---

OK, I've been totally schnookered into getting up early on the perfect Sunday morning to sleep in. I was happily hogging up 3/4 of the bed when I saw Craig look at his watch.

Let me explain something about Craig: he's worse than a 4 year old to wake up. He sits there on the edge of the bed and tries to make me believe that he's so tired the poor dear is going to fall back to sleep just sitting there. It's ridiculous. Oh, and you can't believe anything he says until he is fully awake.

Which is why I can't belief I fell for it when he said it was 11:30 am. I laid there in bed for another 30 minutes obsessing about how much of the day I was wasting, and then I got all crazy about my garden not being watered yet.

So I bounded out of bed with all the enthusiasm too much wine the night before gives you, and ran downstairs...only to discover it was 7:30 am. Dammit!

Of course, I'm one of those people that has some weird genetic farmer thing going on that refuses to let me go back to sleep once I have officially left my bed in the morning. And so here I am, making the most of my morning and feeling kind of cotton-mouthed.

So getting back to the issue of wine....Craig and I went to a new restaurant last night. I was fascinated by the idea of a French restaurant in the middle of South Philly. It's so bizarre -- South Philly is predominantly Italian, with a few pockets of Cambodians and a couple of Irish neighborhoods thrown in for good measure. And so I couldn't imagine that there would be a good French place, and forced Craig to go with me.

Pif [that's the name of the restaurant, I swear] had the feel of any South Philly restaurant -- which is to say loud and not particularly mood-enhancing. It was a nice place, but I think I may have gotten a sunburn from the superbright lighting. I felt like I was in Gremlins: bright light! bright light!

The food was really excellent, surprisingly. I had breaded frog legs in butter sauce and grouper with spinach in garlic sauce. But the dessert -- heaven!

You know I have a big jones for good dessert. I will write a restaurant off if the dessert is lacking. It's imperative that there's a good selection and that whatever I get is just knee-quakingly good. Pif had a wonderful selection of not only desserts, but cheese! I could have cried with joy, because near and dear to my heart, only second to dessert, is cheese. And to offer cheese plates is like...well, let's just say that I was thrilled to see it.

But yeah, I opted for dessert instead of a last course of cheese. My eyes almost bulged out of my head when I saw they had apricot tart. I love apricots, and I've been upset recently because I haven't been able to find any decent apricots in the stores.

This tart was so good it defies description. The crust was perfection and the apricots were fantastic. I do mean perfect. It took me 30 minutes to eat it because I savored every last crumb. I'm a sick woman.

I chose a good bottle of wine to bring with us too [how I love BYOB's] -- it was an Australian Shiraz. I drank most of the bottle, which is why I'm so dry-mouthed this morning.

I am saddened to learn that Rosemary Clooney died. Such a great woman.

Apparently Newsweek ran a poll to determine the popularity of the "under god" phrasing among Americans. They're trying to tell me that 9 our of 10 Americans want the phrase in the Pledge. What a bunch of horseshit. I could understand if it was 6 or 7 out of 10, but 9 out of 10 is just a little too high for me to believe. What did they do -- go into the most conservative Christian neighborhood they could find to do the polling?

Now I'm pissed off....what I wouldn't do for another slice of that apricot tart.

---

I've been sitting up here in my art studio (where the computer is) for about 4 hours now working on my final paper for BritLit II. The class is over but I have to turn in my final paper on Monday. Luckily I'm almost done but I feel cheated that I had to waste an entire day (and a lovely day at that) inside. It's a travesty of justice that it's not raining outside.

I must now sing the praises of new underwear. Yesterday in Manhattan I bought some new underwear at Canal Jeans. Specifically, they are Calvin Klein boycut undies for girls. They basically look like those tighty whities that are longer through the leg for boys. So I gave them a quick wash last night and put them on today for a test drive. They are so comfortable it is not to be believed...no wedges, no pantyline. They are so excellent that I now want to trade in all my underwear for these. The only problem is that they're not very sexy so I doubt Craig would be too pleased.

---

I had a great time in Manhattan yesterday! The fundraising conference was even pretty good, which is unusual -- they are mostly people saying the same things over and over.

My first Acela train ride was fabulous -- it's so much quieter than regular Amtrak or the New Jersey transit trains. I just sat there watching the scenery whiz by, listening to the two middle-aged businessmen conduct their obsessive business. It was just so quiet, and it gave me more time that I would have like to consider what I would feel like when I saw the skyline.

And then, out of the haze of a hot day, I saw it: the Empire State Building. I almost burst into tears. There I am, feeling wretched and trying to control myself. It's not the changed skyline that really upset me, but just the reminder of the whole day. All the people that died.

It was with me all day -- I like to shop in the Village and I kept getting turned around because there was no super huge building for me to get my bearings from. It was weird.

I tried to put it out of my mind as much as possible. And so I shopped. I stopped at the big H&M near Times Square and then went to Bigelow Apothecary, Canal Jeans, a street market in the Village, Zara. And then I ended up at Loehmanns. Penn Station was yucky -- no air conditioning. The ride home was quick...the Acela only takes an hour to go from Philly to Manhattan. The train must go 150 miles an hour.

---

I just got back from a really long 3 hour meeting and my brain is completely fried. Why oh why do employers force their employees to sit around listening to stuff that could just be gleaned from a memo?

Sitting in a meeting for longer than 20 minutes is ultimate torture for me. I'm fidgety by nature, but coerced into forced captivity while people throw useless facts at me is just not good. I start to nod off, drool a little, and end up slithering off my chair in a fit of dozing. It's embarrassing.

Craig and I have been debating the whole issue of declaring the Pledge of Allegiance unconstitutional. Craig thinks it's ridiculous for the courts to get involved with stuff like this -- recently we had this same argument over a courthouse with a plaque listing the 10 Commandments [the court ruled the plaque would have to be removed]. He believes that the guy who filed the lawsuit is full of shit -- that he did it for the publicity, not to actually fix anything. He also believes that if you don't believe in god, refusing to say the Pledge is a valid option and one that should be exercised. But the heart of Craig's argument is that being taught the Pledge teaches patriotism.

I would like to know how teaching a kindergarten student to recite the Pledge teaches patriotism. I didn't know what the Pledge of Allegiance even was until I was in junior high school. Most schools teach the Pledge, but neglect to explain the importance behind it. But that's not really what's being debated: it's the reference to god.

This morning on the news I saw an interview with the man who filed the lawsuit. He had a very valid point that I believe speaks to the true nature of the lawsuit: if the Pledge said "One nation under Allah" or "One nation under Buddha" you can bet that Christians in this country would certainly be making a big stink about it.

Craig, as I noted, believes that refusing to say the Pledge is the way to go if you don't believe in god. He obviously didn't go to my high school -- you faced detention if you didn't participate. The phrase "under god" was added in 1954 -- if so many people are freaked out by the Pledge being declared unconstitutional, why doesn't Congress just delete the phrase? That would solve the entire issue.

What really has pissed me off is Bush's comments about the situation. The ruling isn't "out of step" with the way people feel -- the ruling isn't consistent with his own ideology. I don't think he realizes that there is a pretty big faction of non-Christians in this country. I just wrote him an email about it, reminding him that millions of non-Christian voters are perceiving him as anti-diversity and anti-religious freedom. I doubt it will do any good.

I'm not religious, so why should I have to acknowledge a god I don't believe in? This country was founded on and for the idea of religious freedom and tolerance. Many people seem to assume that it's OK for me to tolerate their religious beliefs, but don't tolerate mine. Where is my religious freedom?

If the U.S. is a true melting pot of ethnicities and religions then why is it OK to mandate one religion?

---

Yesterday when I got home from class, this is what was waiting for me [if you can't read it, click on it for a larger picture]:

I'm so excited to see this! It is my absolute proof that I was actually able to run a mile in less than 20 minutes. It might not seem all that thrilling -- but considering my bevy of knee problems and the fact that I am a slowpoke runner. Yay!

---

I feel slightly weird about the situation at hand. I have a half sister named Crystal. She just turned 17. She is my father's daughter by some chick that he was dating when I was 12-ish. One day when I was 14 my dad came to visit on one of his infrequent visits....we were rounded up and I was, as usual, less than thrilled to have to spend time with him. He just sort announced it: "You have a sister! She's 1 year old!"

I was stunned and pissed off. I mean, what kind of asshole keeps a secret like that for almost 2 years? And we were just expected to step in line and be happy about it. Oh boy, a sister! Now you can ignore one more kid you made!

Anyway, I haven't really ever been in close contact with Crystal. I hate her mother with a fiery passion for many reasons and we all know that my father is the root of half my various psychoses...and so I sort of rejected her on the principle of the thing.

Last year my grandmother died. I was very close to my grandmother and it hit me pretty hard. Crystal never really got to know her like I did because my grandmother had a stroke before we even knew about Crystal. But she still loved her as much as I did, and it was really hard. But anyway, I realized that Crystal really wanted me in her life.

I didn't know how to react to that. Crystal just turned 17 last week and I sent her a card and put my email address in it, asking her to email me. She emailed me right away, and we've been exchanging emails every day. She's not your typical 17 year old....aside from the issues she has likely faced with my dad, her mother is just pure evil and she's had to deal with a lot. I've been much luckier than she has -- she has actually had to deal with my dad much more often. We have avoided the topic of my dad, and I'm really not sure how she feels about him.

I invited her to spend a weekend with me and Craig in August. It will probably be pretty weird, and I will do my best not to talk shit about my dad to her. It's so raw though -- Crystal just brings up all this bitterness in me that I'm not sure how to deal with.

---

I'm slightly repulsed at the thought of millions of guys running around in the same underwear they've worn for the past week. H&M has launched a new line of underwear made from paper, designed to be sort of disposable underwear. The designer said, "Many guys don't change their underpants every day. It would be perfect to sell paper underpants at petrol stations."

Now I realize that Americans are way more anal retentive about baths and cleanliness than the rest of the world (you'd swear this country was nothing but a bunch of people with obsessive-compulsive disorders). That said, are there really people all over the place running around in dirty underwear? If you don't have clean underwear, wouldn't you just go commando?

I have visions of a bevy of stanky Swedish guys running through the streets with stink radiating off their dirty underwear now singing the praises of disposable paper g-strings. Argh.

Did anyone see the Martha Stewart segment on CBS yesterday morning? It was truly hysterical and slightly horror movie-ish. The reporter is asking good old Martha all these questions about the insider trading debacle, all the while Martha is chopping cabbage with a foot long butcher knife and getting really pissed off. I thought she might try to ram the knife through the poor reporter at any given moment. Martha is just pure evil like that.

This just totally skeeves me out. Where is crazy pigeon lady when you need her? I now want to hand her that news story and a copy of the streets department ordinance. This could be you, crazy pigeon lady!

OK, a) why would you build a theme park based on Dracula? and b) who would visit a theme park where there's a ghost who has been "terrorising people"?

---

It is hotter than fresh baked rolls outside. The heat index is supposed to be up around 110 degrees today and we've got the ozone alert going and all of that. It's just one of the many ways living in Philadelphia can be hazardous to your health...the heat, and worrying that the crazy pigeon lady is really feeding the stupid pigeons intelliegence-enhancing drugs (you know, like in that stupid movie Deep Blue Sea).

There are other hazards, I suppose. My friend Gretchen was attacked two months ago coming out of her boyfriend's house. Some guy just grabbed her and tried to get her into his truck. Luckily she was able to fight with him and get away, but not before he stabbed her twice - once in the eye and once in the shoulder. She lost her eye but she's doing really well otherwise. You have to expect stuff like that living in the city, but it's never something you get comfortable with.

I was attacked when I lived on Temple University campus. Temple is located in North Philadelphia and is completely surrounded by ghetto....so you have to be careful. I was out one night with this guy I was dating -- he lived across campus, so he walked me back to my dorm. About halfway there this guy grabbed me and put a knife to my throat. The guy I was dating actually ran away. He demanded I give him my money, so I did and that was that. He ran one way, I ran the other. Luckily I was one of those typical starving college students -- I think he got away with $2.00 in dimes and my beloved mouse change purse. And I was lucky -- it could have been so much worse.

The next semester I took a class in self defense. Quite honestly I think it should be a required class if you're going to live at Temple. The whole time I was taking the class, I had these horrible violent dreams about what I would do if I were ever attacked again. I still have those dreams every once in a while -- dreams where I am just kicking the shit out of the asshole who attacks me.

