 Cast About Contact Archives 
|
 SKIN THE FISH home fisheye - photoblog
before I die
AIM ID - thegofish
Syndicate the fish |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
United StatesEasternInternational Blogs without a country | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
<
?
blogs
by women #
> << ? Verbosity # >> << ? spellage # >> < list | random> < ? I Talk Back # > < ? 100 Things # > « ? Anti-Wil Webring # » < | list | PhillyBlog | random | > Globe of Blogs Pepys Project 
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
go fish Playlist -don't be a poopyhead: no direct linking-
no songs in the playlist currently | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
  | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
purple geriatric design by Blogmoxie All other skins by me
 hosted by gns hosting
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
It was with a heavy heart that I awoke this morning. It's officially the holiday season. In Philadelphia this means only thing -- the Mummers.
If you haven't seen the Mummers Parade on New Years Day live in Philadelphia you just haven't seen anything. It is a spectacle that can't be explained or believed. New Years Day in Philadelphia is always a little like navigating the frozen tundra -- it's bitterly cold and windy and frostbite is only a moment away.
OK, so what's a Mummer? Generally a Mummer is a man [although there are women Mummers, it's just not as a common], usually a blue collar type, who dresses up in sequined outfits but isn't a drag queen, and maybe plays a banjo. A Mummer dances, sometimes prances, and almost always struts. And it's tradition to do all of this while piss drunk on camera.
I'm told the alcohol is necessary to ward off the cold.
The first time I saw a live Mummers Parade was my freshman year of college. I ventured out into the sub-Arctic temperatures with Christy and a few other friends. Immediately upon arrival at City Hall we were swarmed by drunken Mummers from the Comics division. In other words, we were attacked by Wenches. The men in the Comics division dress in drag. After trying to bum smooches from us, they continued on their way. This happened at least half a dozen more times, and twice a Wench almost puked on my shoes. Happy New Year!
The rest of the parade isn't nearly as volatile, but still vaguely freaky. And the freakiness doesn't lessen with each passing year.
I used to live in South Philly, down near Two Street. Many of the Mummers organizations have clubhouses on Two Street. Right about this time is when they'd all start practicing in earnest underneath I-95. Watching them practice is actually kind of cool. But I got all Mummered out the last year I lived in South Philly.
Picture it: it's New Years Eve. I'm drunk as hell. Craig and I arrive back at my apartment after a long night and all we want to do is fall deep asleep so we can have the energy to nurse our hangovers the next morning. All of a sudden "I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover" comes blasting in my window.
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?
I look outside and a stupid fucking Mummer has parked one of their huge music vans with the loudspeakers on top outside of my building and decide that all of Two Street and its vicinity need to get into the Mummer spirit.
Have you ever heard that sleep deprivation and dream deprivation can make you insane? Or that being bombarded with horrible music for long periods of time as a method of torture is very effective? Well, yes, to all of it. By the time morning rolled around and the asshole moved his truck off to parade I was ready to don camo fatigues and go on a mission to pick off any Mummer I might happen to see. Just call me G.I. Nicole.
After that I sort of lost any sort of desire to see a Mummers Parade live. Watching it on TV sucks because it's mostly pretty boring. I will admit to being a sucker for the Fancy Brigade division. It's sort of like musical theatre on crack.
Luckily the Mummers don't have a stronghold in Fishtown. The minute I see a Wench walking down the street here on New Year's Day I'm moving out.
Bah humbug!
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
Is it wrong that it's not even noon yet and I'm drinking? I'm on my second glass of wine. Why? Because I should have slipped Craig some sleeping pills.
I merrily went along my way this morning, making pies and chopping stuff for the stuffing. He woke up somewhere in the midst of my prepwork and asked if he could help.
I should know better.
So I told him to set the oven to 325 degrees for the pies and put butter underneath the skin of the turkey. He's seen me do this a dozen times at least. You carefully pry up the skin from the turkey breast and slip the butter chunks underneath the skin. Easy, right? I turn around to saute some mushrooms and the dipshit is cutting holes in the skin and inserting the butter. I said, "What are you doing? If you do it that way the butter won't stay underneath the skin, it'll just dribble out the holes you've made." He just looked at me, "Well that's the way I did it last year."
See, the problem in that logic is that we were in London last year for Thanksgiving. There was no cooking of the turkey in the go fish household last year. I just rolled my eyes, and asked him to please do it my way.
Then I turned around to check on my pies and noticed that the oven was set to 375 degrees. Luckily the pies had only been in for 10 minutes at that point so I caught that and fixed it, and put some tinfoil over top of the pie so it wouldn't brown as fast.
Now he's giving me attitude because I called him on being stupid for both things. Sometimes I really wish I were single.
But then again I'm around Christy for any amount of time and am glad I'm not -- otherwise, I'd have to hang out with her more often. Christy was in NYC last week for dance rehearsals. She came home last night, and Craig, Christy, Eric, and I went out to dinner at Las Cazuelas. She is sick as a dog, but was determined to go clubbing last night. Apparently she has never had to the flu while on a plane. And the plane trip to Africa is about 20 hours in total. It does no good to explain to her how miserable she's going to be.
Dumbass.
On a more pleasant note, if any of you are in Philadelphia and get the chance to stop by the Ritz Hotel, please do!! The cocoa sommalier experience was unbelievable!
The cocoa sommalier stands at this station. In front he has ingredients. You can have your cocoa made with milk chocolate, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, dark chocolate, or hazelnut chocolate. And I'm talking chocolate bits, not flavored powder. Then you decide if you want you cocoa made with milk or half and half. Then you decide if you want a shot of alcohol in the cocoa. Then you decide if you want marshmallow cream or whipped cream. Then you decide on toppings -- chocolate shavings, fresh fruit, chopped nuts, cinnamon or cinnamon sticks. And then the sommalier makes the cocoa from scratch in a big saucepan.
The set up is couches and bit comfy chairs clustered around a table. The waitstaff brings a plate of cookies. I had a milk chocolate and half and half cocoa with a shot raspberry vodka, topped with whipped cream, fresh raspberries and chocolate shavings. Holy crap. It was one of the best things I've ever had. I think I gained 20 pounds.
If I make it through today Craig and I are going for cocoa this weekend.
The topic of conversation du jour around here has been a memo we just received from the Executive Director regarding holiday decorations. Apparently, in addition to adding that special dash of political correctness to the Christmas party holiday party Winter Celebration, holiday decorations around the office have now taken it on the nose.
My department is pretty closeknit. We all love each other and we all get each other's sense of humor. Every December we go insane and see how close we can get our department to looking like the Griswold house. I bring a vintage tinfoil-needled Christmas tree to the mix, and there's lots of tacky foil garland and over the top decorations. It's a labor of love, and we have a great time.
Apparently our display of holiday spirit sent some poor offended soul over the edge last year. So unless we can tone it down and be multicultural, our holiday decorating must be relegated to our offices.
What's funny is that the only decoration that was truly a Christmas/Christian holiday type of decoration was the tree. It's not like any of us had a full on creche scene going on, or biblical scripture being projected onto the walls. Even the holiday music wasn't of a religious nature.
So now we're trying to come up with all sorts of ways to fuck buck the system. My suggestion is to put everything up as last year, but make little bulbs for the tree that say, "Hi, I celebrate Hannukah" and "Hi, I celebrate Ramadan" and "Hi, I don't celebrate anything but holiday commercial greed." And then we can mount the Koran, the Bible, and all the other religious texts on the wall with spotlights and play a medley of holiday music from all religions/non-religions. We can then stage a play about how wonderful political correctness is, and how it just all brings us closer together.
Why can't we all just get along? But without all this mandated crap?
I think I might just have the best boss in the entire world. No, really.
A few weeks ago I received an email from Amy [my boss] telling me that today it was required that attend a departmental meeting at the Ritz Hotel -- for a chat with their cocoa sommelier. Today I received a reminder that we're to be there at 2pm and are not to return to work until next Monday. That Amy, always looking to get us out of the office early!
If there's anyone in the world that I aspire to be like, it might be Amy. She's thoughtful and nice, and honest. She is one of the most real people I know. If I become anything remotely like Amy when I grow up I will consider myself lucky. I guess you could say that she is my role model.
Growing up I had some fucked up role models. Deep in my heart of hearts I wanted to be Chrissy Snow, from the television show Three's Company. Mostly it was all about the hair -- I forced my mother to fix my hair every morning just like Chrissy's. But how screwed up is that? I wanted to grow up to be a tall, thin, stupid girl. Wearing short shorts. Laughing in snorts.
I doubt it scarred me for life or anything, but why Chrissy Snow? Why not, I don't know, the Bionic Woman? Or Wonderwoman [ching! ching! ching!]? Stupid.
As an adult, other than Amy, my role models are writers. One day I hope to produce fine work like John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, and James Morrow. I guess now it's mostly about the sarcasm.
I think if I were a kid now I'd have even worse role models. One one hand you have the option of worshipping sports figures who do crack and beat up whores in their spare time, and on the other hand you have the option of wanting to be just like Brittney Spears. Oh yay.
Maybe I should start a campaign to become the official role model of today's youth. Think anyone would buy into it?
Yeah, me neither.
Every day I find a new reason to be glad I don't live a country completely overtaken by the Deeply Religious [at least not yet]. Remember the newspaper article about the Miss World pageant that sparked riots in Nigeria? Well, now some idiotic deputy who is part of the Nigerian government has condemned the journalist, a woman, to death. You know, because she has offended Allah.
I suppose that the morons who freaked out, began rioting, and killed hundreds of people are completely innocent, right? Entitled to dozens of virgins when they die? Sure.
I'm constantly amazed at what such a deep conviction in religion will produce. I was 17 when the Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa against Salman Rushdie. I really didn't understand why it was necessary then, and it doesn't make any more sense to me now.
I've long thought that the Deeply Religious make shit up as they go along just to keep their followers in line. People want to pretend that it makes perfect sense to stone a woman to death because she had a baby out of wedlock but not punish the man who knocked her up. Legions of people believe in their hearts that one day two people and all the flora and fauna on earth just magically appeared and followed the world of the Christian god ever since, despite evidence to the contrary. Normally rational people refuse to acknowledge that love is love, in whatever form you find it, because their religion prescribes to them what kind of love they can accept in their hearts.
It's fucked up, and it's making me crazy.
As anyone who knows me can tell you, I am a total foodie. I love restaurants and dessert. I love linen napkins, which I refuse to use at home in order to make going out to eat a more exciting experience.
But I have had some strange times in restaurants. A couple of years ago a bunch of us went to dinner at the Astral Plane, a once excellent restaurant at 20th & Lombard. It's a cute little place, all candlelit and a great atmospheric type of place for a first date [note: I don't recommend this restaurant anymore -- the food has gone downhill]. Christy was with us that night -- she was wearing a loose black sweater. She reached across the table to snag a sugarcube and the flame from the candle on our table lit her sweater sleeve on fire.
So imagine a nice, quiet, dark restaurant suddenly disturbed by screams of terror coming from Christy, gasps from the rest of us, and Christy sort of running around the restaurant with her flailing, flaming arm. Oddly enough, her arm went out of its own accord and the moment of danger was over, leaving Christy standing in the middle of the restaurant looking like a smacked ass.
The moral to this story: always wear fire retardant clothing if you're going to someplace candlelit.
It filled my heart with glee to see that a movie about being a band geek is coming to a theater near you. Drumline promises to make millions just because there has never been a movie that portrays band geeks in a cool way.
I can talk smack about band geeks. I was one in the distinguished ranks for one year in the 9th grade. That's right, along with my longtime gig as a cheerleader and overinvolved school activity joiner I was also in the color guard of the band at Berwick Area Senior High. I was a flag twirler, keeper of aesthetics on the field, wearer of the ugliest uniform imaginable. One day I'll find that picture and you'll be sorry!
OK, I know that Drumline is about a band at a traditionally black college. And the band that I was in was certainly the honkiest band in America. We were lucky to keep in step, so I'm sure doing funky steps while marching would have been out of the question. Plus, the woman who was responsible for the color guard's choreography [and uniforms] was a rural, middle aged housewife with no rhythm. Uh huh, so I know that this movie is not about your typical high school band experience.
Be that as it may, I'm sure it will still speak to all us former band geeks. If you were never in band, you can not imagine the experience. Most people think all the band geeks are second only to Trekkies and computer nerds in their uncoolness, but I tell you it's just not true. There was more shacking up and nudity going on during those bus trips than you could ever imagine. It was like Caligula on road trips. Call them geeks all you want, but those band guys get play like you would not believe. Now that I have let the secret out of the bag, I expect high school band's will be flooded with new members.
