---

You can't see me [because I forgot my Pencam at home today] but imagine me right now, dressed in black and wearing a halo. Now imagine that I'm jumping up and down with absolute excitement. That's me right now: the time is drawing neigh for me to leave my work life behind for the day and get ready to part-ay! Woohoo!

I have officially found the most perfect shoes in the world for my costume. They are the most hideous pink shoes I've ever seen, but they are so ugly I'm actually starting to like them. Maybe I will wear them to lunch with Statia on Saturday afternoon.

And I'm prepared, dammit -- four rolls of film and two bottles of wine. My wand and headpeice are finished. My wig is arranged and ready to be worn. My glittery cosmetics and fake eyelashes await me. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!

Yikes, I need to dial it back a bit. By the time it actually becomes time to leave I'll be all excited out.

All I've got to say is prepare yourself for some excellent pictures.

---

So some Norwegians are campaigning to stop Halloween. They're saying that stores are "using fear and violence to sell Halloween goods."

I now have this scene running through my head where stores are running commercials showing scenes were little kids are being offered up as sacrificial lambs to demons, while this narrative plays in the background: "Don't want your little tyke to be eaten alive by Yahwehling the Demon with Big Teeth? Than you better get yourself to my store and buy up some Halloween goods. We know where you live!"

Of course, I'm more disturbed that an American has to put her two cents in. Some chick from the American Women's Club is trying to tell Norwegians that they're obviously just doing things wrong, and if they'd just do stuff in the American way they're Halloween woes would all go away. Stupid asshole.

I know so many U.S. citizens who can't figure out why other countries think we're the biggest schmucks imaginable. I think I just illustrated why though.

Is it too late to move to Canada, where the cannibis fields run free?

---

I wonder if anyone has flunked the Serbian witch test yet. Somehow I don't think weighing me regularly and then while sitting on a broom is going to "scientifically prove" anything, except that Serbian folklore experts are morons.

I have a few Wiccan friends. I asked if any of them have ever ridden a broom. One of them told me that yes, she grows a hairy mole, green skin, wears a pointy hat, and rides her broom in the moonlight. And then she hit me in the head. I'll take that as a no.

Maybe soon they'll be performing traditional witch tests in Serbia -- you know, the one where they tie your hands and feet together and then toss you in a pond. If you sink and die, you obviously aren't a witch. Sorry about that.

Just for kicks, I want to go to Serbia, get weighed with rocks in my pocket and then throw the rocks out before I get weighed on the broom. I want a certificate that officially qualifies me as a witch. And then I want to cackle maniacally and watch as those smart Serbian test-givers recoil in horror and run to protect their livestock.

I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!

---

BeerMary asked a week or two ago what it is about me that attracts ghosts. I don't really know the answer to that. I just think some people can see and sense spirits and some people can't. Maybe some people are just more open to the idea.

I've heard speculation that some hauntings are nothing more than a psychic impression left on the fabric of time. I've read that some scientists just believe people who see ghosts are sick in the head. I don't know what the answers are, but I don't think I have something wrong with me.

Even though I see ghosts/spirits/souls fairly regularly, I don't see every single one and I don't see them the same as other people might. My friend Brooke is able to see ghosts, but when we see the same one it looks different to her. She sees them a lot more clearly than I do. I don't know what that means.

You might know that I don't believe in God. I don't really believe in heaven or hell, although I do believe in a life after death. But I do believe in the soul. We know that energy can't be created or destroyed, and so I believe in the idea of reincarnation. I believe that it's a natural occurence, not controlled by any overseeing power or entity. Maybe ghosts are just souls that haven't been reincarnated yet.

---

I'm so saddened by the murder of Jam Master Jay. He will really be missed. He was such a positive voice in the rap community, and, well, I don't know really what else to say. I'm just upset by it.

It seems stupid now to wish everyone a Happy Halloween. But I will anyway: Happy Halloween! I hope that no one soaped your windows last night! There was only one band of marauders in my neighborhood last night -- a bevy of 10 year old boys armed with eggs. Craig witnessed them egging cars, but didn't want to yell at them in case they decided to egg the house in retribution. I said, "Well, don't you think they're going to egg the house anyway? I mean, you're standing in the door glaring at them." Craig must have some sort of reasoning I don't understand, because he turned to me and smirked. "They can't see me here!" Uh, the door is wide open, every light in the living room is on, and you're watching them. They might be stupid, but they're not blind.

Men.

---

I strongly believe in having rights -- the right to free speech, the right to assemble, the right to believe whatever I want to believe or read whatever I want to read. However, I'm having problem with one right: the right to bear arms.

Now don't get me wrong: I don't think gun ownership should be banned. However, violent crime increased in 2001 in the U.S., and 2/3 of all U.S. deaths due to violent crime are gun-related. It's obvious to anyone who cares to accept the facts that this points to a real problem.

I know gun control opponents will say that guns don't kill people -- people kill people. Well, yeah, that's true. But in a country were there are so many people being gunned down it seems criminally insane not to support some type of gun control. I also know that gun control opponents will say that if current gun laws are just enforced, more gun control laws aren't needed. Could someone please point me in the direction of the gun laws that aren't being enforced?

The current U.S. administration is bought and paid for by the NRA. The Shrub opposes government mandated gun registration and gun "fingerprinting." He opposed mandatory child safety locks. When Bush was governor of Texas he signed a peice of legislation that allowed just about anyone to get a concealed weapon license, including convicted felons. Why? What's wrong with gun registrations, fingerprinting, and child safety locks? Why should a convicted felon be allowed to carry a concealed weapon just because they passed a class on gun safety?

Other countries are pointing to the recent sniper attacks and wondering why U.S. citizens should be so surprised. We have the most lax laws on guns in the world and the highest gun violence statistics in the world. Everyone wants to chalk it up to the two suspects as being crazy in the head. I suppose if they had it in their heads they wanted to kill people, they could have just as easily used a bow and arrow. But are we really that surprised that two crazies got their hands on an assault rifle? Don't they sell those at K-mart now?

I don't know what the answer is, but things will never change as long as the NRA continues to throw money at politicians.

---

For a nice change of pace [she says, eyes rolling] here are some ghost-related stories for you:

Legend of the Black Monk

Speculation about the ghost in Three Men and a Baby. I thought everything that could be said about this had already been said, but I guess not. But come on, it's still spooky!

Real Ghostbusters? Hey, it's the Central Minnesota Ghostbusters! Heh. Nice outfits.

---

I like stockpiling good Halloween costume ideas. I think up ideas year round and I make sure I write them down somewhere. Because I know that people are always trying to come up with good ideas, I've decided to start posting them here.

So the good ideas that I've come up with recently:

• A freak show. This would be good for a group of people wanting to dress in a theme. There could be a bearded lady, two headed man, hunchback, three-legged man, Jo-Jo the Dog Boy, lizard lady, the half-man half-dog, pigman, etc.
• Greek gods and goddesses. Another good idea for a group, but would also work with just one person. All you need is a long white toga, sandals, and some alabaster-looking skin.
• Raining cats and dogs. Wear a raincoat and rainboots, carry an opened umbrella with stuffed dogs and cats glued to the top of the umbrella. You could hang stuffed cats and dogs from the sides of the umbrella with fishing string.
• A slinky. Buy a couple dozen hulahoops and glue them together so they form a long tube. Spray paint the outside of the tube silver and letter the word "Slinky" along the side lengthwise. Attach some sort of a shoulder harness to the inside. Paint your face and hair silver.

Hey, long hours of studying for my Spanish midterm and knitting give me tons of time to come up with costume ideas. Let it never be said I'm not a multi-tasker!

---

This is just an aside because I'm so excited: I just booked my trip to Paris! Bwah! Heeehehheeee! I'm going to Paris! I'm going to Paris! I'm going to gain 25 pounds while I'm there! I'm going to Paris!

...We now return you to your regularly scheduled entry...

Happy Hell Night Day everyone! Are you prepared to defend your home from the roving bands of hooligans armed with toilet paper and rotten eggs? Craig often speaks of sitting on the front steps with an air rifle, but I doubt he'd actually go that far.

To be honest, our neighborhood is pretty quiet on Hell Night. The police are out in force and, while kids may try to leave a flaming bag of shit on someone's doorstep, they rarely get a chance. Plus, about a month before Halloween the stores refuse to sell eggs to anyone under the age of 18.

I have only been a victim of Hell Night shenanigans twice as an adult. I was once egged from a passing car, which was absolutely gross -- I think those kids must have had the eggs buried behind the house for a whole year. I've also had my windows soaped. Not really a big deal.

As a kid I never really participated in Hell Night. My mother's house is out in the middle of nowhere. It kind of takes all the fun out of it when you have to walk two miles in half a foot of snow to the nearest house to egg it. Of course, I didn't really see the point of it anyway.

Craig, on the other hand, was one of those kids that everyone feared and hated on Hell Night. He and his band of thug friends prepared for Hell Night months in advance, stockpiling soap and toilet paper pilfered from anywhere they could get it. Eggs were acquired and left to rot. Shaving cream and large rocks were in large supply. They once were detained by police for throwing boulders off a bridge into oncoming traffic.

Now that Craig is an adult, I think it's hilariously funny that he is so bothered by kids roaming the neighborhoods being devious and bad. You'd think he'd understand and at least think it's kind of comical, and then get all nostalgic.

Sometimes karma is a funny thing.

---

I have always been an anally retentive good student. My high school GPA was a 97 when I graduated. What I am about to reveal will forever brand me as the miscreant I truly am: I hated every second of gym class.

As you may know, I attended elementary school, junior high, and high school in a very small town. 80% of the school budget was earmarked for the football team. That means we didn't really have a lot of money to spend on physical education curricula.

Gym class in Berwick, Pennsylvania was always just plain stupid. If I were to believe everything my gym teacher told us, learning to square dance is one of the most important things a young lady can learn. That's right -- every year for six years I "had a hot time in the old barn" and doe-si-doed my partner around the circle. I still have nightmares about promenading in the wrong direction. I guess it's sort of like the screaming of the lambs.

Yeah, so I can square dance like nobodies' business.

Another absolutely ridiculous thing we had to do is learn to canoe. But only for two weeks one year -- our gym teacher had a brother who had a canoe, but I think someone broke the canoe so we never had another canoe lesson after that first year. It was during our annual month-long swimming section. Tell me if it makes sense to force forty girls to walk 10 minutes to the junior high school where the pool was located, get changed, spend 15 minutes in the pool, and then give those same 40 girls 10 minutes to dry their hair, reapply makeup, get changed, and make it back to class in time. And there were only 4 electrical outlets.

Because my hometown is firmly entrenched in the splendor that is high school football, all girls were required to learn to throw a perfect spiral football pass. You could literally flunk a semester of gym if you couldn't spiral a ball and hit a bullseye. Because of this I can hit a fly 20 yards away with a perfectly spiralled pass. I'm sure they were thinking that most of us would end up breeding in Berwick and we might one day be responsible for teaching our sons to throw a football. It never really became useful to me, other than for impressing boys. My pickup line at bars should have been, "Hey sugar -- want to buy me a beer? I can throw a perfect spiral pass and I'm a wildcat in the sack!" Wink wink!

My all time favorite stupid gym class section was something called New Games. We essentially played children's games for a month. Yep, Duck Duck Goose, Pass the Information, shit like that. Training for motherhood? Maybe. Again, not something that has served me well.

But hey, I still remember how to square dance like a pro!

---

I have the day off today! Woohoo! I wanted to take yesterday off from work too, but since I had a Spanish test last night it seemed silly to stay home just to come back in. Our anniversary dinner last night at Il Canituccio was spectacular, as usual. I was a little worried about pumpkin ravioli, but it was unbelievably good! Regular pasta ravioli stuffed with pumpkin puree in a gorgeous porcini mushroom, nutmeg, and cream sauce. Not to mention their scrumptious antipasto, sickeningly good bread and roasted garlic spread, and the almost-better-than-sex tiramisu. If you ever come to Philadelphia I highly recommend a visit to Il Cantuccio!

So today I am at home with Craig. I know the winners of the silly hat blogaversary contest will be thrilled to know that I plan to mail out the hats today! And just in time -- it's getting cold out there! My mom is getting snow in the Poconos later -- yikes!

Great Britain has recently released their list of the ten "most irritating" people. I thought I should give it a shot, considering there are sooooo many completely annoying people around.

It was kind of hard to narrow it down to just ten people.

1. Eminem
2. Sean Combs
3. Pam Anderson Lee
4. Jerry Falwell
5. George W. Bush
6. John Ashcroft
7. Christina Aguilera
8. Brittney Spears
9. Justin Timberlake
10. Vin Diesel

My actual list could probably contain as many as 150 people. But I will spare you that! Heh.

---

It looks like instead of Rome we will now be travelling to Paris the week of February 21. I don't care where we go, as long as I get to use my passport. Craig keeps waffling back and forth between Paris, Rome, and Edinburgh though. But I'm buying our vacation tomorrow so he won't be able to change his mind again!

We'll be staying at the Pavillion Royal Montsouris in the 14th Arrondisement. I admit that I don't know much about the geography of Paris, but apparently that is on the Left Bank of the Seine, and there's a Metro stop very close by. And we're getting a great deal at Go Today.com -- $470 per person for airfare and a week's hotel. If anyone has any suggestions about what to see and do in Paris, I'd be especially grateful.

Craig and I didn't really go on a real vacation this year, except for that week we spent Long Beach Island, NJ. I don't consider it a real vacation, though, unless we either have to fly somewhere or it takes more than 5 hours to drive to the location. Next year we're taking two vacations -- to Paris in late Winter and to Orlando in early Autumn.

