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Let me get this straight -- I'm expected to believe that Josh received more votes than Ruben? Josh, who can't carry a tune in a bucket and looks like Jack Nicholson doing the Joker when he sings...Josh, who makes derogatory cracks about drag queens and has hideous teeth....got more votes than Ruben? I don't think so.
Speaking of drag queens, I'm glad Trenyce got voted off. Things would have gotten real ugly if Ruben had been the one to go.
Looks like next week I'm going to have to start voting. Josh must go.
So Craig picked me up from work this afternoon. As I'm walking to the car I see him deep in thought, concentrating hard on some sort of reading material. By the time I sat down in the car whatever he was reading had been put away.
We're driving down the Parkway and he says, "I stopped at Wawa to pick up a Power Bar and I accidentally grabbed a packet that I thought was a new type of Power Bar."
"Oh yeah?" I reply. "How was it?"
"Well," Craig answered. "it really wasn't a Power Bar. It was something called Horny Goat Weed. I was reading the package as you were coming out of the building."
Please note: if you say the words "Horny Goat Weed" to me, it will immediately catch my interest.
I demanded to see the package. I mean, how often do I get to inspect some cheesy pseudo-pharmaceutical marketed to men with inadequacy issues? And I wasn't disappointed -- "When in need--try this weed"? That's comedy gold right there. The back of the packages advertises "Horny Goat Weed, nicknamed 'pleasure weed,' combined with other sexually enhancing exotic herbs creates a formula that is one of the most powerful sexual stimulants on earth." Sure it does.
While I'm not interested in "bringing out the animal" in me, I might just try to test it out somehow on the pre-pubescent miscreants running around the neighborhood. With any luck, it'll make them sterile and prevent them from procreating. Or it might just make them want to have sex with a goat, like the one on the package.
So, is Coke's latest promo in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day?
Classy, classy bunch of marketing geniuses.
"The Holocaust was an obscene period in our nation's history. I mean in this century's history. But we all lived in this century. I didn't live in this century."Swastika nipples are a hot new Spring look, I'm told. Jinkies!
~Gov George W. Bush
Say what you want about Janeane Garofalo, but the woman knows how to make a point:
...I can't stand watching history roll right over us. It's like they're asking you to bend over, put your head in the sand, and put a flag in your ass...And here's another great quote: "That brings us to some of the rightwing pundits who dominate the radio, like Mike Savage, or some of the commentators at Fox – the Ann Coulters, what have you. I think what they do is they turn their own personal issues – whether they be racist, homophobic, sexist, xenophobic, or imperialistic – and they wrap them in the flag and hide them behind Jesus."Then there is a lot of the hate mail that says actors are too wealthy to understand what's going on. The actors live in Hollywood, all this kind of nonsense. Do they realize how wealthy the Bush family is or the Cheney family? The Ashcrofts? Bill O'Reilly? Tom Brokaw? Do they realize that if you are talking about the Administration now, Bush and Cheney in particular, the life of privilege, wealth, and elitism they have lived? If you are going to talk about somebody not understanding the common man, then look no further than the Beltway.
It is shocking that some people's lives are enriched by this nonsense – these boycotts and e-mails. They are proving themselves to be fundamentally anti-American and anti-democratic. They are against the First Amendment, so what are they defending? Unless they are trying to build a fascist Administration, unless they are trying to bring the American people to a point that we exist under a totalitarian regime.
I admit this freely, here and now, I have always wanted to be Janeane.
Boy 'pregnant' with twin brother
Um, well that's kinda creepy, no?
I have occasionally heard stories about people having tumors and cysts remove that contain all sorts of stuff, but I've never heard someone say that "while it was no longer a living substance it was feeding off the boy's blood supply." It reminds me of the episode of X-Files with the freakshow.
Now I'm vaguely itchy. Yuck.
How freakin' hard could it be to find nice flowers online to order for Mother's Day? This is just ridiculous -- everyone has the same old tired FTD crap.
Where do you order flowers from online?
Now is your chance to see me buck stark nekkid as a jaybird. Go a head, I know you wanna.
See, having the day off does have it's priveleges! *grin*
Two quick things --
So when I was at the evil communion mass from hell on Sunday Craig and I saw a lady with a bionic leg. OK, maybe not bionic, but it looked like something out of The Terminator. And then I told him about Stuart from Beyond Northern Iraq, who lost some of his leg in a landmine incident. So last night in bed Craig and I were talking about having a prosthetic leg, and what kind of fake legs we might like to have if the need should ever arise.
For starters, Craig and I agreed that having a Terminator type of leg might be really useful. You could have a detachable foot, and all these really cool attachments...
Our pillow talk has really taken a turn to the strange lately.
My neighborhood is really strange and interesting in a really bizarre way. Fishtown is definitely working class, but there's also a good representation by the welfare for life crowd. There are lots of mullets and people in need of dental work. And, just for kicks, we're really close to the ghetto.
This sign has been on a house on York Street for as long as I've lived here [going on three years now]. I always have to wonder what horrible thing happened at that house to make such a sign necessary. Was there a break-in by a group of thugs who were deaf, spoke Polish, and spoke Spanish? Is the warning really so the owner of the house doesn't get sued when the vicious family pet tears an intruder to shreds? I particularly like the blood dripping off the dog's teeth -- it's a nice touch.
My guess is it's not any of those things. It's probably just a crazy old couple who is just scared at the direction the neighborhood has taken, and thinks the scary dog sign will be effective. I'm expecting a similar sign to go up soon outside the house around the corner whose owners keep a caged monkey in their living room.
There's also a lady down the street who keeps half a dozen emus in her 10x10' patio. I'd like to see that sign -- crazy looking emu painted with a glint in it's eye, blood pouring out of it's mouth. I don't like to go near her place now, let alone with the threat of an emu on a rampage.
Yeah, this place is odd.
I was over at Clumsy Twirler Diaries just now, reading Andrew's latest entry. It's about finding your personal scent and how certain perfumes remind you of specific time periods in your life. That Andrew, he's got great stories!
Coincidentally, I was just thinking about this same topic. I'm not a successful perfume-wearer -- it seems as if I put perfume on and five minutes later the scent completely disappears. But I still try. The first perfumes I can remember wearing are Love's Baby Soft and a perfume made by the same company called Rain. You know what I discovered today? You can still purchase Love's Baby Soft. Who knew?
Anyway, yeah, I wore Love's Baby Soft, like every other pre teen girl on the planet. I don't think I ever really liked the way it smelled so much, but it was cheap and it's all I could afford. It was either Baby Soft or that hideous, grandma-smelling Avon crap that came in my tooth fairy statue/perfume bottle.
After I started working, I could afford to move up in the world. I started wearing Anais Anais. Who knows why we do the things we do...I can't stand the way it smells now. Oh, and then there was the Liz Claiborne phase. Who amongst us has not owned at least one triangle bottle of Liz?
I bought three bottles of perfume when I was in Paris. Since perfume purchased in Europe has longer smelly power than perfume able to be purchased in the U.S., I thought I'd give it a shot. And it does actually last on me. But now I worry about being one of those women who smells like I bathe in perfume.
Sometimes you just can't win.
On a different note, over the last few days Kathy and Statia have both posted about lurking visitors and discovered a huge amount of people who read but don't leave comments. go fish doesn't get nearly the traffic that they do, but I wonder if there are any lurkers here. I don't know, just a thought.
I've covered it to death that I don't really like kids over much, right? Normally, I mind my business and they mind theirs. My neighborhood is rife with annoying pre-pubescent male shitheads. They're irritating in the way that you just know they're a few years away from date rape, mullets, and wearing wife beaters for fashion.
I'm sitting on the couch late afternoon today knitting. It had just stopped raining, but the back door to my patio is wide open. All of a sudden I see one of the little bastards peep his head over my nine foot tall patio wall. My "doing something illegal" radar goes on, but I'm not a nosy neighbor so I try to ignore the little shits. And then the clanging starts.
I roll my eyes and continue knitting. The clanging continues for 45 minutes, plus all the little fucktards are out in the alley whooping it up. Eventually I go back to the patio to resume my pre-rain reading and, because the schmucks don't realize that I have ears and if you're doing something wrong you shouldn't broadcast it to the whole world, I discover that they're trying to break into a garage. That's what the clanging was, you see -- one of the fuckers had a hammer and was banging the hell out of the lock.
Generally speaking, if the kids want to act like morons I can usually block them out. But this breaking and entering thing is illegal. Knowing tha by doing so I will turn into the cranky old biddy on the block, I pick up the phone and call the police and rat their dumb asses out.
Of course, it being Philadelphia, no cops ever arrive on the scene. Not that it matters -- ten minutes after my discovery they broke a window to some woman's house in the alley and took off like the devil was after them.
Sometimes I wish there was a service like the SPCA you could call when there are idiotic kids running around. You know how when you see a stray and the SPCA comes in their little paddy wagon, picks 'em up, and then euthanizes them?
Because they're going to be nothing more than a burden on society when they get older.
I know this is a little strange, but nothing fills me with glee like a new magazine in the mail. Today my issue of Interweave Knitting arrived, heralded by the piquant odor of my mailman.
I rushed to the door and groped the plastic packaging for a second before I tore into it with overwhelming passion. A new magazine! Could this day be any better?
When I was in junior high I subscribed to Seventeen and a few other stupid girlie magazines. In high school I was addicted to my mother's subscription to Cosmo. I was a Details subscriber, long before it became a GQ clone. Back then it was devoted to the club scene. Later on I subscribed to writing journals, paper arts magazines like Somerset Studio, and various cooking magazines. Now, as an adult [if you can consider me one...I sometimes don't], I subscribe to various knitting journals, a couple of cooking mags, and two art 'zines -- one is called Play and it's about art journalling, and the other is called Dog-eared and it's about bookbinding and journal arts.
Yes, I'm a total magazine junkie.
As much as I love to read books, there's something so "instant gratification" about magazines. I always have to have one on hand just to get a quick reading fix. I do the same thing with knitting. I almost always have a baby sweater in process. No, really -- you know I'm not a big fan of children [babies, in particular], and I know of absolutely no one in my daily life who is having a baby and will need a sweater. But baby sweaters knit up quick. So in addition to the full on project for myself [let's say, an adult sweater] I have on needles, I always have something else going that I can finish quickly.
Call it multi-tasking if you want to, but really it's just for my instant-gratification needs. It's a sickness.
How did I not know it was going to rain this early? Either way, I'm glad I took today off from work -- the morning was gorgeous. I took a nice run, I even walked down to the grocery store, and my banana bread just came out of the oven. I'm even marinating chicken in tikka sauce for later on. And I sat outside and read I, Lucifer for about an hour. How is that for a fabulous morning?
Notice that I am studiously avoiding all contact with actual news today. I heard this morning that U.S. troops opened fire on a protest in Iraq last night, killing and injuring quite a few citizens. That pissed me off enough to just want to stick my head in the sand for the day. So Iraqi citizens in the crowd were shooting first, eh? Oh, is that like when U.S. troops shot up the journalists' hotel because gun fire "appeared" to be coming from it, except there wasn't?
I will admit that I watched Jon Stewart this morning. It was the show from the day of Hussein's birthday. And it only served to convince me that Bush is a lying sack of shit. And before you go all "Clinton is the devil" on me, may I remind you that lying about your sex life doesn't endanger the lives of Americans everywhere, OK? It's unbecoming and, under oath, it's certainly illegal, but it doesn't make me [an American] a pariah in every country other than the U.S. So shut it down.
OK, starting to feel bitter and angry again. Think nice, fluffy bunnies. The Serta sheep. Whiskers on kittens. Reigning in my disgust now. Feeling a little better. Head firmly back in oven sand.
Much better.
So.....who's watching Buffy and American Idol and 24 later?
Sometimes I think I might be half vampire -- I look at my skin and it's so white and see through that I have to be descended from the undead. No normal human is quite as pasty white and ghostly-looking as I am.
I'm thinking of purchasing some self-tanner this week. Of course, I'm deeply afraid. I have only used one of those once. I think Coppertone made it back in the mid-80s. It turned me orange and I forgot to wash my hands, so the palms of my hands were dark brown. A very pretty look for me, let me tell you.
I know that self-tanners have improved since then. So I leave it up to you -- I need suggestions. What do you use, why do you like it? Or what have you used that was the worst product ever? I can no longer bear to look dead. Help me!
I'm extending my party, yo. I woke up this morning, turned on the local news and decided it's going to be much too beautiful to work today. So here I am at home in my PJ's, not wearing a bra. The freedom is almost too much!
So what am I going to do today. Well, first on my agenda is a nice jog around the neighborhood. The Race for the Cure is coming up shortly [less than two weeks] so I've got to put in some extra time.
If I wasn't next to dead broke [it's rent time, you know] I'd take the train to NYC. There are a slew of exhibits going on that I'm dying to see. At the very least, when I hit New York on June 23 I'll be able to see the Goddess exhibit at the Met.
Maybe I'll make banana bread. I know, stop the fun train -- I want to get off! Woooo!
Awwwwww yeahhhh, boiiiiii! While the cat is away, the mouse will play. Play Grease 2, that is! *maniacal laughter*
I might even do the Cool Rider dance. Well, duh -- of course I'll do the Cool Rider dance. And the Back to School Again dance. And I'll sing Reproduction at the top of my lungs. If only I had a slutty gold lame dress so I could sing We'll Be Together in costume.
I want a C-O-O-L, R-I-D-E-R.....I wanna cool rider! A cool, cool, cool rider! Woo!
You know, come to think of it, I could probably recreate the Christmas tree costume from the A Girl for All Seasons scene. Of course, if I electrocute myself I'll be good and dead by the time Craig arrives home from D.C. tomorrow night. On second thought, maybe I should leave the Christmas tree lights where they are.
Stephanie, please don't cry....
Donald Rumsfeld is the most evil man on the planet. I'm convinced of it. No, really.
US Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld has said that his country has entered a new era in which it must pre-emptively seek out and prevent attacks by terrorists and terrorist states.So, what he's saying is that if I think my neighbor may be a be planning to slit my throat in my sleep, it's OK if I bust into his house and kill him first?
He told coalition troops at US Central Command in the Gulf state of Qatar that the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq showed that America had made a good start.
He said the US-led invasion of Iraq would go down in military history because of its unprecedented combination of power, precision, speed and flexibility.So as long as I make a big display of going in armed to the teeth and don't kill my neighbor's hamster, it's OK?It was also notable for its compassion towards innocent civilians, he said.
Sure, I'm being facetious. But Rumsfeld is giving troops a pat on the back, telling them that what they have done will "go down in history" and they should "be very proud." Yes, they should be proud that they let some of the world's earliest artifacts be pilfered. I'm thrilled that the Iraqi people have gotten rid of their evil ruler, but an extended U.S. presence isn't going to make anyone happy. And replacing their government with rulers of the U.S.'s choosing isn't going to be good either -- anyone remember hearing that half a dozen U.S. soldiers were just killed in Afghanistan last week or so? Yep, killed by the evil Taliban that we supposedly got rid of.
Right now, bin Laden and Hussein are probably having tea somewhere conspiring against the U.S. Before long the U.S. will have rolled over so many countries and not caught [or killed] their head guys that they'll have lots of company.
Yep, sleep well tonight knowing that our government is doing it's level best to ensure our safety.
I know how it is -- you're in a strange city on a visit and it's hot outside and all you want to do is cool down. So you see a beautiful fountain and think how nice it would be to go swimming. You peel off your sweaty socks and shoes, roll up your pants and decide to dip your toes in the deliciously cool water. Maybe you decide to walk around a little in the crystal clear water.
Congratulations: you are now covered in homeless person piss.
It's gorgeous outside today. It's over 80 degrees, just one of those days you want to lounge on a sandy beach somewhere and not think of work. So I met Christy out at Logan Circle lunch, you know, to sun and catch up. All of a sudden a swarm of teenagers who scream "suburbanite!" descend on the fountain and decide it would be a great idea to go wading.
Christy and I watched in horror. "Do you think one of us should tell them they're swimming in urine?" Christy asked.
"Nah," I said. "It's much more fun to watch them take a drink."
I'd totally buy these playing cards
[link found via Oliver Willis]
Craig's mother wanted to see the photos from our last vacation, so I took the pack of pictures to the evil communion from hell yesterday. So they get passed around to all the relatives at the ho-down and Craig's mother comes over and starts asking me about the trip. She says, "So, where are you going next?"
"We're going to Florida in October," I answer. "And I'm going to London next Spring with Christy. But I think Craig and I might go to Scotland or Belgium next. I'd also love to go back to France."
Well, clutch the pearls. Craig's mother almost spit out her cookie. Eyes bugging out of her head, she exclaimed, "You'd go back to France?"
"Well, yes," I said. "It's beautiful there. I loved it."
"But don't they hate Americans? And what about what they did about the war?" Craig's mother looked like she was trying to figure out a way to poke me in the eye with a plastic fork without anyone noticing.
"Uh, no. The French don't hate Americans now anymore than they ever did. I think they pity us for having such a ridiculous government," I told her. "but that's basically about it. I mean, 'freedom toast'? Give me a break."
And then I was left in beautiful, golden silence. Maybe I should have told her that I go out of my way to buy French wine, you know, just to make a point. That would have been good for at least a year of silence.
So Craig has to go to D.C. overnight for work. What am I going to do with myself? It's just me and Sassy. We've got the place to ourselves. It's party time! Wooo!
First things first -- the guest list. I'm getting in touch with the guy who is defending Seattlites' rights to bike nekkid because he just sounds like fun. Those cheeky African chicks who got so pissed off a government official leapt from a third story window to avoid their wrath are definitely invited. Of course, all the crazy kids who read go fish are welcome to join in the festivities. I'll make sushi for everyone and then kick everyone out after about fifteen minutes of merriment. Because, you know, I'm fickle like that.