Dude, boys who play trumpet have the strongest lips! And it's a well known fact that those guys on the drumline have, um, nimble fingers. Heh.
I left the color guard with sadness, but I had other things to do. I was left with the innate ability to keep in step no matter what though, and it has come in handy. I'm also good at manuveuring huge poles in a rather graceful manner, which definitely gives me the edge if I'm ever in a pole fight to the death.
Long live the band geek!
I couldn't believe it when I finally realized what date it is today -- exactly 4 weeks until Christmas. Wow.
A lot of times I get hung up on what to buy people for Christmas. There are a few people that are just next to impossible to buy for. My grandparents have everything they could ever possibly need, and my dad just defies easy gifting.
So I collect ideas and resources for interesting gifts. My all time favorite gift purchase for difficult gifters is a toothbrush. Everyone needs a toothbrush, even if they wear dentures. When we were in London last year we found toothbrushes shaped like bobbies. I recently discovered the stripping toothbrush, these cool bear toothbrushes, and a delightful penis brush. For a high end gift, try the Sonicare.
I also like quirky gifts, like Name a Star, the Love or Buddha light bulb, and bizarre light up salt and pepper shakers. Other cool [and somewhat strange] gift ideas for the person who has everything:
Yeah, so I'm a hand talker.
It wasn't always this way. I can be a very animated person, but it wasn't until I moved away from home that I started clumsily knocking into things like a big giant oaf. Kathy doesn't realize how lucky she was at dinner Saturday night -- a couple of times I hit my plate so hard with my hand I almost splattered gnocchi and sauce all over her. I was trying to keep it a secret, lest she, Erica Lynn, and Statia think I'm a crazy lady with no bodily control. I guess my secret is out.
I have a tendency to throw my arms wildly around when I'm talking. It really goes beyond gesturing, I think. I have cracked the glass face of every watch I have owned in the last couple of years at least twice. I bust fingernails. I once hit a ring against a doorjamb so hard the stone popped out. I have spilled glasses of water, wine, and soda all over the place because I can't seem to control my wild, flailing hands. My enthusiasm can't be contained in my voice or my bizarre face making -- it seems my hands have to get into the act.
And really, up until I moved away from my hometown I wasn't shy, but I was more reserved. Maybe my hands felt the freedom too. And a lot of my friends are involved with the theater in some way, so big movement and big personalities tend to rub off. As I'm sure Statia, Erica Lynn, and Kathy can tell you, I can sometimes come of as really overbearing because I'm so used to cartoonishly expressive people.
Speaking of cartoonishly expressive, I give to you my new hair. It looks more blonde then red under these fabulous and flattering lights at work, but I can assure you it is slightly redder than the photo shows. I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Of course, now I have to work on getting my hair back into some semblence of healthy hair. Because right now, it feels like straw.
It was also a no-baking weekend for me, despite my intentions. Who knew knitting mittens would take up so much fucking time? Now I'm working on a hat for Christy for her birthday, which is in a few days. That seems to be taking forever, which is puzzling to me. At this point in time I have four projects going at once. It's making me crazy.
I was sorely disappointed last night when Statia came to pick me up for our date with Kathy and Erica Lynn minus the pink crash helmet she promised and sans Action Figure Jesus. But Statia chauffered me in her monsterous SUV over to Dante & Luigi's and I just had to pray that neither the pink crash helmet or AFJ would be needed.
Now granted, AFJ probably would have been great to have around later in the night when Statia's car was ticketed by a brave metermaid who had words with Dante & Luigi's crack valet staff. For $5 valet parking, what can one expect? But I truly think if Statia has busted out the AFJ it would have scared the shit out of those good Catholic mafia dons in training who run the valet service. That'll teach them to park illegally in South Philly -- AFJ doesn't like illegal parkers.
South Philly is always fun at any time of year, but in the near Winter the streets become wind tunnels, which caught Erica Lynn and I unaware as we traversed the guido-filled streets on a field trip to the ATM machine, a mere five blocks away. The Italian Market area is eerily quiet at night -- no sounds of the Bagman yelling "Whoneedsabagnow? Yaneedbagnow? I'mthebagman. Yemeni!" We should have shaken the AFJ at those damn valet parkers and made them drive us to the ATM. Bastards!
Despite my obvious disappointment with an AFJ-less evening and the smacked ass valet parkers [I should have asked for their email addresses and sent them Statia's new smacked ass button], we had a very fun night! It's never a bad thing when the pasta and alcohol are flowing and we order so much food we can't fit it all on the table. It's a good thing they seated us near the fireplace -- that extra mantle space sure came in handy!
And of course, I have sucked Kathy and Statia into my web of knitting madness. With Statia requesting to be taught to knit and Kathy agreeing that a knitting party is in order, I feel my goal of converting everyone I know into knitting fools is almost complete. Do not resist -- resistance is futile. Erica Lynn is the only one who seems to be putting up a fight. Victory wil be mine, Erica Lynn, oh yes, you will become a knitter. *maniacal laughter*
Seriously though, thanks to Statia for carting my ass over to South Philly, and thanks to Kathy, Statia, and Erica Lynn for having dinner with me! Next time we're going to Il Cantuccio so we can bribe Guisseppe into giving up the tiramisu recipe. I know I can count on the three of you to flash a little cleavage to get the party started! Heh.
Today I decided I better fucking knit myself some mittens since we're looking at frozen tundra type of weather this week here in Philly. So I just finished my first one and I will start the other in a few minutes. And it's pie baking day in the go fish household. Some of you wanted the recipes, so here you go:
Apple Cranberry Pie
Peach Blackberry Pie
Mushroom Stuffing
Enjoy!
Oh, and if you want to see my new and improved hair or pictures of Philly Girls Night Out, Statia has some hee-larious photos!
Find a good recipe for cream cheese pie crust or buy a regular refrigerated pie crust that comes with two rounds [for top and bottom layer].
1 ¾ lbs baking apples [that’s about 4 med apples], peeled, cored and sliced ¼ inch thick
1 Tbsp lemon juice
¾ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup [packed] light brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/8 tsp salt
4 tsp unsalted butter
2 ½ Tbsp cornstarch
2 cups fresh cranberries
Roll out crusts for pie. Place one round in bottom of 9 inch pie pan; refrigerate for 30 minutes. Sit other round aside.
In large mixing bowl combine apples, lemon juice, sugars, cinnamon, and salt and toss to mix. Let the whole thing sit on a counter for 30 minutes [at room temp].
Transfer mixture to a colander suspended over a bowl to capture the liquid. The mixture should yield at least 6 Tbsp of liquid.
In a small saucepan over med-high heat, boil down the liquid, with the butter, to about ¼ cup. Swirl the liquid but don’t stir it. Transfer apple mix to a bowl and toss with cornstarch until all the cornstarch has disappeared. Pour the reduced liquid over the apples. Add the cranberries and toss well.
Transfer the apple/cranberry mix to the pie shell that has been refrigerated. Moisten edges of pie crust with water and then place the top pie crust over top of the pie. Press down on the edges and use a fork or a pinch of your fingers to seal the edges. Cover the pie loosely with saran wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking.
Preheat oven to 425 degrees for at least 20 minutes before baking. Set oven rack to lowest level. Cut a small hole [the size of a quarter] out of the middle of your top pie crust. Sit pie on a cookie sheet and then place pie into oven. Bake for 50-60 minutes.
Find a good recipe for cream cheese pie crust or buy a regular refrigerated pie crust that comes with two rounds [for top and bottom layer].
2 lbs peaches [6-7 medium], peeled, pitted and sliced.
1 or 2 containers of blackberries
1 Tbsp lemon juice
½ cup + 1 Tbsp sugar
Salt
4 tsp cornstarch
½ tsp almond extract
Roll out crusts for pie. Place one round in bottom of 9 inch pie pan; refrigerate for 30 minutes. Sit other round aside.
Place peaches in a large mixing bowl and sprinkle with lemon juice. Add sugar and a pinch of salt and toss to mix. Sit the bowl on a counter at room temp. for 30 minutes.
Transfer mixture to a colander suspended over a bowl to capture the liquid. The mixture should yield almost a cup of liquid. In a small saucepan over med-high heat, boil down the liquid to about 1/3 cup. Swirl the liquid but don’t stir it. Transfer peaches to a bowl and toss with cornstarch and almond extract until all the cornstarch has disappeared. Pour the reduced liquid over the peaches. Add the blackberries and toss well.
Transfer the peach/blackberry mix to the pie shell that has been refrigerated. Moisten edges of pie crust with water and then place the top pie crust over top of the pie. Press down on the edges and use a fork or a pinch of your fingers to seal the edges. Cover the pie loosely with saran wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking.
Preheat oven to 425 degrees for at least 20 minutes before baking. Set oven rack to lowest level. Sit pie on a cookie sheet and then place pie into oven. Bake for 40-50 minutes.
4 Tbsp butter
1 medium onion, peeled and diced
2 ribs celery, strings removed and cubed
20 oz. button mushrooms, stems trimmed and caps thinly sliced
1 tsp thyme leaves [or ½ tsp. dried thyme]
2 Tbsp sage leaves [or ½ tsp dried sage]
2 Tbsp minced fresh Italian parsley [flat leaf]
8 cups bread cubes, freshly toasted
½ cup heavy cream
2 eggs
salt and pepper
Melt butter in skillet over medium heat. Add celery and onion; saute until onion/celery are translucent [about 10 minutes]. Remove onion and celery from skillet with slotted spoon into a very large mixing bowl. Add mushrooms to skillet and cook 5-8 minutes [mushrooms should turn limp and start to give off liquid]. Pour entire contents of skillet into bowl with onion and celery.
Add herbs, salt and pepper [to taste] to large mixing bowl and mix well with vegetables. Add bread cubes and mix well again.
In a small bowl, whisk together cream and eggs. Pour over stuffing mixture and mix until thoroughly blended.
This is enough stuffing to stuff a large turkey. So stuff the turkey and cook according to turkey roasting directions. If you have extra stuffing or you don’t want to cook it inside the bird, transfer stuffing to a large glass pan and bake about 25 minutes at 350 degrees, basting well with chicken broth every 10 minutes.
Should yield 6-8 servings.
The hair is fixed. Kind of. Well, it's red, anyway.
I don't know if the hair is just too red, or if I'm not used to it, or if it's a really weird color. I have to go outside today with a mirror and really check it out. Nothing can be done about it until tomorrow anyway. I guess I think it just looks weird because my hair is pretty much all one color because I stripped all the color out and reapplied. But even Craig agrees that it looks better than it did.
I'd bitch about something review related, but I just don't have energy this morning. I can't stress this enough -- if you submit your site for a review, have the balls to deal with what's said about you or your site like an adult. Don't whine about it and read things into the review. Ugh. That is all.
It's shopping for Thanksgiving today. I make a full on Thanksgiving dinner for just Craig and myself. Yep, it's the two of us and a 20 pound turkey. And my famous stuffing, which I might just post a recipe for later.
One of the strangest thing about Thanksgiving is Craig's preoccupation with canned cranberry sauce. I prefer a nice homemade cranberry sauce with walnuts, but Craig refuses to eat cranberry sauce unless the ridges from the sides of the can and the date from the bottom of the can are clearly visible on the cranberry sauce. He's so bizarre.
We're also having peach blackberry pie [which I will make tomorrow], homemade rolls, glazed carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, and gravy. And maybe green beans. We'll be having leftovers for about a year. Sometimes I feel like Bubba Gump when I'm naming off all the different ways to make leftover turkey.
My Aunt Deirdre called me last night to talk about some Christmas gifts for my cousin Cami. Deirdre always panics just about this time of year because she and Cami have opposite tastes in clothes. I can commiserate -- I secretly shudder whenever my mother, my grandmother, or any of my aunts give me clothing for Christmas.
My mother favors cream colored cardigans with seasonal designs on them. She likes chambray a lot. She still wears stirrup pants worn with dress flats. I have never worn any of those things, and it gives me the willies just to think about it. Even our home decor preferences are at opposite ends of scale -- she thinks its the ultimate in home decorating to plaster her house with the latest in country charm kitsch. If I see one more gingham print thing come into that house I will scream. I'm more of a plain black vneck sweater and clean, sleek decor kind of girl.
With this in mind, my mother doesn't just give me gifts that she would like, but she buys stuff that she thinks I will like. Her idea of a great black vneck sweater that I would love is something in black chenille with lots of intricately woven designs. Or a black lacquer accent table with mirrors set into it. This is not South Philly, and I don't hang out with the mob.
