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So our time here at Go Fish as guest posters is nearing an end. And I must say, I will definitely miss it. It was kind of exciting to know that I could go into another person's journal and post my thoughts. I almost felt like a thief or an intruder to be honest with you.

Today was an interesting day in my world. I wish I had exciting things to talk about like Laura does, but I don't, so instead I will regale you (briefly) with a story about my mother.

Tonight we took my mom out to a very expensive French restaurant for her birthday dinner (and by we I mean two of my mother's friends and moi). My mother is possible the cheapest drunk in the world, and thus, she never drinks. Well tonight, she decided to have two glasses of Glenfiddich, a single malt Scotch. And I think everyone who attended this evening's festivities understood why my mother never drinks. She is the most annoying drunk in the world. She becomes quite loud and giggly and comments on everybody. And she does so in a very annoying manner. All her actions become overexaggerated to a frightening extent. Now, although this is funny to the outside observer, it is highly embarrassing for those of us who are related to her.

So I end this brief tirade with a piece of advice. To all those parents out there: if you are ever out with your adult children and you are not a good drinker, please limit your alcohol consumption. Otherwise your children may be paying good money for therapy for the next few years.

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hi, it's laura again ... your guest-resident happy adjunct professor of English as a second language ... and tonight begins Mardi Gras for countless gay men in the central FL area. of course, i'll be there with beads on.

actually, i've been appointed a drunken balcony bead bitch by the head drag queen at the parliament house, orlando's largest gay resort. basically, i show up, get my face and body painted, and throw beads out to hot, built men who flash me. or, at least, that's how it's SUPPOSED to work. it's my first year, so we'll see. but weird things always happen to me when i go to the parliament house.

i'm usually one of the only women there when i go, and because i'm 5'9" and wear at least 3" heels, i'm sometimes mistaken for a transsexual and hit on (i am NEVER hit on when i'm sitting down - go figure). ??? the parliament house sometimes hires male strippers to dance around on tall boxes in thongs, pouring hot candle wax over their cut chests. last gay days in june, i had both strippers following me all over the complex, buying me drinks and asking me to go home to tampa with them. of course, that sent the men into a tizzy, and my best friend matthew overheard death threats while he was in the women's bathroom. i saw the play 'hedwig and the angry inch,' during which i tried to sneak out to go potty. i was grabbed by hedwig himself, flung backward into my chair, and my 'teeny bladder' was poked fun at for the remainder of the play by every single cast member that had a speaking part. then, the hunky czechoslovakian server that everyone lusts over - AND whom we all thought was completely homosexual - came out of nowhere, grabbed my breasts and said in a jaw-dropping slavic accent, "i wahnt toh leek your [insert name of female nether region here]." more death threats followed after that one.

so, tonight i'm supposed to be standing on a rain-soaked balcony with my friend, rose, throwing beads out to deserving hot bodies, and i discover that i need to find a low-cut/strapless top so that my chest can get painted. i head to frederick's of hollywood after my last grammar class was over, and hear a VERY strange succession of noises coming from the front of the store. chalking it up to a squeaky clothes rack, i continue browsing. as i near the front, i realise it's someone AT the front desk. ??? then, after the head saleschick asks to help me, i realise it's HER. yes, the woman had tourette's syndrome. god bless her, but it totally freaked me out until i figured out what she was doing. her head was twitching back, and i thought maybe she was clearing her throat. then, her arm would go up over her mouth, and i thought maybe she was popping tic-tacs or something. then, she barked at me, and i knew exactly what was going on. woah. i've never encountered a salesperson with tourette's before, much less at a lingerie store. she was really cool, of course, with a kick-ass personality. it was just kinda weird to have someone lace up your corset baa-ing like a sheep behind you. the corset rocks, btw.

i have a feeling that maybe i should just stay home this weekend...

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Like everyone else, I'm totally jealous that Nicole gets to go to Paris for a week. When I first moved to Sweden I thought fun and exciting European destinations would be on my vacation agenda for the next few years.

Wrong!

For some reason my family expects me to spend my vacation time with them. After all, it's not like I can drive home for a long weekend. So instead of spending a week in the south of France, or a few days exploring Rome, I get to head for a special little place known as Hickville Central (also known as southern Oregon).

The ironic thing is, people pay big bucks to come up to Kiruna, my current home. It technically is an exotic locale. Of course, it's not my kind of exotic. I want white sandy beaches and drinks with little umbrellas. Instead, I've got white snow drifts eight months of the year and the opportunity to drink vodka out of glasses fashioned of ice (scroll down to see the pic). Crazy Americans, Germans and Japanese pay upwards of $300/night to sleep in a hotel made of ice. They can warm up by taking a nice sauna with the locals, clothing optional. Then they head to their beds of ice, covered with reindeer fur. We're talking romance central, people!

It's not really that bad. Not many people can say they've seen reindeer races in the middle of town, or claim that they've seen Hamlet performed in a theatre made entirely of ice. I just wish I was a tourist instead of a resident.

I can't complain too much. I have seen lots of exciting places since moving here. We spent a week in Munich and I really loved it. It was a business trip for my boyfriend, so he didn't get to see much of Germany. He got to eat lots of McDonald's and Burger King since they were generally the only places that were serving food by the time his meetings ended for the day. Authentic German cuisine! I got to see lots of drunk men in leiderhosen (we were there the week after Oktoberfest), which always makes for a good time. It's just a good thing drunk men are slow moving. I had one old geezer walk up to me with his hands outstretched at boobie level, ready to cop a feel. A quick side-step was all it took to avoid him. Seriously, though, I did have a lot of fun. I went on several different tours and did lots of exploring. It's almost impossible to describe the awe and wonder I felt when I was inside some of the old buildings or even walking down the streets. We just don't have anything that old in the US. (Yes, I know that Native Americans were in the US for a long time, but it's just not the same. They didn't build the way the Europeans did. Nothing against them or anything, it's just a totally different feel.).

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Since I am writing for another journal besides my own I feel the need to say something of some important. Nicole is always writing about things that are socially relevant and important and since she has left us in charge here (which may not have been the best idea!) I felt the need to emulate her. Now granted, I am not as good a writer nor as socially conscious as our illustrious web mistress, however I hope I can muddle through somehow.

In Toronto in the past few months there has been an increasing amount of attention paid to the link between race and crime. Specifically, there are lawsuits pending regarding racial profiling and whether our law enforcement officials are using profiling or should be allowed to use it. People are of very different minds when it comes to an issue such as this, and the debate continues to rage in this cold snowy city.

Anyone who has ever studied Sociology knows full well that racial profiling is employed at all levels of law enforcement. There is no way around this since society itself embeds many racial concepts into people at a very young age. The difference between the average joe and those of us who consider ourselves enlightened (at least in my humble opinion) is that those who are enlightened realize this and make a conscious effort to form their own opinions outside of the concepts. Ideally these conscious efforts will eventually become ingrained and thus the original concepts will be moot.

The question is, is it right to employ racial profiling? Everyone knows it is done, and most of middle-class white America/Canada can see nothing wrong with it since it usually saves their butts. But ask any black man who is driving a nice car how it feels to be pulled over and suspected of stealing your own car. Because after all, he was DWB. Or ask anyone with a middle-eastern background how they have felt since September 11th. Most of them have probably felt pretty uncomfortable and a large number of them have probably dealt with racism and cruelty since that day, because hey, they are all terrorists. I can't help but see inherent problems in this system.

Government agents and officials have power. They are given that power by the people with the trust that they will use it carefully. Is this really how we expect them to wield the massive amounts of power we hand over?

I wish I could offer a solution to this, or suggest an alternative, but I can't. Racial profiling is wrong and unfair, but to whom does one direct their anger? What can be done instead to ensure our safety? The law enforcement officials can't really be faulted since they are using everything they can to best accomplish their job. Society has taught them certain things, education has probably furthered many of those ideas, and now, they employ these ideas in order to catch criminals, solve crimes etc. Until people start looking past skin tone, there is no solution. People of all colours and creeds need to open their minds, because it doesn't matter what you are, it matters who you are.

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There is this really neato weblog listing called The Octopus Files. What sets it apart is that it will use an actual quote from an entry on your blog so that you can get a "feel" for what the blog writing is like. I absolutely guffawed when i went and looked up what the owner had chosen for Butterfly Wings..

a quote from one of my mama shining moments:

"Pee spot in the hallway. Pee on a chair. Pee on the bathroom rug. Poop on clothes in sink.
A new dog in the house you might ask?!
Nope. It's called a one year old."

Am i full of myself for laughing at my own material? It just cracks me up.. whew, what a day that was!

So, what will YOUR octopus file listing say??! C'mon! It's fun! Any free entertainment is good for me!

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After reading Carrie's brave confession of her fear of fish, I immediately sympathized. While I don't have any phobia about the slimy creatures in general (although now that I think about it, I'm not all that fond of the idea of a fish brushing up against me in a river, either), I do have one really stupid fear.

Birds.

Well, it's not just only birds... it's pretty much any flying creature. I'm not sure where this whole thing comes from, or when exactly it set in. I remember the first time I took notice of it though... I was with a couple friends who were visiting me (back when I was living in Berkeley), and we were doing the touristy Fisherman's Wharf walk. Suddenly we came to this point where we had to walk by a bunch of evil seagulls, who were just huddling up on the sidewalk like they owned the freakin' joint. We walked, and I felt this horrendous amount of dread that all the birds were going to take off in flight in every possible direction the moment we walked by.

Miraculously, they didn't, but it took awhile before my heart slowed back down again. I started to feel this dread with just about any bird... a flock of pigeons in the road would make me wish more than anything to change direction. Even hummingbirds in a garden... while I loved to look at them, if one came flying towards me, I freaked... you know how fast those little things are?

I realized I had hit rock bottom when in a butterfly garden in Vancouver, I jumped any time one of the lovely creatures would take flight from whatever leaf they had settled on earlier. I managed to stick it out for a couple minutes and a couple photos... then I headed back into the aquarium area (Carrie would've certainly done the exact opposite heh).

Granted I have some other dumb fears as well (like when driving by semi-trucks, I'm always scared they will kick up a rock that will hit me in the face), but none are as strong as those of our fine, feathered friends.

What're you afraid of?

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Yo, Yvonne here. I'm Nicole's favorite ghetto ho, even though I'm not from the ghetto, nor am I a ho. Well, actually that's not true, I'm kind of a famous ho. Notice I didn't say a RICH and famous ho? That's right, cause I'm keepin it real, I'm broke as a mo fo. Anyway... I feel honored Nicole trusted me enough to let me hang out here while she's gone, I hope I don't make her regret it!

Of course, she'd have to go on the ONE WEEK OF MY LIFE that I don't have anything to say!!! Well, I guess I could tell you how friggin embarrassed I was tonight when I found out that pickles were really CUCUMBERS! What the hell? Why didn't someone tell me this sooner? I'm still not sure if I believe it... I mean, pickles are just pickles, right? I'm still in a bit of shock. Kind of like when I found out The old lady from that show "mama's family" wasn't really an old lady at all. It was Vicky Lawrence and I was completely shocked! I was upset that I had been lied to. I never could laugh at that show again because it was a farce. Why not just get a funny old lady to play the part? Why dress some young lady up to play an old lady and mess with my head like that?? Ok, I forgot what this has to do with pickles... Oh well, I guess my point was I'm not so sure about this new revelation about pickles supposedly being cucumbers. I might need some concrete proof, people.

Oh, I bet Nicoles regretting giving me a password right about now. ;)

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Movable Type just freaked out on me and sent my post four times. Oops. I deleted them, but I can't rebuild the site, so I'm posting this, which will rebuild the page and delete all those extra posts. So you get an extra bit of random goodness from me, rather than four bits of the same randomness. Aren't you lucky? I feel like an idoit now. LOL

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Hi! I'm Jennifer, another guest poster. I've been reading everyone else's posts, and wondering what I should say. This is the first time I've ever posted on someone else's blog, and I'm a little nervous.

When I logged in, I noticed one interesting little tidbit: Nicole has 691 entries on this blog, and 702 comments. More comments than entries. Isn't that interesting? My blog's certainly not that way -- I have oodles of entries, and not as many comments. Of course, Nicole's different. She's interesting, and that's why we all flock here. :)

I always wanted to go to Europe. I never really wanted to go to France, though I hope Nicole's loving it there. No, I wanted to hit the British Isles. Ireland, especially. Or Scotland. I didn't even want to be a tourist. I wanted to do a work abroad program -- sort of like a "student exchange," but you go to work, not study. Now, I'm too old for the program, and planning a wedding, so that particular dream will never happen. I'll find a different way. Someday. Maybe.

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Ahh yes, in keeping with the current Europe theme I will grace you dear readers of Nicole's blog, with another tale of European travel. As I discussed yesterday, during our trip to Rome we encountered many unusual things. Which is to be expected when visiting a foreign country. The money is weird to you, the language is unfamiliar and even the most traditional things to them, are not even a thought in our little american brains.

It seems that on Sundays, everything is closed. Restaurants, bars, stores, ...everything, after about 5:00. After a long and scary ride on the wrong bus to god-knows-where we were....we made it back to the neighborhood where our hotel was situated. Only to discover that all was dark and closed up for the night. And we were starving.

We walked for blocks for any indication of an open cafe only to find darkness in every shop window. He hung our heads in defeat and walked back to the hotel with a glimmer of hope that there was something unspoiled in our hotelroom refridgerator. In the hotel we stayed at, the key was also the thing that turned on the power to the room. When you leave...power goes off. That includes the fridge. Seems Romans don't reallly like anything cold. Didn't see a spec of ice in 10 days.

We went down to the hotel "bar" to see what we could dredge up. We were in luck. The only food source available in Rome. The hotel was pretty modern as far as amenitites. But the decor.....was awful. The bar was clad with 60's style furniture and everything was covered in black laquer and red velvet. Even the bartender looked like he was stuck in a time warp.