You know what I'm really looking forward to? Having the bed all to myself. Rock on, partygirl!
Um, so I love shoes. And I'm willing to pay for a good and pretty shoe. But I don't think I could ever bring myself to shell out $1M for a pair of shoes, even if the cash was going to charity.
"The shoes, inspired by the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz, were woven from platinum thread and set with 642 rubies."I do wish that I were in London right now so I could go to Harrod's and at least ogle them a bit. I wonder what size they are. And I wonder if they'd let me at least try them on.
Hmmmm.
It looks like all my worrying over whether the GOP is ruining this country and making the world a crappier place, in general, is for naught. According to Sir Martin Rees [royal astronomer], we've only got a "50/50 chance of surviving another century." There's some good news, eh?
Rees brings up some interesting questions. One that I have been thinking about is the "extent to which individuals might trade their own privacy in order to allow the state to combat new, insidious, forms of global terrorism: a sort of democratised form of Big Brother." To be honest, I'm not willing to compromise my rights in order to crack down on terrorism. Take a look at, for instance, London. There have been terrorist attacks in London for many, many years. London residents have not lost any of their freedoms, as far as I know. Any English citizens want to chime in here? While in London a few weeks after September 11th I didn't notice any extremes in searches for public safety. If the English government can deal with terrorism without making things insane for it's citizens, why can't the American government do the same?
Rees notes the things that could be threats: "Among these, he includes natural events, such as super-eruptions and asteroid impacts, and man-made disasters like engineered viruses, nuclear terrorism and even a take-over by super-intelligent machines." And then wonders if "scientists should withhold findings which could potentially be used for destructive purposes, or if there should be a moratorium, voluntary or otherwise, on certain types of scientific research, most notably genetics and biotechnology."
That's a slippery slope. A moratorium on genetics and biotech research could be potentially disasterous. A researcher doing cloning experiments, for instance, might accidentally stumble across a cure for cancer of AIDS. It happens often enough -- research for one thing yields findings in completely other areas.
Withholding findings runs a similar risk. Of course, if a scientist discovers a new something or other that could kill the world in two seconds, yes, I think it's acceptable to keep that information to him or herself. Of course, someone else will eventually discover the same thing and that person might not be so ethical. So then you have to wonder if wouldn't it have been a good idea to disseminate the information in the first place so you could work on a vaccine for when the unethical person sells the dangerous material to a terrorist organization?
I think I might have to go out and buy Rees' new book.
I don't believe in banning private ownership of guns. In doing so, you create another avenue of cash flow for crime syndicates and freelance criminals. It's sort of like keeping drugs illegal -- if you de-criminalize drug use, you don't need to purchase your drugs from criminals anymore and they lose out on money.
I will say, though, that I do support certain laws pertaining to gun ownership. You should need to be licensed and background checked. You should be fingerprinted and your gun should be fingerprinted. Unless you're in law enforcement there isn't any need for a private citizen to own an assault rifle. I don't think gun manufacturers should be able to be sued because some smacked ass picks up a gun and kills someone, but I do think all guns should come standard with child proof safety locks that can't be permanently removed. I think most people feel this way -- gun ownership should stay legal but there should be rules and regulations. I'm not saying anything crazy or extreme.
And so, by that token, Jeb Bush must be on crack.
Good old Jeb thanked the NRA for helping to get George elected in 2000. This may or may not be true. According to the NRA exit polls, 48% of voters are gun owners. It seems a little high to me, but it could be true. But I seriously doubt that every single gun owner agrees with the NRA that gun ownership should be "an individual right with few restrictions." Furthermore, I really doubt that very many people believe Jeb's assertion that "[t]he sound of our guns is the sound of freedom."
If you live out in the backwoods of Kentucky the sound of a gun just means you might be hunting or doing a little target practice. That's innocent enough. But try living in a city. The sound of a gun isn't the sound of freedom -- it's the sound of someone getting killed or injured. It's the sound of being afraid to leave your home because you might get randomly shot at.
I think of card carrying NRA members as freaky militia people who are convinced that they need a gun for self-defense. Never mind the fact that they might live out in the middle of no where and you need a road map to find their home. Maybe they think the shit is going to hit the fan one day and some rogue nation will invade and then we'll all be sorry that every household doesn't have a gun.
And I'm not against owning a gun for self-defense. Although I will say that the first thing my self-defense teacher told us is that having a gun for self-defense is usually a bad idea. It can be taken from you during a violent attack and used against you, or you might make a mistake and shoot your roommate. I've had a hunter's safety course and I know how to shoot a handgun, but I have never thought owning a gun is a good idea. After I was mugged many years ago my dad offered me a gun, and I politely declined.
I would like to think that the average American can tell the difference between rational thought on gun ownership, and crazed extremists like those fools at the NRA. Even Cleetus and Mavis from the smallest town in Kansas can understand that the NRA's legislative agenda [including allowing a ban on specific assault rifles to lapse] is not good for your average American.
I kind of hope that people snap out of their patriotic coma and get with the program -- keeping Americans in fear [from gun violence, from the threat of terrorism, etc.] doesn't do anyone any good. It just tears us further and further away from each other.
Well. That was the most boring three hours ever. The first thing I noticed when the ushers handed me the communion bulletin is the picture of the fish and cup, so I had to add my own special touch to it. And then I altered the bulletin of anyone who would let me. I swear, can't take me anywhere. And then I listened to the groovy organ music, which sounded just like carousel music. I half expected the ring grab mechanism to shoot out of the wall at any second. Come to think of it, that would have bee great during communion. Take a cookie, a sip of wine, and try for the brass ring. Whoever gets the brass ring gets to have a second communion cookie.
So, does anyone really listen to the sermon? I really want to know. I don't know how anyone could continue on with their religious beliefs if they actually listened. These are just a few of the things I heard today:
So was my day.
Yeah, so, I have to go to church today. Catholic church, no less.
Craig's neice and nephew are having their first communion today, and since Craig is godfather to the nephew he has to be present. And I'm expected to be there too. Whoever thought up this marital "wherever he goes, I go too" crap must have been smoking crack. It's a gorgeous day and I can think of twenty million things I'd rather be doing then spending even so much as one second in a gloomy church being preached at. OK, let's be honest, even if it was fucking snowing like crazy, thundering, hailing, and in the middle of a monsoon, I still wouldn't want to be inside a church.
I'm sure it will come as no surprise to anyone that I have never been to a first communion before. Is this the ceremony when they are accepted into church, and have officially accepted the whole god and jeebus, women are inherently evil rhetoric? These kids are maybe seven years old -- I hardly think they understand the ramifications of what they're signing on for.
I just hope this whole spiel doesn't last too long -- I'm not good in church. And I can't even take something to keep me occupied [journal, Gameboy, marbles, tiddlywinks], since Craig's family is going to be there and I have to act like a fucking adult who doesn't think organized religion is a total scam.
Not to mention that I have to attend a little celebratory lunch afterwards with Craig's family. That means that I'm going to need to mainline some sort of extra strength headache medication. In addition to the two getting communioned, there's a boy who is three, and three girls ages 11-14. Plus there are two grown women [Craig's mother and the mother of the communion-ees] who can't say a word unless they are shouting in their high pitched, annoying voices. Picture Sharon Osborne without the accent and sense of humor, and way less cool.
Think of me today as I am forced to live in my own special ring of hell. Try to brainwave some good thoughts to me. I'm sure to be thinking of new and exciting ways to kill myself until I'm sprung from the Lunch of the High- Pitched Shriek.
Well. Another exciting Saturday evening with a bottle of wine.
I was going through my huge stockpile of books the other day and ran across an old copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I have always adored that book, and re-read it every now and then. Today I found out that the house in which C.S. Lewis grew up in, and which is said to have inspired that story, is up for sale and there is concern that it might be demolished. I hope there is a way to save the house.
Not every single book I read gets sucked into my permanent collection. In fact, I make it a habit to go through the books that I've collected in the last year and weed out the ones I don't want to keep, and I either sell them to a used book store or I donate them. I would estimate that I get rid of 35 books every year, roughly half of what I buy each year.
I don't read nearly as much as I used to. It's almost impossible to read while knitting or bookbinding or making a shrine. Reading used to be my only hobby. I read at least three or four books every week. Now I share my free time with the rest of my interests. The only time I still read half a dozen books in a week is when I'm on the beach. Now I'm down to about one book every week.
I have a real thing with books. The first thing I do when I buy a new book is smell it. New books have their own smell, sort of like a new car or fresh dittos. I especially love the smell of old books. My grandmother recently gave me a box full of vintage knitting books and for the first five minutes I just smelled them. There's something about books that just connect with something in me, and that's probably why I handmake books -- I feel really connected with the form of the book when I finish a new journal or album.
And it's not just the book form -- it's the words themselves. My mother tells me that I taught myself to read when I was three years old by watching Sesame Street. Ever since I've been reading and writing. I have a fascination, bordering on obsession, with words. That might make some sense out of the three dozen journals chock full of my thoughts beginning at age 9, and the 1000+ journal entries I've made here in the last year.
Some of you might know that I'm finally a senior in college. I'm 31 years old, and it's taken me two years of full time college and nine years [off and on] of night classes to make it this far. It should take me two more years to get my bachelor's degree in English Literature. To be honest, I've never had a clear career goal in mind. I just knew that I wanted to do something that involves words. Now I'm thinking of three things -- a master's in Library Science, or Speech and Rhetoric, or some specialty of Literature.
One day I'll figure it all out. In the meantime, I'll concentrate on the words.
There are only a few reasons I can think of for actually wanting to go to the great Garden State. The only reason that continually draws me over the Ben Franklin Bridge is the cheaper alcohol. Buying wine in New Jersey is not only less expensive, but all the wine shops post Wine Spectator ratings on the really good bottles and that makes it a lot easier to experiment without fear of picking up a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Of course, transporting liquor across state lines is illegal. But I'm a rebel like that -- breakin' the law, breakin' the law!
But before I made with the criminal behavior, Craig and I stopped at the Loew's in Cherry Hill and saw Identity. Let me just clarify one thing -- Identity is not a scary movie. And I haven't read more than one review that had any clue about this movie. It's suspenseful and it could be called a psychological thriller. Everyone is saying the movie is confusing -- trust me, this is not a thinking man's movie. Yes, there are a couple of plot twists and the ending is not concrete. It doesn't make it a confusing movie.
Plus, John Cusak is in it. How can you not like John Cusak, especially since he's dripping wet 99% of the time. I lurve me some wet John Cusak. Even without John Cusak I would have enjoyed the movie though.
And I will say this: I totally thought I had the whole thing figured out within 15 minutes of the beginning of the film but I was way wrong. And you know I just now realized that Rebecca DeMornay is in the film? It just didn't look like her.
I'm going to recommend this movie -- fins up!
Nothing pisses me off more than being awakened after a night of perfect sleep at the crack of fucking dawn by wife-beatered construction workers standing around waiting for members of their crew talking at the top of their lungs.
I'm sure they think it's hilarious -- if they can't be asleep at 6am, why should anyone else. One of these days I'm going to invest in a dart blow gun and then they'll be sorry. [Montgomery Burns voice] Verrrrry sorrrrry [/Montgomery Burns voice].
You know, since it's my special day, I'd like to tell you about my blog reading habits. I read over 300 blogs. If you have an RSS feed, your blog gets read every day, every single post. If you ping your blog when updated, your blog gets read if I'm in front a computer when Blogrolling updates your listing. If you neither ping nor have an RSS feed you get read maybe once or twice every week. I'm basically lazy -- the easier you make it for me to read your blog, the more I'm going to read it.
So if this was a perfect world, everyone would have an RSS feed. I know not everyone has the ability to lay an RSS feed, but if you can do it, you should. More to the point, you should have a full post RSS feed, not just an excerpt feed. I found instructions for how to make an RSS feed for Blogger blogs and there are likely instructions for all kinds of other blogs elsewhere.
See now, everyone can ping -- even if you have a Diaryland, Diary-x, or other type of blog. It's true. You can ping Weblogs through their ping form or through Blo.gs at their ping form.
So if you love me you'll create an RSS feed for yourself if you don't have one, or you'll ping your site when you post an entry -- think of my poor overworked eyes! Think of how much extra time I'll have to spend being an upstanding citizen! Think of the children!
Yep, so I came up to the studio to check my email and absently turned on the television. The talented kids thing is on and it's definitely a train wreck. If there's one thing worse than kids who think they have talent, it's the parents of children who think they have talent. Because you just know a six year old would never wear leather pants of his own accord.
I would venture to say that there is just something inherently evil about a kid who doesn't even have hair on his parts wearing leather pants and singing about "too much lovin' drives a man insane" and "I want to love you like a lover should." It's creepy and his plastic blonde mother is even creepier for enjoying it.
Not to mention that Mario Lopez is eerie.
I thought the Eiffel Tower was breath-takingly beautiful at night when I was in Paris. It stuns me to think of how gorgeous it will look when it's new look is complete.
Looks like I need to make another trip back.
Anyone catch Madonna on Will & Grace last night? You know, the only movie I've ever been able to get through with her in it is Desparately Seeking Susan. She's just gotten to be a suckier and suckier actress with age. Oy vey. She was wretched last night.
And please tell me that she did not pick her own wardrobe. What was up with the hot pink velour pants and long black belted cardigan? Velour pants always remind me of camel toe.
Coincidentally enough, it looks like the power of Madonna's fashion choices has not died. When I was out and about during my lunch hour today I ended up walking behind a woman wearing the exact same outfit -- from the hot pink velour pants up to the cardigan. I didn't get a chance to check out her camel toe, unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it.
So, as of this posting I have 1,004 posts and 1,974 comments. That's a lot of talking for one year. I don't think I've really learned anything new or become a better person or anything. It hasn't been a spiritual journey. But I have made friends with a lot of really wonderful people, both locally and not-so-locally...and I am really happy about that.
I would venture to say that out of those 1,004 posts over the last 365 days, I don't remember most of them. But if I had to pick out my favorite post, I would say it's the faux punk series that began way back in August. So in honor of today I'm going to post the links to the whole series, in order. Let the hilarity ensue...
Just wanted to share one of the entries emailed to me as part of the blogaversary contest extravaganza. Alan made the playing card above for me since I was bitching about those ludicrous "most wanted" playing cards the other day. And he said he used that particular photo of me because the entry it appeared in made him a regular reader! Thanks Alan, you rock!
On this day of bloggery celebration, I thought I'd let you in on another of my weird phobias. I don't wear skirts. Now I have relented on this rule of mine a few times -- when I got married, for instance. Sure, I wore a dress that day. But, 99.8% of the time I am strictly a pants wearing girl.
The truth of the matter is that I was severely traumatized in a skirt-related disaster some years ago. In high school I got used to having my ass hanging out in front of large crowds of people. I never really gave it much thought -- short skirts were just part of the uniform. In college I wore skirts occasionally, but they weren't conducive to keeping decent while staggering home drunk. It was when I first joined the adult workforce that it happened.
I was working at headhunting agency in Bala Cynwyd [a suburb of Philadelphia], and it was required to dress a little bit on the business-y side. So I bought a couple of skirts. I made the hazardous mistake of purchasing a wrap around skirt, one of those kicky little A-line plaid pleated ones that come just above the knee. And, being poor, it was of craptacular quality.
I'm crossing the busy highway one fine Spring day when the wind catches my skirt in just the right way and blows it up. Way up. Like around my ears. For what seemed like an hour I fought with the wind to get a literal grip on my skirt and compose myself amid the beeps and cheers from a myriad of drivers stopped at the light. It was then I noticed that my boss and three clients were stopped first at the light. Damn.
Now luckily, I was wearing underwear. Yes, it could have been worse. However, the underwear was red with the words "Eat here" written across the crotch. It's doubtful that anyone had eyesight hawkish enough to read the writing on the bush, so to speak, but it was traumatizing nonetheless.
And so, no skirts for me.
Huh. I just noticed, my last entry was my 1000th entry at go fish. It really is a banner day! Or maybe that's just proof I can't keep my big mouth shut -- you decide.
At any rate, the moment you've been waiting for, the winners of the tell-me-you-love-me-and-win-a-handmade-by-Nicole-journal contest:
I'll be emailing you today with instructions on how to claim your journal -- and thanks for, well, for professing your undying love and devotion.It's nice to know my journals will have nice new homes with fabulous people!
Happy 1 Year Blogaversary to go fish!
And a big thanks to you for reading. I've kept a journal since I was in the third grade, so I'd be writing even without an audience but I must say knowing that someone will read what I'm writing forces me to be just a little less stupid. So thanks for keeping me from being dumb, eh? *grin*
Contest winners will be announced shortly....
So. Take Our Daughters To Work Day. Well, technically, now it's Take Our Daughters and Sons To Work Day. Eh, whatever.
I don't get involved with this. For starters, I'm really not such a big fan of children. Every year my company emails us asking for volunteers to babysit a bunch uninterested kids from the local schools and every year I ignore it. Usually the Vice President of the department signs up to get a kid and then books himself for eight meetings and pawns the kid off on us.
Is it just me, or do none of these kids have social skills? It seems like the only kids who sign up to take part are the ones who either want a day off from school or are required for some reason to participate. They're all monosyllabic, and try to stare you down with that vacant gaze of hatred. And I'm kind of a smartass. When the unlucky employees bring their ward for the day around to meet everyone, I'm all perky and shake hands with them because I know it makes them incredibly uncomfortable.
Plus, most kids don't know how to shake hands properly.
To be honest, most adults don't know how to shake hands properly. You get a clammy limp fingertip squeeze or a manly knuckle squisher. With kids, from really young all the way up to high school seniors, they will look at your hand like it's got cooties and then tentatively lay their hand limply in yours. And then they start blushing uncontrollably, like they just saw you nekkid.
