puts the sleeve on the cup, most likely touching the lip of your cup — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — with his hands, which, well, might be clean but might not be. And let’s not forget, there’s the dread swine flu. Now, personally, I’m not really a germaphobe, but some people are and coffeehouses need to take that into consideration. And anyone who puts milk, sugar, etc., into his coffee will do a “test-taste” after stirring and drink from the cup with the lid off. Right? You take the lid off to add stuff and then stir it and taste it before putting the lid back on. Right? Well, of course, right. I watched this every day. I mean, I secretly TIMED people at the condiment stand with my stopwatch, for Pete’s sake. I noticed things.
~ Barista pours coffee into the cup and then — ugh — grabs a lid, gets his hands all over it — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — and, ta da, hands you your pristine cup of coffee. YUM. Drink up!

No, Starbucks. Again, NO.

Here’s the way you handle your cups. The right way. The way I did it.

Someone has ordered a cup of coffee.

~ You grab a cup sleeve, FIRST — key, key, key
~ You shape it into an O — just curl your fingers
~ You take that O of a cup sleeve and you slam it down on the bottom of the cup at the top of the pyramid
~ You take a finger from your free hand and place it on the cup pyramid — in the space between the top cup and the next cup in line — and use it as a little bit of leverage whilst you pull the top cup off the pyramid by the sleeve that you just placed on it. This whole action takes two seconds. It’s fast. It’s easy. And no customer will every say, “Did you just put your finger on/in my cup, the top of my cup, somewhere I don’t want it?” Because that does happen. People notice. Or, rather, certain people are prone to notice and make it an issue. So just de-issue it, okay? De-issue everything as much as possible on the front end of things. This method — the “O” coffee sleeve method — is so fast, so clean, really, I don’t understand why I don’t see it at every coffeehouse I ever go to, but I’ve only seen it in two places: The ol’ Beanhouse and later, my own coffeehouse.
~ The final step, the lid step — well, that just shouldn’t be happening, in my opinion. Lids should be at the condiment stand for customers to put on for themselves. I know putting lids on for the customers minimizes spills, but I never once had a customer complain about being able to handle their OWN lid. It gives them control and they don’t worry about any random barista cooties.

And, sometimes, pippa, I hate to tell you: there be cooties.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fought the urge to demonstrate the O Coffee Sleeve Trick to Starbucks employees. I mean, I have stood in Starbucks recently, like, oh, maybe today, literally telling myself, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.” A couple of weeks ago, I took a manager’s business card from the little cup on the counter vowing to “write him a helpful letter.”

I have not done that.

But I still have the card ….

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bloopers

Oh, JOY! A whole site dedicated to bloopers! Hallelujah!!

And you think Jesus doesn’t love you? Tsk, tsk, tsk.

(I’m loving the ones from House: Cuddy and Cameron doing alternate scenes in Valley Girl voices; Robert Sean Leonard (Wilson) losing his place and saying, “No idea. I could be in Chapter 2; I could be Walter Matthau right now; I have no idea what play I’m in at all.” Hahahaha.)

I can’t wait to dig in even more over there. I mean, who doesn’t love a good blooper?

Brilliant.

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misunderstandings with bruno

Good thing he’s sexy because Bruno, The Voice in My Head, is sometimes a straight-up dummypants, yo.

Alas, it’s true.

Look, Bruno. I speak very clearly. I do. I have been told so. As a compliment AND an insult. When you’re an actress, you learn quickly that mush mouth ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Ditto with singing. Or …. yeah, good Lord, being a hostess on a shopping channel – (Hahahahaha. I can’t even write that without starting to laugh. I promise to tell the story(ies) some day.) Or, you know, role-playing courtroom transcripts for court reporting students at 225+ wpm.

You cannot have a mush mouth in any of these scenarios. And I don’t.

But today, when I read, “Now is the best time to launch some dreams,” Bruno, you heard, “Now is the best time to launch some tureens.”