We managed a BLT out of him somehow and it could be the best BLT I ever ate. Took him 1 1/2 hours to make it....but we got it. Moral of the story? There is none. It just amused me that we were in this big beautiful city in Italy and the only place we could go to dinner, was at the hotel bar with the 70's bartender.

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I guess it's time for me to gather up my courage and write my first Go Fish guest post. For some reason I feel like an impostor. I'm the high school geek who's somehow managed to worm my way into a seat at the cool people's table. I'm probably just paranoid.

At any rate, I'm Carrie. Once upon a time I was an American high school English teacher. These days I'm just an unemployed foreigner trying to speak Swedish to the natives. I moved to Sweden because I met a guy online and fell in love. It sounds so cheesy, doesn't it? And unlikely. And just plain weird. It works for us though. We're getting married on May 31st and I fully expect it to last forever (knock on wood).

Enough about me. Let's talk about the ironies of The Go Fish being one of my top three blog picks.

I discovered Nicole before the fishies were on the layout. If I would have clicked her diary and seen the fishes I would have hit back and made a point to never, ever come back. Yes, I'm a freak. I have an extreme fear of fish, so luckily I became addicted to Nicole's wit before she had the fish on the page. I've come up with a coping mechanism. Before I open her blog, I make sure all the windows are positioned in such a way that I can't see the fish when I open the blog. I think I need psychiatric help.

I haven't always been this way. I don't know what made me this way. When I was a kid we had pet fish. I didn't ever touch them (my sister killed them by petting them) but I didn't turn away in terror either. Up until I was about fourteen years old I would even go swimming in lakes and rivers and have no thoughts about fish swimming near me. These days the very thought of one of my teeny-tiny toes touching a drop of natural water is almost enough to send me to the ER with seriously elevated blood pressure.

I think the problem started in high school. I paid way too much attention in my classes (I'm a nerd-girl) and totally absorbed every thing the bio teacher said about strange creatures living in the ocean. I didn't want to be stung by a jelly fish or attacked by a shark or poisoned by other strange sea-life. That was the start.

Also, at some point my aunt told me a story about her tropical fish. She was really into raising the slimy little buggers, but told me that she had a problem with some of them. Apparently they would jump out of the tank and land on the sofa. Sometimes they would land on people. Sometimes they would dry out over-night and leave a nice husk for Auntie to clean up. The thought of a fish jumping out of a tank and landing on my neck made me ill. The fear took root and eventually grew into an out of control entity.

These days I don't even like to look at pictures of fish, much less see a real fish. I won't eat at the one Chinese restaurant in town because they have a huge fish tank right by the register. I get images of the Chinese owner reaching into the tank with a pair of chopsticks and flipping a round bodied orange slimy thing on me. Or worse yet, I get images of the fish being flipped into the skillet and fried up with my curry chicken. My over-active imagination has banned the place from my list of "safe places to eat". Good thing I don't really like Chinese food.

Like I said, I'm in dire need of psychological help.

Now, let's see if I can figure out the intricacies of this professional looking blogger type thingee. I'm just a lowly d-x user, so here's to hoping I don't screw anything up.

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as i have yet to post an entry on my blog yet I have a swirl or random thoughts swirling around my head at the moment...

* Did anyone see Simon Cowell on Oprah today? Wow, that man has got some really erect nipples...

* If you have a big butt does it take longer for it to go numb than a skinny butt?

* Does that one guy on Survivor look EXACTLY like David Byrne or is it just me? Me & my husband now have to watch shows & fit in Talking Heads lyrics like...
"You may ask yourself- how did i get here?!"

* ooooh, Joe Millionaire on tonight. I don't think him and Zora will last. She's a little spacey and he's just dumb as a rock. Well, hmm, now that i say that maybe they will be a great couple...

And now i am laughing out loud since my posts are always totally different than the rest of the guestposters... just call me tool of the bunch. *queen wave* (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist)...

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Today seems to be the day for writing about Europe. I had this plan to write about a special I saw on tv last night about how to protect yourself in a crowd situation, however, I think I will be saving that for tomorrow. And yes, for those keeping track, I watched that special instead of the Grammy's. I was at a friends place and she was very anti-Grammy so I missed out on all the fun. However, I did hear that Nelly took of his face band-aid for the first time. I can't believe I missed that.

And on to Europe and all that it entails....

My parents were the first generation to come here to the Crap White North known otherwise as Canada. But their family all stayed in Europe. All over Europe really, but centralized in France, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, England and Wales. Although come to think of it, that isn't really all that centralized, is it?

Anyways, because we had no relatives here, we used to spend almost every summer travelling and visiting family and friends. We would start in Paris, then go to Switzerland, then finally Italy. On occasion we would also go to Austria and Germany, however since we had travelled across the ocean to be there most people came to see us.

I remember having way too much fun when I was there. I had cousins, and family and they showed us around and treated us like gold. And for anyone who has ever visited >my site> you will know that I am all about being the centre of attention: hence the career goal of acting.

It was funny, because when I was a kid (and really, even now) I felt more at home in Europe. I never felt like I fit in here, I always felt like something was wrong with me, but when I was in Europe with the family, I was fine. I know I had a very different upbringing than most kids because my parents were very European in their ways. Manners were so important it is frightening. We also ate at different times, used different language (and often spoke a different one..French if you were curious), had different discussions and different rules. It may have been these things that enhanced how different I felt.

The point of all the rambling? Let me get to it as my dinner is awaiting me! I went back for two months two summers ago. I hadn't been since I was fourteen, so eight years I guess. And you know what? The same thing happened. I felt immediately at home. It didn't matter whether I was trekking through the "rain" (read: monsoon) in Scotland, or hanging at the largest gay bar in London (gay men listen to the best music, I swear), or eating baguette and jambon in Paris (I'm sorry...what diet?), or sweating buckets in Venice (honestly...the most humid city ever), or shopping in Florence (heaven...need I say more?) or sight-seeing in Rome (because seriously everything happened in Rome): I was home.

And the best part? Even though my family hadn't seen me in eight years, it was exactly the same. There was no weirdness or anything. They were accepting and wonderful and it felt great!

You know what...this is totally not the way I had planned for this entry to go. I am going to leave it here, so that all European background is provided, but I promise, tomorrow's entry will have a point. I PROMISE.

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It's time I got my feet wet here at Go Fish. Since Nicole is away in Paris enjoying the food, the culture, the museums and drinking a few glasses of french wine I will keep the subject matter to foreign travel. Thinking of her over there reminded me of my own time spent in Europe.

I never dreamed I would have the chance to travel overseas. When I met my husband, and we started dating he told me he would take me to Rome one day and we would sit on the Spanish Steps with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, and watch the people go by. It was a romanitc thought and I entertained the idea. But didn't think we would some day do it.

Steve and I got married in 1999 and for our honeymoon, we went to Rome. Ten days walking the streets of Rome, visiting the ruins, the Colosuem, eating lunch in Piazza De Navona...where some of the best people watching takes place.

One night we decided to live out our little fantasy of sitting on the Spanish Steps. We got our wine and two little cups, some bread and walked there with stars in our eyes. During the day we had seen the Steps...its a fairly big tourist spot. At night however, the Steps turn into the biggest teenager hangout/pick-up joint in the whole city. There were kids everywhere. We managed a spot near the top of the Steps and started with the wine drinking. There is no open bottle laws in Rome, nor is there a drinking age (i think). Kids where everywhere guzzling from bottles of vodka...guys picking up girls that didn't even speak the same language. The best part of it all was the vendors. All over Rome there are these men that walk around in piazza's and hangouts and tourist spots trying to sell cheap trinkets.

They had laminated Bart Simpson posters with the caption "Don't Have a Cow Man" on them. Gold lighters in the shape of naked women... and men, and when lit, the fire would come out or their breasts or other genitalia. heh.

Not exactly the most romantic night as we had envisioned for so long. But we got there and we did what we came for. We only stayed for an hour or so and moved on to get some real italian gelato. That made up for it.

Stay tuned for more stories from the "Kathy In Europe" series.

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Some days I really think there should be mandatory, comprehensive testing for old people who want to retain their driver's licenses. This morning, on my long, nasty commute along one of the most dangerous two lane highways in America (which was recently featured on some TV news magazine, but I can't remember which one), I had the misfortune of getting behind someone going 30 miles per hour. This is on a 2-lane highway with a posted speed limit of 55 mph.

This woman, going 30 mph, who could barely see over the steering wheel and was clearly confused by the wet, cold conditions, kept slowing down and running her windshield wipers and windshield washer fluid pump on the ultra-high-speed setting. Apparently she needed new blades (or more fluid), because there weren't any cars in front of her. Any cars that were in front of her, were a long, long ways up the road, no doubt going the actual speed limit.

Now, it's bad enough to get stuck behind someone going really slow, but getting stuck behind someone going really slow that has a hard time staying in his or her own lane, on a two lane highway that accounts for a multitude of fatal accidents every year, where there is significant oncoming traffic (enough to prevent passing, for sure), is extremely aggravating. And in this case it begs the question: should this person even be allowed to drive?

If you are incapable of taking care of the basic safety functions of your car - like having good windshield wipers and washer fluid so you can see, and are incapable of reacting in a normal fashion to anything that may be thrown at you while you are driving, should you be allowed to have a license? Nevermind the accumulated stories over the years of old people pressing the gas pedal instead of the brake pedal and running someone over - we're talking about just being able to drive in a consistent, predictable manner here. This irritates me to no-end. It's just as bad as the snot-nose teenager who blazes down the road the same way he (or she) blazes through life - at mach snot with the false perception that he (or she) is totally invincible.

Cars are deceptive, powerful weapons. Maybe we should require more than an eye-check for license renewal. Maybe there should be a psychological profile to keep dare devils off the roads, and maybe there should be mandatory drug testing to get a license. And maybe we should institute some ageism as well. I know, I know, it's not very PC, but the fact is that safe driving requires physical and mental agility, and a person should have to demonstrate these skills to get and hold their license.

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I'm sort of jealous at the moment. Nicole's certainly off doing all sorts of fun, exciting touristy things, and while my first steps on French soil were now over two years ago... I've never done most of those things.

When I first came here, we did do a few of the obligatory tourist things. We did the Eiffel Tower, although the top floor was closed for renovations at the time, so we had to settle for the second floor. We even took the stairs, as the wait for the elevator was like 80-bazillion hours and some change. I resisted the urge to buy one of the smiling Eiffel Tower stuffed animals in one of the gift shops (while cheesy, I am always drawn to such things), but instead bought a bubble pen and blew bubbles from the second floor.

We've also been to the Château de Versailles, which is where all those French noble types were living for a couple hundred years. It's extremely impressive, with ornately-painted ceilings, huge kingly beds, a large collection of artwork, etc. However, we sort of missed out on the gardens, which are huge and supposedly gorgeous when in bloom. We were there in January, which meant no flowers, covered statues (as to not be weakened by the frost), and being slightly chilly.

There's been a few other little things as well... we've driven down the Champs-Elysées (although it was just to go to the Virgin Megastore, heh), we've been through the same square in Montmartre that Amélie goes running through (even before the film came out, bonus points for me!), and we've done Père Lachaise, which is the coolest graveyard in paris, with many famous um... residents (the most commonly searched out being Jim Morrison). But there's so much to be done as well. I still haven't see the Arc De Triomphe, nor gone to the Louvre. Notre Dame is nothing more than a Disney cartoon in my experience.

However, just this weekend we spent the day on the seaside basking in the sun, with beer and guitars, followed by crêpes and delicious cider. And while it may not be the hustle and bustle of Paris, I guess I can settle for that.

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I was updating I Wish, You Wish when I noticed that today is Nicole's birthday! What could be better than wishing her happy birthday on her own blog?

Happy birthday, Nicole! I hope you're having a wonderful time in Paris!

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whew! i finally broke into this joint! for some reason all yesterday it would just give me the login 12 million cazillion times...

hello people! i'm Tenika from butterfly wings. how ya doin?

Do you think it's possible that the people over at Picture Yourself hate me?? Moi, you say? I'm not even kidding. Since January I have probably submitted 4 times and I've never once gotten to be (i guess) one of the priveledged people. The happy people. The cool people. Maybe I'm just not angry enough looking in the picture.. i've seen a few of those.. maybe that is what they are looking for...

oh well. *sniff* I'll be okay... I'm just getting major junior high flashbacks right now...grrr..

okay sidenote to myself who's obviously not hip to MT..what the hell is this excerpt section?! URL's to Ping? WTH?? Okay Tenika, just press publish.

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hi, everyone ... i hope that you're all having a nifty weekend thus far, and that your weather is cooperating. i'm laura, part of operation guestpost, and i live in orlando, florida (yes, the location that brings you those really sickening boy bands). i'm a professor of english at seminole community college near orlando, and teach english as a second language to adults. we've had a few wonderful storms today, and it's actually gotten muggy enough that we need to turn on our air conditioners. don't hate me because i've never driven in snow.

today, i was driving to take my eldest to see 'chicago' (hey, we've got to see at least ONE movie this year that's been nominated for an oscar) i pulled up behind a FL license tag that read 'GODSGIF.' not 'GODSGIFT,' but 'GIF.' ???

i was tempted to get out of my vehicle and ask the person if they really thought they were THAT hot, and were simply a victim of florida's limitation of the license plate characters. or, perhaps, they were a christian graphics designer? then, i got to thinking, "if god had a .gif, what would it look like?"

so, what do YOU think god's .gif would look like? don't be shy! tell us what you think.

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Reprinting this post from my diary, simply because its inspiration boggled my mind so. Plus it's relevant, simply Nicole is in France now anyway. I wonder how anti-American they are over there?