Maybe the kids who sign up for this little Day o' Fun in other regions are more excited, brighter, less sullen. I hope so. Otherwise, I weep for the future.
Now, I realize that, in theory, TODASTWD [nice acronym] is an important program and I should be thrilled to get involved with an event that encourages girls [and now boys] to "achieve their full potential, whether it is in the home, workplace, or community." But I don't really think it does much, other than to expose kids to the tedium of the workplace. Do you really think now is the time to bring kids in here to see the wonder and joy of employment when half the fired employees are in here packing up their desks? If I were a kid coming in here today I'd take one look and vow never to work for a non-profit.
Yeah, so, way to win hearts and minds, pal:
President Bush swooped Thursday into the home state of a fellow Republican who refuses to go along with his drive for more than a half-trillion dollars in new tax cuts, deriding supporters of a "little bitty tax relief package."This is the new plan? He's just going to make fun of people until they acquiese? And here's a tip -- you're the PRESIDENT, fucking act like it. "Little bitty" should not be in your vocabulary unless you're referring to a lapdog...you know, like your Cabinet.
Good news! Twisted Sister is reuniting for a USO tour:
"It's funny that back in 1985 we had to go before Congress and defend our music against censorship and now we're ambassadors for the Defense Department," guitarist Jay Jay French quipped in a statement.Dee Snider always scared the bejeezus out of me, and he has not gotten prettier with age.
I was just reminded by receiving an absolutely wonderful photoshopped tribute to the fish, that tomorrow is my
I've been thinking about Rick Santorum a lot these last few days. It's not just that he's a homophobic schmuck, it's that he's so clueless about it. And, because I have an overactive imagination, I started thinking about what his home life must be like. A man like Rick, so quick to defend his Religious Right, uber-Catholic, Stepford thoughts, can't be any fun to have around the house. But I suspect that his wife, Karen, is just as much of a freak as he is.
Rick: Honey, I'm home!
Karen: Oh, Rick! How washyer day out makin' the world shafe from thosh sinning homo-seshu-als and meddling baby killersh?
Rick: Well, sweetiepie, daddy made a couple of fags mad today by telling the Truth. You know how it is -- but I know a couple of gays. In fact, isn't our interior decorator gay? That ought to shut those bastards up.
Karen: Oh, Rick! Yer my hero. Where'd I put that drink?
Rick: Guess what, pumpkin? It's Tuesday! It's marital relations night! Time to give daddy some sugar!
Karen: Oh, Rick! Tueshday already? Where doesh the time go? Oh, but shugarplum, I shpent the day having cocktailsh with the maid and shlaving over the hot shtove making you a tashty meal of meat and potatoesh. *hiccup* Wouldn't you like to eat firsht?
Rick: Why Karen, you know I like my meat and potatoes in the bedroom! Ha ha ha. Gosh, I'm so witty and smart -- is it any wonder thousands of Pennsylvanians voted me into office and assigned me to be their moral compass?
Karen: Oh, Rick! You really are *hiccip* a man of god! I tell you what let'sh do -- go take a shower and wash yer parts real good and momma will meet you in the bedroom.
Rick: Karen, you minx! OK, I'll meet you there in five minutes.
[Karen scampers off to the kitchen and pours herself another martini. She picks up the phone, and calls a friend.]
Karen: Bonnie, it'sh Karen. Fucking Rick jusht got home, I'm ripped, and it'sh muthafucking bone the uptight white guy night. The poolboy fucked me ten ways to Shunday yeshterday, guessh it'sh a good thing he came early. Fuck, I gotta go. Rick'sh gettin' purified for the marital missionary shtyle blissh. Later.
[Karen finishes up her drink and mopes to the bedroom.]
So, uh, anyone notice that American Idol Josh has man boobs? It's true -- he's got a little pair of nubbins.
Maybe a perky rack is the newest trend in Marine physique.
Yeah, so I'm checking my email and I turn on the local news. Their health reporter is fielding questions about SARS emailed in from area viewers. OK, now put on your best moron voice and say it with me:
I am wondering if I should be worried about getting SARS when I shop at the dollar store. Most of those products are manufactured in China and I'm very nervous about buying these products at the dollar store for fear that I'll get sick.That's got to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard in the last few hours. The person has obviously been watching the SARS media blitz but only half paying attention. Otherwise, he or she would know that SARS is transmitted person to person. Besides which, what dollar stores does this person shop at, the asian-made dollar store?
I'm betting that the email writer has a mullet and really likes polyester and has a house full of dollar store chotchkies.
Heh. I find it absolutely fucking hilarious that Santorum chose to defend his homophobic tirade in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Yesterday I read a comment somewhere that there's Philadelphia and there's Pittsburgh and everywhere in between is like the fucking backwoods of Arkansas. And it's true, and no where is it truer than Williamsport.
I've been to Williamsport several times. It's a bastion of rural craptastic living at it's finest, with minor minority presence. He knew there would be very little protest and an audience filled with Deeply Religious Cleetus and Mavis types taking time out from pig farming to support a fellow hater.
So, Santorum is whining that his comments were taken out of context and he's no homophobe. Ahem.
"I have no problem with homosexuality," Santorum said, according to the AP. "I have a problem with homosexual acts."Um, honey, that's you being homophobic. Make no mistake: you're a closed-minded, uber religious freak with no business in politics.
Well.
I have some good news and bad news. Actually, it's all the same thing: I still have a job in the midst of the big restructuring. No unemployment line for me. Yet, anyway.
Of course, as with all "tighten our belts" type of meetings, this one encouraged us all to be passionate about the mission and be fired up and team-driven every day. I thought for sure the Executive Director was going to ask us all to get tattoos of our logo and go on extended ancient bonding rituals together. Nothing says "team" like walking over hot coals together, right?
Meanwhile, my entire department hates coming to work every day, hates the company, doesn't believe in the mission, and was not-so-secretly hoping to be restructured.
Where are my bonbons, dammit!
I fully admit to liking to do cheesy things every now and again. When I got on vacation I always do at least one completely ridiculous things. One of my upcoming trips will be to Scotland, and while there I plan to hit the Loch Ness in full force.
You know, to look for the monster.
Until then, I can get my Nessie fix by keeping an eye out for her on the Lochness monstervision cam.
Hoooooooooooray!
If I had to list my basic necessities for life, I'd say clean water, food, medical supplies if I get sick, maybe electricity. How about you? Does anyone require, let's say, oil on a daily basis?
"Our focus in restoring the oil is to give the biggest benefit to the Iraqi people," said Brig. Gen. Robert Crear, the top U.S. official charged with getting Iraq's oil production up and running.What? Much of the country doesn't have any basic necessities, but making the oil flow is giving the "biggest benefit" to Iraqi citizens. Have I taken leave of my faculties? Does that make sense to anyone?
So you like George W. Bush, do you? Think he's the best President ever? Thinks he's way better than Clinton?
Well then, I suggest you go and gloat over his outstanding record of achievements to date! Go ahead, you know you want to!
Do you remember the excitement of getting your first driver's license? Despite the fact that I hate to drive and haven't driven since I was about 25, I was thrilled at the idea of getting my license.
Being an avid reader of good literature and also your typical teenage romance trash novels, I was firmly entrenched in the idea that the test was hard and I would likely fail at least once. But it's obvious that none of the writers of those kinds of novels ever visited my hometown -- the course involves driving around the block, doing a three point turn, and then parking at the curb. Even a novice like me could handle something like that.
It's the photo taking portion of the extravaganza that was the most memorable.
So, you know how the DMV likes to hire people with various disabilities? Well, the guy who took my photo was mildly retarded and looked EXACTLY like James Brown. I'm not even exaggerating -- he had the hair, the same complexion. The only thing he lacked was a sequined jacket.
I half expected him to say, "Look at the camera, smile if you like. HOT PANTS!" and then do a little dance around the room. "I FEEL GOOD! UH!"
Needless to say, I look ridiculous in the photo on my first license [which, nobly, I gave away to my younger look-alike cousin so she could partake of alcoholic beverages -- yeah, I'm a giver that way] -- I'm smirking from trying not to giggle at my bizarre thoughts, and I'm wearing a Richard Marx tshirt from the concert I attended the night before.
Hold on to the night, yo.
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with some big fat zits
And some whiteheads on her face
You get sprung
The stress from the American Idol competition is taking it's toll on Carmen's complexion. Holy schmoly, she's got those huge moundy zits that look like the roots are embedded deep in the middle of her head. And she must be on some good drugs, otherwise, why would she be so deluded as to think...
...that she could actually win the competition. Everytime she opens her mouth and that goat-like sound comes out it's an affront to hearing people everywhere.
Easily, the bottom three are Carmen, Josh, and Trenyce. If there's any justice in this world it'll be Josh that gets voted off. I swear that guy didn't hit a single note in that song. And his Jack Nicholson Joker smile is just too much to take.
Oy.
The shit has officially begun to hit the fan here at Panhandlers Central. You might remember last month I was lamenting a possible unemployment stint. Well, the time is neigh.
I ran down to the supply room to grab some pens for this evenings festivities and ran into one of the supply room employees. She informed me that she was about to go meet with HR and she had a sneaking suspicion that she and the other two mailroom/supply employees were going to be shitcanned, and all services outsourced.
This news has set off a chain of events and clandestine espionage. We are cooler and cucumber-ier than Spy vs. Spy.
We have spies reporting back that one of the mailroom employees has been sighted crying and then speaking to HR, being asked if he was going to be alright. We also have confirmation that at least one person has been told that this same employee has been fired.
My department is having a meeting tomorrow to announce the "restructuring" plans. There are reports that half a dozen people are cleaning out their desks in anticipation of getting the boot. I have it from a good source that seven people in my department are going to be fired tomorrow, so I guess desk cleaning isn't a bad idea. Although, unfortunately, I also have it on good authority that I will not be one of the lucky ones. And I was so looking forward to a summer collecting unemployment -- dammit!
And then there's the whole thing with re-applying for jobs as a way to get rid of people. My department is the only department not doing that. Hmmmmm.
But word spreads like wildfire around here. Rumors are running rampant, with everyone trying to pump each other for information.
Things are about to get ugly.
I get emails from a high end cosmetics store here in town. They also offer facials and massage and waxing services. Today they sent me an email about their new eyebrow guy. This person does nothing other than shape brows.
Sorry for the constant barrage of emails, but I wanted to let you all know that Saturday with Robert, our new "eyebrow guru", was absolutely AMAZING. In fact, it was so amazing that beginning this week he'll be here on Saturdays every week. We had a huge response, and everyone was completely thrilled with their brows. Mine, for one, have never looked better. Again, the details: for $30, you'll get an eyebrow consultation, and then your eyebrows will be plucked and tweezed (he doesn't use wax, which means that you don't have to walk around red all day). Plus, he'll instruct you on where your brows are going, and what you need to work on with him to have perfect arches.I get my eyebrows waxed regularly, but I find the idea of consulting with someone over the future of my brows kind of weird and off-putting and just way too high maintenance for even me.
And $30 for brows? That better comes with an orgasm.
Ah!
What is it about free stuff that makes people into inconsiderate morons?
Some of you may know that in addition to my professional panhandling duties, I also manage a program that takes fresh-faced young professionals and molds them into ruthless Board whores [the less sarcastic version of this is the program trains people to successfully sit on a non-profit Board of Directors]. It's a free service to donors of a certain dollar level, but others around town charge upwards of $2000 for the same service.
So anyway, my first session of this year's program is this evening. Weeks ago I sent the fucktards who signed up a welcome letter stating very clearly that this evening's session is MANDATORY in order to graduate. I kid you not, in the last two days I've gotten at least one call every two hours from some putz telling me they can't make it tonight and could they get the materials mailed to them and they'll see me next session. And then I have to explain that, in accordance with the welcome letter they received, they will be ineligible for the program if they miss tonight's festivities.
So now it's so late that none of the wait-listed people can fill the spots and I have almost ten empty spots for this year's program.
I fucking hate these people.
So I'm a joiner, so what? Now you'll get the sheer excitement of spending the day with me on May 10, without actually having to be near me. I know, I know, it's a big thrill, but calm down.
Why don't you sign up too? You know you want to...
One of my most embarrassing secrets is that I actually voted for Rick Santorum once. Smarmy little fuck.
You might have read his recent statements comparing homosexuality to bigamy, polygamy, incest and adultery...
In an interview with The Associated Press, Santorum criticized homosexuality while discussing a pending Supreme Court case over a Texas sodomy law."If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual (gay) sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything," Santorum, R-Pennsylvania, said in the interview, published Monday.
I want to know who is going to see The Real Cancun. No, really -- I do. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this totally marketed toward 16-21 year old males who have never smooched a girl or felt a boobie?
It's like the poor man's Porky's...and that can't be good.
Is it wrong to be insanely jealous of a 13 year old boy?
Just for starters, the kid is about to graduate from college. And then he's also planning to get four or five doctoral degrees, is heavily involved in activism, and has political aspirations.
In about 20 years Gregory Smith is going to be the President. And considering what we've got going now, there's going to be a lot to fix. Luckily, he's a genius.
I'm almost comforted.
Almost.
Tracey just emailed me a link to a story that she knew would make my blood pressure rise. It's a newstory about six Congressmen living in a house that is "subsidized by a secretive religious organization."
Now true, I do have problems with organized religion in general, and I'm suspicious of any secretive religion-affiliated secret society, and I have serious issues with the separation of church and state. And I am disgusted with this story, but not for the reason you might think.
Did you notice how much rent is being charge to the Congressmen? Yep, $600.00 a month. Do you know how much the average Congress rep. makes?
Read this: "Members of Congress are already overpaid, given median wages in this country, with a base salary of $145,100, plus generous pensions, benefits and other perks. The proposed raise would boost the base congressional salary by $4,900, to $150,000 per year. Consider how long Congress has sat on any increase in the federal minimum wage which, inflation adjusted, is more than $2.00 lower in purchasing power than it was in 1968."
Now, imagine Washington, DC. If you've ever been there and travelled outside of the nice parts, you know that Washington, DC is a shithole. 20% of the population lives in poverty and quite a few others are real close to the poverty line. A religious group is providing low cost housing to overpaid politicians while there is a huge population of homeless people in the area, not to mention thousands of poor people who need decent, cheap housing. Am I the only one seeing the stupidity here?
I don't really care if a group of politicians want to band together due to their religious zeal. You want to live together, have Bible study, whatever -- have at it. However, you should not get cheap housing because of it, and the religious organization subsidizing the bill should not be eligible to receive government funding.
I'm feeling just a little sick to my stomach.
Anyone ever read James Patterson books? Specifically, has anyone read Kiss the Girls? If this book had been published earlier, I'd swear it's where that sicko from NY with the underground torture/rape chamber got his ideas from. It's eerily similar. And now I'm creeped out.
"So far, Jamelske has exercised his right to remain silent," according to the local prosecutor. Coincidentally, the right to remain silent [your Miranda Rights] are going to be reconsidered by the Supreme Court at the request of, surprise surprise, the Bush administration. What's that you said about feeling like you live in Nazi Germany?
Easter generally reminds me of two things: tulips and trips to the Emergency Room.
Tulips are pretty self-explanatory [I took the photo to the left on Saturday morning before running with Tracey] but ER visits are a strange thing to associate with Easter. Goose eggs=Easter eggs, perhaps?
I have never been to an ER for myself. But it seems every Easter when I was young I was there -- my brother couldn't stop himself from whacking his head on stuff, or busting his forehead or lip open on something, or just generally needing medical attention that day.
My most vivid Easter/ER memory was when I was about 9 years old. My mother took us to the park to play. My brother got the monkey bars in his sights and took off full speed. He didn't even slow up, he just plunged head-first into the metal monkey bars and sort of bounced off and just laid there.
Yep, that sure was fun.
So when I saw the stupid deck of playing cards with the most wanted Iraqis on them, I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, "Self, there's a redneck Christmas gift if there ever was one."
But now, everytime a new Iraqi is captured or gives himself up or whatever, the news flashes the bad guy's playing card from that deck. If it's possible, the news has sunk to an all time low. What do I care if the latest arrested Iraqi was the Queen of Hearts?
And then this morning the media informed me that the cards were put out by the Pentagon, which I hadn't heard before. So now the I know why they were produced. It wasn't so uber-patriots around the country would have something to do with their time -- it's flashcards for George.
[Doonesbury link via Mike.]
Wow. Reading over today's entries -- I don't think I could get any whinier, do you? I guess everyone needs a day to bitch and complain.
As if my day wasn't crappy enough, my wonderful and always idiotic father called today to wish me a Happy Easter. As usual, he didn't have anything to say. And, as usual, he found a way to make me think even less of him than I already do.
For starters, he told his youngest brother to fuck off when the brother asked my dad to donate a kidney to him. Granted, who the hell would want a kidney from my alcoholic, drug-addicted dad? That's really not the point, though, is it? Say no with some class if you're going to deny your dying brother one of your spare organs, eh? Secondly, he told me that he just randomly gave my half-sister $300.00 to buy a prom dress.
I know, I know, I'm 31 years old and I've had plenty of time to be bitter about not having a father and/or money when I was growing up because he ran out on us. I should be over this by now. I don't begrudge Crystal the money -- she has to put up with him in her life much more than I do, and that presents just as many problems. It just irks me that he lacks the sense to know that it hurts my feelings. I mean, it's not like he completely forgot about my birthday this year or anything. Oh, that's right, he did.
See, the thing is, if he was completely out of my life it wouldn't make a difference. At least it would be over. But he keeps fucking calling me, and for a year or two he'll be pretty steady -- you know, pretending that he has always been father of the year. And then, suddenly and without warning, he'll start forgetting that I exist again. So yes, I'm totally bitter about this still. And I get pissed at myself for even letting it bother me.