I haven't been mugged since, although I get the sense that I've been cased a few times. In self defense we were taught to be hyper aware of your surroundings, and I am. That self defense class was brutal -- I lost clumps of hair while being mock attacked by the instructors. Strangers must have thought I was in an abusive relationship because I always had bruises and scrapes. One day in class I actually broke my finger on my instructors athletic cup while we were fighting. I reached into crush his goods and kind of forgot they all wear protective equipment. I heard a snap and then my finger was sort of dangling from the first knuckle. It was gross!

---

I know that the slogans "Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love" and "Philadelphia, the City that Loves You Back" are a joke. However, when did common courtesy die?

I am going to lunch with Christy [if she ever gets here] and had to hit the ATM. So I ran over to Wawa where there are two ATM machines. Both machines were being used and there was one person in line at one machine, so I got in line behind the woman at the other machine. The woman at my machine leaves and I approach the ATM.

All of a sudden, all hell breaks loose. This guy is practically yelling "Excuse me! Excuse me!" Of course, being that I am doing nothing wrong and there must be 90 people in the Wawa, I assume that he is talking to someone else. But no, he was yelling at me because he thinks there is only one line for the ATM machine. He's young too -- like 30-ish. Normally it is the old and bitter guys who will freak out because a woman dares to offend them in some imagined way.

So after making him feel like an ass for making such a huge deal out of this imagined single line deal, I slowly back away from the machine with my hands in the air. You know, 'cause I'm all about being polite. And he obviously isn't.

I should have followed him back to work and lodged a complaint against him to his company. It's called Anger Management buddy -- look into it.

---

I am not typically a "joiner." That said, I did the Google "Nicole is" search....shut it, I was curious.

So here are the fascinating results....
Nicole is only 20
Nicole is multi-racial
NICOLE is a theory or experiment that if a computer is given enough combinations of how words, phrases and sentences are related to one another, it could talk back to you.
Nicole is in touch with her Filipino family
Nicole is best known for her matchless combination of grace and athleticism
Nicole is a shrewd cookie
Nicole is a veteran to the art form of female impersonation

Hmmmmm...well all right then.

So Palestinians are pissed over Bush's proposal for a Palestinian state? Really? Now that's surprising [she says, dripping with sarcasm]. Craig and I were talking about this before we left for work this morning -- neither one of us can understand why Bush would randomly float a proposal without input from either one of the parties involved. And why is removing Arafat the right thing to do without removing Sharon? My favorite quote from the article: "George Bush today, also after this speech, and after months of dealing with the Middle East, is the most hated person among Palestinians. He is competing with Ariel Sharon for this title." Guess what pal? He's not high on my list of favorite people either! You know things are bad when even Tony Blair isn't backing little George.

---

I think I've finally narrowed it down to the thing that absolutely drives me nuts more than anything else in the world. The thing is when people say "aks" instead of "ask."

Last night in class the prof asked someone to read My Last Duchess out loud. This girl Tiffany volunteered. She's really nice, Tiffany is. She wants to be a trial lawyer. But I can't stand to hear her speak.

She ruined My Last Duchess, which is such an excellent poem and so Silence of Lambs-esque. I will now attempt to recreate a portion of the reading...ahem...but first you have to imagine this poem being read in the most halting and flat of tones....

Dat's myah last Duychess paint-ed on da wall, [big pause]
Looking as if sheee weyre alahve. I cawl [big huge pause]
Dat piece a wondah, [gigantic pause] nah: Fraw Pandolf's haynds [monsterously huge pause]
Werked bus-i-ly [pause to scrutinize the next word] a day, and theyre she stands.
Will it please yew [pause] sit and look at 'er? I sayd [super huge pause]
"Fraw Pandolf" by design, [big old pause] for nevah read [huge pause]
Strangahs like yew dat pitchered countenance,
Da depf and pashun of its earnest glance,
But to mahself dey turned (since none puts bah [gigantic pause]
da curtain I haf drawn for yew, but I)
And seemed as dey would aks mah, if dey durst,
How such a glance cayme dere; so, not da first [sickening pause]
Are yew to turn and aks dus.

Without my phonetic spelling of the reading it should read:
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus.

I can't imagine poor Tiffany trying to convince a jury of anything. I automatically discount people who say "aks" instead of "ask" as uneducated and stupid. Of course, I know better -- it's mostly just a product of them growing up in a house or an environment where "aks" is commonplace, or it could also be a speech impediment. But it drives me nuts.

We also read Goblin Market last night. It warms the cockles of my heart to read good old fashioned smut from a Victorian writer, especially when it was initially marketed as children's literature.

The Tuesday Too listed a very important URL today that I'm going to share. It's important to convince our government that it's time to ratify the Treaty for the Rights of Women. It's an agreement on the basic human rights of women all over the world that has been in existence since 1979. It's been ratified by 169 countries. Guess who hasn't ratified it? That's right: the U.S. government. And also Afghanistan, Syria, Iran and Somalia. So go to the site for the Treaty for the Rights of Women and click on the link that says "Take action now" -- by filling in your information the site will automatically send a letter from you to President Bush, Secretary of State Powell, and your Senators to let them know that you support ratification of this treaty. It's important: please support this effort.

---

Ohhhhhhhh yeahhhhhhhhh! I'm a happy girl right now. I thought I was going to have to take the 2 hour regular Amtrak train to NYC on Friday, but I just found out I get to take the Acela! Yyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy! That means I get to spend an extra hour in bed on Friday and I'll get home at 8pm -- more than enough time to do something fun that night!

I think I might take a side trip to H&M while I'm in town. I understand that the store is 12,000 times better than the little one in Cherry Hill. I'm not sure what else to do, but I'm craving some shopping. I wanted to have lunch with Phil but he hasn't emailed me back yet -- he might be out of town.

It makes me happy that no one else from work is going and that I get to putz all over town all by myself. I so rarely get to go to NYC alone. Sometimes I think I'm incredibly anti-social but I really prefer to travel and shop by myself. I hate having to wait while people try things on in stores I have no interest in, or look at things I'm not interested in.

---

We all know that I live with my own ghosts, so this cracks me up. I wish all landlords were that forthcoming about that kind of stuff!

I forgot to add this morning that I took pictures of the dreaded pigion feeding lady who was out doing her evil work again this morning. If I was able to get a decent picture I will do something cruel and unusual...if not, I may follow her to work and deliver a copy of the city ordinance that states its illegal to feed the fucking pigeons. Argh!

I'm sitting here drinking a Dunkaccino, dreaming of New York. I have a fundraising conference in New York City on Friday, and I'm trying to come up with some things to do for fun. The conference is at the Marriott Marquis on Broadway at 45th Street. Anyone have any good suggestions?

---

Occasionally I am convinced that the other passengers on the subway can hear me think because the force of my thoughts are so loud. I doubt it's really true, but it just feels that way. Today I was waxing nostalgic about teen romance novels and my relationships with boys. Maybe "nostalgic" isn't really where I'm going...

I blame teen romance novels for all of my weird former notions about how romance is supposed to be, how families are supposed to be, and how easy it should be to find love. I have always been a voracious reader -- so I was reading everything I could lay my hands on from an early age. Since I grew up in East Gybip, Pennsylvania [ok, Berwick] there was the library or there was a lone bookstore in a mall 2 hours away. Since both places had a very limited selection, it was either books about how to cook 'possum or stupid teen romances.

You know, people like to blame books like "Catcher in the Rye" and "Slaughterhouse 25" for warping the teenage brain and being evil, but they really only teach us it's OK to be warped. Misery loves company, right? All those idiot pro-censorship freaks ought to aim their lunacy at teen romance novels. I didn't really have a lot of guidance in the parental department and so I was just really confused.

Let's review. Losing my virginity at an early age to an older man in a yellow van with red shag carpeting was the beginning of the saga. Pure comedy gold. After that I think I fit right into the young girl cliche of having wild crushes on boys with dizzying depression of the bad poetry writing kind. The only difference is that I was obsessed with sex and sexual innuendo. By the age of 15 I had declared to all my friends that I wanted to be the next Dr. Ruth. Also at the age of 14 I suddenly developed this horrible reputation as a slut [for no good reason either -- I rarely dated anyone and I didn't have sex again until I was almost 17]. Coincidentally, it wasn't until I was 17 that I found out why.

Imagine my surprise when I get a call at age 17 from a boy that I sort of dated when I was 14 [in a junior high way -- we never went on an actual date, but we said we were "going together" and I think I may have kissed him once]. This boy Mike had just graduated from high school and must have been going through a twelve step program or something...he called to tell me that he had started some vicious rumors about me when we broke up way back when.

But I digress. My first boyfriend was Scott when I was 17 and he was 16. We dated for almost 2 years. My freshman year of college was a blur of stupid drunken hookups. I met my second boyfriend, Dave, at the end of my freshman year. We dated for two years, during half of which he was screwing every girl on Temple U. campus behind my back. When we broke up I felt broken. I really didn't know if I would ever feel normal again. It took me 3 years to get my shit together.

During that 3 years I just didn't feel anything. I kept a snack available in the form of Vince, who lived on my floor of the dorm and was an enormous slut but also one of the sweetest guys on earth. We spend some quality time together that year in between all the other diversions that came along. The year after that I lived in an apartment with Christy and various other revolving roomates [including Vince for a period of time]. It was a lost year for me...I just couldn't feel anything for anyone.

The last part of 1995 and beginning of 1996 was simultaneously the best and worst year of my life. On one hand I was finally living by myself and I loved it. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without worrying about pissing someone off. I had absolute freedom. But I was still completely numb and so I dated the absolute dregs of society. I met a guy, Justin, who was so completely annoying that I had to shut him up by any means necessary. Most of the time that meant kissing him. But I dated him for a few months because of, well, endowments. Finally I couldn't stand to hear him say another word and we stopped seeing each other. And then I met a guy named Jason who looked like Howard Stern but was super nice and alot of fun to hang out with. But he was a 35 year old pizza boy who still lived with his parents. It was sad. And then there was a friend of a friend who I hooked up with one night...the next night he got drunk, came to my apartment building, and rang my doorbell until 6am. I never really dated anyone for longer than a couple of weeks...I just wanted throwaway sex and absolutely no emotional connections. I was a wreck.

The whole thing has been a comedy of errors.

By Easter of 1996 I met Craig and then the stupidity was over [for the most part]. I always fantasize that I could hop into a time warp and change this or that about my life...but the simple fact is that I like who I turned out to be. So if changing things would result in a different end result...well, I guess I wouldn't change a thing.

But I can still blame teen romances.

---

Weirdly enough, the first smell I was assailed with in Atlantic City was playdoh. I expect salt water or food or even urine...but the playdoh was a complete surprise and without explanation.

We always park at the Taj Mahal. There is no real reason for it -- parking is $2 for the whole day at any of the casinos. And we always walk out to the beach past the Hard Rock. The song playing was Our House by Madness, which is one my very favorite songs.

Let me explain about Atlantic City. The AC beach is not particularly wonderful, but it's an hour away from Philly and a straight shot on the Expressway. It's also free and Craig refuses to pay to use a beach unless forced. So we go to AC. Of all the beaches in Jersey, it's the Atlantic City beach where I expect to see dead bodies or step on a hypodermic needle -- obviously I watch where I step!

So today was really a perfect day to go to the beach. It was unbearably hot in the city today and very humid. And it was beautiful on the beach! We found a great spot not too far from the Steel Pier.

I hate to admit this, but Craig and I like to hit a buffet in a casino when we're in AC. We like to bond with the geriatric crowd, I guess. Really it is a running joke with us, and we just think it's funny. Today we chose a late lunch at Resorts casino. Bad choice.

I guess I should not be surprised that a casino owned by Merv Griffin would cater to the practically dead. I knew we were in for a real treat from the start -- the cashier overcharged us, and the other diners couldn't seem to grasp the idea of merging two lines into one. That was even before we entered the restaurant! The place smelled like a nursing home -- I can't really describe that smell other than to guess it is urine, Ben Gay, and mold. The food was hellacious. By far it was the worst buffet ever. Soggy shrimp, weird tasting clam strips, wilted salad....it was an atrocity. Damn that Merv Griffin! Merv must be stopped!

When we got home we noticed Craig got a little crispy in the sun. I believe in safe tanning [much like I believe in safe sex: obsessively] -- I wear a 50 SPF sunblock. And so I have tanned somewhat without becoming lobsterlike. I'm so smart.