Later, when I read, “Everyone who creates does so from the sacramental center” — and even though I gagged and thought it was New Age twaddle, I read it clearly — still, Bruno, you heard, “Everyone who creates does so from the Sacramento Center.”

Wow. Good thoughts, you know? Deep, deep stuff. Think about it, pippa. Breathe deep and ponder the wisdom of Bruno.

Then get out your butts out there, catch a flight to Sacramento, and LAUNCH SOME TUREENS!

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a live blog of “frogs”

Oh, thank you, blessed baby Jesus!

MB is working tonight and, lucky me, I just stumbled across the movie “Frogs” on some obscure channel called “ThisTV.”

Anyhoo. The movie is circa 1972 starring Ray Milland, Joan Van Ark, and — the best part — a young hunky delicious Sam Elliott. Now I’ve always found him hunky and delicious, but I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him before he turned into the silver-haired fox he is today.

So I am now watching “Frogs” — which looks like a totally awesome and cheesy B movie where amphibians “strike back” — strictly to gander at and swoon over Sam Elliott. And I’m going to live blog this puppy because it just seems like one of those things I would end up doing when I’m by myself, now doesn’t it?

Oh, pippa. I need to go make popcorn. Wait. After this shot of a topless Sam Elliott. Oooh. Those tan biceps. Hold me, 1972 Sam Elliott.

Commence live and totally random blogging:

~ Okay. The Sam Elliott character is named “Pickett Smith.” Whatevs. But the funny thing is that Joan Van Ark, that bag of bones, keeps running around like a spaz repeating his name to everyone. “Hi, Grandpa! Have you met Pickett Smith? Well, this is Pickett Smith. Say hi to Pickett Smith, Grandpa. Yes, his name is Pickett Smith. Clint, I want to introduce you to Pickett Smith. He’s visiting us, is Pickett Smith. That’s what Pickett Smith is doing.” Pickett Smith Pickett Smith Pickett Smith I just met him but I’m in love with Pickett Smith which you can tell by how I can’t stop saying his name, Pickett Smith. Calm down, Joan Van Ark.

~ Oh, also: Joan Van Ark is wearing what can only be described as a giant onesie. We’ve discussed the skater onesie here before and we all know what a baby onesie is, and, well, Joan Van Ark (hereafter JVA) is wearing an adult version of a baby onesie. In butter yellow. There is really no way to overstate the oog factor of her skinniness sheathed in a giant baby butter-colored onesie. You know, JVA. Most men don’t go for women in baby onesies and the ones who do, you don’t really wanna know.

~ Oh, dear. Oh, no. Lots of close-ups of huge fat frogs. What does it all MEAN??? They look pretty tasty to me, frankly. This a problem how?

~ Uh-oh. It’s dinnertime at the estate here. They’re lounging around discussing at length how they’re “the ugly rich.” So poor Pickett Smith is the outsider here with his sexy denim shirt and sexy jeans and sexiness. The frogs heard the dinner bell, apparently, and are hoppin’ in hungry droves towards the house. So what we have here is The Great Gatsby Meets The Plagues of Egypt, peaches.

~ Oh, earlier, Pickett Smith Pickett Smith! found a dead body on the estate. He’s also a photographer, it turns out. Although, really, those two things have nothing to do with each other. He found the dead body not in his professional role of photographer but in his strictly amateur role as the only person worth a tiny rat’s bottom in this entire movie.

~ Hahahahaha. The fat little frogs are pawing — clawing? webbing? what? — at the windows of the estate. Like li’l kitties trying to get in. It would almost be cute if it weren’t for the imminent amphibian mayhem and death.

~ Oh! Ray Milland — Grandpa in a wheelchair — just shot a snake dangling from the chandelier. This snake was menacing poor Mabel, the black housekeeper for the Crockett family, so naturally, one must shoot it with a bunch of other people standing around the table.

~ The closeted gay grandson brought a black woman to dinner. Her white dress is slit to her navel. She’s braless. The ugly rich openly comment on her slutty outfit. Closeted Gay Son says he LIKES it. Sure you do, precious.

