---

Imagine that you are one of these crazy terrorists hell bent on jihad against the U.S. Now imagine that you've decided to make some symbolic strikes in Philadelphia, and you want to blow up Independence Hall. Chestnut Street in front of Independence Hall was closed by the administration a while ago to thwart terrorism, but there are two streets that pass within feet of the sides of the building and the park behind the Hall is open.

Does shutting down Chestnut Street in front of the Hall really make a bit of difference to warding off an attack on the historic building?

No.

And that's why Mayor Street is re-opening the street against the advice of Homeland Security. Of course, the Parks Service promptly announced that they plan to close Independence Hall if Chestnut Street is re-opened.

To be honest, I rarely agree with the decisions that Mayor Street makes, but I fully support his decision to re-open the street in front of the Hall. It's a shithole down there right now anyway with the Constitution Center construction, and the ugly way Chestnut was blocked off only made it worse. With the sorry state of the economy and people being worried about being killed in an attack, Philadelphia is lucky to get any tourists at all. If some Midwestern couple comes in and wants to see Independence Hall, why make it hard for them to do so, especially since the preventative measures taken to ensure safety are hardly effective.

There's just not much you can do to protect landmarks from attacks. Security here in the U.S. is a joke -- the safety precautions here are usually overblown and under-effective. In Europe the methods of security are much better [at least in London and Paris...I can't really speak to the rest of the Europe!] -- at major landmarks and museums you go through metal detectors and someone searches your bags.

I think the only places in Philly that have metal detector and search security are the public schools.

I know that metal detectors and hand searches don't necessarily ensure safety. There's always a way around it. But it's better than the fake sense of safety blocking off streets gives people.

This all comes back to people being manipulated into fear. Sure, there's a possibility of another terrorist attack, now more than ever since the invasion of Iraq. But people have this idea that if they just make security tighter, round up all the dusky foreigners, and replace any countries' government that we don't like that it'll all be alright. And until then it's OK to be scared. I say it's not OK to be scared. Live your life...have at it. If you're going to die, there's nothing you can do about it...so enjoy life.

---

There's something gross about Vin Diesel that makes me want to cross my arms over my boobs. It could be the stupid stage name he chose...or it could be his stupid sneer...or maybe just his overall self-important "Van Damme" type of attitude. I don't know, I just want to kick him in the shins and run away.

Ew.

---

I just got back from the nail salon. I'm the owner of ten beautiful nails.

Here's the thing: everytime I'm in the salon daytime soaps or trashy talk shows are one. Today was different -- Cops was on. No one seemed to watching it, no one was engrossed in the high drama. I had nothing better to do, so I half watched it. It's the first time [and hopefully the last time] I've seen more than five seconds of Cops. I will have to assume that all shows are as trashy and cheesy as this one.

What I want to know is this: who watches this shit?

---

One of things that makes me sick about war --any war-- is what it does to soldiers. I just read an article about the war in Iraq that raised the little hairs on my arms and back of my neck. With this new "shoot at anything that moves" directive, Iraqis are being mowed down indiscrimately.

This was not the only family who had taken what they thought was a last chance for safety. A father, baby girl and boy lay in a shallow grave. On the bridge itself a dead Iraqi civilian lay next to the carcass of a donkey.

As I walked away, Lieutenant Matt Martin, whose third child, Isabella, was born while he was on board ship en route to the Gulf, appeared beside me.

"Did you see all that?" he asked, his eyes filled with tears. "Did you see that little baby girl? I carried her body and buried it as best I could but I had no time. It really gets to me to see children being killed like this, but we had no choice."

Martin's distress was in contrast to the bitter satisfaction of some of his fellow marines as they surveyed the scene. "The Iraqis are sick people and we are the chemotherapy," said Corporal Ryan Dupre. "I am starting to hate this country. Wait till I get hold of a friggin' Iraqi. No, I won't get hold of one. I'll just kill him."

Yes, this is obviously about freeing the Iraqis. The troops have already been taught to hate them...all of them. I've often wondered how many Iraqis will be left to enjoy their "liberation" and if they'll be happy to have been freed at the cost of the lives of their relatives, the loss of their homes and jobs.

I've been accused of only thinking about myself, of sitting in my comfy home and taking my freedom for granted and not caring if the Iraqis are free. Everyone in the world should have the same rights and priveleges that I do. I think it's a sweet idea that this war is really about liberating an oppressed group of people, but it's bullshit. It's a fairytale handfed to those scared into submission. I say "scared," because I truly believe the majority of those who are pro-war have been scarred by what happened on Sept. 11th [and almost everyone in the U.S. was traumatized by it], and have been manipulated into believing that if the U.S. doesn't invade Iraq, it will most certainly happen again. And people are frightened enough by the threat to say, 'Yes, I want my security -- at any cost.'

And now U.S. soldiers are becoming murderers. Before you shoot off an angry email to me, I support the military and I know that civilian casualties are unavoidable. But I think back to the behavior of the troops during Vietnam. Companies used to have competitions to see who could rack up more enemy kills -- it didn't really matter if they were civilians or innocently going about their business. War changes people. It makes them vicious and they lose their humanity.

How else can you explain Corporal Dupre's quote in the article? I'd like to think that he's a normal person when he's not part of an invading army. He's probably a nice guy who loves puppies. Now he's hell bent on killing any Iraqi who crosses his path.

We haven't gotten rid of Saddam Hussein, we've replaced him. Maybe the methods aren't as ghastly [I haven't seen reports of our troops shredding anyone in a grinder], but they're just as effective. Dead is dead.

[article link via Somewhere in the Digital Forest]

---

If you're pro-peace and have something good to add or just want a haven of refuge from the squeaky wheels, make a stop over at Blogs Against War.

I'd love to see a few of the pieces submitted for Carnival of the Vanities!

---

I must admit that I'm a little puzzled over the firing of Peter Arnett. If it's in his contract that he isn't allowed to give interviews to "enemy" television, I could understand. And it's not like he said anything that isn't true. The war hasn't been going as planned because Iraqis are putting up a fight. It's been reported in the Washington Post and elsewhere that Rumsfeld ordered less troops then the Pentagon recommended, and that has had an adverse affect on the war.

Is it now against company policy to say anything negative about the war?

And I find it even more puzzling that anyone would call his remarks "Kafkaesque." What does that even mean?

---

My friend Robin just bought a new house. She, like me, has only lived in rented apartments and rented houses. She doesn't have nice things because she hates to accumulate stuff if she has no where permenant to put it.

So she was talking to me about having a house warming party. I said, "Where are you registered at?" Robin looked at me like I had grown a second head. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you know how people register for gifts for weddings and baby showers?" I said. "Why don't you register for gifts for your house warming?"

Robin thought about it for a second, and said, "But won't that make me look greedy?"

I, like a lot of you, having wishlists. Whenever there is an occasion where gift giving to me is appropriate, I always say, "If you don't know what to get me, here is the URL of my wishlist. Have at it." I don't think it means I'm greedy or anything bad -- I think it means I prefer that people don't gift me with things like ugly ceramic baskets or other assorted fugly chotchkies. You know, stuff I'm going to have to return or throw out.

I know Robin very well. Most of her relatives are like mine -- intent on showering me with flowery or cartoon-laden dishtowels and milkglass candy dishes. Or, for those of us who have similar tastes, they always seem to buy something you already have.

So why not make it easier by registering somewhere?

I absolutely hate it when I have to go to an event where I have to give a gift, but there is no registry. If there's not registry, I almost always go with barware. If it's a baby, I knit a sweater and buy some foofoos or socks to go with it. Inevitably, the gift does to a person who doesn't drink [or thinks it's acceptable to drink wine out of a Dixie cup] and the sweater doesn't go with their color scheme.

But I think I have Robin convinced to register at Williams-Sonoma and Crate and Barrel. Now maybe she won't have to gush over the lovely ceramic duck she'd be sure to receive.

---

Thanks to Kymberlie of Neurotic Fishbowl for becoming my fourth Race sponsor! Woohoo!!!!

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I never see random grocery store employees making like rabbits when I go to the grocery store. Instead, I see people with mullets picking their noses or asses [or both]. Of course, I'm not sure that I would want to see any of the employees at the local shop making with the sweet sweet forbidden workplace love...some of them are really scary looking.

But, inspired by Joelle's list of public places where she has tripped the light fandango, I offer up my own list here [mostly because I don't want to waste all her comment space with my list]:

• Inside a van in the parking lot of Stenko's Rollerskating Rink
• The recreational park of the Russian Orthodox church, behind the storage shed and under various picnic tables
• The shore of Briar Creek lake [behind my mother's house]
• On top of a brand spanking new Camaro in a new car salesroom
• In the middle of the graveyard down the street from my mother's house
• Squeezed into the back seat of a Chevette parked behind the Kmart
• Under and in a tree outside of my aunt's house
• Laundry room, bathroom, and common room of my college dorm
• Bathroom of several dance clubs in the Philadelphia area
• In the woods, several yards from my family reunion
• Under a pool table in a local rec center
• In a break room at Sesame Place [while I was working there]
• On the balcony of my dorm room
• On the beach at Atlantic City, Long Beach Island, and Virginia Beach
• In the public hot tub at a Disney resort

That's all I could think of off the top of my head. I'm sure there are more...it's an awful long list to run through. Oy.

---

Just a word of warning: if you go into a very small Mexican restaurant and make fun of the language or otherwise make a nuisance of yourself, don't be surprised if the chef spits in your food.

Oh, and don't be surprised when I shove my foot up your ass....sideways.

---

I'm far from squeamish. Blood and guts generally don't make me sick to my stomach, and I love horror movies and stuff like that. It comes as somewhat of a surprise to me that there are certain movies that I cannot watch, due to the fact that certain scenes in these movies are so painful for me to watch that I just can't watch without bursting into tears.

So here is my list of movies that, to me, are unwatchable:

1. American History X -- you know that scene in the very beginning when Edward Norton's character slams that guys teeth against the curb? That's part of the movie that I can't watch, and it's not just because of my dental issues. All the hatred in that movie does something to me, just makes something inside of me want to die.
2. Leaving Las Vegas -- I get such an overwhelming feeling of lonliness from this movie that it is utterly unwatchable. And the scene with Elizabeth Shue and the rape scene in the hotel room and the subsequent scene with her in the shower bleeding is too much for me to take.
3. Kids -- there's not a single scene in that movie that doesn't make me want to curl up in the fetal position. The movie is part of the reason I don't want to have children.
4. Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer -- absolutely frightening.
5. 8MM - everything about that movie is so disturbing. It's just so bleak.
6. Boys Don't Cry -- I had giant goosebumps all over me during this movie. The rape scene is horrible. The murder scene at the end is horrible. I remember sitting in the theater, gripping the arm rest, wishing the movie would end because it was wiping me out.

It's obviously not that these movies are bad movies -- it's that they're so real. Violence that is portrayed so honestly and so brutally has an affect on me, as I'm sure these films were intended to do. I've only seen each of these movies once, and once was definitely enough.

There are other movies that come close to being on my list -- several David Lynch films and Deliverance, for instance. They just don't quite strike that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach like those others do. Sometimes that's just a little too much reality for me.

---

I hate it when you wake up with plans, but then notice that the weather is going to ruin your plans.

Tracey and I knew that there was a chance of rain, so it shouldn't come as a huge surprise, but dammit I really wanted to run today!

The other day Tracey said that she was already panicking about running the Race. Now that I ran last year, I'm not nervous or panicked at all, but last year I was looking for any excuse not to go. The day of the race I kept thinking 'What the hell am I doing? There's no way I'm going to finish this race. I'm going to come in last. I'm going to embarrass myself.'...you know, blah blah blah. I felt like I was going to puke.

Like most things in life, pushing through the fear and just getting on with it are usually rewarding. Like when I got my ears pierced for the first time, for instance.

I was five years old, and my mom took me to Ames department store. I was a pretty serious kid. I wanted earrings, but I was scared shitless to have a peice of stainless steel shoved through my earlobe. So I turned to my mom, and said, "Mommy, just let me shake for a little bit, and then I'll do it."

So I stood there in the store for 15 minutes, shaking like a leaf, and then I pulled it together and hopped into the chair. Simple as that. I did the same when my mom had to change my earrings for the first time -- I asked her to let me shake for a while, then got a grip and let her change them.

---

I'm bored.

Anyone read any good books lately?

---

A big thank you to Solonor for his appreciation of boobies -- that's right, he's my third Race sponsor! Someone gave him 3 to 1 odds on me winning the race. I think that's a suckers bet, but I will run like the wind...or at least run like a mild breeze. Whatever, there'll be movement involved.

Also, The Homeless Guy has an interesting explanation of why we're at war with Iraq. It's slightly different from any other reasoning I've seen to date, so be sure to go visit and give it a read.

---

Has anyone been watching the show Bullshit that's on Showtime? You know, with Penn and Teller? Last night was the first time I've seen an episode. We have digital cable that has On Demand with it, so we can watch any of the Bullshit shows at any time. I likely would have never watched an episode because I generally don't like Penn and Teller -- I'm just not a big fan of magic tricks. Plus, I find Teller a little bit creepy.

However, Craig was fucking around with the On Demand service and started watching an episode. Considering I had been bitching to him about this smarmy national day of prayer, fasting, and humility, he forced me to watch the particular episode.

And now I fucking love Penn and Teller.

If you haven't see it, Penn and Teller highlight this particular school district in Marietta, Georgia that has instituted the teaching of Creationism as an alternative theory to Evolution. And they've put stickers in all their science books claiming that Evolution is only a theory and not in any way based in actual fact. And all these crazy, deluded people are absolutely convinced that the Bible is a literal thing. Yes, they believe that the world is only 6,000 years old, that the theory of Evolution has no absolute scientific proof to back it up, and the Grand Canyon was carved out by the Big Flood in a day or two.

What is particularly timely to the discussion that's been going on here and elsewhere with regard to the ridiculous day of prayer and fasting and Bush's faith based initiatives program and his assertions that his god has blessed America, is the tidy way in which Penn explains the issue of separation of church and state.

We belong to a club called the USA. As members, we pay dues [called taxes] to support public, government-run schools and those schools are run according to the club handbook -- the U.S. constitution. Now, the constitution says our club steers clear of religion. That's the deal we made. If we pay for it with taxes, it can't have religion in it. That's in the pesky by-laws. So as long as we're all paying, no religion in schools.

Simple, no? Apparently, somewhere along the way, certain people have forgotten this or they're choosing to ignore it.

---

Statia is coming over for lunch today. Here's the menu:

• Wild mushroom bruschetta
  
• Salmon quiche with dill
  
• Angel food cake with raspberry sauce

I'm sure you're very jealous that Statia gets to partake in my home cooking and domestic goddessery and you don't. Heh.

Of course, if I had a bigger house, you know, one with a dining room, I could have big dinner parties and invite all of you. Maybe I should start raising money for my house fund instead of trolling for Race pledges.

Oh, and speaking of the Race, I'd like to publicly thank Joe from Dissociated Press for laying down some cash money for my run. So thanks again to Joe and Elle for funding my run and supporting boobies everywhere!

---

Holy crap.

I'm up in my art studio right now checking my email, and channel 10 is on [that's NBC for me]...at 8pm the World's Most Talented Kids comes on [or whatever it's called].

Does this strike anyone as highly inappropriate? The first little girl was all hussied up singing about champagne, and this second little kid was just grabbing his crotch while rapping about ladies. Neither of them can be any older than six years old.

You just know there's some perv just totally getting off on this. And I can't stand Mario what's-his-name, Slater from Saved by the Bell. Egads.

---

Maxspeak has got an interested debate going on. This is the issue -- for those of you who are pro-war because you are interested in liberating the Iraqi citizenry, "how many deaths suffered by the people slated for liberation would signal the failure, for you, of the enterprise?"

It's an interesting question.

---

Maybe it comes from years of having to deal with tourists, or maybe it's just that I'm an impatient person by nature, but please just do me this one favor when you come to Philadelphia: don't act like a jackass.

Now, true, acting like a jackass covers a wide array of behavior. So here are some things to keep in mind when you and your buddies visit the City of Brotherly Love:

• Do not walk down the street with a map in one hand and a fist full of babies in the other. It's one or the other -- map or kids. You can't pay attention to both at the same time. If you try you will either a] walk smack into a local, who won't be charmed by your "aw shucks" attitude, or b] your kids will be loud and obnoxious and may attempt to play in traffic. So pay attention!
• Do not visit the Reading Terminal Market. The nice Amish folks who sell bread, and eggs, and shoo fly pies are not there so you can park your fat ass in the middle of an aisle and exclaim loudly, "Look Merle -- real, honest to goodness Amish people!" and block traffic from getting past you. Amish people are well aware that they're Amish -- they don't need you to clue them in. Plus, I'm there to do my grocery shopping, not try to find a way around you as you amble slowly with that slack-jawed look on your face. Get the fuck out of the way. Move with traffic. And pay attention to what the hell you're doing!
• If you see me engrossed in a book eating my lunch outside, do not under any circumstances ask me where the fucking Liberty Bell is. I have an hour for lunch and you're taking up my valuable time. Philadelphia is easy to find your way around in -- use your map and stop fucking bothering me. Next time, I'll send your stupid ass in the wrong direction.
• This is not Podunk, Kansas -- we have more than one traffic light and even more than one Walmart. As such, don't act like you can cross the street when traffic is coming and people will stop because they know you and think you're swell. They will run your ass over, so quit telling anyone who will listen about those "crazy city drivers." Just shut up!
• Just like those "crazy city drivers" don't have the courtesy to stop when you're flouncing in the middle of four lanes of traffic, pedestrians will hip check you right out of the way if you dare to come to an abrupt standstill in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. I'm thrilled that you've never seen a building higher than four floors, but get the fuck out of the way.

Yep, it's easy to tell that it's Springtime.

---

Last night I was sitting around ignoring the incessant news coverage of the death and destruction going on in Iraq, as usual. All of a sudden, it was like a light went on in my head [you know, ding!] -- I had just purchased two brand spanking new pairs of jewelry making pliers, and I had just received an order from Fire Mountain Gems. So I yanked out my supply boxes and made a bracelet.

Ever since Bomby McSmarmypants and company have been ramping up with the invasion rhetoric, I've been more concerned with people dying and having the right to say that I'm concerned than with being artistic. Destruction and death and being worried just suck the creativity right out of me. It was the same after September 11 -- I had so much emotion it just got bottlenecked inside of me and I couldn't paint, or make shrines, or make jewelry, or books. It was just a big wall of artist's block.

And so I was relieved to know that I was able to make something --anything-- just to get out of my rut. Hell, I haven't even been inspired to knit. I have a half-finished sleeveless sweater sitting at home awaiting my attention, not to mention a couple of books I promised to people.

Do you find that when you're uptight about something going on that another part of your life suffers? It's always been some aspect of creativity that gets the shaft when I worry. All creativity doesn't come to an end -- I'm [obviously] an obsessive journal-keeper, and have been since I was 8 years old. Some things never change. But I guess the part of me that creates shrines and found object art and altered books freezes because I find it hard to see the good in things...you know, the forest through the trees.

I'm going to make another piece of jewelry tonight. It might not turn out pretty, but at least I'll be making some effort to break the block.

And at least that will be something.

---

As someone who works for a large-ish non-profit agency, I know the lunacy of being given a project and told to make it so without a budget. That's what non-profits are -- you raise the money to give to other people or fund programs that help other people, and keep only enough to pay your staff and bills [in theory, anyway]. But if you've got something extra going on, you've got to beg, borrow, or steal to make it work.

United Way of Tampa Bay is a very large agency in that particular region, but it doesn't mean they have any more money than the rest of the non-profit world. Getting Susan Sarandon to appear at an event to foster volunteerism was probably a huge deal for them. I know their donor base has to be huge in comparison to the three dozen complaint calls that the UW received about her. Since when have non-profit agencies had the luxury of turning away support?

The UW of Tampa Bay rep says, "The focus of our whole meeting had shifted to whether or not we were creating a political platform for Susan Sarandon...That is not our purpose. That's not what we're about."

That's quite possibly the dumbest thing I've heard anyone say. I'm sure, if requested, Sarandon would have kept her remarks concerning the U.S. led invasion of Iraq to a minimum. I've worked with celebrities for events where they volunteer their time. They volunteer their time because they care deeply about your cause [or their publicist thinks they should]. The last thing they want to do is bring controversy to your agency.