What really killed me about the whole conversation was that most of the call was spent telling me all about his old buddy Fred, who recently had his 80th motorcycle crash. Fred is the dumbest motherfucker on the planet -- he's a 400 pound alcoholic, drug-addicted biker who recently spent $30,000 to build a new bike for himself but failed to get insurance. And now he broke his leg in four places due to running into a truck. My dad spent more time telling me about Fred and his illustrious crash career then telling me about my half-sister and his brother, combined.
I really think I must be adopted.
Craig and I have this on-going thing -- he proposes something [a vacation, a project, or something], backs out at the last minute, and then I spend the day being really irritated. You know, like today.
You might remember when he brought home a new car last Wednesday. I'm not thrilled with the car, but Craig was all excited and wanted to take our new roadster out for a test drive. He proposed a Sunday roadtrip, perhaps Long Beach Island for the day. I agreed that it was a nice idea, and threw out a couple more ideas for daytrips. And so I was looking forward to a mini-vacation and I steadily grew hungrier and hungrier for some clam chowder from a particular restaurant on the Island.
Well, it's 2pm and I'm sitting here typing and being irritated, so I'm sure you can guess that we didn't go anywhere.
It started yesterday. First, Craig mentioned that there might flooding on the Island, to which I replied "Well, there are plenty of other places we could go. I'd be a little disappointed if we aren't able to hit LBI, but as long as we get out of town for the day I'll be happy." And there was no response.
Today I woke up and said, "OK, so what's it going to be? Where are we going?" Craig rolled over and said, "Maybe we can go to the nursery and buy some plants for the garden." What? What happened to our roadtrip? The nursery is 20 minutes away, not to mention that it's too early to plant anything and the nursery will only have cold weather crop seedlings and Easter plants right now.
See, this is another chapter in the process -- so that he can't be called a lazy fucker, Craig then cleans the entire house. Today he scrubbed the kitchen, did all the laundry, and is currently cleaning the bedroom. It's the same thing every time.
Later tonight he will approach me and say, "What's wrong? You seem annoyed" to which I will reply "Yes, I'm pissed. It's not about not going to LBI, it's the fact that we didn't go anywhere at all. It was a beautiful day today, and we had plans, and, as always, you didn't follow through with it." And then he will skulk away and get pissy, like I have done something wrong.
We're a passive-aggressive bunch.
I didn't really hang out in public places too often when I was growing up. The fact of the matter is that there really wasn't anyplace to hang out. There was the McDonald's, the King's Pizzeria, or the Kmart parking lot. Each location had it's own politics -- for instance, I could never hang out in the Kmart parking lot because I didn't intend to stay in my hometown getting liquored up and giving birth until my death at the age of 39 from a heroin overdose. Mostly we all just had little gatherings at each other's houses.
So I can't really say that I have ever been intimidating to anyone with a yen to shop, like the teens are accused of doing in a nearby town. It wouldn't have really been an issue, and so by making it illegal to gather in groups of more than six in a public place wouldn't have made a difference. But I feel their pain, and I think it's a ridiculous plan. I mean, how can you make it illegal to gather in a public park? Aren't that what parks are for? You know, public loitering? Usage by the general public?
And Souderton isn't that big -- I can't imagine a bunch of 'burb kids amassing their entire class in one huge group and "intimidating potential shoppers."
The local authorities say that it's really only aimed at decreasing vandalism and instances of "misbehavior." But doesn't that just tell you that you need a] more police officers on your force b] with better training and c] a neighborhood watch? Or, as crazy as this seems, d] an alternative activity for those teens? A dance club, maybe? A new arcade? And I hate to burst someone's bubble, but I seriously doubt there's a huge roving band of juvenile deliquents with spray paint. That kind of stuff usually happens in the dead of night with a small group of friends.
It always kills me when adults forget what it was like to be a kid. They forget how to think like a kid. And if you can't get inside the head of a 16 year old and recall some details, there's no way you're going to make decent legislation that pertains to them. Personally, the first thing that popped into my head is that, by making the parents liable for their kids' behavior, your going to have kids getting fined intentionally just to punish their parents.
With the arrest and eventual prosecution of Scott Peterson for the murder of his wife and not-yet-born son, there is bound to be an increase in anti-abortion/right to life rhetoric. Under California law, if a pregnant woman is killed and that murder leads to the death of the fetus as well, the murderer can be charged with a double homicide.
On the surface, it seems just. How can someone kill a pregnant woman, let alone a woman who is your wife that just happens to be carrying your son? It's sick and depraved and awful, and Peterson should be made to pay as much as possible. But yet, because the baby hadn't yet been born, charging Peterson with it's murder puts this case squarely into the fight over a woman's right to choose what to do with her own body.
Abortion opponents will say if Peterson can be charged with the murder of an unborn child, then why aren't women who abort fetuses intentionally able to be charged with murder? It's the same thing, right? The end result is the same -- a fetus is dead, and not from natural causes.
Unfortunately, that's all the further pro-lifers can see. Dare I call them short-sighted? They don't see that it really is a different situation. The fact of the matter is that Laci Peterson didn't choose to terminate her pregnancy -- and so I equate Scott Peterson with the "no abortion for any reason" crowd. Why? Because both of them take away the choice of the mother. In Scott Peterson's case, Laci didn't have a choice whether to have her baby or not. He [in all likelihood] murdered her [which led to the death of the fetus]. With anti-abortion activitsts, they also want to revoke the choice over whether or not to have a child.
It's an extreme position to take, but it only seems fair. Pro-choice people have been branded murderers, whether we actually need to have an abortion or not. How dare you advocate the choice to terminate the life of a pre-sentient mass of cells that could one day develop into a human being! Murderer! And so, by reason of free association [sort of like the Pope equating divorced people with criminals], I'm going to equate Pro-Lifers with murderers. Next time I run into an anti-abortion protest outside of a Planned Parenthood or wherever, I'm just going to make my own sign and run around calling the protestors murderers. I'll make a tshirt that says "Shame on you, Pro-Lifers! You're no better than Scott Peterson!"
Yeah, I'm being a little facetious. But the fact of the matter is that this is just going to incite a lot of smug Pro-Lifers, pounding their chests, puffing up with pride, saying, "See, I told you and I was right -- abortion must be wrong if Scott Peterson is being prosecuted for murdering an unborn child! Hah!" In a lot of ways, it will remind me of the pro-war hawks who point accusingly at all us anti-this-war folks and scream, "See, look at how happy that group of Iraqis are! They love us, they love the U.S.! See how happy they are with their freedom!" And, like the pro-war hawks, the Pro-Lifers are [as usual] missing the ultimate point.
By now, many of you know that my husband is just the nosiest person on the face of the planet. He, of course, denies it. Apparently, Craig thinks it's a completely normal thing to be interested in every little thing that happens in the neighborhood.
Fortunately for me, I now have a witness and total confirmation of Craig's insanity.
After our run this morning, Tracey stopped back at the casa de go fish for a feast of sushi. And, just as an aside, when Tracey rolls sushi, the rolls are so tight they bounce. I'm not kidding. So after plying her with Diet Pepsi and my homemade kimchi, we're sitting on the couch with Craig watching Scary Movie 2 [hey, give me a break, it just happened to be on] when it becomes obvious there is movement afoot across the street at the former house of faux punk.
Craig's hands started twitching and he glanced wistfully toward the window. Finally, he just couldn't control his curiousity. He bounded from the chair, threw up the window, and pressed his face to the screen. And for the next 20 minutes Craig gave Tracey and I a play by play of what was going on across the street. I know you're just dying to know what all that drama was about, right?
There was a moving van moving in two of those glass sliding door refrigerator units.
Yes, total excitement.
So, of course, after the initial 20 minutes Craig sat down, but would monitor the progress of the above-mentioned operation every five minutes, all the while speculating on what could possibly be going in next door. Would it be a pizza place? A corner store? A coffee shop? Oh, the possibilities!
And there's Tracey, amused look on her face, giving me pitying looks everytime Craig leapt from his chair to the window.
Oh, and she also confirmed that the living room paint color is, indeed, brown.
Sometimes it's good to be vindicated.
I was just reading an article about scientists finding extinct plant and animal DNA from some ancient dirt. And I think it's really neat -- that the world can be scientifically proven to be very very old. It's not because I'm a science nut, it's because I imagine that people who deny science and say, based on a fictional book, the world is only a couple thousand years old read an article like this, turn to their significant other and say, "Hey Cleetus, them thar sci-enteests are at it again, makin' up lies about the world. Now how can there be anything older than 3,000 years old when the en-tiiiire wurld knows that gawd created the universe and the planet an' all that?"
I think it would be fascinating to hang out with one of these people for 24 hours. To deny the actual finds in science would mean that they can't possibly believe in medicinal science or car and plane technology. Indoor plumbing must seem like a right modern idea to them.
Idiot #1 - "But Cleetus, howdya know where the poop goes?"
Idiot #2 - "Well, Mavis, the good lawd just takes the poop and wisks it away now. Who cares where it really goes? The lawd works in myster-iooous ways, he does."
Tracey and I finally got to run again this morning. It's fucking cold, but at least it's not raining. I walked about 5 miles, and ran a little over 2 miles. It was a good morning.
And right now Craig is being goofy. He's standing behind me completely naked, smacking his ass. Is that an invitation?
And he's gone.
As I was saying, Tracey and I got our training run in this morning. With the Race only three weeks away, I feel pretty good that I should be able to run it in a little faster this year. That reminds me, if you want to throw a couple of bucks my way [every dollar counts, yo] and be an official sponsor for the Race, now is the time. Now is also the time to throw out some ideas for Mother's Day gifts.
Every year I send my mom a bouquet of flowers and I call her and send a card. But I hate those stupid FTD arrangements, so I always try to find something different. The last few years I've been fond of those gorgeous hand-tied bouquets. Maybe it's time for something different.
What are you giving your mom for Mother's Day this year? Come on, I need some ideas.
While I think the idea of duct tape equalling safety is a silly idea, I can understand why people would think this is true. After all, how many times can you hear duct tape and plastic sheeting will save you in case of the apocalypse before it becomes a fact? Somehow, I don't think that's what those crazy local kids were thinking when they routinely duct taped their children. The kids are all reporting that it was done to keep them quiet and immobile. The wife reports the photos were staged by the husband. Riiiiiight.
I might not like kids, and I joke about locking them in closets and stuff, but people who do bad things to children don't deserve any breaks. Whether you just kill them straight off or lock them up for decades to come, it really doesn't matter. If you have it in you to intentionally hurt a child, someone who has no real power to defend themselves, you really can't be rehabbed and set loose back into society as a normal person...because you lack common sense and a sense of deceny.
Well. I guess Laci Peterson's husband wasn't as slick as he thought he was -- he has apparently been taken into custody for her murder.
And yes, he's innocent until proven guilty. But if I were him I wouldn't make any vacation plans.
So, uh, notice anything different? Maybe a brand-spankin' new design from Designer to the Stars, that little minx, Kathy from Pixel Sphinx? Sometimes it's scary that she picked this design out for me without any prompting at all. That girl, she's like fucking Kreskin!
Yeah, so this new look for the casa de go fish is part of the Year One Blogaversary celebration [there's still time to win the great journal giveaway, by the way]. If you don't like the old lady or you just like my original design better, do not panic -- just go here and switch it back. But honestly, I don't know why you would want to do that!
After all, this design is a little loud, a little weird, and full of fish, just like me.
My mother has always insisted that something must be wrong with me: I would rather eat cheese than chocolate or cake. In my family, it's all about the chocolate. When my grandfather died and I went to my grandmother's house after the viewing, I was plied with chocolate covered pretzels and chocolate cookies and chocolate cake. Everyone in my family still takes an annual pilgrimage to Hershey Park. When I went to Paris, all my mother wanted was chocolate. And, yes, I lurve me some chocolate, but if given a choice it's not what I would choose.
And that, maybe, is why Easter has never been a big holiday for me [well, that, and the fact that I don't believe in Jeebus and the whole resurrection thing].
My mother tried, really she did. She'd stuff my Easter basket full of massive chocolate bunnies and little chocolate eggs, and all manner of chocolate stuff. I would end up eating a few nibbles of chocolate and half a dozen boiled Easter eggs, dyed lovingly by me. Eventually she started adding cheese and cracker packets and string cheese into my basket. And then she ate the pound bag of M&Ms she left in my basket, under the guise of not wasting food, of course.
When my mother comes to visit, she always asks for a trip into the local cheese shop. In my hometown it's hard to find anything beyond Cracker Barrell cheese. There's pretty much no such thing as imported cheese from France or Italy. Fresh mozzarella is unheard of. And it's not that she's a total cheesehead like me [although she surely likes some of those excellent artisan blue cheeses], it's that she's completely amazed by the sheer bounty and choice of cheese in one spot.
By the same token, I almost always attend the local state fair [the Bloomsburg Fair, if you wanna know] when I visit my mother in the Fall. It isn't that I'm so jazzed about eating deep-fried pickles on a stick or winning machetes from the ring-knife toss...it's the sheer volume of hicks in one spot. This year I'm just going to sit somewhere and take photos of the dungaree wearing, wheat chewing, front teeth missing, one brain cell mis-firing, uber religious freaks running around. You'll be amazed.
Somehow this entry got a little off track. What I was really trying to get at was to wish those of you who celebrate Easter a Happy Easter; for those of you who are Jewish, happy seder; and, for the rest of you, happy Friday.
I'm leaving in about an hour to make a run down to Chinatown for sushi supplies. I'll be celebrating in my own special way.
There are a few people around me who continually try to convince me that the organized religion is a good thing, and that I would be a better person if I succumbed to accepting that there's a higher power and that higher power is the Christian god/jeebus. I can rattle off a list of a dozen or more reasons why some of the worst things that have happened in history, including the debacles of the current U.S. administration, can be directly traced back to organized religion.
And, while I am certain of the hate mongering associated with organized religion [hello, Fred Phelps and Pat Robertson], does it get any lower than this: the Pope wants to make damn sure those sinning divorced and remarried people don't take communion this Easter. Oh, and don't you dare take communion in a church other than your own. Those damn non-Catholic churches will send you straight to hell.
I forget sometimes that the majority of major religions are all about excluding those who don't belong. Sometimes I forget, and I think 'Well, it might not be so bad.' And then I read something like this:
"However, in cases of outward conduct, which is seriously, clearly and steadfastly contrary to the moral norm, the Church, in her pastoral concern for the good order of the community and out of respect for the sacrament, cannot fail to feel directly involved."He reiterated Church law that those who "obstinately persist in manifest grave sin" be denied communion.
The Vatican does not permit divorce and teaches that those who remarry after divorce are living in sin unless couples refrain from sex.
"That is what the Vatican is saying for years about the non-admission of public sinners to the Eucharist whether they be divorced or Mafia or people who are notorious criminals," said the Reverend Thomas Reese, editor of America, a Jesuit magazine.
It's times like these I am so grateful to be sans religious affiliation. To quote Dogma: God’s only real problem with mankind is not idolatry or even unbelief, but the bad stuff that gets carried out in his name — wars, bigotry, televangelism. The big one, though, is the factioning of all the religions. Mankind got it all wrong by taking a good idea and building a belief structure out of it. God prefers "ideas" to "beliefs," because ideas are easier to change.
Yesterday when I was being reduced to a blissful idiot at the nail salon, I also got my eyebrows waxed. At the end of this little procedure I was given a mirror to check out the handiwork. The girl who waxed me looks down at me with fake-sincerity and says, "Do you also want your lip waxed?"
Someone's been taking Up-sell Tactics 101.
When I was in high school I worked at Burger King for about a week [I had to quit -- the uniforms were horrifying and my complexion was suffering]. They drill it into you that you should always ask if the customer wants "fries with that" or a larger drink for "just 10 cents more" and stuff like that. When I was working in the retail clothing industry, we were always required to compliment whatever the customer was trying on, and say "We have a great shirt that would look perfect with that. Oooo, and this belt and earrings would complete the look!"
Beauty up-selling is a whole other matter because it really preys on insecurities. By the wax girl staring at my upper lip and asking if I wanted it waxed, she immediately made me wonder if I needed it. Is my lip so hairy that it's frightening to look at? Are the hairs long and have mind of their own...do they wave hello at people before I say anything? How could I not have noticed it before? Maybe I should get lip waxed. But I don't see anything. Well, better safe than sorry, right? I should get my lip waxed, you know, just in case.
And then I got a grip and regained control. I am a natural blonde. My face hair is light blonde, and I have almost no hair on my face at all. When I told Craig last night about the up-sell trick he made me sit under a bright light and inspected my face for wax-able hair. "I just don't get it," he wailed. "Where are these hairs she wanted to wax?"
But, you know, the waxing tech is smart. She knows the way to a woman's wallet is through fear. I can't count the number of push-up bras and other figure enhancing lingerie is currently slumbering in my underwear drawer. The media pushes this crazy vision of beauty being perfect skin, hair, and figure and advertisers take advantage of it. The message is that unless you have this flawless outside, no one will ever love you. They propagate this ridiculous fear in women that to be less than perfect is to be less than a woman.
I try to ignore the pressure, I really do. But fucking-A, you should see my bathroom -- it is a tribute to the cosmetic and hair product industry. I have a special hair dryer that promises to make my hair fuller with more body, because boys love full and flowing hair. I have vats of moisturizer and hair gels and lipsticks, all in the pursuit of perfection. The industry is making a killing off of me.
So while I recognize what's going on, I'm still a whore to the Beauty Industry Man.