I really love to travel, although I admit to being an anal retentive traveller. I spend months gathering information and making an itinerary. For the Paris trip I will spend January and February re-learning basic French.

There are so many things to see in the world that I can't imagine sitting at home my whole life and not seeing any of them. I want to see the Egyptian pyramids some day. I'd love to tour Israel, party in Madrid, get my picture taken with the leaning tower of Pisa in the background, take a bike ride in Amsterdam, and attend Scottish Games in Edinburgh. I want to go overwhere!

Really, I want Rick Steves' job. I want someone to pay me to travel and make silly documentaries. I'm so much cooler than Steve! Come on! Or, I'd like to have the job of the hostess of $40 A Day on the food channel. She was in Vienna over the weekend struggling to eat for $40 per day. Yeah, I could do that!

---

So my trip to Eastern State Penitentiary last night was interesting. Something kept petting my hair. At first I thought maybe they had those gross strings hanging from the ceiling to freak everyone out, but Craig didn't know what the hell I was talking about -- he didn't feel a thing. Considering I felt someone stroking my hair about two dozen times, I'm going to chalk it up to one of the Pen spirits taking a liking to me. Oh, and the batteries in my Pencam were completely drained even though I put in brand new batteries before we left.

The ghost tour at the Pen is not frightening in the least. It's like any other made up spookfest now. It used to be much scarier. It puzzles me that the organizers wouldn't use the Pen to their utmost advantage -- I mean, it's haunted. Some freaky ass shit has happened there. Tell the stories and make it absolutely pee-your-pants scary. As it is now they barely even acknowledge that you're in a real prison. Instead they have people dressed like monsters jumping out at you, and weird glowing alien pods. Yep, that's some scary stuff, alright. For that, I could have paid less to go to the cheesy fright house set up down near the river.

---

First, it was the half year blogaversary for Go Fish, and today it's my two year wedding anniversary! Craig bought me a dozen leonidas roses -- the flowers that were in my wedding bouquet. Marital bliss is such a nice thing.

Because I'm just too thrilled that it's my wedding anniversary, I'm posting more wedding photos. So here they are [albeit kind of blurry because my scanner sucks]:

Photo 1 Photo 2 Photo 3 Photo 4

I never used to believe in love at first sight or soulmates or crap like that. As a professional dater, I was convinced that there was no "right" one...that there were just people you could get used to. I'm glad I was wrong. Craig and I met in June about 9 years ago. I was swimming in Christy's pool and Craig was hanging out with Christy's brother. As soon as we saw each other we both demanded an introduction, and went out for the first time later that night.

Marriage is overrated -- of course, being married, I have the luxury of saying that. I'm sure single chicks looking for love would tell me that it's a desirable state to be in. To be honest, being married is really no different than not being married. It just means that I'm legally bound not to run away with the good china. I'd be just as happy to be living with Craig unmarried, as I am to be living with Craig married. Our commitment was not enhanced or changed by getting married, and I don't love him any more than I did before. Around tax time I fervently wish we never got married -- as a married couple who doesn't plan to have children, we get hosed on taxes.

It's sort of coming off like this anniversary is not that big a deal to me -- it is. Just not because it's the two year anniversary...it's really more like a 9 year anniversary. And I'm just extra glad today that I found someone who loves me that I can love back, and that can stand to have me around for nine years! Heh.

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Thanks to everyone who entered into the contest to win the silly hat I knitted in honor of my six month blogaversary! Everyone has been so supportive of Go Fish and it's really nice to know that someone is interested in what I have to say. And because I felt kind of bad about just giving away one hat, I knitted up a bunch more. So instead of raffling off one hat, I raffled off five!

So, without further ado, here are the winners:
Camo hat - Denise
Yellow hat - Susan at Orphie the Wonder Dog
Green hat - JadedJu
Pink hat- Wolfie from Wolfpeach
Red hat - Statia from Pizza Dreams

All decisions are final [that means no color substitutions, kids], and names were randomly selected from an Aveda paper bag. Congratulations to the winners! All winners will receive an email from me tomorrow with instructions on how to actually claim your hat!

---

As much as I hate to admit this, I take a certain sick, sadistic pleasure in making Christy look bad. I don't mean that I spread rumors about her or anything or trip her in public. What I mean is that she occasionally asks for my assistance with her hair and makeup, and when she has recently done something to upset my gentle nature I get this malicious streak.

Last night she went to a costume party, and asked me for my help. I stayed in last night, so I agreed and she told me that she'd be to my house by 8:30 pm. Because Christy is notoriously late, she didn't show up to my house until nearly 10pm. Now, I didn't have anything else to do but it's the principle of the thing.

She had a spangled and bedazzled gown with a big stiff collar from her dance studio to wear, so she wanted me to give her wild hair and makeup to match. What she really meant is that she wanted wild hair and makeup, but not too wild because she wanted to look pretty. But she didn't say that. So I teased her hair pretty much straight up so she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein and gave her a very wild but not overly complimentery makeup job. The overall look was perfect for a Halloween party, but not the gorgeous look she was going for. And I was secretly laughing my ass off.

I don't really think I'm a vindictive person, but I do fully admit to working behind the scenes in nasty ways if pushed. I guess you could say I'm a passive aggressive type when it comes to getting even with my friends.

Of course, now that I have outed myself as a scheming and conniving quasi-wench, has anyone else in Philly been thinking about this international Blogger Meetup day on November 20? I'd love to do this!

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Reminder: You have until 6:00 pm EST today to put your name in the running to win my silly six month blogaversary hat. To win, simply leave a message at this entry.

This whole daylight savings thing has me all fucked up today. I don't know if it's really 7:38 am or if it's 8:38 am. Either way, it's too damn early to be up and blogging on a Sunday morning.

Will it make me look like less of a he-woman if I admit that I'm slightly nervous about my plans for this evening? As many of you know, tomorrow is my wedding anniversary so this weekend has been all about the big love. Craig has purchased tickets to the annual ghost tour at Eastern State Penitentiary. Considering what happened last time, I am feeling somewhat cautious. I'll keep you posted!

I finally got my pictures back from that weekend when I assaulted a sailor. That's me on the left, Christy in the middle, and Sharon on the right. I look pretty innocent...it's those other two....

---

That reminds me -- my review of the The Ring. I didn't think it was as scary as everyone else has been saying it is. However, I liked the movie and thought it was suspenseful and interesting.

Oh, and don't forget about the Go Fish six month anniversary contest to win the silly hat I knitted! If you haven't already done so, leave me a comment for this entry to win the hat!

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Last night was a five police car night.

I'll say this for my faux punk neighbors -- they are good for providing hours of drama and entertainment. Of course, it looks like that time is now drawing to an end. I am both happy and sad, with the majority of my feelings going toward the extremely and gleefully happy that my beauty sleep will no longer be interrupted by faux punk boy's idiotic girlfriend.

Craig and I decided to catch an early show of The Ring last night. We got home around 9pm and as we approach the house there are just about 80 people milling around the street between my house and the house of faux punk. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Craig. Craig got a silly grin on his face.

We parked the car and walked to our house, wondering just what the hell was transpiring that could have drawn such a crowd. There's some old, grizzled, drunk guy in an Eagles jersey laying on the ground yelling obscenities. Faux punk boy Clayton and his bevy of faux punk friends are in a heated argument with what seems like the entire crowd from the bar next to my house. The owner and family of the house of faux punk is barring the entrance of the house, locking the belongings of faux punk boy inside and telling them to beat it.

Right.

Craig, being the nosy old woman that he is, immediately sets out to find out the dirt. Five minutes later five police cars show up and Craig breathlessly flies into the house and tells me the story.

Around 8pm the house of faux punk was in a full swing huge part-ay when some smacked ass kicks out the windows of the third floor, sending broken glass cascading onto the sidewalk below. It also hit the old drunk guy in the Eagles jersey. His bellowing summoned his minions from the bar, who formed an old time Fishtown posse who then kicked the shit out of several friends of faux punk boy. This went on until some of the sober neighbors arrived on the scene to break things up, and also called the owner of the house. Which leads us to the present scene I was witnessing outside my door.

I ask you -- does it really get any weirder than this?

After an additional hour of cops taking statements, taking complaints, arguments with the owner of the house and the faux punks, and this drunk guy in the Eagles jersey falling down drunk in the middle of the street and pissing himself, things quiet down. Until 5am, of course,

5am comes around and Craig and I are awakened to the sounds of faux punk boy and friends of faux punk screaming at each other in front of the house. It seems the only person on the lease [rarely seen] has arrived home after a tough night of work only to learn that his friends and other roomie have screwed him royally.

Now it looks like only a matter of time before the house of faux punk is packed up and left empty again.

Ah, sweet beautiful peaceful sleep awaits me!

---

Shit.

On a plethora of levels and for many reasons. I'll say it again: shit. There's not much more I can say without swearing a lot more.

---

I almost forgot about this until Statia at Pizza Dreams reminded me -- there was a brief faux punk neighbor-related interlude last night!

Around 2am I was rudely awakened by the drunk girlfriend of faux punk boy [bizarrely, his name is Clayton]. She was pacing back and forth in front of the house screeching at the top of her lungs. Clayton was hanging out the window spitting at her. The episode went a little like this:

Stupid girl: Heellllllooooo? Cllllaaaaaayton? Helllllllooooo? I know you're in there. I'm sorry! I'm not a bad person! Cllllayyyyyton! [repeated about 20 times]
Clayton: Go away! You're a bitch! [Clayton slams window and ignores Stupid Girl]
Stupid girl: Heellllllooooo? Cllllaaaaaayton? Helllllllooooo? I know you're in there. I'm sorry! I'm not a bad person! Cllllayyyyyton! If you don't love me, tell me to fuck off! Clllaaaaaaaaaayyyton, I looooooove you!

This went on for about 20 minutes until I opened up the window and yelled out, "Hey! Clayton fucking hates you. Fuck off! The rest of us hate you too!"

I'm not sure what it is with these faux punk types, but she started to cry and stormed off. These people obviously lack intestinal fortitude. And shame -- I mean, I would have been mortified to let an asshole like me see me cry when I was all punked out.

---

Heads up people -- the current U.S. administration doesn't care about women. This should come as no surprise -- the Shrub, Ashcroft, and friends have made it perfectly clear that they wish women would just shut up and scamper back off to the kitchen to make pies and babies.

The Shrub has now put his foot down: no money for poor countries to combat HIV and female genital mutilation, and provide family planning services. Never mind that both houses of Congress approved the spending, never mind that $100 million is spent on "promoting marriage" every year [well, marriage for heterosexuals anyway].

What have women done to George W. Bush to incur this wrath? First, he opposes the United Nations’ Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW). Then the Bush administration drafts a policy that would allow states to define "an unborn child" as a person eligible for medical coverage under the Children's Health Insurance Program. Does anyone remember when the Bush administration sought the dismissal of a class-action lawsuit filed against Japan on behalf of hundreds of Asian women who said they were forced into serving as sex slaves during World War II. Why? Because our government needs to make nice with Japan.

Let's not forget the Shrub's attempts to restrict access to abortions and RU486, as well as the push for an end to mandatory contraceptive coverage for federal employees.

I could go on and on. George W. Bush seems hell bent on making sure that the rights of women are crushed below the heel of his oppressive regime.

The next election cannot come fast enough.

---

Happy anniversary to Go Fish!

OK, so it's only a mini-anniversary -- six whole months since the very first real entry at Go Fish. But it's an exciting day for me, nonetheless. I was recently notified that Go Fish is up for a Diarist award [although I'm not sure for which category yet], and I'm currently up for awards at The Bloggys for Best Design [for which I had nothing to do with] and Blog of the Month. I'm strangely excited and touched that someone likes my ridiculous life enough to nominate my journal/blog for an award.

I'd like to use this momentous occasion to publicly thank everyone who reads Go Fish and leaves me comments and signs my guestbook and guestmap, and just generally commiserates with me.

Oh, and I knitted a special Go Fish anniversary hat last night. It's the booby prize "thank you, I love you, keep reading" hat -- it's up for grabs to some lucky reader.

Here's how to win this fabulous hat: leave a comment in the commenting section beneath this entry. On Sunday I will put all of your names in a hat [maybe this one] and pick out a name. I'll notify you by email and also post your name here. And then I'll send you the hat. Yes, that's right kids -- you can be the lucky recipient of this fabulous hat, handknitted by me -- all lemon yellow yarn with robins egg blue fuzzy stripe and two kicky tassles. Makes a wonderful Christmas gift if you hate hats!

Note to self: you have too much free time.

---

I once was forced to listen to The New Kids On the Block for 23 hours straight. The same tape over and over again. It was a nightmarish, torturous car ride from hell....

...with my 8 year old cousin. It was just about 12 years ago during a vacation to Florida with my grandparents and cousin but I remember it like it was yesterday. It explains why I had to stop watching Boston Public now that Joey McIntyre has been made a cast member. I can barely stand to see Mark Wahlberg because he is the brother of Donnie. The song Hangin' Tough gives me the dry heaves.

This trauma from my past may also explain the aversion-bordering-on-seething rage I feel for the boy band and bubble gum pop explosion over the past few years. If you hear of some otherwise normal girl going ax-murdering crazy because Britney Spears released another album, that could very well be me.

Where is REM when you need them, dammit? I want teen angst, not puppy love!

---

I have a second cousin who claims to have been abducted by aliens.

The people in my family are mostly former farmers and their children. We have our share of insane people [like my mentally deficient third cousin and his wife, neither of whom are allowed by law to have a drivers license, but bought a car "for the radio"] rattling the branches of our family tree, but my cousin Rachael is one of the fairly normal ones. She is a medical biller who is married and has a couple of kids.