~ JVA is wasting Picket Smith’s — and my — time by trying to converse with him. JVA, don’t you get that he’s the strong silent type? Toddle off in your onesie, babydoll.

~ You know, I’ve never liked JVA and that’s putting it mildly. I hope she gets frogged but good. Eat her up, onesie and all, okay, Mr. Toad? And her Trisha Nixon ponytail.

~ Uh-oh. Some little whippersnappers just set off some firecrackers in the bayou. It’s the Fourth of July, but do the frogs care about that? No, no, they do not. Rather, they now seem ENRAGED.

~ Photographer Pickett Smith is also an environmental expert apparently: “You’ve overdone it with the pesticides, Ray Milland.” Swoon. Is there no END to this man’s sexiness and knowledge??

~ Here’s Blonde Weekend Guest Dude. Shooting things in the bayou. No, wait. Shooting himself. Accidentally, in the leg. Oops. Here we go. He’s now being eaten by moss and, ew, tarantulas. (Which are basically harmless and blind, but whatevs.) They be scary, I won’t lie. But what are they doing in this movie? It’s called “Frogs” not “Frogs and Snakes and Spiders.” What UP, movie? He’s now covered in a giant spider web. Oh, those frogs!

~ I don’t think he’s still alive. I’m sorry, pippa.

~ I feel it only fair to warn you all: The lizards are on the move.

~ Gammie is wandering in the bayou with a butterfly net and a dress with a fluttery collar.

~ Black chick is now dressed like an African princess. Massive head wrap, giant caftan. She’s playing croquet like this. Some dude comments on how he “likes her game.” She responds, “I don’t think so. I don’t think you can dig it.” I’m confused. Or more confused.

~ I have to admit I’m bothered by Pickett Smith’s lack of wardrobe changes. I am spending way too much time pondering the implications.

~ Oh, gay son is in the greenhouse, tuliping around and such. But the lizards, you see, they have other plans. They are, in cold premeditated fashion, knocking various clear bottles labeled “Poison” and “Worse Poison” and “Worst Poison Ever” onto the floor of the greenhouse. The fumes! Oh, no! Gay son walks towards them, as anyone would. He is overcome! The lizards LAUGH!

~ Pickett Smith and the African Princess just found dead Gay Son. They announce his death to everyone. But, ugly rich that they are, no one seems to care.

~ Ew. EW. A fat frog just jumped onto the abandoned Fourth of July Flag Cake! EWW. Get offa the symbol of my country in cake form, you damned filthy frog!

~ Gammie! Beware! The snakes are full of mischief! Gammie! Look out! She’s being stared down by a rattler. RUN, GAMMIE! Okay. Phew, she is. Obviously, she foresaw this horrible ordeal which is why she wore those pristine white tennis shoes with her fluttery party dress. But, oh no! Two feet of water take her down! She gets up and … hahaha …. she’s now wearing a totally different dress, one sleeve of which was somehow dissolved by her fall into the water. Never know with water, do you? Okay, finally, she’s bitten by a snake. She’s down and dead and instantaneously gray.

~ Another dude. I don’t even know who this dude IS. Random Guest, we’ll call him. Well, anyway, he’s battling a croc right now. I’m serious. They killed off Gammie, cut to a commercial, came back to Random Guest in a death match with a croc. Nearby frogs just watch, croaking. Random Guest also croaks but not in a way that means he’s still alive.

~ Sexy and smart photographer Pickett Smith says, “We gotta get off this damn island!” Everyone but Grandpa agrees. “I control these people!” he says. His household staff — all black, by the way, because this is the 1970s?? — protest. He tells them to go then, fine. His son or grandson — or whoever — is taking them home on the boat. Uh-oh.

~ Ray Milland says to JVA, “Uhm, excuse me, but even under these circumstances, can’t I have something to EAT???” Hahahaha. You’re a real gem, Gramps. JVA complies because she’s spineless. And I think I mean that literally.