It's the thought that counts, right? Right? Well sure it is. Which is why no one in my family truly knows the extent to which I dread receiving gifts from them. I smile, say I love it, and then whatever horrible thing it is usually doesn't even make it to storage in my house -- I either sell it on Ebay or donate it to goodwill. I don't have enough room in my house to let bad gifts hibernate.
Last year my dad bought me this absolutely hideous [and cheap] Tiffany style desk lamp. He said, "Well, I really like stained glass, so I thought you would too." I smiled and said, "Gosh it's so pretty! I know just where to put it! Thank you so much!" As soon as he left I put it up for auction at Ebay. It's not to say that I don't like stained glass, but the lamp was truly fugly and the biggest piece of shit ever manufactured. Some other woman from Ohio was very happy to win the lamp for $10. And I added the $10 into my stash for a really nice piece of jewelry.
That's why I'm so in favor of wish lists, like the kind you can make at Amazon or The Things I Want. Of course, that's not always fool proof either. A few years ago I told my mom I was going to buy a KitchenAid mixer after Christmas, so I really only wanted cash. Instead she bought me this rinky dink no-name mixer from Walmart and was all proud, thinking she had saved me all this money. I immediately returned it and then bought myself the mixer I wanted. She keeps buying Craig duplicates of tools he already owns, despite the fact that I give her a detailed list of stuff. She specifically asks for a detailed list of things the two of us covet for Christmas, but totally disregards the list. I don't get it.
I'm really not this ungrateful. I'm happy to have people who love me enough to want to give me stuff for Christmas. I really am. But I am one of those gift givers who agonizes over what to buy. I want so badly to please people -- and if I don't know what to buy I will sneak around and ask husbands, wives, children, etc. what to buy. I take great pride in being a good gift giver. I have yet to give a really bad gift, and I always have ways of finding out if people are really faking enthusiasm.
Craig tells me I'm really hard to buy gifts for. I will admit that choosing clothes and jewelry for me can be difficult. I'm super picky and have very definite tastes. But I also have quite a few hobbies -- I collect mortar and pestle sets, whisks, and The Nightmare Before Christmas stuff. I cook, garden, knit, plus I'm an artist. I have a deep love of Brat Pack movies and don't have any of them on DVD. Like I said, I think I'm ridiculously easy to buy for.
The person I'm having difficulty with this year is my dad. Since I really don't like him and don't want anything to do with him, it's very difficult to purchase a good gift. In the past I have bought him a fifth of bourbon, which makes me feel like I'm contributing to his alcoholism. He says he likes stained glass, and I know he likes things with skulls but those two generally don't go together. I'm stumped.
The holidays are always so complicated.
Because you asked, this is my bad hair. Notice my scrunched up face -- I really hate this hair. Is this Rose McGowan red, I ask you? Is this even remotely red?
In other news, I watched Will & Grace last night. Does anyone think Debra Messing looks good? She looks like a bag of bones. Eat a fucking cookie!
Craig turned to me and said, "She looks like a 10 year old boy. That's just gross. Ew, and you can see the bones of her chest. Ew, and look and how knobby her shoulder and elbow joints look."
Ms. Messing, please consume some food.
The eating disorder clinics to the stars must be chock full of people right now, nary a bed to be found. All these women are wasting away to nothing. I hate the media.
Woe to all you beauticians and hair stylists today -- I am on an absolute "I hate you all" kick. My dreams of red hair were dashed last night by Lisa, my now former stylist.
If I had said to Lisa, "Just dye it red -- any color you want" I would have been happy with the results. I have done that often enough. But last night I went into the salon with a photograph and talked to Lisa about exactly what I wanted and sent the photo with her when she mixed my color. And she still fucked it up.
Instead of the Rose McGowan sort of strawberry blonde but still red that I wanted, I got dark brown with a little bit of red in it. I've had my hair this color before and liked it, but because it isn't exactly what I wanted I hate it. I mean I really hate it.
And it has put me in the absolute worst mood imaginable. In fact, I just got snarky with the Executive Director of my agency, something I would never do under normal circumstances.
So it is left to me to fix the disaster that is my hair. Today I am going out and purchasing hair stripper, and three boxes of different shades of red hair dye. I have the technology -- I can rebuild it. Now if I fuck up my hair worse than Lisa did, Statia, Erica Lynn, and Kathy will be in for an eyeful tomorrow night when we have dinner at Dante and Luigi's. Hell, maybe I'll be bald.
What have I turned into? I am obsessed with the state of my hair. And I'm obsessed with how horrible I think it looks.
But victory will be mine. Oh yes, victory will be mine.
I'm savoring my last hour as a blonde. OK, really, I'm totally excited about going red again and if I could leave early and get rid of the blondeness immediately, I would.
I even gave notice to the people I work with this time. Most of the time I just show up with a new head of hair. But some of them are old and their hearts just can't take the strain. Because this is pure excitement, you know.
Yep.
In other news, I now have my sights set on my next sweater project -- a lovely boucle cardigan for a co-worker of mine. It will keep me from killing Craig over the Thanksgiving holiday. Hey, that's hours of entertainment right there. Next, maybe I'll knit my shroud.
So right now I have two Christmas gift knitting projects going -- one is a felted hat and scarf for my cousin and the other is a kick ass hat made of bright multi-color chenille for my aunt. The felted hat is done and actually looks like it should, which is a thrilled feat considering the agony of defeat that was my first felting project. For the next five weeks I will be in power knit mode -- I need to knit a sweater, two pairs of mittens, two pairs of socks, and a scarf or two. I'm determined to be victorious!
Christmas always turns me into an absolute freak. I usually get my shopping done early, and this year is no exception. I have all my gifts purchased except for one. But I always put off the stuff I have to make until the last possible minute. Last year I gave out a bunch of journals and photo albums. I finished the last one Christmas Eve.
I'm suddenly craving eggnog.
I am a beauty product whore. The cabinets and shelves in my bathroom are overflowing with the evidence. I own every kind of skin moisturizer, hair conditioner, face mask, and lipstick known to man. Trying new stuff is a major event. Last night was a huge event.
After class I retired to the lab, er, my bathroom with a can of VEET™ depilatory mousse in hand and a week's worth of leg stubble to experiment on. I have tried other depilatories, like Nair, that did nothing but leave a coating of slime on my hairy legs. But I have heard that VEET™ actually works, and so I was willing to give it a try.
With great an-tici-pation and a flutter in my heart, I held the can four inches away from my leg and sprayed as directed. A few more sprays and both legs were covered in what appeared to be fire retardant.
It was then I noticed the depilatory recommends a spot test to make sure you're not mortally allergic. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. It was right about then I noticed the smell. My legs smelled suspiciously like pee.
I checked the label for ingredients and oddly enough the second ingredient is Urea. My heart sank. Urea? As in urine? Ew! I wonder if VEET™ can be used to combat the sting of a jelly fish?
For the remainder of the eight minutes ["timed with a watch"] I sat in utter disgust, wondering whose urine I was marinating my legs in. I started imagining a factory in a third world nation where 7 year old kids are working in a sweat shop type of atmosphere, but they're drinking lots of water and pissing into huge vats. I think I traumatized myself.
After a long eight minutes, the moment of truth was upon me. With great trepidation I turned on the water in my bathtub, grabbed the magical mystery sponge that comes in the cap of VEET™, and started rubbing my legs in a circular motion. The smell of urine so close to my face made me slightly light-headed.
Despite being woozy, I managed to finish removing the foam from my legs. Lo and behold, no hair! Wow! I instantly forgot about the smell of Philadelphia's subway system pee wafting through my bathroom and started inspecting my legs, getting into some more difficult yoga postures to get my shins within centimeters of my face for a thorough assessment.
After falling over and smashing my head against the toilet, I made my final decree: VEET™ works! Woohoo! Of course, I'm more than a little disgusted with the urine smell and the actual urine and I haven't been able to gauge the regrowth rate.
Apparently Urea is also chemically produced, so my visions of third world piss shops is unlikely to be true. Golly, the wonders of science. At least I'm not quite so skeeved out. Quite.
I got a call from my friend Andy last night. Andy went to a post-Halloween party last weekend at a friend's house. "So how was it?" I asked.
"Well," Andy said "it was fun, from what I remember."
That's always an auspicious beginning to any story. I will now recount to you exactly what Andy said to me next because it is so funny.
So I finished knitting my very first sweater over the weekend. You can't tell from the photo, but it is a lovely pine green color. What you can tell is that it looks like a normal sweater...you know, doesn't have three arms or gaping holes or anything crazy like that. Yes, I managed to make a sweater fit for public wearing. Hooray! I'm so proud of me!
Of course, I had to redo the rolled collar just about three times to get it right. But hey, it was a learning experience.
And, just because I finished the sweater early on in the weekend, I decided to give felting a try. I knitted a cool orange hat and then felted it in the wash and this is the result.
I'm just a knitting crazy person.
I guest posted over at Nasty Mike's a few weeks ago about how much I don't understand the desire to cause yourself bodily harm just to make into the record books. Here's another example of that same thing -- there's a guy who can chainsmoke through his ears.
So instead of getting lung cancer by smoking through regular body parts, he's going to likely get cancer of the ear canal or some crazy shit like that. And that's just the practical side of it. Who devises a way to smoke through their ears just for attention?
And what kind of fucked up family encourages it just because they can read all about it in the newspapers? I wonder if there are mobile homes in India, because doesn't this seem remotely trailer trash-y?
Bob the Corgi was recently planning a trip to Philadelphia with a bevy of medical types, and I recommended a trip to The Mütter Museum. Apparently she was completely disturbed by her visit to The Mütter , and now thinks I'm completely insane because I told her how much I love the museum.
I really do love The Mütter Museum -- where else can see a plaster cast of Cheng and Eng, a giant human colon, and almost an entire room devoted to preserved samples of medical maladies and deformations? I even have the calendar for The Mütter hanging in my kitchen. I make a visit at least once every year. The place is completely gross and I adore it.
Maybe that does make me a little strange. I've always been a big fan of the gross and completely disgusting. I'm endlessly fascinated by bloody wounds and miscellaneous gore. Horror movies are my not-so-secret passion -- the bloodier and cheesier, the better. Sword swallowers and those people who pound nails into their faces can hold my attention for hours. It repulses me to no end, but yet I can't look away. Do I really need to see a chunk of John Wilks Booth's neck in formaldehyde? No, not really, but it's one of the first things I go to see when I'm at The Mütter.
What's funny about all this is that I don't think I could ever be a doctor, nurse, or paramedic because I don't think I could bring myself to touch someone's bleeding body. I get very panicky when Craig practically cuts his finger off with one of our butcher knives.
But show me one of those absolutely horrifying surgery shows on television and I am glued to the set for the whole thing. One I remember most vividly is this little kid having something done where the doctors had to pretty much peel the kids face off. It was grotesque and sickening but I watched the whole thing.
I don't get it.
I guess I did kind of forget to say whether or not I liked Punch Drunk Love! I really enjoyed the hell out of it! I am usually not a huge Adam Sandler fan [I'd rather shoot myself than watch The Waterboy again], and so ....
Oh my god. I'm watching Angel right now and I can't believe the pure cheese factor of what just happened. A demony Satan type of thing popping out of the spot where Connor was hatched? I think I need to stop watching this show.
Anyway, yeah, I really liked the movie and I won't say much more about it except that the way it is filmed is brilliant. Brilliant.
In other news, I didn't make it into the final five in The Dress contest. Oh well. Good luck to the five finalists! It looks like sleeves were not popular with the judges this year [she said, like the bad loser she is].
Last night Christy, Craig, and I went to see Punch Drunk Love. The fact that it was raining and raw outside should have tipped me off to stay home, but I was determined to see the movie.
By the time we got to the Ritz 5 theater the three of us looked like drowned rats. You know, because umbrellas were of no help. Not to mention that we got sprayed with gutter water from a passing speeding car. Y-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s-s-s! It was exactly the way I wanted to spend the next 90 minutes - wet and smelling of gutter water.
Buoyed by a strange euphoria no doubt brought on by acid rain having soaked into my skin, we decided afterwards to hit a restaurant. We went to Viejo San Juan, a new tapas restaurant on Girard Avenue. I never thought in a million years that we'd need a reservation -- it's in the middle of the ghetto practically. But I'm a dumbass obviously -- we ended up waiting for 30 minutes for a table and then the kitchen was so backed up we had to wait over an hour for tapas.