***

Further proof that gung-ho patriots tend to be ignorant idiots: they're boycotting French cuisine now.

"...businesses in Rochester and across the country are starting to take French products off their shelves and menus over France’s reluctance to support military action in Iraq... A restaurant in Beaufort, N.C., has even replaced french fries with 'freedom fries.'"

'Freedom fries.' Good lord. Are people (a) so stupid that they believe french fries are actually imported from the vast pastoral deep-fryer fields of southern France, or (b) so paranoid that they believe consuming any remotely French foodstuff will indelibly mark them as a pansy-ass peacenik?

What's next? French horns banned from music classes across the country? Yuppie couples forbidden to add French doors to their homes?

People are just plain stupid. Suddenly it isn't kosher to eat foods from France, but no one has a problem with our imports of Saudi and Iraqi oil. That's right: even though we claim to have an oil embargo on Iraq, they are our sixth largest supplier of black gold, because we get it through the "world market." Look it up yourself; the figures are all there on the Department of Energy's website.

Maybe I should stockpile my favorite French foods, in case this boycott becomes a big deal. Other people's terrorism kits include water and batteries and duct tape; mine will be loaded with Brie and French bread. C'est magnifique.

---

Movable Type looks so cool.

So, here I am. I should clarify that the bio-ette provided by Nicole for me is not entirely accurate. I was a student at Vassar; however, due to various medical mishaps and some ridiculous red tape, I am somewhat between colleges now. It's a long and bitter epic already well chronicled in my diary, so I will not clutter up Nicole's blog with a rehash.

Instead I will talk about hot, hot sexin'.

Wheeee... that entry extension link is good for creating cliffhangers.

I picked up the paper this morning (the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle of Rochester, New York, for those of you who wish to locate precisely how far away the person writing this is from you) and skimmed through nightclub catastrophes and local trials when something in the Living section caught my eye. It was a little column-filler about the website Torrid Romance. It's a California-based company that churns out "personalized romance novels": you pick one of four themes (western, medeival, modern-day Cinderella, Paris), answer a survey about yourself and your partner of choice (eye color, hair color, boxers or briefs, etc) and send in $34.99, and several weeks later you receive your personalized book, featuring such memorable quotes as, "... a red dress sends a definite message. It's like, well, I do have a smoking body, thank you very much ..."

Needless to say, I was amused. Romance novels are cheesy enough as it is, and I should know: they were essentially my sex education. I remember sneaking my mother's Danielle Steele novels off the shelf around age 10 and breathlessly reading of Alexa-Rose and her stablehand Marcus, carefully marking the 'good parts' for later. I'm not sure how much this introduction has screwed with my perceptions of love and sex (I should think not much, I'm highly cynical about the two), but my take on literature has certainly evolved beyond that, thank God. You can only read variants of, "Her bosom trembled and her dewy lips parted as he pressed forward, pushing them both down onto the satiny scarlet sheets" for so long before you realize something is essentially wrong with the genre.

And I do believe it's very wrong. It gives people unrealistic ideas about the relationship between the sexes. Women are not passive, dreamy creatures made suddenly multi-orgasmic by their one true love, who will care for them always, and men are not sensitive lone wolves without needs of their own, who can make everything all better in the end. These personalized books are just further proof that romance novels are cheap therapy for housewives who wish that they were able to live upon a pedestal, completely dependent and totally adored. "Historical" romances are of course ridiculously inaccurate, and on the whole the stories are churned out by hack writers looking to make a quick buck.

(I'm sorry if I've offended any romance novel fans out there. But c'mon!)

What drew me to the website though, and what made me write this post, is my enduring fascination with the genre simply for cheesiness' sake. It's like people who watch reality shows to see how gruesome they'll turn out. Even just the synonyms for penis are hilarious ("proud manhood," "pillar of love," "staff of desire"). My composition professor last year challenged us to write two short stories about love. He said to use the most original and interesting imagery and language we could think of for the first one, and the absolute cheesiest and most cliched for the second. I got just as much pleasure out of writing the second one as I did the first, simply because I couldn't stop laughing. My heroine Sierra was of course a breathless 18-year-old virgin orphan, complete with heaving bosom and full, pouty lips, who dreamed of being a movie star. On her way to Hollywood, one mishap after another crushing her delicate flower-like spirit until Her Twoo Wuv comes along and saves the day. I'm far prouder of the first story I wrote, but I keep the other around for laughs.

Hell, I could work for Torrid Romance. I can euphemize names for the genitals with the best of them! Just need to pick out a pen name, which isn't too hard. I'll follow that company's lead and use a gender-nonspecific first name with a famous author's last name: Madison Shakespeare, say. Or perhaps Madison Lawrence, in honor of a REAL author who wrote incredibly, incredibly sexy books. Just tell me the theme and I'm good to go!

Interestingly enough, one of the four themes offered is one set on a vacation to Paris. I wonder what our lovebirds' vacation would be like were it a highly cheesed romance novel...?

He lay back slowly on the luxurious bed, gazing longingly at the beautiful woman standing before him. "Darling, you look ravishing in that," he murmured, admiring the way her negligee fit her supple body.

She smiled, lying down next to him. "Thank you," she purred tenderly, close to his ear, "I knit it myself."

Anyway. I'll leave now, hoping I haven't crossed any lines with that last bit. *yawns* 'Night, all.

---

Hi, I'm Annessa, and I'm a guest poster on Nicole's site while she's gone. You can find out more about me here, but first, I have a problem.

Yeah, there's something sooo wrong with the way I woke up today. Nicole promised me she'd stick me in her suitcase and take me with her, but alas, I wake up still in the States.

Traveling abroad has always been a dream for me. I've wanted to have a Griswald experience forever it seems. But I've never gone. My younger brother? Three times. My mom and dad? At least a dozen or so each. Yeah, they've gone to Europe together (all three of them, with my grandfather), without me (at least they pretended it wasn't on purpose). And now the cool bloggers I know think it's okay to just jump in a plane and travel around the world and leave me behind. As if!

But one year, when my brother and mother were in France, my dad said he was going to take me to Europe too. Yeah, he took me to Epcot.

That's the kind of family I come from, just a little twisted.

---

I just swung by the fabulous go fish website that Nicole has blessed us with and I noticed I am unable to pull it up. Apparently the website is malfunctioning or being over-accessed or my computer is too slow to open the page right now. OR, and this is a big OR because it would be so damn awful if it was true, one of the guestposters has broken it. I am not sure exactly how one would break a website, but if it was one of the guest posters, I am so glad it was not me. It is totally something I would do and not even realize that I did it. So if someone did break the website, I feel your pain. And if it is just malfunctioning on its own, damn website!

As Nicole mentioned in her intro of the guest posters, I am Canadian. I actually live in Toronto where we have had a gross and cold winter with much snow (typical winter around here!). However, today and yesterday have been wonderful and warm. It went up to +1 Celsius today (sorry guys, I have no idea how to convert that to fahrenheit). This is a huge improvement...however, since it is going down to -14 on Monday, I also feel it is a huge tease.

I don't understand how anyone is supposed to become accustomed to these weather patterns. My skin is as dry as the Sahara Desert and it just keeps getting worse as the weather fluctuates. I have been getting these killer headaches (but not quite migraines) as the pressure changes. Nicole was talking about the snow fun that was happening in Philadelphia, and I long for those days.

So what is all the complaining about, you ask. It is really quite simple: I would like to put in an official request. Mr. Frost or Ms. Nature, can one of you please make up your mind? Thanks a whole bunch.

---

I thought I'd start my first Operation GuestPost entry off with something good and noble so that when I get drunk and wacky, at least my first impression was good. ;-)

Several years ago I found a site called United Devices. They ask you to volunteer your PC to help process molecular research being conducted by the Department of Chemistry at the University of Oxford in England and the National Foundation for Cancer Research. To participate, you simply download a very small, no cost, non-invasive software program that works like a screensaver: it runs when your computer isn't being used, and processes research until you need your machine. Your computer never leaves your desk, and the project never interrupts your usual PC use.

There is no cost to participate and no impact on your computer use. The project software cannot detect or transfer anything on your machine but project-specific information. It just allows your computer to screen molecules that may be developed into drugs to fight cancer. Each individual computer analyzes a few molecules and then sends the results back over the Internet for further research. This project is anticipated to be the largest computational chemistry project ever undertaken and represents a genuine hope to find a better way to fight cancer.

You can download the agent here and read the FAQ here.

If you do decide to join, I have created a team called Blogging For a Cure. Please sign up for the team after you join. If you dedcide to become a team member e-mail me your username at UD (so I can tell who you are) and site info and I'll add you to the blogroll.

This is an easy, free way to help fight cancer, so please add your computer's resources to the project.

---

I figured that in honor of Nicole's funfilled day of air travel, I would review with you how these long distance flights go. After all, I've done the same US to Paris overnight dealy quite a few times (and even done the United arriving at 7am Paris time deal), and I've got the whole routine down-pat.

Approx. 12:30pm: Arrive at airport for leg one of the flight. Sure, you're quite a bit early, but with all those ten bazillion security points, you never know how long it'll take. You check in your bags (and wave goodbye to your luggage), and then you're off to face round after round of questioning.

12:45pm: You've been scanned, x-rayed, and urine checked in record time, and are now faced with two hours of airport fun. Granted, Newton's Law of Travel states that had you shown up one hour before your flight time, you would have spent every last second in that damn line, but there's only so much you can do in an airport. You buy a coffee, and mix in the perfect amount of sugar and cream very slowly. You glance at your watch... only 78 seconds have passed. Argh.

12:50pm: You settle into one of those hard, ratty chairs and sigh. You're not even on the plane yet, and you're bored already.

2:25pm: You get called for boarding, and more likely than not are pulled aside for a random bag check. You glance away while the male security agent is digging through the pocket which contains both your birth control and your supply of tampons. You're cleared for boarding.

4:15pm - 5:15pm: You've finished the short leg of your flight. You buy a book of crossword puzzles, drink yet another coffee, make a final bathroom run, and then it's off for international boarding. Hooray!

6:00pm: You scope out the perks on this flight. If you're lucky, you've got a personal tv screen with 8 channels of movies and television programming to choose from. Less lucky? One big movie screen at the center of each section of the plane. Even less lucky? You're in the furthest back corner seat (which naturally, does not recline).

7:30pm: The crew has announced the menu choices for dinner. Naturally, they're out of your choice when they get to your seat. You settle for a salad with only one salad dressing option (if you're lucky, it's italian, if not... it's french), a mysterious blob of the main dish, and a slice of "cheesecake" that seems to be neither cheese, nor cake. Hmmph.

7:45pm: You realize you shouldn't have drank that coffee before boarding, and you need to pee NOW. However, you've a tray of picked-over food in front of you (and if you're not in the aisle seat, other people's trays as well), rendering that impossible. You hold out until a few minutes later, when the crew comes and collects the trays, only to discover that everyone else was waiting for that too. You sigh as you walk over to stand in the ever-growing queue.

8:30pm: At this point, most people are sleeping and the cabin lights have been dimmed. If you even think about turning on that overhead light, you're the bitch that's ruining everyone's slumber. You spend the next few hours feigning sleep.

6:15am (GMT+1): The cabin crew wakes everyone up for breakfast, distributing trays of much-needed nourishment. You find yourself with a cold, mysterious muffin of some sort, a bit of butter, and a bowl of slimy fruit (of which you only like the strawberries, so all the melon goes to waste). You, once again, settle for coffee.

7:15am: You finally manage to get off the plane, and follow the crowds on the moving sidewalks (which you'd like to rwalk on, but some family is blocking your path), and make your way towards French customs. You practice your high school french softly to yourself, thinking it's finally going to be put to good use.

7:35am: After a good 15 minutes of being in line, the customs guard simply looks at your passport, looks at you, gives it back, and you're off. Not even a hello (or a bonjour, for that matter). You take the escalator to the baggage claim.

7:50am: When your baggage isn't the first one on the conveyor belt, you start to panic. Your luggage must be lost! How does one say "where the fluffin'-ay is my luggage, nerd?!" in french?! Thankfully, the worry comes to a close as you see your bags coming around the bend. What is that smell, you wonder to yourself. You glance around and find the source, a group of 30-somethings talking on their cell phones and lighting up their cigarettes directly under the 'no smoking' sign. You sigh happily to yourself... this is Paris.

---

Testing, Testing...1...2...3...is this thing on?

Well, it has certainly been a bad week for party-goers. Piling on to the tragedy in Chicago last weekend, we all woke up this morning to hear about an inferno at a Rhode Island night club killing dozens.

And once again laws were probably broken. CNN Headline News reported this morning that neither the band nor the club had permits to use pyrotechnics (the cause of the fire).

Nothing like a happy, upbeat first guestpost at go fish, eh?

It is safe to say (did I say safe?) that being in my (shuddering to admit this) mid-thirties and saddled with work and home-related responsibilities has seriously diminished the amount of time I spend in clubs (not counting health clubs, I guess). These tragedies sort of make you wonder how many times you have been on the cusp of violent death while having a blast of a time and not realizing it.

My condolences to all the victims in Chicago and Rhode Island.

---

When the cats away, the mice will play....or, in this case, the fish will be in Paris for a week and the cool kids are going to take care of the aquarium. Or something like that.

I've recruited the finest blogging minds of our generation for a weeklong guestblog-a-palooza. Meet them, love them, read them.....

1. Kathy. A fellow Philadelphian, Kathy can drink like a man. Oh, and she's a web designer. I don't think the two are related, though.
   
2. Kymberlie. Kymberlie is one of those Texas chicks who can rob you blind in a poker game. Don't mess with Texas!
   
3. Kim. I'm going to France, so what do I do? I recruit a Frenchwoman to blog for me while I'm gone! Kim is really an American living in France and a knitter.
   