It's silly [and arrogant] to assume that Earth is the only planet populated by intelligent life. There's all sorts of evidence [whether or not it's believable or not is a different story] to suggest that UFOs have been spotted in our skies. I'm definitely not opposed to the idea that alien abductions could happen, but I have a really hard time believing Rachael's story [or anyone's story]. Until I see with my own eyes that she is being abducted or I am abducted myself, I will never truly and concretely believe in the whole idea of alien abduction.

---

Mike over at Nasty Bastard has been schookered into is letting me and a few others guestpost for him over the next couple of days. I'll be posting links here to any entries I make. So here is my first entry.

---

You may have noticed that I love Halloween with an all-consuming passion. What with the Halloween wedding and all, it would be hard to miss.

Because I am all about Halloween I have become the Halloween Costume Authority to friends and family across the globe. I am known for my good, albeit strange, costume ideas. Craig and I attend the Henri David Halloween Ball at the Wyndham Franklin hotel every year.

Last year Craig and I went as escaped mental patients from the former Byberry Mental Institution [conveniently located in Northeast Philadelphia]. I love costumes that are easy and let me act like a total lunatic. Two years ago I was the Queen of Autumn and Craig went in drag as a Southern Belle. I also love costumes that aren't really anything in particular, but allow me to just get really creative and wild [what the hell is the Queen of Autumn anyway?]. This year Craig and I are going as Frank Cross and the Ghost of Christmas Present from the movie Scrooged. I have been busily sewing layers upon layers of tulle onto an old ballet costume and painting things with glittery silver paint. This weekend I have to find a toaster at a thrift shop to complete the ensemble.

I am officially laying out a blanket invitation to all of you -- if you want to join us at the Ball this year, let me know! It's a fun [and funny] time and the costumes are outrageous! And what else do you have to do on Halloween night other than hide from the myriad of trick-or-treaters pounding on your door, right?

A lot of adults think Halloween and dressing up is for kids. I never could understand that. All year long adults are expected to act all adult-like and responsible. Halloween is the one night out of the year we can all dress up like someone else and be unlike ourselves. Henri David's motto: Don't Come As You Are, But As You Want to Be!

In the spirit of the season, I've made a list of really easy but funny Halloween costumes that can be made in less than 30 minutes. I challenge everyone who reads Go Fish to throw caution to the wind and dress up this Halloween. Even if you just sit around your house and watch scary movies, at least you will be in costume and that's important for your well-being!

The list:

The Jersey shore -- dress in blue [which is stretching it a bit, I know] and paste hypodermic needles, dead fish, seagulls, sand, shells, and random found objects [like socks, unrolled condoms, driftwood] to yourself.

The Universe -- dress in dark blue or black and attach glow in the dark stars and planets to yourself. If you're feeling especially industrious you could make a headpeice for yourself out of a baseball cap with the brim cut off, wire, and some styrofoam balls painted to look like planets

Autumn -- dress in brown and paste fake Fall leaves all over yourself

A road -- dress all in black and paint a double dotted yellow line up your middle or side of your body. Just to a be funny, glue toy cars onto your "road"...you can even make a big accident with fake blood and decapitated Barbies.

A picnic -- dress in green and pin a red and white checked napkin to your chest and then attach a plastic plate with fake food and utensils over the napkin. Add some plastic ants for some fun.

This is my battle cry: dress for Halloween or face the consequences!

---

I like to make an ass out of myself in front of large crowds of people. This much should be obvious as I tell hugely embarrassing stories and post hideous pictures of myself constantly here at Go Fish. And, of course, you all know that I was a cheerleader for almost 10 years. No, not afraid of looking stupid to the masses.

What you might not know is that I can pinpoint the beginnings of this weird lack of self-consciousness. Both of my grandmothers used to encourage me to stand up wherever I might be and belt out the song You Are My Sunshine. Not just the first verse, but the entire song. And, more often than not, I would sing into the end of my jump rope.

Oh, but it doesn't end there. My Grammy Phyllis loved Lawrence Welk. When Lawrence Welk was on my Grammy P pulled up a big stool and I was expected to jump up and dance for her and whoever else was in the room. My Grammy Inky, on the other hand, was a big fan of Hee Haw. So whenever they'd do a hoe-down, I'd jump up on the stool at her house and pretend to clog. No shame, I tell ya.

The problem with that is they thought it was the cutest thing ever, and I was generally eager to please as a kid. So over the years if there was an occasion for me to act like a moron in public, I was there.

Possibly the single dumbest thing I've done in public is to join in the strange lip synch craze that overtook us all in the early 1980s. My junior high school held a lip synch contest during a school dance when I was in the 7th grade. My friends and I gathered together and thought long and hard about what we wanted to do. It came to us in a flash of brilliance.

We would be The Go-Gos.

At the time no one had yet seen the masterbatory after show video of the girls and we all thought they were the coolest. And I, yes, I got to be Belinda Carlisle -- queen of the cool girls! Yes!

So the lip synch contest approached and I practiced in front of my mirror. My mother was so sick of the song We Got the Beat she threatened to throw out my tape. I gathered the necessary elements of a Go-Gos-esque ensemble: Flashdance-cut gray sweatshirt, pink leggings, pink pumps, white hip slung belt, and lots of rubber bracelets. I was ready.

Unfortunately, the other girls in my group were not quite so completely excited about being on stage in front of the school. But I made them take the stage. If I remember correctly, our stage name was something silly like Glam Girls.

The MC announces us and I run out onto the stage, followed by the rest of my group, sort of pissily moping onto their marks. As I was running to my spot on stage I completely wiped out. One of my shoes flew into the audience.

Because I have absolutely no shame whatsoever, I jumped back up, took off my other shoe and started to lip synch like nothing ever happened. Of course, the rest of my "band mates" were in shock and not really doing anything other than standing there staring at me like I had grown a second head.

We managed to get through the song. I know you'll be surprised when I tell you this but we didn't win the competition. We lost to a bunch of wood shop guys lip synching to Def Leppard.

Bastards.

---

So the Virginia/DC area sniper has requested $10 million, eh?

Is it just me or is anyone else picturing Doctor Evil with his pinkie finger up to his lip? Is the sniper's partner in crime Mini Me? Is he going to steal my mojo?

I can't imagine what it must be like to live in the Virginia/DC/Maryland area right now. Bad things happen every day in any major metropolitan area, but knowing that some complete loon is out there gunning for you for no good reason would make me more than a little nervous. Between last September in New York and DC, and this October in DC I'm ready to move to South Dakota and bunker down in a shack in the middle of no where. Being midway between those two points has frayed my nerves somewhat.

What has made me sick is the fact that politicians in the upcoming elections are using the fear generated by the murders and terrorism [in general]. I'm sure many of you have heard of the whole brau-ha-ha in New Jersey over a replacement candidate for the Democratic party. The two candidates are now running ads banging one another for their views on gun control and terrorism.

My favorite is the one being run by Lautenberg [the replacement]. My favorite quote [picture a sinister voice here]:

Doug Forrester actually said, "It isn't my business if my neighbor wants to shoot semi-automatic weapons." Oh really, Mr. Forrester?

Don't get me wrong here -- I am a card carrying Democrat. I believe in gun control [to an extent]. But that commercial is so over the top. Those commercials make it impossible to consider a candidate's entire platform.

I can't say enough about how important it is to get out there and vote in this election. All elections are important, but this one seems so critical. I had a dream last night that Senate and Congress were Republican-controlled and the Shrub and John Ashcroft were just passing these Nazi-esque laws left and right, and by the end of the Shrub's term it was basically just a police state. Anyone who didn't agree with Republicans were rounded up, jailed, and then shot.

I just keep telling myself, it's only a dream.

---

When I lived in the ghetto I had this gorgeous neighbor named Todd. Todd was in medical school and to say that my roomies and I drooled over him is an understatement. We used to sit around and discuss him and wonder what he was like in bed and get upset because he didn't want to go out with any of us.

As it turns out, I got the opportunity for a sneak preview of what we were all missing with Todd in the sack.

Todd's bedroom window was literally 2 feet from mine. In fact, I could see into his window as his room is around the corner. Usually we kept all of our windows closed and locked for fear that some acrobatic criminal would break into the apartment as we slept, but one night it was so hot that we had to open the windows.

I'm sleeping peacefully when all of a sudden I am rudely awakened to the sound of outright shrieks coming from next door. For a minute I was ready to call the police, but then I heard it: Todd was yelling "Who's your daddy?" to which the lucky girl was screeching "Oh, Todd, give it to me! Fuck me hard!" And on and on.

Of course, I am not one to lie quietly and not share. So I ran around the apartment and woke up the other roomies and we gathered at the window, quietly choking back giggles as they just got louder and louder. Cats were gathering on the fire escape and yowling. I think I saw a few homeless people gather underneath the window.

And then it happened.

Todd and his, um, partner were pressed up against the wall just inside of his bedroom window. Todd just happened to turn his head toward my window and saw all of us pressing our faces against the screen. He screamed like a little girl, which made the girl scream even louder [not in ecstacy this time]. Todd slammed the window shut, pulled the blinds, and then we heard the girl yelling at him and she ran out of the apartment.

---

I find it endlessly bizarre at the things that go on in the military. Being screamed at and forced to run 20 miles in the rain is not my idea of a good time. I appreciate the job the military does, and I understand the need for them, but I could never see myself in the military. I just don't have that kind of drive.

Of course, if I knew I might be chastised with a dildo, I might reconsider. There's something so hilariously funny and so utterly wrong about this statement:

Captain Damir Ilyasov received a two-year suspended sentence for battering his subordinates with a ''black latex baton shaped like a male sex organ''.

It's the ultimate in male fantasy -- if you do something wrong I will strike you with my huge penis. Woe to all who cross me and my penis of death! Heh.

But what is even funnier to me is that someone actually deserted the army because of being struck by the dildo! Bwah! Maybe the former soldier has a complex about flying penises? Or is that penii?

Maybe the American military should start disciplining soldiers that way. Of course, in the American military you'd have to hit male soldiers with vagina-shaped instruments -- hitting a male soldier with a penis would probably go against the "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

---

I'm finally back at work after being on my death bed for the last few days. Something I've been meaning to share is the fact that I have changed my hair color and makeup. Now this is not really a blog-worthy event, but I've been sick and haven't had anything to really write about. My point? I'm going to blog about it anyway.

As you know, the photo on the right is me last week the day after I threw down with my neighbor. The photo on the left is the new Jan Brady new me.

I'm at my limit for number of different hair colors in one year as of right now. Since January I have been several different shades of red, two different shades of blonde, and now light brown. People at work think I'm crazy.

To be perfectly honest, I change my hair because I like change for the sake of change. Change is good. I know a lot of people like things to basically stay the same, and many are afraid of change. I could be like that, and by making changes I like to think that I am training myself to embrace change.

Someone was recently blogging about a book called Who Moved My Cheese? I read the book a few years ago, and it's the same rah-rah personal improvement garbage that everyone else has been peddling. But at it's heart the book is about not being afraid of change.

I used to be desperately afraid of putting down roots. I moved every year to a new apartment. I broke up with boyfriends after a month and acquired new ones. I changed jobs every year or two. Being on the move constantly sort of gets old though -- you start to accumulate too much stuff to keep moving.

Now that I'm married I can't just pick up and move when I want to so I'm left with changing my hair. It's only a symbolic gesture, but it makes me feel better to do it.

Who knew -- symbolic hair.

---

In the spirit of Halloween I'm going to share with you one of the spookiest stories I know. And it's true -- I checked out all the facts myself after the fact.

My friend Angela used to live in an apartment near South Street in Philadelphia. It was above a record store and it was a long, narrow apartment. Basically, it was just a long hallway and there was a bathroom, kitchen, and two bedrooms off the hallway [in that order].

Angela was thrilled to get the apartment. It was in a great location [right in the heart of the action on South Street] and it was dirt cheap [her rent was $300/month in an area where two bedroom apartments went for $800/month at least]. She invited me over one night for a sort of housewarming-movie watching night.

It was June when she moved in and I only lived about six blocks away from her at the time, so I walked over after work. The minute I walked into her apartment I noticed the smell -- it was like mildew combined with rotten eggs. Not overpowering, but enough to notice. But Angela didn't smell anything. I asked her if her air conditioner had something wrong with it. Angela told me that she didn't have the air conditioner on, that her apartment was just naturally cool, wasn't that great?

It must have been 80 degrees outside, but Angela's apartment was like a refrigerator.

She gave me the grand tour of the apartment. South Street apartments are notoriously in bad shape. A lot of people move in there to party and don't really take care of the properties, so I wasn't surprised when Angela told me that the bathroom floor seemed to have severe water damage and was sinking a little. I thought maybe that's what I was smelling. And there was a pantry closet in the hallway that bowed outward, like the closet had been stuffed full of thing and warped the door.

As much as there was an explanation for everything, I felt really uncomfortable in the apartment. And I couldn't come up with a reason or put my finger on what I was feeling.

So Angela and I watched a movie. In the middle of the movie I excused myself to use her bathroom. I swear to you this is true -- as I was sitting on the toilet the sink faucet turned on. Not just the water, OK...I actually saw the knob turn. And then I heard a giggle. So I'm freaked out, and I'm trying to get my pants pulled up as quickly as I can. The door to the bathroom unlocks itself and slowly creaks open [picture the horror movie thing where that happens], and I feel something brush my ear.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I made some excuse to Angela and went home. Angela stayed in the apartment for a year, and I never visited her for more than 5 minutes at a time and never used her bathroom. I never told her what happened [even though she asked me, because she knows I can see/sense ghosts] and she never noticed anything out of the ordinary except the damn bathroom door would never stay locked or closed.