But you know, the food was kick ass. I'm a sucker for good tapas -- mussells in marinara, clams in garlic broth, shrimp and chorizo, shrimp and scallops, pork and plantains, and mini enchiladas. We completely inhaled all of it within about five second of the food actually arriving at our table. Of course, we had been sucking on a pitcher of sangria for an hour with no food....so it might just have been the munchies.
On the way out the door I was attempting to put my umbrella up, missed a step and fell on my face in the middle of the sidewalk. Yeah, so that was good too. No, I didn't hurt myself -- all the sangria had made me pliant.
Ugh.
Statia's musings about Peeps [and some comment entries] has led me to believe that the way I eat Peeps is slightly strange.
Now, true, I do like a good stale Peep. Peeps near perfection after sitting around in a package that has been slit down both sides for about two weeks. But then perfection is achieved with a good stale Peep that has been microwaved for just a second or two -- not long enough to blow the damn thing up, but just enough to make it slightly warm and only the slightest bit gooey.
Fresh Peeps are far inferior prepared with this method. It's like throwing one on the end of a stick and cooking it in a fire -- no different than a regular marshmallow. A stale Peep's texture changes though, so it's a pretty tasty treat.
By the way, just thought I'd share this little tidbit -- you can download a graphic from the Peeps site to make your own Peeps tshirt. All you need is the graphic, a color printer, and iron on transfer paper. Oh, and a tshirt. Christy made one for me for my birthday last year.
How I love Peeps.
I have a ritual every morning. The alarm goes off at 6:10 am and I stumble down the hallway to the bathroom. I shower, throw my contacts in, dry my hair, and stumble back to the bedroom. I turn the TV on to the local news and I get back in bed until 6:40. Then I do whatever else I need to do in order to leave the house in a presentable state.
Watching the news when I'm in a barely functional state can sometimes be a very bad idea. This morning it was a very bad idea. I was half asleep, wrapped in a gossamer cloud that is my down comforter when I heard that the FBI has issued a new terror warning. I sort of popped one eye open and paid a little attention. And then I sat up in bed and starting screaming.
Poor Craig thought I was bleeding from my eyeballs or something.
Now, perhaps I'm still a little groggy but am I to understand that the FBI has issued a warning of a "spectacular" attack but with absolutely no details, and we remain at a merely elevated threat level? So, really, what I'm thinking is that this is nothing new. We've pretty much known all along that there was going to be another attack on the U.S. at some point, and that the plan was for this second attack to make the attack on the WTC and Pentagon look like piddly crap.
OK, I understand that it's important for all of us to be informed, and I know that if something horrible happened and the FBI knew that something was up and didn't issue the warning there would be hell to pay. However, a simple "Hey, we're a little concerned, here's a heads up" would have sufficed. To word the warning with such urgency does nothing except give me and everyone else an anxiety attack. And then to not raise the threat level seems to downplay the importance of the warning. So which is it? Is it urgent or is it not urgent? Is it any more dire than the threat level the rest of the time?
And then I hear this whole thing about our current government wanting to eliminate 850,000 federal jobs and farm those jobs out to the lowest bidder. Yes, I know it's an effort to cut costs. However, that's going to screw a ton of people in a major way. I imagine a government that is even worse than it already is. I picture those slack asses at the IRS, for instance. The IRS already hires the least competent smacked asses imaginable. Now imagine that all those idiots are fired, and ABC temporary agency is hired to fill those spots. I know there are some great people who work for temp agencies, but the majority of them are crack whores who don't have a tooth in their heads and can't find their own asses...at least here in Philadelphia anyway. The IRS will be then be staffed by an even less interested work force.
It's enough to make me want to go back to bed for the rest of the day.
I just purchased a gift certificate to Dover Downs for my mom and her husband for Christmas. I had no idea that NASCAR race tickets were so expensive. NASCAR, or any kind of racing, just doesn't do anything for me. I can't imagine paying $90 to sit around a track and watch cars drive real fast in a circle. What's the appeal of that? Is it the crashes? Does inhaling alot of dust turn people on?
Having purchased this gift certificate, I feel good for buying something for them that they'll like and use but yet I'm a little weirded out for it. Am I going to start getting magazine solicitations from Guns and Ammo, New Mobile Home Monthly, or Jugs? Sure, that's a huge stereotype but I'm going to stick by it.
I just don't get it.
What do you get when you combine a bored 14 year old girl, a gun-crazy friend, and a rural town? That's right -- you get me taking a hunting safety course. No, I'm not kidding.
There we were, surrounded by grizzled old men who had accidentally shot their best friends while hunting and neophyte, fresh-faced hunters, all gungho to get back out there in the woods and shoot some deer for the sheer fun of it. It was a two hour course at the local gun club. It was all about how not to shoot yourself or anyone else in the pursuit of grisly animal murders.
Before you get all pumped up and ready to crucify me for my anti-hunter rhetoric, you should know that I'm not really anti-hunting. I completely understand that hunting is necessary for population control of animals like deer, and hunting is OK with me as long as the meat is actually being used as food. In my ideal world hunters are using pretty much every little bit of what they kill -- because there are uses for pretty much all parts of animals.
What I am against is hunting because you enjoy killing stuff. It's sadistic and creepy. My Uncle Dan is the original Great White Hunter. His first wedding was a Daniel Boone, dress in deer skin with fringe type of extravaganza, complete with muzzle loaders and big beards. He loves hunting. He doesn't care what animal it is, he wants to kill it, gut it, skin it, and show off it's head. It's always slightly chilling to visit their house when I go home to Berwick for holidays.
You walk into the house and there's this eerie quiet. Racks of guns twinkle as sunlight glints off the barrels. Uncle Dan usually sits on the couch polishing one of his many guns. Do you know how disconcerting it is to walk into someone's house when they're polishing a gun? I'm always tempted to run for cover.
What's more frightening are my Uncle Dan's two kids, Rick and Mark. Rick is about 12 years old and has a speech impediment. Last Christmas during the family party he was fixated on going hunting for vacation. "I'm gowing to huwnt cawibou!" Rick screamed constantly. "I'm gownna kiwl 'em and stawb 'em and wip owt theiw guts! Cawibou!" Charming. Mark is 7 and has the chilling stare of a future serial killer. He won't ever speak to anyone, but constantly just studies us all with his freaky look...like he's trying to come with a plan to pick us all off, one by one.
They all like the killing part of hunting, not just enjoyment of good marksmanship and all that other hunting crap.
Yes, it's completely strange that I willingly attended a class in hunting safety, especially since I have never gone hunting. I have fired shotguns and pistols, and I'm a fairly decent shot. But I will never be out in the woods with my flourescent orange cap, trying to rub out Smoky the Bear.
What made me very very afraid during that class is that all the stuff taught was perfectly normal, common sense type of stuff -- unless you are using your gun, always point it at the ground; never clean your gun while it's loaded; always wear bright and reflective clothing while hunting. If you have to teach a class filled with stuff that any normal human would already know, than we are all in serious trouble.
I still have my little card that certifies I passed my written hunting safety exam somewhere. And this is the time of year that I always think about that class. Deer hunting season is almost upon us in Pennsylvania.
The Berwick school district actually gets two days off of school for the beginning of deer season. Is that fucked up or what? Right now Pennsylvanians can legally shoot rabbits, male pheasants [and females in designated areas], quails, crows, woodchucks, starlings and sparrows, wild turkeys, raccoons and fox, coyotes, skunks, bobcats, and squirrels. Personally, I can't see the benefit to shooting sparrows -- can you even eat a sparrow? Would there be anything left after you shot it?
Tonight after work I have to attend a donor event and press the flesh, gladhand, and, in general, kiss a little Geritol-flavored ass. How I love events for our rich donors.
It's always pretty much the same thing. The enchanting smell of adult daipers and Bengay fills the air, while the over 90 crowd gathers together in a conspiratorial bunch -- denture cream strength in numbers. My face cheeks are pinched, my ass cheeks are patted, my shoulders are petted, I am called a "whippersnapper" and "young lady" too many times to count.
And the buffet table! It's like a plague of locusts descending on a lush town! The crowd moves down the buffet table, leaving only skeletal chicken carcasses and the spare missed olive. They debate if drinking a glass of wine will interact with their medications.
By the time we get around to giving the official "thanks for your generosity" speech, everyone is sloshed and happy they came to the party on their Rascals, which are parked haphazardly on the sidewalk.
And then there are the handful of people under the age of 80 who happen to give generously to my agency. They're usually around 40. These ten or fifteen people huddle together like wrinkled ankles are catching or something. They smile glassy grins, ready to bolt at any moment should one our centaurions keel over from a badly timed attack.
It's craziness, and I get to be the master of ceremonies. Look on the bright side: maybe I'll be run over by a car sometime today.
I know you will all be thrilled to know that I stayed up late last night/this morning working on my first sweater. I'm four inches from being done with the front. Yes, I'm a total spaz but I'm strangely elated at being able to create something wearable other than jewelry.
Creativity has always been a big thing for me. I like seeing the things that create out in the world. I am completely thrilled when people write in the paper journals I build, or wear the hats and scarves that I knit, or display one of my shrines or altered books. I guess it just feels like I'm being useful to someone other than myself.
At the root of all that I am, being of use to others seems to be my central theme . I don't think it's such a bad thing -- it's not as if my goal in life is to let others use me. That's not the deal at all. I'm just not satisfied with pleasing myself, and I really feel the need to affect the lives of those around me. Maybe that's why I got into fundraising [even though I'm ready to end this career and do something else].
Does that sound stupid? I'm not a true altruist, of course. I'm a very selfish person. And I'm not saying that I want to be Mother Teresa or Gandhi or Martin Luther King. Maybe what it is is that I just don't like feeling useless. I'm not even talking about feeling needed. It's more about feeling like I'm contributing.
This is getting confusing.
Where this is going, by the way, is that I figured out what I'm going to do for my next Go Fish contest! I will post some scans of the journals in question over the weekend, but if you want to win one of my handmade writing journals here is what you have to do:
It's only fair, you know. You have already been privy to my most horrific photograph of preteen gawkiness. Now I want to see yours. Send me a scan of your photo. I will have a special contest page with all photos posted. I'm not sure how a winner should be picked. I hate to have a public poll because inevitably you have some smacked ass voting for himself a thousand times. Maybe I will just make Craig pick the most awkward.
What do you think? Good idea, bad idea? Would you participate? Come on now, think of it -- your very own personall handcrafted writing journal! A one of a kind work of art can be yours!
Don't let a little public humiliation stop you!
I have long suspected that the Boy Scouts of America and the Girl Scouts of America are an evil empire created to churn out girls and boys with ideals from the 1950's. You know, the boys learn how to forage in the woods and the girls learn how to forage in the kitchen, and that's the way it should be dammit! Ahem.
The organization I work for is loosely related to both the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts. Last night before I left work I received a call from an irate donor regarding our connection to the Boy Scouts. She wants to continue to give money to our organization but she doesn't want one cent of her money to go to an agency that goes against everything she believes in -- specifically, an agency that is so filled with hate that they teach children it's OK to exclude other with a different religion and sexual preference.
I wanted to tell her that she's preaching to the choir. I wanted to reach through the phone and give her a hug, and tell her that she's right, that the Boy Scouts are nothing more than a glorified hate group masquerading as a service to children. But I can't because I have to remain neutral to the donors.
The truth of the matter is that if, by some strange and crazy turn of events, I would ever have kids, I'd rather die than let them get involved with an agency that I equate with the KKK and those wacky right wing Deeply Religious hate groups led by Jerry Falwell. Is that an extreme stance to take? I don't think so.
When is it ever the moral and right thing to do to teach children that intolerance is not only well within their rights, but a societally-accepted practice? What screwed up asshole decided that we must keep children away from homosexuals [because those damn homosexuals are all pedophiles, you know....and always looking to lure the straights to the other side!] and atheists [because atheists must be bad bad people if they don't believe in god! They must be satanists, by jove!]? Who is next? Will red heads be cast out? Will the Boy Scouts start expelling people who believe in evolution?
If the Boy Scouts were a private organization I would still think they are ridiculous, but I would back their right to admit whomever their little hearts desire. But that's not the case. The Boy Scouts are a publicly funded agency. They receive their monies from public charity, umbrella fundraising agencies, and the government [big surprise]. If they're going to accept public money, then they should serve the public -- not some inclusive version of the public.
I must topple the evil empire.
Fraternities and sororities are not a huge tradition at Temple University, my beloved alma mater. I would have rather eaten broken glass and sharp pins than pledge a sorority -- the few that were on campus were filled with slutty, big-haired, idiotic assholes.