4. Tenika. Tenika lives in Washington state and owns a vintage clothing store. Don't ever think of giving her ice cream in a cone -- she will beat you senseless.
   
5. Yvonne. My favorite ghetto ho, Yvonne hails from Southern California and can party like it's 1999. It's true: I've seen the photographic evidence!
   
6. Laura. How I managed to talk a professor at the University of Florida to blog here, I'll never know! Don't piss her off, because she can curse you out in seven languages!
   
7. Jennifer. Jennifer lives in Michigan and secretly wants to be Nancy Drew...it's all about having "titian" hair.
   
8. Al. I'm surprised Al has time to blog at all -- it seems he's always fly fishing, or biking, or at the gym. He does live in Wisconsin...maybe all the clean living means less time sleeping?
   
9. Carrie. Carrie is an American ex-pat living the good life in Sweden. If you really want to make her happy, send her a tiara.
   
10. Katie. The effervescent Katie is a student at Vassar. She has the best hair ever.
    
11. Annessa. Annessa is a Floridian who thinks she's an underachiever. Don't believe a word of it. She can put her entire fist into her mouth -- that's not the trait of an underachiever!
    
12. Laurence. I find it slightly funny that the keeper of The Dead Pool lives in Texas. He also bears a striking resemblance to Elvis.
    
13. Ceri. Ceri is Canadian and works with children. Don't make her come over there.

13 is the magic number. See you next weekend, yo!

---

Christy is going to be checking in on Sassy throughout the week while we're gone. I offered her the use of the house while we're out of the country, but she declined. I knew she would. She's afraid to stay in the house by herself.

It's not anything to do with the idea of being alone in a house that isn't hers in a neighborhood she's not familar with. It's more to do with the fact that she's afraid of our ghosts. Christy once stayed overnight at our house [we were home], and saw our ghost cat in the middle of the night. She screamed so loud she woke us all up, including Sassy who was under the covers at our feet when this all went down.

And so she refuses to be in our house alone.

I don't argue with her about it. I could tell her that our extra house guests are pretty benign, but she's really freaked out by it. Many people ask if I sense things in their homes, and I will usually tell them if they really want me to. Christy asked me once and I flat out lied to her. She'd never sleep again if I told her that there was something in her house.

She never used to be so wigged out about this kind of stuff. To be honest, I think she only half believed in the idea of ghosts up until a few years ago. It's kind of hard to honestly believe in something that you haven't experienced first hand. But Christy used to be engaged to someone whose parent's house was extremely haunted [and not in a nice way], and she saw her first ghost there. And now she's 100% sure they exist, but she's scared about it.

If I were to ask you to stay in a house you knew to be haunted, even if it was only a ghost cat, would you? I'm not sure how people feel about this. I would imagine that if you think the idea of ghosts is bullshit, then it really wouldn't be an issue, right? I tend not to care too much about having them around me unless they're touchy feely ghosts. But what about you?

---

For those of you who plan to play along at home, I thought I'd list my flight information. That way you can alternatively cheer when I officially leave the country or get depressed when I re-enter.

2/21 -- United #7873, Philadephia to Dulles [departs 2:50pm EST]
United #914, Dulles to Charles de Gaulle in Paris [departs 5:30pm EST, arrives in Paris 7:05 am 2/22]

2/28 -- United #915, Paris to Dulles [departs 1pm Paris time]
United #7872, Dulles to Philadelphia [arrives into Philadelphia at 6:20pm]

Now don't go robbing my house or anything, OK? I've got Sassy the attack cat on patrol at all times. She scared a mouse literally to death once by the sheer heft of her belly fat. I'm sure she'll keep the house in perfect order.

I'm really thrilled to be getting out of dodge right now, and in a weird way I feel like I'm showing the current administration exactly what I think of their ridiculous and childish behavior toward France by taking my trip, even though I doubt I'm even so much as a blip on the government's radar screen and my plans were made well in advance of this whole thing. Dude, I'm just a rebel! Look at me go!

I'll wave in your general direction from the top of the Eiffel Tower in a few days. Look for it.

---

Oh, and I'm celebrating my birthday today instead of Sunday [well, I'll be celebrating then too] since this is my last full day on American soil for a week. So....

I'll take the birthday counter down in a minute...no sense in leaving that up! *grin*

---

When things get snowy in Philadelphia, things get ugly. I'm not just talking about the yellow snow. By the way, here's a tip: don't eat that.

No, what I'm talking about are the fistfights and outright gun battles that erupt over parking spaces.

It happened last year in South Philly, I believe. One neighbor had spent time digging his car out of some snow, put out chairs to save his space that he had so lovingly toiled over, and came home to find his neighbor had moved his chairs and parked there. So after telling the guy to move and likely a lot of name calling and heated debate, the guy shot his neighbor who parked in his spot.

Yes, I'm totally serious.

Now the local news stations are running these little stories about how putting stuff out to save your parking space is illegal. And it is, completely. But yet, when it snows just over two feet and it takes you hours to dig your car out I can kind of understand the compulsion to do so.

Of course, I don't own a gun and I doubt I'd get that worked up over it if someone parked in the spot I dug out.

The snow makes people crazy around here. Or it could be the cheesesteaks.

---

Why the hell didn't anyone tell me that carry-on luggage was so expensive? I just ran over to Strawbridge thinking I could pick up a nice carry-on bag for $100 and was I ever in for a rude awakening! Holy schmoly!

A lovely black trash bag as my carry-on is looking good right about now.

Well the first thing you know ol Jed's a millionaire,
Kinfolk said "Jed move away from there"
Said "Californy is the place you ought to be"
So they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly.

Hills, that is. Swimmin pools, movie stars.

---

Lately I've been thinking about The Fonz when Craig and I are making with the sweet, sweet love. I know it sounds little strange, but hear me out. Craig's technique for unhooking a bra is just like Fonzie's!

No, really. I only realized it recently. Damn that TVLand! The very first episode of Happy Days was on about two months ago. You might remember it -- Fonzie shows Richie how to unhook a bra with a deft little one handed tweak in the bathroom of Al's. Do you remember that episode? The bra on the radiator?

So the very night that I watched the episode Craig and I are, well, being marital, and Craig reaches behind me, sort of twists his fingers on the bra hooks, and the bra sort of slingshots off of me in this weirdly fluid motion. I just never noticed it before, and I started to giggle uncontrollably.

Giggling never goes over well when you're half naked and about to get busy.

And then I had to explain the whole thing to him, which[along with my giggling] really ruined the mood. Then we had to have a whole discussion on how Craig learned to unhook a bra, and whether or not he practiced on a radiator, etc.

The problem is that now every time Craig goes for the bra hooks, I giggle. It's a vicious circle.

---

What a fun and potentially deadly commute into work today! I feel strangely alive, sort of like you do in near death experiences.

Just thought I'd share some of the excitement of the last few days:

So what does it all mean? Well, there's a car buried in a snow drift, and me in my back patio. But I'm leaving in just about 48 hours for greener pastures so I'm pretending it doesn't exist. It's that Vulcan mind trick thingy: you do not see the snow...

---

I take the subway back and forth to work every day, and I also use the train to go shopping, etc. Being on the train has never bothered me, although I know that some people get a little claustrophic and nervous about what could happen.

In the back of my mind, I always sort of think about those types of things. I know where the third rail is located in the event of an emergency so I don't step on it and get fried. I always know where the emergency alarms are, and I know how to bust out the windows should that need to be done.

But what do you do when some crazy person torches the train you're on? There are some things that are just beyond your control. And really, you're in an enclosed space underneath the ground. You are at fate's mercy. It's a fear that I don't even allow myself to think about.

Those 120 people in the subway in South Korea were probably just like me -- they got on the subway every day to do what they need to do, and tried not to think about the things that could happen. And now they're gone. And another 140 people are hurt. I can't think of many worse ways to die than burning to death. The whole thing is horrible and I feel so badly for everyone involved and affected.

What really gets to me with this incident and incidents like it is that the perpetrator almost always lives. Maybe he or she gets slightly injured, but they always live. Drunk drivers invariably walk away from accidents in which they kill people. The guy who started the fire has a couple of burns but he's fine. I have to hope that, while I don't believe in god or the devil, there might be some cosmic force in the world that makes sure the bad karma collected by these people is rewarded somehow.

---

I know this will come as no surprise: it's snowing again.

Like a smacked ass, the cabin fever got the best of me and I got all bundled and ventured out for a trip to the grocery store. Under normal circumstances, when it snows here in the mullet-hood hardly anyone shovels their sidewalks. True, by law they have 24 hours from the time the snow stops to shovel, but most of them ignore that law and it's never enforced anyway.

After all, when was the last time you heard of someone being fined for not shovelling their walk?

Maybe it's the sheer volume of snow. Maybe the idea of being trapped without a pathway to the bar brought out the law abiding citizen in my neighbors. Whatever the reason, walking wasn't too bad. I only fell into six foot snowdrifts a couple of times.

Something strange I saw on my trek through the frozen tundra was some strange woman pouring regular table salt on her walk. Does that work? I was under the impression that the rock salt one purchases for use with snow and ice is chemically treated to be effective.

Of course, I was more fascinated by the woman. I have always wanted to know who lives in this one house and so to see an actual person associated with the house was a thrill. The house in question has a hand painted sign posted on the porch fence that has a big black dog with huge pointy teeth that have blood dripping off them and "Beware of Dog" in English, Spanish, and Polish. Freaky. I wanted to whip out my camera and take a photo of the woman with the salt against the backdrop of the sign, but was afraid she'd let loose the black dog with the bloody pointy teeth.

Better safe then dog food.

---

Two photos approved at Picture Yourself...

1. the cartoon fish
   
2. the cold fish

---

Note: new entry is up at fisheye.

---

Yeah, it's snowing again but it hardly seems worth it to bitch. After all, I have gotten an official snow day off work here today. Woohoo! Snow day!

Craig, on the other hand, jumped in his big white work van and is attempting the trek into work. It took him about 45 minutes to dig his van out and traverse the 1/2 mile to Girard Avenue. He's not a happy guy. Especially when I told him the news of I-95 and 476 being completely packed where he has to go.

Poor Mr. Fish.

So what am I going to do today? Not much. I have to get to the post office, but I think I might blow it off until tomorrow. I don't really feel like wading through the frozen tundra today. If I can find a little bit of milk in one of the corner stores nearby [which is doubtful] I will make broccoli cheese soup. Other than that, I guess I will just clean up around the house and knit.

I really want to go shopping but I don't think anything is open, and getting to the subway stop would be ridiculous anyway.

Waaa, I'm so whiny when housebound.

---

Um, yeah...I'm watching Joe Millionaire and feeling slightly nauseous.

If my mother referred to me as "robust" in such a gross, reverse-Oedipus kind of way, I'd be extremely squicked.

This show sucks. And I'm squicked.

Ew.

---

During my long and boring day held captive in casa de go fish I caught the last 20 minutes of that great Prince classic, Purple Rain. His Royal Badness may be a tiny, skinny, little guy but I fantasized about him from the time I was old enough to do so. I lurved me some Prince. Oh hell, I still do.

I have every Prince album ever made, even the not stellar ones. I'm working on converting my collection of vinyl and cassettes to CD. I'm about halfway there. It seems that almost every moment of my life can be connected to a Prince song. I used to hang his album covers on my walls, and my mother was especially outraged by the cover of LoveSexy [that photo to the left].

So seeing the end of Purple Rain made my whole day. After thinking about it though, I've decided that Prince is the innovator of something that people do that makes me insane -- using numbers and individual letters for words. I think I can forgive him just this once, though.

My favorite Prince songs:

1. I Wanna Be Your Lover, Prince [1979]
   
2. Head, Dirty Mind [1980]
   
3. D.M.S.R., 1999 [1982]
   
4. Baby I'm a Star, Purple Rain [1984]
   
5. Hot Thing, Sign 'o the Times [1987]
   
6. Gett Off, Diamonds and Pearls [1991]
   
7. Sexy Muthafucker, symbol [1992]
   
8. Erotic City, B-Sides [1993]
   
9. Come, Come [1994]
   
10. Soul Sanctuary, Emancipation [1996]

There is one Prince song that I absolutely hate. That song is Darling Nikki. That song is the bane of my existence. My family calls me Nicki, and my entire high school knew it. So what do you think people sang to me at every opportunity? That's right: Darling Nikki. And just so you can share in the mortifying embarrassment, I'll share the lyrics.

I knew a girl named Nikki
I guess you could say she was a sex friend
I met her in a hotel lobby
masturbating with a magazine
she said how'd u like 2 waste sometime
& I could not resist when I saw little
Nikki gind
she took me 2 her castle
and I just couldn't believe
my eyes
she had so many devicees
everything that money could buy
she said sign your name on the dotted
line
the lights went out
and Nikki started 2 grind
The castle started spinning
or maybe it was my brain
I can't tell you what she did 2 me
but my body will never be the same
Her lovin will kick your behind
she'll show you no mercy
but she'll sho'nuff sho'nuff show ya
how 2 grind
I woke up the next morning
Nikki wasn't there
I looked all over
all I found was a phone number on the
stairs
it said thank u 4 a funky time
call me whenever u want
2 grind
come back Nikki come back
Your darling little prince
wanna grind,grind,grind.

Sometimes the world's a storm.
One day soon the storm will pass
& all will be bright and peaceful.
fearlessly bathe in the...
Purple Rain

Touching, isn't it?

---

I think the snow has finally stopped, at least temporarily. I tried going out on the patio to take out some garbage, but the snow is up to my waist. I'm sure that is due, at least in part, to snow drifts, but still -- it's just disconcerting.

Craig is out shovelling the walk and stoop for the 18th time since yesterday morning. I hear it's supposed to snow a little more tonight and tomorrow morning. I wonder if my office will be open. Even though I have little hope of seeing an actual snow plow in my neighborhood, I will feel compelled to at least try to go in since I'm leaving on Friday for Paris and will be away all of next week.