OK, so a year later I was working at a law firm. At this point I haven't thought of the apartment in quite some time. A temp comes in for the day -- her name is Julia.
Julia and I get to talking and I find out she used to live in the same apartment as Angela. Before I could get another word out of my mouth, Julia asks me if I saw the little kids in the bathroom.

I think I held my breath for a second. Julia sort of grimaced and said, "I'll take that as a yes." I told Julia about the bathroom and what she told me next still makes my hair stand on end.

Apparently, Julia lived in that apartment with her infant son. Julia kept seeing the ghosts of two little kids running around the house, and the same things happened to her in the bathroom. She got curious about what was going on, so she asked some of the long time residents about who lived in the apartment before.

A woman told Julia that the apartment had originally been a house about 20 years ago. A widowed woman was living there with her two small children. The woman went crazy and drowned her kids in the bathtub. When the police found the children the water was running in the bathtub and sink and there must have been 3 inches of water on the floor.

That sort of makes my household ghosts seem pretty tame, which is why I don't complain about them!

---

Have I mentioned what a bad sick person I make? Well, it's true: I'm the worst patient on the planet. I whine and sniffle and demand juice and M&Ms. I bitch that my feet are too cold so pointedly that Craig feels inexplicably compelled to fetch me an additional pair of socks.

I am not looking forward to going into work with a cold tomorrow. Something about that building makes my nose run like a free-flowing river. Maybe it's just knowing that my nice warm bed beckons me. On top of that, I have a small quiz tomorrow night in Spanish class. I will just have to request that if I pass out, someone just pick me up and prop me back up at my desk.

I have not always been this bad of a sick person. For the most part I never wanted to disturb anyone with me being sick. I knew my mom worked practically round the clock in order not to lose the house and I figured she wouldn't appreciate me waking her up in the middle of the night because I felt like shit. My grandparents often slept like the dead and there was no waking them up even if I was bleeding from my eyeballs. So I basically took care of myself or ignored the problem.

Of course, I have not really been a very sick person. I've only been in the hospital for an overnight stay once and that was to have my tonsils removed. I have had the flu exactly twice, and I had brochitis once. My colds are annoying but generally not too bad. I whine and bitch about it, but it's just because I'm inconvenienced by not being able to breathe.

Hey, that cuts into my valuable kissing time.

Now Craig is starting to feel sick. I have no one to blame for it but myself. But hey, if you get married you have to expect to share germs. But if I am a bad sick person, Craig is the King Whiner of Sick People. Men make the worst sick people of all.

Oh, and someone must really like me alot. I've been nominated for two awards at The Bloggys: Best Design and Blog of the Month. I didn't design this, but I'd love to honor the designer -- so go vote for Go Fish [often].

In addition to Go Fish being nominated, some journals I read are up for awards -- Wolfpeach and Flightless Farrago are up for Best New Blog, and Pizza Dreams is up for Most Humorous Blog, just to name a few! Good luck everyone!

---

I've gushed before about how much I love living in Philadelphia. I truly do. There are, however, [just like anywhere else] some total whackjobs.

Take, for instance, the case of the gas worker who pissed all over some guy's baseball card collection. As a 12 year resident of Philadelphia, I have a close, personal relationship with Philadelphia Gas Works. They are the biggest bunch of assholes on the planet. More to the point, the people they employ are the lowest dregs of society [for the most part]. They are rude, obnoxious, and completely incompetent. And it comes as no surprise to me that this happened.

The issue of criminals posing as PGW employees is big here. You know, someone has on a uniform and carries a clipboard and people will let them into their homes. Then they get robbed. Obviously even letting in an actual PGW employee into your home can be somewhat of a risk! Heh.

I think everyone has a love-hate [or a hate-hate] relationship with utility companies. For me, the problem lies with customer service. Utilities need to have a huge department for customer service and I swear they only hire the least interested, least qualified, high school drop outs they can find. If you can't spell your own name, don't know how to work a computer, and have atrocious phone skills, well, the job is yours!

Maybe I should look into getting a job at PGW -- I would be the best employee imaginable and I wouldn't even pee on stuff.

---

Since I am at home being all sick today, have nothing else to talk about, and I am somewhat delirious, I've decided to embarrass myself even further.

When I was very young, I had a special relationship with my potty chair. I'm told that I would sit on the thing for hours, fall asleep there [yes, that's me in the photo asleep on the training crapper], and never want to be far away from it. If you're a parent, I'm sure you think that it's probably a good thing since I was potty trained early on. And that's true. But if you're a non-parent [like me], you just think that's plain weird, and I have to have some sort of potty-related trauma from the whole experience. I don't think that part is true -- I have a healthy attitude toward the whole issue of voiding bodily waste.

I've read a lot in journals/blogs over the last few months about the trauma that other people have with going to the bathroom. My own husband has colitis and irritable bowel syndrome, so I understand the phobia associated with taking a shit. After all, on our trip to London last year Craig spent the better part of our visit to the Tower of London getting very well-acquainted with the lavatorial facilities throughout the Tower.

I was, however, surprised when Christy told me [during our trip last weekend] that she herself is afflicted with some sort of strange defecation-homesickness thing. Christy claims that she never availed herself of the dorm facilities in order to relieve herself during our entire freshman year of college. Now, granted, Christy's parents live about 30-40 minutes away, but I find it hard to believe that Christy never once took a shit in the dorms. She said that she only felt comfortable in her own bathroom.

Is this common? Do people hold it in until they reach their own bathrooms? I once read that you can have an aneurism from straining during the whole event, and I suppose it would be better to be found in your own bathroom than discovered by a co-worker with your pants around your ankles.

---

I have always maintained that I was a pretty good kid. And I was, with the exception of a year when I was obviously possessed.

This is me in the sixth grade. Notice that I was going through an uber awkward period. And let's keep in mind here that it was 1983 or 1984, so no cracks about the cheesy reflective photograph! However, feel free to make fun of the rest of my generous early '80s awkwardness all you want.

At the end of sixth grade I apparently lost what little sense I possessed. I copied a dirty poem from somewhere [because I know my fevered preteen brain could not have come up with anything quite so inspired] and handwrote at least 50 copies and distributed them throughout my elementary school.

Who knows, you may recognize the poem. Here's a little nugget from the poem:

Number 1 - we're having lots of fun
Number 2 - we're just about to screw
Number 3 - he's so dreamy
Number 4 - I'm locking the door
Number 5 - I feel so alive
Number 6 - he gives me a kiss
Number 7 - it feels like heaven

Yeah, you get the idea. I forget to which number the poem went up to and it really didn't get much worse than that. But I was in sixth grade, and that's pretty racy for a sixth grader [or at least it was in 1984].

I will never forget this as long as I live: we were in Reading class, doing work from those literature books from the '80s -- I think they were called things like Dungeons and Dragons, and changed according to which level of reading you were at. Anyway, we were all passing a copy of this poem around the room during class, and my teacher, Mr. Ricci, intercepted the note.

Mr. Ricci's face turned purple, but I think he was really just trying not to laugh. I was sent to the Principal's office [because the Principal is your pal!] and my mom had to come in, and it was a whole big mess. I think I was grounded for months.

After that incident I sort of got a bad rap with some of the teachers. And my sexploits were not forgotten by my classmates either. For some unknown reason after that I decided I wanted to be a sex therapist. You know, just like Dr. Ruth. And so throughout the remainder of my sixth grade year and until the end of my seventh grade year I was seriously monitored by my teachers.

Can you imagine what they were thinking? They probably imagined that I was having orgies with the local Elks Club or something. Or that I was secretly running an underground kiddie porn ring.

But really, I just thought Dr. Ruth was cool.

---

Last night when I got home from school I received a call. It was a woman with a very thick accent, and I could barely understand a word she said. I knew it was a sales call, in part because I don't know anyone with an accent like that, and also because she totally mangled my last name.

Me: Is this a sales call?
Salesgirl: No, this is a courtesy call. I'm calling because you're a preferred customer of Providian Bank. Now you can get a credit increase of $200 just for trying a new service we're offering. You can save up to 50% on your bill at restaurants around the country! All you have to do....
Me: OK, you just lied to me. This is a sales call. If you or anyone else from your company calls and lies to me again I will no longer be a customer at Providian Bank.

Now I know there's a better way to deal with these assholes. That way: the Anti-Telemarketing EGBG Counterscript [via Christine]. Since I usually get a sales call at least once every night [despite putting my name on Pennsylvania's Do Not Call list...don't get me started] I believe I'm going to be able to try this out this evening!

Screaming into the phone is getting a little old.

---

I've had quite an eventful couple of days. First, I break a guy's finger for manhandling me, then I freak out and make a grown faux punk boy cry like a little bitch. Where can a week go after that?

I am not normally a violent girl. True, I do carry an illegal weapon on me at all times [mine is illegal because it is filed to a sharp point]. But I don't go around threatening people with it, nor do I regularly get into fist fights.

I have been in two fights in my entire life, only one of which I was actively involved in.

The first fight was in the 8th grade when some crazy chick with a grudge jumped on me after a dance and attempted to beat the hell out of me. I say attempted because the girl was wasted and I outweighed her by at least 20 pounds. It was likely a comical sight: little 8th grade me running around a pole with this insane drunk girl chasing me, trying to land a punch. She eventually tired out, gave up, and then passed out in front of me and a huge crowd of on-lookers. Does that make me the winner by default?

The second fight was in college, and it was a noble fight: purely in defense of my roommate. We were at this horrible cheesy club called Maui that used to be on Delaware Avenue. Christy was dancing with some guy. There were a group of guys and a girl dancing next to them. One of the guys punched the guy Christy was dancing with, and when Christy tried to break it up, the girl clocked Christy in the mouth. Since I and the rest of my roomies at the time were standing five feet away it became a minor rumble. At least I wasn't running around a pole that time.

Under normal circumstances, however, I am calm and not prone to fits of wild violence. I'm just not afraid to defend myself.

There is one place that I am constantly willing to pick a fight: mosh pits. I used to be pretty easy-going about being a pit, but after I got kicked in the head at an L7 show by someone being a total smacked ass I got a little more proactive about stupid people in mosh pits.

I don't go to a lot of shows anymore. The majority of people attending shows of bands I like are assholes. Every time I see a Rollins Band show there are at least two dozen completely out of control pre-teen boys hurling themselves in the pit looking for a fight. They think the purpose of a pit is to hurt people. I was injured at a Beastie Boys show because some kid thought it would be a great idea to start throwing people into the pit, people who didn't want to be there and didn't know how to leave it.

This is going to make me sound like a bitter old hag at my ripe old age of 30, but I remember when pits where just people sort of bouncing off one another, like a cosmic popcorn popper. That's why it's called slam dancing, and not punch everyone in the face dancing. But, like everything else, someone got the wrong idea and made it about violence. So now venturing into the pit is an exercise in mortal combat.

The very first show I went to when I moved to Philly was Nine Inch Nails [1990, so it was the tour for Pretty Hate Machine. I saw them in Trenton, NJ at a place called City Gardens]. It was bliss to be in the pit there -- no one trying to kill anyone else, just everyone kind of hanging out together and enjoying the show. I went to see the last tour of NIN and it was not the same -- it was a bunch of testosterone-driven adolescents who missed the point.

Now that I'm complaining about "those damn kids," does this mean I should just give it up? Walk with a cane? Adopt a few hundred cats?

Hell, I've already taken up knitting.

---

I was so bent out of shape about last night's events that I forgot to mention a strange dream I had. Normally I won't blog about dreams, because who the hell cares, right? However, this was my first dream that involved a fellow journaller.

In the 45 minutes of sleep I actually got last night I dreamt that Meegan and I were in high school detention together. She turned to me and said: "If we can collect all the bottles we'll make it."

Then she got up from her desk and threw a bottle at my head.

And that concludes my first blog/journal-related dream. You may now go on about your business.

---

Ahem. It's true that I don't really care at all about the rights of criminals. To provide moisturizer just seems seems like a perk that is waiting for a punchline.

I understand that health care in prisons can be lacking. However, the Chief Inspector of Prisons in England needs to understand that scabies can't be prevented by providing moisturizer. And who the hell cares if an incarcerated criminal doesn't have skin that is smooth. Who does he need smooth, silky skin for?

Which leads me to the obvious joke just waiting to be made. Heh. Don't these people understand that sex and masturbation is a big part of prison life? It's going to be like Caligula in there! All the free moisturizer you can use, boys! Go to it!

---

Hey, have I mentioned my sucky ass neighbors recently? You know the ones -- they think they're all punk rock.

I made one of them cry last night.

OK, it was actually this morning. 4am, to be precise.

Since faux punk girl was forced out of the house by her parents last month it has just been faux punk boy and the brother of faux punk boy. I imagined [up until last night] that the two of them sit around the house and just dream up ways to drive people in the neighborhood systematically insane. Sleep-deprivation makes people into lunatics, you know.

I'm living proof of that. Last night at 1am they turned up their stereo as loud as it would go. We had the windows closed and a fan on, but it was still as if the stereo was in the room with us. I laid in bed until 4am and I thought evil thoughts. I wished a meteor would crash into their house and kill them. I fervently hoped the meth lab that is likely set up in their livingroom would blow up. I desired to see a mob of neighborhood kids shove bamboo sticks under their faux punk fingernails while cutting them and pouring salt in the cuts. Fire ants? Bring them on!

What happened next is a blur.