But I'm sure I know what happened. A couple of million dollar donors [read: old white guys] called up and threatened to take their money elsewhere. The remainder of those calls were probably made up of people who a] don't give to the UW at all, or b] give a gift of $10.00 and think that entitles them to a hand in the decision-making. That's the way it works, even at my agency. We ran some ads a few years ago that people found objectionable -- 98% of the complaint calls came from non-donors. You better ante up some cash if you want a non-profit to listen to what you have to say when you complain.

I know there are pro-war types all over the place rubbing their hands gleefully together, thinking they've won some sort of prize because another celebrity is being denied a chance to publicly denounce the war. Yeah, Sarandon certainly did say a mouthful at the Academy Awards, didn't she? That peace sign she flashed sure was menacing and controversial.

Just as a general aside, I think it's hilarious whenever a UW claims that it doesn't have ties to political agendas. That's bullshit. Let's take, for example, their continued funding of the Boy Scouts of America. The Boy Scouts teach kids that it's OK to discriminate against those that are different from them, by banning homosexuals and atheists from serving as troop masters [or whatever they're called]. And here in Philadelphia, the local UW is partnered with the Catholic diocese and, as part of their agreement with the church, refuses to fund any agency that disseminates birth control or counsels people about birth choices. Planned Parenthood doesn't receive any money from the local UW. Find out who your local UW gives to before you send them any money -- there are lots of politics involved. Of course, the same can be said of any non-profit agency. Be informed before you give, and never give over the phone via a solicitation call and never give a donation to someone coming door to door.

---

I don't believe this.

That stupid fucking Resolution 153 was approved. Now there's going to be a day mandating that I, an agnostic, fast and pray "in order to secure the blessings and protection of Providence for the people of the United States and our Armed Forces during the conflict in Iraq and under the threat of terrorism at home."

This is insane. I believe I'll be spending my day writing nastygrams to the President, my Senators, and my Congress representatives.

---

Just so I can get this straight...

• Serving our country in the military is patriotic
  
• Not supporting the U.S. led invasion of Iraq is unpatriotic

Right?

So what does that makes this fine group of men and women?

[link found via KD]

---

Thank you to my first Race sponsor: Lisa!

Lisa, could you please email me so I have your email address handy? That goes for anyone who pledges a gift for my Race for the Cure run -- email me!

Thanks again Lisa!!

---

I was going through some papers tonight and I ran across this photo of my brother and I from 1979 [which makes me about 7 years old]. Please tell me that I'm not the only one with one of these silly special effects photos. I mean, cripes, is that spooky or what? I'm just a big floating disembodied head. Not to mention, I was obviously going through my Chrissy Snow phase.

Why do parents do things like this to their kids?

Granted, it was the 1970s, but I have more photos of me with plaid bell bottoms and absolutely hideous shirts than I can count. It was bad enough in the '80s when I could pick out my own clothes and be responsible for my ultimate embarrassment [yeah, remember flourescent pink sweatdresses and jeans worn with pumps and frilly blouses?], so why can't parents dress their kids normally?

I shudder to think of what children of the '00s are going to say about their photos. Some of the clothing I've seen on kids and being sold for kids is atrocious -- it's like Heidi Fleiss' clothing line for the young pimp and ho. Maybe the kids [as adults] will wonder if their parents were trying to coax them into the working world at a young age. Personally, for me, I'm sure that my parents lived next door to the film lot that brought us Die Blackula Die and Car Wash, and they were making their living by peddling me as a professional extra. It's some wonder that I was never photographed in fish aquarium platform shoes for the toddler.

---

So I registered for the Race for the Cure online today. This will be my second year running it. If you're around Philadelphia on May 11 and want to run the race with me, let me know. I tried to talk Statia, Kathy, and Ericalynn into running with me, but they just laughed at me. And then I made my sad clown face, which neither sad looking nor clownish.

Of course, feel free to support my run with a pledge [benefitting the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation]. I love how the Komen Foundation sets you up with your very own pledge page when you register!

As an incentive, if I don't beat my race time from last year, I pledge to do something silly for those brave souls who donate to the cause [other than thank them profusely]. I'm not sure what that something will be yet. I doubt it will be showing off my boobies, because that's already been done. Maybe I will send you some of my world famous kimchi. Maybe I'll make you a piece of jewelry. I don't know, I'm open to suggestions.

---

I'm normally not a real big fan of quizzes, but this one caught my attention.

[link found via While Seated]

---

There are many reasons that I have chosen not to support a U.S. led full-on invasion of Iraq. I've talked about my reasons over the last few weeks, and I don't have much more to say on the matter. Craig and I were discussing it last night. Both of us can agree that Hussein and his family need to go and both of us support the troops, but that's about all we agree on. I told him that it seemed unnecessary to lay waste to entire country just to take out a dozen people. Craig looked at me like I was crazy and said, "But they're not 'laying waste to an entire country.' Bush and Rumsfeld said that civilian targets were being avoided."

I went into hysterical giggles. "Do you believe everything you hear on television? Have you seen the footage of the bombings going on in Iraq right now? Who do you think is underneath those bombs? I can assure you that it's not just Iraqi military." Craig gave me the evil eye and didn't say anything.

I'm sending him this article today. Maybe then he can tell me that the "collateral damage" is minimal.

This whole thing is sickening.

---

I've had some strange teachers over the years. My 9th grade Latin teacher used to pelt us with erasers if he was pissed off, and once threw slices of bread at us while trying to get us all to remember the Latin word for bread.

My 11th grade French teacher had a big dent in his head because a few years earlier he had an affair with a student, she dumped him, and then he shot himself in the head and didn't get it right.

One of my college English lit. instructors was an older woman who favored short skirts but refused to wear underwear.

But, despite the fact that I grew up in Podunk Central, none of my teachers ever spontaneously demonstrated the finer techniques of skinning a dead animal found by the roadside. And I certainly never had to seek medical attention from a demonstration of anything, although I did once severely burn the tips of all my fingers during Chemistry class.

Damn bunsen burner.

---

Robert Frost was born today in 1874. He died in 1963. In celebration of Frost, I'd like to share a poem of his with you. It's Frost contemplating war-related issues.

The Sound Of Trees

I wonder about the trees:
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice,
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

---

Oh, and if you're interested, I'm hosting Carnival of the Vanities #28 here at go fish next week. So send me your good entries.

You can check out week #27 over at Dancing with Dogs.

---

House Resolution 153:

Recognizing the public need for fasting and prayer in order to secure the blessings and protection of Providence for the people of the United States and our Armed Forces during the conflict in Iraq and under the threat of terrorism at home.

...

Whereas humility, fasting, and prayer in times of danger have long been rooted in our essential national convictions and have been a means of producing unity and solidarity among all the diverse people of this Nation as well as procuring the enduring grace and benevolence of God;

Whereas, through prayer, fasting, and self-reflection, we may better recognize our own faults and shortcomings and submit to the wisdom and love of God in order that we may have guidance and strength in those daily actions and decisions we must take; and

Whereas dangers and threats to our Nation persist and, in this time of peril, it is appropriate that the people of the United States, leaders and citizens alike, seek guidance, strength, and resolve through prayer and fasting: Now, therefore, be it

Resolved, That it is the sense of the House of Representatives that the President should issue a proclamation--

(1) designating a day for humility, prayer, and fasting for all people of the United States; and

(2) calling on all people of the United States--

(A) to observe the day as a time of prayer and fasting;

(B) to seek guidance from God to achieve a greater understanding of our own failings and to learn how we can do better in our everyday activities; and

(C) to gain resolve in meeting the challenges that confront our Nation.

Have people lost their fucking minds?

OK, get out your pen and paper, here are the list of resolution sponsors:

1. Rep. Roscoe G. Bartlett, Maryland
   
2. Rep. Walter B. Jones, North Carolina
   
3. Rep. Steve King, Iowa
   
4. Rep. Jo Ann Davis, Virginia
   
5. Rep. Corinne Brown, Florida [the same loony who proposed our government pay to have soldiers buried in France dug up and sent back to the U.S.]
   
6. Rep. Jim Ryun, Kansas
   
7. Rep. Dave Weldon, Florida
   
8. Rep. Bob Bishop, Utah
   
9. Rep. J. Gresham Barrett, South Carolina
   
10. Rep. Jeff Miller, Florida
    
11. Rep. Virgil Goode, Virginia
    
12. Rep. Robin Hayes, North Carolina
    
13. Rep. Bob Beauprez, Colorado
    
14. Rep. Donald Manzullo, Illinois
    
15. Rep. Robert Aderholt, Alabama
    
16. Rep. Todd Tiahrt, Kansas
    
17. Rep. Joseph Pitts, Pennsylvania
    
18. Rep. Sue Myrick, North Carolina
    
19. Rep. Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, Florida
    
20. Rep. Phil Gingrey, Georgia
    
21. Rep. Lee Terry, Nebraska
    
22. Rep. Mark Souder, Indiana

There's a little something called separation of church and state. I'm sure we've all heard about it. Obviously the fabulous Congressmen and Congresswomen listed above think it's OK for the state [i.e., U.S. government] to make a resolution embracing the church [informing me of my need to fast and pray] just this once.

If you live in any of the districts represented by these simpletons, I suggest you drop them a note and let them know how wrong they are. This is an outrage.

[*note: links found through Big Pink Cookieand Atrios]

---

It's all about food here for me today. Right now I'm eating my leftovers from a few days ago -- sundried tomato meatloaf and potato-carrot puree.

And I'm thinking about making chicken curry tonight for dinner.

Does anyone other than me obsessively watch the Food Network? The other day the show Unwrapped was all about foods that have "french" in their name but aren't French. I couldn't figure out if they were running the show to point out the stupidity of renaming french fries "freedom fries" when they aren't French to begin with, or if they just wanted to alert the uber-patriot segment of the public to french sounding foods that they didn't have to ban. Personally, I hope it was to point out stupidity.

I mean, how many uber-patriots watch cooking shows, unless it's how to cook possum on a budget?

---

Somehow go fish got a small mention in a USA Today column. The world is definitely a strange place. So hello to anyone visiting from USA Today!

On an unrelated note, I make kick ass kimchi.

Just so you know.

I ran out yesterday at lunch to Fresh Fields, grabbed some Napa Cabbage and prepared it last night [you know, the salting and pressing portion]. It's got to press for three hours, and I'm the most forgetful person on the planet...so I'm laying in bed last night around midnight when it dawns on me that the goddamn cabbage is still pressing downstairs on the counter.

So I got up and finished the kimchi at midnight. Not that it takes much effort, but Craig was not happy when I came to bed smelling of freshly cut garlic and Thai chile paste.

Someone needs to pay me to make them kimchi. Then I won't have to worry about conveniently not being rehired or rehired at a lower salary, and I can be the Philadelphia Queen of Kimchi! I'll even wear a sash and a tiara.

I think I'm delirious.

---

Yeah, so I'm watching 24 right now. Interesting and timely storyline, considering the current events going on. Manipulation, you say? Now how could that be?

And on a lighter note, has anyone been keeping count of how many times Jack's daughter is about to get killed, raped, or otherwise injured this year? I hated her last year, but this year is even worse. It's clue time, honey -- don't wander around deserted parts in the middle of the night.

Yeesh. You'd think the writers would give her a bit more sense, what with a dad in the line of work he's in and all.

---

On Saturday before we went to the Degas exhibit, Christy and Craig and I stopped at a restaurant on the Parkway called Mace's Crossing. Despite the fact that I work really close to it and it's always packed for happy hour, I've never set foot inside.

Now I know why.

It's just standard bar-type food, and I really didn't expect anything spectacular. I do, however, expect the waitstaff to keep their asses covered near my food. I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't want to find dingleberries or any other kind of nether region droppings in my food.

But our waitress couldn't be bothered with issues of hygiene and public decency.

I don't mean to say that she was running around with her pants around her ankles rubbing her twat in the food or on patrons or anything. It's just that her sheer mesh cornflower blue thong was hanging out of the back of her pants. Now, I know some people find a little bit of thong-age attractive, but this was far beyond the standards of attractive. I couldn't figure out if her pants were just way too low or if she had her thong pulled so far up her ass crack it was sawing her in half.

There was an older couple sitting at a table across from us who were absolutely fixated on the crack of our waitresses ass. Even more so then the three of us were. It was funny.

What was really funny was that our waitress was wretchedly bad. She seemed to forget about us for long periods of time. Craig thought it would be fun to lasso her back to our table by hooking a finger into the floss of her thong and dragging her over, but I told him I'd have to disinfect him afterwards.

Eventually the older couple started trying to throw pennies into the crack of her ass just to get her attention.

---

So, I'm aware that there's nothing funny about animals getting hurt, OK? That said, I just about peed myself laughing when I read this:

Experts say a reported UFO sighting in Norway was probably an electrocuted cat.

People in Lardal reported seeing a fire ball explode in the night sky and fall slowly down to earth.

But investigators think they've solved the mystery after the charred body of a cat was found at the foot of an electrical mast.

They believe the unlucky cat climbed up the mast and touched a live wire, reports Aftenposten.

Lars Helge Sogn says what people saw was the cat exploding and falling off the mast.

Just read it again. Now sit down, close your eyes, and visualize the whole thing.

Repeat until you are laughing so hard tears are running down your face.

---

While pondering my likely future that involves collecting unemployment, a thought occurred to me [yeah, I know...shut up]. What happens to my 401K money?

Anyone know the answer? I'm assuming there are options, but I don't have a clue what those options are.

So if you know the answer, clue me, OK?

---

I starting watching the Miss USA pageant last night. Craig tells me that Miss USA is the trashy equivalent of Miss America. Some of the contestants appeared to be drag queens or, at the very least, pre-op transsexuals. One contestant was hovering somewhere in her mid-50s. Several of them looked like wind up toys.

Daisy Fuentes must not be able to get any kind of work at all. And Billy Bush? Don't even get me started. Maybe he's doing all the work he can before his family is run out of the country by farmers with pitchforks.

And then, my favorite part of the proceedings:

"We'd like to dedicate tonight's pageant to the U.S. military."

Give me a fucking break. Sure, it's a nice sentiment, but I'm sure they were just hoping no one made a big stink about the show going on despite the war, like the Academy Awards.

Craig and I watched the evening gown part of the competition, cheering on each contestant to trip and take a header into the reflecting pools located on the stage. Craig declared that he would gladly give a testicle to see it happen. As far as I know, no one fell or tripped or anything. I saw "as far as I know" because I was forced to change the channel after Miss Louisiana USA told us all that if she won she would push for religion to be re-instituted in our school system, because "that's when all the violence started."

Yes, there wasn't any violence at all until school-sponsored prayers and bible-reading were ruled against in 1962. And after that, all hell broke loose. Poor Miss Louisiana USA. I feel like patting her on the head like a little mentally challenged girl and sending her off with a cookie for her troubles.

---

Hey, the 1980s were good to me....

It was just unfortunate for my hair, eyebrows, and sense of fashion. Oy vey.

---

I was once accused of being lazy because I don't really subscribe to a particular religion. The reasoning, I suppose, is that I just haven't gotten off my fat ass to find one that fits.

As much as this is true, that's not the reason. I just think everyone has got it wrong.

See now, it's not that I think I've got it right, either. Here's the thing: organized religion is rigid. It doesn't allow for an individual interpretation. If you're a Christian, you've pretty much got to buy into the whole thing about believing that the Bible is the true word of god and jeebus, right? And you've got to believe in creationism. If you're Buddhist, you really have to believe in the existence of karma and that by doing right in the lifetime you will ascend to a higher level of existence in the next life. If you're Muslim, you believe in the predestined will of Allah and total submission to his will.

Having been raised a Christian [Methodist, to be precise], I really don't buy into the Bible, Creationism, the inherent evil nature of women [ie, original sin], or any of that. Islam is too stringent and again, there's the issue of where women fit in. I do believe in the concept of reincarnation, but I'm not sold on the idea that it's all karma interrelated. Judiasm, Shintoism, Taoism...all not for me.

But yet, I'm not an atheist. I'm not completely sold on the idea that a god does not exist. He/she/it might -- I have no real proof either way. And so I have named myself an agnostic. I'm not alone -- 15% of the world population considers themselves as non-religiously affiliated. I was surprised to learn that Christianity is only 33% of the world and dropping, and Islam is only 20% and dropping. Those currently sans religion are third in line.

Oddly, that statistic makes me feel less lazy.

I was going to think about naming my own religion and making up some icons and stuff, but I think I'm happy with no affiliation.

---

An old boyfriend of mine [Dan] once spent a summer somewhere in Asia with his family while his dad was doing computer work there for the government. He told me a story that, to this day, curls my toes in horror.

They had a cook who was local. One day they sat down to a meal of some sort of meat. No one in the family could identify just what the meat was, but [being that they didn't want to insult the cook] didn't ask and just ate it. Dan told me that it was different, but not bad.

After the meal was over, Dan's dad complimented the cook and asked her if the meal was a local delicacy, that he'd never had anything like it before.

The cook smiled, thanked Dan's dad, and explained that it was cockroach.

See, toes curled in horror.

Since the Philadelphia area is known for it's scrapple, people around here don't seem to be too picky about what they ingest. I always kind of thought people would draw the line at eating roaches, though. Apparently, I am dead wrong.

And even worse,

In addition to Jungle Jim's cockroach act Saturday, the night is billed as Mullet Night. Anyone with a mullet hairstyle who reports to the box office one hour before game time may purchase a ticket for the reduced price of $10.

Things are gonna get ugly.

---

I'd like to think that I'm not a crazy insane jealous bitch. That said, if I walked into the house and found Craig frolicking with three chicks, I might go insane too.

On a different note, I'm impressed that a 51 year old woman can still take on three guys at once. She must have outrageous stamina. Her boyfriend [or, ex-boyfriend, as the case may be] is 13 years younger than her...I wonder if her harem were younger too?

I will admit that I harbor Mrs. Robinson-type fantasies. No, I'm not going to share with the class.

---

Is it my imagination, or did I read something over the weekend about there being an anti-war rally in Afghanistan?

Considering the U.S. "liberated" Afghani citizens from their oppressive regime, what does that say about this whole attitude that Iraqi citizens are going to embrace the American soldiers with open arms?

I know that there's been footage of liberated Iraqis being all thrilled and grateful to the U.S. troops when the media points a camera at them, but there has also been media coverage to the contrary.

Craig and I were discussing this over the weekend. I wondered if these happy Iraqis were doing what has always been expected of them: act happy to see whoever is in charge and vilify whoever they're told to vilify. I mean, you can't expect people to be able to turn off a learned behavior overnight, right? Salam talked last month about how Iraqi citizens are rounded up for protests, etc. It's interesting reading.

Sure, I'd like to think that Iraqis are super happy to see U.S. forces rolling their way, overjoyed to be liberated. But the cynic in me sees the protest in Afghanistan and wonders.

---

CYNIC, n.
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among the Scythians of plucking out a cynic's eyes to improve his vision.
~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

I have always been what some would consider kind of cynical. As a kid, I never really believed in Santa Claus because his schtick just didn't make sense, and no one could offer me any hardcore proof of his existence. The only reason I put my lost teeth under my pillow was so that my mom would exchange it for a dime.

I was told that sex was a bad thing and I shouldn't do it. So I went and found out for myself. I was told that certain books were evil -- so I went out and read them so I could judge that for myself. I was led to believe the being different was bad, so I was different so I could make sure. I was always told that god and jeebus were the answer to all my questions, but that didn't make any sense, so I started research other religions.

Is it any wonder, then, that I take everything with a grain of salt?

I skirted a lot of heartbreak because I can separate love and sex -- people love to equate the two, but I know better. The media never reports anything truthfully. After having been a journalist, I know this to be the absolute truth. Politicians lie to make themselves look good for the public. It's a fact. Corporations never have your best interests at heart.

I just shake my head in wonder at people who are so naive they believe every word that's being broadcast by CNN right now, or who are hanging on every word the current administration is spinning. Sometimes I wish things were that simple for me, that I could be content to just believe any old thing that was presented to me.

It's not like I've never been schnookered before. I bought into the whole Milli-Vanilli is real thing. I even tried to like thongs because everyone kept telling me how comfortable they are.