We watched Valentine when we got home. Since I've been watching my new Buffy DVD I figured it was only fitting that I watch a movie with David Boreanaz in it. I can understand why it tanked -- it was really bad. Sort of '70's era Prom Night-ish. A strange coincidence -- David's dad is a weather man here in Philadelphia. His name is Dave Roberts.

For the rest of the evening [since my last paper and all that reading for tomorrow's class is done] I plan to make a sketchbook/journal for a wonderful woman who agreed to accept a book in exchange for designing a new template for my little blog here. I can't wait to have something of my very own!

---

I'm slightly bitter this morning. Christy flaked out on me again this morning, and gave me the stupidest excuse I've ever heard. She was supposed to pick me up at 8am this morning to hit the 9am yoga class. At 8:20 am the phone starts to ring.

Considering that I have no confidence in Christy I am always suspicious when she makes plans with me. If she shows up I am surprised. If she is on time I am convinced that the apocalypse is near....I expect swarms of locusts, reign of brimstone, etc. So when the phone rang I knew I wouldn't be making it to yoga this morning.

But wait, the excuse! Her contact lense exploded in her eye this morning. Yep, that's right. She wears soft contact lenses and she wasn't in the hospital. I don't know why she thought I'd buy it -- I've worn contact lenses since I was 12 years old, so I know the behaviors.

And then she asks if I can get Craig to drive me into class and she and Eric will meet me there...you know, because they'll be late if they stop to pick me up. Sure they will. So I say no, I'll just talk to her later.

She calls me back. "Do you want to maybe go to breakfast instead?" I say "No, you and Eric go to yoga. I'll just spend the extra time reviewing the drafts of my paper." Before she even considers what she told me in the last phone call she says "Well Eric and I aren't going to make it to yoga on time anyway. And the whole point of this was to go to yoga with you and then you help Eric look at apartments."

Right. Because last night at 8pm Eric didn't have any appointments to see apartments today. So I ask, "Well what time are Eric's appointments today?" Silence. And then Christy says, "He doesn't have any yet."

Yet? Yet? It's 8:30am on a Saturday morning. What makes her [and him] think that he's going to get a call back today?

So I got off the phone with her. She does this to me so often that I just can't even bring myself to anger. Christy must realize that when she makes plans with me I almost always have alternative plans. It's just part of this whole larger issue -- Christy can't imagine herself as an adult, and doesn't want to accept any adult responsibilities.

The evidence is really overwhelming -- she has a bachelors in Anthropology and a ton of experience as a dancer and dance teacher. She could be doing something really cool while making a lot of money. Instead she works a job she really doesn't love making little more than minimum wage. Almost all her friends are much younger than she is. She lives with her brother and his wife. She just doesn't have very many adult relationships.

Of course, that makes me sound very old. But the truth of it is that I've been on my own since I was 18. It isn't a great feat -- people do it all the time. You take responsibility for yourself, for your actions, and you don't expect that someone will bail you out when you're too stupid to do the right thing. Christy just hasn't learned how to do that yet. It drives me wild -- Christy is a really great person. She just hasn't learned any life skills.

On a happier note, it looks like my dream weekend is coming to fruition. I got out of having to attend whatever familial madness is happening at Craig's parents and we're going to the shore tomorrow! Yay!

---

Today is a day of joy! Woohoo! Guess what was awaiting me today when I arrived home from work? That's right: my Buffy Season 1 DVD!!!! While I meant to get right to work on my paper, I couldn't resist watching the first two episodes.

So with a heart full of glee I have retired to my studio and am feverishly working on my paper. All I need to do is finish my final paragraph and I will be done with my first draft. I'm pretty happy with the outcome.

Good fun is here and Buffy be thy name!

I'm so sad.

---

I can't believe this, but I've been visited by someone from the U.S. government. Not me personally, but my little bloggy journal here. The Man is watching me!

OK probably not -- it was likely just some government worker bored as hell one day trolling journal sites. But it will always be in the back of my mind that it could be the proverbial Man.In.Black sneaking up on me! Wow! I feel so.....subversive and clandestinely cool!

If I let my overactive imagination go on, I'm sure I could come up with the whole story of how I'm being monitored. But I'm going to shut it down. Of course, if I find any hidden cameras or bugging devices in my house....well, then I'll start to worry.

---

I hate to make fun, but this girl says that the music of Hanson has kept her alive. And they're inspirational. What? Mmmmmmmmm Bop is inspirational? Are there any other lyrics in that song? Is it secret code for "do not kill yourself, disenfranchised teeny bopper?" I don't get it. It's like saying Brittany Spears is a great role model for girls -- bizarre and alternate reality-ish. I feel remotely bad for picking on the poor misguided girl who wrote those crazy words, but people like that grow up to be spreaders of lunacy. You know the ones: bible toting hypocrites who push the koolaid.

I'm just in a really snarky mood today.

There's just stuff to make fun of all over the place today -- some girl buys a pair of shoes for $27.00 and claims "they are so expensive!" What? $27.00 for shoes is dirt cheap!

I would complain about the overabundance of bad poetry going on today, but I've been there. You're 15 or whatever, you have an emotion and you think you're the first and only person to feel it. You must capture this feeling in a poem, a rhyming poem. Yeah, I have entire collections of cheesy ass poetry from junior high and high school. I keep it to ensure that I never act that stupid again.

---

I am fighting the urge to run screaming out the door. I want to leave here. I'm thinking about looking around for another job, maybe put some feelers out. I need to get out of fundraising and, hopefully, non-profit. I'm so burnt out. Of course, Craig is going to ask about transferring at work so I won't make any moves until he knows one way or the other whether he will be up for consideration.

I'm in the mood to get a new tattoo. Unfortunately I don't have the capital right now -- must spend all of my hard earned cash to pay for school. I've even stopped buying art supplies. Maybe my new career should be tattoo artist....or not [I can't draw to save my life].

---

Christy is bailing on me for yoga later. I was planning to take a Bikram yoga class at 3:30 and I still might. The 3:30 class is usually pretty empty and kind of super soothing. Of course, it's supposed to be 90 degrees today and I'm not sure I'll be able to make it through a hot yoga class. The room is already 110 degrees...with the 90 degrees heat and humidity outside I may actually die. Last time I tried to make it through a class when it was warm outside it was pure comedy. I seem to remember nothing more than a lot of sweat and some funny hallucinations. That's what I get for trying to hold on for a 90 minute class.

This weekend is becoming more and more unpleasant, and it hasn't even started yet. My number one priority is to finish my paper, the thesis of which revolves around Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess." I put a big dent in my first draft last night. With some luck and a few glasses of wine I will be able to finish the first draft tonight. Craig wants me to go to his parents house for a family get together on either Saturday or Sunday. That means we'll get there around noon, and everyone will ignore me for the six hours [including Craig], and I will sit [cringing] in the corner inwardly clutching my hands over my ears from Craig's mom's super shrill voice, the horrible screeching of the billions of children running around, and the general din of other people yelling over the kids and Craig's mom. Of course, outwardly I will sit there with a polite smile plastered to my face. That means [with travel time] 8 hours away from my paper, and by the time we get home I will have such a horrific headache that I won't be able to concentrate on reviewing the draft of my paper. Eric wants me to come looking at apartments with him sometime....there's another couple of hours away from my paper, but at least it won't be spent getting a headache.

In an ideal world, I would finish my first draft tonight, and have enough time to take a small break and then do a review. Tomorrow Craig would go to his family thing by himself and leave me to do a second review of the paper in the morning. Then I could take the 9am yoga class and meet Eric afterwards to check out some apartments. That would leave me with more than enough time to do third and fourth and, hopefully, final review of the paper on Saturday. And then on Sunday we could go to the shore for the day [because I need a tan -- I'm actually becoming see-through].

I don't know how I'm going to make this work.

---

Possible terrorist attacks on July 4...la la la I can't hear you! I've decided to completely ignore that noise. As of now I'm taking the stand that ignorance is bliss. Wonder how long I'll be able to play that off?

I'm on the street waiting for the bus [hooray for Palm Pilots!]. Someone on the next block has LL Cool J blasting from their house. I want want to run over there, knock on the door, and say "Hey there can I cop a jam with you?" Unfortunately, in my neighborhood, the person would probably be an axe-wielding murderer with a blood lust for little white blonde girls in linen.

It's times like these, though, that I kind of like my neighborhood [not when the neighbors have mayhem in their eyes]. I just stand here on the corner, no one mistakes me for a prostitute, the weather is beautiful, the neighbors and other locals are scarce. It's pretty and peaceful. You can't often say that about any North Philly neighborhood. And the reality is that there are hookers and dealers doing their business a few streets over. But it's pretty here.

---

The Goo Goo Dolls are playing at the Tweeter in August...Craig is going to try to get some tickets on Saturday. I miss going out drinking and seeing bands and coming into work the next day hungover and tired. Of course, hanging out at the outdoor Tweeter is not exactly the same as spending an evening in a smoky hole in the wall bar.

Before Craig and I got really serious I used to have a weekly ritual. My friend Mike came and picked me up every Thursday night and we'd go see a band. I saw some really good bands, and some absolutely wretched bands. I miss Mike and I miss going to see bands. Since Mike sort of just disappeared one day, I can't completely recapture the glory days, but I do intend to try to get out more. I hate to blame Craig for making me more of a homebody because I sort of let myself get dragged into it.

I will fully admit that I'm a blog/journal troll...I usually end up visiting about a dozen blogs every day and I read the current entry. Today I read something that made my blood run cold -- this girl just graduated from high school and had to go do something that required wearing a suit. She put on the suit and said that it made her look 30. I looked around for a guestbook so I could tell her to fuck off, but she had no contact info up. I look at myself in the mirror every day and I don't think I'm old and I certainly don't look old. Of course, I should cut the kid some slack -- when you're 18, 30 really seems old. I remember thinking I'd probably be dead by now, or I'd be driving a hovercraft. Either way, it seems worlds away when you're 18.

My early 20's were a blur of drunken debauchery. My late 20's were spent trying to reconcile drunken debauchery with domestic bliss. I don't know what my 30's will be about.

---

I'm in planning mode. I desparately need to escape my present setting. I'm not talking permanently or anything [although I wouldn't argue], just for a week.

Craig and I are spending a week on Long Beach Island, NJ in August. I am never so happy as when I am there. I wake up at the crack of dawn, walk out to the end of the pier, and spend 20 minutes doing yoga in the sunrise. It's so peaceful, with no sound other than the water lapping against the dock and the seagulls flying around. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it [of course, that could be from the air vent above my desk blowing air from the frozen tundra over my head]. There is a man who lives around the corner who plays the night in with his bagpipes on that dock. I always feel my Scottish roots on those nights, imaging my ancestors in their kilts.

Last year Craig and I went deep sea fishing. We woke up before the first light, hurriedly got showered and dressed and plopped ourselves on a party boat. We were fishing for fluke. The ride through the sound out to open sea was so much fun! Most of the other people on the boat went inside during the ride, which I will never understand. The water was really choppy and I remember feeling free -- just standing there gripping the boat rails so I wasn't flung into the ocean with the waves whipping over the boat and soaking me to the skin. I didn't catch anything except a sea snail, but I the most amazing time!

So I have that to look forward to. But I want to start organizing a bigger trip. Last Thanksgiving we went to London for a week [sort of a first anniversary trip]. It was my first trip outside the U.S., and it was really wonderful. Everything in London was all about texture for me. The British flag that waved outside of our hotel window, the rough walls of the Tower of London, the dome of the British Museum. I just felt like I had to touch everything so I would remember the feeling of being in London. I just wanted to soak into my skin.

I know we won't get a chance to leave the country this year. Craig is talking about maybe Vegas for our second anniversary trip. I've never been to Vegas so I'm sure that would be fun and, more to the point, funny. Vegas is totally contrived so it's sort of like the antithesis of last year's voyage.

Last year we started talking about where we might like to go. I, of course, have a huge list of things I want to see and places I want to go before I die [which, hopefully, will be a long long time from now]. The first two places on my list are Scotland and Barcelona. Last year there were these great little three day cruises out of Barcelona that stop in Cannes and Majorca. I am thinking if I can find a short cruise like that again we can fly into Barcelona a few days before the cruise, spend a few days checking out Barcelona, and then go on the cruise. It just sounds like a fun way to see alot of fabulous places.

And so I sit here in my little cubicle and I dream of leaving, packing two bags [one for me and one for Craig], and taking off with a passport to destinations unknown.