I leapt out of bed in a single bound, marched downstairs, threw on my sneakers, and pounded on their door. I want you to imagine me. This is me this morning. I look pretty normal, if not kind of tired. Last night I was wearing blue plaid flannel pajamas, a pair of running sneakers, and my leather coat. My hair was standing straight up from tossing and turning in bed all night. I was wearing my glasses. I'm a little girl -- 5'2" and fairly petite. And I was ragingly pissed off.

So my faux punk neighbor answers the door. I start off very nice. I introduce myself: "Hello, my name is Nicole. I'm your neighbor from across the street." I shook his hand.

It's then that I completely lost my mind. I started screaming at him:

"You must turn down your music, you stupid motherfucker! I have not slept in at least a month because you fucktards [thank you BeerMary] can't figure out that all of us in the neighborhood have a different sleep schedule than you! Pull your fucking head out of your fucking ass and look around! Everyone in this motherfucking neighborhood wants to fucking stab you and your friends in the guts and use your intestines as fucking Christmas tree garland! While I understand that you just moved out of mommy and daddy's house for the very first time, have some fucking respect, you whitebred, disrespectful, limp dick motherfucker!"

The reason I know I said this is because Craig videotaped the whole thing. He made me watch it this morning. I'm a scary girl.

And faux punk boy thought so too. As soon as I paused to take a breath he started to cry like a little girl. Then he started to apologize. I realized that while I was yelling at him I had been jumping up and down like a fucking lunatic. So I dialed it back a bit, accepted his apology, asked him to please keep the music down, and returned to my house.

Is there such a thing as sleep-deprivation rage? I think I might need help. At least there were no pumpkin carving tools around -- things could have gotten ugly.

Hell hath no fury like a girl denied her sleep. Heh.

---

I often marvel at the fact that I escaped my hometown of Berwick, Pennsylvania. It's a very small town filled with bars and factories, and [as Susan and Tina and others from the area can tell you] growing up there is not conducive to you doing great things with your life.

From the time I was old enough to realize that Berwick is an armpit [about age 6] I have wanted to leave. I fantasized about learning to drive just so I could get in the car and drive far, far away. I dreamt of moving to the other edge of the universe just so I could be as far away from Berwick as possible.

There are a limited number of things you can do as a teenager in Berwick in order to pass the time.

• You can do your level best to while away the time drunk or stoned. Finding drugs and alcohol there isn't difficult, but drugs and alchohol are expensive so most times that meant kicking back with a bottle or two of Nyquil and some Sharpie markers.


• You could become a one man crime spree, or gather your friends and become a roving band of delinquents. Available activity options include cow tipping, playing mailbox baseball, or trying to run over small animals on the side of the road. One creative soul actually blew up my mom's mailbox with an M-80.


• You could attempt to have as much sex as possible in as many places as possible...without getting caught, of course.

Sports took up some of my time, but things get boring. Since I wasn't up for cheap highs or a police record, my main way to pass time was the third option on my list. I started dating a boy named Scott when I was 16 and we pretty much had sex in every nook and cranny the town of Berwick had to offer.

One of our favorite places to sneak in some nooky was a Ukrainian Orthodox church picnic area. It was around the corner from my mom's house and usually pretty empty, although one time some people mowing the grass showed up out of no where.

My point is that with those three meager options, it's easy to get caught up in the whole thing and end up in Berwick for the rest of your life. You spend your time in a perpetual stupor or in prison and don't see the need to get out of town, or you get knocked up and have to get married and don't have the option of leaving town. Next thing you know, you're working in a factory for minimum wage for the rest of your life, living in a tiny town with no decent shopping or restaurants.

So today I'm feeling lucky. I am. I am lucky. I'm lucky that I had the sense to use multiple forms of birth control at all times. And I'm lucky that I was able to leave and go to college elsewhere.

I guess that enjoying where you live is what you make it. My mom still lives in the house I grew up and loves living in the boondocks of Berwick. Tina lives in Shickshinny and I think she likes it. Some people are not city people. I'm just not a small town living kind of person, I suppose.

I do not enjoy the scent of cow manure.

---

I love Autumn. The Fall is my favorite season -- it's a little cool outside, the leaves on the trees start to turn colors, and it means Halloween and my wedding anniversary.

My Halloween costume is now almost complete, and Craig and I put up the decorations up around our house [little skeletons in the window]. We used to carve pumpkins. That tradition died a few years ago when something so horrifying and traumatic happened that it put me off carving pumpkins forever.

I had to carve 40 pumpkins in the space of 2 days.

Now, I exaggerate slightly here -- I didn't carve all of those 40 pumpkins. But the fact of the matter is that 40 pumpkins had to be carved. I'm sure you're asking yourself right now, "Self, why would Nicole need to carve 40 pumpkins? Why would anyone need 40 carved pumpkins?"

The answer is simple: a good wedding plan gone horribly awry.

I'm sure that every bride-to-be does this. You and your fiance brainstorm about different ideas for your big day. You come up with some outlandish things and some cool things and some dumb things. Finally, the plan comes together and you keep at least one or two of the outlandish things. And then those things become the bane of your existence.

The bane of my existence were those stupid pumpkins. Since we got married a few days before Halloween and had a Halloween themed wedding, we thought it would be a great idea to have real carved pumpkins for centerpieces! Woooooo!

The first hurdle was finding out that, since we were being married on a ship that would be sailing during the reception, Coast Guard regulations forbid open flames on board. So no lit candles in the jack-o-lanterns. After a few days of sulking, we came up with an alternative: glow sticks. No problem.

Reality set in two weeks before the wedding. How the hell were we supposed to carve all those pumpkins? Wedding party to the rescue -- since we didn't really need a real rehearsal, we threw a fake rehearsal dinner where we conned the wedding party and our parents into carving pumpkins. We had two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, 3 sets of parents, and assorted other wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, and relatives. Even so, I had to carve 20 of those stupid pumpkins myself.

I now hate everything about pumpkins. I hate the smell of them, the color orange, the slimy guts, the oozing seeds. I'm grossed out by the idea of pumpkin pie. I get the shakes when I come within 2 feet of carving tools.

The upside to all this is that the pumpkins came out great and they looked really cool. But I really hate pumpkins.

Maybe I need therapy.

---

Here's a tip for men and boys worldwide: puka shell necklaces are not your friend. In fact, they make you look stupid.

Now I know that you thought the highlight of my weekend was having a smack down with a certain member of the armed forces, but that was only the beginning of my evening out in Norfolk.

I've expounded upon just how psychotic Sharon [the chick I visited in Norfolk] can be. She's been married to Bob for five years. Bob is in the Navy, and is currently out to sea until December. This next fact is very important to the story: they have no arrangement that makes it OK to smooch someone else.

After ridiculing the sailor who called me Bootylicious, we all left Bar Norfolk. Sharon accosted some complete stranger wearing a puka shell necklace and promised him "we'll take care of you." So we and puka shell necklace boy ended up at an after hours club called Buggatti's. After being there for ten minutes I noticed Sharon and puka shell boy making with the smoochies in the corner.

After much devious planning [and dodging of Bootylicious guy, who had somehow ended up at the same club], we descended on Sharon and the boy and convinced Sharon that it was time to go. Unfortunately, Sharon wasn't willing to give up her little snack that easily and he ended up coming back to Sharon's house with us.

You know, it really sucks to be the lone sober chick in a sea of drunk people. I was the only one sober enough to notice puka shell boy tonguing Sharon's shoulder and hand. Where is a jagged spoon when you need one?

There was more smooching at the house until Christy laid down the law and sent Sharon to pass out her in bed, and puka shell boy to pass out in the livingroom.

End of story? Not quite.

The next morning we absolutely had to get rid of puka shell boy, although it was tempting to get in the car and drive back to Philly and let Sharon deal with her stupidity. But we drove puka shell boy back to his military barracks. Only he really didn't know how to get there, because this was his first week in the Navy.

It took us almost two hours to drive his dumb ass back to his barracks. And believe me -- puka shell boy was dumber than a brick. He kept saying "I'm from Pittsburgh. Do you know where Pittsburgh is? Have you ever heard of Pittsburgh?"

Finally I just turned around and screeched, "Yo, Rainman, Pittsburgh is a fucking armpit! Now shut up before we throw you out of the car!" He was surprisingly quiet for most of the ride after that.

It was at key moments when puka shell boy became vocal. We were in front of a sign that said "Old Dominion University." He piped up, "This is Old Dominion University!" We were driving over the Chesapeake Bay. He proudly proclaimed, "This is the bay! I don't know what bay it is, but this is the bay!" Gosh, our very own tour guide...goody for us!

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we dropped puka shell boy off at his barracks. He waved goodbye to us like we were his new best friends. I swore at him while Christy peeled out, leaving him a cloud of obscenity and exhaust fumes.

The kicker: Sharon doesn't know his name, so he will forever just be remembered as puka shell boy. And she doesn't feel even remotely bad about hooking up with someone. She needs adult supervision.

---

My life is now complete: I was referred to as Bootylicious.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself. As you may recall, I left Philadelphia Thursday after work and left Go Fish in the capable hands of Mrs. Roboto and Iain from No Pips. The side stops that Christy needed to take before we got our little road trip underway ended up taking three extra hours instead of 1.5. Which means we got into Virginia Beach at almost 2 am.

Did I mention that Christy fell asleep at the wheel half a dozen times and almost killed us? If not for the fact that I was wide awake in absolute terror so I could scream like a little girl and hit Christy in the arm when she was headed for the guardrail, we might be lying dead in the proverbial ditch right now.

Ahem.

So Friday night Sharon, Christy, and I got all pretty and went out. I think it must be monsoon season in Virginia Beach/Norfolk right now -- it poured down hard, cold, stinging rain. So the prettiness didn't last very long but it didn't seem to matter. I understand that there are several military bases in the immediate area, but these guy are, um, well, plentiful, aggressive, and seemingly desparate.
I think I'm overstating the ugly factor here. We, in fact, didn't look bad...only slightly bedraggled. In comparison to the other girls who hang at Bar Norfolk, we were like beacons of beauty, grace, and style. Oh, and we were wearing actual clothing. That's apparently not a popular option in the club scene right now. I think I saw a girl actually wearing pasties on her huge bajumbo fake boobs. It was icky.

Yeah, so we're dancing and about 50 sailors descend on us. Maybe we were the only three people they hadn't hit on yet.

Let me explain something to you about me: I have issues with personal space. If I don't know you, you should not come up to me and grind my hip, my ass, or any other part of me with your penis. If you place your hand on me before I see your face, expect to get your hand back missing digits.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't mind being in the mix on a crowded dance floor. But I can tell the difference between accidental touch and trying to get into my panties touch. Even when I was single I didn't like to be manhandled by a random stranger, but now that I am married I'm much more...stringent about things.

I think you can see where I'm going with this: I may have broken some guy's finger.

We were dancing in this crowd of testerone when one of them attempted to play "Tune in Tokyo" with my apparently unresistable rack. I did the only thing a girl with decorum could do -- I grabbed one of his hands and bent all his fingers back as hard as I could. One of them seemed to be hanging at a funny angle, but he backed away slowly clutching his hand. The rest of the pack sensed that I wasn't looking to get laid and kept their distance.

So one brave soul actually came up and talked to me while I was getting a beer. I don't mind people who just want to talk. He was a nice guy in town for a training week, usually stationed in Long Island, NY. So we're talking and then it happened: he called me Bootylicious. I think I started to giggle, then laugh uproariously, and then started to hiccup. How can you take someone seriously who calls you Bootylicious?

---

I've already hinted on my site that I have a spot of bother sometimes making my mouth say what my brain is thinking. I suffer from this when everyone in the room is waiting for me to say something, or when I'm trying to impress and tripping over myself in my attempts to try hard. The following is a true story, when both of the above combined to make one outstanding moment of embarrassment.

Ten years ago I was dating this girl, who, for the sake of this tale, we shall call X. It was approaching our first Christmas together and, keen to impress, I gladly accepted the offer from X's parents to enjoy a Christmas lunch with them. It would be fun, X outlined, as the family often sat down afterwards with a bottle of port and avoided the Queen's Speech by playing board games.

How stressful could that be, I thought. Sounded easy.

But. I. Tried. Too. Hard.

Christmas Day. Having arrived at the home of X for lunch, I began my endless attempts to impress X's parents.

"What a lovely house", "What a lovely smell" (re the dinner, not the foul aroma wafting from the lavatory), "That's a nice blouse" (though I think I meant to say it to X's mother, not her father).

The awkward acceptance of a stranger in their house for Christmas slowly began, and by the time lunch had finished, the ice was well and truly broken (amazingly) and we settled down in the living room for a game of Trivial Pursuit, accompanied by a glorious bottle of port.

I'm OK with general knowledge stuff, so wasn't worried about making myself look like a donut by saying something stupid. I should have worried.

The game progressed reasonably well. Three teams (X and I, her parents, her brother and his wife), the bottle of port, no Queen's speech, general laughter and a good sense of competition. Realising I was perhaps trying too hard, I remained quiet unless X asked me for help for the questions, and she was doing just fine until we were asked one that I knew I knew the answer to.

The question was this:

What was the name of the building Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK from on November 22nd 1963?

I knew this. I'd watched stuff about JFK, read books on the theories about his death, and I knew the answer. Part of me wanted me to be asked what the answer was. So imagine my delight when X turned and said, I'm not sure... Iain, do you know? I knew.

It was an opportunity for me to impress with a dazzling display of my general knowledge. The room was silent. Everyone looked. Everyone waited.

My brain said: Texas Book Depository

My mouth said: [swipe with mouse to reveal] Texas Book Suppository [end swipe]

???

I cannot describe the moment after the words came out of my mouth, the looks on faces, the scarlet red X's face went...

Appropriately, I felt an ass...