It came as a great surprise to me when I was taken in by the "bombing Afghanistan will rid us of a great evil" propaganda a few years ago. I think, like most Americans at that time, I was freaked out and frightened by what happened on September 11th. I was all for just fucking flattening the entire country, not giving any thought at all to the innocent Afghani citizens who would die. And the profiling and security measures that came up right after? I thought to myself, "Hey, if you haven't done anything, you have nothing to worry about." So I deluded myself into thinking that this was all being done for my safety and so it must be OK.

After I saw the devastation that war wrought on that country I felt ashamed that I had condoned it. Sure, the U.S. drove out the Taliban and probably made life a little better for the citizens. And that is good. But the attack didn't kill Osama bin Laden. It didn't make me any safer. And those security measures? It took away some of my rights as an American. It made me feeling like someone was watching me all the time. And I worried that some of those security measures could get screwed up and I could be targeted because I check out a book out of a library that is red-flagged, or because I buy a CD that might be considered controversial, or because I think a certain thing.

Now I'm just happy that I've come to my senses, and regained a foothold in reality. I wish some other people could get a grip.

---

Is it my imagination, or has eating come back into vogue? I swear, Hillary Swank and Jennifer Connolly both looked, well, almost not starved! Of course, Calista Flockhart still looks completely emaciated. Maybe I harbor ill will toward the super scrawny, but I swear she just looked bored the whole time. Or it could just be that she's too hungry to show enthusiasm.

Of course, I have to thank my lucky stars that no one wore a pink tutu.

And I had to laugh and laugh and laugh when Michael Moore spoke...I mean, the blustering and name-calling emanating from the solidly "war at any cost" folks must have been staggering. Yep, I just sat there grinning, imagining it all. Of course, I prefer Adrian Brody's speech, because he showed that those of us who don't support the war can and do support the military and hope for their safety.

While I realize that celebrities do not represent us common folk, it must have gone against all that a lot of people believe to see so many that are obviously pro-peace. You know, with the believe that a staggering majority of citizens are firmly behind the President and the invasion of Iraq.

Look, I'm just saying...

---

Steve Martin isn't funny in the slightest tonight. Whoever wrote his politcal commentary should be taken out back and whipped.

Yikes.

---

I have mentioned before that Craig is the neighborhood watch. No, he's not part of the neighborhood watch -- he is the neighborhood watch. My husband is the nosiest busybody there ever was.

This morning I'm sitting on the couch eating my Triple Berry Cheerios when he says, "Nicole, you know the guy who lives above the bar?" I look at him. "Well, I think there's a pigeon flying around his apartment!"

I give a disinterested, "Oh yeah?" and go back to eating.

I think he continued on, telling me why he thought there was a pigeon, but I tuned out. I just don't care. Ten minutes later Craig noticed I wasn't listening anymore and walked away in a huff.

Since that time Craig has been either outside or on the second floor of our house, angling for a better view into this guy's apartment.

If you could see me now, I'm rolling my eyes. Alot.

When we were leaving to get groceries earlier, Craig turned to me and said, "Look, you can see the pigeon!" I gave a glance, and didn't see a damn thing. "Do you think I should leave a note on his door. I mean, I'd a have a heart attack if I walked into the house and there was a pigeon flying around."

I muttered something and walked away.

When we got back I came upstairs and posted my last entry. He calls up to me, "Hon, guess what?" "What?" "I was just checking out the apartment -- there's more than one pigeon! There must be four of them in there!" "Yeah, that's great, baby. Thanks for the update."

Just now I looked out on the back patio. Craig broke out his binoculars and is exercising his right to peep in the neighbors window. I fully expect the police to arrive at any moment to haul his nosy ass to prison.

---

So Craig and I just returned from a fun jaunt to the grocery store. I'm standing in the produce aisle picking out shallots, when I happen to overhear the store employee who is stocking something in the aisle talking to a friend of his who has come in and stopped to chat. You know me, I just can't control my impulse to eavesdrop!

Employee: People are just crazy. I got a call from some woman the other day, complaining that we stock French food. You know what she was complaining about? French's mustard. French's mustard! I said to her, "Lady, I can't rename an entire company so you can feel more American." She says to me, "Well, maybe I won't shop there then." I says, "Be my guest." Can you believe that shit?

So I ask you -- is this proof that the "be a better American through blindly boycotting only one of the many countries who doesn't support the war" rhetoric is making people into fucking morons? Is this a case of an overzealous freak out to prove that she's an uber-patriot? Does she refuse to eat french bread that's made in America, just because? Can you imagine what her house must look like? Does she have a burning effigy of the Eiffel Tower burning in her front yard? Does she have fleur de lis wallpaper with little X's through the fleur de lis? Has she mangled all of her French antiques?

I'm picturing a suspicious looking woman in velcro curlers, a housecoat, and slippers who is in love with Rush Limbaugh.

---

I may be easily amused, but I've been playing Piercing Mildred all morning.

Fear me: I am bored.

---

So, I was just thinking about this whole brou-ha-ha over the Academy Awards. Will I be branded a traitor if I attend an Academy Awards party? I mean, it's not like I'll be at the actual awards ceremony or anything, and I won't be wearing high heels. I know true patriots everywhere expect celebrities to stop going about their normal routines, but what about the rest of us common folk? Is it OK if I do something like, let's say, clean my toilet, or is that showing disrespect for the military?

Or maybe just events that celebrate stuff are considered too frivolous to carry on with during the war. Should my friend cancel her wedding if the war doesn't end by then? I mean, weddings are sort of like the Academy Awards in a strange way....aside from being televised, that is. People are wearing gowns, people make speeches, people party. Too much levity in the midst of a war?

Just checking...

*please note: this entry written with writers tongue firmly planted in cheek. Do not panic.*

---

Having written my entry this morning and gotten all of my bad feelings out, I felt somewhat lighter and less stressed. So I did what anyone would do who just wanted to see something beautiful: I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art for the Edgar Degas exhibit. I kind of feel like that kids book, what is it? Something about all the things I saw on Mulberry Street? Except it was the Benjamin Franklin Parkway...but I did see a bunch of stuff.

The most obvious thing is the Degas exhibit, which was wonderful. When we were in Paris a few weeks ago we saw the original wax model of one of the most famous Degas sculptures at the Musee d'Orsay. Today I saw a cast replica, and I was secretly thrilled to know that I had seen the original so recently. One of the museum sponsors donated headsets, so everyone who went through the exhibit got their own headset and could take an audio tour. I usually don't rent them when I go through museums because I'm a cheap bastard, so it was an interesting component of the exhibit. What I noticed, though, is when you have a headset on you don't really experience the show as a whole -- it's more internal and anti-social. Instead of enjoying a painting as part of a group, listening to what others around you have to say about it, you end up with only your impression and what the audio tape tells you about it. It's just a bunch of people roaming around some rooms with headsets on.

It was a little chilly today, but it was sunny. Craig and I sat on the steps of the art museum before we went in and just sort of enjoyed not being couped up in the house. I know that the Inline Skate Patrol leads skates from the steps [you know, the Rocky steps] every Wednesday but apparently the lead Patrollers hang out there all the time. So there were about a dozen of them in front of the fountain skating around and dancing on their skates.

It was kind of interesting for about five minutes. And then it just struck me as kind of sad. Here was this group of people hoping to get some attention from the museum goers, doing choreographed little dances on their skates, and totally thinking they were cool for doing it. And worse yet, I was watching them. Creepy!

I saw a couple dozen fashion victims, one of which was wearing her sneakers so the laces laced up her calves. I saw punk rockers and haus fraus and old money chicks. I saw a drunk guy singing/humming the Rocky theme while running the stairs at the art museum.

It's been a busy day.

---

Just a couple of things:

1. Enough with the French bashing already. I understand that a particular breed of Americans has bought into this idea that the French people and the French government are just bad, bad, bad. I know that people like to claim that without the U.S. the French would be speaking German right now. Well, blah blah blah. Without the French we'd be having high tea in the afternoon, how about that? At least Chirac has the decency to listen to what his citizens have to say. So piss off.
   
2. I hate the rhetoric that answers the question "What is war good for?" by saying it ended slavery, Nazism, Communism, and whatever else. Guess what? All those things still exist. So piss off.
   
3. I'm sorry you don't like that there are still protestors making their voices heard. But guess what? You don't make the rules -- we all have the right to be heard, regardless of whether the war has started or not. It's a basic right promised to us as Americans: the right to free speech. So bitch all you want, because that's your right. But piss off anyway. Mind your fucking business.
   
4. Boo-fucking-hoo that the Academy Awards are still going on. Going on with the show doesn't disrespect the military or downplay the fact that there's a war going on. There's no fucking way to win with you people -- if they have the show, it's a slap in the face to the soldiers, and if the show doesn't go on the damn stars are self-important twits. Piss off. Watch another fucking channel. I understand CNN is all war, all the time. Watch that so you can see all the people dying. It's what you want, isn't it? For us all to be glued to the set, wringing our fucking hands in despair?
   
5. I'm sick of people trying to pretend that this all about helping the Iraqis. It's not -- accept it. It might be a little bit about trying to liberate the people of an oppressed regime, but it's mostly for economic reasons. So piss off.
   
6. Helen Thomas is not a fucking twit. She hasn't kept her position in the press corp for this long without learning a thing or two. Just because she asks questions that you don't like and the administration doesn't know how to answer does not make her a fucking idiot. Pay attention, bozo. And piss off.
   
7. For those of you who think that anti-war rallies are a waste of time, thanks -- we already know that. We know that no one is paying attention to those of us who just want peace. I'm glad you think that holding rallies to encourage Saddam and co. to step down, go into exile, etc. would have helped more. I'm sure that you organized such a rally or attended such a rally, you magnanimous fuck. Piss off.
   
8. I'm glad it makes you feel safer know that the U.S. is hunting a bad guy. Really, I do. I just wish you hadn't bought into the fear being propagated. Personally, I feel more at risk now. But hey, I hope you're the one who is right in this argument. But you know what? Piss off anyway for falling victim to the manipulation.

There. I've degenerated into the name calling, and viciousness and outright malicious behavior that I've been seeing all of the fucking place. I'm so sick of it all.

---

Idolizing girls and women just for being pretty is a very strange thing. I know that a lot of pageants claim not to be about beauty -- they're about talent, poise, and money for college. But, in the end, it's really all about being able to smile and walk at the same time and having an attractive face and body. The minute they choose a bald, size 26 woman with a lisp, a limp, and a harelip I'll believe it's not about standard issue external beauty.

Two very good friends of mine were briefly involved in pageants during college. I tend to think of willing contestants as former prom queens, sorority girls, and ruthless pageant veterans. So it almost floored me when I found out Christy and Sharon were going to compete in the Miss Bucks County pageant. I mean, Christy has never been on time for anything in her life and runs around half the time with mustard on her face and stains on her shirt, and Sharon can't go two hours without getting lit and is a headbanging altern-girl. It turns out they'd been schnookered by a recruiter who got them all excited by promising them it wasn't about bodies and beauty, and there was lots of scholarship money involved.

Yeah.

I attended the pageant because it just seemed hilarious to me. The things I remember: the horrific talent portion of the show [and I use "talent" only in the general sense...I don't consider playing the spoons and losing a spoon halfway through "talent"], Sharon's ridiculously funny serious drama reading, one contestant falling off the stage, and the Glamour Photo makeup jobs Sharon and Christy had on them. Oh, and I remember the day Christy taught me the official beauty queen wave -- "OK now, wave to the crowd...elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, general, general, specific, specific...now clutch the breast!"

Neither Christy nor Sharon won any scholarship money and the whole thing just left them feeling bad about themselves because they didn't win or even place.

You have wonder what kind of effect that kind of rejection has on kids. I know that every parent thinks their little angel is so beautiful that they'd win a pageant with no problem. I wonder what motivates normal parents to put their kids through the torture of being on constant display, though. Is it just that the parents want recognition for creating such a beautiful kid? I would think that exposure to a pageant atmosphere would do irreparable harm to a kid -- what kind of person would you be if you grew up thinking that your only worth were to look pretty?

The whole thing just kind of puts me off, and I kind of feel sorry for everyone involved.

Now give me a wave.

---

The moment you've all been waiting for:

What could be better: drinking coffee and meeting other bloggers?

What: First [?] meeting of Philadelphia area bloggers
When: Saturday, April 12, 8pm
Where: Xando/Cosi coffee house, 325 Chestnut Sts, Philadelphia
Please RSVP to nicole@thegofish.com

A few of us have been talking about getting together just to get to know one another a bit [since our lives are on display in our blogs it might be nice to meet in person], and we finally set a date. We hope you can make it on the 12th!

The plan is to meet up at the coffee house, stay for an hour or two, and then go out boozing if anyone wants to. There are lots of great bars in the area within walking [or staggering, as the case may be] distance. For those of you who drive, there's also an ample amount of parking lots in the area. And for those who plan to take the train into the city, it's easy to find from the Market East train station.

So come join in the fun, excitement, and pageantry [OK, maybe not pageantry] of our first get-together. Bring your significant other or roommate or friends, whatever - just be sure to be there!

Oh, and we need publicity! So if you think there's a Philadelphia area blogger who might not be aware of what's going on, please invite them! Talk about it on your blog, pretty please!

See you in April!

UPDATE [April 11, 2002]: The nice manager at Xando/Cosi promised to block off a section for us tomorrow night. Look for me or you might also look for the girl with the hot pink hair [that's Cyn], and I will also try to fabricate some sort of signage.

See you tomorrow night!

---

On my road to better health and a better body, I've decided to allow myself one meal every week in which I can eat unhealthily. Because I enjoy excellent food so much, living without restaurants, etc., just seems all wrong. Last week was my night of 2 bottles of wine and the snackfest that encompassed the sleepover at Statia's house. Tonight it was spanish food at El Viejo San Juan.

And you just know I lurve me some good tapas!

Craig and I ordered a couple plates of tapas, and for dinner I ate Mofongo Criullo -- crushed green plaintains stuffed with seafood and covered with salsa criolla.

And now I'm stuffed full of food...any happy!

---

So I leave the optometrist office and I'm walking down 17th Street. I can't see very well since I just had my eyes dialated and it's taking all of my concentration not to fall down. I'm make it as far as Chestnut Street when I notice that there are several helicopters hovering over the vicinity of my building.

Motherfucker. What now?

I carefully make my way toward the building, hoping that when I get back the building is still there. No one around me seems very concerned so I relax a little. Traffic is moving, and that's always a good sign.

I get to my street, half expecting armeggedon, only to find the street eerily deserted with the exception of just about five dozen police cars, about half of which have their lights on.

I stand there on the corner, completely befuddled. I picked the wrong fucking day for a pupil dialation.

I reach the door of my building, and out walks this lucky bastard whose last day is today. "Rob," I say. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Patchouli stink motherfuckers," he spits out.

Apparently we've both been watching High Fidelity.

"There's an anti-war rally," he explained.

I look around at the empty street. "Really? Where are they?" I asked.

"I don't know. There was a group of about 20 fucking art school students skipping school who came through here about 10 minutes ago. I think they ended up at Love Park."

"So, what? Does the police force have a new policy -- one cop per protestor or something?" I mused. "The whole fucking battalion is out for 20 kids?"

---

Glamour photos just crack me up [and no, that's not a photo of me]. Any photo studio in a mall promising to re-make you into a sultry sex kitten is, by definition, total entertainment. Every once in a while I like to sit and watch the people go in. They're usually frumpy, middle-aged haus fraus who think that big hair and pancaked-on makeup will transform them into come-hither seductresses. I've seen the photographic evidence -- these photos really make them look like skanky hos [maybe the Glamour studios should read John's post about "Releasing your inner slut"].

Sometimes you just wanna call out to them and yell, "Honey, there isn't enough vaseline to put on the lens of the camera to make you look glamourous!" Of course, I don't do that because then there would likely be a rumble and I try to refrain from causing public ruckuses.

Secretly, I've always wanted to have a session. I want to go in there and see just how sleazy I can be made to look. A can of Aquanet on my head? Yes! Sparkly blue eye shadow? Bring it on. Pasties and a feather boa? Definitely! Drag queen heels? Hell yes!

---

For those of you wondering when you might hear something about a Philadelphia blogger meeting, there will be an announcement here and email invites sent later tonight/early tomorrow.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

By the way, we're looking for a good URL name to buy for the Philadelphia blogs website. Any creative ideas?

---

I've seen some good stage shows over the years. Nine Inch Nails [OK, just Trent] always puts on a good show. The Rollins Band always has a certain intensity during shows that make them fun to watch. I almost got killed during a Beasties show, but it will still one of the better performances I've seen. Gwar is the mother of entertaining shows, though. I love the props and the fake blood and just the silliness of it all.

With the recent club and show tragedies, it's important to make sure that you're going to be safe at a show. For me, that means a pair of steel-toed Doc Martins, no jewelry, and making friends with the closest security goombah. I suppose nothing can prepare you, however, for having your skull fractured by a rogue sheep head.

I don't know the band, Mayhem. I'm sure they're just as delightful as any death metal band currently touring. That said, their stage show sounds a bit, um, disgusting. Cutting up a real dead sheep on stage? Is their music so bad you have to distract from the high-pitched yodelling by fascinating death metal fans with your carving skills? I mean, that's sort of the whole idea behind Gwar [aside from the fact that it's kind of a big joke].

What is really killing me is the name of the lead singer. He's got a perfectly good "rock god" type of name: Rune Eriksen. But he feels the need to call himself "Blasphemer." Are you picturing the same thing I am? A bunch of arrogant, self-flagellating, big-haired, spandex wearing, self-important fucks who wear capes and think they're vampires?

Yeah, the 1980s are over.

---

It's going to be an exciting day around here, let me tell you. I get to visit the eye doctor again, order a year's supply of contact lenses, and then dialate my eyes for an exam. Woohoo.

So the latter half my day today will feel a little surreal. And it should be a real treat to attempt the walk back to work. With a little luck I won't step off any curbs into traffic or hipcheck any old ladies.

It freaks me out just a little that later today someone will be poking around in parts they have no business poking into.

---

I'm so fucking sick of hearing about this speculation that Saddam's address to the Iraqi people was taped or faked or whatever. "But where are Saddam and his sons?" one idiotic news reporter just asked.

Well, fuck. Where do you think he is? He's fucking hiding, you asshat.

I don't really remember the last Gulf War too much. I was a freshman in college, and I spent my time avoiding the real world. But Craig tells me that he was pretty scarce and un-findable at that time too. What makes people think that he's going to stand up in the middle the street and yell, "Here I am, you crazy army guys! Come and get me!" and then give a little hop and scamper away?

Really, I'm just tired of the news coverage. And I know that if there was none I'd be really suspicious. I just want the war to end. Right now. Since the government felt the need to do this, let's just fucking end it. 14 people dead [or however many have died] are 14 too many.

I have a proposal. I recently read a book wherein all current male world leaders were relieved of duty. In fact, the whole world was sort of turned over to women because the men had fucked it up so badly. While I'm not going to go so far as to say that we need to have a estrogen-led world, I think it's a great idea to just depose of all the world leaders and all the parliaments and senates and everyone currently in any position of power. Then every country gets governed by a council of rational people. We get rid of all the weapons. I'm talking ALL the weapons -- hand guns, bombs, crossbows, whatever. Then just fucking kill anyone who has a criminal impulse and just start the hell over.

Everyone would be friends and it would be a big fucking koombayah world.

Can you tell I'm just a little frustrated?

---

Apparently, I might not have a job for much longer.

Here at Professional Panhandlers R Us the administration is feeling the effects of a crappy stock market and people holding on to all the money they have in case fleeing the city becomes necessary. Under normal circumstances downsizing is handled with certain amount of aplomb. Healthy severences are handed out, and, even though people might not be happy about having been laid off, no bridges are burned.

At the new and improved PPRU that is not the case. All of us are being required to re-apply for our jobs in a few months. People who have been with my company for 40 years are being asked to provide a resume, writing samples, and references. If this was about an easy way to get rid of people not doing their jobs, I'd be a little less offended. But it's not.

It's about getting rid of anyone who makes too much money, and then not having to pay severence packages.

Isn't that the shittiest thing you've ever heard, especially in this economy and coming from a non-profit agency that claims to care about people?