---

You have to be able to separate "the people" from "the government." Inherently, it's a stupid thing to say when the government in question is a democracy. In essence, democracy means everyone gets a vote so "the people" and "the government" are the same. Unfortunately [in so many countries] this is really no longer the case. Voters aren't aware of the candidates' policies, or they don't vote at all [but you know what I say: you have no right to complain about our government unless you vote], good candidates don't run because they don't have the money to get their ideas out there or they're afraid of the media. It's no longer a government for or by the people -- it's government for the highest bidder.

It's so naive to think that hitting at a countries' people in order to change their government's policies will work. With Palestine [a side note here: I'm not saying that Palestine is a democracy...my thoughts are just all over the place this morning], these sheep are led to believe that blowing up busfuls of women, children, and the elderly will further their cause. But Sharon doesn't give a rat's ass about Israelis, the same way that Arafat doesn't give a rat's ass about Palestinians, and Bush doesn't give a rat's ass about Americans. "Leaders" simply want to ensure themselves a place in the history books -- it's a vanity thing.

I've really been obsessed with all of this over the past months. It sickens my heart to see this idiotic back and forth, "you killed my people, so I'm going to kill your people" thing. It will never end if it continues like this and I'm so fucking sad. Heart-breakingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. If Sharon and Arafat really cared about their citizens being killed, they'd find a way to put a stop to it. And Bush, well...it just seems as if he's trying to get us all killed.

I can't think about this anymore or I may burst into tears.

Let's talk about nougat: I hate nougat.

---

I'm not a mushy girl. I don't hug friends or air kiss them hello. I rarely show affection to my relatives. It isn't an intentional thing; it's just not in my nature.

The one exception to this is my husband. It could be because I trust him more than I trust myself most of the time, or that I love him intensely and completely. To be honest, I'm not sure why it is that I can't resist touching him and telling him how much I love him. But the simple fact is that I am so affectionate with him it would border on gross if we were PDA [that is, Public Display of Affection] type of people.

We hold hands constantly...while we're driving somewhere, walking down the street, sitting around watching TV, laying in bed talking. Craig just brings it out in me. I guess some of it is that I never want him to think that I don't love him, or that I don't appreciate the day to day stuff that he does for me.

Every morning before he leaves to go to work I ask him to inspect my outfit. It's a meaningless ritual: Craig is mostly colorblind and can barely dress himself. But I ask every day -- and he usually tells me I look pretty and my outfit is nice too.

He cleans the catbox and takes out the garbage. He does the laundry. Craig knows that since I'm in school I don't have time for a lot of that kind of stuff and so he just does everything without complaining.

I guess this is my very own love poem to Craig. He doesn't read this -- probably doesn't even know about it. But I wanted to get it out on the table: I couldn't have asked for a better partner in crime.

Aw, I'm getting misty.

---

This day started out like any other -- I changed my outfit twelve times, changed my hair half a dozen times, ran out the door to catch the train. I was in a good mood, too. Barely a cloud in the sky and it's warm out today.

And then I picked up the Philadelphia Weekly, one of our local free weekly rags. I should have known by the fact that the box was almost empty, by the big mushroom cloud over City Hall pictured on the front cover...I should have left it and gone on about my business.

But no. I sat down at my desk and started reading. The focus of this week's Philadelphia Weekly? What would happen if a dirty bomb were detonated at City Hall. Oh it was a riveting read all right. It's nice to know that I would, in all likelihood, be killed during the initial blast [depending on when during the day it happened, but PW is going with the morning commute scenario]. Either my subway train would be crushed or I'd get hit with the first intense blasts of radiation...either way, I'd be a goner. If I had already made it to my building by the time it happened than I would probably live but I'd have a 1 in 1000 chance of being diagnosed with a malignant cancer within 10 years -- woohoo! And then the PW went on to name all the possible targets of terrorism, most of which I hadn't even thought of.

So here I am, sitting at my desk. And I'm completely freaked out. The best part: following the article was a side piece that basically chided me for being freaked out because fear of death leads to anxiety which hastens death. Hey thanks! I feel much better now.

That article is part of the reason why I chose not to continue majoring in Journalism. Yes, reporters fill a need to disseminate the news, but they also spread fear and panic with stupid articles like this one. And don't even get me started on who controls the media and what news is actually broadcast. We, as Americans, live in this alternate reality created by the media. We see what they want us to see. The average American goes about his or her business, fully believing what the news reports, without ever wondering if there is more to it, or if there is another side to things.

---

I've decided to sponsor someone for the Blogathon. So on July 27 I will be rooting for Ken from Brainwoofer to blog for 24 hours straight. Ken is playing for Planned Parenthood...I figured since I support them personally through donations and other types of support, I could at least sponsor dear old Ken while he blogs in their name. Ken still needs a couple of sponsors, so if you believe in reproductive rights and a woman's right of dominion over her own body, maybe you can consider it? There are also lots of other people signed up for the Blogathon that need sponsors [and are supporting other nonprofit organizations] and you can sign up for as little as $1. So don't be cheap -- support a good cause. However, if you sign up to sponsor someone who is blogging for Amnesty International I will never speak to you again. I'm serious. If you're wondering why I would dare speak evil on Amnesty International read this article.

Nicole's "Beauty Product of the Day" recommendation: Burt's Bees Almond Milk Beeswax Hand Creme. There is just no end to my love of this stuff. My hands have been feeling kind of icky and scratchy, and my cuticles have been kinda dry....the hand creme smells yummy and makes my hands feel fab-u-lous!

Craig called me to say that there is a General Manager position open in Florida near Cape Canaveral. I'm so eager to get the hell out of Pennsylvania and away from all this madness that I'm even willing to brave the humidity of Florida. He doesn't know if he is eligible for the promotion, but I gave my full blessing.

---

What has now compounded my absolutely horrible mood is this article [thanks JF Cates!] about how the U.S. government is trying to trample my rights as a woman and the rights of gays by aligning themselves with Islamic organizations. To sum up: "This alliance shows the depths of perversity of the [U.S.] position," said Adrienne Germaine, president of the International Women's Health Coalition. "On the one hand we're presumably blaming these countries for unspeakable acts of terrorism, and at the same time we are allying ourselves with them in the oppression of women."

I feel ill. I'm serious.

---

I'm in a foul mood this morning. Or should I say a fowl mood? I was already in a crappy ass mood on the way to work, but what has sent me over the edge, spiralling into pure rage is the sight of some dumbass feeding the pigeons at my building.

It's a stupid thing to get so irate over. But I can honestly say that when I saw this idiotic woman with her little bag of breadcrumbs I wanted to run at her full speak, tackle her, and then hear the full on *crunch* as her head hit the sidewalk.

Like any other major city, Philadelphia has a huge popular of pigeons. They are pretty much the equivalent to flying rats -- they're a nuisance, they spread disease, and they're a total pain in the ass. But what makes this worse is that in spreading love in the form of breadcrumbs, these champions of lunacy are also feeding the rats. And I don't need to worry about dodging rats the size of small dogs as I leave work at night.

I understand the love of all creatures great and small. I can even understand the weird need to not waste stale bread. But why not concentrate on the animals in your own yard, or buy a passel of rats and pigeons to feed in your house? Why work against the city maintenance teams who are in constant battle against rats and pigeons?

Argh.

On a different front, your Intellectual Gurl feels like an Academic Failure this morning, which is one of the biggest reasons why I'm in such a spectacularly wretched mood. Papers were handed back in class last night. I'm not sure how this worked out but I ended up getting a B-. I wouldn't complain about the B- except that the Prof just tore my paper up. She apparently thought the paper sucked, and my argument was 100% wrong, and my "method" is lacking. So how did I get a B-? Perhaps she is grading on a big honking curve and everyone else did super bad? Perhaps she felt guilty for something? I don't know....but I'm feeling relieved that the class is over in 2 weeks because I don't think I can handle this kind of rejection [*she says, feeling faint*].

Yes, yes....prepare to feel my wretchedness. I slunk home from class last night, paper clutched to my bosom in horror. I wailed and melodrama'd my way around the house, clawing at my hair, and shouting to the cosmos, "Why have I been forsaken?" After a few moments of wallowing in intense self hatred and self pity, I declared myself a total ass. And with that I retired to my computer in order to make some sense of the readings for next class and determined to hand in a better paper next time.

Oh the drama.

---

K, from so she says, left me an interesting note about yesterday's post. She says, "if you choose to marry, have kids and spend your days caring for and educating those kids, you've got to be insane, Baptist, or very, very weak. bullshit. the fight was for choice, not big business employment opportunities. when people ask me "what are you doing now that you arent in college anymore?" i never know how to answer them."

K is right, of course. Being a stay at home mom, or a homemaker, or whatever you want to call it is looked down on because the job doesn't pay -- you don't get insurance benefits or a 401K or sick days with that. My sister in law used to be a career banker. When she had kids she stopped working so she could stay at home with them. I don't think any less of her because she chose to put her career on hold in order to raise her children.

Any type of career, whether it is climbing the corporate ladder or homeschooling your children or whatever -- it should be conscious choice. And that's my main problem -- women in many communities don't have a choice in it. It's just tradition -- they will get married, pop out a couple of kids, and tend to her husband's every whim and desire with no thoughts of what she wants. If I had stayed in the town where I grew up, I'm sure that would have happened to me on some level: I definitely would have gotten married right out of high school, by now I'd have about 5 kids, and I'd likely be doing the whole "doting wife and mother" thing while also working a crappy factory job.

I will fully admit that I'm way too selfish to have children. I want my time to be my own. That's one of the myriad reasons why I never thought I'd get married...I don't want to have to answer to anyone. But Craig feels the same way, and we both need a lot of time to ourselves. It works out really well, and we both seem to be on the same schedule.

There are three automatic responses to my "I don't want to have children" declaration. One is, "You'll change your mind. You'd probably make a wonderful mother, and your biological clock will start ticking and you'll have one." The second is, "You think you're so superior because you don't want to have kids...you think you're so much better than me because I have kids and you don't." The last is, "You're a horrible person -- who doesn't love children?"

The simple fact is I am uncomfortable around children. My brother and I grew up in the absolute middle of no where. I never had other kids around to play with, so I never got used to be around other kids until I started school. As an adult I never spent a tremendous amount of time around kids. I honestly don't believe that I am equipped with the requisite amount of patience needed to have children.

Nothing sets my teeth on edge more than hearing a baby wail. Changing diapers? No thanks. Spit...vomit....snot? Not in a million years. Really....I can't think of better ways to spend my time.

There are millions of families out there having kids. Millions of women who want to have children. Why should it matter if I don't want to be included?

I will admit to two other reasons for not wanting to have children. With everything that's going on in the world, the attacks on the WTC and the Pentagon, the tensions in the Middle East, and everything else, I'd feel guilty for bringing a life into this world. And lastly, my own upbringing was plagued by bad parenting....what if I turn into my worst nightmare?

Luckily my mother doesn't seem to be in any great hurry for a grandkid. She could care less. Craig's mother, on the other hand, bugs us constantly. I'm not sure why...Craig's two brothers have provided plenty of continuity for the family genes. Between the two of them they had 6 grandchildren for her. We offered to get a portrait taken of our dear cat Sassy to put on her wall of grandchild photos....I don't think she was amused.

---

My first job out of college that didn't involve food service or retail sales was as a secretary for a headhunter's group. It was run by an old old man who fancied himself to be the leader of the free world. He sequestered himself away in his big office, king of his castle....or at least king of his gargantuan desk and massive leather chair.

Every morning at precisely 9:15 am I was expected to deliver a cup of coffee to him. The office manager had to train me to make his coffee just the right way. I had to arrive at the office at 7am in order to steal into his office and grab the cup without being seen. I always heard the Mission Impossible theme playing as I clandestinely slunk into his office for the coffee cup.

The coffee formula that pleased: a teaspoon of sugar substitute and enough non-dairy creamer to make the coffee beige. I then had to put his Very Special Cork Coaster over top of the coffee so it wouldn't get cold in the 2.5 seconds it took to traverse the hallway between the kitchen and his office.

The moment of truth would arrive: the delivery. I was instructed and schooled for this very moment. Every morning at precisely 9:15 I would quietly knock at his door to which an ominous "come in" would follow [and a "bwa hah hah," but only in my young adult fantasies]. I would carefully open the door and, eyes cast to the floor as not to make eye contact with the all powerful corporate giant at the desk, approach his desk. With an ultra feminine and submissive "Your coffee, sir," I would present the coffee to His Royal Majesty The President and stand, hands folded, until he sampled the coffee.

And then it would happen -- the majestic and grave nod of approval. Overjoyed at not being singled out as the maker of the worst cup of coffee in the world, I would bow and scrape my way to the door and flee in terror.