I know the uber-patriots all hate France, but at least they're making some effort to halt the flow of Iraqi antiquities looted from the Baghdad Museum. The U.S. certainly doesn't give a shit about the artifacts [well, except for the three advisors to the White House Cultural Property Advisory Committee who quit today in protest. At the rate Bush White House staff and appointees are quitting in protest over the stupid shit the administration does, there won't be anyone left by the next election]. I find it stunning that dirtbag Rumsfeld actually feigned surprise over the looting and downplayed the importance of the pilfering of the priceless objects of art and history, especially in light of the two or three months of warning the government received from scholars all over the world and pleas from Museum executives to take precautions against expected looting. Yes, shit happens -- I'm sure Rumsfeld wouldn't be upset in the least if someone broke into his house and stole his irreplaceable family treasures.
I can understand the Iraqi people wanting to rid themselves of any memory of Hussein and the Ba'ath party. I'm sure the museum held some things Hussein-esque. Fine. But this is the equivalent of some smacked asses making off with the Liberty Bell, the original Constitution, the Rosetta Stone, the original Bible, and the Mona Lisa. Heads would fucking roll, but now artworks dating back to 7000 BC are gone, possibly never to be seen again, and it's a shoulder shrug, a smirk, and a "shit happens."
How can a country move forward when they have no history?
Despite my checkered past, I'm not really a daredevil when it comes to stunts during which I could die. I really like living way too much to jeopardize my health and well-being. I'm not talking about high risk things like sky-diving and bungee jumping. While I realize they're high risk, the likelihood of actually perishing during something like that isn't that high.
I'm talking about things like getting involved high speed chases with police and scaling buildings with little to no safety equipment. Oh, and things seen on shows like Jackass. It's sort of a guy thing to be an adrenaline junky or whatever. Boys will be dumbasses and all that.
But really, what kind of fucking idiot do you have to be to wheelie your way at high speed through rush hour traffic? What's especially hilarious to me is that these morons are actually making money by being smacked ass, recording themselves being smacked ass, and then selling it to other smacked asses.
I guess that's the beauty of reality television though. You can watch someone act like a shithead without having to endure the trauma yourself, first hand.
Is it strange that I kind of feel like asking my nail tech to marry me? The girl turns me into a melting puddle of goo whenever I get my nails done. Her foot and leg rubs are divine. Her hand massages are killer.
If only she had a penis.
Hey, I don't have this posted anywhere, so I'll just say this...
If you use a newsfeeder and are looking for my XML/RSS feed, use this:
It is a full post feed, rather than an excerpt. I'll post that on the sidebar in a day or two, but for now.....
So I gave in to peer pressure and downloaded Newzcrawler. I think I might be missing something vital -- it seems like it's just as easy to visit blogs and read posts as to click on each blog link and read the entries in Newzcrawler. Have I not set it up right? Is there better way to view newsfeeds?
I'm a little confused.
UPDATE: I see now the error in my ways. I wish all of the blogs I read had an RSS feed -- hint hint.
I just had a meeting with a donor. She's old and frail, and I was afraid to shake her hand too hard for fear of busting every bone in her hand. What made it worse is that she's a close-talker.
She stood six inches or less from me at all times and breathed her moldy breath on me for 30 minutes. I feel like I need a bath.
First, there are two new entries up at the good old photoblog today.
Secondly, my husband is a total rube.
Some of you may know I don't drive. I have a driver's license and I know how to drive, but I just choose not to. And, really, I don't have a need to -- public transit may, at times, be annoying but it usually cooperates and I like it just fine. As of late, Craig has been considering a new car purchase. And he was concerned that I be able to drive it too. He wants me to start driving again.
I'm not excited by the idea, but I'm willing to give it a shot.
So last night Craig comes home driving a new car -- a white Toyota Corolla. While it's not as big as the typical car around these parts, it's significantly bigger than the cars we were discussing. In fact, the last I had heard we had settled on an Echo.
What is particularly funny is that my mother has a Corolla and I've always had problems driving it. It's too wide and too long for me to feel comfortable driving it. Craig knows this and conveniently forgot it.
But what's worse is that it's white. While discussing color, both of us said over and over that neither of us wanted a light colored car because they show dirt and scratches so easily. Plus [and this is probably just a product of my grandparents always having white cars] I think of white as an old-person color. Every old person I know has a white or beige car. And now so do we. We might as well start playing shuffleboard and join a bridge league.
I said, "Craig, did you get snowed or something? This car is a far cry from what we talked about."
Craig enthusiastically answered, "No, not all! I just saw it and liked it! It's got great gas mileage! And it's got more of an engine, too! It's just more car!"
I rolled my eyes and walked away. No, that doesn't sound like car salesman rhetoric.
Just a couple of American Idol comments...
So the U.S. is going to give every Iraqi who worked for the Iraqi government $20.00 to jumpstart the economy in Iraq. And there are no records as to who worked for the government, although the estimate is about 2 million.
That must be wonderful news to the millions of poor families in the U.S.
Gawddamn, but Genji [1720 Sansom Street] makes some fucking phenomenal sushi. It's gotta be 90 degrees outside today, the weather is beautiful, and it was fine day to make the walk over there. And now I'm sitting here at my desk enjoying a bountiful supply of excellent Genji sushi.
The only way my day could be better is if I didn't have to come back to work. There oughta be a law, I tell ya!
A couple days before I went to France at the end of February, a friend gifted me with a book about how to swear and cuss effectively in French. Now, my foreign language skills are limited, despite having taken three years of French, a year of Spanish, and a year of Latin in high school and one semester of Spanish more recently. At the moment I could survive speaking to a four year old in Spanish or French, but anyone older than that and their vocabulary is going to be much greater than my own.
My introduction to French cussing 101 involved calling people a lot of names and swearing like a French trucker and interesting epithets like "dog breath" and "son of whore" and stuff like that. And I was amused. The likelihood of having to curse out a local Parisian just seemed unlikely though, and so I didn't commit any of it to memory.
Little did I know that there is an entire industry devoted to teaching tourists to swear in every available language.
I'm not anti-cursing -- my everyday conversations are peppered with numerous "fuck" and "shit" and all manner of other expletives. My entries are littered with cussing. I just think it's a little strange that there's an obsession with teaching Inga the Swedish immigrant when the appropriate time is to call someone a motherfucker.
Craig has worked in several factories as a shipping and receiving manager. One was in Trenton, New Jersey and made parachutes and life rafts. The other was in Philadelphia and made tableclothes. In both there were many many employees who spoke Russian, Vietnamese, Polish, and Spanish. In such a multi-culti environment, can you guess what he learned? He learned how to swear in Russian, Vietnamese, Polish, and Spanish.
Fucking-A.
In the Springtime a young man's fancy turns to love.
So I got into work today and checked my email. Oddly, there were four messages complimenting my new eyeglasses. And then I checked my stats, because four people commenting on the same month-old entry is a little strange.
Apparently someone who really likes girls with glasses found my site and posted the URL to that entry on the Admirers of Girls with Glasses bulletin board, and now the fans are just coming droves. I don't know know whether to be amused and flattered, or completely squicked that my photograph avec glasses is likely being besmirched and defiled by someone with a glasses fetish.
And, I have to admit, at first I thought maybe Mikey had posted the link...because he's got a thing for chicks with specs. However, I don't really think Mikey has that kind of a thing going on. So, sorry Mikey, I will never doubt the depth of your fetish-ism and depravity again!
Fer the love of Pete, what a weird couple of hours of television.
I knew what was happening on Buffy because I'm such a spoiler whore. No surprises there.
As for 24, I'm assuming that Jack's daughter is going to manage to find herself back in harms way again before the last show. Next week looks pretty good. I hated to see Yusef getting beaten half to death....fucking rednecks. And I have to say that I was a little surprised to learn who the turncoat in the government is. Huh.
I didn't watch the whole of American Idol yet, but I've made a decision -- I'm officially sick of Clay. There something really horrible about the way he sings the word "together" and I can't stand to see him sneer at the camera anymore. Now, granted, nothing can be as bad as goat girl Carmen and Opryland Josh. Hey, I wonder if any of my predictions came true?
I don't wanna get you excited or anything, but if you notice things acting a little bit, er, goofy around here within the next week, well, do not panic. A change or two is afoot. It's all part of Operation One Year Blogaversary, brought you next Friday [April 25] by the phrase "You stink."
Speaking of the phrase "You stink," it's my big television night this evening -- a new Buffy, plus 24 and American Idol. So if you've got my phone number I suggest you conveniently lose it between the hours of 8-11pm [mildly spoilery stuff below, so don't click unless you wanna know].
Only a handful of new Buffy episodes left until the end of the series forever. I'm not entirely upset -- the show is starting to smell bad. And tonight it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. I should really quit reading that damn wildfeed. Of course, I'm kinda happy that Xander is going to be half-blinded. And the fact that this new Caleb preacher guy calls girls "splits" really cracks me up.
And I heard it's Billy Joel night on American Idol. Egads, y'all. Here are my predictions:
I wonder about poll numbers. I've never received a phone call from someone asking me my opinion about the taste of ketchup, let alone the state of the nation. No one in my family or Craig's family has received such a call. None of my friends, acquaintances, or co-workers have ever answered poll questions. Have any of you?
I'm not saying that I know half of the East Coast. But with that many people in my network, you'd think at least one of them would have received a call from a pollster or filled out a poll survey. But I don't know one single person who has participated in approval rating polls of any kind.
Based on this suspicious discrepancy and the fact that I don't know too many people who trust the government right now, it just seems that to report George has a 73% approval rating seems wildly inaccurate.
And you know, I have a theory. A lot of us have policies when it comes to non-personal phone calls. Whether you hang up on solicitors, or you just don't answer calls coming from certain numbers, or you have one of those Telezapper whozits, the majority of normal people just don't speak to telemarketers or survey-takers, etc. So who does that leave to speak to the pollsters? That's right: people who are too stupid to avoid telemarketing calls and old people who just want someone to talk to. And both of those subsets of people are, generally speaking, more conservative in nature, which is where those high approval ratings come from. Sure, I could be wrong, but it's a nice theory.
The only good part of the article on approval ratings is this little reminder --
The increase mirrors the rise in popularity his father enjoyed immediately after the 1991 Gulf war, support that rapidly collapsed as images of the war were replaced by worries about the flagging economy.In an attempt to avoid the mistakes of his father, who lost his re-election campaign to Bill Clinton in 1992, Mr Bush is making an aggressive push to boost the sluggish economy even before the bullets stop flying in Iraq.
This week he is taking to the road to promote his tax-cutting economic recovery plan around the US during the Easter break.
Yeah, George -- good luck with that and all. I'm sure the thousands of people who have lost their jobs in your great economy will be thrilled to see you. And while there are plenty of Americans without basic math skills, there are plenty of us who understand that tax cuts+record spending=economic disaster for decades to come.
Yeah, I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the day I found out that not everyone was heterosexual. It was...
Oh wait, no I don't remember it. Because, well, who cares? It's really not that big of a deal. Sexual preference differences are about as important as the difference between have blue eyes and brown eyes.
So now, the media is making this huge deal out of the U.S.'s first daytime soap lesbian smooch. I'm sure Fred Phelps and his gang of miscreants, and Pat Robertson and his band of freaks will be issuing statements and picketing the studios as soon as they can wrap their tiny little brains around that one. And since George listens to the voices in his head, I'm sure he'll be sticking his nose in it too.
Because love is a very bad thing if it doesn't fall into the prescribed acceptable categories.
I've always wondered why it's such a big deal to see two chicks smooching or two boys necking. There was that whole brouhaha when Ellen Degeneres came out and then the subsequent lesbian story line on her show, and then when Roseanne Barr and Morgan Fairchild got a little smooch on. I can't remember any male kiss uproar, probably because there really hasn't been much of that.
People will sit their asses down and let their kids watch a hetero couple feel each other up and get nekkid, but a simple kiss between Roseanne and Morgan sends the parents racing to cover their kids eyes? Why? I don't understand.
I've often thought that maybe it's the "monkey see, monkey do" thing. You know, little boy sees two boys making out and decides to give it a try. Of course, if that means that the little boy is going to automatically be gay based on a one kiss with a boy at 5 years of age, that really should apply to everything -- that the kid is going to see a show where a girl kisses a horse, and then the idea of bestiality rubs off. Or the kid watches American Pie and automatically becomes fond of the idea of getting his kink on with baked goods for the rest of his life. In this case and according to that theory, perhaps haus fraus throughout the U.S. will see this daytime television lesbian liplock and decide to leave their husbands in pursuit of a lesbian relationship.
Those crazy religious fanatics will be the first to tell you that homosexuality is a sin against jeebus and all of that, all while the men are fucking their secretaries and the women are closet alcoholics and meth addicts. That particular fucked up hypocritical dynamic has always puzzled me. It's so funny -- they preach love, but only to others who think exactly like themselves.
What would really make me the happiest person on the face of the planet is if everyone just woke up one day with a changed outlook. Everyone in the world wakes up and accepts that life is short and we need to take happiness and love where ever we can find it -- whether I find joy with a man or a woman should make no difference to anyone.
If there's one photograph that has ever embodied all that is Philadelphia, it would be this one:
I'm totally serious. If you know anything about Philadelphia, you might know it's a town big on the Union, whether it's the Steelworkers or Sex Workers. They're united, OK? And you'll see vehicles like this one all over the city -- Union license plate on the front, "Handicap" dangly from the rearview of a monsterously huge Cadillac. And, strangely, the cars are all painted beige. Who do they belong to? Big fat guys in their mid- to late-50s who smoke cigars, wear wife beaters and polyster leisure pants who don't have so much as a limp.
It's the natural progression of things, Philly style.
Is it any wonder that the U.S. is loved universally the world over?
We are just the stars of the universe. The U.S. is a good and peace loving nation.
I feel like the current administration has seen the Star Wars movies one too many times and is trying out the Jedi mind trick: you do not see us doing anything illegal or immoral. You love not have a job, or a future for yourself or your children or your grandchildren. You should be frightened of every perceivable threat. You will cheer us when we create the largest national debt in history. You will idolize George W. Bush no matter what. When the government tells you that protestors are making the troops feel bad, but then yanks the benefits for thousands of soldiers, you are to think to yourself, 'Wow, they really must appreciate the troops, unlike those bad, evil protestors.'
Yeah, and here's another thing -- don't bother to tell me if I don't love America, I should leave it. Because here's the deal: I love being an American enough to speak up and worry that the current administration is running this country into the ground. So shut it down.
The scene: Philadelphia Chinatown neighborhood. The streets are barren, shopkeepers sweeping the tumbleweeds out of their shops. There is nary a tourist to be seen.
Out of the dustbowl steps Mayor John Street, graying hair blowing gallantly in the wind. His fingers twitch at his side, ready to pull his chopsticks out of his holster at any given moment. It's a stand-off. Mayor Street wants his chop suey, and no fear of SARS will stop him from his destination.
Stupid tourists and suburban haus fraus stand at the edges of Chinatown wearing designer face masks, quaking with the palsy of the needlessly frightened. "Stop!" they shout, voices muffled by their masks. "Mayor Street, we beg of you -- do not eat the dim sum! It's tainted, I tell you! You'll catch the plague and die!"
Mayor Street gives a maniacal laugh and charges into Chinatown.
Yeah, see, this sounds like a fabricated and ridiculous scenario. Unfortunately, this played out for real a day or two ago. Apparently there is a faction of morons who is equating the Asian-American community in Philadelphia with SARS, and so business in Chinatown is down sharply. Because, let's face it, if you look asian in any way you must have SARS. Never mind that half of the people who run businesses in Chinatown haven't left the country in years, and only a small fraction of them have ever been to the places affected by SARS in their entire lives.
You just know that Cleetus, Flo, and the brood are sitting around right now, planning their trip into the Big City, studiously avoiding Chinatown and making a contingency plan should they come in contact with any stray asian people they might encounter in the rest of the city. Muffy and Reginald from the 'burbs are just going to stay in their own little subdivision and sup with the twinset and pearls crowd from the country club.
They'll just have to put off their walk on the wild side [those shrimp rolls sure are exotic] until after all health threats have passed. After all, it's bad enough that they have to take a chance on consuming cat and MSG.
So Mayor Street has stepped up to the plate. He figures that if the frightened masses see him eating in Chinatown, the fear will pass and happiness will descend on Chinatown in the form of hungry wallets tourists. And you know the world is going to hell in a handbasket when Mayor Street is the voice of reason.
It probably speaks volumes about my mental process that it reminds me of that scene in Jaws when the mayor of the island stalks around the beach asking townspeople to go into the water so the tourists will see the coast is clear.
Of course, in that case, the coast wasn't clear. In this case, it's just a lot of dookie fabricated by people who don't care to think rationally. These are the same people who are scared out of their wits to go anywhere without their duct tape and plastic sheeting, or who are too freaked out by things that might happen to think logically.
Next thing you know an frightened angry mob of rural PTA members will try to burn down Canada, because there are SARS cases there too. On a lighter note, eventually all those dumbasses will turn on each other, convinced that everyone has SARS and needs to die. And then maybe the rest of us, the intelligent and rational people, will be able to take back the country and straighten out the mess that's been made, all due the excessive fear-mongering.
I turned on Fox a few minutes before the 10pm news came on. I didn't realize Married By America was on. Holy crap, that was some funny stuff. I couldn't help but giggle uncontrollably as the blonde girl sobbed. And wow, her family and friends must all live in a trailer park. Half of them had mullets. Actually, I guess they could also live in my neighborhood. Because 3/4 of my neighbors have business up front, party in the back hair.
What's that girl's name? Billy Jeanne? Yeah, that's not a name straight out of the Ozarks. All she needs is a couple of spoons to play.
And didn't anyone notice that her groom is not straight?
There's a commercial for gum that I hate -- it's the stupid angry gumball who raps about how this special gum has ruined his life.
Sometimes I think ad execs are on crack. What's worse is that the ad was approved...which means the company execs are also on crack.
So I was reading an article last week about a British woman who has lived in Basra for the last 35 years. This is what she had to say about Hussein:
"The government did strange things, like making everybody take oaths of allegiance," said Margaret."Travel was restricted. And people seemed to disappear for no reason."