I'm told that I don't have much to worry about. I'm told that the Vice President, who is the main boss of my rather small department, loves the work that I do and he will try to protect me. The only thing I might have to worry about is being hired back at a lower salary and having to pay more for my insurance. Yeah, I sure don't have much to worry about, do I?

This whole situation is absolutely disgusting to me. I'm toying with the idea of just not re-applying for my job and collecting unemployment for a few months. Right now I'm trying to determine if I'd make enough money on unemployment to survive.

It looks like company loyalty is a thing of the past.

Anyone need a personal chef or personal shopper?

---

It's a minor Christmas miracle [and right now, I'll take any bit of good news I can get and party like it's 1999] -- I have finally picked up my corrected eyeglasses from For Eyes and they are breathtakingly clear.

Of course, the day they show up it has to be raining like a motherfucker. And, because I have no luck at all, I only have one of those tiny ass umbrellas in my bag. You know the ones -- they fold up really tiny and then unfurl into the size of a postage stamp. So the front of my head did stay dry, but the rest of me is a soggy mess. Hooray!

Have you ever stood on a street corner [not in the working girl sense] or been walking on a sidewalk when a car will come along, hit a puddle, and completely soak you with puddle water? It's happened to me once or twice. Drivers seem to delight in it, which puzzles me. They certainly wouldn't like it if it happened to them.

Anyway, I have managed to avoid it but it came close today. Instead of me, it was the poor woman ahead of me who got it. And then what can you do? You're covered in dirty water and feeling icky.

I vote to go home. Hell, I only got rained on and I want to go home. Bed. The bed is calling.

---

So does anyone else find both the creepy humor and sheer insanity of Supreme Court Justice Scalia banning broadcast media from his speech Wednesday at an appearance where he received an award for supporting free speech?

Something is awry.

I'm also fucking frightened beyond belief at this little gem of a quote from Justice Scalia Scalia from a speech he made at John Carroll University:

He talked mostly about the constitutional protection of religions, but also said that government has room to scale back individual rights during wartime without violating the Constitution.

"The Constitution just sets minimums," Scalia said. "Most of the rights that you enjoy go way beyond what the Constitution requires."

Oh goody! So when I'm sitting in prison with no access to a lawyer and no hope of being sprung ever because I'm not buying into the propaganda, I you can send your letters of outrage to Justice Scalia.

I'm feeling slightly ill just now.

---

When we say "War is over if you want it,"
we mean that if everyone demanded peace
instead of another TV set, we'd have peace.
-John Lennon

Peace is a funny thing.

Miss America contestants always say they want world peace during the interview portion. The pro-war people say all they want is peace, too. Sometimes I think my view of peace and someone else's view of peace are two completely different things.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, "We have to face the fact that either all of us are going to die together or we are going to learn to live together and if we are to live together we have to talk." This is what scares me about going to war. It just means that the talking has stopped. I don't even want to think about what that could mean.

Some will say that we talked for 12 years, that the time for talking is over. The reality is that for 12 years we levied sanctions against Iraq that did nothing to hurt it's leadership. Instead, it made the people of Iraq rely on it's leadership just to survive. Was anyone talking during those 12 years, or just hoping to starve Iraq out of existence?

And now the U.S. has taken it upon itself to invade Iraq. Not because Iraq attacked another country first and we're trying to help out. And not because Iraq threatened the U.S. It's because we're all scared that we sold Iraq weaponry years ago and now they might sell these weapons to someone who might attack the U.S. again. I love being an American, but I am ashamed that our government sold them these weapons to begin with, and that we have to hide behind the rhetoric of "liberating" the Iraqi people in order to rectify the situation.

I've heard people speculate that Iraqi citizens must be overjoyed that they're finally going to have the chance to be free and live in a democratic society. Don't fool yourself. Do you think Salam is going to hug the soldier who blew up his house and killed a family member or a dear friend? I can say with relative certainty that I would not be quite so happy to be "liberated" if it meant destroying everything I love. Gandhi had it right: "What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty and democracy?"

I've been labelled a traitor to my country [viciously and with much malice] for not wanting innocent people to die. I've been called scum because I happen to agree with 3/4 of the rest of the world. I've been called unpatriotic and un-American because I don't blindly support what the President is doing. I've been told that by not supporting the war, I'm not supporting the U.S. military. Just like people say, "don't hate the player, hate the game," I say the same -- I support the military, just not their particular mission.

And you may say, "Well, Ms. Smartypants, if you think we shouldn't be invading Iraq to remove Saddam, then what should we be doing? Tell me the answer, eh!" I don't have the answer. I'm not trained in diplomacy. But if you're going to tell me that we can make a cell phone the size of a dime but can't take out a couple of guys in Iraq without laying waste to the country, I think you're full of shit. I'm not opposed to assassinating Saddam, I'm really not. But I am opposed to killing an entire town of innocent people to get to him.

And you may say, "Hey, I saw you at a peace rally. You should have been at a rally telling Saddam to disarm instead!" Yes, because I'm sure Saddam Hussein watches the local Philadelphia news, would have seen such a rally, smacked himself in the forehead and said, "By George, what have I been thinking all these years?" You say I'm unrealistic for supporting peace, but I think it's just as unrealistic of you to assume that any rally urging Saddam to go into exile would be just the ticket.

Hi, my name is Nicole and I would like peace.

---

Oh crap....it's a "Special Report."

It looks like things are ramping up.

My thoughts go out to Salam tonight. I hope that he and his family and friends, and indeed all Iraqi citizens, can stay safe while this insanity is going on around them.

For those of you who are pro-war, I urge you to read Salam's blog. Perhaps it will give you some insight into what it's like to live in Iraq and to be facing having your home attacked. Maybe it won't move you. Maybe it will just make your resolve that war is just all the stronger. Whatever...just give it a read.

---

Gosh, it's a good thing American Idol is on at 8pm. The show should be over by the time little George officially does what we all know he's going to do. And if I have to be depressed and worried, it might as well be after a good old-fashioned cheesefest.

My prediction for the bottom three:

1. Julia Demato -- OK, crimped hair and singing What a Feelin'? No thanks. Not to mention her absolutely horrible stage presence.
   
2. Corey Clark -- A young Smokey Robinson? Maybe if he was tone deaf. And the white washcloth was absolutely gross. He might as well have been carrying a hanky in his pocket.
   
3. Carmen Rasmusen -- Why is it that Simon always has crushes on the girls with the goat-like vibrato? My poor ears.

I also wouldn't mind if Charles Grigsby or Joshua Gracin were voted off, although Josh has the "don't want you to get shipped out and die" sympathy vote going for him. I'm telling you, the show is just a shell of its former self without the stylings for Frenchie.

Feh.

---

Craig and I are buying a new car. Actually, I should clarify that: Craig is buying a car. While I have my drivers license and I know how to drive, I do not drive nor have I ever owned a car.

I'm sort of the everpresent passenger and fierce pedestrian.

I remember being very excited about getting my license when I was 16. It puzzled me to hear that some people flunked their driving test. In my hometown, the test course involves driving around the block where the testing center is located, doing a 3 point turn, and then parallel parking [which was really just pulling up to the curb since no other cars were ever parked]. So I aced the test and got my license. I even remember what I was wearing -- a gray concert tshirt from the Richard Marx concert I had been to the night before.

Yes, I'm totally serious.

My mother was a bit insane at the time. We had, let's say, a rocky relationship when I was younger. She was afraid to let me touch her car for a social occasion, so the only experience driving I got was driving to the store when she ordered me to get milk or something. And even then, she was afraid I was going to party in the car on the way there. So I think I drove about 5 or 6 times when I was in high school.

And then I moved to Philadelphia the second I graduated from high school. There's no need to have a car here because of the public transit system. So for the last 13 years I haven't had need to drive a car. OK, that's not quite true -- I've driven twice.

Once on the way up to my mom's house, Craig shamed me into driving on the turnpike. After five minutes he begged me to pull over and let him drive because I was so shaky with the wheel.

And while at a family picnic my aunt asked me to move her van. So I did....with the parking brake on. Considering I have rarely drive and have never engaged the parking brake, how was I to know it was on?

Whatever.

So ever since, I have somewhat of a reputation as a bad driver. Of course, at this point, I agree -- I'm a terrible driver. How good of a driver would you be if you've only driven a handful of times in the last 15 years?

Now you can see why the new car purchase has very little to do with me.

Me, I'm voting for a Cooper Mini. I think it would be a great little car in which I could re-learn to drive. I have to face facts -- I won't always live in the city and I won't always live in a town with easily accessible public transit. Plus, I feel kinda guilty for making Craig drive every place we go. Hey, I'm a good wife and I'm willing to drive just for him.

Unfortunately, Craig is resisting a purchase of a Mini. He's a slave to those consumer reports magazines, so he's looking at Toyotas and Saturns. He doesn't quite understand why I find it so difficult to drive a car with a hood any longer than a foot or so. In a strange way, I'm sort of dreading giving up my staunchly pedestrian lifestyle.

Stay off your sidewalks people -- trouble is coming.

---

Since I am refusing to think about or acknowledge the fact that we'll be at war shortly, I'm going to revert to being 8 years old. So I'm declaring today knock knock joke day here at go fish.

Warning: Not telling me a knock knock joke will be considered anti-American and unpatriotic.

Here's a few to start you off...

Knock Knock
Who's there !
Abyssinia !
Abyssinia who ?
Abyssinia when I get back !

Knock Knock
Who's there !
Adore !
Adore who ?
Adore stands between us, open up !

Knock Knock
Who's there !
Tad !
Tad who ?
Tad old black magic !

*maniacal laughter* Yep, these are just full of funny.

---

You know, with all the crazy talk going on -- pro-war kids calling all of us pro-peace kids traitorous pussies, pro-peace kids calling all of you pro-war kids murderous brainless twits -- things can get nasty quickly. Michelle talks about losing friends over the whole thing, which I find crazy. If you can't debate the different viewpoints of this whole thing without turning into yappy little nippy dogs, then you need help.

Now I have been guilty of mild name-calling, but only when attacked first. I will defend myself from the endless parade of "Pro-peace=anti-American" propaganda coming from the right if I have to. But proof that we can behave honorably toward each other is right here -- I had a nice chat with Dana the other day over this whole mess. She told me how she feels and why, I told her how I feel and why. It was productive. And we ended it by agreeing to disagree.

And that's the way it should be. To quote Bill & Ted, "Be excellent to each other." This whole nightmare will be over, and I'm sure we'll all have other things to argue about. There's no need to get all crazy with the bashing.

Be excellent to each other!

---

Last night I had a dream that George Bush was in the movie Grease 2. Specifically, he was playing the part of Louis Dimucci in the "Do it for our Country" scene, and I was his girlfriend, Sharon.

When I woke up I just laughed and laughed and laughed. Because, really, that's perfect. In the scene Louis cons Sharon into a bomb shelter and then convinces her that "nuclyoid" war has started and he's going to have to go off and fight so she better have sex with him so he doesn't die a virgin. And in real life, George is giving us all this manipulative snowjob so he can get what he wants. I'm telling you, sometimes my subconscious is a genious.

So to celebrate my intense night life, I'm posting the lyrics:

America is calling, let's care enough to give our very best. For if we give our very best, I know that we will more than pass the test. If I could have three wishes, I'd wish that you'd live free, I'd wish for amber waves of grain from sea to shining sea.

Yeah, let's do it for our country, the red, white, and the blue.
It's Uncle Sam who's asking, so your mother will approve.
Tomorrow I'll be fighting, and I'll win this war for you.
Let's do it for our country, our country wants us to.

Bullets are exploding, they'll soon be at the door,
Give something to America you never gave before.
Yeah, let's do it for our country, the red, white, and the blue,
If the President were standin' here, I'm sure he would approve.
I'll be a mighty soldier before this night is through.
Let's do it for our country, our country wants us to.

(Spoken)
Just think about it -- it would be like as if we were doing it for the Statue of Liberty, or the Grand Canyon, or the New York Yankees... it would be like as if we were doing it for... Disneyland!

Yeah, let's do it for our country, the red, white, and the blue,
It's not a lot to ask of us, our parents will approve.
Tomorrow I'll be fighting, and I'll win this war for you.
Let's do it for our country, (spoken) we owe it to our country.
Let's do it for our country, our country wants us to.

...Louis Dimucci, how could you?!

As for me, I have a wonderful, day long meeting on the wonders of project management. So don't talk about me too much while I'm gone.

---

OK, so you know how all the pro-war people are so fond of citing the fact that Hussein has weapons of mass destruction and chemical/biological weapons [which the U.S. sold him. Oops, did I say that?] that could be used in an attack against the U.S. if Hussein sells them or gives them to al Qaeda? I think someone forgot to give those crazy al Qaeda guys a memo stating that an attack on the U.S. had to be done with weapons from Hussein. Crazily enough, I'm hearing reports that an attack on the U.S. right now is as likely as it was on Sept. 11. Considering the Sept. 11 attacks were, in part, based on the U.S.' presence in the Middle East during the last war, I'm shocked, I tell you, that this could be happening right now. Just shocked.

Oh yeah, and one of the likely scenarios is that terrorists plan to attack nuclear plants...you know, something that itself can be used for a weapon. Or, even better, that subways are at risk from a poisonous gas attack. Woohoo! An added challenge to taking the subway to work every morning.

Thanks George! I'll be sure to show my appreciation for your selfless actions next year during the election!

---

I have always had dental issues. I'm not afraid of the dentist. In fact, my last dentist congratulated me on taking three shots in the mouth with nary a twitch. No, it's not that at all -- I am squicked out by people with serious dental problems.

I go to the dentist like clockwork, every six months. My teeth are naturally pretty straight, and I've only ever had one cavity. If I can take good care of my teeth, any fool can do it. If you're poor, call your local health and human services place and find a dentist who will see you for free. There's no excuse for bad teeth. Really, I'm a total freak about it.

So when I saw that some nutcase pulled her own tooth out, I was incredibly grossed out.

"I don't want to be rude or anything, but could you stop doing that while I'm here?"

"I don't want to be rude either, but no. No, I cannot stop. This tooth needs to come out TODAY."

As soon as he left I went into full dentist mode. I got pliers, tweezers, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon TallBoy. Into the bathroom I went, looked myself in the mirror and said "You WILL get this tooth out today. You're not gonna pussy out this time. It's gonna hurt, you might scream, but you will do this, and do it now."

I picked up the tweezers and wedged them into the little gap I had been making with the plastic calling card earlier. I used another tooth as leverage, and started to push.

Oh fuck no. That's what dental insurance is all about.

---

I'm sure that when the war begins sometime Wednesday night/Thursday morning it will be all war-all the time on networks across our great media-frenzied land. With that in mind, why would the Academy Awards be postponed if [duh, when] war breaks out? Isn't anyone concerned for those of us who are sick of being depressed, wondering when we're about to die because the war has provoked a terrorist attack? Don't we need some relief from reality? Don't I need the comic relief from the Academy Awards fashion disaster display?

Or is it really that the Academy is afraid some film industry-aware terrorist is going to target a hall filled with celebrities? Maybe they can do like the government and send half the attendees to an undisclosed location for the broadcast. Because they're important enough to want to kill in the event of a war.

Sure.

---

The other day Craig and I are driving down Delaware Avenue and this hilarious billboard appeared before us. It's posted on I-95 right after the Girard Avenue exit. I almost fell out of the car, I was laughing so hard.

Just for starters, what purpose does this billboard serve? Does whomever is behind this huge waste of cash actually think Saddam Hussein is vacationing in Philadelphia right now, will see the ad, smack himself in the head, and yell "Eureka!"? Or is it more of a thing where Saddam's third cousin once removed goes to school here and will deliver this message back to him? Does the person who paid for this billboard to be put up actually think of him or herself as a peace ambassador?

Now sure, it would be nice if Hussein and his rugrats would go into exile. But mostly this billboard makes me point and laugh like Nelson Muntz -- what's with the action shot of Saddam? And the dove just ads the perfect touch of cheese.

If I were independently wealthy, I'd love to put up a billboard aimed at George. It would have an action shot of George and say, well, pretty much the same thing. 2004 can't come soon enough -- I'd give anything to have an adult elected to the Oval Office instead of Bomby McSmarmypants.

---

Has anyone seen the recent slew of anti-drug commercials that target marijuana usage? I particularly want to barf when the one with the pregnancy test and the "they'll be the youngest grandparents on the block" crap comes on.

I was never a huge pothead, but I used to smoke a joint every now and then. While stoned, the worst thing that ever happened to me is that I dinged my head off every available surface because I was throwing my head back while laughing hysterically. I was never raped or had any "problems" making "safe, smart decisions about sex - including saying no," as the Office of National Drug Control Policy asserts is normal. Almost everyone I know has smoked pot and cigarettes, but the majority are addicted to smoking cigarettes, despite the fact that the ONDCP contends that "marijuana smoke contains 50 to 70 percent more of some cancer causing chemicals than does tobacco smoke."

I would like to know where these people get their facts.

Not to mention that some of their ads are so incredibly high-handed and silly. How many people buy a bag of pot from a complete stranger? My college connection grew his own plants in a hydroponics lab he set up in an old steamer trunk he kept in the closet of his dorm room. The very idea of him packing heat, cruising the streets for customers, meeting with his terrorist supplier is so ridiculous it's not even funny. I can maybe understand that kind of thinking with manufactured drugs because those usually involve a network of people [and I suppose they could have ties to terrorism], but pot? Give me a break.

I'm one of those people who thinks drugs should be legalized. Alcohol is legalized, and enough of it fucks up your reality just as much as illegal drugs. Alcohol and cigarettes are just as bad for you as most illegal drugs and just as addictive. Yet illegal drugs are, well, illegal. Why? I've never understood that whole weird, double standard dynamic. I don't know too many people who make alcohol in their bathtubs anymore -- why would you when you can get it at the store? The same would happen with illegal drugs. It would cut down on violence, the number of prisoners in jail, and the inordinate amount of money spent every year on the "War on Drugs" could be spent on something useful, like sex education or providing quality daycare or providing literacy training.

I understand that a lot of these ads in the campaign are aimed at scaring people. Like most wars the U.S. government wages, it's all based on fear. Maybe if you show the pothead girl in the ad getting pregnant enough times, it'll scare little girls into not trying pot.

Or maybe monkeys will fly out of my ass.

---

Over at This Modern World, a plethora of entertaining stuff:

1. Little George's dead giveaway gesture that he's lying
   
2. A suspicion that George is hearing voices
   
3. The George Bush war-o-matic drinking game

And be sure you run on over to Uncle Bob's for some funny commentary.

---

I have to tell you -- I do not feel reassured that the U.S. is doing the right thing after George's canned speech tonight. Instead, I feel more freaked out than I did this morning.

Apocalypse anyone?

---

Remember that stupid apology from the Dixie Chicks?

Via Media Dystopia, what the apology should have said.

Heh.

---

Heh. May I present the Kill Puppies for Satan game?

[Note: this in no way implies I a] condone killing puppies for any reason and b] believe in Satan. Talk amongst yourselves.]

---

So I went out walking during lunch today. I wanted to get outside and enjoy the warm air. Remember that hopefulness I was talking about earlier? It's gone.

I ran over to pick up my trial contact lenses. There's usually something oddly wonderful about putting on a new pair of contacts for the first time, but I could barely get up a woohoo over the event. I went to the bookstore, an event normally guaranteed to generate the secret thrill of a closet bookworm. Nothing. I walked around and looked at people, and everyone just seems defeated. Our President has abandoned us, and seemingly abandoned his sanity.

You know, I've read some of those pro-war, ultra conservative, far right Republican blogs. Most of them seem to have this crazy idea that most Americans are firmly planted behind little George and the administration when it comes to invading Iraq. I'm the first to admit that the media doesn't so much report actual news and facts as it does propaganda. And to my pro-peace mind, their poll numbers for pro-peaceniks are a little low. Personally, I know exactly two people who support a war with Iraq.

Whether the media polls should read higher or lower, everyone is preoccupied today and feeling kind of doomed.

I need to get myself out of this funk. So I ran over to Ruka and looked at mendhi designs for my hand. For some reason being mendhi'd always makes me feel better...maybe the henna has sweat in it [haha]. It didn't matter -- they don't mendhi on the fly.

I'm really whiny today.