And then I was fired for calling the man an asshole. It's a long story.

But since that time I have always had a deep suspicion of the Boss Man. My current boss [Amy] is the most wonderful human being on the planet. This is what happened this morning....

Amy just returned from a 2 week vacation in Italy. When I arrived at work this morning, Amy left a bag from LUSH on my desk with 3 bath bombs. She gets little gifts for everyone in our department and anyone else who she thinks of when she's on vacation -- I've never known a boss who is thinking of his/her department while they're away!

It's not just that she buys us stuff (and puts thought into it besides). She is constantly giving us extra days off, telling us to leave early, taking us out to lunch. And that's really nice too, but she constantly fights for us with the administration. And covers our butts and, well, I just can't say enough good things about her. She is genuinely a nice person.

---

The assignment of reading for this week in British Literature was mostly literature about the role of women in Victorian England...you know, what was proper, what wasn't, what should have been proper, etc.

There was the prevailing opinion at the time that women should be seen and not heard. However, there was also the school of thought that women should be educated, but only to the extent that she would be sort of an entertainment to her husband. Almost like a geisha. Women should learn how to play music, how to cook, how to be a domestic goddess, but at the same time the woman should learn how to carry out a conversation as to ease the burden of her husband's troublesome day. One of the funniest [and most disturbing] things I read was Elizabeth Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh. [I've read other pieces by Browning but never Aurora Leigh, and now I wonder what took me so long. It's fucking brilliant!] Aurora is being schooled by this idiot aunt of hers and the aunt makes sure she "danced the polka and Cellarius,/Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax"...why? Oh because the aunt "liked accomplishments in girls."

Is that not the funniest thing you've ever read? Because knowing how to stuff birds is a HUGE accomplishment. I may have to make a study of this type of thing for my next paper.

But what is so strange is that woman are still facing alot of the same prejudices today. In 1859 John Stuart Mill wrote a proposal of sorts condoning equal rights for women..."The Subjection of Women" is part of a larger piece called On Liberty. It was such a revolutionary idea, but Mill basically said that since there was never any scientific study done to determine that men should rule dominant over women, there was no evidence to suggest that it should be so. Popular opinion at the time, according to Mill, believed that the nature of woman is to "live for others; to make complete abnegation of themselves, and to have no life but in their affections." And Mill equates the forced submission of women to the treatment of slaves.

While women have more and more control over their lives with each passing generation, it is still obvious that many of these old prejudices about the "female nature" still exist. Issues of abortion and birth control are still hotly debated -- and, contrary to what people will have you believe, it isn't about saving the lives of unborn souls. At the heart of all these issues is the religious right. The religious right is headed by men who can't possibly believe that a woman should have the right to dominion over her own body. Francis Trollope wrote a travel narrative ["The Mississippi" from Domestic Manners of the Americans that points out the absolute hold that religion had on early Americans. Trollope notes that there are no other diversions in Cincinnati except church. The theatre is not attended because it is "an offence against religion to witness the representation of a play," yet going to church is a fully approved activity -- but "it is the churches and chapels of the town that the ladies are to be seen in full costume." So the church took its hold over early Americans and has ruled their collective consciousness ever since.

It's ridiculous.

I only have to think of my own family to see how the whole issue of women's rights plays out over generations. My grandmother is wholly subservient to my grandfather. He sits on his ass watching TV while she cooks and cleans. He got fat, but fully expects my grandmother to stay thin and pretty. They seem to hate each other, but they will never get divorced. My mother at least graduated from high school, but she was discouraged from attending college by my grandparents. She told me once that she had an affinity for languages and thought it might be fun to become an interpreter, but my grandparents talked her into going to beauty school and marrying my dad. My mom has been divorced twice, married three times. With each husband she has had, she has given up all her interests to conform to the interests of said husband. With John it was football, with Ed it is Nascar. I was never encouraged to go to college, even though I went. My mom never paid even a cent toward my college education, but she paid a portion of my wedding, which goes to show what she holds more important. I am completely independent of Craig and I don't intend to have children. It's really bizarre to look at the family history to see how things have changed.

---

The first movie I can ever remember seeing is Halloween. I was 5 years old in 1978 when it was released. I saw it at a drive in movie with my mom and dad.

I remember it so vividly. My dad had a big black van without windows in the back, and he parked so that the doors in the back opened up and we could lay in the back and watch the movie.

My mom and dad had a big fight about what to see. My mother hates horror movies and has the sense to know that horror movies and five year olds don't mix. My dad...well....not so much. He has the mental capacity of a ten year old.

I'm sure that on some level I've been warped by this first recollected experience. I've never really liked the Halloween movie series although I am a big horror movie junkie. My favorites are The Exorcist and Rosemary's Baby.

Sometimes I wonder why I turned out to the be such a fine upstanding citizen when my brother turned out to be such a dirtbag.

It must be the extra horror in my diet.

---

I am a blonde again. Lisa knew I would end up making a big change this time...I've been the same color and almost the same style for around 3 months now.

Lisa and her cheesy co-workers debated the finer qualities of Mariah Carey and Jennifer Lopez. It's a good thing Lisa is a great hair stylist.

I've been seeing Lisa for about 8 years now. I've known her since she was 18 years old...she has always been totally cheesy. I guess she never had a chance -- she grew up in South Philly, went to Catholic school all her life, and is totally immersed in The Mummers culture [her dad is in a string band]. So she has the horrible South Philly accent and the interest in all that is an affront to class and elegance. But she is such a nice girl that you have to love her.

I spent about 2 hours in the salon. Beginning with a delightful and bracing 25 minutes of bleach to strip my hair, we moved on to the tinfoil torture portion of the evening. Another 15 mintes of toner seeping into my brain and we were ready to begin the strategic snipping phase.

I like it.

Of course, I will spend the next week at work hearing the same question as everyone in the office sees my hair: "So, do blondes have more fun?"

I will look at them and give a little smile and the requisite giggle, and then run screaming the other way. It really is the dumbest question known to man. All I really want to say is, "Gee I don't know. Do fat bald boring men have more fun?"

And then the blonde jokes will start. I've probably heard them all a billion times. Blah blah blah. It's enough to make a girl go mad!

Maybe I will just shave my head.

---

I'm seriously excited for this year's Fringe Festival. Last year I meant to go to a bunch of different performances and only ended up able to see one. I went with Victoria to see a very cool dance piece after work one night.

The schedule is not up yet of course...it isn't until August but Victoria, Christy, and I are talking about it already. I'll have to make sure I buy myself a new pair of leather pants by then. For some reason I always seem to wear leather pants to see Fringe stuff, but my only pair is too big for me now.

I had a wonderful dream last night. I dreamt that Dobbs reopened in the old Barbary space. I used to hang out at Dobbs every weekend and listen to great bands. The Barbary was a little out of my way so I only went there occasionally.....but now I live in that neighborhood. How I only wish my dream would come true! To sleep, perchance to dream and all that.....

Craig is in a horrible mood today. I hate being around him when he gets like this because he is just bitchy and mean. And he can't understand why I avoid him like the plague. Occasionally I wish we lived in a double townhouse so I could have one side and he could have the other.

I promised Craig that I would make eggplant parmesan tonight. So in honor of it being cool enough today to cook, here is my recipe for eggplant parm (for three servings):

Chopped tomatoes (2 cups)
Minced garlic (1.5 cloves)
Finely chopped onion (1/4 of onion)
Chopped fresh basil (1 Tbsp)
salt and pepper
small eggplants (1.5 lbs)
ricotta cheese (.5 lbs)
shredded mozzarella cheese (.5 cup)
grated parmesan (.5 cup)
1/2 medium egg

Peel the eggplant, and cut into 1/2 inch slices lengthwise. Sprinkle with salt, and layer the slices in a colander to drain, placing a plate and a weight (such as a few cans of tomatoes) on top. Leave to drain for about an hour.

While the eggplant is purging, begin the sauce by heating the oil in a medium saucepan. Add the onions and cook until they are translucent. Add the garlic and cook another minute and then add the tomatoes. Season with the chopped basil and other seasonings, and let simmer for about 40 minutes.

Rinse the eggplant slices and pat dry. Either broil or grill the eggplant, first spraying lightly with the oil spray to prevent sticking. Cook until golden on either side. In a separate bowl, mix together the ricotta, mozzarella and 1/2 cup of parmesan cheese. Add the egg, basil and season to taste. In an 8 X 12 inch baking dish, spread about 1/2 cup of the sauce along the bottom. Add a couple of spoonfuls of water, mixing lightly. Place a layer of the eggplant slices on this sauce, overlapping slightly. Spoon over enough sauce to cover lightly, and then sprinkle with about 1/8 cup of the parmesan cheese. Repeat with another layer of the eggplant slices and the sauce. Spread the ricotta mixture over this, and finish with the last layer of the eggplant and sauce. Sprinkle with the remaining 1/8 cup of parmesan cheese, and bake in a preheated 350-degree oven for about 30 minutes or until bubbly and golden. Let rest 15 minutes before serving.

---

I called my mom Monday night to find out where my grandparents are currently residing. Being the dutiful daughter type that I am, I wanted to make sure that my grandfather receives his Father's Day card [side note: my grandparents have a winter vacation shanty in Florida, are selling their house in Carlisle, and just bought a house in Berwick...so you never know where they're going to be].

For years my mother has obsessed over the fact that she will one day become just like my grandmother. On some level we all worry that we're going to turn into our parents, but this is a little different. My grandmother is and my great-grandmother was a total loony.

My great-grandma Lucy used to wear her Easter egg colored polyester pants backward because they fit her better....that gives you some idea of the genetic mayhem I'm working against. She lived in a ramshackle house in the middle of no where. She liked to crochet dolls and toilet paper holders. She smelled weird and had a mustache. She was the scariest woman on the planet. She died when I was 11...she was 101.

My grandmother is less frightening in her own way. My grammy Ink [I'm not kidding] is 71 this year and has an 8th grade education. She writes postcards from wherever she and my grandfather are vacationing that say, "Dear Nic and Craig, Weathers good. 80 today. Humidity high. Wish you were here. Love, Grammy and Pappap." She talks constantly about absolutely nothing. If she tells you something once you will hear the same story until the end of time. She refuses to believe anything the doctor tells her. She fights with my grandfather just to hear herself talk. She donated money to the Menendez Brothers and she loves Oral Roberts. She gave me a pair of bubble gum pink high top velcro sneakers for Christmas last year -- she said that she had bought them in 1983 but misplaced them until now.

At any rate, my mom told me a story about my grandmother that is insanity at its finest.

My grandparents are moving to their new house in Berwick within the next three weeks. My two aunts took a trip to my grandparents house two weekends ago to help start the packing, since my grandfather is too cheap to pay someone to do this for them. My grandmother had about 100 empty flower pots in the shed [just plain old plastic ones]. My grandfather told her that she had to throw them out, and my grandmother argued....blah blah blah. My aunts went back to help out last weekend and noticed the pots weren't in the shed anymore. They asked my grandmother if she threw the pots out. My grandmother smirked a little and said, "Well now. I filled them up with dirt and planted flowers in them. Otherwise your father wouldn't let me take them with us."

Oh my.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my grandmother. I do. But, like my mother, I am beginning to worry that I will end up just like her, arguing to no one, coming up with skewed logic.

It's a scary scary thought.

---

I broke down and watched American Idol last night. That show is pure comedy gold. I can't believe I missed the first night.

Simon, the British judge record exec guy, is such a bastard! I imagine that he goes home at night to a bachelors apartment where not even his parents call him. He just sits there in his leather barcalounger clutching a bottle of whisky as he thrusts pins into a voodoo doll with pictures of the contestants glued to it. He doesn't seem like a very happy guy. Maybe he just needs a hug.

My two favorites from last night were the white guy who lost 300 pounds and kinda looks like Jack Black, and the black guy who screwed up his song and then yelled at Simon for questioning his talent.

The Jack Black looking motherfucker.....where do I start? Apparently on the first show they told him he needed to update his look....so he went to a salon, but he was still wearing that South Philly stud style pleather lizard jacket from 1980. I'm not sure what he was trying to say with that, but it was so horrible. And then offering to work out with the one judge....that was so wretched it was riveting!

And the guy who yelled at Simon....I don't even know where to start. First off, is it my imagination or does that guy have the largest nostrils on the planet? It could have been a trick of the camera but I was fixated on the size of the kids nostrils. Secondly, who yells at a judge that can cut you from a competition? I think the guy has issues with sabatoging his own success...not that he was all that talented.