Hee -- I'm going to Paris! I'm going to Paris! With only a few short days before I leave I think I can safely get excited.

Fuck. I spoke too soon...now it's sleeting agin. Argh.

---

[sitting in my art studio in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, muttering] Must. stop. the. snow. Snow. must. be. stopped. Hate. the. snow. [end muttering]

So it's still snowing. Oh, and it's sleeting too, which is just excellent. So now, in addition to the fact that I can't leave the house for fear I'll be swallowed whole by a snowdrift, I'm being driven even more insane by the pinging of sleet off my windows. Pennsylvania is in a state of emergency -- it's illegal to be on the roads. My patio furniture and grill have disappeared into the snow. It's good practice for nuclear winter, I guess.

In all seriousness, we have at least 20" on the ground here in Philadelphia. All you crazy people who live in, let's say, Buffalo must think this is small stuff, but I'm used to getting a couple of inches at a time. I'm not sure what the snow estimate for total snow is these days....last time I checked it was 25-32 inches.

The thing that really sucks about this is I had off from work today anyway. I keep hoping that the snow emergency lasts until tomorrow so I can get a real snow day off from work.

So what I am going to do to pass the time? Well, for starters, there's a good cheesy bank of movies on channel 2 -- Matilda, Jumanji, and The Wedding Singer. I've been thinking of putting on Grease 2 and practicing the Cool Rider scene, since I promised Statia and Kathy that during our Grease 2 party, providing Statia can produce a step ladder, I will do the entire Cool Rider scene -- dancing and singing. It might keep me from locking Craig out of the house next time he runs out to shovel the walk.

Of course, what would a snow day be without hot cocoa and knitting? So I started a sweater yesterday and I'm now halfway done with the back of it. It's a fairly simple project -- a fitted turtleneck. I may decide to make it into a jacket though, depending on how much yarn I have left after the back and the arms. The yarn is really great -- olive green chenille.

It's times like these that I wish Craig liked to play board games. I really like passing the time with stupid things like Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit. Craig hates them though -- he says that board games make him feel stupid. But at least we wouldn't be bored.

Pretty soon I'm going to start knitting clothes for Sassy and taking glamour photos of the kitty.

I feel vaguely like Homer in the Halloween episode of The Simpson's when they spoof The Shining....all work and no play make Homer a.....

*maniacal laughter*

---

So right now there are just over ten inches of snow on the ground. The problem here is that it's still snowing and likely won't stop until sometime tomorrow evening. The estimate for snow is 20-25 inches.

I hate snow.

I hate being snowed in. I hate getting snow in my socks when it's my turn to shovel. I hate it when my nose runs from being super cold.

When it snows and I'm trapped in my house, I get cranky. Things like individuals who think Americans are just ridiculous by virtue of being American really irk me to no end. I'm not going to blame anyone specific, and I can even understand where the attitude comes from. We, as Americans, have a lot to answer for. But not all of us shlump around in bermuda shorts, black socks, and Hawaiian shirts, acting clueless and thinking that America can do no, and has never done any, wrong. We are not the only country to have ever made some very bad choices. England tried to exterminate the Irish and the Scottish and countless others. Germany tried to exterminate Jews and gays. France tried to take over the whole of Europe. I could list more, but I'm sure you get the point. I'm tired of having to defend myself for being an American. I'm probably not much different from any English person, or French person, or Middle Eastern person. I just want to live my life, be happy, and see peace in the world.

I'm not asking for much -- just a little bit of perspective and some common sense.

---

There's a new entry up at fisheye this morning!

---

As with most large cities yesterday, there was an anti-war demonstration in Philadelphia. I thought about attending, but decided against it. It's not that I'm pro-war, but protestors in Philadelphia do something I completely disagree with: they interrupt traffic flow.

I know the inherent reason behind protesting is to get someone's attention so that they know you're against something. But I think it flies in the face of reason to block off streets and piss drivers off as part of that. If you expect sympathy from me to you cause, do not under any circumstances try to stop me from getting somewhere. It will just annoy the hell out of me and make me wish death on you.

I don't know how many anti-war protestors there were in Philadelphia yesterday...maybe a couple thousand. There could have been a perfectly good rally at City Hall with only the traffic circle at Dillworth Plaza shut down....or a march down the Parkway. Either of those options don't fuck with traffic too much, and people expect it. If that had been the case I would have been happy to join in the protest yesterday. But that's never the way it happens here, and I would have felt badly for keeping someone from getting to his or her job on time, or whatever.

In D.C., protestors use the Mall. In London, they protested in Hyde Park. These are protests I can get behind. Traffic doesn't get screwed up, and no one gets pissy about the protest because it interrupts them from getting somewhere. I guess I just appreciate order.

The protest rallies that got a little ugly are the ones that completely make me laugh. Let's review: your're marching for peace, but you're going to try to burn down the American Embassy? Yes, that makes perfect sense. Good job!

I completely understand that there's a rabid sense of anti-Americanism going around right now. Believe me, I'm just as outraged by the actions of the current administration as anyone else is. But I also understand the concept that the U.S. government is certainly not the U.S. citizens, just as the Iraqi government is not the Iraqi citizenry. I wish everyone could keep a clear head about that.

Craig's mother forwarded him some horrible email yesterday about how horrible Muslims are. Muslims did this, Muslims did that. Craig just rolled his eyes, and deleted it. I don't know that I could have done the same thing. In my current state of annoyance, I might have had to fire back with a diatribe about all the horrible things Christians have done over the last 2000+ years. People want to make this about religion, but it's not -- it's about arrogance and intolerance.

---

So most of my family still lives in the town I grew up in. Some of you might know that I grew up in very small town in upstate Pennsylvania called Berwick. There's a nuclear plant in Berwick. I was never nervous about it's presence -- it was always there, spouting steam.

Last year the local government distributed special pills that are supposed to help combat the effects of radiation poisoning, should anything horrible happen at the nuclear plant. My mom has her stash in the medicine cabinet, squirreled away for that rainy day.

But, I have to admit, my family all handled the pill episode with a certain amount of calmness I was glad to see. Now, the recent erroneously raised terror alert...well, not so much.

I received an email from my mother today. First, of course, she did her usual "I wish you weren't travelling during wartime" thing, and then she launched into this whole thing about my grandparents and their duct tape adventures.

Apparently my grandparents have completely sealed their home in plastic sheets and duct tape. First, I rolled my eyes and groaned. Then, I forwarded the link about the terror alert being complete crap and warned her to make sure my grandparents didn't suffocate in their home from lack of oxygen.

I'm just waiting for the first lawsuit against the government for something like that.

But back to my family....

In addition to my grandparents being sealed for freshness inside their home, my aunt and uncle who live behind my mom are building their own little saferoom in the basement. My uncle is one of those strange survival nuts anyway, so you know he's been jonesing to bust out the emergency generator he had on stand-by for the Y2K panic. I'm sure they have small arsenal of weapons stored in their little saferoom to stave off the hordes of frightened people who will no doubt descend on their little hovel of safety when it all goes down. Have you ever seen the movie Blast from the Past? I imagine that something very similar is going on, except that my aunt and uncle aren't brilliant so they probably plan to survive on the jerky made from my uncle's deer kills and the moonshine from their still in the shed out back. And they'll probably suffocate too, since I doubt anyone has given any thought to oxygen.

Of course, should the nuclear plant blow I don't think a little duct tape and deer jerky will save anyone.

My family is not the only one going completely insane, of course. My sister-in-law informed us the other day that she, too, is making a saferoom in the basement of the family home. They live in Fallsington, which is about 40 minutes outside of Philadelphia. Craig patiently explained to her that by sealing the room, they are sure to die of asphyxiation, since her heater is down there. There's a little thing called carbon monoxide.

The whole world seems to have gone insane.

---

It snowed today...gee, must be Saturday.

I have a problem with snow. True, if I hate snow so much I should be living elsewhere. But it generally doesn't snow here quite this much. Besides, I already moved once to escape the brutal weather.

Speaking of escaping the brutal weather, by this time next week I will be in Paris! I try not to get too excited about it, but I just packed a few things in my suitcase that I won't be using before we leave. I just about broke a rib prancing around my bedroom in celebration. I'm such a dork.

This weekend is going to be spent finalizing a loose itinerary for the trip, and trying to clean up the house a bit. Oh, and laundry....lots of laundry! I hate coming home from vacation to a dirty, messy house. All I want to do when I get home is collapse on the couch, and reminisce about my exciting vacation.

I had to head off to the post office this morning, but when I returned Craig informed me that I had just missed a delightful call from my father. Apparently my dear old dad awoke from whatever alcohol induced coma he's been in and remembered it's my birthday next week and that we're leaving for Paris on Friday. He informed Craig that he would be sending me a check via Express Mail so it arrived before we leave. Considering he said he was sending me a gift and a check for Christmas that never arrived, I don't think I'll hold my breath.

I just wish he would forget I exist.

---

Even though I'd like to trample on Craig's cell phone for calling me a million times a day, I love him more than I love cheese [which is really saying something].

So here's the card I got him. It's one of those really neat pop up cards. I'm so cheesy.

Of course, Craig's cheesy too. He gave me my gift earlier this week: the third season of Buffy on DVD.

---

First, there's a new entry up at fisheye...so check that out.

Secondly, I'm going to kill Craig if he calls me one more time today.

I have received, in the space of 20 minutes, about a dozen calls from my beloved. I hate to be on the phone. For any reason. The phone is my enemy. He knows this, but feels the need to call me up a bazillion times every day to make small talk. Put the phone down!

Today it's all about our Valentine's Day meal. I gave him a list of stuff we needed and asked him to pick it up today while he was on the road. He made it the grocery store and proceeded to call me about every single fucking item. First it was the provolone....Honey, I can't find any provolone....Did you check the deli counter...they sell provolone at the deli counter?...Yes dear. Just ask them not to slice it. Five seconds later he calls to tell me he got the provolone. And? And nothing, he just wanted to tell me he go the provolone. Apparently he thought I was sitting at my desk, fretting over the idea that he might not find the fucking provolone. And it continued much the same for every item on the list.

Two seconds ago he called me from the wine shop....Sweetie, what wine should I get? Craig has bought wine for us at least once every month since the beginning of time. Since I know he doesn't know anything about wine [and left to his own devices will pick out the worst swill in the store], I always tell him to buy Rosemont Estates wine. I have never asked him to pick up any other wine. Why would he suddenly think I'd have some different directions for him?

Argh! Stop calling me!!!!!

---

There is something so satisfying about eating sushi after having craved it for a week [I did have a couple of rolls last week at Pod out with Statia, Kathy, and Mr. Sphinx, but I was half hammered and it doesn't count]. And the sushi I have before me is absolutely gorgeous -- a couple pieces of unagi [eel] sushi, four tuna hand rolls, and two veggie temakis.

[Homer Simpson mode] Drool! [/Homer Simpson mode]

As usual, I spent way too much money at Francis Jerome. I ran in there to buy a new compact of pressed powder, and I got suckered again. I normally use Paula Dorf powder, but they were out so I asked for my back up powder, which is Defile. Well, as it so happens they're trying to get rid of all their Defile stuff so it was all 40% off...and who am I to say no to a sale? So I got two compacts. I'm telling you, I need a chaperone when I got in there. But I did manage to restrain myself from purchasing the Tomato perfume from Demeter that I've been wanting.

You should be proud. There should be a national holiday.

---

I suddenly feel like a Sir Mixalot video: Oh my gawd, Becky -- look at her butt!

But instead of saying look at her butt, I'm screeching what the fuck?

I've read several blogs recently that recounted the arrival of the dreaded interoffice memo of terror -- the evacuation plan edition. Mine just arrived. Of course, the HR people here never really developed our plan beyond a standard fire drill type of thing even though the memo specifies the plan is for "immediate evacuation of the building due to fire, fumes, or other forms of damage to our building." Whatever.

This is the funny part:

"Proceed directly to Seventeenth Street and assemble with others from your department; “check-in” with your assigned Floor Captain. Do not leave the area without instruction. "

Yeah, um, 17th St. is at the corner. If, by some strange turn of events, the surrounding sky scrapers are a blazing inferno and there's debris reigning down around me, you can be sure that I will stop fleeing the scene to hang out on the corner and check in with my Floor Captain.

Apparently our HR people didn't get the news that this latest panic is all a bunch of crap anyway. Lighten up, yo.

---

Craig has requested a meal of comfort foods this evening for our Valentine's Day extravaganza. I guess it's a good thing, since our our romantic evening is off -- we've invited Christy to join us for dinner.

We went to the viewing for Mr. S last night and Christy was bummed because her current snack has to be elsewhere this evening. I don't want her to be home by herself feeling crappy so she's coming to the casa de go fish for a delightful meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli.

We can have a delayed romantic meal in Paris next weekend.

---

I mentioned it to Statia the other day, and Cyn and I talked about it yesterday -- since Blogger Meetup isn't really working around here, it's time to take matters into our own hands.

So here's what I'm thinking -- when it gets a little warmer out [like end of March, beginning of April] maybe we can all meet up at a coffee house with the option to go boozing later. I'm thinking the Cosi at 4th & Chestnut in Philadelphia on a Saturday night. It's centrally located, easy to find, secure parking is right around the corner, and it's within staggering distance of many fine drinking establishments.

I'm going to start stalking Philadelphia area blogs to get an invite list going, but if you definitely want to be on the mailing list for this, please email me. I'm sick of being jealous of other towns [who shall remain nameless] that have a huge scene going, dammit! *grin*

---

I had planned to make this sort of a lovefest day with no mention of those asshats in the current administration whatsoever. However, when I started to see mention of the terror panic being bullshit, I changed my mind.