Now, don't be shy, you must have a similiar tale, of brain and mouth being out of sync, you'd like to share... any fishes care to take the bait?

---

Hi-ho there, it's Mrs-Roboto. Thought I'd come hang out here today since my place is getting fumigated. I seem to have some sort of a cootie infestation at Rainy Daze. I think those pests are just drawn to the lime green or something. Anyway, Nicole was nice enough to let me crash out here and watch her cable and eat her food and make long distance calls from her phone. Well, she actually never said I could use all those amenities but I'm sure she won't mind. She's generous like that.

Now on to the storytelling. Some of you may know that I worked at an erotic bakery while attending college. What you probably didn't know was that the bakery also sold a variety of amorous accouterments (yes, I mean sex toys). We had vibrators, butt plugs, lubricants, lingerie, everything you could imagine except porn mags and videos. That was where the boss lady drew the line. She felt that those types of products might draw the wrong crowd. Edible underwear and nipple clamps, on the other hand brought in the creme de la creme of society.

So we got our fair share of nuts and perverts. There were men who might ask what a dildo was used for just to hear you explain. My standard response was that they should read the instructions because I had no idea being the innocent christian I am. Would they like to read the bible with me? I had another guy who would come in daily and purchase a vagina shaped lollipop which he would then proceed to consume in what I believe he saw as a sensual manner while strolling through the shop. And then there was the lady who came in daily to buy condoms. She'd buy a pack of ten on Monday and then come back Tuesday for ten more. I think we can all draw our own conclusions here. But there's one guy who really stands out in my mind, one man who makes cringe even seven years later.

His name was Martin. He was small and skinny and pastey white. He looked like he might be in his forties but was probably only in his late twenties. He had thick coke bottle glasses and greasey hair. He claimed to be a research assistant at M.I.T. He talked alot but avoided ever making eye contact with me. His first purchase was a blow-up doll named Cherry. He told me his friend was getting married. He thought this would be a good gag gift for him. They were having a bachelor party. His friend would think this was funny and so on. Did I have any blondes? His friend liked blondes. No just Cherry, a red head, and an inflatable sheep called the Love Ewe. It was his choice. He took Cherry.

About a week later Martin came back. He was looking for lingerie for his girlfriend. She was about 5'6, he told me, very slim and attractive. What size lingerie should he get? I selected what I thought the doll would wear and sent him on his way. He came back the following week for some lubricants, once again for the girlfriend. I sold him some. Another week passed and he returned for chocolate body paint. Things were getting wild with the girlfriend. The fourth week he returned he just looked around. He was quieter than usual. He looked out of whack. He finally approached me. He was looking for a vinyl patch kit, for his girlfriend.

---

Wow! Harry Belafonte knows how to hurt a guy! That's cold!

While I don't agree with all of Belafonte's rant, I almost laughed with glee when I read what he said about John Ashcroft.

Belafonte's comments about Powell were part of a nearly 20-minute tirade against the Bush administration, in which he also likened Attorney General John Ashcroft's tactics to those employed during the McCarthy era in the 1950s...

..."Families were destroyed, neighbors spied on neighbors," Belafonte said of the era. "Now we find Ashcroft cutting in under the guise of catching terrorists, suspending liberties and rights."

Sing it, Harry.

---

As I've been alluding to all week, I am leaving Philadelphia this evening to visit a friend for a few days. Craig is going to have to fend for himself for a few days, I guess. Christy and I are driving to Virginia to visit Sharon. Well, Christy is driving and I will be the official passenger. At any rate, I anticipate having a frustrating weekend considering Sharon usually doesn't get out of bed until 3pm every day and it's like water torture to try to get her anywhere at a normal hour. And Christy is, well, Christy. She has already pissed me off and we haven't left yet.

We made plans to leave directly after work. I have my bag with me at work today. She planned to pick me up and then we were going to start driving. Sharon called her last night at 2pm and asked her to stop by Sharon's mother's house in Bucks County to pick up some papers...so we have to do that. And then someone at Christy's work is leaving and their having a little goodbye party for the person after work and Christy wants to go to that. So at this point we're already at least two hours behind schedule. Christy claims that she will only be 30 minutes late to pick me up [but I will be surprised if it's not more like 1.5 hours] and the trip to Sharon's mother's house will take on an additional 1.5 hours.

Yeah, so I'm not happy.

But I am happy that I have two fabulous guest posters lined up for tomorrow! Mrs. Roboto will be on the morning shift and Iain from No Pips will be posting in the late afternoon/early evening. Hooray!

---

Today is National Poetry Day in the U.K.! So because I'm a huge literature nerd, I'm going to post my one of my favorite short poems by Pablo Neruda. It may be a little boring to those of you who aren't fans of poetry, but I know you'll indulge me just this once.

Naked (Sonnet XXVII) [written in 1959]

Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked, you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.

Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails--
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,

as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed--drops its leaves--
and becomes a naked hand again.

---

I understand why companies feel the need to warn of every possible danger associated with their products. In this atmosphere of litigation-happy fucktards [™ BeerMary], it's all about covering your ass. If Cletus gets out his brand new steam iron and attempts to iron his dungarees while they are actually on his body and burns himself silly, DumbJoe Steam Irons can't be sued for negligence because they have attached a tag to the iron that says "Do not iron clothes while on body." If Peggy Sue is allergic to nuts but eats a handful of Dumass Mixed Nuts and then dies, the Dumass company cannot be sued by Peggy Sue's family because they have a warning right on the label: "This product contains nuts."

The thing that frightens me is that in order for a warning to be on a product, something had to have happened. Have you ever read the warning label of a hairdryer? It warns us not to dry hair with it while in the bathtub or shower, and also tells us that using your hair dryer while sleeping is not a good idea. What that says to me is that Junior was in a hurry so he took a bath and dried his hair simultaneously. Junior dropped the hairdryer into the bathtub, got fried, and then his family sued the hairdryer manufacturer because it wasn't plainly stated that dropping an electrical appliance in water in which you are standing is a Very Bad Thing.

When did we start blaming others for our own stupidity? Furthermore, when did we start being rewarded for being stupid? The guy who is suing several fast food chains for jeopardizing his health should not be rewarded for being a moron. The man has had two heart attacks and has diabetes and admits to eating fast food half a dozen times every week. Is he mentally deficient? Does he live in a box? Has he never visited the doctor's office who told him to lay off the fries?

It particularly enrages me when idiotic people sue and then win cases [read: MONEY] over things that are so blatantly their own fault. A woman sues a furniture store because she tripped over a loose kid and broke her ankle. The kid was her own. It's not the furniture store's fault the woman can't control her kid. An orthopaedic surgeon sues a sneaker manufacturer because she fell when her shoe laces came untied. Well double knot your laces you dumbass!

Pretty soon we're going to have to sign release forms when entering buildings, purchasing things, or going out to eat at restaurants. We'll have to sign away our rights when going to theater in case the pop corn is too hot or too unhealthy.

Maybe I should sue the people suing over stupid things for mental anguish.

---

I think I've had just about enough of people trying to fundraise for themselves through their blogs and other personal sites. It's tacky and it's no better than perfectly able-bodied people panhandling for spare change on the street corner. It's just a little higher tech.

I recently wrote a review for The Weblog Review. The person's writing was good and funny, and I really enjoyed reading what the writer had to say. The thing that totally turned me off was the writer full on asks for tips before you even get to the entries. The ask is immediate and prominently displayed in several locations. There is even an entire entry about it...as if anyone reading his blog wouldn't get the idea -- the writer is trying to use his blog to drum up some cold hard cash. In one place he claims it's just to keep the site running, but it's a Blogspot site -- not much overhead keeping a free site running.

It's creepy and gross. It's no better than that pathetic girl trying to raise money on a website to help her wipe out her credit card debt.

Now, Moxie also asks for donations on her blog. I don't know why but I don't find it so distasteful when she does it. Maybe it's not as prominent. Maybe it's just less needy and more casual. She too says it's to keep things running, but she actually pays for webhosting [I think], so she at least has more of a leg to stand on with that reasoning. I guess I just appreciate that the ask is not such a hard and needy sell.

As a professional fundraiser I appreciate being finessed before being presented with the ask. And as any good fundraiser will tell you [I'm sure Delirious Cool would back me up on this], it is vital that you are willing to put your money where your mouth is -- in other words, you have to be willing to support your own cause before you should start asking for gifts. A sob story that is too over the top will generally not win you any sympathy, but the facts of need presented in a positive way will usually result in a gift.

The sob story and hard ask is what turned me off of the one blog, and the absolute lack of supporting your own cause is what pisses me off about the credit card chick. I still haven't determined why I think Moxie's ask is better or more valid than the others.

---

Everyone has at least one dumb friend. I'm not just talking mildly idiotic -- I mean full on wildly stupid. But yet this stupid person is just so well-meaning and sweet, you can't help but be friends with them.

I've had two really moronic friends over the years. Strangely, I met both of them in college. To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how either of them got into college -- but both of them come from wealthy families so maybe the families bribed their way in.

As much as it pains me to say it, I dated one of my stupid friends. Yes, it was purely for the sex -- it surely wasn't for the scintillating conversation! Ken was a stereotypical dumb jock: very cute, nice body, dumber than a brick. He mostly spoke in monosyllabic sentences. My quintessential Ken story is this: one year he and some fraternity brothers of his decided to drive to Florida for Spring Break. Ken was the person driving the first shift -- he gets on I-95 and says "Dude, dude, which way do I drive?"

For those of you not from the east coast, I-95 is an interstate the runs North-South the entire length of the east coast. I don't drive and even I know that. If he were from out-of-state I could understand it, but Ken grew up in the Philadelphia suburbs. He drove constantly. In fact, as a side job he drove a limo for his father's company. That boy just had no sense. Last I heard of him, Ken was still driving for his father. Let's hope no one needs to go to Florida.

My other dumb friend's name is Jenny. She's sort of got a double whammy against her: not only is she a very dim bulb, but Jenny's also incredibly racist. She doesn't really count in the "dumb but sweet" category...mostly she's in the "so dumb I need to stick around to see what happens" category.

The very first time I met Jenny she told me she thought the term "American Indian" referred to Indians of Arabic/Middle Eastern descent [she is wildly racist about Middle Eastern Indians]. She also didn't know that the term "Native American" referred to American Indians and she had no clue that Indians [Native Americans] were the original inhabitants of what is now the continential U.S. I was flabbergasted. I can maybe understand not knowing the details of how other countries were settled, but to not know basic U.S. history is insanity. She actually thought I was lying when I explained the whole thing with European settlers kicking Indians off their land, the bloody history of Indians and settlers, etc. I had to show her a history book to make her believe it.

Jenny is someone who doesn't believe the Holocaust actually happened. Of course, she doesn't really know much about it. She knows absolutely nothing about politics -- she doesn't vote and sees no reason for her to worry about it. She hates everyone who isn't exactly like her: white, heterosexual, and not poor.

What's scarier is that she generally dates men who are just as ridiculously stupid as she is. In college she had a boyfriend named Dan, who was dumb as a stump but the sweetest person you'll ever meet. We were all out to dinner one night and he actually said he didn't understand why a double cheeseburger was called a double cheeseburger. Someone said "Well, because there are two burgers in the sandwich." Dan said, "So? I just don't get it!"

I'm often amazed at how stupid people can actually make it through the day without getting themselves killed. Ken actually fell down three flights of stairs at an old house of mine because he was trashed and not paying attention. Then he peed on my roommates futon and slept face down in his own piss for 12 hours. Jenny sees nothing wrong at yelling racial slurs at people in the subway.

Maybe morons lead charmed lives?

---

Is anyone else surprised that no one in the media or the U.S. government has attempted to link the sniper attacks in the D.C. area to al Quaeda-sponsored terrorism?

My bets are on some seriously disturbed, militia-obsessed, NRA-crazy loon [and maybe his friends]. And while I'm not a supporter of mob retribution violence, I understand the instinct. What is a good punishment for someone like this?

I understand that the U.S. criminal justice system is in place to not only punish and/or rehab those who have committed a crime, but also to protect the rights of criminals. I don't disagree that some criminals should have rights. I'm just not sure people who murder should have the same rights as some guy who smokes pot and got caught three times.

I'm not sure I believe that murderers can be rehabilitated. I certainly don't want to live next door to Charles Manson, should he ever be paroled. Like Iain and Shannon said a few days ago -- some people just don't understand the idea of consequence. You might have the urge to do something like throttle the person in line at the Dunkin' Donuts who holds up the line by paying in pennies, but you understand that by doing so you risk being arrested and sued. People who murder [generally speaking, of course] other people never developed a healthy sense of consequence, and I honestly don't think that jailing them for any amount of time and providing them with counseling will help them to develop it.

So when the authorities catch the person[s] responsible for the sniper attacks what should be done with him/her/them? While I know some of you will argue that the killer[s] probably has emotional problems/couldn't help themselves/had a bad childhood, I would like to propose that this person's rights be suspended and be sentenced to a more creative punishment.

I have long supported death row inmates and "lifer" inmates being used for medical experimentation. Like with animal experimentation, I don't believe they should be used for frivolous experimentation [who doesn't know that drinking lye is not a good idea?], but why not use them as test subjects for drugs to cure cancer or drugs to cure sickle cell anemia or M.S.?

I know how that sounds -- it sounds like I'm a cold, callous bitch who doesn't care about people. The thing is that I do care about people. I just don't care about someone who shot eight strangers and killed six of them. It's an extreme idea that will never happen. In my ideal world it would happen. Of course, in my ideal world there would never be a need for it.

---

Wanted: a nice owner for a sweet stray cat abandoned by stupid neighbors.