---

I have to admit that I'm a little agitated today. Agitated, freaked out, scared. It's warm today, but I'm sitting here shivering with an-tici----PATION. That's making light of this whole thing, but really, I'm more than a little apprehensive about what this evening's prime time Bush terrah-palooza will bring.

No matter what is decided with regard to war, someone who shouldn't die is going to die. If the U.S. and allies attack Iraq, I shudder to think at how many innocent Iraqis and U.S. soldiers will die. There will be other deaths, thanks to retribution attacks. If the U.S. and allies don't invade Iraq, then what? You remember those weapons of mass destruction and chemical/biological weapons the U.S. sold to Iraq a dozen years ago? Yeah. No matter how you look at it, it's not good.

I just want to live long enough to see a world where no one feels the need to blow each other up. Now that the internet has made the world a smaller place, and we're so much more connected to one another, it's quite personal. Everytime I think of my government ordering an attack on Iraq, I worry for Salem, and I worry about Iranian Girl because her country could be next for little George. Everytime I hear of some horrible thing going down in Israel, I haunt Angua's journal until she posts again and I know she's OK.

I don't understand how anyone can think war is the right answer, especially now, but just in general. How can you get to know someone through their writing or however, and then be excited to bomb the crap out of their country?

I need a sweater.

---

I would like to know where U. of Penn's School of Veterinary Medicine found their test subjects for their goofy sweat study:

...researchers collected samples from the underarms of men who refrained from using deodorant for four weeks. The extracts were then blended and applied to the upper lips of 18 women, aged 25 to 45

Yeah, because smelly guys drive me wild with desire...and chicks rubbed with pit stank -- even hotter.

Although, really, the study doesn't point to an increase in sexual desire as a result of having the pit stank rubbed on you. Oh no, it points to a boost in your mood.

Uh huh...the putrid odor of sweaty glands always just perks me right up.

---

As usual, SEPTA broke down again on my way to work this morning. *grumble grumble* So I got off the train at 11th Street and hoofed it to work. Luckily, it is spectacularly gorgeous outside right now and walking the 7+ blocks to work was an absolute pleasure.

Kathy talked yesterday about how great it is to people watch in the afternoon at Rittenhouse Square. While I do agree that it's really a great way to spend a weekend afternoon, I prefer to be out and about in the city in the morning before work.

People seem to be more hopeful in the morning.

No, it's true. Think about yourself in the morning. You might dread going to work or whatever, but don't you always think to yourself, just for a minute, "I hope today is the day"? Whether it's the day that changes your life, or the day that is the most wonderful day ever, or even if it's just a day better than yesterday -- people are hopeful in the morning.

By the afternoon or the early evening when people are out for lunch or going home after work, that spring in their step that was there in the morning is just gone. People know that this day was just as crappy as the rest of them, or that no perfect job came their way or no perfect love bumped into them on the street. I prefer to see people when they're optimistic, even just a little.

I'm optimistic every morning, so I might just be projecting. Every morning I wake up and hope that I've woken to an alternative universe where there's peace and the U.S. government isn't trying to tell me what I can and can't do with my body. I hope that I'll wake up and find the perfect job for me. I hope to wake up a perfect size 6.

I have hope.

---

If I see one more old white guy with knobby knees in a kilt, I might have to claw out my eyes with a rusty jagged spoon. Some people just should not be alllowed to wear a kilt. There should be a law.

Today was the St. Patrick's Day Parade here in Philadelphia. While it does not compare to the Mummers Parade for drunk morons, there are still plenty of pretend Irish roaming the streets of my neighborhood with their booze on. I strongly suspect there will be a bar brawl that will spill out into the street later on. I promise to take lots of photos if there is.

The only thing I'm really fond of St. Patrick's Day for are the bagpipes. They might sound like a dying cat, but I just adore them. And if you can play the pipes and look good in a kilt...well, let's just say I can't always be held accountable for my impulses.

Irish dancing, on the other hand -- I don't understand the lure of Riverdance. Michael Flatley is no Henry Rollins.

Feh.

---

I'm a firm believer in standing behind your own words. Even if you say something so outlandishly stupid that it makes no sense to anyone but you, own it. The lead singer from the Dixie Chicks didn't even say anything that crazy last week. She just said what everyone else has been saying. She has every right to believe that President Bush is a bonehead, and disagree with all the illegal things he's doing. So why did she publicly apologize for what she said? Somehow I can't imagine Bush was crying in his cornflakes over her embarrassment of him.

I'm sure it was all about kissing the butts of their fans, most of whom seem to be freaking out that anyone dare criticize the President. The statement issued says that "whoever holds that office should be treated with the utmost respect." You have to earn respect -- Bush and his administration have done nothing but over-react and try to strip away my rights. I have no respect for someone so anxious to put my life in jeopardy.

Of course, there's this whole issue with celebrities using their fame to make a statement for or against the war, and all manner of other issues. I readily admit that a lot of them make statements without knowing the full facts. For instance -- Rage Against the Machine is involved in the whole Free Mumia! movement, and then their fans decide to join in because if Rage thinks he's a political prisoner then it must be so. The fact is that Mumia is guilty as hell. There are witnesses. When interviewed, most people marching to Free Mumia! don't know who he killed, what city it happened in, or any details of the case at all. In these cases, I do wish celebrities would just shut the hell up.

But when it comes to something like being anti-war or pro-war, I don't mind celebrities speaking up as much. Granted, I don't think their opinions matter any more or less than my own. But I don't condemn them for making their views known. It's no different then me posting my thoughts about Bush and the war here on my blog, except that no one knows who the hell I am or cares who the hell I am.

---

Today is Craig's 31st birthday. It's sort of like a death pall has settled over the house today -- birthdays have become increasingly hard for Craig to deal with.

He woke up and gave him a kiss, and said "Happy birthday, birthday boy!" He grunted at me. "What do you want to do today? It's supposed to be really nice outside -- maybe the zoo?" He looked at me in disgust and spit out, "I'll be doing laundry." I backed away slowly, lest I lose an arm.

I just don't understand the big deal about birthdays. I love my birthday -- I celebrate for a month. February isn't just that month with Valentines Day and Presidents Day, it's the Nicole birthday month. Craig, on the other hand, just wants to curl up and die.

But never underestimate my feminine wiles. He will enjoy his 31st birthday even if I have to strap on some pasties and do the Cool Rider dance for him. Oh yes, I will prevail.

---

By the way, to celebrate Eat an Animal for PETA Day I made sure to consume a couple of animals today.

I ate chicken for lunch and fish for dinner.

My name is Nicole and I eat meat. Those PETA freaks make my ass twitch.

---

Statia does not own a corkscrew.

Panic almost set in yesterday when I arrived at her house for the slumber party extravaganza with two bottles of wine only to discover that there was no corkscrew. It never occurred to me that someone might not own a corkscrew. My own kitchen is stocked with every kind of toy imaginable [like the Italian cheese knives that I took to the part-ay], so it seems freaky to when people don't own things like corkscrews.

Statia did, however, produce something she tells me is called a wine butler. It's sort of a handle with two prongs, and the idea is that you're supposed to slide the prongs into the cork and magically the cork will come right out of the bottle.

I think someone told Statia a big old lie.

First of all, the prongs do nothing except push the cork further into the neck of the bottle. And then at a certain point in the proceedings pushing the cork that far down causes the wine to come shooting up. I completely soaked myself and Statia's kitchen in Bordeaux when I discovered that design flaw. Eventually, with the use of a butter knife to push the cork all the way out of the bottle neck, I was able to break into my wine.

So what did I learn? I will never again travel without a corkscrew because you just never know when one will come in handy. Or I will buy Statia a corkscrew for the next appropriate gift buying holiday. Or maybe I will just stop drinking so I don't need a corkscrew.

Or not.

---

I'm beginning to feel a little less icky now -- watching Grease, When Harry Met Sally, and several episodes of The Brady Bunch have done wonders for my health and general disposition.

Maybe I should start my own alternative medicine branch that endorses watching classic movies to improve the immune system. As part of my mystique as the cult leader I could wear feather boas and rhinestone eyeglasses.

Worship me. Or not.

---

The Cool Rider dance lives. Let it never be said I'm not afraid to make an ass out of my self in front of people. Maybe I should run for political office.

Today, of course, I'm couch bound. The combination of too much wine the previous night, too little food to provide a good anchor for it all, and motion sickness this morning while Kathy drove us home proved to be too much for me. It was ugly and so was I.

Those young whippersnappers outlasted me last night. I was asleep by midnight or 1am, but they all stayed up until 4am and then had to listen to me snore. Poor girls. But here's something kind of scary -- I apparently can correct grammar while asleep. At least it's a skill. I guess I should feel lucky that my hand didn't end up in warm water and my undergarments didn't end up in the freezer. Maybe they took pity on an old geezer like me.

Now grandma's going to sleep it off.

---

Oh now, hold up!

If I had opened up my luggage after arriving Paris, or after having arrived back into Philadelphia and found a note in my luggage from a baggage handler -- about anything -- I would fly into a rage that would know no equal. And for one of those asshats to assume that being anti-war means being anti-American and having the nerve to leave a lovenote in there is the most unbelieveable thing I've heard today.

It's bad enough that we all have to leave our luggage unlocked now, leaving perverted buggage handlers and security people free to rummage through my fine washables and sniff the crotch of my undies if they so desire [among other, more disgusting things they could do in my luggage]. And now I have to worry about getting a nastygram in my luggage about my preference to oust Hussein from power without going to war?

I hope the baggage handler, or whoever left the note, gets fucking crucified for the incident. I hope the press grabs hold of this story and absolutely destroys him. I want to find out all the horrible things he's responsible for in his past. If he kicks puppies for fun in his spare time, I want to know about it. And then I want him to have to go through life being judged for it.

I don't know how many times I can explain my position to people who claim to be behind going to war because Hussein is a killer of his own people and a potential killer of other people, or people who claim to be pro-war because Hussein has been ignoring a UN resolution for the last umpteen years. They all seem to equate anti-war with anti-U.S., pro-Saddam, pro-terrorism, anti-U.S. troops instead of what it really is: pro-peace. The U.S. government is willing to ignore the UN and go to war because Hussein ignores the UN? What kind of sense is that? Is Hussein not killing his own people quickly enough that we have to go in with the largest bomb ever created so we can kill the people we're claiming to want to save?

If it's naive of me to believe that Hussein can be removed from power and/or disarmed without going to war and killing huge numbers of Iraqis and exposing U.S. troops to who knows what kind of biological weapons, than I choose to be naive. But don't you dare call me a traitor, or anti-American -- I will hunt you down and do bad things to you [and not in a good way].

---

Surprisingly, my new glasses came in already -- and I'm pretty sure I don't look "positively goofy" [I'm the new Jan Brady]. In fact, I readily admit to liking them quite a bit. I am usually not such a big fan of chain stores, so I wasn't expecting much from For Eyes. Imagine my shock when I received the call to come and pick them up this morning!

I was all set to come back here and sing their praises. Really, I was. But then I stopped at my local nail salon to get a pedicure and eyebrow wax. Before I sat down for 30 minutes of calf muscle thumping, foot rubbing, nail painting bliss I took my contacts out and put my glasses on.

Despair overtook me.

Somehow For Eyes fucked up the protective coating on them -- it's like looking through a fog. I took the glasses off and took a good look at them...there is what appears to be circular scratches over the middle of each lens. Looking out the sides of the lenses I can see crystal clear, so I know it's not just me.

So now I have to take the fuckers back. And I was so excited about getting them in such a short amount of time. I should have known.

And to top it all off, I stopped at the Rite Aid to get contact solution and a new contact case so I could wear my glasses right away. I took the case out of the little package [labelled Deluxe Lens Case] and noticed that both chambers were marked "L"...you know, for left.

Yes, that's some Deluxe Lens Case they sold me. Because I have two left eyes.

At the very least, my feet and eyebrows sure are prettied up to impress the girls later tonight during our slumber party. I hear Statia has Grease II all cued up and ready to rock. And I am prepared to dance the dance of the fabulous as I recount the Cool Rider dance: fear me.

---

Heh. Headline: Three Die Retrieving Phone from Latrine.

Am I the only one who immediately pictures Golgotha the shit demon from the movie Dogma? And then immediately thinks that the quality of life in Nairobi must be horrible if you need to brave a pit filled with sewage to earn $13?

---

I'm helping to hold down the fort over at Annessa's while she's working on a new design. Want to read my no doubt illuminating thoughts on the new movie Willard? Check it out.

---

I keep saying this, but every day brings something more ludicrous.

Now some crazed Florida Congresswoman is proposing that all GIs buried in France be dug up and brought back the U.S.. And she wants the government to pay for it.

Rep. Ginny Brown-Waite needs to have her fucking head examined.

If government suits want to get all frenzied about the French government not kissing the U.S. government's ass, there's nothing I can do to stop the madness [until the next election, anyway]. I can get all pissy about it and completely offended by the U.S. government's actions, but I can't do diddli-crap about it [although I'm wishing I would have bought several "Vive le France" tshirts while I was in Paris a couple of weeks ago] -- the only thing I can do is moan about it here, which I am.

However, to suggest that it's a good idea to have my tax dollars pay to have long-dead bodies dug up and transported back here is the most ludicrous idea I've ever heard. Here's a thought: only Spain, the UK, and one other country which I can't remember right now support the war, right? Well, why don't we just dig up every single American buried in every country except those three and ship their bodies home? For that matter, we'll force all countries who don't support the war to stop playing any sport that originated in the U.S. Even better yet, why don't we ban the usage of words from our vocabulary that have their roots in languages spoken by countries who don't support the war?

You know the French are just sitting back and laughing their asses off at us. Let me amend that: everyone in the world is pointing and laughing -- [Nelson Muntz mode] Ha ha [/Nelson Muntz mode]. Yeah, look at those idiotic Americans making asses out of themselves and not knowing their history! I have enough of a problem trying to convince Europeans who read this site that not all Americans are overweight asshats who can barely read without adding this stupidity to the mix.

The one bright spot in my day is politicians in Louisiana are refusing to buy into the French bashing rhetoric.

I swear, it's like we're all in the third grade or something.

---

I've been sort of intrigued by the idea of being a foster parent for the SPCA ever since I started reading Suzie's experiences with it. I've toyed with the idea, but I never really did anything about it. I guess I was always a little worried how Sassy would react, or how another animal would react to Sassy. I mean, 20 pounds of massive fur coming at you would be kind of scary, right?

But now the Pennsylvania SPCA [and others across the country, no doubt] is calling for foster parents specifically to babysit the pets of people being called to active duty until they return home. I may be against the war, but I'm certainly pro-U.S. troops and I think this is the perfect time for me to get involved in foster parenting.

Craig and I just had a brief discussion about it. He's all for trying it out. I might call the SPCA tomorrow to talk about it with someone, or we might run over there this weekend to chat.

I hope this works out for us -- I'd love to do some small part to help.

If you live in the Philadelphia area and want to get involved with the program, call 215-426-6300. Or call your local SPCA and ask them about their own programs.

---

How completely fucking stupid do you have to be to buy into all of this retarded "freedom" instead of "french" bullshit? It would have been nice if the smacked asses doing the renaming had actually done the research first.

French fries are really from Belgium. French toast was created in the U.S. in the 1700's and named after a cook whose last name was French.

Now French hotel chains are removing the French flag from the premises, just in case some crazy home grown terrorist tries to take them out for being French.

Let's get a grip. If people in the U.S. banned products from every country that didn't support the war we'd basically be living in cardboard boxes on street corners, completely naked, and probably starving. And we all know that it's never going to happen that way, because those same schmucks who are freedom kissing own big houses with lots of stuff in them and giving things up to make a point isn't their strong suit.

---

There is a woman who works on my floor who has a very distinctive smell. It's not like she has bad B.O. or bathes in old lady perfume, but you know whenever she's been somewhere.

She has [thank you Rob Gordon] patchouli stink.

Sometimes it's eye-wateringly bad.

---

I don't know who died and made me the fashion police, but that's what I am: the fashionista. If you're ever in Philadelphia wearing an outfit that should be buried, or white after Labor Day, or have VPL and see a redhead checking you out, giving you the stinkeye, it's probably me.

As much as I am craving some good warm weather, one thing I absolutely hate about Spring and Summer are the fashions. And I'm not talking about cute little strappy dresses and sweet sandals and stuff like that. I'm talking about spandex [on anyone other than a jogger] and black socks with sandals and ghostly chicken legs [my own included]. People go insane when it gets warm and wear things that make me gasp. Or want to claw my eyes out with a jagged rusty spoon.

As many of you might remember, Philadelphia is one of the fattest cities in the U.S.. So combine some of the countries fattest people with some of the worst fashion mistakes and you get some of the most bizarre people watching imaginable.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against people who are overweight, even people who are morbidly overweight. But if you are 4'11", weigh 550 pounds, and have hygienic issues, I don't want to see you in spandex, shorts, or sleeveless shirts. It doesn't look good. It's not becoming. It's not even mildly attractive.

I tend not wear shorts very often in the summer. I'm only thinking of others -- I'm so white that when that much of my skin shows I could cause planes to go down with the reflection of my legs. If I manage to get a tan I will relent. Is it so much to expect other people to think of me when choosing their outfit for the day, as well?

One of my least favorite looks is a family favorite in my neighborhood. It's the wife beater tank top [usually sweat stained and threadbare], combined with either the huge shorts falling off the ass and a pair of sneakers or bermuda shorts pulled up to just under the armpits and brown socks and black dress shoes.

Something else I hate to see on people is nylon running shorts. Don't fool yourself, people -- if you're not at the gym or taking a jog around the neighborhood, you do not belong in them. And men are particularly offensive in them -- air out your undercarriage in the privacy of your home, I don't want to know whether or not you are circumcized. Take your crusty parts and conceal them.

I could go on -- my neighborhood [and, indeed, all of Philadelphia] is overrun with people who offend my gentle fashion sense. But I won't, because I need to eat my lunch. Without throwing up.

---

Every year my company forces us all to go to a seminar on sexual harrassment. And every year it interferes with something I have going on, and is a total pain in the ass. The HR department must have gotten sick of hearing me and everyone else complain about the bad timing of their lawsuit prevention classes, so they did things a little differently this year -- they signed everyone up for an online course.

Because it's a course on sexual harrassment I put it off as long as possible. I can't count the number of times I've been forced to sit through a course telling me what is and what isn't permissible in the workplace. Are there really that many changes in the law from year to year that I have to sit through the same crap again? But finally I just decided to complete the course this morning, even though it was supposed to take over an hour.

Ugh.

I finished in less than 10 minutes. If you read every single word and sit and reflect on what's being said in the course I could understand it taking an hour. But for someone who has a modicum of common sense and an 8th grade reading level, 15 or 20 minutes would be sufficient.

I'm all for creating a pleasant working atmosphere, but political correctness and all this touchy feely type of crap is driving me insane. Take, for instance, the issue of Mary's Nipple. We're all adults, right? Even children know what a nipple is. I'd hope that we could manage to ski on a mountain without giggling when we see the word nipple. I find it bizarre that pressure from a few Victorian-era tourists could prompt a town to change the name of a mountain. I don't know that many people from Wyoming -- are they just bigger prudes than the rest of us? Would screaming the word "vagina" in the middle of the street cause these delicate flowers to faint in the street?

I just don't understand.

Of course, some political correctness I can understand. I guess Mary got a lot of shit yesterday for her post on war protestors destroying a Sept. 11 memorial. While I do agree with what Mary said about the protestors [ie, flag burning is free speech, while destroying a Sept. 11 memorial is just a criminal act of vandalism], I don't agree with her that a sign that says "In God We Trust" belongs posted in any public building.

Free speech is important to us all, but I think particularly beloved by bloggers. I would not deny anyone the right to say what they want. I'll post here what I said to Mary:

I personally don't really care if you or anyone else trusts in god or carrots or dookey or whatever. Just don't expect me to trust in whatever it is. And because the post office is a public entity that serves the entire public, why should any declaration of religious belief be posted? If each individual postman or woman wants to tattoo In God We Trust across their forehead, I'm down with that. But to declare a public building [that has nothing to do with religion, and for an entity that was created by an atheist] a Jeebus zone seems unnecessary to me. But I also think I'm sensitive to people trying to force their Jeebus issues on me, so I don't know what the right answer is.