What kind of outright moron doesn't polygraph an informant immediately? Does no one in charge think that too many unsubstantiated and highly bogus scares will lessen the impact of raising the terrah scale? This is the second time [that I know of] this has happened...I know there's some related allegorical story here -- boy with his finger in the dike, boy who cried wolf, something like that.

I guess it's a good thing I didn't encourage Craig to put together his armeggedon box.

Oh, and congratulations to Hate Central for putting my exact feelings into words.

---

Happy Valentine's Day

I was playing with the video mode on my new digicam the other day, and I forced Craig into making our very own love day message to you all. So here it is:

1. message of love from go fish - .mov file
   
2. message of love from go fish - .avi file

P.S. I hope this works!

---

I just had fun lunch with Cyn, and some nice lady offered us to take our picture after we took this very unsatisfactory one! Cyn borrowed a wig of mine so that she can look pretty for her Dolly Parton goodness.

Raise your hand if you're surprised I actually have a Dolly-esque wig. Hey, Dolly-love runs in my family!

If Cyn sings Islands in the Stream at any point in the proceedings, there had better be some video coverage.

I'm just saying....

---

There comes a time in everyone's life when they can't quite drum up any sympathy when tragedy strikes someone they consider to be pure evil. Today is my day:

Pat Robertson has cancer

And Pat thought he was god's main man. Sorry Charlie.

---

When Craig and I first started dating, Craig had atrocious grammar. I'm not talking about dangling participles or things like that -- it was mostly a lot of ain't and double negatives. You know, things that drive me insane.

I have never been one of those girls who believes that she can mold her man, change him into a whole other person through gentle ministrations and well-timed nagging. But I will admit that I devised a plan to cure Craig of his offensive grammatical habits. There are certain things I'm willing to overlook, but going through life with phrases like "I ain't got no paper" isn't one of them.

Craig hadn't met my mother yet, so I convinced him that she would hate him if he had bad grammar.

Now, my mother is married to someone who loves NASCAR to the point that he has an entire room devoted to NASCAR collectibles. An entire room! Bad grammar doesn't phase her in the slightest. She spent years working in factories with people who were barely able to function, let alone speak with good grammar. And she loves everyone...with the possible exception of my former boyfriend.

But I had Craig convinced that he would walk into my house and innocently say something that would make my mother's head explode in grammatical badness, and then she would hate him forever and forbid me to continue seeing him. And so Craig's quest for decent grammar began. He was so nervous the first time he met my mother he could barely speak. Heh.

I shouldn't laugh, really. It was sort of a mean thing to do to someone, just as a means of getting my own way. But Craig doesn't hold it against me. I think. I'm just waiting for the retribution.

---

I put a new entry up at fisheye this morning. Go ahead, I know you want to.

---

I guess it's a good thing I'm going to Paris next week. It looks like I should stock up on wine since Dennis Hastert wants to impose trade sanctions on France, particularly wine.

I like to think of myself as fairly level-headed. And it seems to me as if France and Germany have done nothing more than disagree with the current administration. They haven't threatened to nuke the U.S., or anything remotely crazy like that...and so now the House Speaker wants to act like a little kid who had his toys taken away? What the hell is that?

I'm convinced that someone has stopped doling out the medication to the Congress and Senate.

I never thought I would see the day when elected officials completely went off the deep end. It's as if the whole "checks and balances" thing doesn't even exist. We have little George sitting in his big chair giggling maniacally as he eyes the red button. Donald Rumsfeld is rubbing his hands together gleefully as he makes sure the U.S. is completely isolated from the rest of the world. John Ashcroft is thrilled that he finally gets to toss out all those immigrants and get women back to the kitchen. I could go on and on, but the bottom line is that I'm scared. I'm scared of what's going on, and I'm scared that next year people will allow this to continue.

I have no doubt that something horrible is going to happen to Alan Greenspan. Maybe the administration will revoke his citizenship as part of the new additions to The Patriot Act as retribution for disagreeing with the little George's economic plan.

I've turned into a suspicious anti-government loon.

---

Criag and I have a great difference of opinion when it comes to war with Iraq. He's convinced that we need to attack immediately, and compares the U.S. waiting to when the U.S. didn't get involved with trying to take out Hitler right away. I can see his point, but I'm not convinced that the main point of this war is for the benefit of Iraqi citizens. I'm too suspicious of the current administration to fully trust that this isn't about giving something little George something mind-numbingly bad to do.

So anyway, we don't discuss it too much because it never leads to any sort of compromise. We just continue to argue our points. Last night Craig carefully broached the subject of the dreaded emergency supply kit.

After September 11, Craig put together a small box of supplies -- canned food, water, flashlight, etc. I wanted no part of it, but humored him. Eventually I ate the cans of Spaghettios in a late night drunken eating frenzy and that was the beginning of the end of Craig's emergency supply kit.

But now, because the administration has recommended it, Craig is back in action. He's giving serious thought to which room of the house we should use as our "safe room." I didn't have the heart to tell him that if anything should happen in Philadelphia he will be hunkering down in that safe room with his three dozen cans of baked beans by himself -- in all likelihood, I will already be dead.

This may be a pessimistic view of things, but let's face it: I work three blocks from City Hall, three blocks from Philadelphia's stock exchange, and not too far from the historic district. I take the subway to and from work almost every day. I'm a stones throw from most desirable targets. If something were to happen that would force people to seal themselves inside their homes with plastic sheets and duct tape for days at a time, chances are that I'd be pushing up daisies first thing. And if I happen to survive, I'll be pleasantly surprised.

But in the interest of playing along, I'm feigning at least a passing interest in building our very own arsenal of wartime provisions. These are a few of the things I require for our box 'o fun:

1. one case of red wine [because I want to be good and drunk before the end comes. I've been watching 24 and nuclear weapon poisoning doesn't look fun.]
   
2. two containers of chocolate covered cherries in liquor and half a dozen raspberry truffles from Godiva.
   
3. Freeze dried ice cream
   
4. Knitting needles and enough yarn to make a sweater
   
5. Enought Diet Pepsi to last me two weeks
   
6. A battery powered television and VCR, and Grease II on tape

I can guarantee this box of emergency supplies will never materialize.

---

OK, what's this I hear about Frenchie Davis getting kicked off American Idol for appearing in porn? What?

---

If you read go fish with any regularity you know by now that I am the Queen of Clumsiness. You should bow before me...yes, really, go ahead. I'd get up from my throne, but I'm afraid I'd trip and impale your head with my scepter.

One side effect from my horrible clutziness is that I'm afraid to sleep more than three feet off the ground. This is fine for normal circumstances when I have to sleep in a regular bed, and it's excellent for when I need to sleep on the floor. But there was a period of time when I was required to sleep in a loft. Terrible things happen when the only choice I have is to sleep in a loft.

Things that require ice packs and stitches.

The first time I fell out of a loft was while I was in college. My former boyfriend lived in a fraternity house in the middle of North Philadelphia. It had a small vermin problem, so sleeping on the ground was completely out of the question for fear that one would wake up in the middle of the night snuggling up with the rat the size of a Buick. So everyone had sleeping lofts that were 15-20 feet off the ground. To get into the loft you had to climb a rickety ladder.

Now let's keep in mind that these lofts were built by a bunch of only marginally sober and dumber than dirt fraternity boys, OK? The lofts were held together with chewing gum and some rusty nails they found in the house. The loft and ladder swayed alarmingly anytime I got into bed. But one morning I was getting out of bed, the entire house was still asleep...the ladder half-broke and I was too clumsy to hang out, and I fell 15 feet and landed flat on my back on top of a support beam.

After the shock wore off, I noticed that I couldn't breathe very well and couldn't even yell for help. Instead I started to whimper pathetically. After about 20 minutes my ex-boyfriend noticed I wasn't in bed and looked over the side of the loft at me snivelling on the floor. Luckily, all I needed were ice packs for a few hours and I was good as new.

The second time I fell out of my loft was a few years later when I was living on my own. I had a great little studio apartment with a sleeping loft, much sturdier built than the other loft. The ladder to the loft crossed right in front of my front window and ended directly in front of a huge heater with a lot of sharp edges -- that's important to remember.

One night I was climbing the ladder to the loft, lost my balance and fell off the ladder head first. On the way down I got tangled up in a plant I had hanging in my window, then I cracked my head on the heater, and landed on my hip in the cat box [which I kept on the side of the ladder]. After I landed the rest of the plant hit me in the head. Yeah, good times.

I passed out for a minute, and when I woke up I was covered in blood and dirt. I hobbled to the bathroom and sort of got myself cleaned up, but the bleeding in my head wouldn't stop so I called a cab and went to the hospital. I'm not even kidding you -- the doctors and nurses were laughing so hard they were tearing up when I told them what happened.

Don't even get me started about trees.

---

Because I need just a spark of hope to make it through the day:

Ramsey Clark, former U.S. Attorney General during the Johnson Administration has drafted articles of impeachment setting forth high crimes and misdemeanors by President Bush and other civil officers of his administration.

You can bet I just sent a little lovenote to my State Representative asking him to vote for impeachment through the Vote to Impeach site.

Meanwhile, I'll keep my fingers crossed.

[link found via Thud Factor and The Gamer's Nook.]

---

I have something to confess that will hopelessly mark me as a sentimental jackass: I really like Valentine's Day.

Just for starters, V-Day is in February -- and February is my favorite month of the year because of my birthday and a host of holidays for which I have off from work. But secondly, it promotes the warm fuzzies. A lot of people get really pissy about V-Day, and moan that they don't have a significant other to share it with, blah blah blah. But those people are sort of missing the point.

I've always had good Valentine's Days. I didn't always have a boyfriend or whatever, but I've always surrounded myself with people I'm crazy about. That, to me, is the point of Valentine's Day -- to celebrate your love for someone else.

Craig and I have been together for a long time, and we always exchange cards and little gifts, sometimes we go out to dinner. We got engaged on Valentine's Day in 1998. I would never admit this to Craig, but my favorite Valentine's Day was not the year we got engaged -- rather, it was the year I spent Valentine's Day with some of my best friends at a the third floor Copa bar on South Street. It was just a really great time.

This year Craig and I aren't doing anything at all -- we're going to stay home, rent a movie, and I'm going to make dinner. We're trying to save money for our trip next week. But he gave me a gift yesterday -- the third season of Buffy on DVD. Now that's love!

It's a little freaky that Iranians aren't supposed to celebrate Valentine's Day. Yes, I know there's all that crap about promoting Western values, but the fact of the matter is that there are just a bunch of people who want to celebrate the idea of love. What kind of sick, fucked up world is it when picking a day to celebrate the fact that there is love in the world isn't encouraged?

---

Did I mention that the birthday onslaught has begun? Last week I received a birthday check from my in-laws and a coupon for a complimentary "sensory relaxation experience" to celebrate my birthday from Aveda. Over the weekend my friend Renee gave me a huge chunk of I Should Coco soap from Lush. Life is good.

Today I used the coupon from Aveda. I currently smell of grape Bubble Yum. Aveda calls it Sand Verbena, but really -- it smells just like grape Bubble Yum, and that is oddly comforting to me. I chose the Sand Verbena massage oil for my "sensory relaxation experience."

Somehow I'm not all that relaxed, but I sure do smell like I'm 8 years old.

OK, here's the deal -- for my birthday thing-y the Aveda rep sat me in a chair and I had to smell all these oils and then pick one for my free Pure-fume [which is a nice little travel-sized spray]. Oh, and they forced their icky "Comforting" tea on me. And then I had to pick another oil for the massage-y part of the "experience."

The problem is that I cannot possibly relax when I'm in one of those weird little massage chairs where you're all scrunched up with your face in what looks like a mini toilet seat. And I certainly can't relax when the chair is in the front window of the Aveda store so that I'm on display like some oddly positioned, high maintenance mannequin. So the Aveda rep is giving me my "sensory relaxation experience" and my neck muscles are tight as a drum. All I can imagine is that a crowd of tourists is gathered round outside of the window, pointing and saying things like "Well, golly gosh, Cleetus, will you look at that!"

I think Aveda should renamed the "experience." Instead of sensory relaxation, it should be sensory anxiety.

---

Get your own wacky terrah warning system here,
courtesy of Wacky Neighbor

Heh. Thanks Choire, I needed a good laugh!

---

So, I understand that we're all in a heightened terrorism alert, code orange or whatever. But something tells me that the world has gone insane.

The FBI is investigating Target. Why? Because one of their Valentine's Day cards contains the world "jihad" and someone decided that it's a veiled threat.

Now, true, Target has gotten some other bad press last August because some of their clothes were supposedly sporting secret Nazi codes. And sure, there could be some crazed terrorist working behind the scenes at Target, infiltrating our lives with secretly incoded messages, meant to fill us with terror. Or someone just has a bit too much anxiety.

I'm sure you can guess which scenario I'm going with.

I'm betting that the terror alert is nothing more than a smokescreen. Rogue government [and I'm talking about the Shrub and his minions here] is about to do something crazily illegal and insane, so they up the terror level to draw attention away from said crazy thing.

When the terror level is raised, ordinary citizens don their terrorism-fighting capes and go to work, spying on their neighbors and finding threats were none exist. But they certainly don't notice the government making sure their rights are slowly but surely stripped away.

Ugh. I need to go back to bed for about a year. Call me when it's over.

---

Can you believe I got called to jury duty again already? The city of Philadelphia is about to spiral into financial ruin because of the stadium deal and a wretchedly bad mayor, but the court system can't get a computer system that flags accounts that have already served jury duty within the year.

If I have to attend jury duty my first work day back from vacation I am going to be a very unhappy woman.

I don't even understand why they bother to call me anyway. No one ever wants me on their jury. I've been mugged, witnessed violent crimes, have police officers, doctors, and nurses in my family, have criminals and drug addicts in my family, my friends and family have been sued and killed and in car accidents and committed suicide, been victims of medical malpractice. There is not one single crime that I could serve as a jury member for. And yet the city keeps calling me to serve.