What things? This persistent and bizarre insistence that you're either with us or against us, that being anti-war and not agreeing with everything the President believes in is traitorous and unpatriotic and unAmerican, in it's own way, a directive to make an allegiance to George. Then there's the bill a few months ago that would have required all citizens to register their travel plans. And people are, indeed, disappearing.
Am I frightened for no reason? I sure hope so.
I forgot to mention this, but Cyn gave me an excellent hand-crafted gift Saturday night on the way to Sugarmom's. Aren't they the cutest? They're magnets!
I don't think they're particularly work friendly, what with being a shining badge of my [and Cyn's] alcoholism and all, but I'm thinking no one will notice them nestled in with my magnetic doll of Marilyn Monroe and magnetic poetry.
And did you notice there's a Pabst Blue Ribbon top? If that doesn't remind me of my favorite drag show bar, I don't know what does.
Goddammit, I love gifts! Thanks again Cyn!
I was making my rounds through journal/blog reading this morning when I noticed something really horrible happening as a result of Saturday's bloggery goodness.
As you might imagine, a get-together of random people means that there is going to be a diverse group. Some of us are going to talk blog talk, some are going to just try to get to know each other, and some are going to talk politics. And if you're talking politics [especially right now], there are going to be people who disagree with you. Personally, if you don't like my politics, fine -- let's agree to disagree. It's doubtful that you'll make me change my mind unless you have some cold, hard facts...because I make up my mind based on facts. And sometimes people can't just let it go at that. There's a lot of arm-waving and yelling and feelings get hurt and people get sucked into being snarky just to defend themselves.
That's the last thing I wanted to come from this whole thing Saturday night.
And for those of you who want to make sure professing your undying love for me and/or go fish is going to be worth your while, below are scans [a little slow-loading, but worth it if you're interested] of the journals that are available to win in the One Year Blogaversary Contest!
*for a larger view, click the photo*
Approx. 8x6", this journal is made from bookboard covered with light green mint handmade paper with flower petal inclusions. 80 pages of ivory text weight paper. Signatures are coptic sewn onto ivory ribbon using ivory waxed linen thread. Ivory ribbon is tied into bows along the spine.
This journal [approx. 8x6"] has a hinged spine held together with furry purple and green yarn sewn in a mock japanese stab binding. The bookboard is covered with forest green handmade paper with bark and grass inclusions. There are 96 pages of ivory text weight paper.
The front cover of this journal [8x6"] is covered in strands of big colorful yarn. The spine is an open coptic stitch sewn in robin's egg blue linen thread. 96 pages of ivory text weight paper.
This 8.5x5" journal is bookboard covered with handmade bone colored paper and the front cover is decorated with sheer blue star ribbon, a bone star bead, and dark blue seed beads. The spine is open, sewn in coptic stitch with ivory linen thread onto more sheer blue star ribbon. 106 pages of ivory text weight paper.
This one of my favorite journals [8x6"]. It's bookboard that is covered with hand-dyed [by me] strips of paper that are layered. The spine is open and sewn in coptic stitch using dark grey linen thread and a purple bead at the top of each line on the front cover. 80 sheets of ivory text weight paper.
This journal, approx. 11x4", has a hinged cover, held together with purple thread in traditional japanese stab binding. The bookboard covers are covered with lime green handmade paper and the front cover is decorated with hard clear bubbles. 100 pages of ivory text weight paper.
This journal has a cover that is hinged and bolted at the spine. The jagged covers are bookboard hand-painted with acrylics and decorated with a brass moon and text. Approx 10x4", the journal has 100 pages of ivory text weight paper.
Well, there you go -- seven journals hand made by me. So if you want to win one of them, please click here for the details of my One Year Blogaversary Contest.
*note: I cannot accept requests for which journal you win. Journals will be handed out randomly, maybe according to your creativity.
So those pesky WMD's that Iraq definitely had are now reputedly in Syria. I'm sure after George and co. invades Syria and doesn't find the weapons in question, they'll invade some other country because the weapons have been moved there.
Does anyone ever get the feeling that this whole thing is playing out like Where's Waldo?
Susan was just talking about how her green gazing ball broke over the long Winter. When I saw the photo she posted with the entry, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I'm freakishly frightened by gazing balls.
My grandmother has always had a least one gazing ball in her yard. They always struck me as kind of spooky anyway, but when I was six years old I read a book about a witch who stuck her enemy inside of a gazing ball. When your six years old something like that can stick with you.
And it did.
So now I have an unhealthy suspicion that gazing balls are just not good. And, from watching too many horror movies, I also have this silly sense of dread when I'm walking up a staircase that isn't solid, as if some dead, slimy thing is going to reach through the slats and grab my ankles.
Sure, it's irrational...but just like some people won't step on cracks or walk under ladders, or are afraid to be alone in their basements, or frightened of what might be under the bed at night, it's just one of those things that we all carry with us from childhood.
As promised yesterday, below are a few photos from Cosi Saturday night during the Philadelphia area blog meetup. You'd think after 2 mochas I'd have been running around taking pictures like a crazy person, but when you have all manner of interesting people in one place, it's hard to stay focused on a task, you know? Also, I have this fear of flashbulbs in public places making me look like a dork, so I tend to take photos with the flash off.
Now that I've made excuses for myself, here are some photos....
Just to prove what a complete freak I was as a teen...
In 1987 I was 15 years old. A boy said the following to me: "You're going to be a yuppie and you give off an air of glamour." A 17 year old boy named Brett said that to me over the phone on August 3. He was trying to convince me to date him.
Today I read that in an old journal and thought to myself, 'Self, what kind of fucking moron compliments a girl by calling her a future yuppie?'
And then I read the next line in the journal -- "I always did think he was a nice guy. Maybe I will go out with him!"
Doh!
I'm tired, yo.
It is with great pleasure that I announce all indicators pointed to both "go" and "get off your lazy butt" today -- which means, the grand painting of the living room is almost complete. Unfortunately, Craig is still arguing with me about the paint color.
Friday night my friend Ruby informed us that the color was greenish, and Craig nearly danced for joy. However, Ruby lost her credibility at dinner when she told us the pesto was purple. Last night Statia walked in the house and exclaimed, "I really like that brownish color!"
Craig was crestfallen.
You know when you're sort of in charge of organizing something, and then the day finally arrives and you're just afraid it's going to be a total bust? Yeah, that didn't happen -- the first full on Philadelphia area blogger extravaganza came off pretty well [if I do say so myself].
First, I'd like to say thanks to the following excellent people: Statia, Cyn, Rob, Jesse, Kathy and Mr. Sphinx, Jon, Jim, Isaac and Judi, Melissa, Jason, and Kamil, Danny and Susan [did I miss anyone?]. We even had a guy stop by who doesn't keep a blog, just reads a bunch of ours! Thank you for not letting my worst nightmare come true, and thanks for coming out for this momentous occasion!
I'm just going to say this -- we've got some really wonderful and fun people blogging/journalling in the region! It was really nice to meet so many cool people. And apparently Jim and I shop at the same store [we were pretty much wearing exactly the same thing]. It's just a shame that I had to assault everyone with my awful coffee breath [note to self: remember mints next time].
Oh, and next time -- there will be no group bill, that way leads to madness and not enough money to cover the check. Damn waiter...[not to worry, it was taken care of].
Tune in tomorrow for photographic evidence [to protect the innocent, only photos taken at Cosi will be posted]!
It's supposed to be halfway warm and dry today, which is a nice change of pace after the long cold and rainy week we've just had. Of course, it rained this morning which threw a wrench into my running date with Tracey. Gah.
But the moment it starts to get a little warmer I start thinking about how much I want to go buy some tomato plants. I know darn well that I'd get them in the ground and then there would be a frost that would fry the little things.
Apparently this gardening thing is genetic. My grandfather was a farmer for a lot of years -- he grew corn and a few other things, also kept cows and chickens. So not only do I know the correct technique for milking a cow and feeding chickens so I don't get pecked to death, but my green thumb gets itchy this time of year.
Last year I grew tomatoes, bell peppers, basil, eggplant, and lettuce. I shudder to think what kind of garden I would have if I had a real yard. With my 8x8' concrete patio, my only option is to plant everything in big ass pots and hope for the best.
This year I'm still going to grow tomatoes [because, let's face it, there aren't many things in this world that are better than a sun-warmed tomato right off the plant] and basil, but we've also been thinking of trying to grow one of those "better living through science" grafted fruit trees. They supposedly don't get very big but produce like crazy.
So I start acting funny toward the end of the summer, you'll know why -- I've been poisoned or killed by the tree that science created. It'll be just like Little Shop of Horrors: feed me Nicole!
Everytime I go to Il Cantuccio Guisseppe gets more and more over the top. It's like he's snorting coke in the bathroom and then coming out only to give the specials.
So tonight it was a plate of Il Cantuccio's amazing antipasto [puts those other restaurants who offer antipasto as a couple slices of deli ham with some mozzarella and olives to shame], handmade pasta stuffed with fontina and smothered in shiitake and leeks in cream sauce, and a big honking slice of tiramisu.
To my credit, I refrained from downing any expresso...I thought that would be especially bad in light of the fact that I'm meeting Tracey tomorrow morning for a run. I didn't even have any amaretto that Frankie [Guisseppe's cousin] was passing out for free.
Just a little tax-related tidbit --
The average taxpayer will pay $260.00 for the invasion of Iraq [*as of right now]. The average family will pay $625.00.
The average American makes, what, about $30K-35K? So adjust your chunk accordingly.
I wish that I could earmark how my families' $625.00 could be spent. For instance, I don't want to pay for bombs or bullets...because I don't want any of the responsibility for hurting people. I would be OK with my part of the money being used for medical care and emergency food and water relief or for rebuilding all the things destroyed in Iraq. Before you get all pissy and say that your $325 was well spent to "liberate" Iraq, no one's arguing that Hussein needed to go...so shut it down, eh?
Whatever amount I paid for the bombing of Afghanistan, it doesn't seem to have been enough to make a difference.
*$80M has been earmarked, but estimates have gone as high as $150M.
Just a reminder for any of you crazy kids in the Philadelphia area --
Tomorrow night is the big blogger extravaganza at Xando/Cosi, located in beautiful and historic Olde City [325 Chestnut Street]. To my knowledge about 20 area bloggers will be in attendance.
The very nice manager at Xando/Cosi has promised me that a section is being closed down just for us, so keep your fingers crossed that we don't get screwed. Also, I'm trying to wrangle some signage to make us easy to identify, but if you're having problems trying to figure out where we are look for me...or a person who is much easier to identify would be Cyn, since she has hot pink hair. Or you could just ask the counter people.
The circus is coming to town next week.
I know a lot of people have a deep fear of clowns, and others don't like the way the animals are treated, and all of that would prevent someone from attending the circus. I've been to the circus about three times in my life, and my reasons for not being a big fan of the circus are a little different than that.
Everyone is too happy.
I'm serious. People who are too happy make me really nervous. They're just ticking time bombs of repressed anger. Even when I was a little kid I didn't like the circus for that reason -- all that smiling and peppiness freaked me out.
A couple of years ago I attended a clown college audition with a friend of mine. That experience is the main reason I can deal with clowns. I guess I just see them as normal people acting happy.
And many of them are hot.
The ringmasters and trapeze artists, though...they still freak me out.
Did I mention that my year one blogaversary is fast approaching? That's right, my very first post ever was April 25 of last year.
Yeah, it was nothing special or spectacular.
Considering I had the great hat giveaway for my six month blogaversary, I feel I should do something special. I started the most awkward teen photo contest a few months ago but never finalized the details. I don't know that I want to start that up again though.
I know! I have a couple of artfully made blank journals I made that are just lying around my studio space. So here's the deal: email me a list of the reasons you love me so [be sure to reference the blogaversary contest in the subject line] and I'll pick the biggest and most creative suck ups to receive the journals.
All entries must be received no later than 7pm EST on Thursday, April 24.
Happy sucking up!
UPDATE: if you need motivation to submit your cheesy love-filled musings, go here to see the journals you can win!
go fish: coming soon to a town near you! Woohoo!
Alright, fine, it's not like I'm going on tour or anything but I will be in New York City on Monday, June 23 for a fundraising conference [midtown Manhattan, to be exact]. I usually attend the morning sessions and then spend the afternoon shopping in the Village.
Does anyone want to have a late lunch or an early dinner with me that day? I'll probably be sprung by around 1pm and be in town until around 7 or 8 pm.
I have a sneaking suspicion that some movie studios in the 1980s subtly imbedded mind control techniques in their films. Everytime a John Hughes film comes on I feel compelled to drop whatever I am doing and watch it, slackjawed, laughing at all the same parts, saying the dialogue [which is committed to memory after 12 billion viewings] along with the actors.
Other movies that I must watch if they are on: Angus, Beetlejuice, Say Anything, Desparately Seeking Susan, Ghostbusters, Footloose, The Princess Bride, Back to the Future, and The Goonies.
I shudder to think of the massive time suckage I've been part of.
It's the all boring, all the time, all staff meeting here at panhandlers central here today. Why anyone would think a two hour meeting is the answer to anything is beyond me.
Argh.
I wonder if I can fake death to get out of it?
Oh, and this is one of the funniest posts I've seen all week!
Craig and I are painting the living room. That's our paint chip over there on the left. The middle color is what most of our walls are going to be painted, and the lightest color is for the baseboard, windowsills, and trim. We're painting one wall with the darkest color. Our current wall color is yellow with a darker yellow special overlay. That is what comes of watching entirely too many episodes of Trading Spaces.
It's when Craig and I go through our home improvement phases that the obvious differences in our personalities come up. For starters, Craig is slightly colorblind. Under normal circumstances this is not an issue, other than the occasional mismatched clothing choice. However, Craig has been arguing with me for the last two weeks that those colors we chose are really green. I remind him that he's colorblind, tell him they are shades of brown, and assume he will accept it. I should know better. Until everyone who comes in the house tells him its brown, he will refuse to accept it. After the third time that this becomes an issue it gets a little annoying.
Then there's the issue of the painting itself. If I decide to do something, I buy the supplies and I do it. I'm excited about the project and complete it right away and do a good job. Craig is the exact opposite -- he's a procrastinator. All conditions must be optimal. The planets must be aligned, the sun must be shining, the weather must be above 50 degrees. And when the perfect painting moment is at hand, he thinks that taping is unnecessary. He thinks he has the steadiest hand in the East, and he'll be able to use a detail brush to get a perfectly straight line.
Coincidentally, after the project is complete and he gets his way about not taping, he bitches about how horrible the lines look and tries to blame it on me.
This time I used a combination of shame and compromise. I compromised by waiting until a day when it wasn't raining, but when he tried to stall me today I shamed him into backing down by telling him I wasn't asking for his help, that he could just sit on his ass and watch television all night, all I wanted to do was paint one wall. Then I moved the furniture, gave the wall a good wipe down, and taped the edges of everything. By that time, he started to feel guilty and ended up helping me. It took all of 45 minutes, and now he's taking credit for wanting to paint tonight.
I just roll my eyes and walk away. Sometimes it's better just to let him think he's gotten his way.
So who remembers the story of the Deeply Religious army chaplain who offered up access to a bath to soldiers stationed in Iraq in the form of a baptism only after they listened to his 1.5 hour sermon?
I'm happy to report that he's under investigation. Llano [the chaplain] has been quoted as saying, "You have to be aggressive to help people find themselves in God."
You just know that he's one of these crazies who subscribes to the "spare the rod, spoil the child" philosophy. Oy vey.
There's some question about what kind of punishment would be appropriate in this situation, but I think I have an idea.
I think we should force him to go through basic training without the opportunity to shower. It obviously isn't the same as desert combat, but it would simulate at least part of the experience -- dirt, fighting, sweat, lack of sleep, etc.
Then, he should be forced to sit through a two hour long lecture on the wonders of worshipping carrots and be forced to pledge his eternal soul to carrots and be baptized in the church of the carrots in a pool of water filled with the dirt and sweat of 100 other people.
Because for those who are dirty and tired and want nothing more than to feel clean for two seconds, being forced to take two hours out of their busy fighting schedule and having the word of jeebus forced down your throat feels just like that.
[link found via Big Pink Cookie.]
If you haven't read the following posts from today, I encourage you to do so:
If you like your sex toys free and easy, listen up: Alabama Attorney General William Pryor has been nominated by our current administration to be a U.S. Circuit Court Judge. And guess what? He wants your vibrators, freedom french ticklers, and nipple clamps locked up tighter than his clenched ass.
Yep, old Bill introduced an "obscenity statute making it unlawful to sell or otherwise distribute any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs."
Bill ain't getting any, apparently, and neither should you. Put that dildo away and go grab a bible, you heathens! And, by all means, let you government decide what's right for you, you stupid voters!
[link found via This Modern World.]
Dear Madam or Sir,
I'd like to tell you a little story about how I was traumatized for life at your establishment, Caesar's Cove Haven in the beautiful Pocono mountains.
I was dating a boy named Ken a few years ago and we decided to take our first weekend trip together. He told me a few friends of his had rented a cabin in the Poconos and asked if I'd like to join them. Now, I'm not a camping type of girl, but Ken assured me that the cabin had electricity and running water so I relented. A weekend away from the city didn't sound half bad.
Ken picked me up and we drove to the Poconos. Let me take this opportunity to explain the relationship. Ken is someone I've known since I was 12 years old, but we had only recently started dating. At this point, we had been casually dating for about a month. I know his entire family and he knows mine. We had smooched, but that's about as far as things had gone at that point.
So anyway, we talked on the ride up to the mountains. I joked about all those cheesy newlywed places and their champagne glass tubs and heart shaped beds. Ken got a little quiet, but I didn't think anything of it. I'm a chatty girl and I kept rambling on.