I know what you're thinking -- it's not the stupid faux punk neighbors from across the street. Surprisingly, the remaining faux punk boy who lives there is relatively nice when sober. But I digress.

My neighbors around the corner apparently adopted a kitten from the local SPCA recently. It's the cutest little black and brown kitten [probably about six months old] with a really sweet disposition. At any rate, Craig and I would see this kitten running around the neighborhood but it has a collar so we picked her up every time we saw her and called the phone number on the tag and delivered her back to the neighbors. The neighbors claim that the cat makes for the door every time someone goes in or out. To date, we have delivered this cat back to the neighbors house at least half a dozen times over the last 10 days. The last time I took her back, they seemed almost sorry to see her returned.

Stupid neighbors.

Last night Craig goes outside and there's the kitten roaming around the streets. This time, no collar. I'm beginning to think the neighbors took her collar off and set her loose into the wilds of my neighborhood. So I'm trying to find a potential home for her in the case that the neighbors really did abandon her.

I would love to keep her but my cat is old and Queen of the Castle. But I won't say more about her because I refuse to blog about my cat [that way leads to madness].

If I can't find a home for her, I will return her to the SPCA. She just so cute, I'm sure she'll get adopted again within hours -- this time hopefully to a more loving family.

So, if you live in the Philadelphia area and you'd like your very own sweet girl kitten, let me know!

---

Does anyone remember last week when I went insane and was schnookered into spending too much money at Francis Jerome? Well, it happened again...only this time at Sophie's Yarns.

I should truly never be able to shop by myself -- ever -- at a place where there are expensive things and no price tags. I just spent almost $70 on 5 skeins of yarn. Considering I am a novice knitter, I should be shot. I should be using 99 cent crappy yarn made from dryer lint, not a $23 skein of Mohair yarn.

My brain just takes a vacation when I see something pretty. And this yarn is pretty. But for $70 that yarn should come with some crack or a prostitute.

As of right now I am on a self-induced shopping probation. I'm not going out for lunch for the rest of the year because lunch shopping only leads to madness and insanity. I'm not buying anything new for my crafting and art-related madness unless it is under $10. I will not even purchase any more Christmas presents until after I purchase my plane tickets to Rome [which should be next week].

When did I become a crazy shopper steeped in lunacy? When did I lose my self-control?

Is there Prozac for shoppers?

---

I fully admit to being intrigued by crazy people. Members of doomsday cults, state militias, and people who booby-trap their homes all fascinate me.

Don't you think that there's a little bit of crazy coot in all of us? Some days I think I'm one wisecrack away from giving in to the insane person inside of me -- the one who will make myself a tin foil hat every day and talk to the park benches.

Of course, maybe the guy who booby-trapped his house really wasn't needlessly paranoid. Maybe his family is certifiably mad as hatters, card-carrying Lizzie Borden axe murders. Of course, he couldn't have been too swift to set off his own trap.

It's kind of nice to know that Americans don't have the market cornered on insane behavior. Some days I think that we're just a little crazier than everyone else in the world. Maybe it's just that American stupidity and weirdness is just more widely publicized.

---

Yesterday there were a couple hundred wild and crazy Polocks eating weinerschnitzel on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway here in Philadelphia.

No, this is not an offensive ethnic joke -- it was the Pulaski Day Parade.

Philadelphia, like any large city, is completely overrun by festivals and parades during the Summer and Fall, but the strangest thing is the series of ethnic festivals. There are festivals for German-Americans, Irish-Americans, Puerto Rican-Americans, Native Americans, African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, etc., etc., etc. And at every single festival, there exists this strange dynamic -- participants actively reinforce ethnic stereotypes.

At the Irish and German festivals, there is a beer garden. At the Native American festival there are old grizzled tribal looking men in headdresses trading food for beads. And at the Polish festival they clog and eat weinerschnitzel.

I often wonder if the people attending these festivals are really of that particular ethnic background, or if they just think it would be fun to pretend for a day and "do as the Puerto Ricans do" or whatever. I've been to a couple of the festivals throughout the years. The Irish festival was one of the more ridiculous -- the organizers stopped just short of having a leprachaun running around looking for his pot of gold.

This morning I was wondering how the festival organizers pick ethnicities to "honor" with their very own celebration. There is no Scottish-American festival, but there are tons of people in this area with Scottish heritage [including myself]. Granted, the festival would be all about the whiskey garden and haggis kiosk. I think I'd like to see some different festivals -- like the Australian-American festival [home of the "Shrimp on the Barbie" and Fosters beer garden, of course] or the French-American festival [wine garden and escargot stand].

Ethnic festivals can't be this ridiculous in other places. In Russia are there American-Russian festivals that feature hamburgers and bingo games? Can you find an American-Japanese festival in Japan that has a bunch of nutty ex-pats running around doing the electric slide and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

---

The more news I read, the more I think ignorance really is bliss. I could be convinced that the U.S. government is trying to get us all killed and the there are more evil people in the world than ever, or I could choose to live a clueless life where the biggest problem I have is that I'm going to miss Wheel of Fortune if the pick up truck with the gun rack on the back breaks down on the way home from my job at the pig snout factory.

Sometimes I really envy people who can sit back in their Laz-E-Boy recliners, eating Easy Cheese on Triscuits, mainlining Pabst Blue Ribbon beer while being concerned with nothing more than growing more hair out of their ears and nostrils. Sometimes it seems like a nice alternate choice to live in a world that knows absolutely nothing about foreign affairs and the ridiculous tactics of our government. Maybe I would be perfectly happy thinking that the government is doing it's job wonderfully, America is #1 and the good guy all of the time, and that I would be content to not think about it at all.

Am I better off knowing that the Mayor of Paris was stabbed? Does it do me any good at all to read an editorial outlining who would benefit from the Shrub's inevitable attack on Iraq?

Sure, I know what's going on in the world and I can have an intelligent conversation about foreign affairs. I'd probably do pretty well on Jeopardy. But I'm beginning to have trouble sleeping at night -- I lay awake thinking of all the horrible things going on and all the even more horrible things that are bound to happen.

I bet that I will never lay awake at night and obsess over what letter should have been picked to solve the puzzle.

---

I saw a promo for the Maury Povich show today, and I started wondering what things must be like in the Maury Povich and Connie Chung home.

Doesn't it seem like it must be the equilvalent of a Nobel Prize winner being married to an adult with a fifth grade education. They say you learn everything you need to know in the first grade, but...well, it just seems all wrong.

The problem is that I'm equating intelligence with job. I know that's not true [um, I could name a certain politician that proves that point, but he shall remain nameless for the sake of maintaining the peace]. I'm sure Maury is a smart guy. And, of course, maybe Connie is a dim bulb -- just because she's a Serious Reporter doesn't mean that she can find her butt with both hands [what is with the theme of ass running through my posts today?].

But I imagine that Connie comes home from work, sits her briefcase on the counter, takes her jacket and shoes off. Maury is already home and is waiting for her in the living room of their massive estate. Maury asks Connie how her day was, and Connie says she interviewed Stephen Hawking. Hawking announced during the interview that he has unlocked the secret meaning of life.

And then Maury says he did a show today about closet case drag queens who love animal sex and big guns and want to come out to their uber-religious families.

How does that work? Maybe they both just leave their respective work stories at the office, come home and watch America's Funniest Home Videos together or something.

In alot of ways, the two of them remind me of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller. Marilyn was supposed to be the dumb one and Arthur Miller is brilliant. But I'm sure that, in reality, they were happy to be together and play checkers.

I guess that's what true love is -- it doesn't matter what either of you do for a living or your IQ. With Craig, it has always seemed unimportant that I make a little more than he does or that I went to college and he didn't. It's just this thing that I recognize in him -- a spark of something. I'm not sure I believe in the concept of the soulmate, and I'm not sure I believe in reincarnation, but if those things exist Craig is surely my soulmate and we've known each since the beginning of time.

Love is love, no matter where you find it or in what form it comes in [animal sex and pedophilia, notwithstanding]. If you understand that to deny love is to deny yourself true happiness [and, if you believe in this sort of thing, a gift from the Universe or from your god], than you can't possibly have any prejudices. Gay, hetero, black, asian, white, quadrapeligic -- love is love.

The more I meet people who think homosexuality is wrong or interracial dating is wrong, the more I come to realize that these people have never truly been in love. If you have truly been in love, than you know it's uncontrollable. Who you love is not a conscious choice -- it just happens.

That's what I imagine it must be like with Connie and Maury.

---

Let it not be said that I don't know how to end a week on the right note.

After all of my complaining about pissy emails and bizarre regular mail, I am completely stress-free this morning. Last night after work I went out, bought myself a new pair of boots and some new underwear. Ah, shopping therapy!

Furthermore, I had a mini-facial and eyebrow wax. I guess you could call that beauty therapy. My face currently feels as soft as a babies ass, but without the daiper rash and poop. And I must admit that I considered leaving Craig for the asthetician for just a second. It might have been when she massaged my hands and arms. Or it could have been when she massaged my forehead or neck. That girl has hands of steel. I wonder if it would be wrong of me to kidnap her and force her to massage my elbows daily?

After the facial ended I wandered out into the salon in a blissful daze. I handed over my check card, and then was jolted awake when the salesboy [coincidentally, the same boy who lied to me about mascara] asked if I wanted to add anything on to the bill [as in, for tip]. Dude, math is hard. I can barely add and subtract when I'm lucid, let alone multiply by 20% when I'm completely out of it. I just hope I tipped the asthetician well. I think I did.

The beautiful part of this whole deal is that the mini facial and wax were a promotional thing for their new asthetician, so I only paid $30 [not including tip]. So I not only feel smooth and purty, but thrifty too [which, as you might now, is not my strong suite].

So let's talk about the underwear I purchased for moment. It's Body by Victoria thongs [from Victoria's Secret]. Christy has been trying to talk me into them for the last six months.

I have a problem with thongs: they're incredibly uncomfortable. I've owned a few pairs in the past and I mostly spend the day picking the little piece of floss out of my buttcrack [geez, that was graphic]. It's not an attractive look for me. So I decided I could live with a little bit of pantyline if it meant not having to fight the giant wedgie.

OK, so Christy has been going on and on and on about how incredibly comfortable these thongs are, blah blah blah. You might have figured this out by now, by I'm an impulse shopper. I wandered into Victoria's Secret yesterday and the thongs just happened to be on sale. It was kismet, I tell you.

I guess now I'll have to report back after I wear a pair. Wish me luck.

And speaking of Christy, that girl has got the best luck in the entire world. I got a call from her late yesterday --

Christy: I just got a job offer to go to South Africa for a month. What should I do?

Me: What do you mean, what should you do? Take it! Go to South Africa!

Christy: But I might lose my job.

Me: You've been thinking of leaving anyway. If they fire you, big deal. Of course, if you tell them you'd like to take an unpaid leave of absence for a month because you're going to South Africa, I seriously doubt they'll fire you.

Christy: I hadn't thought of that. You're right. My mom and dad don't want me to go.

Me: Well, I can understand where they're probably coming from. It's likely a matter of responsibility for them -- they don't want you to skip out on your responsibilities. But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you, so I think you should go.

Christy: My mom is mostly concered about the health aspects of it. She's worried I'm going to contract some horrible disease and die.

Um, it's South Africa, not the Congo. Christy's going to be touring with the stage show of Garfield the Cat, not hiking through the local flora and fauna.

Yeah, so she accepted the job and now she just has to deal with getting her shit ready to go. I'm so incredibly jealous.

But she promised to bring me back something cool.

---

I am anti-PETA and many other animal rights organizations. It's not that I hate animals, or think their rights should not be protected. The real issue I have is that PETA and organizations like them go too far, which makes a mockery of the real issue.

Take, for instance, the animal rights organization that is going nuts because of two cats being featured in a play. One has a gun pointed at it, and the other is covered in catsup [coincidence?] at some point in the play.

I can understand being upset if a cat was actually being shot during the show. And I can understand being outraged if the catsup was left on the cat permenantly. But that's not the case. The cats are loved and treated well.

The argument of the organization is "[a]n animal has no choice whether to play a part in the drama or not. A cat belongs at home near the fireplace not on stage as an attraction for an audience of 300 people."

Uh. OK. So this is somehow more important than going out and rounding up the idiots who leave their dogs out all the time, no matter what the weather? Having a cat on stage is paramount to beating an animal violently?

I have a hard time with animal rights, in general. On one hand, I love animals and the thought of them being hurt in any way rips my heart out. And yet I can understand why animal testing and experimentation is so important. I'm not talking about smearing eyeshadow in a rabbit's eyes to see if it blinds them -- I'm talking about cancer research, and research on important diseases and health issues. I see both sides.

Did you know that PETA has a crusade going against Jack Hanna, the animal guy? What kind of fucked up shit is that? To my knowledge, Jack Hanna is trying to educate people about animals and endangered species. There's no sinister plan to hurt animals.

I rate PETA [nd organizations like PETA] right up there with the Deeply Religious. Both are bad for all involved and help no one.

---

One of my former co-workers died today. Her name is Joan -- she had lung cancer. She was in her late seventies, but not what you would think of as a nearly 70 year old woman. She was very cool, full of energy, and she looked like she was in her late 40s.

Joan wouldn't let any of us come to visit her after she announced her lung cancer. When I emailed her or called her, she was always upbeat about chemo and her health. She was always fine. She sounded fine.

Apparently she was lying. Last week we received an email from her daughter saying that she had collapsed the day before and was on life support. It's so strange when people are here and then just not.

This is odd, but I feel...I don't know, kind of almost guilty. For those of you who don't know, I used to be a fund raiser for an international cancer research organization. For just a split second when Joan died, I thought to myself, "Maybe if you had raised more money for research, she would have been OK."