Maybe it's just that I always show up. Maybe I should start being one of those people who throws away their summons and ignores it until the police come and haul my ass in jail.

---

See now, if I were to hate a group of people or a country and plan an attack of some sort, I think I would be sure to actually kill people from that group or country. Call me crazy.

Ali Imron, one of the morons who planned the attack in Bali that killed 192 people, said he meant to target Americans. Unfortunately, he happened to take out mostly Australians and he doesn't seem to know if Australia is an ally of the U.S. or not. But, boy howdy, is he ever sorry about what he did. He has even apologized. Gosh, I think we should let him go. You can tell that his apology is sincere, especially in light of the fact that he said he was proud that he and his little group of friends had the know-how to build the bombs and do all that damage and kill all those people. But he still hates Americans.

Ali sure did strike fear into my heart, me being an international terrorist and all.

There are a lot of things I don't understand about planning terrorist attacks. If you can't afford a plane ticket to the U.S., you might as well forget about it. Attacking U.S. Consulates overseas or nightclubs where Americans might hang out is useless. It's a well-known fact that the majority of Americans don't pay any kind of attention to anything going on outside of the U.S. Hell, most of them don't even care about what's going on here.

When Ali and his little friends blew up that nightclub in Bali and killed all those people, it was barely a blip on my mother's radar screen. She's more concerned with saving 59 cents on a can of peas with a new coupon. The only reason she cared about what happened in New York and DC is because we live in such close proximity, and I live in a large city that might make an attractive target. I think that's the way it is in most towns in America. People don't care about things until it's happening right in front of their face.

What I'm trying to say is that if terrorists are trying to slap us in the face just to get our attention [to paraphrase Carol Kane], they're going to have to try a new tactic. Blowing shit up in the name of their god or whatever isn't really doing the job.

Personally, I find George Bush much scarier.

---

One of my gel nails popped off Friday night when I was giving Gromit a good scratch. Today after I had lunch with Christy I stopped off at the nail salon to get it fixed.

I was just sitting here at my computer and noticed one of my trouser socks was a little saggy, so I pulled up my sock. Unfortunately, I forgot that my nails weren't entirely dry. So now instead of having one missing nail, I have ten screwed up nails.

Curses, foiled again!

---

I think I finally got this photoblog thing figured out. Here it is -- the new and improved go fish photoblog:

fisheye

Let me know if you think there should be improvements.

---

Sometimes something can happen that just tears your heart out, and makes everything else in your life seem trivial. Christy just called and told me her grandfather had a stroke, and isn't expected to live.

I'm very close with Christy's family -- they are my surrogate family. I've spent more holidays with them in the past 13 years than with my own. I love Christy's grandfather with all my heart.

Christy's grandfather is in the book of world records. As a steward, he has logged the most transatlantic flights in the world. He's been everywhere. If you tell him where you're going, even if it's the crappiest little town in the entire world, he knows where to find a good restaurant. He has 1001 stories. Most of the time you've already heard the story, but he's such a great storyteller that you stay and listen anyway.

When other people refused to give in to the fun of our wedding, he came dressed like a wizard. He had more fun out at Fort Mifflin for the ghost tour during our wedding then any other person there. Mr. S knows how to have a good time -- he could have a good time anywhere.

When I first met him I was a platinum blonde. For years he called me The Blonde Bombshell.

A few years ago Christy's grandmother died. They had been married forever. He was sad, but made such an effort at her funeral to be genuinely happy to see everyone. It was almost as if he was trying to make other people feel OK about her passing. About a month ago, Christy's parents had to take his driver's license away. He was upset about it, but accepted it. He's almost 90 years old -- while he's still in relatively good health, he knew that anything could happen so he let it go.

And now he's lying in the hospital and he isn't awake, and he's not doing very well. I guess they're just waiting for him to die. I wish I could be like him and make Christy and her family feel OK with it. Or make me feel OK about it.

---

2004 can't come soon enough.

I wonder if Shifty McMartiallawpants has ever heard of a little thing called separation of church and state. Because now he's threatening to cut federal funding to schools who don't allow people to pray.

See now, personally, I don't care if someone wants to pray in school. If you feel the need to say the rosary before a test or meditate or whatever, I don't care. Just don't expect me to do it, or give you special treatment because of it.

But the problem is that George seems to think that we could all do with a little religion-ing up, and he's just the person to give us our learning. And really, he just means that Christians should be given the right to pray. If you're Muslim, or Wiccan, or Jewish -- forget it. Take your hocus pocus and practice that shit at home.

With all the other rights he's trying to take away from us, I'm more than a little suspicious of this latest crap. What begins as George's attempts to ensure the rights of the religious will end up being a hammer to ensure those who aren't religious have no rights. It might take the form of prayers at school assemblies, with detention going to those who refuse to partake. It might take the form of classes in religion being mandatory. Who knows.

I hope I'm just being overly critical and a little crazy, but I kind of doubt it.

---

Statia has her action figure collection at work to keep her amused, and I have my collection of of Homies and other toys.

There's nothing wrong with a little stress relief.

But Nicole, you may exclaim, you have a boring job that doesn't require much thought, let alone cause undue stress. Why do you need such silly accoutrements?

To this I say shut up and mind your own damn business.

I like my toys. My collection of Homies is hilarious. My Meanies Lucky the Rabbit keeps me from going off the deep end. I even have toys at home -- my collection of The Nightmare Before Christmas coffins keeps me company in my bedroom.

When I was little the only toy I played with regularly was my huge collection of Barbies. Or, more accurately, my collection of fake Supermarket Barbies...think of them as Barbies' trailer park cousins. I had nine million of those, one or two real Barbies, and one very special Cher doll that came with a bendable wrist. Unfortunately, none of these cherished treasures still exists in my collection today.

Instead, I make due with my volumes of magnetic poetry.

---

There's something slightly off-putting about waking up in a puddle of drool. Honestly, we all do it. There isn't a person alive who hasn't found themselves cheek down in a wet spot on their pillow, saliva crusted in the corner of their mouth. It's just one of those gross things about being human. But it's made much worse when your husband is face to face with you, waiting for you to wake up, amused look on his face.

There should be a law!

I'm happy to report that all signs of my hangover from yesterday are gone. I think I would have felt better sooner except that the reek of those awful fruity drinks from Pod, identifiable by color only, was oozing through my pores, reminding me of the fun from the night before. There should be a deoderant or soap or something created to block that kind of thing. There was many a morning after in my earlier years when the stale smell of Miller Genuine Draft from a keg party kept wafting through my pores, keeping my head firmly in the toilet.

The good news is that I finished the baby sweater. I sewed the buttons on this morning and I am done. That makes me so happy, especially since this is my first official paying knitting gig. Technically, I guess this sweater will pay for my brunch today at Las Cazuelas with my friend Renee. And I'm so hungry for Mexican right now.

Obviously a sign of my returning vigor.

So I hear that France and Germany are putting forth their own proposal for Iraq. Good for them! It's nice to see a country other than the U.S. taking some initiative. I hope George, and Donald, and the rest of those assholes are hopping mad this morning. What really cracked me up is that the news reported this morning that George is very distressed since France and Germany are the U.S.'s "closest allies." Um, didn't your little flunky just refer to them as "Old Europe" the other day and basically call them out as ineffectual?

---

Let me tell you something: I'm fucking old.

I should require Statia and Kathy to cut my drunk ass off after four drinks. I should be flagged. It should come as no surprise that after 5 glasses of wine and two cocktails of colored, fruity drinks I am slightly, um, pained today. I can feel my liver kicking me in the ribs, yelling, "Hey you! That's right, I'm talking to you, you big lush! No mas, no mas!"

Now where did I put those Excedrin?

---

It's official: I hate to shovel snow.

7 inches of snow on Nicole's sidewalk=Pissy, grumpy Nicole

And I have to dodge half-assed snowballs from a roving band of 10 year old miscreants. Shouldn't they be in jail or something?

---

Hrmmmm.

I knew it was supposed to snow last night/this morning, but this is a bit excessive -- especially in light of the huge amount of trouble Statia, Ericalynn, and Kathy, and I took to make plans to get together for dinner tonight. Although Statia does have that massive SUV...I'm sure she'd be able to make it even in the case of nuc-yooo-ler winter. I'm sure she would just arrive on the scene, unruffled, Gromit in the back, ready to hand out pink crash helmets to all and sundry.

The newscaster just said that this winter is now approaching a "normal" level of 20 inches of snow per winter season. I can't remember the last time it snowed this much...well, that's not entirely true, I guess. There was 1996 when it snowed 36 inches in the space of 24 hours or so. That kind of sucked, but I think it ruined the snow curve.

Yeah, so I had off from work today anyway, but now my office is closed for the day. I keep hoping my boss calls and takes pity on us by giving us Monday off instead. Wish hard for me! But I got up early, around 8am. I had a plan. Regardless of the weather this morning, I wanted to test out my new camera by photographing the excellent and very old Palmer Burial Ground down the street from my house. And with snow -- so much the better.

So I hauled my ass out of bed, bundled myself tightly, and hiked the four blocks to the cemetary. Curses, foiled again -- because of the snow, no one unlocked the cemetary gate. I took some pictures anyway through a fence, but it just wasn't the same. And I forgot my USB cord at work anyway.

I guess I should prepare to shovel the walk.

---

I hate the smell of most Aveda products. They sort of smell like Vicks VapoRub to me. But I do use Aveda color conditioner in Bixa -- it keeps my fabulous red hair fabulous between visits to the salon. Today I ran in to buy a new conditioner and the counterchick offered to custom mix it for me.

You know I'm a sucker for anything custom blended, right?

And when did this start? It's not only incredibly cool, it's actually cheaper than buying premade conditioner! What?

So now I have my very own custom blended shampoo and conditioner. It's a banner day.

---

I started a new knitting project last night. Someone here at work asked me to knit her a baby sweater like the one I knitted for Brooke's baby shower. I'm not a big fan of babies, but I sure do like knitting baby clothes -- they're so quick to knit.

I'm having problems with my fringey sweater project. The yarn I'm using is this great vintage yarn that I bought at a flea market. I thought I'd have more than enough to finish, but now I don't think I'll have enough. I have the front, back, and one sleeve finished. I'm halfway finished with the second sleeve and might have just enough to finish the sleeve, but not enough to make the turtleneck. I don't have much hope of finding more yarn to match, so I'm trying to come up with an alternative for the neck.

I'll be heartbroken if I spent four weeks on a sweater I'll never be able to complete.

The agony of defeat doesn't sit well with me.

---

Happy Birthday Rick Astley!!

Rick is 37 today. Do you think he sits around and reminisces about the good old days when he was universally worshipped and adored? Was he ever universally worshipped and adored? I sure did love him....Rick and his red hair.

Howdy Doody motherfucker.

---

It never occured to me until recently that Title IX might cause such a furor with regard to it's effect on sports. There has always been a huge disparity in sports between males and females, and any action to make things more equal seems like a good idea to me.

As you might know, in high school I was a cheerleader and I also ran track [hurdles]. For the most part, there were just as many male sports teams as there were female sports teams. But the greatest proportion of money was spent on the boys teams. My cheerleading team had a budget of about $300.00 per year, not counting buses to get us to games. Despite the fact that my high school's basketball team never won a single game and my cheerleading team consistently won or placed in competition, we were forced to practice in the hallway without safety equipment like mats while the boys got full use of the gym. The girls track team's budget wasn't much better, but at least we could use the boys track equipment. All the boys' teams had beautiful workout facilities that the girls weren't allowed to use. They had sports trainers, and new uniforms, and preference for use of the gym.

You might say I'm still a little bitter about it.

Even in college, things weren't much better. My cheerleading team couldn't practice in the sports facilities, but at least we had use of decent workout equipment. I know that most of the women's teams had crappy equipment, but yet the football team [who has never had a winning season] got put up at the Doubletree Hotel the night before every game.

So why would anyone be upset that Title IX exists? I mean, I can't even imagine how bad things would have been for me if it didn't exist. Title IX states:

No person in the U.S. shall, on the basis of sex be excluded from participation in, or denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any educational program or activity receiving federal aid.

I can't think of a single thing wrong with that.

I can't imagine that there are still people who think that sports should be for boys, but I know there are. There are people who are outraged at the idea of a male sports team having to share money with a female sports team. But, to be honest, Title IX is only being enforced with regard to sports on the surface. In the 30 years Title IX has been in force, no school has been penalized by the NCAA for lack of compliance. Give me a break.

It seems most of the brouhaha has been created by the wrestling coaches association, who filed a lawsuit against the Dept. of Education because some wrestling programs are being canned.

A Newsday article explains,

"The GAO statistics show that though men's teams have been cut, the number of male college athletes in 1999 was 232,000 vs. 163,000 women. It's true wrestling teams have been cut more often than any other men's team, but from 1981-99, the GAO found there was actually a net increase of 36 men's college teams, while women gained 3,784.

Simply put, there is no carnage going on. Women's gains have not come at the overall expense of men. The wrestling coaches are a special- interest group that filed a lawsuit to protect itself. And you can't blame them. But their use of the word "teams" rather than "athletes" is grossly misleading."

I just don't understand.

---

Every once in a great while I'm struck by weird little things that affect me that are directly related to not having a dad around when I was growing up. One of those things is that I am endlessly fascinated by watching men shave their face scruff.

Until I was in college I had never seen a man shave [live and in person]. My college boyfriend didn't really need to shave very often, so it was rare that I actually got to see him shave. Craig needs to shave every day [although he usually doesn't], so I have ample opportunity to indulge in my strange desire to watch him shave. It's not that it's a sexual thing -- it's just inexplicably interesting to me.