We're driving up a mountain when Ken casually says, "Oh, my friends bailed on the cabin this weekend so it will just be us. I hope you don't mind." I was a bit freaked out. It's not that I thought Ken would turn into a sex-crazed maniac or anything, but the relationship was new and I didn't want there to be a lot of awkward alone time, you see.
Then he pulled into the entrance drive for Caesar's Cove Haven. I gripped the door handle and anxiously asked, "Um, Ken, isn't this one of those places with the champagne glass tubs?"
"No, no," Ken assured me. "This place just runs the cabins."
I was not reassured, however. In fact, my stomach was in knots. I had a very bad feeling.
Ken turned the key in the lock of our cabin, which [from the outside] looked way too small to house the half a dozen other guests that should have been with us. Ken opened the door and I walked inside. Directly inside the door was a red heart shaped tub and next to that was a gigantic round bed decked out in satin sheets.
I froze.
Ken pounced on the bed, patted it and grinned. "Well, come on in! Aren't you surprised?"
Surprised...yes, I was surprised. And horrified. The room was decorated in early American cheap slut. I was afraid to touch anything for fear of catching a veneral disease or two that a prior couple of hump bunnies had left behind.
After much coaxing and threatening, Ken drove me back to Philadelphia. That was almost two hours of silence. Not a very comfortable ride, I must admit.
As I'm sure you can imagine, Ken and I are not dating anymore. In fact, I haven't spoken to Ken since that day. My family used to ask why and, in the interest of sparing Ken's family the indignity of learning their son is a sneaky liar and probably dripping with VD, I merely said that it just wouldn't have worked out.
I know that you're used to beautiful stories of newlywed bliss, but I thought you might want to know the other side of it.
Best wishes,
Nicole
P.S. FYI: the Poconos are not mountains, they are divided plateau. My high school earth science teacher has been pissed off about that for years.
This is exactly how I feel right now.
I really like shoes. At the moment my herd of shoes has been thinned out quite a bit -- I'm down to about 60 pairs. But there was a time I had upwards of 120 pairs.
The reason for this is that I'm a total packrat. And shoes, well, you never know when that pair of electric blue alligator skin pumps will come in handy.
At the moment, I own three pairs of sneakers, three pairs of Doc Martins [black oxfords, 8 hole purple, and 10 hole black metal tips], about a dozen pairs of random colored shoes, and the rest of my shoes are varying styles of black. If you are a woman, you can probably understand the necessity of owning over 60 pairs of black shoes. If you are a man, you probably think I have some sort of weird and crazy phobia. Let me tell you, for those of us who adore shoes, we can't imagine how you can live with one pair of sneakers and one pair of black dress shoes.
Something that pisses me off about buying new shoes is breaking them in. We can fly people around in outer space and create a phone that fits in your dental fillings, but we can't make a pair of shoes that doesn't scrape four layers of skin off the back of your heel for the first six times you wear them?
That just doesn't make any sense. Shoes have only been around since 4000 B.C. Come on, people, let's build a better shoe!
I am particularly angry at the person who invented high heels. Legend has it that it was Leonardo da Vinci.
I've never been particularly graceful in high heels. I sort of look like a fledgling drag queen hauling my carcass around the room, thinking a broken ankle is coming with each step. I need training wheels on my heeled shoes.
Although, let's face it, I'm not particularly graceful out of high heels.
OK, so let's review.
This emergency bill appropriating money for the war...$80 million. Plus an additional $3 million to build a rifle range for the South Carolina National Guard and $98 million for the construction of an agricultural research facility in Ames, Iowa, and countless other additional projects.
I understand that there are thousands of projects across this country that need money. Roads and bridges need to be fixed, buildings need repairs -- fine. But can we just focus, just for a moment, on the more important problems we're facing.
I really don't feel comfortable spending $273,000 for the Blue Springs (Missouri) Youth Orchestra Outreach Unit for educational training to combat Goth culture and $500K on the recovery of Preble's Meadow Jumping Mouse and $190K to keep the Motor Racing Museum of the South, in Spartanburg, SC afloat when there are important things that need funding.
Everyone has their own vision of what federal money should be spent on. I favor spending money on the arts, giving the NEA money for their programs, etc. But if yanking the NEA money for a few years meant solving the persistent problems of illiteracy, unemployment, welfare dependency, and hundreds of thousands going without health care, I'd be all in favor for it.
And I think it goes without saying that the money Bush is throwing into "faith based initiatives" and some of the ridiculous "pork barrel" spending that goes on should be stopped immediately. I won't even mention that there was millions of extra project dollars attached to the emergency war bill that just passed [OK, I already did, but I won't rant about how wrong that is].
If you're interested in seeing what other ludicrous crap your tax dollars are being spent on, please visit Citizens Against Government Waste and take a look at the 2003 Pig Book. And then get out your good writing pen and send your government representatives a nice letter.
Holy schmoly, Kelly Clarkson looks like a beat up crack whore.
I can't believe that drag queen Trenyce is not in the bottom three, but Kim Locke is. Oy.
Honestly, what crazed bunch of uber-patriots are keeping Josh in the running? I have a theory that he could single-handedly take down any "Axis of Evil" country just by singing there...everyone would run for cover, clutching their bleeding ears. On second thought, maybe I should just send him to the White House.
How the hell did Carmen make it another week? Maybe there are a plethora of goat herders voting. She sounds baaaaaaaaaah-d.
What the hell is this Get Out of My Dreams travesty?
Huh. Ricky bought it, but off key girl Kim C. gets to stay?
Maybe Carmen and Josh made a deal with the deeeeeeevil.
When I was 10 years old I wanted to marry Jon-Erik Hexum. I was sure that when I became an adult we would meet and fall helplessly in love. After all, my devotion was strong. I sent him pre-pubescent love letters professing my deep feelings...sometimes twice or three times every month.
Luckily, this was all before the time of crazed stalker fans. He probably would have slapped a restraining order on my smitten ass if I did that now. Of course, he can't -- he's dead.
Oh, it was a dark day in the house of go fish that day. I clutched the signed postcard he had sent me to my preteen bosom and sobbed when I heard the news he accidentally shot himself. My dreams -- shattered.
As an adult I barely remember that series Voyagers he was on. Do you? That little kid, Meeno Peluce and him running around history, sort of like Quantum Leap but dumber.
I forgot to mention this earlier, but Carnival of the Vanities #29 is up at Solonor's. My submission for this week was my bloody tale of needle-filled woe.
My vow is to submit something silly to the Carnival every week. One thing I learned from my week hosting the Carnival is that there are a lot of people who take themselves really seriously. I never want to be one of those kinds of people, because those people are just no fun to be around. I'm not saying that all the serious entries aren't good writing, but some of it is a lot of self-important indulgence. Who amongst us hasn't been guilty of that, right? It's not as if we blog or anything.
I encourage all of you to submit something to the Carnival every week that is not in any way serious. Submit something funny or stupid or just plain weird...because with your help we can cure deadly seriousness.
Oh, for anyone who wanted to see my brand spankin' new hair...
No more red for me!
Despite the rain outside and the near hurricane happening outside my window, I am in a happy, sunny mood. My work computer has had it's boo boo fixed, and I am now back in my own little cubicle from hell, admiring my collection of Homies, my filing cabinet magnets, and my beloved mess.
That also means my digital camera is back in action, since I was able to load the software here again [my IT department must hate me]. Thusly, I have some things to say. Or photos to post, really.
Do you remember when Statia came over for lunch a few weeks ago? I didn't mention it then because I had no photographic proof to back it up, but Statia is a total perv. Look at what she did to my magnetic dolls of Venus and David!
I begged her to put some real clothes on them, but she wouldn't hear of it. Now David and Venus have SARS and it's all her fault. Well, her and the crazy pigeon lady.
Hey, here's some good news: there's a theory that SARS might be carried by cockroaches.
Cockroaches are considered to be one of the most serious risks to public health. Species such as American, German and Oriental cockroaches can transfer filth and disease from rubbish to domestic environments, causing the contamination of food. Cockroaches are omnivorous, with a diet including food, hair, leather, wallpaper and faeces. Viruses are contracted by humans on being ingested with food that has been infected by cockroaches. However, a spokeswoman for the Hong Kong health authorities said that all kinds of insects, not only cockroaches, were being investigated, as well as rats.
I think I'm going to carry this article around with me, and give a copy to the crazy fucking pigeon feeding lady who is the bane of my existence.
The pigeon lady must die. Slow, painful, disease-ridden death. Oh yes, I will find a way.
I used to go clubbing a lot. It was this ritual when I was in college -- we'd head over to The Bank on Spring Garden Street around 10 or 11pm, dance there until almost closing time, then we'd run across the street to Silk City Diner.
Let me tell you, there's nothing better than pancakes at 2am when you're trashed. Well, maybe a cheesesteak from Pat's, but that's a whole different story.
Anyway, some strange things have happened to me whilst partying over the years. I met the guys from Marilyn Manson, gotten into fist fights, danced in a cage, and even saved a life once. But never once has someone dropped their dentures down my shirt.
Ew.
Well, I just scanned my hand so I could unveil my grandmother's ring. My hand looks kinda funny, don't you think?
For being a ring of many carats, it doesn't look real big or really gaudy. It used to get mistaken for a mood ring, which really irked my grandmother to no end. She was a woman who refused to curse, so she mostly just muttered "Oh crumb! It's not a mood ring!" and went on her way.
I'm so happy to have my grandmother's ring back -- I've been showing it off all day.
So Craig and I are watching American Idol, and that dorky military guy Josh comes out and sings whatever it was that he sang.
Craig looks at me and asks, "Has that guy just gotten hick-ier and hick-ier with each passing show? Next week he's going to come out to sing in overalls and wife beater, chewing a piece of alfalfa, carrying one of those jugs with the three X's on it."
It was funny. Guess you had to be there.
On a cheerier note, did you notice? No "205" jersey on Ruben tonight! He looked hot!
I get very excited when I walk into a good jewelry store. To know that there's some manly guy getting a work out on the polisher in the back just gets me hot. Maybe it's all the pretty, shiny things.
A few weeks ago I dropped off a ring to get fixed at my jeweler [for those of you who demand to know where I get my jollies -- it's Barsky Jewelers on Jeweler's Row]. It was not just any ring. It was the ring that my grandmother gave me before I got married. She had worn it all her adult life, having been given the ring by my great-grandmother who had worn it all of her adult life. I have severe emotional attachment to the ring.
When I was little my grandmother, brother, and I used to walk up the street to the burger place when I stayed overnight at her house. I would immediately hold her right hand and say, "I'll take the hand with the ring, Grammy." It's my birthstone, amethyst. The ring is a 10 carat cabachon cut stone set in a simple gold band. It's beautiful. I'd take a photo of it, but my computer is being tempermental.
At any rate, my grandmother could not attend the wedding. She had a stroke many years ago and never recovered movement in her left side and was confined to a nursing home. It was impossible to move her around without the aid of lifting machines. So a couple of weeks before the wedding she gave me the ring, and I was floored. It seemed strange that I should be wearing her ring. I wore it for my wedding -- it was my "something old." It made us both feel a little better to know that a part of her was with me that day.
My grandmother died about a year and a half ago. On the day she died the stone fell out of the ring. It just dropped out and landed at my feet. Since then I've kept the stone and the ring in a drawer -- I've been sort of superstitious about having it reset. But I finally got my shit together and took it to be fixed. I just picked it up during my lunch hour and it looks wonderful. And I'm glad to be wearing it again, since it reminds me of my grandmother.
My friend Ruby and I went to lunch a couple of weeks ago and the talk turned to, as usual, religion. Ruby is way religious. Not in a "I'm going to try to convert you" way, but she prays before meals and won't have sex before she's married [did I mention she's 34?] and goes to church every week. She also curses like a trucker, so I guess it all evens out.
Anyway, we ended up talking about Jehovah's Witnesses. See, even in the midst of two completely convergent opinions on religion, making fun of the Witnesses always brings us together. It was a beautiful moment.
Anyway, she told me something I did not know. I know that there's the whole thing about only having room for X number of people in the Jehovah Witness heaven. What I didn't know is that they all believe that the earth is going to be wiped clean of people and the new heaven will be here on Earth. So when they die, instead of going to the Jehovah Witness heaven, they might be going to it's satellite heaven. And then Ruby told me something that made me spit out my Enchilada Mole.
They ride around picking out the house they're going to live in when they die. Right now some crazy Jehovah's Witness could be salivating over my house, praying with great religious fervor that all of us die immediately so she can enjoy my kitchen and all of my appliance and gadgets when she's dead.
Some things are just too weird to make up.
For some reason the news about the nuns getting convicted of property damage just struck me as funny.
I know that George believes he's guided by the voice of god to bomb the hell out of Iraq in an effort to liberate it's citizens and directed to do any number of ridiculous things in His name. However, nuns are likely higher up the jeebus food chain than poor little George. I mean, they're supposed to be, technically speaking now, married to god, right? So if the nuns say that they were "compelled to act as war with Iraq moved closer and because the United States has never promised not to use nuclear weapons," well, if I were of a mind to believe in god and jeebus and all that, I'd have to back the nuns.
But hey, I'm just a layperson [heh, she said layperson] -- I leave all the sorting out of pesky religious issues to the professionals.
I need assistance [and not of the mental health provider variety, for a nice change of pace] --
I'm on the prowl for a good RSS feeder. Anyone have suggestions?
Yeah, so the media is reporting that Hussein and sons might be dead. You know, because there was a target of opportunity according to "sources." I wonder if these are the same sources who informed them of that target of opportunity at the beginning of the invasion. Remember that? When it was thought Hussein and sons might be dead?
And, what do you know, something that might be a chemical weapon was found. Or it might be dry cleaning fluid or explosives, like the last couple of times the media reported that something might be a chemical weapon.
I don't know about you, but I'm so fucking tired of hearing about possible scenarios. I'm ready for some actual facts. I don't want to hear that we've invaded a country because they might sell weapons to those that would attack the U.S., or that war protestors can be shot at with rubber bullets because they might get violent. I want someone to give me some cold, hard factual evidence of something. Anything!
The U.S. media is sugarcoating and twisting this whole thing. Protestors and those who question what's going on are bad, bad people. But the invasion of Iraq is good and Iraqi citizens love us. Footage of the Iraqi civilians who have been killed or maimed aren't shown here for fear that it might make U.S. citizens uncomfortable to know what this war [or any war, for that matter] is doing to people.
Give me the actual facts. I'm a big girl now, I can handle the truth.
Apparently I'm not the only one who has problems guaging food quantity. So, at the request of more than one person, here is the equation for the perfect amount of sushi rice to make one nori sheet worth of sushi:
It's true. Oh, and a rice steamer/cooker is key. The rice turns out better -- I have no idea why. Plus, I'm lazy.
After years of making way too much rice, I finally figured out exactly how much rice to steam in order to make one sheet of nori worth of maki rolls.
I rock!
To some of you, this may seem like a silly thing. Maybe even an easy thing. However, I come from good farmer stock and we all genetically tend to cook for armies. It took me five years of dating Craig before I managed to pare down my cooking for just the two of us. For a long time I'd just make huge meals and then freeze most of it for leftovers.
Yeah, so tonight I made sushi for myself for dinner -- smoked salmon, cream cheese, leftover kimchi, and carrots. And I made sushi for lunch for myself tomorrow -- smoked salmon with green beans, carrots, kimchi and wasabi.
So I don't care if it's silly to be excited about being able to make a small amount of sushi. I'm still going to party like it's 1999.
Please tell me I will not be the only one seeing House of 1000 Corpses in the theatre. I mean, come on -- Rob Zombie as director and an "R" rating for "strong sadistic violence/gore, sexuality and language"...does good cheese get any better than this?
*This plea brought you by the poor sap who has seen every Halloween, Friday the 13th, Freddy Kruger movie in the theatre.
The annual Red Cross blood drive here at work is coming up. I just requested my appointment. I'm a champion blood donor -- everytime I'm eligible I pony up to the draining station and make a deposit. I'm a giver goddess like that.
The first time I gave blood, however, was rather traumatic. I almost never gave again because of a Nurse Rached-like character who was intent on traumatizing me for life.
No, really.
I remember the day well, almost as if it was yesterday. I was newly 18 years old, a senior in high school. I had come to think of it like a rite of passage -- voting, driving, giving blood. My mother was one of those crazy blood donors with pins signifying her accomplishment of giving 12,000 gallons of blood over her lifetime and stuff like that. I was slightly frightened, but totally psyched up for it.
Nurse Rached was one of those large, solid women with cafeteria lady breasts -- you know the type. She was an old-fashioned, no-nonsense kind of chick. She always wore the standard nurses outfit with the zip up the front polyester dress, white stockings, white orthopedic shoes, and little starched cap. Her biceps were the size of tree trunks. I thought she was going to open up her mouth and say [in a really gruff Bouvier sister smoker voice] "I'm Bertha. You're next. Fill out this questionnaire." Instead, she sort of grunted at me and motioned me into a chair and then handed me a clipboard and pen.
I should have taken the hint and run out of there. But I was young and naive and full of hope and visions of saving a life. Dumbass.
So I fill out the little questionnaire, marvelling at all the bizarre diseases I didn't have. I had never left the country, never had a tattoo or body peircing, had unprotected sex with anyone. Funny how things change so drastically. Ah, memories.
Nurse Rached/Bertha tore the clipboard out of my hand and did the blood pressure/temperature/iron testing. She seemed disappointed that I passed. She glared at me through her narrow, squinty eyes. She grunted again, and pointed to the table with an ominous, spastic hand.
I started to get a little nervous.
I laid down on the table and tried to look cool. I was thinking how happy I was that I hadn't worn a skirt, and that it wasn't game day so I didn't have to wear my cheerleading uniform. I looked up at the bleachers [the blood drive was in the gym, probably in case of any bleeders -- the gym is an easy clean up] and tried to relax a little. And then Nurse Rached approached me with a needle the size of an ice pick, evil grin on her pinched face.