I did, however, date a bevy of fraternity boys. In fact, I dated several Delta Tau Delta brothers and a Zeta Beta Tau brother. Because I know the collective minds of fraternity brothers, I do not believe that any fraternity boy from Philadelphia could rig a $3 million payoff on the Breeders Cup. Let me rephrase that -- I believe that they tried, and it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that they were caught. Why? Because I have yet to meet a fraternity boy who could string three intelligent sentences together. All the drugs and alcohol have permenantly damaged their brains.
I have been to a few fraternity parties at Drexel University, where these three brainiacs met. There was more coke floating around those parties than anywhere else. The stupidity was staggering. Even I wouldn't have dated one of them, and that's saying something considering my self-proclaimed moniker of equal opportunity dater.
And does this strike anyone else as vaguely Office Space-ish? I half expect to hear a follow up story including Milton and the freakish red Swingline stapler.
I did it! I bought my own domain name! Hopefully soon I will be located at thegofish.com. Now I just have to set up my new home and move in.
I hate moving.
But I feel like such a grown up, what with my own domain and all. Yes, I know any monkey off the street can have his or her or its own domain name. Leave me alone, I'm in my own little fantasy world, OK? OK?
I'm all floopy today....I don't want to do anything and I just wish I could leave here and go back to bed. It's raining and I don't feel like calling any donors or processing any gifts. I don't feel like being nice to stupid people or listening to the polite oldies station in my cubicle.
What I really want to do is go home, put on my flannel pajamas [yes, those of the faux punk freak out fame], and lounge around my house like the lady of leisure I should be. I have always thought I was meant to be one of those chicks who marries a rich guy and never has to a speck of work the rest of her life.
My days would be spent sashaying around the pool, flirting with Raul the cabanaboy, flinging money around in stores, paying people to be indignant for me. Occasionally I might make an appearance at a charity ball in a $1 million gown and $5 million jewels. I'd hobnob with the rich and stuffy. I'd eat bonbons with wild abandon since my weekly trip to the plastic surgeon would be coming up.
Who says money can't buy happiness?
I was watching Conan O'Brien last night and realized that I do something kind of bizarre and slightly creepy: no matter who it is, I always imagine guitarists having sex while they are playing guitar. Seriously.
It could be Willie Nelson, Bonnie Raitt, Flea, or BB King. It doesn't matter what kind of guitar they're playing, what kind of music they're playing, how old they are, what sex they are, or anything. If you play a guitar I am imagining you having sex. Period.
Who knows when I became such a pervert. I have no solid recollection of one day deciding that someone playing a guitar might give me insight into their sex life. There are no smoking gun type of moments when it became clear that this was occuring to me, with the exception of last night. And it came at the weirdest moment -- watching the guitarist from the Max Weinberg 7.
I thought, "Wow, I bet he's great in bed -- look at the faces he makes when he's playing. Look at the way he's holding the guitar. Look at that body language! He's totally hot!" The fact that the man in question has a goatee just made him even sexier. I just sat there getting more and more sexed up until I realized what I was doing. And then I started to laugh.
Now, I can't be the only one who does this. I imagine that this weird thing is the whole driving force behind the concept of groupies. Some of them like lead singers, some of them dig guitarists or drummers...but I would imagine the urge to hop into bed with a strange musician stems from the fact that large numbers of people find what you do sexy. I just happen to feel a little weird about my own personal observations.
Yes, I have dated several musicians in my sordid past. The strange thing is that only one of them was a guitarist and I never saw him play live. I've dated a couple of drummers, a flautist, a clarinetist, and some singers. But only one lone guitarist. And, truth be told, when it comes to absolute adoration of musicians, only one of them plays the guitar [John Rzeznick from the Goo Goo Dolls]...Henry Rollins doesn't play guitar.
So I'm not sure what all this means in the greater scheme of things, other than that I'm an equal opportunity guitarist pervert. Maybe it's something that will kick in later in life -- like I'll be walking past a music school when I'm 50 and start offering candy to the guitarists that come in for classes.
Ewwwwww.
Hey man, Go Fish is famous -- well, sort of. My little blog copped a mention at MSN Weblog Central Blogspotting. Don't worry, I'll still say hello to you after I get too big for my britches...or something like that.
In other news: who knew Fedex delivered on Veterans Day? I guess it's a good thing I stayed home -- our tickets to Paris arrived today. I was so excited just holding them in my sweaty little hands! Now that I have them I just want it to be February already. I will turn 31 while in Paris...is that the way to spend a birthday or what?
Speaking of staying at home today, daytime television really sucks. It seems to cater to the lowest social rung of people -- you know, an 800 lb. trailer park-living haus frau with a billion kids by ten different daddies, who is on welfare and living with her tranny crack whore lover.
I'm particularly struck by how many court shows there are. If there are so many people clamoring for court shows, why is there always such a shortage of people for the jury pool? You'd think people would be beating down the doors to serve on jury duty. The last time I was at jury duty it seemed like I was on TV and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.
What happened to this country to make reality television so compelling? I'm not sure why people find Jerry Springer, Judge Judy, and The Bachelor must see TV. Was it a natural progression from talk shows like Phil Donohue? Is Phil Donohue at the root of all of this craptacular television? Who was the first talk show host? Who first thought up the idea of a talk show? This person should be crucified...drawn, quartered, and crucified on a cross of televisions.
I admit to a jones for one reality show -- The Amazing Race. I think it's less about the contestants and more about seeing where they get to go and what they have to do and wishing that I had a good travel partner so I could submit an application. Craig would make a terrible travel partner. I love him more than life, but he's not very adventurous and his irritable bowel issues would make it impossible to travel more than five minutes away from a modern toilet. We'd be divorced by the end of the show.
I'm being really hard on Craig today. First, I rag on him about the jelly and then I bitch about his lack of adventure. I really do sound like a harpy bitch...the truth is he has more to bitch about than I do. I'm hell to live with. I can't even imagine what he must say about me when I'm not looking.
It doesn't matter -- I still love him. But I won't go on Ricki Lake to prove it!
I have obviously got this employment thing all wrong. Apparently Karen has paid off her credit card debt, all through donations of kindly internet folks like you and me [well, not me and probably not you -- my readers are wayyyyyy too smart for that].
That's $20K in 19 weeks. That's just fucking crazy. People gave this woman money because she shopped and didn't have the cash to repay her debts. She offered up no product at all -- no shots of boobies, like the Boobies to Florida campaign...not even good, entertaining prose like Moxie. Maybe I should just quit working and ask people to support my lazy, shopaholic ass. And I could offer up product, too -- knitted goods, handmade journals, photos of my various beautymarks, etc. I'm sure you would all be down with that, right? I know you all work hard to support yourselves and your families, but I'm sure you won't mind if I sit poolside eating bonbons on your dime, right?
Now, I gave a charitable donation to the Boobies to Florida campaign. I wasn't in it for the boobies, although I do think it's an excellent idea [and a product, I might add]. Statia is a fun [and funny] chick, and Robyn is incredibly nice. I can get behind a good cause. But I want to know who donated to help Karen and her Manolo Blahnik debt. Who had an extra $20 to help a girl who didn't want to take responsibility for her actions? What's wrong with the world? Just because the can you shake for loose change is a virtual can doesn't make you any different from some faux homeless guy begging change on the street.
Yes, I'm totally bitter.
My point -- if you're going to raise money via the internet for youself, please offer something in exchange. Otherwise, suffer my wrath. And I know that must just fill you with terror: I'll get you and your little dog too!
I'm about to reveal what a lame ass I am: I called out of work today because it's raining and I left my umbrella and raincoat at work. Yes, I'm a total wuss.
But I do get a whole day off, all to myself, without Craig running around the house getting jelly on everything he touches. No, I'm not kidding. Having Craig around is almost like having a three year old -- last night he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, put his sandwich down directly on our coffee table, left a splotch of jelly on it, and then didn't clean it up. This morning I found out about it when I was getting ready for work [obviously before I decided not to go] when I put my hand in it. Oh, and then he denied that a) it was him, and that b) it wasn't jelly. Argh!
Must...breathe...before...I...consider...divorce.
On a nicer and yet related note, I and my wedding dress have made into the semifinalist list at The Dress Contest! I'm contestant number 11. So go and check out all the contestants -- there are some really gorgeous dresses. But if you love me and want to make my bridal fantasies come true [well, aside from me actually getting married], you can vote for me. Personally, I'm impressed that Robyn had time to coordinate all this, what with all the boobie-driven madness trying to send Statia to Florida!
I've had a myriad of weird jobs in my lifetime. There was the Barney-string cheese nightmare, the time I got fired for not fucking the guy who made the donuts, and that horrible summer I worked at a Sesame Street-themed amusement park. I guess I should be thrilled none of my jobs involved the sex trade.
Because it almost happened.
I needed a job. I was broke, and I wasn't going to school at the time. My binge drinking habit required me to get a job that paid a lot, so I decided to look for a waitressing job in an upscale restaurant. I ended up cocktail waitressing at a very nice restaurant lounge. The actual pay sucked, but the tips were really good.
One day my friend Brenda came into town for a visit. She and her friend Cara stopped by my apartment. Cara had to go to work, but Brenda and I were going shopping and we dropped Cara off. Cara worked as a cocktail waitress at Thee Doll House, paragon of sin and stripping in Philadelphia.
I have other friends who work in the sex industry. My friend Kathleen is a dominatrix at a local B&D house of pain type of place. She loves it. I don't look down at her for her choice -- I just know that it's not for me. Working as a stripper or dominatrix or call girl just seems like a last resort type of thing, even though I know the money rocks. I was a little less snooty about Cara's job because she wasn't actually stripping. She was just selling drinks to pervs wearing large overcoats in a small dark room.
So anyway, the whole way there Cara is talking up her job. "The guys who come in are so nice," she smiled. "They're all regulars and not creepy at all! They always leave really great tips. The strippers are really nice too. They're not gross or anything, and everyone is really friendly! It's a great place to work! Hey, they're hiring cocktail waitresses -- Nicole, you should stop by and have an interview!"
The idea planted itself in my head. Could I work at a strip club? Would I be grossed out by the obvious health violations? I thought on it for a few weeks, and finally made the ultimate decision: to go for an interview.
So one fine Thursday night I put on a suit and went down to Thee Doll House. I walked up to the door and a huge ugly bald bouncer stopped me. "The strippers entrace is in the back," he told me.
Yeah.
"I'm here for an interview with Ralph," I told the large man. He led me into the club.
It was the first and only time I have ever been to a titty joint. I don't know what I was expecting -- but it certainly wasn't as classy as those strip joints you see on TV. There were no velvet curtains and cigar smoking tycoons leering at the dancers. It was basically a plywood stage painted black with the requisite stripper pole in the middle, with stairs leading off the stage on either side and some cheesy chrome railings. The girl on stage looked like she was an 11 year old crack whore and she was licking the pole. The same pole that all night stripper cooch came in contact with. I can't even imagine the flaming infection that girl got in her mouth.
Anyway, big bouncer guy lead me to a table and told me Ralph would be out shortly. Shortly ended up being two hours. I watched two hours worth of bad stripping and I saw more floppy boobies, stretch marks, and c-section scars than I care to remember. Not to mention the class of clientele -- think of the biggest losers imaginable with hygiene and dental problems. Now imagine them in flannel.
The highlights:
I really don't understand what the big thrill is with going to see strippers. I was way more grossed out then turned on. Maybe I'd have to be a boy to really get it.
You know, I thought with the eviction of the faux punks my neighborhood would return to normal. However, because I was so preoccupied with the faux punks I forgot that I live right next door to a bar filled with mulletted mouth-breathers.
Last night I was minding my own business, helping Christy dye her hair, when I fight broke out in the front of the bar. But this was no regular fight -- it was a girl fight!
Girls in Fishtown [my neighborhood] are a different breed of girl. I think it's some weird vitmain fortified water thing -- these girls are tough. Even the little teeny tiny size 0 ones would just as soon punch you in the teeth as look at you. They have a horrible Northeast Philly accent that sounds like cats screeching. They have pointy teeth and bent noses and clawlike fingernails. And they dress like two cent hookers.
That said, a girl fight in front of the bar is often like watching two heavyweights up for a title belt -- it's usually bloody and kinda brutal. And in almost all cases the rumble has been lit over a guy. And that always cracks me up because the men who frequent the bar are toothless and dumb.
So Christy and I look out the front window and there are two tiny chicks just beating the hell out of each other, screaming obscenities, surrounded by a ring of their girlfriends who are all casually slapping each other around. I think I saw one girl pull out brass knuckles.