In the "I can't believe she didn't get cut" category --- that blonde chick who was wearing what resembled a red sports bra with a torn up leopard print rag thrown over top. She must have hypnotic body glitter or something because she schnookered the judges.

Oh, and the toll free voting number! I can't imagine how often I'm going to call....this is going to be my diversionary fun for the summer. Yes, I'm a total cheeseball.

I think I have an old enemy I'd like to sign up to be on the next American Idol....

---

David Bowie is on the radio right now -- Young Americans. OK.

It would have been a tremendous day to skip out on work today....it's about 70 degrees and kind of overcast. Pretty much the perfect day to do absolutely nothing but snuggle in bed. Instead here I am.

Of course, the fact that I am at work doesn't mean anything since I rarely do any real work when I am here. Later this evening I will have a defining moment at Salon 1021. I will walk in and Lisa will yell, "Hey Nic! What are we doin' today?"

And then I will say, "Why Lisa! It's the day you've been prophesying -- I'm believe I'm going to change my hair color! And not only that: I need a change of style too!"

And then the whole salon will cheer.

I'm so bored with this little look I've got going....everything must change. Now. Immediately. Not surprisingly, this likely has everything to do with how much I hate work right now and likely a few other things.

Why is it that I am unable to commit? I've never had a job for longer than 3 years, I've never had a hair color or hair style remain the same for more than 5 or 6 weeks.....OK, I will admit that I've kept Craig around for 7 years and I've had most of my friends longer than that.....but other than that....am I fundamentally broken?

I think I need a solid 3 months of facials, massages, and intense workouts [only] so I can figure it out. I wonder if I can get a grant for that?

---

I must admit to something that has already been hinted at: I am a Buffy junky. The reason I know this to be true is the first DVD I bought for myself when Craig got the DVD player working last week is the First Season of Buffy. It is currently winging it's way to me from Amazon.com right now.

It makes me feel slightly stupid to admit it. And it horrifies me to acknowledge the fact that I have wept copious tears of grief during the show. Even worse, even when the show makes no sense [and in the Buffy-verse, not making sense is rampant] I still love it. Guilty pleasure? Maybe.

But here's the killer: I loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie. Yes that's right -- I was a Kristy Swanson wannabe, Luke Perry with the soul patch-loving total fan. Oh, I know it's a cheesy movie. But the reason I love the movie so much is really for Paul Reubens' death scene. Those 10-15 minutes are worth the watch. Really. I swear it.

And that is why I started watching the series. Yes, I have seen every episode repeatedly. Yes, I've been watching it since the very first episode aired 6 years ago. Yes, I can quote Buffy lines like nobodies business. It's a sickness.

And now that there is no new Buffy until September or October.....how do I spend my time? That's right, I obsess and speculate wildly over Season 7. If you think I'm bad, visit the folks at the Buffy Spoiler Topic board at Television Without Pity....they know Buffy even better than I do.

Sometimes I sit around and watch Beat the Geeks on the Comedy Channel and fantasize that I will be called to be the Buffy Geek. It's a strange fantasy, but I can guarantee I'm not the only one.

Does this make me cheesy? I hope not, but deep down I know it's true -- I'm a total cheeseball.

---

You all know I'm a news whore. I can't help myself. Of course, this leads to alot of eye rolling on my part.

For instance, in the latest editorial masterpiece from the London Daily Mirror contains the following hilarious musings: "just like ordinary Americans who are increasingly protesting at being swindled".

Right. Because up until now we Americans have just sat back and agreed to take it with a stiff upper lip. I ran over to the local gas company, opened up my piggy bank, and screamed "Have at it boys! Take me for all I'm worth!"

I know that's really not the focus of the editorial. But the phrasing irked me. So sue me.

Also, news out of the UK, Ashcroft has exaggerated the "dirty bomb" plot. Gee really? You mean we're not two seconds away from this grand plan being brought to fruition? Hmmmm.

I'm 100% pro-choice when it comes to the subject of abortion. And I believe in taking responsibility for your own actions, which means not suing the world when you stub your toe on a tree. So this news story practically sent me into convulsions. The woman didn't know she might feel guilty for it? Argh!

We all know the U.S. media is completely biased, but the same can be said of the media in any other country. Proof positive can be found in this delightful article all about how the U.S. is completely behind Israel and its attacks on Palestinians. It's a scary ass world.

---

So I was bitching and complaining to Renee over the weekend about people who do missionary work. We got on the subject of the two missionaries kidnapped in the Phillipines. Renee is not typically religious -- she isn't apt to try to push her beliefs on anyone, or condemn anyone for not believing in what she believes in. But she did at one time get sucked in to a cult-like church, and she is currently regularly attending a youth-oriented church. And that's fine....she needs religion in her life and that's OK.

Anyway, I have this long-standing belief that missionary work is hypocritical. It is all based on the belief that you are better than someone else, that your religion is the only religion, and that you are fabulous enough to have the authority to tell people how they ought to live their lives. I can't speak to non-Christian religions, but if you're a Christian you are taught tolerance....do unto your neighbor as you would have done unto you, and all that type of stuff. So missionary work basically goes completely against that principle.

Pretty much everyone in the world universally hates to see a Mormon or a Jehovah's Witness show up at their door...in my neighborhood they come in families...you know, with little kids, so it makes you feel bad to slam the door in their face. I used to answer the door in nothing but a towel when I could see them coming down the street -- nothing sends a Mormon or a Witness packing faster than a half naked woman. Even people who do missionary work think Mormons and Witnesses are full of crap....so why would they do the same thing to other people?

Really, it's insanity.

But I digress. These two people get kidnapped while doing missionary work and then expect the U.S. government to do whatever it takes to get them out. Yes, I feel bad that anyone had to die. However, missionary work is not sanctioned by the U.S. government, and the government should have nothing to do with that type of thing.

Last night on Dateline there was a news story about the two Americans held by the Taliban for doing missionary work in Afghanistan. The two women have long insisted that they were there for reasons of "humanitarian aid," but now they fully admit that they were there specifically to "spread the word of god." OK, so let's review -- Taliban and friends fly planes into the WTC and Pentagon based on their extremist faith in Islam, and these two think that they can just go to Afghanistan and convert the masses? And then fully expect the U.S. government to get them out of the mess they've created?

I used to work with a girl named EJ. EJ was ultra-religious and very involved with her church. Once every year she and her youth group would go to somewhere in Central America and do missionary work. I tried to reason with EJ once....I asked her why she thought she was so much better than the people of Guatemala (or whereever she was going)....and if she really thought that she was morally superior to them. She kind of got angry that I questioned her, but didn't really have an answer.

The two U.S. missionaries captured in Afghanistan said that they did it because if the poor misguided people of Afghanistan weren't convered they wouldn't go to heaven.

Um hmmmm....because that's not lunacy.

If I continue this little rant it may go on for eternity, sooo.........

Philadelphia lacks a radio station that just plays Motown type music from the '60s and '70s. Today that is exactly what I want to listen to, and I forgot to bring some CDs with me to work. I want me some Marvin Gaye....or Barry White....or the Temptations. So what is a girl to do?

I feel suspiciously apathetic today. One can only speculate on how little work I will actually do today.

---

I am a dutiful daughter. No, really. I am.

I have no loyalty to my father. Rather, I am civil to my father in order to spare my mother from having to hear my father blather on about what a crap daughter I am.

This morning before I came into work I stopped at Hallmark and bought Father's Day cards for all the birth fathers, grand-fathers, and quasi-fathers in my life.

I have a formula when I'm purchasing a card for my father.... it has to be totally impersonal. It can't be sentimental or say anything more than it has to. If I could find a card with nothing on the front that just says Happy Fathers Day on the inside, I'd use it. I used to buy cards that I felt were little personal jabs at him -- cards about drinking too much beer, or letting mom do all the work, or stuff like that. I got tired of being clever....'cause really I doubt my dad has a deveoped sense of irony and sarcasm. I'm sure the drugs took care of that long ago.

He hasn't called since late April. I'm sort of relieved...I doubt he much even remembers calling me that last time. He will likely call me at the end of the month to thank me for the Fathers Day card and his birthday card. I will make small talk and try to get off the phone without making any plans to see him.

I'm not really depressed or sad or anything that my dad is a joke, and that he wasn't around when I was growing up. In fact, I'm sure that I'm a better person for not having him there. But I must admit that sometimes I get really sad looking at Father's Day cards. Most of them involve golf and neck ties and references to being taught how to drive or stuff like that. A more appropriate depiction of my dad would be a crack pipe and semiautomatic weapon, with references to my dad being absent. That sounds so "I'm feeling sorry for myself"....but really, it's just me sort of wishing I had a normal father with whom I could have a normal father-daughter relationship with.

Luckily, Craig's father is a bastion of normalcy.

I bought cards for my dad, Craig's dad (and am I dutiful wife or what?), my grandfather, Christy's dad, and my step-father. Actually, I think I may have only bought 4 cards now that I think about it. I guess I need to make a pit stop for an extra card later.

Because I have to be dutiful.

---

Lately I've been thinking about marriage. Specifically that I am anti-marriage....but I'm married. Strange?

There was a period of time beginning in the December of 1999 and ending in October of 2001 during which a large percentage of our friends got hitched, including me. There was Paula and Eric, Donna and Alejandro, Amy and George, Jeff and Monica, Brad and Melissa, Tom and Suzanne, Beth and John....I'm probably missing a few. It seemed like there was a wedding every other weekend.

Paula and Eric got divorced already. Amy and George, and Donna and Alejandro are in these really bizarre, co-dependence relationships. Everyone else seems pretty happy together.

Craig and I are happy -- we have a good relationship. But I still can't see any reason or benefit to being married. Craig jokingly says that now I'm legally bound to him and I can't run away. I suppose that's true, in a way. But aside from it being more difficult to leave (legally) and the fact that I have a new last name (my choice), our lives are no different. Craig and I lived together for years before we decided to get engaged. So we had this big wedding that we spent way too much on (even though it was a good time) and now there's nothing different. I half expected to wake up the day after the wedding and be transformed into Newlywed Girl. OK, not really....but I expected that, for all the trouble we went through to get married, there was going to be something different about married life.

There are all sorts of reasons not to get married. The personal bane of my existence is the marriage penalty tax laws. Because we have no kids to claim on our taxes we end up paying a passel of extra taxes.

I still am not comfortable calling Craig my husband or announcing to someone that I'm married. It feels weird and bizarre. Of course, I like the jewelry that comes along with it! *evil grin* But everything else isn't all that wonderful and different.

That doesn't mean I'm going to run right out and get divorced, but I wouldn't heartily recommend it to anyone. I tell all of my single friends or dating friends that marriage is totally overrated, and nothing more than a contract with the state. And a way for the federal government to extract a lot of money from you. And to that I say: Damn the man! Damn the man!

---

Last night in class we had to break up into little groups and do a close reading of a poem. As you know, I hate the Romantic poets....so I figured it would be something that would make me want to dig my eyes out with a jagged spoon.

Fortunately, I was first with my hand in the air to volunteer for Kubla Khan, that old Coleridge family favorite. Since it was supposedly conceived while Coleridge was in a drug addled state, there are a zillion and one interpretations of it and no one is wrong. My kind of poem!

So we started talking about the poem. The other students who were in my group were Denise [a history major] and Tanya [an English major who hates poetry]....Denise and Tanya started to interpret the poem very literally, which is boring as hell.

So I said, "Hey, you know, I think we should pull out all the sexual imagery. We already have the description of the volcano eruption...I bet there's lots. Shall we?" And with that we started reading for sex....never a bad idea.

This poem is all vagina, vagina, vagina.....really! The imagery is everywhere: "stately pleasure dome," "caverns measureless to man," "walls and towers girdled round," "deep romantic chasm," etc. There is all this allusion to fertility and then there is the volcanic eruption, which we equated to orgasm. Really, very smutty.

Apparently no one in our class read it that way. Of course, being that most of the students in the class are under the age of 25 they all were slightly amused that I would just yell out in class all about the vagina imagery and the dulcimer being a vagina shaped instrument played with the fingers, blah blah blah. Kids are so easily amused. And the prof was grateful that someone came up with an entertaining reading, so we got in good.

I am, and will remain, your Intellectual Gurl.

---

I've been scouting the papers since I'm suspicious of our governments timing of releasing the news of Mr. Dirty Bomb's capture....

And I've discovered some things we should pay attention to....