---

Sometimes the good guys win. This whole Elizabeth Smart thing is boggling my mind. I just hope it's the beginning of good things reported in the news. With the looming war in Iraq that no one wants, and the rights of U.S. citizens being stripped away at an alarming rate, and murder everywhere, I need some good things to happen. It can't be all horrible things all the time, right?

So even though it's kind of silly, I was heartened when I saw this article about pets fighting back. Sure, it's a little Orwellian and it's not much to write home about but I like to see bad things happen to bad people for a nice change of pace.

And if that makes me a bad person, I'm OK with that.

---

Elizabeth Smart found alive after 9 months.

Wow -- there's a surprise! I'll be interested in hearing how this whole thing unfolds. I thought for sure she was kidnapped to be a child bride of some crazy Mormon in the wilds of Utah, never to be seen again. I'm glad she was found, and she seems to be OK.

---

The winter is miraculously drawing to a close and my mind is focusing on the fun to be had this summer.

Summer. I would do some very sick shit right now for just one 80 degree day. Just one!

Craig and I usually take a few road trips each summer. Our standard is the Long Beach Island trip to go deep sea fishing and tanning. I was thinking some different things might be fun. Of course, if gas prices keep rising we might have to ride our bicycles to get there!

Where would you go if you lived in Philadelphia and had two or three days to drive somewhere and back? Is the world's largest ball of twine within driving distance?

---

I hate that stupid blast of air from the glaucoma test when you visit the optometrist. You'd think there would be a better and less icky way to test for that.

So I know you're just dying to know which glasses I chose, right?

They are like this pair, but the color is more like my hair.

Goddamn, I love Eyeglasses.com.

And the eye doctor bitched at me for wearing my contact lenses all the time. Apparently I have some wicked blood vessels growing into my cornea. Pretty, isn't it? But when I get my new and fantastic glasses in I won't have to wear my contacts all the time, now will I?

---

Today at lunch I'm going to the optometrist to get my eyes checked. I haven't updated my prescription since the month before I was married. Considering I'm blind as a bat without my contact lenses, I thought it was time to go.

I'm also getting new glasses. I haven't gotten a new pair of glasses in about ten years. I started wearing glasses when I was in third grade. It all started with one of those hideous pairs of pastel plastic frames, with the arms at the bottom of the frame, and lovely gold initials in the corner of the left lense. Oh yeah.

I have a problem picking out frames. I have one of those really big round faces and I think I look horrific in glasses. But I'm determined to find a pair that I'm not embarrassed to leave the house in.

Enter Eyeglasses.com.

I fucking love this site. I could kiss whoever thought of it. You take a photo of yourself and upload it to the site, and then you pick out a bizillion pairs of glasses and you get to try them on your photo.

I'm having so much fun.

Yes, I should be working.

---

Newsflash: Woman wakes from seven year coma at Bryan Adams concert.

Oh dear.

"Christiane was sitting in her special wheelchair and suddenly she started showing reactions that for seven years we have been dreaming of.

"She opened her eyes and actually watched what was going on, she started to move in the wheelchair, and she was totally fascinated by the music and the singer.

"I will never forget it, I could have hugged the whole world. When we got back to the clinic she was still animated, and three times she called my name, she said Mama."

Did it never occur to the mother that maybe Christiane was trying to escape. I would claw my own eyes out if it meant avoiding a Bryan Adams concert.

---

When you have a "discussion" with someone, what does that mean to you? Talking like two [or more] rational adults, both of you debating certain points, each of you having facts to back of your argument, etc., right?

Hmmm. our little Matty must not understand that concept -- he thinks a discussion is telling a complete stranger to leave the country because the stranger doesn't agree with him. His home life must be really interesting.

Oh yes, Matty Matt couldn't resist sending me one last email. And because this one makes even less sense the rest of them, I've posted it for your amusement. Guess what? This time, I'm a unilateralist!

Nicole, Since you are stopping the argument I guess that I have no choice but to stop the argument here. I believe you are wrong and no matter how many times you make fun of my typing skills, I will still know you are wrong. I was in the Us Army. I was a training to be a helicopter pilot, when my knee blew out and I was medically discharged. Not that it matters to you. Service of country is apparently not high on your prority list. Concerning your "stat" about gulf war syndrome, you further advance my argument of disarming this mad man. Diplomacy you say, 17 U.N. resolutions, 12 years , millions of Iraqis dead. Diplomacy has run its course and has failed. You are the unilateralist. Thank you for the willingness to discuss, Matt

So who's buying the helicopter pilot story?

As usual little Matty has chosen to ignore the majority of my last email to him, and focused on trying to negate my accusations that he lacks a mastery of the language. Typos, you say? You wish.

And really, I'd love to know how exposing thousands more U.S. soldiers to the chemical weapons housed in Iraq while we're attempting to "disarm" the country "further advance[s]" Matt's "argument." But, hey, I'm a unilateralist.

And thus ends this chapter of Idiot Theatre.

Thank you, don't forget to tip your waitress.

---

Clay, why won't you love me?

I feel like a skanky, lecherous old lady. He's, what, 12 years old?

American Idol is turning me into a criminal.

---

I'm not sure why, but little Matty has sent me yet another email. And, apparently, this time it's personal since his emails are less and less coherent.

Nicole, It makes me very proud that you can think however you want in this country, which once again makes your motives for leaving all the more questionable. Why leave? That your call and I won't speculate. As for what I believe a real American is: a person who give a GUIDED, informed opinion on issues that they have researched and can speak informatively about. Your comment about accents and generations once agian shows your ignorance. My father was born in Italy and speaks with an accent. That however has nothing to do with my position in regards to the war to liberate Iraq. Have you ever heard of WWII, Saddam, much like Hitler kills his own people,and people like you were saying the same thing in the late 1930's, oh yeah until the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. Let us speak now, not of our justification of speech, but of facts. I would like to know your reasons for appeasement. And "i hate uhuhuh bush" is not a reason, on the contrary it is an excuse, and that,nicole, is something that the world already has too many of.

Thank you and eagerly awaiting response,
Matt

Honestly, I don't even know what to say. So here is my response:

Matthew,
This will be my last email to you -- I'm sure you are heartbroken that I won't be wasting anymore of my time trying to convince you to read a newspaper or two [note: thanks to John for that pithy suggestion], and think for yourself.

I'm beginning to think you're loaded while reading my emails. Some of the "information" you're getting from what I've written seems like you're skimming and only reading some of half of what is there. There's nothing like "showing your ignorance" by poorly formed arguments and a complete disregard for correct usage of the English language. And as for your assertations of what a real American is, well, you have surely proven yourself not to be one.

In point of fact, I do not hate President Bush. I think he and his staff are foolish for not attempting diplomatic means of disarming Hussein. While you're waving your arms around insisting that our government HAS tried diplomatic means, take a look around. I agree that our government has participated in diplomatic means, but more can be done before U.S. troops are sent in to bomb the crap out of Iraq. With the amount of fire power being spoken of, and Rumsfeld threatening the use of the nuclear weapons, who do you think will be left to reap the benefits of a free Iraq? Those Iraqi people you're so concerned about will now not be killed by their own government, they'll be killed by ours. Will that make you feel like this war was justified? Or how about this statistic -- 16,000 Gulf War vets have died since 1991 from the so-called Gulf War Syndrome. No one has figured out what caused it, but the leading contender is chemical weapons used in Iraq during the first war. Is it a good idea to send in more troops to be exposed to whatever chemical weapons Hussein possesses?

This is what you can't seem to grasp: I am not pro-Hussein. I don't believe he should remain in power. I just don't think a war that hardly anyone supports is the way to end the insanity. Instead of you asking me why I haven't moved to France, I should be asking you why you aren't in the armed forces. You seem so gung ho to send soldiers to fight and possibly be exposed to chemical weapons and maybe die that I am surprised you aren't front and center, leading the charge.

I hope you enjoy another exciting semester at LSU, snug in your dorm.

Best wishes,
Nicole

I doubt poor Matthew will be able to wrap his head around that, and I'm sure I'll get yet another email about how wrong I am and maybe some more weird crap about light bulbs and France, stopping the buck, and who knows what else.

Sleep well, sweet Matthew. I'm sure one day you'll grow up and be a fine, upstanding adult. Count sheep and think good thoughts.

---

I once made an assertion that I didn't believe there were really all that many truly ugly people in the world. There were people who were unattractive by virtue of having bad teeth or bad hair or bad posture, but all that kind of stuff can be fixed. Unattractive people can, for the most part, be made attractive.

I take it all back. Every last word.

[link via Inside Gretchen's Head]

---

I just ran over to a building a few blocks away for a meeting with some catering people. It's the tallest building in Philadelphia, and the meeting space is on the top floor -- the 52nd floor. It's windy today in the city and so the doors were all creaking because the building was swaying a bit.

Elevators always seemed so bizarre to me when I was younger. Most of the buildings in my hometown are so small they don't need an elevator, and so whenever I went someplace that had an elevator my stomach would always do that weird flipflop thing while ascending.

And then I came to school here in Philadelphia and I got used to taking an elevator everyday -- I lived on the ninth floor of my dorm. There was no one way I was going to take the stairs twelve times every day. My stomach no longer got all jumpy and things were good.

I had to get used to things again when I worked on the 45th floor of Philadelphia's second tallest building for a few years. Especially since I had to deal with that whole swaying building thing. That takes some time to get used to.

Now I'm an elevator pro, even though I only take the elevator here at work to the 4th floor. The only thing that bothers me is that my ears pop at the 41st floor of whatever tall building I'm in.

It fucks with my equilibrium.

---

I get pissy when I go up to the breakroom in my building and there's only crappy ass snack food like chips and candy bars to choose from. I want real food -- fruit, maybe some good cheese and crackers, or a little mini crudite platter.

But then I think about how often the junk food gets changed and I'm glad that we don't have a fruit and veggie vending machine -- it would be nothing but rotting fruit and hairy vegetables. And the stank from the cheese would kill us all.

---

Why is it that everytime legislation dealing with abortion is introduced into the Senate my face starts to twitch uncontrollaby?

I've ranted about abortion before, and others have discussed this latest legislation very well. But I really get worried for my rights as a woman when this whole discussion comes up.

Here's the thing -- I don't know many people who are pro-abortion. An abortion is something that you do as a last resort. Whether it's for health reasons, or you decide that you just can't raise a baby on your own, or whatever -- rarely do you find someone who looks forward to having an abortion. The most that can be said for those of us who would keep abortion as an option, is that we are pro-choice.

And that's what this all comes down to -- someone feels like they know what's best for me, and wants to take away my freedom of choice.

I know that anti-choice groups say, "But what about the baby, what choice does he or she have?" All I can say is that 85%-ish of abortions are performed within the first 13 weeks of pregnancy -- it's not much of a thinking entity within that time. It's more like a pre-sentient cell clump.

Today the Senate is talking about banning late term abortions. While I am not in favor of late term abortions, I can never condone a ban on them. This is my body we're talking about here -- I am bitter that anyone should be allowed to tell me what I can and can't do with it. If I want to paint it purple and shove carrots up my ass, I should be able to. If I were trying to force an abortion on someone else, I could see people being upset about that. Why shouldn't I be just as outraged that someone is trying to force their beliefs on me?

If men could get pregnant this would never be a political issue. We would all be able to buy milkshakes at 7-11 that induce abortions. There would be National Abortion Day. Viagra and RU486 would come packaged together. But that's not how it is, and so abortion becomes political fodder.

There are a bevy of old men in the Senate today talking about what I can do with my uterus and cooter. Most of them have likely never even known someone who has had an abortion [that they'll admit to]. Most of them have never been in a situation where an abortion might be a viable option [that they'll admit to]. Let's throw a parade.

---

Poor, poor Matt.

Matthew Edison Campanella has sent me yet another email to "clear it all up for me," as he puts it. I fear for the future of our country [well, I did before this happened, but now I'm particularly depressed].

Nicole, I am a junior in college and I have voted on many occassions including the presidential election for the 2000-2004 term. I see once again that you are terrible misguided and assume things of which you do not know. Butt the buck stops here. When you assume you do make an ass out of yourself but you won't make an ass out of me. Have you left for France yet or have you found that your misguided assumptions are wrong? Thank You Matt

My favorite part of this little lovenote is the half sentence "Butt the buck stops here." What? I have no idea what that means, plus he spelled "but" wrong. Obviously debate was never Matt's strong suit. Or English, for that matter. I can easily count three spelling mistakes and numerous grammatical atrocities. Matt's version of a "real American" is, no doubt, someone who can speak the language, kind of.

So what do you say to a kid like Matt [and, by the way, I don't consider college students kids unless they act like children]? I told him to think for himself. I told him to stop being a sheep. Considering the upbringing in the backwoods of Louisiana that I'm assuming Matt had, he should be very familiar with sheep [and the movie Deliverance]. I laid it out for him in very small words so that he could understand. I told him that hate isn't a good thing.

I'm sure that none of what I say will resonate with him, or make him realize the error in his own misguided ways. But it made me feel better to send a reply, and to out him here as a total schmuck.

---

Sometimes I really love being me.

Take just now, for instance. I got home from work, came up to my studio to check my email, and received a nastygram from some putz with an attitude over some remarks I made on Hate Central.

Here is the text of the email:

Nicole, Please move to France and please never come back. We real Americans do not want or NEED you here. Go to France where they will take you as seriously as a light bulb. Please email me back so that I can further tell you how misguided you are.

Thank You
Matt

Heee!

I really like to know who is trying to insult me. So I did a Google search on his name -- nothing. So I noticed he's a student or faculty member at Louisiana State University. As most university's do, LSU has a student directory online.

What is especially hilarious is that the LSU directory lists students home address and phone number. Matt's middle name is Edison, and he's a Pre-Business Administration major. I think his parents were a little hopeful when they gave him his middle name -- he certainly isn't living up to it.

Anyway, not that I would ever post such sensitive information for someone who so obviously can't argue his way out of a paperbag, but what would stop me from launching a full-fledged reign of terror against poor old Matt? What would stop me from sending over one of my misguided relatives with a baseball bat? According to Matt, I'm not a real American so I am certainly not bound by it's laws not to stalk someone.

To be honest, I love it when college freshmen who have likely never voted in an election try to tell me how to live my life. This kid has probably never even left the U.S., has gotten completely irate over a comment that I can't even find, and doesn't have the sense to go incognito when he attempts to insult a complete stranger...one who could be a psychopath.

So I emailed poor Matty back. Why? Because I want to find out just in what way I'm misguided. Or how light bulbs have anything in particular to do with the French, but that's a whole other story. Am I misguided because I believe our current administration is hell bent on going to war, no matter what? Is it misguided of me to be anti-Saddam, pro-U.S. troops, but anti-war? Is it misguided of me to be completely pissed off because my government is stripping my rights as a citizen and a woman faster than old Matt can do a keg stand at his fraternity? Am I completely off my rocker for not hating an entire country and its citizens because they take a stand against the insanity?

Furthermore, what makes an American a real American? I'm sure Matthew Edison Campanella is a full descendant of Native Americans, with the way he's throwing around the terminology. Do I have to blindly back my government, despite the stupid things they do? Do I have to resign myself to never getting to see great works of art and wonderful historic buildings if they aren't in the U.S.? Am I only allowed to speak to other real Americans?

I'm sure Matt will clear this right up for me.

---

Last night I cleaned my refrigerator. Craig likes to make fun of me by calling it the "Magic 'Fridge" -- he seems to think that I have a warped idea that food can remain good for years if only confined within the four chilly walls of my refrigerator.

Au contraire, mon frere!

I'm perfectly aware that food can go bad. I just refuse to discard such items until the last possible moment. I had a carton of milk that was so old and so nasty that it was solid. It was so filled with mold that it didn't even smell bad anymore. It probably could have sprouted legs and walked away without even so much as a limp. I had eggs that could have given me a hearty wave and a "Helllooooo!" as I opened the refrigerator door.

But last night the mold did fly as I tossed out furry lunchmeat and expired jelly. No one has to worry about me actually eating any of the science experiments hiding out in my 'fridge.

I love it when Craig eyes a carton of milk, hands it to me, and says, "Taste this -- is it still good?" Because it's well worth getting botulism just to find out if the milk has turned.

It completely makes me laugh that the USDA has written articles about what to do with moldy food. Um, it gets tossed, right? Apparently there are people out there who will eat moldy stuff anyway, and worse yet, they're sniffing it. Ew.

Personally, I think Craig is completely obsessed with food and mold. He needs help. Maybe I can find some sort of a 12 step program that will gently bring him down to a normal level of concern over food safety.

---

I would like to know how I ended up sixth at Google for old grandmother sex.

Furthermore, I'm seventh at Yahoo for hookers on crack suck dick.

From the hits I'm getting you'd swear that I lead a much more interesting life.

Move it along now, nothing to see here.

---

So there have been complaints against Channel 4 in the UK for showing a program that depicted an artist eating the flesh of a dead baby. People are outraged at the fact that the artist is seen eating the baby, and smearing blood on the body of dead Siamese twins, and because of the "jokey" commentary that went along with it.

Now, true, I would have been grossed out just on principle, but I would have been much more concerned about where and how the artist got the dead bodies to begin with. Gross.

---

Everyone, at some point in their lives, suspects they were adopted. And some people are right, and some just wish they were. I never felt like I belonged in my family, despite serious family resemblences. I was sure that my real parents, while broken up over the idea of having to give me up, just left me on a doorstep and ran away.

I was always sure of it.

I pictured my real family to be cultured and artistic. Maybe they lived in Manhattan, or were nomads traversing the globe. Or maybe I was stolen from my parents and they were really heartbroken, searching for me, using their vast wealth to continue looking for me all these years.

I still secretly think that I have to be adopted. And hearing that an adopted guy from Minnesota discovered he's really a Prince just fuels the fire of my imagination.

Mom, dad, your royal highnesses, where ever you are -- please, come and find me. I have some credit card debt that needs to be paid off. I have long suspected that I should be leading a life of leisure, lying poolside eating bonbons, being fanned with palms by oiled up poolboys.

Come and find me.

---

One of things I liked most about Paris is touring the Catacombs. I've talked about it before -- it was part of the Nicole turns 31 extravaganza. And it's one thing to read a little story about how freaky it was to walk through tunnel after tunnel just filled with bones -- it's entirely another thing to actually see the photographic evidence of just such a strange afternoon.

In an effort to help you realize just how bizarre an experience it was, click below for more photos of The Catacombs....

---

Let it never be said that I can't hang with the young folks. Statia was concerned about the hat having lice, but since we both wore it we'd have twin sets of itchy head by now. Unless the eggs haven't hatched yet. Hmmmm. There's something fun to think about for the rest of the day.

Yes, as promised, here are the photos from our big night out and our chance encounter with that supergroup, The Breathers. Uh huh.

---

I was perusing my extensive blog list just now and ran across an entry over at Robyn's discussing a strange movie inclusion - the spontaneously occurring group sing-a-long and synchronized group dance.

Now, sure it's completely cheesy and unrealistic. The only time group dances break out is at weddings when an unimaginative DJ busts out the Electric Slide or the Chicken Dance, or at dance clubs when YMCA threatens to raise the roof. I think I've seen group sing-a-longs where everyone knows the words only at showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show. But I have a deep and unabiding love of bad films during which all of these things happen.

Some of my favorite movies that involve perfectly choreographed dance scenes and karaoke group sings are as follows:

1. Grease I and Grease II
   
2. The Pirate Movie
   
3. Xanadu
   
4. Cry-Baby

I have often fantasized about being in my own special crazy ass movie filled with beautiful people who know all the lyrics to all of my favorite songs and instinctively know dances that go with songs. I would totally want all of my little friends to sing a couple of songs -- Love Shack by the B-52s, Groove is in the Heart by Deelite, and Love Missile by Sigue Sigue Sputnik . We'd end with a tender rendition of Fire Woman by The Cult. There would be roller skating and synchronized swimming and cool lifts like those that used to be performed on Dance Fever.

It would be an instant smash hit.

---

I have always had a flair for the dramatic. If I had been born a boy I would no doubt have become a drag queen. As it is, I am probably better suited to a job where I can make an ass out of myself in front of large groups of people.