Clothes are being torn, teeth are flying, blood is spurting. But then I get this idea -- clothes are being torn! If clothes get torn enough I could totally get boobie shots and submit them to Robyn for the cause! Classic!
I tore downstairs to find my Pencam when it hits me: the Pencam is sitting on my desk at work. Well that's a fine place for it! Dumbass! So no boobie shots for Statia's trip to Florida. Dammit!
After that, the sparkle sort of went out of the fight for me. Even seeing a girl lose three clumps of hair did nothing to improve my mood. Not even when two cop cars arrived on the scene to break it up lightened my heavy heart.
I was depressed: no Fishtown fighting boobies.
Is it a sure sign of the apocalypse when public figures start acting completely insane? Oh wait, what am I thinking -- that's a normal occurence. But the wiggins seem especially bizarre to me right now...maybe it's the holiday season.
There has been much Michael Jackson mayhem as of late, what with the latest crazy looking plastic surgery mishap and now the Michael Jackson for Parent of the Year brouhaha. I think maybe he needs parental supervision or something. Did the nanny quit? Has he stopped taking his medication?
Then there was the recent Winona Ryder shoplifting trial. Yeah, because I really believe Winona was targetted by "overzealous" security guards. I also believe that monkeys will fly out of my butt one day. Act like an adult.
Let's not forget about Principal Ed Rooney being busted for child porn and child molestation. When does it become abundantly clear that if you're doing something illegal, the police are going to call you on it? And then you're going to be publicly humiliated.
Which brings me to Allen Iverson. The big news here in Philly is that Iverson [a player on the 76ers basketball team, for those of you who don't know] is saying that he and his family live in fear because he is convinced the police are out to get him.
Before I get into how utterly ludicrous this is, can I just say how much I hate it when people refer to themselves in the third person? Iverson has been clocked as saying, "Allen Iverson could wind up dead tomorrow if a crooked cop wants him dead." Um, honey, are you referring to yourself or someone else? Stop being a smacked ass.
Yeah, now you might remember earlier this year when Iverson was charged with four felonies and 10 misdemeanors [the charges were all dismissed]. And then there was the whole issue with the stupid rap album he put out a few years ago, and his problems with the 76ers coach. He's got millions of dollars but still wants to act like he's a thug. And now he's crying victim about the whole thing. Well of course the police are keeping an eye on him -- he's acting like a criminal. If you don't act like you're doing something wrong then people will fucking leave you alone.
Argh.
Living in the public eye means that you're actions are under constant scrutiny. If you do something illegal, immoral, or just plain stupid people are going to find out about it. So why would you do it? I understand that some people have a problem with impulse control -- I just hate having to hear the whining. Oh it was bad judgement, oh it wasn't my fault, oh I'm being unfairly targetted.
Get over it.
Let the holiday induced, politically correct, work madness ensue!
Every year for the holidays my department decorates. I have this hideous vintage silver foil Christmas tree that has been handed down to me by my grandmother. It's approximately 3 feet tall and is missing the color wheel, which sort of puts a mild damper on viewing it in its full grotesqueness splendor. We put up the tree and decorate the hell out of it with random office supplies and then string cheesy foil garland over every available surface. The word came from on high this year that our display is too Christmas-centric and all decorations must now reside within our individual cubes, not in the common areas.
I wouldn't mind throwing up a menorah and stuff from other religions. I'm not religious at all, so I mostly just like to make this place funny and fun to look at. Have a hanukkah bush hanging around? Sure, we'll put it out. Do you have a special kwanzaa bonsai tree? Fine! But no, can't have that.
Political correctness has now wormed its way into our holiday party. Last week we received an email from the planners of our holiday party. Well, first of all, it is no longer called a "holiday" party because it's not a holiday for everyone. It's called the "Winter Celebration" party. Whatever. But what's even funnier is that they were recruiting people to contribute to their pageant of traditions -- they want someone to give us the low down on what they do for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, and [this is the best] non-practicing. Heh.
I totally want to run into the Human Resources department pretending to have my panties in a bunch and yell, "Hey! I'm pissed! How come you didn't ask for the traditions of Satanists to be included in your little Winter Celebration? I demand that my voice be heard!" And then I'd make up some crazy shit as to what a Satanist might do during Christmas, like the ritual slaying of the goat over the desecrated plastic Baby Jesus, and the symbolic gang rape of the Virgin Mary. But I'd have to present all of this while dressed like Alice Cooper in the 1970's and I'd insist on being able to have a human sacrifice as my finale. Think they'd let me do my presentation? Heh.
Alternatively, I could volunteer to give my spiel about what a non-practicing person does. It mostly revolves around pure greed and picking the best stuff from all the religions. I'd talk about how my husband and I have a rousing debate Christmas Eve about how the Bible is basically bullshit and then I'd sing the South Park song about being Jewish: "I would be happy, but I'm Hebrew."
It doesn't quite seem as splashy as pretending to be a Satan-worshipping heathen, does it?
Hey, did everyone notice that Robyn's campaign to send Statia to Florida raised just over $1600? That's over $1200 going to breast cancer research via The Susan G. Komen Foundation, one of the best breast cancer research advocacy agencies in business today. Congratulations to Robyn and everyone who supported the cause.
If Robyn can raise over $1200 [really $1600] in one week for a great cause, imagine what would happen if we all had little campaigns going to raise money for charity. The mind boggles. Seriously. I'm sensing the future of charitable giving...
Robyn is a genius.
Last night at 11:30 I threw some shoes on, my coat, and grabbed a blanket. I went out onto my back patio and laid down and just stared up at the sky.
I didn't think I'd be able to see any of the Leonid meteor showers. I live in the middle of Philadelphia, which kind of puts a damper on star gazing because the city lights make it difficult to see anything. Imagine my surprise when I only waited about five minutes before seeing one of the brightest shooting stars I've ever seen in my entire life.
It seems sort of stupid but I got the biggest goofy grin on my face. I was thrilled to see it. I saw a few more faint meteors, but nothing like that first one. I didn't hang out for that long, maybe only about 20 minutes. I was tired and it was really really cold outside. But I was able to see some of the meteor shower and that was really exciting for me.
I always get really philosophical when I star gaze. I start to think that there are thousands of other people who saw the same shooting star that I did, and then I wonder who they are and what they're doing, and then I start imagining their lives. And then I start thinking about the universe in general, etc., etc. If it was warmer I likely would have stayed out there all night -- just me and the sewer rats.
My dream job would be to work in a planetarium, just kind of looking at the sky. I know that astronomers do a whole lot more than just that, but that's the only part of the job I could handle. My feeble math skills prevent me from doing the actual real work.
When I lived at my mom's house one of my favorite things to do in the summer was covering myself in lots of mosquito repellant and lying in the middle of her huge backyard at night. My favorite constellations are Orion and Cassiopeia. When you live out in the middle of nowhere there are no city lights to interrupt star gazing...it's amazing. Sometimes I forget there are so many stars and planets up there since so few are visible from the city.
I wonder if Mrs. Roboto and Monkeyface saw the same shooting star I did. I hope so -- it would be nice to think that two of the coolest people were looking at something at the same time I was. On their recent trip to Mexico, Mrs. Roboto sent me a very cool postcard, which arrived last night. In addition, she also sent me a black and white copy of a photo taken of a shrine -- she thought I could use it on a journal cover. Isn't that thoughtful and wonderful? And to tell you truth, I already have a cover planned out for me to use it on! And let's not forget the little box of chocolates with the cool straw pumpkin! Thank you Mrs. Roboto -- you are wonderful!
Good news! The FDA has approved a twenty minute HIV test that's easy to use! Woohoo!
I'm not even being facetious -- I'm genuinely thrilled about this. I have had about 15 HIV tests over the years. It's not because I was ever an IV drug user or because I was hoe-ing my ass around Philadelphia or anything like that. It's because I dated a boy in college who slept with just about half of Temple University's campus when we were dating. And I dated him for two years. That's a lot of chicks.
I should have been suspicious when Dave came down with a scorching case of genital warts. But I was being all stupid at the time and believed him when he said his doctor told him it was from jerking off with a wart on his pimp hand. That's totally true: I fell for the spiel.
When Dave dumped my stupid ass I wallowed in self pity for about a week. And then one his fraternity brothers took pity on me and told me that Dave had brought home a different unsuspecting [and sometimes suspecting] victim every night that I wasn't at the house. That's when I became the hardened and bitter woman you see before you!
But statistically if you have one STD, you have another -- so I immediately went to the free clinic at Broad and Lombard Streets for a full on exam and battery of testing. I got tested every six months for three years because I was so worried. Plus I've had random checks now and then.
If you've ever had that kind of test when there might actually be a reason to worry, it's nerve racking. It takes up to two weeks sometimes if the lab is backed up. The first time I was tested was the absolute worst...and it's not just because of the waiting.
Have you ever been to an urban free clinic? One that's located almost in the heart of male/tranny prostitute central? Picture me waiting in line with about three female crack whore hookers, about a dozen shemale prostitutes, two dozen drag queens, and three dozen other random people who look like they sleep in the gutter. Now imagine waiting in line there with all of them for, oh, about six hours.
What was particularly funny is that the guy who drew my blood mistook me for a prostitute. He told me that I looked nice in regular clothes, you know, not my "street clothes"...and that I cleaned up nice. He then gave me a card to some sort of hooker rehabilitation place. It's nice to know I give off the aura of being willing to suck dick for $5.
Yeah, so that was my first experience at the free clinic. And you have to go back to the clinic to get your results because they give you a number so you remain anonymous. One of the nice trannies must have known I was sweating it out because he sat down next to me and starting patting my arm and telling me it was all going to be OK.
And luckily it was.
But I have never quite forgiven Dave. I run into him every now and then and he basically kisses my ass and tells me how wonderful I look, blah blah blah. And then I ask him how his genital warts are doing.
Usually a few times every month I am madly searching for a $20 bill that I know should be in my wallet, but isn't. It's completely irksome to me. Today was an absolutely banner morning because I found $10 in my purse. $10! That's unheard of! One dollar, sure, maybe. But ten whole dollars? That's....well, that's the way I wish all my Fridays would start.
I'm an absent-minded person. It's a struggle every morning as I search for my keys, subway pass, wallet, and everything else that isn't attached permenantly to my body. Yesterday I lost a book of stamps. I lost a case of my favorite CDs six months ago and I still haven't been able to locate them, even though I know for a fact that they are definitely in my house. If I lived in a mansion or some sprawling castle I could understand losing things constantly. But I don't -- I live in a trinity rowhome. My house isn't that big. There are only a limited number of places I could lose something.
There may be a huge black hole in my house that just sucks stuff into it. I have lost items of clothing never to be seen again. Last month I lost about ten pairs of trouser socks. If I had only lost one sock out of the pair, I could chalk it up to the damn dryer eating my socks, but ten entire pairs of socks going missing is a true mystery.
Where are Scooby Doo and Shaggy when you need them?
For a while I was missing underwear and bras. I started to think that some strange neighborhood perv was breaking into the house while I was at work and pilfering my panties. I had this whole big visual in my head of this short, stocky guy with a lot of stubble dressed in a black stocking cap, black pants, and a black shiny jacket and turtleneck sneaking into our back patio, shimmying up the water pipe, breaking in through the bathroom and rummaging through my dresser drawers, only to get a creepy look of delight when he found my undies...and then he sniffed them and wore them around on his head underneath his little cap. Yes, I spent hours imagining that this was all going on.
Maybe I just need to get more sleep.
Many of you may know I do reviews for The Weblog Review. I try to be fair in my reviews -- even if I'm not remotely interested in what a blogger has to say or if the blog is hideously ugly, I always try to come up with something nice to say in addition to whatever else I might say. I just don't believe in being rude and offensive just because I can.
I recently did a review of a site. I genuinely liked the writing, thought the design was nothing overly special but it was functional, but it was obvious that the writer just loves controversy and really enjoys it when people go ballistic over what she writes. I wrote a very fair review, but pointed out that occasionally it seems like she intentionally tries to get a reaction.
Reviewers always get shit for what they say, no matter how diplomatically things are put. I was unprepared, however, to be ridiculed for not being mean enough! Sometimes you just can't win.
Excuse me, but when did the bubonic plague make a come back? I know that the NYC health officers are claiming bubonic plague is not contagious person to person, but what if their infected fleas dropped of in Central Park or something and now we're heading toward an apocalyptic infectious nightmare?