For instance....you know how our President [she says sarcastically] denies that he's out to destroy our natural resources? Well, guess what? He's a lying sack of shit. I'm sure that comes as no surprise, but the comments made at the World Summit on Sustainable Development are, um, bad. This editorial speaks volumes kids....read it!

Lest anyone think that the U.S. government really cares about other countries [you know, the ones without much to offer the U.S.], top Taliban officials are now saying that they approached the U.S. years ago to help replace Islamic hard liners in their government. Unfortuantely they were given a line that the U.S. didn't feel comfortable interfering. Excellent!

I don't know what the other shoe is, or when it will drop, but I'm fully expecting something big.

And just for kicks, read this interesting editorial on the American media and the American War on Terrorism.

Actually, I've changed my mind. I think the information in the above editorial may be what is being hidden. The information this soldier is providing is scary. Very scary. And I'm totally freaked out by the idea that the U.S. is going to strike first as far as possible terrorists are concerned. That way lies the path of madness....and World War III.

George has got to go....this is ridiculously bad.

It really sucks that the stupid things my government does has to ruin the beauty of being an American.

---

I'm sitting here in my little cubic-hell, trying hard not to fall asleep. I have stuff to do, just don't wanna do it. Same shit, different parallel universe, I suppose. I just finished a 500 peice stuffing job that I could have lived without....my paper cuts burn like a thousand fires!

I wrote out my bills last night....I am so responsible! This dual account thing is going to take some getting used to, but it is already working in terms of my thoughts on how much spending cash I actually have. Yay me! Maybe now the bank will have to fire that extra cashier they hired off of my bounced check fees. Down with the bank! Damn the man! Damn the man!

I DO NOT want to go to class tonight....at all. I have to hand in my paper, but then we have to discuss Coleridge, etc. Channeling Marilyn Gaull: I'm about to have nightmare's of her class in English Romanticism. Her creepy smile, her sinister prancing, her absolutely confusing rhetoric! It's positively sublime! I'm melancholy! Kill me now!

Yes, you could say that I'm slap happy and coming up on tiredness-induced silliness. I ought to be a real blast to have in class this evening.

---

Now this is comforting. Hey, man captured planning to drop a bomb -- a U.S. citizen, no less! Woohoo! I got curious about what a radiological "dirty" bomb would do, so I got happy with the browser.

So according to PSI Tech [a weird agency unto themselves] a dirty bomb is "A radiological bomb, also known as a "dirty bomb," could be made by taking highly radioactive material, such as spent reactor fuel rods, and wrapping it around readily available conventional high explosives. The device is designed to kill or injure not through its explosive force but by creating a zone of intense radiation that could extend several city blocks. A large, highly radioactive bomb could affect a much larger area."

Hmmmmm....OK....fine....

Here is a less dumbed down version of the explanation. Slightly scarier, though -- leave it to the Center for Defense Information! And this is a less frightening version. Take your pick -- neither gives me the warm fuzzies.

Of course, does the timing seem suspect? They've had this guy in custody for a month.....my first gut reaction is that our beloved president and friends [insert eyes rolling here] have got something big to hide and they're trying to divert our attention.

Or maybe it's just my axis of evil-induced paranoia.

---

I really love tattoos. When I was single I wouldn't date a man unless he had gorgeous long hair and at least one tattoo or a couple of piercings.

My tattoo is silly -- I got mine a few days after I turned 18. I really didn't know who I was or what I wanted or what I stood for....so I went with something small and common: a shamrock. I've been scheming ever since to get it covered with a different tattoo that is more me.

The time might be near -- I'm really thinking hard about it. And looking at other people's tattoos makes me want a new and improved one even more.

On a completely different topic, Craig and i went to see The Sum of All Fears yesterday. Quite possibly it was the scariest two hours ever....I know that the U.S. has come close to dropping nukes on other countries. However, the whole idea of how it comes to that is absolutely frightening (mostly because it could happen)...and the scene where the bomb gets activated is chilling.

Coincidentally, there was an absolutely stunningly bad movie on TBS last night called Atomic Twister. I knew it would be bad -- Sharon Lawrence has never done a good movie and, besides which, it also had Zack in it. The acting was so bad...I could just picture some Joe Schmoe director pacing the sidelines yelling, "No, that's too subtle -- emote, goddamn you, emote!"

Late addition: Why I love Matt Damon....

"I have no plans to get married or have kids. I've got my nephews. That's about all the responsibility I can handle right now."
-Matt Damon, New York Post

---

This weekend has been entirely relaxed and kind of nice. I started Saturday by going to yoga with Christy (9am class), and then Craig and I went on a picnic along the river.

I love picnics. We grabbed the nice picnic basket that my grandparents bought us for the engagement party and went to Superfresh where we picked up cheese and crackers, random antipasta, sushi, fresh bread, and lots of other goodies. And then we just laid around the park for a few hours. It was so nice just to sit there. Craig almost got attacked by a goose while trying to feed one that had a weird foot.

I wanted to go to the movies later on but Craig didn't feel like doing anything at all, so I got to spend some time on my art journal. Below are a two pages I worked on yesterday [click for a bigger image]...

Today also promises to be kind of lazy and I refuse to even watch the news for fear I'll get obsessive about something.

---

Christy and I were giggling over the weekend about this party that I had at one of my old houses. I was living in this cute little two story house in South Philly near Pat's Steaks, and I decided to have a party to celebrate the fact that Christy was in town. She was on tour at the time and I never got to see her. So anyway...my house was pretty small, but I had about 100 people crammed into it. There were all of my friends, and then all of Christy's cast and crew, and she had invited the cast of Miss Saigon [who was also in town]. There were just people everywhere and everyone was just trashed. The police came and everything, so I know everyone had a great time.

What made the party though, was some guy that I had invited from work. It was someone that I didn't know very well, but I was feeling charitable -- you know, he was a dork and I figured he be sort of fun to have around. He asked me what he could bring...I'm thinking "Bring beer....or bring a bottle of vodka....just bring alcohol." But I said "Bring whatever you want!"

So this guy busts out with "OK, I'll bring some vanilla ice cream."

Vanilla ice cream? To a house party? What?

So I called Christy and we absolutely screamed about it. It was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard. So we're at the party later that night and this guy hasn't shown up yet. Christy starts telling people that vanilla ice cream is on the way.

People start obsessively wanting to make beer floats with the ice cream. It's never good to tell drunk people about any kind of food.

Finally this guy shows up without ice cream. He was the pariah of the party. People threw beer at him. Christy hooked up with him -- it was crazy.

---

I think I want to adopt The Goo Goo Dolls.

The poor guys played the Today Show this morning. They seemed sort of embarrassed to be doing it, which is understandable....it's sort of a silly thing to do, but probably a necessity in order to promote their tour.

They had to play indoors because it's pouring outside. That's never good -- because the sound is usually pretty bad and the performance is sort of off....after all, who would rather play for The Today Show staff rather than a crowd of real fans?

That said, The Today Show ran this little blip of a Behind the Music from VH-1 on the band and then they played. Unfortunately Ann and Katie decided they had to say a few words to them.

First of all, Katie was really touchy feely in kind of a skeevy way. I could barely watch...my skin started to crawl. And then she asked if they were surprised by their success and Robby Takac said something about being surprised every day. Katie made some dumb ass crack about his hair and how she'd be surprised if she woke up to that color hair too.

Rude.

But he was so cool about it...just sort made it into a joke and made everyone laugh. And then I felt like I was watching a reporter for Teen Beat magazine. Ann turns to John Rzeznik and say, "So are you single?" No lead in, no "I bet you have girls beating down your door"...just "are you single"....hey, inquiring minds want to know.

But what really was the dumbest moment of the interview was when Katie takes hold of John's arm and compliments his tattoo, saying it's "so Picasso like".....to which John replies, "Yes, it is Picasso." Oh it's a sad sad day.

Obviously I am at home today -- I'm playing hooky today from work so I can hang out here and write my paper for BritLit. It's nice not to be at work, but the last thing I want to do is write this paper.

---

I had to go to the bank during my lunch hour. I signed in to see a representative and I sat down.

45 minutes later I'm still waiting....but now I'm asleep.

Literally I fell asleep in the middle of the bank because I was waiting for so long. Now I don't know if I was snoring, but I know that I was drooling.

I woke up with a start....maybe someone said my name, but the rep was standing there staring at me. I wiped the string of drool off my chin and followed her into the office.

Of course, I almost fell asleep again because the rep too 45 minutes to open an additional checking account for me. Yep, 45 minutes, I'm serious.

So for those of you keeping score, I spent an hour and a half in the #$%(&^&@ bank. Mostly waiting. And what did I get for my troubles?

A set of barbecue utensils.

Well....that pretty much makes up for the 90 minutes of my life the bank sucked away, doesn't it? I'm sure I'll be flipping burgers on my patio later singing the praises of Brenda O'Brian, bank rep extraordinaire.

In funnier news, my husband finally got the DVD player working last night....let's count -- that's almost 3 days to hook it up correctly. But he has redeemed himself: he bought me the DVD of Willy Wonka, which has a sing-a-long karoake type of thing to the Veruca Salt song about wanting the golden egg-laying goose. I'm a happy woman!

---

I don't know what's going on, but there is some really fucked news out today....I won't even comment on the latest bombings in Israel and Palestine because that's just fucked 24/7.....

The Governor of Oaklahoma has vetoed a bill that I would have supported. Rapists are the worst kind of scum and deserve more than just being castrated. I will spare you from what I really think should be done to them.

Our favorite wacky president is announcing the creation of a brand new intelliegnce agency. Woohoo! Goody for us! Now we'll have three whole intelligence agencies who can't figure out what's going on! Yes! Our tax dollars at work!

More rhetoric being slung, this time by International Conference on Imam Khomeini and Support for Palestine....yep, let's just lump all U.S. citizens in there, ok? Really, because certainly want Palestinians to be killed...it's ok with me. OK, I lied, I had to comment....

A sure sign of the apocalypse? The Osbournes action figures.

---

There is something weird and slightly mystical about living in an historic city. I was walking underground in the Concourse this morning trying to avoid stepping in loogies and urine and thinking that no matter where I step something disgusting, bad, or, alternatively, amazing happened.

Really, Philadelphia has been around for a while -- I believe the first people were here somewhere around the neighborhood of 1640-ish. The history here is staggering, and every inch of this place is positively crawling with stories.

Every once in a while I get the urge to just stop where I am on the street and dig.....sort of wondering what sort of artifacts of the past I'll find. When construction started on the new house for the Liberty Bell the crews found all sorts of things -- the backhoe-ing had to be stopped for an archeological dig.

Of course, there are some places better left untouched. There are quite a few parks in town -- Rittenhouse Square, Independence Park, etc....they used to be cemetaries. There is even a ghost story revolving around Independence Park (which is the stretch of grass behind Independence Hall). Supposedly every once in a while you'll see a hunched over old woman in a black shroud sort of floating through the Park, looking for her grave. Spooky, eh?

Of course, Philly's neighborhoods are some of the oldest areas of town. I live in Fishtown [FYI - thus called because all the dock workers congregated in my neighborhood]....there is a graveyard down the street called Palmer Burial Ground that was founded in 1732. My house was built in the early 1800's and has the original floors. Sometimes I sit around and imagine who might have lived in my house, who built my house.

---

I am occasionally overwrought by the stupidity of people.

For instance, some idiot [who shall remain nameless because he doesn't deserve to have any attention drawn to him] is accusing the New York Times of reporting the news from a gay slant.

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I mean really, what does that mean? Joe Gay, our star reporter, interviews the President, and then reports that he's got a tight ass? What?

---

I'm beginning to think that studying wonderful literature takes the beauty out of it. How many times can anyone analyze a poem? How is it that in 2002 I'm supposed to come up with something witty and wonderful to say about Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey that hasn't already been said before [and said better]?

It's an absolutely beautiful poem with absolutely breath-taking language. I mean, listen to this....

Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd: -- that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on. Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

I mean, come on, it's gorgeous! But I don't want to have to compare Wordsworth's attitude about nature to Blake's attitude about nature. Like most academic ventures, it just sucks the joy right out of it. I want to read Wordsworth because I want to, not because I have to.

The term "have to" really is what makes every day life suck occasionally. I don't want to go to work in the morning, I don't want to wear a suit, I definitely don't want to shave my legs every morning....but I have to [ok, maybe I don't have to shave my legs].