~ Dude that took the household staff in the boat — well, guess what? He’s in trouble now, bit by some giant water moccasin or something. His hot blonde wife shrieks, runs into the water, but, oh, no, a — what?? a sea turtle?? — is swimming for her ….. very …… very slowly ….. obviously, there’s no TIME! She’s done for!

~ Grandpa CANNOT be reasoned with, all because it’s his birthday, you see, and all this death is just RUINING his party. JVA and PS try to use common sense on him, but he just says, “Okay. Get the hell out! Stand up and be counted! You’re either with me or against me!” (Uhm, what, Grandpa? You’re just throwing out cliches now, do you know that? This is more than just “my flag cake was ruined by frogs.” You’re somewhat mentally compromised.)

~ PS and JVA find themselves a canoe, taking the kids orphaned by the recent rampaging water moccasin and sea turtle. Those two were mom and dad, apparently. The movie makes basically zero attempt to define relationships here.

~ On another note: For a movie called “Frogs” have we yet seen anyone actually murdered by the frogs themselves? No, I don’t think we have. So the frogs are Charles Manson, I guess, having other more malleable critters do their homicidal bidding.

~ Oooh. Sam Elliott paddling a canoe. In one shot he’s wearing a shirt, very next shot, shirtless. More mistakes like this, please. Totally fine by me.

~ Oh, no! A snake jumped from a tree, molesting Pickett Smith! He fights it off as any photographer/environmental expert would do. JVA screams. I dislike her intensely.

~ Pickett Smith shoots a rapidly approaching croc. Sexxxy. Although I grieve over the number of purses and pairs of boots that just sank to the bottom of the bayou.

~ They make it across the murderous waters to the other shore. A lady offers them a ride. “We haven’t seen anybody on this road for three hours. Isn’t that strange for a holiday??” Her little son turns to the other boys in the back seat. “Hey, wanna see what I found?” AHHHH! It’s a big fat frog! Freeze frame.

~ Wait. Back to retarded Grandpa in the wheelchair. He’s all alone now, with only his creepy hunting trophies on the wall to keep him company. He wheels around his house, into another room. Frogs are everywhere. Duh, Gramps. There’s a close-up of his stuffed gazelle with a simultaneous bleating goat sound. He falls from his wheelchair, startled, one assumes, to hear his stuffed gazelle bleat like a goat, and is overcome by THE FROGS.

~ (Uhm, movie, you didn’t even show me what happened to hunky sexy Sam Elliott aka Pickett Smith Pickett Smith!. I mean, yes, it’s implied by the ghoulish frog freeze frame, but you give me a hunky hero and leave me with what? Just imagining his death at the — hands? legs? what? — of maniacal frogs? Lazy shiftless movie. Or stupid ran-out-of-money movie.)

~ Roll credits to the sound of …. not kidding ……. croaking frogs.

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email

In my inbox, from a silent long-time reader of this blog:

Mother’s Day never arrives any more that I don’t think of you and remember your heart. I find myself holding you and the other childless couples I know close to me, considering them with special honor, knowing that there can never be the “right words.” Mother’s Day comes, and later Father’s Day comes and they are quietly absent from church. They never say anything, and were it not for you, I would not have noticed. They show courageous smiles–genuine, sincere smiles–at awkward moments. I am overwhelmed at times by such grace.

Thank you SO much for this. I am in tears. Tears, just having you tell me that I may have helped you take notice of others in similar circumstances. That means more than you’ll ever ever know. I have emailed you privately but want to acknowledge your kindness publicly, even though you’re anonymous.

God bless you for taking the time to tell me.

I feel somehow changed just reading this.

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voices in my head

I’ve just discovered that the voice recognition software I’m teaching myself has a database of voices.

So the software has a readback feature. You can talk to it for a while and then have it read back what you said so you can correct any misrecognitions. The more you “correct” the software, the better voice recognition you get. It’s interesting, really. Personalized to your voice. Someone else trying to talk on my software would not be recognized as well as I am because everyone’s voice is different. Weird and neat, huh? Also a tad creepy, let’s not ignore that. My software is designed for vocal monogamy, which I appreciate, I suppose; on the other hand, I am its entire world which is a lot of pressure. I’m only human.