OK, that's just the panic setting in. But seriously, I'm a little freaked out that anyone has bubonic plague. I was stunned to learn that 1,000-3,000 people every year [globally] contract the bubonic plague. I guess I'm struck by the millions of Europeans in the Middle Ages who died of bubonic plague, but I guess antibiotics were not quite what they are today. Now, getting the plague is probably like getting the flu.
But it just sounds so horrible: Nicole, you were out sick last week. What did you have? I stand up, smile big, and say, Oh, it was nothing -- just the bubonic plauge. And that's when everyone in my building runs out screaming.
I know this is just a coincidence, but the timing of someone coming down with the plague in NYC is very well timed with the election outcome, don't you think? Heh.
Wedding ceremonies are generally a major point of contention with me. They're old-fashioned and tend to trivialize women. With ours, we wanted to avoid all reference to anything religious which ended up being an easy fix since the captain of our ship married us. But the biggest problem I have is at the end when the clergyperson/justice of the peace/whoever announces that you're now "man and wife" and then presents you as "Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Doe."
Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I become someone's property. I don't lose my identity. My first name doesn't become a moot point. So we made sure we were announced as "husband and wife" and presented as "Nicole and Craig Doe." I get totally irate when someone refers to me as "Mrs. Craig Doe." If I receive a solicitation that addresses me in this way I won't even open it -- it gets shredded and trashed.
I did, however, take my husband's name when we married. I thought long and hard about it -- I considered a myriad of alternatives. Since both our last names are fairly long, hyphenation was definitely out. There were no new combinations of our last names that were pleasing. I really wasn't completely opposed to losing my maiden name -- until a certain virus software came along, no one knew how to pronounce or spell my last name. And Craig's last name is so much cooler than mine. So I changed it.
People who know me really well are flabbergasted that I took Craig's name when we married. Honestly, they're all amazed we got married in the first place. But the name change thing still has people weirded out.
There was also one other traditional custom that I refused to take part in -- the ritual "giving away" of the daughter by the father. What kind of ridiculous bullshit is that? As if I am my father's property to raffle off to the highest bidder or something! Now, if I had a wonderful and loving relationship with my father maybe I would have felt differently about this tradition -- but I don't have many tender feelings for my dad so I refused. And my half-sister recently told me that he was really pissed off about the whole thing, which I find endlessly amusing. Here's a man who basically abandoned my family when it suited him...a guy who is a huge source of embarrassment to me...and he wants to act like he's my dear old dad? No thanks. Yeah, so we skipped that part. I walked myself down the aisle.
I hate going to weddings, particularly Catholic weddings. The whole Genuflecting to the Mary bit always fills me with rage. It smacks of male superiority and submission of the female spirit. I know that most churches have their own way of doing the Genuflecting to the Mary thing, but at my friend Ann's wedding she had to kneel on the dirty floor of the church in her pristine white wedding gown and, well, genuflect, while her groom stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. I swear, I half expected her to turn around and service him during the ceremony as proof that she'd be a good and dutiful wife. Ewwwwww and yuck.
I'm beginning to think that jumping the broom or handfasting is the way to go -- no muss, no fuss, no crazy weird attempts to make women into subserviant Stepford Wives.
Share the pants, people -- SHARE THE PANTS!
Here at work we have a nap room. Actually, we have two nap rooms -- one for the boys and one for the girls. The nap rooms are termed "Quiet Rooms" and have half a dozen couches, some chairs, and a table.
I'm not sure the nap room qualifies as a "Quiet Room." That place is a cacaphony of sound. Today I took a nap and woke up only to realize that I was snoring like a buzzsaw. Let's not even talk about the fact that I was drooling and I had a seam from the couch indented across my cheek.
Sleeping is really not a quiet activity. I've worked here for over two years and I frequent the nap room. Sometimes I do take naps, but most of the time I sit around and study, or read, or knit [quit rolling your eyes]. There has never been a day in the nap room where someone wasn't farting in their sleep, or talking in their sleep, or snoring really loudly.
There's a woman who works down the hall named Jackie. She keeps a blanket and pillow at her desk, and takes a nap every day. She is also chronically sick with the flu. Not only does she suck snot, snore, and whine during her nap, she has a really loud alarm clock that interrupts everyone else.
Because boys are always worse with the bodily functions than chicks, I shudder to think of what goes on in the men's nap room. I'm thinking a lot of horrendous flatulence and overt and enthusiastic ball-scratching. Oh, and nose picking.
Can't leave out the nose picking.
Sometimes there are just days when you would be better off at home. I woke up this morning, got the official news of the elections, rolled my eyes, and thought, "If only I could sleep for the next two years."
But I dragged my ass out of bed and schlepped to work. And now I'm in the throes off melodramatic melancholy [ah, alliteration]. I feel like I should be gliding around the office halls in an old fashioned velvet ballgown clutching a white lacy hankerchief to my heaving bosom, lamenting "Woe as me!"
It's true: I'm unhappy with the election results and do not have a very good feeling about what the future brings. I know some of you are very happy about the way things turned out -- that this new government low on the checks and balances will allow for real change to occur. But who will the change benefit?
My grandfather is probably having a party at his house today. He would like nothing more than to return America to the 1950's when white men were kings of their castles and the breadwinners, women were domestic goddesses with little to do outside the house, and anyone who wasn't white and/or heterosexual was not to be trusted. Had my grandfather decided to go into politics he would have made an admirable attorney general...oh wait....ahem.
This is my official pity party for myself, so if you've got something mean to say, save it. I'm going to mope around all I want today and then I'm going to get over it. Really, I'm going to pretend that nothing sinister is happening.
Because, you know, ignorance is bliss.
While I am dancing a jig of pure happiness that Ed Rendell got elected, but I am in the lowest pits of despair that the Republicans now have control of both the House and Senate. Hold on to your butts, kids -- it's going to be a bumpy ride these next two years. With Big Johnny Ashcroft and the Shrub at the helm women will be lucky if they have any rights beyond the right to cook, clean, and reproduce by 2004.
Speaking of reproduction, my co-worker Brooke is six months pregnant. She has a 9-year-old daughter who has been asking questions about the mechanics of baby-making. What exactly to tell Brooke's daughter has been a major topic of conversation around the office during the last few days.
Brooke bought a book for her that outlines the whole process, from sex on up to the actual birth. Unfortunately the book is rather, ahem, graphic about the issue of sex. There's discussion of penis stimulation and ejaculation and all of that good stuff.
Now the girl is 9 years old. She probably knows all of this anyway. She and her little friends probably sit around during recess and giggle about peepees, etc. The girl could probably benefit from having actual information instead of information passed around her circle of friends, which might be likely to include the idea that you can get pregnant by kissing a boy for more than two minutes.
Other women around the office are appalled at the thought of giving real information about sex and the reproductive process to a 9 year old girl. I'm not exactly sure why -- a 9 year old is more than capable of handling and processing information on bodily processes.
I knew more about the technical aspects of sex and reproduction than my mother by the time I was 9 years old. It didn't traumatize me for life or convince me that I needed to run right out and try it. In my mind, an educated kid will make smarter choices than a kid who doesn't know anything or has the wrong information.
There has always been this big debate over whether teaching sex ed, providing access to birth control, and not making kids feel dirty about sex encourages kids to go out and have sex. I just don't understand why anyone would possibly think that way. Kids are going to have sex -- it's an absolute fact. If you think teaching abstinence is the be all, end all to sex education then you're just fooling yourself.
Statistically, teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted disease rates are through the roof in areas that teach abstinence instead of actual information about sex and how to prevent pregnancy. I know that right wing, old-fashioned crones are holding onto their ideas as tightly as they can...but the truth is that kids are having sex and getting knocked up at younger ages with each passing year. Not disseminating information is ridiculous and wrong.
You know Christmas is right around the corner when it's time for Thanksgiving cards at work. Yep, we don't send out any type of actual holiday card in case we might offend some errant Jehovah's Witness or other non-holiday-practicing person. Instead we send out Thanksgiving cards.
It's a nice idea in theory -- I usually write in a little note wishing my donors a "wonderful holiday season." I've never received an irate note back telling me to stick it up my exclusionist ass.
I don't celebrate Christmas in the spiritual sense. Not having any sort of belief in a god sort of puts a damper on that. But I'm definitely down with the commercial aspects of the whole thing. Craig and I do this weird hybrid of Christmas and Hannukah -- we do small gifts for the eight days of Hannukah and then do a wildly gluttonous Christmas morning gift giving extravaganza. I like the whole Christmas tree thing, and decorating the house and all of that. But there's one thing that absolutely hate: Christmas carols.
I have already begun to hear the muzak strains of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" over the speakers at my local CVS drug store. I was so flustered when it came on I had to leave for fear that I would tip over their newly erected Christmas displays. Nothing sends me into a frenzy faster than Christmas carols when I'm shopping. Want to watch my head start spinning around a la The Exorcist? Just throw on your copy of "O Come All Ye Faithful" or "Silent Night."
With the holiday season and it's pre-package saccharine music comes the ubiquitous holiday albums from my least favorite singers and bands -- it's only a matter of time before Eminem puts out a Christmas album.
And then the grocery stores will convert it to muzak style and I may have to sequester myself in the house.
This is Pennsylvania's next governor, Ed Rendell, with my friends Christy and Justin. This is one of the reasons I absolutely love Ed Rendell -- he's not afraid to mingle with the actual people. Ed was mayor of Philadelphia for many years and a lot of people wish he could have been declared mayor for life. Ed's opponent is a stodgy old man. If you live in Pennsylvania, make sure you swing a vote for Ed Rendell for governor today. Ed took Philadelphia from a bankrupt dirty city, and completely changed things around. If you've been to Philadelphia lately you might think it's still dirty but you don't know what it was like when I moved here in 1990. This place is 1000000% better because of Ed's efforts. Ed comes to the Halloween Ball every year. He eats cheesesteaks. He's a real guy, and quite charming in his own way. Vote for Ed.
Have I mentioned today yet that you need to get your ass out and vote? Unless you're a Republican, of course -- in that case, please sit down and have a cup of tea, fall asleep in your chair and forget to vote.
In all seriousness everyone should vote today. I know that people say midterm elections don't mean a great deal in the grand scheme of things but they do -- can you imagine what kind of crap laws will get passed if the House and Senate are under Republican domination? Hear my mantra: if you don't vote, you don't have any right to complain.
I voted today as soon as the polls opened in my neighborhood. My mother doesn't vote and it drives me insane. She is under the mistaken impression that if she registers to vote she will get called for jury duty. Even though I explain to her that people get called for jury duty through drivers license rolls, she clings to her beliefs. And so whenever she starts to complain about the state of the economy or anything else, I tell her to shut up and go register to vote.
One of things I was most excited about turning 18 over was the fact that I would be able to vote. Oh, and I would be able to donate blood to the Red Cross. I vote in every single election. It's important -- women fought for the right to vote for more years than I can count. Why would I not vote after activists fought so hard to make sure I could?
Go vote!
Me [whiny]: Nobody loves me!
You [happy and cheerful]: But Nicole, we love you!
Me [extra whiny]: But nobody good loves me!
Kidding! I joke! I kid! It looks like Go Fish did not win any first place finishes in the October Bloggys. I can't complain though -- Go Fish did win second place for Best Design and third place for Blog of the Month. Congratulations to Big Pink Cookie for a first place finish for Most Posts, Serenity Quest for a first place finish for Most Humorous and second place for Blog of the Month, Time for Your Meds for the third place finish in Most Humorous, which is shared with Statia from Pizza Dreams! You know, I only read the best.
Some people take these awards things way too seriously. I checked my statistics log this morning and saw that this guy sent at least a dozen people to Go Fish. With the help of a handy dandy Dutch to English translator, it seems that he thinks it's a travesty that he didn't win a Bloggy for Best Design. You know how Babelfish is, but the general gist is that he thinks Go Fish is not well-designed at all and it's a sin that any of the top three won. He's kind of a sore loser, eh?
In other news, I have a medley of They Might Be Giants songs running through my head. Last night on Jeopardy Constantinople was one of the answers and ever since then, well....
Help me.
It's no secret that I absolutely hate anything remotely related to the Spice Girls. I mean it, too. Their songs give me the willies. Together they were incredibly annoying, but apart they have forged such irritating personas that I would like nothing better than to see them [singly or at a reunion] mown down by an errant bus.
I will fully admit that I laughed and laughed and laughed over this whole kidnap plot against Posh Spice. But I'm slightly puzzled. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? She seems the least fun of the bunch of them. Everytime I see her she has this pinched look on her emaciated face. If I had to kidnap a Spice Girl I'd probably take Baby Spice...at least it looks like she consumes food.