I want to get to a point in life where I only do things that bring me intense joy. I want to point and laugh at the great unwashed masses of mullet wearing fools in my neighborhood for the fun of it all.....I want to have ripe red cherries fed to me by a passel of hot beefy guys because it's a joyful thing....I want to run barefoot through a field of wildflowers [none of those prickly weeds please] while I shout Wordsworth poetry to no one in particular.

When does your life become yours for the sheer joy of living it? Instead of giving grants to some of the dumb things the government gives grants for, maybe they should consider approving a joy grant -- paying out $60K per year just to do whatever fills you with unutterable glee.

Who has the petition? Sign me up....

---

Craig thinks we should buy a case of belts. Apparently there is a disturbing fashion trend in our neighborhood: boys who like to go shirtless while wearing boxer shorts pulled up to their armpits and super loose jeans hanging down around the knees. It's not a good look.

You see, it would be a mission of mercy. Obviously these poor unfortunates cannot afford luxury items -- you know, like belts. So we could roam the neighborhoods looking for the tired, the homeless: the beltless.

A belt could give these young beltless men something to live for. A goal, even! To be able to see the look of gratitude on a beltless man's face when I give him his very own belt would just be wonderful.

We could call our mission "Belts for a Less Ugly Neighborhood," or BLUN....or "Belts for Fashionable Youth" [I guess that would be BFY]....or just plain "Here's a Belt so I don't have to look at your Underwear."

It's a grand plan.

---

The sky outside is pitch black and it's starting to thunder.

It's times like these that I'm glad I don't work in the Bell Atlantic Tower anymore. For a period of two years I worked in a 52 story building, which for Philly is one of the tallest buildings.

Did you know that tall buildings are built so that they sway? Apparently if buildings don't have some "give" to them strong winds can damage the infrastructure. Good to know.

I worked on the 45th floor. On stormy days we were usually inside the storm clouds. It could get a little scary. But what I really hated was when it got windy. The building would sway....it was easy to tell....I'd be sitting at my desk and the door to my office would start to squeak and then it would slowly start to swing slightly back and forth.

A friend of mine works in Liberty Place, which are slightly taller and made entirely of glass. She says that the building sways so much the receptionists all stock dramamine.

It's kind of a scary thought.....

---

It started innocently enough. I was at The Pyramid Club for an event and I was standing outside the room talking to Louise. Howard came out and said that something really big was on fire.

Since we were 52 stories up in the middle of Philly, I figured we could see it from the meeting room. Louise and I pressed our faces against the glass of the north facing window.

The fire was massive and in my neighborhood.

Huge billows of black smoke looked like they were coming from an entire city block. I was a little freaked out.

You know how it is -- you always assume the worst [am I projecting?]. So I spent the next 3 hours obsessing over the fact that I just knew my whole block was burning to the ground and poor Sassy the tap dancing cat was trapped because she couldn't wedge her fat ass out the little hole that she had to escape from.

After the meeting I heard two guys from the catering team talking about it. Third and Girard, they said.

I sighed the proverbial sigh of relief, and called Craig. "I'm stuck in traffic," he lamented. "No one is moving -- I'm on Sansom between 15th & 16th in front of your yoga studio."

So I did the wifely thing to do -- I walked over and met him in traffic. Misery loves company, you know.

Our neighborhood was a mess. The fire was just a little closer than Third & Girard....it was Oxford and Hancock, which is about 5 blocks away. Massive fire at a meat packing plant -- the whole neighborhood smelled like barbecued chicken.

I have never really hated the news media until last night. It's a fire, people! No one died or even got hurt -- take your noisy helicopters at 2am and go back to your newstation, for the love of pete and all that's hole-y!

It is now my mission in life to destroy the evil empire of news helicopter pilots. Because you don't need that much stock footage of smoke. Go away and leave my mulletted neighborhood alone!

---

I occasionally have a tough time distinguising between reality and my own personal dream world. And for some reason those times often come when I'm going to the bathroom.

I will be laying in bed in the morning sort of in one of those fugue dream states that are all the rage these days, and I'll dream that I'm going to the bathroom. All of a sudden I'll wake up violently only to realize that I was about to let loose with the relieving myself.

It's never actually come to me actually peeing in my bed, but I worry about it.

About 5 minutes ago I decided to visit my fair work building's pristine facilities. I'm sort of a little out of it and concentrating on other things (like the Romantic poets, for instance). I'm sitting there on the toilet going about my business when it occured to me that I might be asleep at my desk....

So I pinch myself. You know, just in case.

Luckily I really was in the lavatory....but it's something to be concerned about.

---

The time has come for me to relive my wedding day. Oh yes, it is time. You already know all about the wedding night...

Coincidentally, let me just redeem myself a little by saying that I'm a complete spaz.

Craig and I got married on October 28, 2000. Neither one of us has ever really had a serious jones to get hitched, but we had been together for so long (6 years) that we figured we might as well just do it. And the problem lies in the fact that we both hate weddings.

So what to do? We thought about eloping but knew that we'd never hear the end of it from our parents. We knew we couldn't get married in a church because who wants to deal with that bullshit?

And so it began -- a plan formed around our favorite holiday: Halloween.

We thought about dressing up in costume....but it was weird enough that we were going to be the bride and groom so we decided to stick with the traditional there. Kind of.

The truth of the matter is that we got married on a ship on the Delaware River. The captain married us. Our guests were dressed in Halloween costumes and we totally partied our asses off. The ship sailed to Fort Mifflin during the reception and we all went on a ghost tour at the Fort. It was fun.

But to this day the most photographed thing at our wedding was the cake. I have pictures from everyone at the wedding just about, but everyone took pictures of the cake. And who can blame them -- it was almost the most expensive thing at the wedding.

I am a dessert snob. I will fully admit to it. If I eat at a restaurant I expect dessert....good dessert....heavenly dessert. Most importantly, I want my dessert to be gorgeous to look at. So the saga of the wedding cake was on....

We first went to one of those traditional bakeries -- home of the white wedding cake. The cake was....ok....nothing special.

We must have visited half a dozen bakeries in an effort to find the cake.

Finally, our search was rewarded. The tasting was one of those moments where you are rendered speechless. We tried the chocolate cherry (cherries soaked in brandy) almond pound cake with almond buttercream. My knees buckled. We tried the triple chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and raspberry jam filling. I almost peed my pants.

I had an epiphany that day -- the cake would be the star of the wedding.

Imagine, if you will, a cake so fantastic looking that I shed a tear at the thought of having to eat it. OK, don't imagine it - here is a pic [click it to see a bigger image]:

I think I'm starting to get emotional.

---

The cute little boy who works at Francis Jerome lied to me.

Really. He looked me in the eyes and told me that Longcils mascara was the answer to my problems. It was like a siren song: "Come here and purchase Longcils, my tiny dove. It is waterproof and smudge proof and you will not be sorry....give me your credit card...."

I think I heard harps.

Yeah. Well. I was schnookered. I'm all about the raccoon look by 10am. It sucks.

So I need suggestions for a new waterproof, smudge proof mascara to try out....anyone?

---

Craig put his head through our bedroom wall over the weekend. I know what you're thinking -- get your head out of the gutter. There were no sexual aids involved.

I was in the bathroom doing laundry when I hear a faint "Oh shit!" emanating from the vicinity of the bedroom. My interest piqued, I tiptoed through the hall to see what stupidity was afoot.

And there it is: Craig is sitting on his knees on the bed, confused by the suddenly gigantic hole in the wall at the head of the bed.

Ahem. "What's up with the hole?" I asked.

Craig looked from the hole, to me, and back to the hole. "I slipped."

---

I'm all for being naked, but who decides it's a good idea to commit crimes while naked? Or should I say nekkid?

Is it that they think that no clothes equals no way of identifying them? Or do people just wake up one day and think, "Hey, I know how I'm going to spend the day!"

The problem becomes one of aesthetics. If a really hot guy with a killer body went around flashing people or committing naked crimes, who would care? I would certainly be entertained by watching a naked guy with washboard abs and a beautiful face rob a convenience store! But it's always some trailer park resident with a couple of spare tires and a rash and some straggly facial hair.....

It's things like this that prevent me from being a police officer...the thought of having to handcuff fat naked guy gives me the shakes.

---

I went to Atlantic City yesterday to attend Artiology. It was a little depressing -- I was in Atlantic City and didn't so much as even see the ocean.

It has become painfully obvious that I need to start being much more selective in the classes I take. My first class was about using Creative Paperclay to make jewelry, adornments, etc. that have the look of raku pottery. The instruction portion was all of 15 minutes long and then the rest of the 5 hours was spent working on projects, but mostly it was just waiting for our Paperclay objects to dry in a toaster oven. It was not a class that I would have chosen to take had I known that it was going to be so boring and something that I didn't already know how to do. The problem is that it was technique alone...not much about finishing or design or anything like that.

The second class was more useful. It was about different techniques for art

journalling, including image transfer, painting, and spackling. I didn't get many samples done, but it was worth it just to take a look at our instructors journals. I particularly enjoyed spackling.....and the use of shoe polish was a great idea.

It was a long day -- 10 hours. Surprisingly I seem to be relatively well known in the community....quite a few people introduced themselves to me and complimented my work.

AC was crazy last night trying to escape it -- there was a Holyfield fight at Caesars last night, which is where we parked. Alot of needlessly super huge limos and cheesy looking chicks.

Today has been relatively quiet -- Craig and I visited the diner for breakfast and then I've spent most of the morning doing my reading for Monday night's class.

Christy called me about 20 minutes ago in tears. Apparently she and Eric spent the better part of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday together and nothing weird or bad happened. Christy had to go to a graduation party last night, and, understandably, Eric didn't want to go. Christy wasn't upset about. Anyway, Eric said that some people from work were going out but he didn't think he was going to go. And then mentioned something about maybe they could get together after Christy's party. 15 minutes later he called and said that his work folk had talked him into going out, but he would call her later to see if she wanted to go out.

OK, so she tells me that she's so upset because he never called her last night and he hasn't called her today yet either.

I, of course, think she's being ridiculous. And then I think she's just being stupid when she tells me that Eric did call her at 9:30pm, and she missed the call but didn't leave a message....and that she's even more pissed because she thinks it's "weird" that he didn't leave a message.

What Christy wants is to date someone who is totally clear in his intentions and completely obedient to her every whim. But at the same time she wants him to be surprising and fun and wonderful.

I like Eric a lot, and I think he's very good for Christy in many ways....but it's not going to last because she is going to make it impossible for him to stick around. I certainly wouldn't put up with that kind of behavior.

In the end, I'm sure it really comes down to Christy's complete lack of self-confidence and her inate belief that all her relationships are doomed to fail and so she holds on with a grip that is just a bit too tight and domineering. And that would be fine if she were 20 years old.

But she's not -- she's almost 30, and she should know better by now. It's sad.

---

Only 2 hours until the end of the work day -- I'm counting it down by reading blogs/journals. If I run into one more teenybopper journal with bad poetry I may cry.

I'm a person who hates to have people telling me what to do. My mother hated that about me, because I was never willing to just go with parental orders without knowing why. And I guess that is why I am so crazy about issues like abortion rights, and this whole thing with the Pledge of Allegiance. I doubt I would ever have an abortion, but don't tell me what I can and can't do with my own body. It's just something that gets me really riled up and argumentative.

Tying up the courts with these kinds of decisions is something I'm not thrilled about. I'd rather we all decide what's best for ourselves morally and leave our taxpayer money to pay for things like better education. But see, that's assuming that we can all make a rational decision for ourselves and be willing to let everyone else go on about their own business.

There's always going to be a faction of people who refuse to play. I could give you examples in issues like abortion and the Pledge and flag burning, but I'll just say that if someone decided tomorrow that blueberries should not be eaten by anyone because they stain your teeth, that person would condemn anyone who ate blueberries -- regardless of the fact that eating blueberries is not a crime. Yes, that's really simplistic.

And you can look at any issue from both sides of the fence -- if you can't understand both viewpoints, then it's time to acknowledge the fact that you need mental help. You don't have to agree with both viewpoints, but you at least need to understand the argument.

Probably my favorite faction of people who don't get it are the people who are completely against abortion in any case [doesn't matter if the mother could be injured during childbirth, if the baby will be born grossly deformed, etc.] who are also against providing teenagers with birth control and information about family planning. These people refuse to look around and see that abstinence isn't culturally acceptable. They refuse to change their viewpoint.

You can tell that I'm feeling all thoughtful today, in part because I don't feel like focusing on work. My little blog is becoming part Oprah. Kill me now.