So since I'm not really qualified to do much, I leave it to you to suggest some new career paths. I no longer want to be a glorified panhandler. I need something fun and interesting to do. Something where I get to dress up in feather boas and wigs would be good, excluding a career as a stripper. I doubt I could get away with pretending to be a drag queen -- I'm not tall enough.

Maybe I should run away and join Clown College.

---

I introduced Statia to two of my favorite bars in Philadelphia last night - Fergie's Pub and Dirty Frank's. Ericalynn was mysteriously missing from our excursion. I know she'll be sorry when she sees our dufus photos from Dirtys.

That's right, I have dufus photos. I am not normally one to whip out my camera in a dive bar and start annoying all those drunk people around me with flash photography, but the dufus boys started it. No, seriously.

Here's the situation:

There were four boys hanging out at the bar dressed like they had been tossed out of the '70s party. One had a digital camera and the other had a video camera with a huge light on the top of it. They started filming our table.

I'm sure they thought this would be a great way to pick up chicks.

"U of A?" I asked one of the dorks. He nodded and laughed. But then another one of these morons started laying this huge lie on us that they were a band called The Breathers from San Francisco and that they were in town visiting friends. I played along, because I'm a nice girl like that.

So young and stupid. But entertaining -- both Statia and I got to play with their accessories. There were cowboy hats, pimp sunglasses, flying skull caps. Oh yeah, good times.

I can only imagine how silly they would have been if I had been toe up sober.

---

For some reason I find it endlessly fascinating when a stranger does something completely unexpected.

Craig and I walked down to the shopping center this afternoon to pick up my coat from the dry cleaner [I'm happy to say that all the wine from my Bordeaux crisis came right out. Those dry cleaners are amazing] and make a quick grocery store trip. We're in line at the grocery store and the check out person is an older woman with a very severe, lined face and super short hair and one of those evil glares that could turn things into stone. In short, she looked like a mean old lady who was going to grunt at us.

When it was our turn to check out she didn't disappoint. She stared at us and grunted. But then out of the blue she starts singing "Help me Rhonda" along with the muzak at the top of her lungs! My jaw dropped, and Craig and I just gawked at her. She continued to sing and bag our groceries, handed Craig his receipt, and we were on our way.

And now that stupid song is stuck in my head.

---

If I ever, through some strange twist of fate, have children I will never give them dolls to play with. Let me explain...

I had a lot of barbie dolls [the generic ones, of course -- 'cause we were po'] when I was little. I played with them up until the time I was 12 years old. Now true, dolls can be very useful to developing imagination skills. But I didn't need dolls to help develop my imagination -- I was good to go in that particular area from day one.

I used my dolls to play out social situations. By this, I mean I used to get my barbie and ken dolls together and they would have sex. No, really. I was a weird kid. I would fully expect any offspring of mine to be just as warped as I was, so no dolls for them.

Yet another reason for me not to procreate.

---

As soon as I woke up this morning I jumped out of bed, strapped my boobies down, and went for a run. It's beautiful outside today, and I'm glad I was able to get out.

For not having run since October or November, I did surprisingly well. I ran for half a mile before I had to take my first break. I remember when I first started to run I could run just about a block, then walk a block. I decided to take it easy for my first time out -- after that first half mile I walked another half mile. My total mileage this morning was 1.16.

Tomorrow I'll aim for a little more than half a mile, walk a half a mile, and then run an additional half mile. By Mother's Day I should be tackling that 5K race with no problems whatsoever. My goal for this year's race is to shave at least five minutes off last year's time. I can doooo eeeet!

---

I don't drive. But just because I haven't driven in over ten years doesn't mean I've never driven. I have my license, I know how to drive. I even have some roadkill to my credit.

Growing up in the absolute stick-iest parts of Podunk, it's not hard to rack up considerable "meals from under wheels" type of damage. With 'possums, raccoons, fox, skunk, etc., constantly in the road I don't think I can be held responsible for the deaths of a couple of them. Sure, I felt bad when I accidentally ran over an entire family of 'possum one horrible night but what the hell were they doing there anyway?

They should learn to fear things with loud engines and bright lights, like the rest of us.

My mother hit a deer once. Or, should I say, it hit her. It just sort of exploded out of the woods on the side of the road and plowed right into the hood of her car. I was in high school and waiting for her to pick me up after a game. She showed up, two hours late, front of her car all jacked up. I didn't realize it at the time, but she's lucky she wasn't hurt. It's not unusual to hear of fatal car accidents caused by deer jumping out at your car.

Every time Craig and I are on our way up to my mother's house, I say the same exact thing on the stretch of road where she hit that deer -- "Craig, please be careful. Look out for deer, OK?" Normally, I'm just being overly cautious but this past week on the way up for my grandfather's funeral we must have seen three dozen deer or more by the side of the road, just sort of eating and watching traffic go by.

The strangest thing about our trip last week was all the wild turkeys that were dead on the side of the road. I even saw a few live ones near the road, but for the most part it was just turkeys that hadn't been quick enough to get the hell out of the way.

Speaking of roadkill, I have a relative or two who make scrapple from scratch. One of them, bizarrely enough, informed me that he and his wife made 640 pounds of scrapple the week prior. What do you do with that much processed pig parts? Oddly, they decided to bring it with them to the funeral. I refuse to eat scrapple, having seen it made...but Craig loves the stuff. So we came home with our very own piece of memorial scrapple.

My family is so fucking weird.

---

It's looking like Ericalynn, Statia, and I are going boozing tomorrow night. If you're in the city tomorrow night and feel like joining up with us somewhere, let me know. Or just look for the three drunk girls picking up sailors.

---

I've been completely lazy for the last month or two. I have done hardly any exercise and have eaten super badly. I have hardly done any real work at work. I feel like a slug.

I could chalk it up to the weather, or the fact that this winter has lasted entirely too long. I think everyone has been a little blah these last couple of months. People are pissy. I'm easily bored.

But it's coming to an end now. I feel a real change coming, deep in my bones. I'm going to perk up, you're going to perk up, we're all going to get happy.

The mail held a notice for the next Race for the Cure. It's the perfect thing to motivate me to get my fat ass up off the couch, and get running again. I'm going back to the gym on Monday after two and a half weeks of nothing.

It's funny how easily I can get so down on myself. After a few weeks of relative slothfulness [even though I walked about 5000 miles in Paris, or at least feel like I did] I feel ugly and bloated.

But all that's going to change. For me, and for everyone -- you watch!

---

I like to think that I'm a tough girl who can take care of herself. But just a few minutes ago I was up here on the third floor of my house logging on to my computer when it sounded like someone busted in the front door. I thought for a second maybe Craig came home early or maybe Sassy knocked something over heavy.

So I stealthily crept down the second floor and gave a quick look around -- no one there. I looked around for a weapon. I grabbed the big old black Maglite flashlight that Craig keeps on the third story stairs and proceeded to yell out, "Hello?"

What the fuck? Like if someone actually broke into my house he [or she] would give a cheery wave and a "Hey there, nice lady!" I sort of mentally smacked myself in the head [and it's a good thing I didn't actually do it since I had a heavy flashlight in my hand] and gingerly took the stairs to the first floor, ready for action.

I thought about doing one of those action movie rolls on the landing, but figured I'd probably fall down the stairs and be at the mercy of whoever had broken in.

So I tiptoed down the stairs and slunk around, only to discover my front door intact and locked up tight. I looked out my window -- a trash truck was in front of my house and the beer delivery guy was tossing kegs of beer into the bar next door. So that explains the noise.

I'm such a moron.

---

I laugh every time I hear that some moron has done something horrible because he's been promised 72 virgins in paradise. I guess jihad is really aimed at men, because I don't think most women would really be that interested in getting down with 72 virgins.

Seriously, can you imagine the laughable foibles that would ensue? 72 boys who would be unable to remove a bra without serious struggling. 72 boys that would be unable to last more than 30 seconds, and would be completely unable to locate the sweet spot. 72 virgins means no foreplay, sloppy kissing, and maybe even some premature ejaculation. 72 virgins in paradise seems more like a punishment to me.

Give me a man whose been around the block a few times. You can keep your virgins.

---

Most people who meet me are surprised to learn that I am, technically speaking, a total hick. I embrace all that is urban, yet I grew up in a town where the entire town shows up for the Friday night high school football game and people actually go cow tipping. My high school was closed down on the first day of buck season to allow people to go hunting. The middle school has a Rifle Club and the high school has a chapter of Future Farmers of America and Future Homemakers of America.

I even forget about my sordid past. That is, until I go home. It slapped me in the face when I got out of the car at my mother's house Tuesday night: the smell of liquid cow manure.

I know what you're thinking -- how did I know it was not regular cow manure? Right? I'm sorry to be able to say with authority that there is a huge difference in fragrance. Liquid cow manure is way more putrid smelling. Farmers use it because it's easier to spread, but anyone who lives near a corn field or something likely wishes the old fashioned way would come back into style. How crazy is it when cow shit is preferable to something?

The stench of cow manure flavors a lot of my memories. My mother threw me a party when I graduated from high school and the farmer thought it would be a great day to spread a fresh layer of manure on his fields. Trust me when I say that no one stayed too long at my party. I didn't even want to stay. The air was rife with the odor of manure during all of my proms.

Good times.

---

An ominous letter with no return address arrived in my mail today. The stationery was grayish purple. I used to work for a law firm doing immigration work -- the stationery was that same color, so I sort of got a little nervous. Mail from a lawyer is never a good sign.

The letter was, luckily, not from a lawyer -- it was from my landlord. Still, letters from landlords are usually never good news either: my rent is being raised. Fuck.

I should not complain. I live in a three story expanded trinity townhome with a basement and patio and all imaginable amenities. When I moved in three years ago my rent was $495/mo. Last year my landlord raised our rent to $525, and now the rent is going up to $550. Even at $550/mo. my rent is super dirt cheap. But the fact remains that I hate it when my rent is raised.

Craig and I have been considering a move. I'm sick to death of the weather, both winter and summer. This winter we've had way too much snow and in the summer Philadelphia turns into a smelly cesspool of pit stank and tropical humidity. Maybe that's exaggerating just a bit, but I'm ready for something a little more moderate and consistent. I was thinking San Diego. Who knows when this will happen, or even if it will happen. I'm just bitter about all this crappy ass weather we've been having.

And now my rent is being raised. I'm just going to stop complaining about the rent, because it's still really cheap. And hey, it's always free entertainment, what with the constant bar brawls and the occasional crazy neighbor.

---

I have the day off today...part of my "bereavement" leave from work. The Flower Show was really calling my name but it's icky out and cold and I'm depressed enough without adding the weather into it. So I'm going to hang out here at home with some of my stanky smuggled French goat cheese and a bottle of wine [obviously one of the bottles that didn't shatter in the Charles de Gaulle airport]. Maybe I'll get loaded, or maybe I'll show some restraint. I know the suspense over what choice I make will be killing you.

So I guess my big accomplishment for the day will be that I just made my yearly hooha inspection and probe appointment. I know it's strange to say but I absolutely adore my gynecologist.

Now true, I don't particularly enjoy the poking, scraping, and speculum action. But my doctor is a champ. She calls herself a "sports gynecologist" and is just excellent. And her staff is excellent. I've been going to my gyno for the last 10 years. Her staff recognizes my voice over the phone even though I [under normal circumstances] only see them once every year.

There's something to be said for a doctor who knows your family history and really pays attention. There's a lot of reason for me to be vigilant -- my mother has had both cervical and breast cancer [although both were caught really early and it's all fine now], and several of my great-aunts have died from breast cancer. I'm one mommy boob lump away from starting mammograms now, at age 31. A couple years ago I had an irregular pap and my gyno insisted I come in ever month for six months for additional testing, just to be sure.

I have yet to find a regular family doctor that I like. I've had bad primary care physicians in general -- one tried to tell me to lose 20 lbs. when I already weighed 115 [obviously this was a few years ago! *grin*] because the less weight on my knees the better, one was older than dirt and accused me of sleeping around saying it was the cause of my bronchitis. My current doctor spent two seconds with me when I went in for an annual physical. He was reading other patient's charts as I was talking to him. His office never got back to me with my test results. I'm going to assume that I'm perfectly healthy since no one left me any urgent messages.

Why is it so hard to find decent medical care? I'm on the verge of declaring Suzie my principal care physician and driving six hours to get to Pittsburgh when I'm sick. It would be a beneficial relationship -- I would be assured of a doctor who gave a shit, and she would have at least one patient who believes in the power of birth control and the evils of tobacco.

---

Oh, and Statia made a button for me in honor of my birthday last week! Thank you Statia! I love it!

Now who wants to upgrade my MT? Heh. I've been too scared to try it. I swear, by the end of next week I'll give it a shot but I'm sort of afraid that I'm going to destroy all that is good here! *grin*

---

Last night I was watching the 11 o'clock news and heard something so potentially wonderful and beautiful that I almost kissed the television screen. With tongue.

Today there will be a bill introduced to City Council that, if approved, would declare Philadelphia a "Civil LIberties Zone." What that means is that police officers and other law officials would be exempt from enforcing the current administration's bogus and illegal Patriot Act.

I don't really know the details -- I can't find any documentation on it. Philadelphia is a pretty liberal area [as most large cities are], so I don't know that I would be surprised if something like this passed. Are other cities introducing bills like this?

---

There was a lot of buzz last night at my grandfather's viewing regarding a service to be performed by the Freemasons. As some of you might remember, my grandfather was a Freemason.

My brother, stepfather, and I speculated about the ceremony. I thought perhaps there might be a goat for the ritual slaughter out back. My brother wondered if paddles would be involved. Craig was looking forward to seeing the grand poobah hats. There was some talk of the lights being dimmed and the casket being attended to by hooded guys with knives and candles.

All we got were old guys in tailed tuxedo coats and aprons.

I've been told by certain people that the Freemasons aren't really as sinister as I would have you believe. And, of course, looking at these aging Masons in their little canvas aprons bunching up around their spare tires, it's hard to believe that any of them have it in them to do anything much more than play shuffleboard and do their daily walking laps at the local mall. But there's a lot of secrecy involved, and an awful lot of ritual, and so we were all a little curious as to what would actually be going on.

Mostly it was a lot of Jeebus/god talk, and this whole thing with putting sprigs of evergreen in the casket with my grandfather's body. Plus, there was this very ritualized speech with lots of "So mote it be" responses from the geriatric Freemasons. It was over in about 10 or 15 minutes, and then the receiving line started back up again.

I have to admit that we were all a little disappointed.

---

So I just got back from my grandfather's funeral and viewing. It was not as bad as I thought it might be. My grandmother held it together like a champ.

Just a few thoughts...

I don't find church services [of any kind, but especially for funerals] comforting. The pastor at my grandparents' church [they are Methodist] really just sort of concentrating on talking about how god has a plan and how my Pappap was a pilgrim and now he's going home and blah blah blah. And if that comforting my grandmother or my mother or my aunts and uncle, fine. But then he went into this whole story almost comparing my grandfather's death to the death of his childhood pet who got run over in the road.

I wanted to run up there, kick him in the shins, and duct tape his mouth shut. See, a real use for duct tape.

Also, when I'm trapped in a church for a funeral service or a wedding or a christening, I tend to focus on what the church is decorated like. I once read a book by James Morrow called Blameless in Abaddon wherein it said the INRI on crucifixes means "I'm not returning immediately." So when I see it on a crucifix I usually giggle uncontrollably and then move on to other things.

Catholic churches usually have the gruesome statue of Jeebus suffering on the cross hanging at the front of the church, sort of like the grand overseer of all that's going on. One time at a wedding the Jeebus statue was so wretched looking and gross that I was fixated on it. I shared with Craig how funny it would be if the Jeebus was animatronic and halfway through the ceremony would just jerk a hand loose and start pointing at the congregation accusingly. And then Craig got the giggles. What can I say, I get bored easily in church.

Today at my grandparents' church while I was trying to block out the crap coming from the pastor I was sort of checking out the fake stained glass windows. In one the creepy cross Jeebus was depicted, but he was totally buff. Jeebus had a six pack! So then I had to fight the giggles. But I couldn't stop looking at it.

Jeebus, Mr. Universe. Heh.

---

I was just reminded of my Human Sexuality class a few semesters ago. My instructor is a sexual issues counselor to the mentally challenged in the area, which is kind of a strange thing. She always had really bizarre stories, and the class ended up being really interesting.

The last class was held in her apartment not far from the school. She liked to have a little party for her students, hand out the grades from the Final, and have one last class lecture. She liked to bring in a recently operated on transgendered person and a pre-op transexual to talk about their experiences.

Two of the most gorgeous black women I have ever seen walked into her apartment. The one who had just had her operation was named Sheena. I will never forget what she said:

I was so thrilled to finally get my own vagina. If the doctor would have offered me a golden cunt I would have bought it. As it is, for the first three months after my operation I kept asking everyone if they wanted to see my cooch, because it's a beauty.

I'm not going to tell you what reminded me of that. I like to remain an enigma. Or something.

This will likely be my last post of the day. I'll be making the three hour trek to my hometown in an hour or two to attend my grandfather's viewing this evening. Tomorrow morning is the funeral, and then we're driving back to Philadelphia. I'm tired.

---

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm anti-organized religion. I loathe even setting foot into churches under normal circumstances. I hate weddings, christenings, funerals -- all because I will likely have to spend time in a church, being preached to.

So when I told people I had visited Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle while in Paris, they were slightly puzzled. One of my friends even expressed amazement that I hadn't burst into flames during the trip to Notre Dame since there was a Mass going on at the time.

But the truth of the matter is that I just wanted to see them. I can ignore the religious nature of the buildings and just appreciate the beauty of the Sainte-Chapelle chapel and sun streaming through the stained glass walls and rose window. I can forget about the stupid cartoon made out of the Notre Dame and be amazed at the ornate stonework and icons and the amazing interior architecture and stained glass.

We did not visit Sacre Coeur, although I did get an lovely photo of it from the top floor of the Pompidou Centre.

Oh, and in case you haven't figured it out yet, all of the links in this entry link to photos from my trip. If you want to see more photos, take a look at the entries since yesterday [the entries re: my trip] and click on all the links. More photos to come!

---

I would be so pissed off right now if I were Muslim.

There are so many misguided people taking Islam and turning it into something it's not. They claim they are true Muslims, but they kill complete strangers for no good reason. This morning's bombings in the Philippines are likely the handiwork of Muslim extremists [according to the press].

So because of those asshats who feel the need to murder people because they're convinced their way is the only way, Muslims around the world are being profiled in airports, etc., and just generally being discriminated against. I would be ready to declare my own personal jihad -- against extremists.

This is in no way different from crazy extremist Christians -- the Jerry Falwell's and Fred Phelps' of the world. If I were a Christian I'd be completely embarrassed to be associated with those type of bizarro Deeply Religious types.

I don't understand why people just can't be content to believe what they believe in and let the rest of the world do it's own thing. This applies to just about everything. If I want to believe that pigs created the world, and worship jello, and have 12 husbands, and run around my house with a carrot sticking out of my ass, why should anyone care? Why would anyone feel the need to try to convince me I'm wrong? I wouldn't be hurting anyone, except for maybe my own sphincter.

To be perfectly honest, I don't care if Fred Phelps thinks that being gay is evil and wrong. That's his own Freudian hang up. I don't care if Osama bin Laden thinks that all non-Muslims are going to hell in a handbasket because we run eat pork and don't pray three times a day. But leave me out of it. Live your life according to your own beliefs but don't expect me or anyone else to live that way too.

I may be anti-organized religion, but I grew up going to Bible Summer School at a Methodist Church. I know the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Can you imagine if people really lived that way? But, I suppose like everything else, it would be twisted to fit into people's warped version of the truth.

---

I've lived in Philadelphia for 13 years. I've been to New York City and Washington, D.C. more times than I can count. I've been to San Francisco and London. My point? I'm used to being in large cities where there are criminals. Specifically: pickpockets. I can usually spot them a mile off, and I know how to protect myself and my valuables.

Can you see where this is going?

I almost lost my wallet in Paris -- to a ten year old thief.

Craig and I went to the Eiffel Tower Saturday night. At a tourist attraction like the Eiffel Tower I knew there would be pickpockets and I took the proper precautions. The guys trying to sell cheapo Eiffel Tower trinkets and roses in line were studiously ignored. The babushka'd ladies begging for change were rebuffed. My cash and camera were protected.