Laugh if you will at the fact that I know their names. You know what they say: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. I once had to choreograph a cheerleading routine for a bunch of 11 year olds to a Spice Girls song so believe me when I say that I consider the Spice Girls Enemy Number One. They are just pure evil.
What really cracks me up is that the gang of would be kidnappers was infiltrated by staff from News of the World. That's like the National Enquirer infiltrating Al Quaeda and capturing bin Laden. That shit is just hilarious. They must be the dumbest criminals in the entire world.
I've spent lots of time over the last half dozen years dreaming about wondering what a Spice Girl funeral would be like. Would preteens around the world mourn for their favorite tarts? Would the Spice Girls be laid to rest next to Jim Morrison in Paris, would cheesy kids from around the world make a global pilgrimage to pay homage?
I would certainly have gone out of my way next February during my trip to Paris to see the grave -- and then I'd dance the horrible dance I was forced to choreograph on top of the grave.
I am a knitting fool. Maybe I should buy a rocking chair.
But hey, I'm in vogue right now. Knitting is the new rock climbing....or whatever. Dude, Julia Roberts knits. I'm at least as cool as Julia Roberts. Russell Crowe knits...OK, bad example.
And I knitted my very first pair of socks this weekend -- I feel like a total dork. But they're cool and Ronald McDonald-colored. I'm working up to my first sweater. Sure, make fun of me all you want but you'll be begging me to make you a sweater one of these days! You'll rue the day!
Speaking of knitted goods, I know that Statia and Wolfie received their hats from the Go Fish Half Year Blogaversary contest, but how about the rest of you? I'm beginning to think that next time I go to the post office everyone is going to be sporting Nicole-knitted millinery finery.
Oh, and speaking of contests -- because I'm such a giver goddess I've decided to have a contest for the upcoming holiday season [Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Bah Humbug/whatever you celebrate]. Instead of knitted hats, I'm going to give away some journals that I made. I'm at a loss for what kind of contest to have though -- pulling names out of a hat seems so boring. So I need some good ideas...if you've got 'em, drink 'em...uh, wrong thing. You get the idea. Would should I make people do to earn a handmade journal?
My hometown is famous.
It could be considered famous for a number of things, but Berwick, Pennsylvania has finally been made world-renouned -- for vanilla extract thievery.
That's right! According to the manager of a grocery store in Berwick [whom I know], they've been finding empty boxes of vanilla extract all over the parking lot. Why? Because you can't get good drugs in Berwick, that's why! Young ruffians [and that includes everyone under the age of 18 in Berwick] are pilfering bottles of vanilla extract to shotgun in order to get drunk.
Because vanilla extract is 70 proof. I learn something new every day!
Of course, the police immediately think it's kids but what if it's a roving gang of rogue bakers? Vanilla is expensive! Maybe the Future Homemakers of America [yes, Berwick has a chapter for it's high school] have taken to a life of crime in order to fund their jones for chocolate chip cookies? Perhaps the fumes from baking too many Snickerdoodles and Chocolate Thumb Prints have driven them insane? Or maybe it's more sinister -- maybe they have taken a blood oath [thumbs pierced with sewing needles] to destroy the holiday season in Berwick by preventing anyone from baking? And then they will reap the rewards by being the only place in town to get holiday cookies!
It's a conspiracy!
Christmas in Berwick is completely surreal, so it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to find out that this is really what's behind the Great Vanilla Heist.
There is this thing called the Christmas Boulevard. It is basically just a series of grass plots in the middle of a wide street [a short street] that gets all gussied up for Christmas and becomes a destination for everyone within a 100 mile radius. Of course, I never understood why anyone would get so hyped up to see wood cut outs of elves and some Christmas tree lights....maybe it's the fact that Santa hands out bags of Weis potato chips.
Yes, that's right -- true Berwickians do not associate Christmas with candy canes or chocolate or even popcorn balls; this special time of year is all about regular Weis potato chips. The blue bag with the big owl. If we had a candy cane factory in town maybe it would be candy canes...but Berwick makes potato chips dammit [and ribbons, dog food, modular homes, and plastic bottles, but none of those seems appropriate for a holiday treat]!
The Christmas Boulevard is really known for it's drunk and insane drivers though. At least three times every year some smacked ass crashed through a plot and mows down an unsuspecting Christmas tree or plywood reindeer. Usually it's a little old blue-haired lady who can't see above the steering wheel, but you also get the trashy family who gets liquored up and decides to visit the festivities.
Ma, git mah coat and a six of Pabst. We is goin' to see the purty lahts on da Bullvard. Kids, pile inta the back a da pickup -- we's goin' to have dinnah. Ya likes tater chips, dontcha?
Ah, home! Maybe this year I can traffic in the vanilla extract black market.
Back in the 1970's the only video game that was readily available to me was Pong. My great-grandfather had this monsterous gaming system [definitely bigger than a breadbox] that only played Pong and he loved to play. We had these weird mock competitions.
I hate Pong. No wonder I have very little hand-eye coordination.
As a kid, we were pretty poor so I didn't have access to a lot of the same types of toys that other kids did. I had huge families of grocery store barbies. You know, not the Barbie, but her lightweight plastic counterpart without a real name. My grandmother was a seamstress, so my fake barbies had a killer wardrobe, but I lacked accessories like shoes, and the barbie Corvette and Dream House. My great-grandfather liked to build stuff out of popsicle sticks so I eventually had barbie-sized things like a porch glider.
I only had one barbie that was a brand name -- it was my Cher barbie doll. She came with a long mauve fishtail style dress and her wrist was jointed. It was hysterically funny!
This may make me seem strange but my favorite game when I was kid was called Witches Brew. As you might know, we lived out in the middle of no where. The closest town was about five miles away and there were no other kids anywhere close by. So I'd drag my brother over to my grandparents house and make him pretend to be my sorcerer's apprentice. We'd pick those little red berries off the shrubs, poison ivy [and I wonder why I am immune], violets, and anything else we could find; stir it up in a big bucket with some water and makeup weird spells to say over the bot of "brew." Then we'd climb the tree by the poison ivy covered shed and pretend to hex people.
When I did get a game for Christmas or my birthday, it was officially a shared toy. Our Hungry, Hungry Hippo game lasted about a week before my brother stole the hippo jaws off all the hippos. No one would play Uno with me. My mother hid our Simon game after two weeks because it was so damn loud.
The strangest game I ever received [and the most gender-biased, which I'm sure traumatized me for life and turned me into the freaky chick that I am today] was this sort of makeup makeover thing. It was this big plastic board with the complexions of four people [light white, dark white, olive, and black] and these slide-y things with makeup colors on them...you know, so you could decide which complexion looked best with the frosty blue eye shadow which came with the game.
Was that a hint that I needed a little bit of lipstick? I think I was ten years old!
I look at some of the shit toys that kids have access to today and the mind boggles. Would I have grown up to be a better person if I had a battery powered mini Jeep Cherokee? Or if I had Barbie's recording studio with working sound mixer?
Where are the Weeble Wobbles of yesteryear? Don't you know -- Weebles Wobble but the don't fall down!
I have just returned from lunch at Las Cazuelas with Statia. And it has been confirmed that I should really maybe get a clue before I start giving out driving directions. Now true, most of this was not my fault, but poor Statia ended up in fucking New Jersey.
That's right: New Jersey...the garden state. Home of the jug handle.
Luckily Statia is a stunt driver, not afraid to run over little old blue-haired ladies in their Oldsmobiles, and was able to finally make it to Girard Avenue without getting carjacked.
All the while I was sitting in the restaurant with a Mexican coffee, feeling worse and worse that she was in the sixth level of hell on her way to meet me for lunch. Guilt is a terrible thing to waste. I was terribly relieved when she walked in the door!
And she is so funny and nice! I will be amazed if she makes it home without breaking into a caffeine and sugar induced coma -- two cups of Mexican coffee with extra sugar and cream will do that to a person. Of course, she is now in possession of one of my knitted hats -- I'm sure the power of the knitted masterpiece will protect her.
Sure.
Since this was my first meeting of a fellow blogger, I was slightly nervous. What if Statia turned out to be an axe-murderer? What if she slipped roophies into my coffee, robbed me, and left me for the cooks at the mexican restaurant to have their evil way with me? What if she really secretly liked Martha Stewart? Statia turned out to be really cool though, so I'm looking forward to the next blogger-related outing.
Oh yeah, and I look forward to running up my cell phone bill for the cause of Porn for Kids, Inc.
I go through phases about the holiday season. One year I am completely caught up in feeling the spirit and magic of the season, and the next year I just can't quite get there. I have already achieved my groove on with Christmas this year.
It is largely due to the cold weather combined with copious amounts of Christmas movie and animated feature watching this weekend. I watched A Christmas Story twice over the last few days, plus all those excellent claymation types with the exception of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer, which is my absolute favorite.
I'm also thrilled and buying into the holiday propaganda because we're getting our Christmas tree on Thursday. IKEA is having their annual tree sale beginning Thursday, and that is our little tradition -- I take the train out to Conshohocken where Craig works and we go to IKEA and pick out a tree. It's really a great deal for anyone needing a tree -- for $20 you pick out a great live tree [all sizes and types available], and then you can return it after the holiday for a gift certificate and IKEA will recycle your tree. Because I'm all about the environment you know!
We even have a holiday feeling-inducing plan for the next two weeks. This coming Sunday Craig and I will brave the elements to watch the annual holiday light show at Wanamakers Lord & Taylor's. Following the light show/slobbering kid extravaganza we will partake in cocoa at the Ritz Hotel. And then the following weekend we're going to take a drive to see the Festival of Lights in Cobb Creek Park. Even Craig will have to be in the Christmas mood after that.
Craig likes to pretend he hates Christmas. In reality he loves it, but just doesn't want to tell me for fear it will ruin his reputation as curmudgeonly. He likes to reinforce his beliefs every now and then by telling the kids playing near our house to play somewhere else. I swear I married an 80 year old man.
Oh, and here's a spot of good news -- Christy made it onto the plane to South Africa yesterday. What's especially thrilling about this will only be of interest to those of you who knit. Christy made it through security and onto the plane with the wooden knitting needles I gave her for her birthday. They were more concerned with her eyelash curler, because no one had ever seen one before. So if you'll be travelling anytime soon and want to while away the time on the plane with knitting, wooden needles are the way to go. I bought her 10" size 8 needles...and I bought a pair for myself as well -- you know, for Paris in February.
Speaking of knitting, I think I'm developing the most powerful hand muscles anyone ever had. I think I knitted almost nonstop this weekend -- I'm knitting this sweater as a Christmas gift and I'm about 1/3 of the way done.
When I'm done I'll be able to crack walnuts with my bare hands! Fear me!
I have just returned from the photo finishing place, laden with lots of photos! Woohoo!
Christy and Eric
The Shrub as pure evil
Christy and Justin
The Donnie Darko rabbit
Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl...
The S&M Chaingang
Just another queen with a monsterous headpeice
Doctor and patient
The host with the most - Henri David
Our Ladies of Latex, hallowed be thy name
A group of Louis XIV kids: Photo 1 | Photo 2 | Photo 3
Mirror Mirror on the Wall and the Evil Queen
Pumpkinhead
Moulin Rouge
Operation!
Queen of the Damned
Queen of the Something or other
Aquarium Girl [with real fish!]
Behold the splendor of my hideous pink shoes
The vibrating blow up doll
That should give you some idea of what was going on last night! Wow!
By the way, can I just say that we bought six bags of candy and didn't get one trick or treater? Not one! Ungrateful bastards!
I'm so glad I'm not at work today -- my eyes are gummed shut because the fake eyelash glue refuses to come off, I've got glitter stuck in every crevice, and I'm so fucking tired. Such is the price to pay for a fun Halloween!
And it was fun! Pennsylvania's former mayor and next governor [I hope] makes an appearance every year, and I press the flesh with Mr. Rendell every damn time. The ballroom at the Wyndham was packed with some pretty good costumes, and the male revue was full of prosthetic goodness!
This was my fifth or sixth year attending the Henri David Halloween Ball. It began as a gay event about 15 or 20 years ago, but now is getting to be more and more of a straight crowd as it gets more mainstream. The problem is that the costumes aren't as elaborate or creative anymore, but, like I said, it's still a ton of fun!
I'm trying to find an hour photo processing place for my four rolls of film so I can post some photos later. I know you must be on the edge of your seat with wild anticipation! Heh.
![Aquarium Girl [with real fish!]](http://thegofish.com/redirect.php?url=images.diary-x.com%2Fusers%2Fstrangecraft%2Frealaq.jpg){kind=link}