Unfortunately, he doesn't like me to watch. It makes him nervous. He's afraid he's going to get freaked out that I'm watching him shave, and that he's going to shave off his nose or something. But the whole ritual of applying shaving cream and shaving with a razor is so mysterious to me, that I find myself spying on him.

A few years ago I bought Craig one of those shaving cream brushes and a stone bowl for the shaving cream, and a really nice razor. I don't think he's ever used it. I don't know that anyone really shaves that way, but I like the idea of watching him shave with the traditional shaving accoutrements.

Craig will only usually let me watch him shave when he's using an electric razor. I guess there's less of a chance of actually hurting himself. Last night he decided to shave off his goatee, against my wishes. So not only did he let me watch, he also let me document it for posterity! Woohoo! So this is how it all went down:

There's no good reason why I'm so interested in seeing the shaving of a face, other than the fact that it's a novelty. You'd think I'd be bored of it by now. Craig and I have been married for over two years, we've lived together for over five years, and we've been dating for over seven years. I know I've seen him shave five or six dozen times or more.

Maybe I'm just weird.

---

I totally love my boss.

You might recall last Friday when my boss ordered us to hit the road Friday afternoon to go see a movie.

She has just informed me that she's giving us all the day off on Friday.

This job may suck occasionally, but I do love my fringe benefits!

---

I've been considering a new tattoo recently. I'm not much of an artist in the I can draw stuff well sense, so I've been searching for an appropriate symbol of some sort. Nothing has struck me as perfect yet, so the search continues. This site full of celebrity tattoos has kept me entertained for at least the last 20 minutes.

Craig has also been wanting a new tattoo. He wants to get something Halloween-related, which I think is a fun idea.

When I first met Craig many years ago, he wanted to get his name tattooed on himself. I've never understood the idea of having your own name or someone else's tattooed on your body.

In the instance of having your own name tattooed, why? Are you afraid you're going to go all Memento and forget who you are? That you'll need a roadmap back to your former life? That you'll get drunk and temporarily forget your name? Luckily, that phase passed for him before he could do something stupid.

As for getting someone else's name tattooed on your body, well...I just always think of relationships and marriages as potentially temporary, whereas ink is fairly permenant [and laser removal is painful and expensive]. So it just seems like a bad idea to me. Yes, I know it's a little fatalistic to think that way. Yes, my marriage is strong and we're in love. Right now. I don't anticipate things going awry, and I'm sure neither does Craig. But it could happen. Maybe I learned this from my parents, each of whom has been married and divorced numerous times.

I mean, how awful would it be if I had gotten my first boyfriend's name tattooed in a heart on my ass?

---

So I'm on the bus last night going home and there are a gaggle of Catholic school girls in back of me. As you know, I can't resist eavesdropping, especially on public transit.

CSG #1: I can't believe you are! Is your stomach hard?
CSG#2: My stomach is always hard. You can't tell yet anyway.
CSG #3: Everyone is having babies. I want a baby!
CSG #1: Did your mom cry?
CSG #2: Yeah. Everyone was crying. But now my mom is really happy for me.
CSG #1: Do you wanna have a boy or a girl?
CSG #2: I don't want a boy. I hate boys. I'll be beating him up all the time.
CSG #3: I want a baby!
CSG #2: You know, Abby's pregnant too, right?
CSG #3: Everyone is having babies. I want a baby!
CSG #1: Yeah. I guess I'll wait until after I graduate from college. But by the time I have a kid, he won't know anybody.
CSG #2: Remember, I thought I was pregnant in November but I wasn't? I was upset, but then I started getting excited. I didn't take the test yet, but I really thought I was.
CSG #3: I want a baby!
CSG #2: Yeah, I'm so excited now.
CSG #1: Are you gonna go to prom?
CSG #2: Well, yeah. I mean, Brenda went to prom and she had a belly out to here. And I think Shelly was seven months pregnant at prom.
CSG #3: I want a baby!
CSG #2: How sad is this neighborhood? There's nothing to do except get pregnant.

What the fuck? I would have been in a panic if I had gotten pregnant in high school, and now girls are excited about it?

---

I tend not to post about my poor, overweight cat too much. However, because I feel the need to share photos I've taken with my brand-spankin' new [and hard won] camera, I'm going to subject you to it.

Without further ado, this is my cat, Sassy [no, I didn't name her]:

As an aside, when Statia saw my cat for the first time she asked if my vet was concerned that she's so fat. Sassy hasn't been the same since.

---

Clutch the pearls: Jenny Jones is going off the air.

Gosh, one less place where trailer trash pre-teen prostitutes with hand gun fetishes and twelve kids by 9 random boys plus their own father can congregate and be accepted by their peers.

Has it really been twelve years since Jenny Jones first appeared on the daytime trash scene?

I will admit to being home occasionally during the day, staring at the Jenny Jones show with that typical slack-jawed expression that most people have when they watch. The difference is that my slack-jaw is really all about not being able to comprehend what the hell is going on.

Just a sampling of what's going on this week on Jenny Jones...

Monday - From East to West, My Curves are By Far the Best
Meet women who say they have the sexiest chests in America. One guest says her chest is so fantastic that men give her money just to see her jog. Also, meet a woman who says her 38-F chest is so amazing that women ask her to flash their husbands at the bars.

Thursday - I Slept With Several Men...DNA Will Prove Which One Fathered My Child
Meet men who take paternity tests to prove fatherhood. One woman slept with two men in the same day and isn't sure which man fathered her 10-month-old baby so both men take paternity tests. Also, meet a woman who wants her ex-fling and her boyfriend to take paternity tests to determine which man fathered her baby.

Yep, that's good television.

---

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
~ T.S. Eliot, Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Yeah, so I'm creeping up on another birthday. I'll be 31 in 19 days.

I don't really have any strong feelings about getting older. I'm not sure what 31 is supposed to feel like, but I don't feel old. I feel just like I did when I turned 25 -- like celebrating. I don't even know what 31 is supposed to look like, but I'd like to think that I'm relatively well-preserved.

Craig will turn 31 about two weeks after I do, and he is having a nervous breakdown. He will rarely even admit to being 30. He'll probably spend the day sulking and refusing to acknowledge his birthday.

Age has never struck me as something to get irate about it. It's not like you can control that sort of thing -- you're going to age no matter what. And it's true that you're only as old as you feel. I'm healthy and I take fairly good care of myself. I may bitch about "those damn kids" not knowing the correct rules of etiquette in a mosh pit every now and then, but I don't feel like an old biddy.

The Franklin Institute has this machine that's supposed to show you what you'll look like when you get old. By age 75 it looks like my face will felt off. That sort of scared me a bit, but even my mom is well-preserved. So....

So what's on the plate for my birthday celebration this year? I'm going to celebrate in Paris. I can't think of a better way to turn 31. You can bet that at 6:32 pm EST [the hour of my birth] I'll be doing something fun -- maybe I'll be at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

---

Hey, so Happy Black History Month!

I've heard rumbles from people who say, "Why is there a Black History Month? There's no White History Month." To this I say: every month is white history month. Or more specifically, white male history month.

Think back to what you learned in elementary school, junior high or middle school, and senior high school. If you went to a typical school you rarely saw a black person or a woman or, really, any minority figuring heavily in American History. The school system I grew up in was a rural, almost entirely white community. The only black people in our history books were slaves during the Civil War [with a brief mention of the Underground Railroad] and the only women were people like Betsy Ross [can't show a woman doing anything outside of the domestic capacity, now can you?]

We didn't learn about Jim Crow laws, we weren't taught about Martin Luther King, Jr. Our books didn't even cover segregation and Rosa Parks. Margaret Sanger and the Seneca Fall Convention didn't exist as far as my history books were concerned. But, oh wait, Women's History Month is next month.

I haven't been near a high school-level history text in many years. I can only hope that textbook writers are learning that you can't re-write history from only one point of view. I often wonder how anyone can still be racist, when it's so obviously a fruitless endeavor. But think about how we're all educated about the history of our country. It's pounded into our heads from Kindergarten that white men almost exclusively did all the great things to create the U.S.

There shouldn't be anyone in the country who doesn't know who Susan B. Anthony is, and know why she's important [other than the fact her face is on a coin no one uses]. Everyone should know that the Little Rock 9 is not a rock band.

Even American Literature is taught as totally white-washed and male-dominated. When was the last time you saw Effie Waller Smith's poetry being taught in a high school English class? James Baldwin should be read in every high school, but the only reason I did is because I chose him for an independent project. Langston Hughes, Alice Walker, and Willa Cather are rarely covered. Instead, what are we taught? It's usually Thomas Paine, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Edgar Allen Poe. Yes, they're important writers too, but so are the others that we usually never learn about.

There shouldn't be a need to have a Black History Month or a Women's History Month. It's 2003 -- how long do we have to band-aid our educational system before people wake up?

---

It is gorgeous outside today. It's the kind of day I wish I could bottle and let out when it's 2 degrees and windy. I was going to hit the gym this afternoon during my lunch hour, but instead decided to take a walk.

That's sort of exercise, right?

So I walked up to Fresh Fields to grab a salad for lunch. There were these two old women in the dried fruit aisle discussing the instance of sulfur in dried fruit. Particularly, they were questioning if sulfur was in the fruit itself. Now I know the answer to this question, but I was too weirded out about butting into stranger's conversation due to me eavesdropping.

I hate it when I'm in out and about and some random person interrupts me and tells me something stupid.

Like I was out shopping yesterday and I wasn't sure which block Philadelphia Soap Company was on [think excellent chocolate soap made with Hershey's cocoa], so I stopped someone and asked. It was an older man. He was only to happy to direct me, but then made sure I knew that a couple of gay guys own the shop. Well, yes, I know that and what the hell business is of his anyway? Like he expected me to gasp, clutch the pearls, and run screaming the other way.

---

When I first moved to Philadelphia in 1990, one of my favorite things to do was ride the regional rail trains in and out of 30th Street Station. It's not that I have a train fetish or anything. It's that the best graffiti art was in the tunnels into and out of the station, and it's hard to see them without being on the train.

Since then there's been a real boost in city murals [legal murals], and now Philadelphia has the largest number of murals in the U.S. And they're gorgeous. The photo above [taken with my brand spankin' new digital camera!] is a mural at 13th & Locust. It's painted on the wall of an apartment building [to get a bigger view, click the photo].

Most of the murals in town are fine art murals. To be honest, I'd love to see a few murals go up that are done by graffiti artists. I'm not talking about tags or stupid shit like that -- some of the most beautiful graffiti murals are so much more than that.

I love to be surrounded by art. A lot of people hate big cities because they're dirty or full of crime or full of traffic. Some people hate Philadelphia for a myriad of reasons. But I love living here, and some of that reason is the beautiful art everywhere you look.

---

I did our taxes last night. There was a brief and awful moment when I thought we owed over $3,000.00, but I should know better: I always do our taxes wrong the first time.

Mostly I usually either forget to take deductions or I do the math wrong. This time it was the deductions. In the end it all worked out and it's all good now. We're even getting a little back this year, thanks to my tuition credits.

This time of year is always stressful. And I hate doing taxes.

---

So I'm on the phone with my mother yesterday morning. She called to ask about how our water pipes were faring after they froze last week. Two seconds later, Craig clues me into what was going on with the space shuttle and I told my mom. I swear that my mother must be the only person on the planet who can equate the space shuttle breaking up on reentry with my upcoming Paris trip.

This was the whole conversation:

me: Oh shit! Mom, I think you better turn on CNN. There's something horrible going on with the space shuttle. It doesn't look good.
my mom: Oh Nicki, I don't like the sound of that. Maybe you should postpone your trip.
me: What? We're not travelling via space shuttle, it's your standard issue 747 or something. You know, United.
my mom: Yeah, but everytime you go somewhere, something happens. I wish you would just stay here.
me: Um, well. To be honest with you, I'll probably be safer in Paris.
my mom: But you'll be flying overseas!

My mother has lost her damn mind. And she does this to me every time we go anywhere. Our last trip was about six weeks after September 2001. She was convinced that our plane was going to be hijacked or blown up, or we would be killed in London or run over by some crazed Anti-American foreigner who could instantly tell we're American just be looking at us.

And now because the war with Iraq is supposed to be slated to start toward the end of February, she is convinced that something awful will happen to us in Paris or in the plane. I could show her the statistics about me personally being affected by terrorist plot [I think you have a better chance of being struck by lightning a dozen times in a month], but it wouldn't matter. She's convinced that we'd be safer travelling to Podunk, Arkansas to watch a car race, like she and my stepfather do every year.

And what the fuck does the space shuttle have to do with anything? I'm not Nostradamus or anything. My international travel plans do not coincide with Bad Things on purpose. You'd swear she thinks I sit around in my art studio with my omniscent eye on the Universe, hatching evil evil plans. "I'll show those bastards," I cackle. "I'll take a trip to Europe just before something bad happens. It'll be a riddle to stump those asshats for years to come!" [insert maniacal laughter here].

Just call me Nicoladamus.

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Yeah, I know you're interested by that title, right? Kathy won the rights to the story -- and, besides, what's a weekend without a bar brawl?

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I simply cannot believe what I'm seeing.

I keep hoping that it's all a mistake or that there was some sort of escape hatch and all the astronauts are OK.

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As yuou might know by now, I'm a giant packrat. I'm afraid to throw anything out for fear that something awful will happen to me and my loved ones will only be left with my memories. Maybe that's not exactly it, but I like having stuff.

I am one of those people who saves letters. I have a huge box full of notes that my high school boyfriend would pass me when we saw each other between classes. They aren't notes full of passionate prose or admissions of undying love, but they're sweet and make me laugh and wonder what he's doing.

So in the spirit of nostalgia and long lost loves and all of that, you can read one of these antiquated missives right here.

Enjoy!