Unfortunately, after we left and were making for the nearest Metro stop I stopped to look at a map and held my bag down by my side. If Craig wasn't the crime fighting rock star that he is, I'd be sans purty pictures of Paris.

Within like two seconds this little dirtball kid made a beeline for me and my bag. Craig saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, put his hand on his own wallet, and stepped in between me and this kid at the last minute. The kid sort of bounced off of Craig and ended up falling over as the two of us glared at him. He swore at us a little and sped off, in search of his next potential victim.

I knew there was a reason I didn't like children.

---

As you might know, I caught a tremendous case of some horrible disease-like cold while I was in Paris. I was hacking up a lung for the last two days I was there. It was very pretty.

I was torn: continue to sight see and spread my germs where ever I might go, or rest for a bit. I did a little of both. I ran around Paris by day and became a sickly hermit by night. Being bedridden and phlegmy, I did what any normal person would do -- I watched television.

The available stations at the hotel were mostly in French, of course. And that did me no good, since I speak only a little bit of French. The only English station was CNN Europe. I'm a news whore, but even I have my limits.

So I was left with German MTV.

I have no clue why MTV was in German in Paris. Maybe French people don't watch MTV, or maybe they have a huge population of Germans in Paris demanding their MTV. Whatever the reason, watching German MTV was hee-larious.

I kept expecting to see a David Hasselhoff video. Because, you know, Germans love their Hasselhoff. Mostly it was the same Avril Lavigne video every 20 minutes interspersed with videos from Coldplay, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Yeah: Jennifer Love Hewitt. Apparently she's huge in Germany. I think the Germans must be tone deaf.

What was especially funny is watching The Osbournes. The show was in English with German subtitles. And no bleeps. Part of what's funny about watching the show [to me, anyway] is the bleeps. With no bleeps I was able to really focus on how pathetic Ozzy is and the show lost some of it's appeal.

I also enjoyed watching commercials for Jackass: The Movie. The film is apparently about to premiere in Europe [to any Europeans reading: I'm so sorry]. There would just be this fast-talking commercial in German and then all of a sudden I'd be able to understand three words: Jackass: The Movie.

What can I say, I was ill and easily amused.

---

I know you want it: the money shot.

There's more to the Eiffel Tower trip, trust me. I'll get to it later.

---

Here I am at the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise in Paris, permenant home to Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and Marcel Proust. This is the first place I went when I was in Paris. We had only arrived a few hours prior and you know what the best jet lag combatant is, right? That's right: fresh air, sunshine, and exercise.

Considering the cemetery is the size of a small town, it was serious exercise. Hell, it was serious exercise just to keep upright!

I'm not kidding, you know. Père-Lachaise is the largest cemetery I've seen in my entire life. You have to purchase a map to find your way around. The graves are not your typical stone with the casket buried underneath type of thing. Rather, there are huge monuments, and family mausoleums, and prayer chapels. Many of the graves are really ornate, and some are plain and have fallen into disrepair.

The cemetery is strangely haunting. I could have spent hours there looking at all the mausoleums. It's a beautiful place. Now, I have been to older graveyards. The graveyard down the street from my house was opened in 1732. Père-Lachaise had its first burial in 1804. But Père-Lachaise is far more beautiful and just, well, stunning. And people are still being buried at Père-Lachaise. I felt a little uncomfortable to be gawking at graves while a funeral was going on ten feet away.

Craig and I wandered through the cobblestone streets and eventually got so tired we decided to end our visit. We had been there for two hours and didn't even see most of the cemetery.

---

My husband is a picky eater. It's his parents' fault -- they are both, like my own family, spices-are-bad-and-evil-but-plain-meat-and-potatoes-are-good-and-pure type of people. They instilled their deep fear of anything spicy or uncommon in Craig. It's taken me years of stealth therapy to break him [how I managed to escape it unscathed is beyond me].

When I first met Craig he was deeply suspicious of broccoli, asparagus, and most things green. Within a year I turned him into a fan of broccoli, and only last year [this after 7+ years] would he concede that he actually likes asparagus and guacamole. He was afraid of any type of cheese that doesn't come sliced and prepackaged, he preferred boxed macaroni and cheese, and he refused to even so much as go near sour cream or tofu, despite having never even tried them. I have worked hard to overcome all this crazy behavior. He now willingly eats all of that, even though he refuses to admit to anyone but me that he enjoys it.

As far as his parents are concerned, he's the same spice-shy, tofu-offended 'fraidy cat he always was. But I know the truth.

While we were in Paris, Craig turned up his nose at the crepes with Nutella that I was inhaling like good drugs. He looked at me quizzically when I ordered un crepe avec chocolat and the crepe guy pulled out a jar of Nutella.

After my eighth crepe in three days, Craig finally got curious. I guess he figured if it didn't kill me or send me to the hospital it couldn't be all that bad. He had a bite. That was the end of it. Yesterday morning [our first full day back from Paris] he forced me to get out of bed and walk down the grocery store with him so he could buy his very own jar of Nutella. And then he made crepes.

It was only on the way home from the grocery store yesterday that he told me why he was so repulsed by the idea of Nutella before he tried it. He had Nutella and Vegemite confused in his head. Now, Craig has never tried Vegemite but he knows that I believe Vegemite to be the nastiest substance on the planet. And so he was properly grossed out. What I couldn't figure out was why the confusion persisted -- I mean, I was chowing it down, right? Why would I be eating something so nasty?

Despite what it may seem, I don't consider myself to be a food snob. Really, I don't. I eat hot dogs [albeit, only chicken, turkey, or tofu dogs] and even the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Statia almost fell off her chair the other day when I told her I ate chicken tenders from Burger King at the airport. I do, on occasion, eat crappy food. It's just that I prefer to eat at restaurants where the person taking my order isn't wearing a paper hat. Does that make me a snob?

Aw, who cares? *grin* Pass the cavier and foie gras!

---

I haven't publicly thanked all the crazy kids who guest-posted to go fish while I was away on my big adventure, including Laurence who posted today as part of the Amish Tech Support Blog a Day tour. Good times!

I love going away and leaving other people to blog at go fish. I'm always anxious to come back and read what others have written. Sometimes you can say things on other blogs that you can't say on your own. Things are funny that way.

I called Statia from the airport last Friday while I was attempting to pass the time, since I did [as Kim predicted] breeze through security in five seconds and have hours to kill. Statia read me the first two guest-posted entries at go fish and I was relieved that it was all in good hands.

So thanks! Not just to the guest posters [although, surely, I am deeply appreciative and wish I could have taken them all with me]...but also to everyone who stops by here for a read every now and then. Really -- thanks, I appreciate it.

---

(He keeps going and going and going... let's all give a round of applause for today's stop on the Amish Tech Support Blog A Day Tour! So, what does Laurence Simon have to say for today...)

The graphic up there in the corner with the one goldfish leaping from a small, crowded bowl to a bigger wide-open bowl reminds me of an incident from my childhood.

My dad kept two Siamese Fighting Fish in small bowls in the shelves of the living room. I must have been two or three, some young and impressionable age, but I was fascinated by the fish. So, I took one of the fish out of its bowl and dropped it on the kitchen floor.

What was going through my head? Well, it was Simon Bar Sinister of the Underdog cartoons. I'm not sure how that related to taking a fish out of water, but I remember yelling for help and getting paddled with a rubber-soled sandal for my fishy crime.

I don't remember if the fish survived the incident.

Since then, I've kept my distance from fish, interacting with them only on a dinner plate in fish-stick form or the occasional behavior experiment or dissection in years of biology labs. Sure, I tried to teach Piper how to swim when she was a kitten, but she's a cat, not a fish.

I don't understand fish people, but in a way I envy them. Quiet, slow, languid turns and twists in the water. I dated someone who had a fish pond in their back yard, and the fish would greet her and beg for food. Slimy, icky waterborne creatures begging for food. I'd prefer that behavior in a beast with fur, thank you, so I'll stick to virtual fish ponds in screen savers for now.

When his doomed puppy-dog died, we got my brother-in-law a battery-powered fish tank set with plastic fish in it from the Moody Gardens Aquarium. We figured that it was the one pet he couldn't manage to have die out from under him, requiring only a change of batteries to revive.

---

There was one member of our travelling party we were forced to leave behind. Or, as I put it to Christy: her carry on bag decided to extend it's stay in Paris. If I hadn't been so stressed out about the episode and trying to check-in at the airport when it all went down, I would have sent her a postcard from her bag.

You could say that we had a small...problem...at Charles de Gaulle airport on our way out of Paris. It wasn't enough to qualify as an international incident, but it certainly did increase the level of travelling stress substantially.

My bag fell over at the airport and completely shattered a bottle of wine. Of course, it wasn't evident until we had gotten in line for check-in and noticed the carry on bag had sprung a small leak of Bordeaux.

Craig describes my reaction as trying to blink the offending scene away, as if I were Jeannie. You know, boing! I don't recall actually folding my arms and bobbing my head or anything, but it seemed like the whole thing was happening in slow motion. Craig's mouth was moving, and sounds were coming out that weren't making a lot of sense. I was sort of looking around for a garbage can or something, and then I started worrying about looking like I was trying to dump something potentially explosive into a trash receptacle. Craig finally [I say finally, but it was really pretty much immediately] just grabbed the carry on and ran outside. I followed him with our luggage, hoping we didn't look too suspicious.

And of course, the carry on bag was completely soaked through with Bordeaux. There was Bordeaux on my lovely new coat with the glam fur collar [which the dry cleaners are currently valiantly trying to remove], Bordeaux trailing behind us out the door, Bordeaux on the sidewalk. It looked like we were trying smuggle a bleeding body out of the country or something. And we smelled like winos.

There was no way to save the carry on bag that we borrowed from Christy. It was pretty much a lost cause. So we loaded everything from the carry on into other bags, said our goodbyes and gave a proper burial to the bag that had served us so valiantly. It was a sad and important time. Tears were shed.

It was a touching moment.

---

The last two days I was in Paris I was sick. I told Kathy in a recent email that I got sick from licking toilet stall handles at Dulles airport in D.C. last Friday. The truth is that I pretty much always catch some sort of horrible disease when I fly.

During our honeymoon I caught some ridiculously bad mojo that actually made me bedridden for a day, and not the good kind of bedridden that normally takes place during a honeymoon. It might have been from the millions of happy children running amok in the Happiest Place on Earth, wiping their slimy noses all over everything. I swear I actually saw a kid lick an entire railing.

In London a little over a year ago I had such a bad cold the last day I was there I swear Craig had intentionally tried to poison me with meningitis or something. We almost had to postpone our return trip because I was so sick. But we left out of the airport in Newark, New Jersey and we all know what kind of germs traverse those corridors.

This trip, it was no different. I'm starting to feel better now, but anytime I fly I am sure to be hit with some exotic flu. I'm destined to blow my nose like a trumpet in stunningly beautiful locals. I was so hopped up on flu medication that I barely remember the Louvre. I wanted nothing more than to curl up at the base of the Venus de Milo and take a nap.

Craig suggested that next time we go on vacation [we'll be in Orlando in October] I should run around licking sick people a few weeks ahead of time so I get sick before vacation instead of during vacation. I don't think the sick people would like that very much [of course, I could be wrong about that. I guess it would depend on where I licked them], and I doubt it would make much of a difference.

My immune system laughs in the face of advance planning.

---

As you might know, I turned 31 on the 23rd of February while I was in Paris. I can't image a better way to turn a year older [and more fabulous, of course].

So what did I do to celebrate? I began with a croissant and some coffee in the hotel breakfast room. It was an auspicious start to my day. And, by the way, photos of this whole excursion are forthcoming, but my photo cords are all at work...so you'll have to wait until Monday. I know, I know, but you'll just have to contain your excitement!

What kinds of things do you associate with Sunday mornings? Maybe church services? Breakfast and a newspaper? Sleeping late? Out of those three things I'm sure you'd never believe in a million years that I, hater of all that is organized religion, attended a church service.

A Catholic mass, no less.

It wasn't on purpose, trust me. Craig and I headed over to Notre Dame Sunday morning, not thinking that there are actually still masses held there, or that they'd allow stupid tourists like me inside while mass was happening. But then I would be wrong, very wrong. There wasn't a line to get into the church so I followed a few people in, past the unbelieveable face and spires of the church and past the old women begging for change.

I was greeted by the sound of chanting. And it was spooky, because Notre Dame has some amazing acoustics. I felt a little strange walking through the sides of the church while people were trying to listen to the service and pray and stuff, but hundreds of people were running through the church, gawking at the parishioners, and taking photographs. So I shrugged and did the tourist thing. A very memorable experience, I must admit. The church is beautiful and if I were going to be religious I would want to worship there. Craig considered doing the whole wafer thing because he is actually a confirmed Catholic [despite being agnostic] just for the fun of "eating the cookie" in Notre Dame, but decided the line was too long.

A trip to the Catacombs was next on the agenda on my 31st birthday. I will always associate the Catacombs with stairs. Why? Because you descend a very narrow staircase into the very depths of the city. You literally climb down 60 feet worth of stairs. It seems like forever, and you're just walking around and around in tight circles. When you finally reach the bottom you're so dizzy you have to sit down for a minute. We were the only other people in the Catacombs [that we could tell, anyway], which is totally spooky. There are just miles of limestone corridors with very dim lights. You have no choice but to follow the corridor -- there's no place else to go. Eventually you reach the entrace to the bone tunnels.

I can't quite express what it's like to walk through a mile of tunnels lined completely in bones. Some of the chambers are 80 feet deep in bones. There's hardly any light and you're just surrounded by the bones of millions of "permenant Parisiennes." It's strange, to say the very least. And just a little scary.

A good ending to any day is excellent food. We were were so tired from climbing up those 60 feet of stairs from the Catacombs that we went to restaurant that was at the end of the block from our hotel. The restaurant was called Chez Larry. No, I'm not kidding: Chez Larry. I can speak a little bit of French and I always carried a translation dictionary with me. Craig knows only a few polite words of French. The owner of the restaurant [also the waitperson and cook] knew hardly any English. This is how ordering went [I apologize for misspelled French]:

Me: Le menu, sil vous plait?
Owner: No menu, madame. Nous avons....steak. Le filet avec frites. Bon?
Me: Oui, c'est bon. Et un salahd, sil vous plait?
Owner: Oui. Un boisson?
Me: Je voudrais un boteille de vin rouge, vin du pays

Who knows what else she had back there, there only thing she knew in English was steak so that's what we had for dinner. I guess it's a good thing we're not vegetarians.

She must have called her official waiter to come in because a guy who could speak relatively good English arrived on the scene midway through our meal. He asked where we were from. I said [with a straight face], "Je suis Canadian!" while Craig answered, "from the States." There was a couple who came in after us who was from West Orange, New Jersey. The waiter had lived in New York for a few years and brandished his New Jersey Devils baseball cap from his back pocket and bought us all a round of drinks.

Thus ended a perfect birthday in a wonderful city. Feel the love! Or is that my liver crying?

---

It's never nice to come back home to bad news: my grandfather died this morning. And coincidentally, it was the exact time I woke up.

I feel bad that I'm not more upset. Yes, I'm sad. But when my grandmother died a little over a year ago I was a total wreck. It's not fair to compare the two, but yet I am. My relationship with my grandfather was always contentious. I never really liked the person he was -- racist, homophobic, extremely conservative, anti-women's rights, etc. And yet, he could be a very nice man when the mood struck him.

He mostly ignored us kids when we were growing up. My earliest memory of him is making me eat every last morsel on my plate at Bob's Big Boy before we could leave when I was about 6 years old. It's doubtful that he did it to be mean...it's just that he was a kid during the Depression and he was a farmer for most of his life. Being wasteful is bad. He rarely spoke or showed emotion, and that's just the way it was with my grandfather.

And so now he's gone. I really barely knew who he even was.

---

I just flew in from Paris, and, boy, are my arms tired!

Ba da bing!

*Tap tap tap* is this thing on? Tough crowd!

I woke up at 6am today. Why? Because in my mind that's late -- that's like 11am. So it's dark, I'm tripping over my luggage, digging around in it for my glasses so that I can traverse my home without plummeting to my death on the stairs.

So what did I miss? Strangely enough, CNN Europe did not cover the death of Mr. Rogers. Obviously they somehow knew that it would have sent me into spirals of sobbing spasms, preventing me from perusing the fantastic art at Musee d'Orsay and the Cluny Museum, which I did that day. It was so kind of CNN to prevent me from finding out, don't you think?

I know what's on your collective minds: did I spend a lot of money in France to further their economy and declare myself a stinking traitor to America? The answer is yes. Or, should I say, oui?! I ate French cheese like it was going out of style. I drank French wine like a smelly old wino with a sudden windfall of donations to the tip jar. I sneered and rode le Metro twenty times every day like a true Parisienne. I ate foie gras and mass quantities of chocolate crepes. I was a glutton. I even smuggled French cheese and wine into the country. I should be excommunicated, citizenship pulled -- please, deport me to France, I beg of you.

Yeah, as usual, only the American media and Americans are making a big deal over the whole Iraq disagreement. Sure, Parisiennes don't want to go to war. But they don't hate Americans. They don't hate American culture. They only think that the American government has got it wrong this time. It drives me insane to come back into this cesspool of hate [i.e., the American media, backed by the American government] that encourages people to hate an entire culture and country because they aren't smooching our collective heinies. But enough of that ugliness: let's talk about Paris.

And, believe me, if you've never been: Paris is beautiful. I even learned to love the piquant stank of urine in the Metro. I love that people didn't make fun of me when I attempted to speak French. I love that the French fucking love their dogs. Dogs everywhere --- in the Metro, in the restaurants, in the stores, pooping on the street. I love that laughter sounds the same everywhere: America, Paris, London...even Iraq.

More to come...I've got to eat breakfast. No croissant, Nutella, and un cafe for me today! It's straight up runny poached eggs and sour dough toast. Ah, the smell of home.

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What is it about weddings that turn nice, normal, sane people into insane spawns of Satan? I'm getting married May 31 and I never imagined planning this blessed event would turn into such freak show.

I've never been interested in weddings, so it's hard for me to understand what the big deal is. Yes, I want a nice wedding, but I don't care if it is very traditional and I don't want to spend every single cent in our savings account to have a super fluffy fairy tale day. I honestly never thought I would get married, so I never planned and dreamed about my future wedding. I grew up around a bunch of alcoholic men, so I never saw much point in having a man of my own. It seemed they were only good for one thing--a pay check--and since I was planning on being an independent woman I didn't need a man at all. My biggest wedding plans were made at the age of 7, when I decided I would have my bridesmaids dressed as blue fairies and I would wear glass slippers. Can you tell I loved Disney?

When I was in college I met a crazy girl who had her wedding all planned out, right down to the day of the big event. She had the material and patterns for her dress and the bridesmaids dress purchased and stored away. She had a cake topper, guest book, napkins printed with the date, and tons of other stuff. It was frightening. Even scarier was that her mother had bought into this fantasy world and strongly encouraged her to find a man in time for the ceremony. She was supposed to get married the summer we graduated from college, so her whole senior year she was totally depressed because she didn't have a boyfriend. It was insane. Totally insane.

Now I'm planning my own wedding and finding out just how insane my mother is. She's always been fun to hang around with--very cool, very low maintenance. Just a lot of fun. I figured she would be totally ok with a slightly non-traditional wedding, but much to my surprise she has totally freaked out. When I told her we were having a chocolate cake her head started spinning, sparks flew out of her eyes and a demon informed me that "YOU WILL HAVE WHITE CAKE!!!". It was frightening. If I'm going to pay $200-$300 for a cake, it is darned well going to be chocolate!

Then we have the crazy random strangers who want to criticize every aspect of the wedding. One of our friends has been ordained by the Internet church (as seen on Friends) and will be performing the ceremony. Friends and total strangers have told both her and us that she isn't holy enough to marry us. Holy? What does that even mean, really? The latest fiasco has been a woman getting bent out of shape because we aren't having children at the ceremony. Apparently weddings are community events where children learn proper behavior. That's all well and good, but we simply don't know any children. If we had nieces and nephews and other assorted children in our lives we'd invite them, but we simply don't. Craziness!

So someone tell me, what is it about weddings that makes people utterly and completely lose their minds?