It's natural to feel guilt over something like that, even though I know it's ridiculous and stupid of me to take it personally. I just miss her.

The anniversary of my grandmother's death is next week. It's almost like she's not really gone. I choose to pretend that she's still here, and that I just haven't seen her in a while. And next time I take a trip up to my hometown, I'll walk into the nursing facility where she spent the last 16 years of her life and she'll be there, happy to see me.

I'll probably treat Joan's death the same way. I will ignore the fact that she is gone, and keep expecting to come to work one day and she'll be there.

---

I get absolutely no sympathy from Craig when I complain about nastygrams from donors or crazy mail from crazy people. No matter what bizarre thing a loopy person on the phone says to me, Craig has an even more bizarre story. You see, Craig used to work for First Union bank as a customer service representative.

For those of you who don't know, First Union was the Philadelphia area's largest bank for a number of years. Their name was on one of the sports stadium [called the First Union Center...commonly called the FU Center. Heh.] and they were generally hated throughout the tri-state region for various reasons. And they had a 1-800 number.

I never realized that a 1-800 number is like a siren call to a crazy person. It speaks to them, along with the rest of the voices in their head, urging them to call and share with an unsuspecting customer service representative.

Some of my favorite stories:

• The woman who told Craig that aliens were stealing money from her account. When he asked for her account number, she wouldn't tell him because "he should already know that."


• The woman who would call and have a hissy fit if a woman answered the phone. She would rant and rave until the female customer service agent transferred her to a man [usually Craig]. And then she'd just scream and scream and scream until Craig got bored of listening to her howls and hung up.


• The woman who complained to Craig that the Pope was transferring money from her account to his. And she really didn't mind it so much, except that she was Jewish. Couldn't he find a nice Catholic to take money from?


• The woman who yelled at Craig because checks were bouncing left and right on her account. Craig told her the checks were bouncing because there wasn't enough money in her account to cover the cost of the checks written. Her excuse: "But I have checks left!"

Those are just a few of the absolutely nutty stories Craig tells me whenever I complain about my relatively sane donors and callers. He then concludes by making fun of me for my lack of patience.

It's true -- I wouldn't last 10 minutes on a switchboard solely handling complaints and crazies. I would either end up saying something rude or I'd quit.

So today I'd like to pay tribute to all of the people who have to deal with this kind of crap on a daily basis. I don't know how they do it. They have my utmost respect.

---

That's $25 worth of ultimate foot relaxation right there, pal. Technically, that's only about $12.50 worth since it's only one of my feet. They match my pity manicure from Monday. I am, if nothing else, color coordinated and callous free. And that can't be a bad thing.

As you might have surmised from my whiny bitching in my earlier entries, working at a nonprofit is not a barrel of laughs. Contrary to popular belief the entire staff of my agency does not gather in the morning to sing Koombayah or run around doing hug therapy. We are a stressed out group of people because most of us are underpaid and overworked, as is the norm for just about any job.

I run a program aimed at young executives who are leadership level donors [above $1,000 per fiscal year] to the agency I work for. Part of this is a training program that teaches members the basics of service on a non-profit Board of Directors. We also have small luncheons with major corporate CEO's, volunteer projects for the busy executive, and social events. Earlier today I received a nastygram from a graduate of the Board training program. This woman is not a member of my young executives program; rather, she is someone that we allowed to attend the program because we had extra availability. She was pissed because she hadn't been voted onto a Board yet [graduation was in June of 2002]. Further, she was ticked off because she hadn't received mailings/invitations from the young executive program, including a luncheon yesterday with the CEO of a major insurance company in Philadelphia. And then she threatened to go to higher levels of management if I could not resolve her complaints.

"Breathe deeply," I said to myself.

It took me about 20 minutes to compose myself enough to email her back. This is the text of my email:

Dear Ms. Dumbass [insert name here],

I'm sorry to hear that you have not had luck with an agency yet. Had I realized that you had not heard from the Board of the agency to which we sent your resume, I could have helped sooner. Fortunately, there are still numerous Board positions within the agencies who have signed up to receive Board members through the program. Please let me know the interaction you had with anyone at the agency you were paired with so that I may note it on their file for future reference.

Please note that, in most cases, [my agency] and the [program name] are not notified by the agency when a Board member pairing through the program is successful. We rely on the graduates of the program to let us know when a Board match is made or if problems arise.

To qualify for membership in the [program name] you must be a leadership donor to the [name of my agency]. According to our records you are not a member of the [program name], nor are you a donor at any level to [name of my agency]. You attended the program as a guest. We do extend invitations to some of our events to graduates of the program when we have availability for attendence outside the [program name] membership [for instance, the last minute openings at our [CEO name] lunch]. However, most [program name] events are for members only. Of course, I will be happy to continue to send you the quarterly [program name] newsletter and invitations to any events to which we intend to invite non-members.

Have a wonderful day! I look forward to hearing from you.

I think I did a wonderful job of restraining myself, considering we let her into the program without meeting any of our membership criteria and didn't charge her a dime for a service that others are charging about $2,500. Running through my mind, of course, is "die, you horrible bitch, die!" If this was somehow my fault, I would be perfectly willing to accept the pissiness of the note. If it were a donor, I would have bent over backwards for the woman, regardless of whether or not it was my fault. But for someone to threaten me for no good reason who isn't even a donor...well, that's just crossed the line.

There are a plethora of mean and annoying donors. Most of them are the donors who give under $50.00. I'm not really sure why that is. I understand expecting agency staff to be grateful to donors, even to do a little bit of ass-kissing upon occasion no matter what dollar amount the gift. But to expect staff to let you scream at them because you received your thank you note in 5 days instead of 2 days is crazy.

We do a lot of direct mail solicitation. It's annoying to receive it, but it's a necessary evil of fundraising. Some people think if they send back weird stuff back to us in our return envelopes that we'll take them off our mailing lists. The problem with that is 95% of them neglect to put their return address on anything. Today we received an envelope from Dr. I.P. Kutchapeckeroff, circumciser. Get it? He has enclosed an expensive business card with raised print. The phone number is U-CLIPTUS-6900. The second enclosure is a card of a naked man with the caption "The Gay Poop On." I really don't get that part of it. People like the crazy coot who sent the stuff in keep us amused and laughing.

Probably not the intended reaction.

---

Craig used to have very stodgy, mean neighbors when he was growing up. If he was playing on the sidewalk in front of their house, they'd cuss at him until he went away. If he and the other 10 year olds were making too much noise as they were riding their bikes at 3 in the afternoon, they'd come running out of the house with a baseball bat. They were certifiably crazy old coots.

I know, for a fact, that Craig has often fantasized about sneaking into their house in the middle of the night and shitting in the middle of their living room, or doing something else disgusting. And I'm sure, just for a moment, he was cheering for the kids who beat to the death a man who hit one of them.

Sure, it's disturbing on a wholesale level that these kids had it in them to literally beat someone to death. It seems vaguely Lord of the Flies-ish. But you can't tell me that it isn't the ultimate fantasy of every kid with a mean neighbor. Just the thinking of it, not the actual doing of it, I mean.

Alternatively, every adult with juvenile delinquents in their neighborhoods secretly harbors the wish to be able to beat the crap out of the little shits in the neighborhood who are egging their house, breaking windows, or just generally being evil.

I readily admit to wishing I could just choke the life out of some of the rotten kids on my street. But I just can't see myself actually running up to one of them and punching him [or her] in the mouth hard enough to knock a tooth out.

Charles Young didn't deserve to die for what he did. An arrest for assault, child abuse, whatever -- sure. And, yet, something tells me he was probably a cruel person with a mean and nasty disposition, and the world might be a better place without him. While I am outraged that a rogue gang of pissed off kids beat a man to death, I just can't reconcile myself to feel really sad that he died.

What does that say about me? Am I a horrible person for not recognizing the sanctity of all human life? Have I been desensitized to violence? Do I lack compassion?

---

I have been trained to use a crumpled up piece of paper in my own defense. And that's kind of funny, considering I have a serious phobia about crumpled up paper.

After I was robbed at knifepoint during college I took a self-defense class. My instructor looked totally harmless, but he is a self defense expert. John Mayberry. He taught Hapkido, as well as self defense.

The first story he told us is of a 90 year old woman who beat her attacker senseless with a can of peas. He tried to steal her groceries, and it serves him right. The second story is of a 30 year old woman who was violently attacked in an elevator. Luckily she had a ballpoint pen handy and, in the end, blinded her attacker. You use what's on hand, and think on your feet.

I'm not a big fan of needless violence. But if someone attacks me I will beat them to a bloody pulp with anything I can find. Of course, the first thing John taught us is not to fight unless you have to. And when you do fight, disable your attacker so that you know he [or she] won't be getting up to chase you. Do what you have to do.

A few years ago I was organizing a self defense class for a company I worked for. I wanted John to teach it. When I called Temple University to talk to him, he was gone. And his replacement said that he is now [maybe not still] in a mental institution. I was more than a little freaked out.

The first thing that came to my mind is that John was just a crackpot masquerading as a self defense instructor and that everything he taught us was bullshit. That's not the case though -- he just had a breakdown.

John was always a very intense guy -- he really took arming women with the tools they need to be safe very seriously. The reason why is that when he was in college eight of his closest friends gang raped his girlfriend while he was out of town and left her for dead. And I guess the intensity of it all just got to him.

I hope he's better now.

---

Tuesday night is my television night. I can not turn on the television any other night of the week and I'm perfectly OK with that. I don't miss it. However, Tuesday night from 8-9 pm you will find me camped out on the couch in front of the TV.

Hey, it's Buffy night.

I admit to feeling silly about it. It's a show that is so obviously not meant for me, yet I love it. Even when it's terrible, it's good. And after the crap-fest that was last season, I wasn't expecting much from this season.

I have tell you -- the final 5 minutes of Buffy last night was the best stuff in years. I'm serious. Half-nekkid Spike laying it out to Buffy about his new soul, Buffy in tears for who knows what reason...I'm sold. Sold, I tell you. It was just as good as when Buffy had to kill Angel at the end of season 2.

And I'm totally 13 years old.

---

The nice people at Francis Jerome must have hysterical fits of giggles when they see me coming. They probably run through the store yanking price tags off items. And then they wonder what new addition to the store they can build with the proceeds from my sale.

I just purchased a $65 make up brush. Yes, you read correctly: 65 smackaroos. For a make up brush. I didn't mean to, but it happened.

You see, all I wanted was pressed powder. And Kiss Me mascara. Since Francis Jerome is one of the few places in town that carries this magical, mystical mascara, I thought I'd also buy my powder there.

I think the owners pump some kind of reality and sense blocking haze into that store. I really do. The nice salesgirl [who kept calling me darling] talked me into loose powder. Fine, I can accept that. But then she asked me if I had a brush for it. My brain screamed, "Yes, I have half a dozen brushes!" but my mouth succumbed to the siren call of the new make up brush and said, "Well, I could probably use a new one."

"This is the one I use," cooed the salesgirl, running her fingers seductively through the bristles. Before my brain could put a stop to the insanity, my mouth whispered, "I'll take it!"

Before you know it I was out on the street with my $95 [total] purchase. I didn't know what happened. When the drug-induced haze wore off I was really pissed at myself. And I did the only thing a poor and depressed girl can do: I got my nails done.

---

I know you would be upset if I didn't offer up the obligatory picture of myself this morning. I give you black and white business Nicole! Behold the splendor! Heh.

This is my mom and dad at their senior prom. My mom was a pretty rockin' chick in 1969, bouffant hair not withstanding. I'm not sure why she married my dad -- he really isn't a hot guy and he certainly isn't a nice person. I shudder to think what the actual reason is [oww, ouch, my eyes! Jagged spoon!].

I really didn't care when they announced they were getting a divorce. I was in the 4th grade and by that time my dad hadn't been around much anyway. I don't remember seeing him more half a dozen times from kindergarten until 4th grade. I don't remember asking my mom where he was, but I doubt I knew that he just abandoned us at will. Maybe I just thought he went out on a long trip for ice cream, like my dad's father did [and that is a true story, I swear it].

Anyhoo, I had read a book a few months before in which the lead character's parents got a divorce. The girl in the story was at McDonald's with her brother when the parents announced they were divorcing. The girl threw up her hamburger because she was so upset and was traumatized for life: no more McDonald's food for her. I thought that was the normal reaction for people to have when their parents got divorced.

My mom and dad gathered my brother and I in the kitchen of our house and made the big announcement. My mom had this strange half smirk on her face [probably trying to keep the excitement of getting rid of the ass from bubbling to the surface], but my dad was crying his eyes out. Like I said, I really didn't care that they were divorcing because my life certainly wouldn't be directly affected.

However, I felt it was my duty to at least make an effort to pretend to be upset. Since we weren't at McDonald's and there was no food involved, I couldn't reenact the scene from the book. I improvised: I ran out of the kitchen shrieking.

Yes, I'm totally serious -- I should have won an Academy Award. I ran into my room, slammed the door behind me, and pretended to be Deeply Upset. My dad came in and said something or other to me [you can see how I've committed his soothing words to memory], and that was the end of it.

He left [again], my mom flushed a Dunkin' Donuts box full of drugs and drug paraphenalia he left behind, and I stopped pretending like I cared about it. Life continued normally.

Statistics show the divorce rate somewhere around 50%. I'm not saying that the Census Bureau lies, but almost all of my friends' parents are happily married. In fact, I am the only person of all my friends with divorced parents. And I only have one friend who is divorced. Where are all these divorced people?

Of course, considering my mom and dad have both been married three times each, maybe my parents are counting more than once.