From the start, I’ve been having it read back to me in my own voice, but damn, is that irritating. Shut UP, Trace, for the love of God. It’s not that I hate my voice, but I just heard myself talk to the software and, what, I wanna hear that whole dealio again?? No, no, I don’t.

But then, with one click of the mouse, I discovered The Database of Other Voices.

A voice other than mine? Heaven!

Okay. So they’re robotic voices, but the upside is …… they’re not MINE.

This afternoon, I listened to them all — auditioned them, held rigorous callbacks, the whole nine yards — and have selected my star, my lead here.

While I can’t play the voices for you, still, I’d like to introduce to you, pippa, the voices in my head:

(Oh, and I didn’t make these names up. These are their given names.)

1) Wade — Ah, yes. “Wade.” I listened to Wade’s audition and, well, found him rather generic. A bit of a snoozer. Bascially, Wade is anchorman material. You know, in Robotworld. He’s Robot Brian Williams, although that may be a slight redundancy. Acceptable, but nothing to swoon over.

2) Flo — Uhm, Flo started her audition and, seriously, I had a spontaneous Simon Cowell outburst. Within three seconds I heard myself saying to her in a proper British accent, “What the HELL was that? Did you just suck some helium balloons before your audition? I mean, is this a JOKE? No. One hundred percent NO. Go to Disneyland, tell them you’re the new Minnie Mouse, but please, get out of my head. Go. Now.” And I heard her. She cursed me under her breath as she left. Fine. Not my job to make you happy, Flo.

3) Chris — Sweet Fancy Moses. Chris was worse than Flo. Dude is clearly a castrati and should consider a career as a spotlight soloist for The Vienna Robot Boys’ Choir. Or just having his robot voice box removed entirely. Ew.

4) Skip — Oh, Skip. Skip is a gay auctioneer at Sotheby’s. Not what I want for the voice in my head. Thank you. Next.

5) Judy — Yamahama. Judy is Skip’s twin sister. She is a lesbian auctioneer at Christie’s. Wow. The vocal resemblance is striking and I never want to hear either of them again. It’s like a machine gun duel with those two. Or they remind me of a time I housesat for my friends and their rabbits got out of their cages and I was frantic looking for them when suddenly I heard the drillbit sounds of rabbit lovin’ — d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-ddddddd-d-d-d — coming from the corner and ran around in flappy-armed circles freaking out.

6) Granny — Yes, there is a voice called “Granny.” She is precious, I suppose, for a robot gammie, but I just felt wrong listening to a robot gammie’s voice in my head. I mean, am I supposed to be soothed, to feel warm and cuddly, about electronic gammie? No. No. That’s just WEIRD. I feel like I’m supposed to listen to her read to me whilst I eat cookies and if I tried to leave, she’d say, “SIT back down, young lady.” No. Too needy for me, Gams. Next.

7) Lester — Lester, sweetie, you think you might wanna call the doc for that adenoidectomy? Yeah? Okay. I think that’s a good idea. Boo-bye.

Finally, finally, after a tedious day of auditions, amidst a glowing golden aura, in walked …..

8) Bruno — Ah, Bruno. Bruno! Bruno is Robot Barry White. A voice full of honey and sex and a slap on the ass. Seriously. After swooning over Bruno’s first audition, I discovered I can actually tweak Bruno’s voice — adjust the pitch higher or lower, make it smoother or rougher, make it less breathy or more breathy. I shouldn’t have this kind of power. I’m just not responsible enough. The current version of Bruno — tweaked lower, rougher, more breathy, and ribbed for my pleasure, for God’s sake — is really a little too sexy. It’s naughty, is what it is. I’m naughty. A naughty little minx, I am. I’m almost waiting for him to start talking dirty to me. Seriously, Bruno. I’m waiting. Or, well … I could just read something to you and then …. you could read it back to me …….

Uhm ….. I gotta go …….