It was that moment I knew something very bad was going to happen. I looked around frantically for an escape route.
She slapped my elbow pit for a vein, found one that suited her, wound up like she was throwing a softball, and jabbed me hard with the needle. Blood spurted across the white Nurse's uniform.
To say that I screamed would be an understatement. Wailed, shrieked, screeched -- all good descriptive words that fail to meet the actual event which took place.
The gym had been relatively quiet until the silence was shattered by my outburst. But I was determined to stick it out. I assured the startled on-lookers that I fine, merely surprised by the viciousness of Nurse Rached's attack. I laid back, trying to find my happy place so I didn't have to notice the horrible pain emanating from the hatchet wound in my armpit.
Raise your hand if you know what happens when you're traumatized...that's right, your blood vessels constrict. The one that the needle had been rammed into was now hugging the needle and I was tearing up. I was only halfway done filling up the bag and things were not looking good.
Nurse Rached came flying at me, face purple with rage. First, she told me to get a grip and then twisted the needle in my arm to see if she could get the blood flowing in my arm again. I whimpered in pain, sure that I was going to die. Nurse Rached had just about all she could deal with from me.
"I don't even know why you tried to give blood," she screamed at me. "You're too young and too immature! I can't believe we even wasted our time with you! Look at you!" Then she yanked the needle out of my arm, patched up the gigantic hole, and practically bodily carried me over to the juice/cookie table.
I vowed never again to give blood. Traumatized for life doesn't even begin to cover it. Word of what happened travelled fast and by the end of the day the episode had turned into Nurse Rached putting me in a headlock and stabbing me with a pen.
Somehow my boyfriend's mother found out about it. She was a nurse. Nurse Rached was fired for her behavior, and I was left with a deep fear of needles and nurses and giving blood.
Like I said, funny how things change so drastically
I don't want to be one of those old hags who constantly say, "I remember when bread was a nickel!" but I remember when Lollapalooza tickets were about $30.00 for all seats. It wasn't all that long ago.
In fact, it was around 1993 or 1994.
And now tickets are $60 for pit seats. That just seems outrageous to me. True, it's a day full of music. And I really wanted to see Jane's Addiction again. However, those tickets better come with crack to justify that kind of pricing when less then ten years ago they were half that price.
Speaking of the ten commandments, I'm deeply sorry to announce that the Ten Commandments Project has run out of money. I know it comes as a big shock to those of you who were hard at work memorizing so you could get that $10.00.
For those of you unfamiliar with this fabulous organization, they bribe encourage kids to learn the ten commandments. Seriously, a kid reads off his hand memorizes the ten commandments, forges gets his pastor or teacher to sign an affidavit, mails it back to the Ten Commandments Project, and then receives a check for $10 in the mail as a reward for being a good Christian.
Heh. Is it just me, or am I the only one picturing some guy from Newark, NJ sitting in house right now with a stack of affidavits, a bevy of P.O. box numbers, and $75,000 pilfered from TCP? If, by some strange coincidence, the money actually went to kids [rather than some smart conman with a pen], I'd like to run a followup poll to see if any of them can remember the commandments.
I think they underestimate a child's natural greed, don't you?
Think about all the crap you did as a kid for allowance money. I shovelled snow from 60 feet of driveway at least two dozen times each winter just so I would get my measly allowance of $5.00. I cleaned the entire house on a weekly basis, washed the car, took the garbage out, cleaned the pool, ran errands -- all for $5.00 in allowance every week.
As longtime readers know, I've done worse things for money since then.
If someone gave me the opportunity to earn $10 just for memorizing a couple of a lines, hell, yes -- let me at it. Memorizing stuff is easy, and then you forget about it the next day. For anyone who disputes this, I triple dog dare you to tell me how to conjugate a verb in whatever foreign language you took in high school. And then tell me how to diagram this sentence.
This part of the article just cracked me up:
The ministry was born out of disgust after a part-time cook murdered seven workers at three Tennessee restaurants in 1997. Kelley and his wife, Marion, both Presbyterians, saw the crimes as a sign that young people did not understand right from wrong.They started the project with help from friends, feeling that children who memorized the Ten Commandments perhaps would think about them when tempted to lie, steal or engage in other wrongdoing.
It's just a "fun with the religious right" kind of day around here. Hey, maybe little George will fund this fabulous group through his faith-based initiative project. I can't think of a better way to spend taxpayer money.
There's a certain faction of people who believe the U.S. judicial system is based on the ten commandments. The issue that brings this up is whether or not a plaque listing the ten commandments should be removed from a courthouse in a nearby town. This has been going on for some time, but the appeal to a ruling that led for the plaque to be covered is being heard in court today. And, many of the people who say the plaque should remain say it should be there because the justice system is based on the ten commandments.
I, being the curious girl that I am, wanted to check. It's been quite a few years since I had to learn the ten commandments, but I could only remember one or two that were actually illegal.
The truth of the matter is that a list of the ten commandments has no place on a government building. Simply put, it violates the separation of church and state. I've heard two reasons why the plaque should remain. One is a logical reason and one I could, in theory, support. The other is your typical religious right response about the commandments being the law.
The logical reason is that the plaque has been part of the building since the 1920s, and should be preserved for its historical value, along with the courthouse itself. Now, as I said, in theory I could support this. But not everything that has historical value should be preserved. That same courthouse probably had a sign pointing out a separate entrance for black people at one time -- that's historical too, should that be preserved? Not so much, right?
You have to be fucking kidding me -- the weather service is calling for a half of foot of motherfucking snow tomorrow. It's not enough snow to net me a day off from work, and [besides which] it's April...there should be no snow. I'm not digging it.
I guess I should be thrilled that I was able to get a good run in today with Tracey. My ass sure as hell isn't running in the snow tomorrow. What happened to Spring? It was 70 degrees only a week ago and now it's like the frozen freakin' tundra.
The only good thing is that I get to wear my fabulous winter coat a last time before packing up the winter clothes.
Here's a tip: do not drink coffee on an empty stomach and then go running. No good things can come of it.
Tracey and I met up at the art museum this morning to run. Not too bad, considering I thought I was going to pee my pants the whole time -- we ran 2 miles and walked 2 miles. And I walked an additional 2 miles up to meet her.
Oh, and I saw an entire busload of tourists run the steps of the art museum screaming "Yo Adrain!" and then do the Rocky celebration and pushups at the top of the stairs. Here's another tip [I'm so helpful today]: don't do that, you just look stupid. Statia gave me permission to drop kick them from the top of the steps.
If Tracey hadn't shown up when she did, things might have gotten ugly and I would've been blogging this from prison.
Hi mom, I"m in jail...
It's a beautiful day and I'm going running! Woohoo! If it were just a tad warmer it would be one of those days where you look outside and swear you hear singing.
As is, all I can imagine is the icicles forming on my nose.
I'm having a travel jones. It's not for London or Paris or anything like that. My brain is firmly behind visiting the only place in the world where I can embrace a giant pig and wear a stupid hat and not feel completely bizarre and cheesy. That's right: Disney.
I know that Disney pipes the smell of chocolate out onto Main Street USA so that you visit the Toll House shop [or whatever it's called] and buy something sweet to eat, but I also think they pipe in mind control drugs to break down your cheese-o-meter. How else can you explain why I willingly wore a white hat with a veil and mouse ears while I was in the park?
Craig and I are using my mom's condo in Orlando in October. We figured we'd swing by Epcot...although I know we're going to end up at Magic Kingdom because I consider it a crime to be in Orlando and not ride the Haunted Mansion twelve dozen times. I'm planning some good stuff - Universal Studios, maybe a dolphin swim. I'd love to take a side trip and do a manatee dive.
Cheesy trip, here I come! Woohoo!
Do not go and see The Core. I repeat, do not see this movie.
I've readily admitted to being a total disaster movie freak, but The Core has to be right up there with that made for TV classic, Atomic Twister. I heard the special effects were phenomenal, but they weren't that great. The plot was kind of silly, and by the end of the film you're sorting hoping everyone dies.
Save your money -- see it on video. Or don't see it at all.
I was over at People's Republic of Seabrook just now, reading up, when I read that the owner of the blog had to ban his first out of hand comment troll. Coincidentally enough, it was some crazed pro-Bush loony. Why are all the comment trolls pro-Bush and insanely rude?
At any rate, then I read the entry about the year 2000 PBS ideology quiz. While I'm sure that some people would dispute this as untrue and propaganda from an obviously liberal organization, it states that liberal Democrats are the "most highly-educated group" of voters. Being a liberal Democrat myself, I would have to say that this is true [but I could just be patting myself on the back for being part of this group! *grin*].
Now, the ideology quiz results say that the exact opposite on the scale, "staunch conservatives" are "Predominately white (93%), male (62%) and older. Married (74%). Extremely satisfied financially (54% make at least $100,000). Fifty-seven percent are white Protestants." Their educational background isn't mentioned, but they are obviously less well-educated than the liberal Democrats. It also says that they are "highly vocal."
Let's face it, if you're vehemently pro-Bush and have no qualms about towing the Bush party line [hook, line, and sinker] you pretty much have to be a staunch conservative. And the only logical conclusion is that liberal Democrats are more intelligent that staunch conservatives. Right? At the very least, staunch conservatives lack the education to partake in rational discourse with others and won't abide free-thinkers.
The other thing that is kind of heartening about the PBS quiz results is that the majority of staunch conservatives are "older." These WASPy guys are likely baby boomers. Baby boomers are getting older and eventually they will die off. Now, granted, by the time they die, they will have been such a huge strain on social security there will be none left for when I want to retire and the environment is going to be a huge wreck so we'll have to live in oxygen masks and SPF 90,000, but at least then maybe some rational people will have been voted into office.
Of course, there will be a lot of damage to fix.
Um, yeah. So what does a newly blonde girl like me do on a Friday night? That's right, I cook dinner with my hot husband and finish knitting a sweater. Whoever said blondes have more fun surely knew what they were talking about.
What did I make? While I was dreaming about being a party guest at Christine's fondue party I went the healthy route and marinated chicken thighs in spicy yogurt marinade and the cooked them with couscous and green beans. Yes, I am [to quote Statia] "Martha Stewart's evil twin." Fear me.
Oh, and just so I make myself clear about something: I love the check yourself out registers at grocery stores. I don't have to deal with some bitchy anti-social worker drone with greasy hair and I have entirely too much fun making a spectacle of myself while attempting to scan my rack.
Just a reminder to all you local kids --
Next Saturday night is the first en masse meeting of the fabulous people in or near Philadelphia who keep a blog or online journal and the wonderful people who love them. Everyone is welcome to join us. And if you love me [and I know you do], you'll give this little meeting a plug on your own blog so we can be sure no one is left out who might live close by.
The details for the party can be found here.
I refuse to watch any sporting event on television with the exception of cheerleading and gymnastics.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Yeah, so, Eddie Vedder. Not really a middle of the road, sitting on the fence kind of guy. He and the rest of the guys in Pearl Jam have causes and political beliefs. They played the Tibetan Freedom Festival, a lot of their songs hold political expression, they did the whole thing with Ticketmaster a while back. All of them have something to say and have never been afraid to say it and have conviction.
And that's why I find it so hysterically funny that a dozen or so fans got so steamed when Vedder condemned the "President".
During the show, Vedder said: "Just to clarify... we support the troops.""We're just confused on how wanting to bring them back safely all of a sudden becomes non-support," he said. "We love them. They're not the ones who make the foreign policy .... Let's hope for the best and speak our opinions."
What really cracks me up is that the media is reporting this like half the audience got up and walked out. In comparison to the size of the crowd, that's a handful of people. Let's get a grip on reality.
The good thing is that, since the majority of Pearl Jam fans are not wheat chewing, overall wearing, tractor driving, god fearing yokels, they won't be coerced into issuing an apology, like the Dixie Chicks, in hopes of retaining their fan base.
It fills me with no small amount of glee to imagine all the uber-patriots gnashing their teeth this morning, trying to find a way to justify their blind purchase of the entire party line, finding ways to lock everyone up who doesn't agree with them.
Gosh, so much to think about - Eddie Vedder and John Kerry in the same day, saying similar things about little George. Feral far right teeth must be worn down to little tiny nubs by now! Heh.
I'm taking the day off! Woohoo! *does the cabbage patch* I have the day off!
Yesterday I started thinking about how much I would like to laze around the house today and have a long weekend, so I called out this morning. Of course, I really won't be lounging couchside -- I'll be taking a jog later and hitting the post office to flirt with my favorite postal worker. I know, the excitement never ends around here, but it's a mental health day, not a single-handedly save the world day.
You could say that I'm avoiding work for peace, if you like. I'm willing to make the sacrifice.
After thinking about this for a few hours, I would have to say that I will likely never have plastic surgery. I'm just a wimpy little girl and I really dislike pain. I've haven't been in the hospital for any kind of procedure since I was 5 years old and had my tonsils removed -- I can't even begin to imagine how freaked out and scared I would be by the whole thing.
Of course, it's more than just being scared of the pain. I have no reason to have plastic surgery. I like my face just the way it is. I joke, like almost every woman, about having my entire body lipo'd until I'm a cookie away from death's door, but I would never do it. I want the satisfaction of working to get my body back into shape.
This comes up because Craig schnookered me into watching some stupid plastic surgery segment on The Pulse earlier this evening. Apparently, some woman had this ridiculous 8 hour surgery to re-shape her nose and chin, and get breast implants, and hip and thigh lipo. There might have been more to it than that, but that's what I remember. And the reporter said that she did it because she was worried about losing her husband to another woman.
I snickered when I heard that. This flies in the face of everything I know to be true. A man who truly loves you will love you for who you are, not how you look. I know that Craig would love me even if I gained enough weight to be the fattest woman in the world, lost my limbs and my hair, and had a horrible and disfiguring accident. He loves me for the neurotic lunatic that I am.
But let's just say, for the sake of argument, that Craig left me for another woman....maybe traded me in for a younger model. I certainly wouldn't be moping around the house, wondering what I'd done or wishing he'd come back. I'm secure enough to know that I deserve all the good things that are coming to me and that I'd be better off without someone so shallow. It took me some time to learn that, but I've got a firm grip on it now.
But back to this woman and her husband...the reporter interviewed her post-surgery and she said that her husband has been way more attentive, and that he was always really pushing her to have the perfect body and now she does and everything is wonderful and perfect.
Which means that he'll be cheating on her within two years. When she starts to wrinkle up or some other part of her gets fat, she'll just be another Southern haus frau with a fake rack and the husband will have found some other perky moron to do his bidding.
That's the other thing - the woman wasn't ugly or excessively obese. She was smaller than the average woman and she didn't have a cleft lip or hairy mole or hook nose or anything. Her only imperfection was lack of sense for marrying the schmuck and letting herself feel badly enough about herself to have 8 hours of plastic surgery.
I'm not against plastic surgery. If you feel that your life would be infinitely improved by calf implants and a new nose, have at it. It's a proven fact that physically beautiful people have an easier time of it than unattractive people, and I'm not going to dispute it. I just feel sorry for people who have the surgery to fix their lives instead of enhance a certain aspect of it.
I just sat next to an old smelly man on the bus ride home. He reeked of urine and bandaids.
Yuck.
If I believed in god and jeebus and thought The Bible is the truth, I'd be looking out for brimstone and locusts any time now....
Yesterday at the doctor's office I relayed a few symptoms I'm having [which shall remain a mystery to you]. I said, "I'm having a problem. I have X and Y. Do you think it could be a medical problem?"
My doctor sort of looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and asked, "Are you depressed about anything?"
"Um, no," I answered. "There's the normal bad mood kind of stuff that everyone has, but nothing out of the ordinary."
She turned around to face me, and said, "Do you cry?"
"Well, no. I'm not really having a problem with my mental health," I said, wondering what she was getting at.
Without any further questions about other physical symptoms I might be suffering, she told me that I am probably just depressed and I should shop around for a good shrink.
I have nothing against seeing a psychologist or whatever, but I'd much rather actually be tested for a few things before I run off and get counselling which won't help if it's a medical problem. Call me crazy, but it seems prudent to rule out physical causes before someone starts talking about putting me on medication for depression I really don't have.
Maybe she thinks I'm making shit up to get the good drugs or some attention. In the 8 or so years I've been seeing my doctor I have never once complained about any kind of problem. Take me seriously.
Please note:Friday, April 11 is Bloggers for Peace Day.
Please click here for more details.
[Link found via KD]
...we now return you to your regularly scheduled blog...
Edwin Starr died of a heart attack yesterday. I have always loved the song War, and Starr sang some other great songs too. I don't have much to say -- I'm just kind of sad, and wish that we had learned something from the time period when War was released. Unfortunately, over 30 years later we still haven't learned a thing about conflict resolution.
Here are my main questions:
War [Edwin Starr]
Oh no-there's got to be a better way
Say it again
There's got to be a better way-yeah
What is it good for?
War has caused unrest
Among the younger generation
Induction then destruction
Who wants to die?
War-huh
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing
Say it again
War-huh
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing
Yeah
War-I despise
'Cos it means destruction
Of innocent lives
War means tears
To thousands of mothers how
When their sons go off to fight
And lose their lives
I said
War-huh
It's an enemy of all mankind
No point of war
'Cos you're a man
Give it to me one time-now
Give it to me one time-now
War has shattered
Many young men's dreams
We've got no place for it today
They say we must fight to keep our freedom
But Lord, there's just got to be a better way
It ain't nothing but a heartbreaker
War
Friend only to the undertaker
War
War
War-Good God, now
Now
Give it to me one time now
Now now
What is it good for?
Two and a half hours in the salon last night, and all I got was a new look. That time spent should at least come with a foot massage or something. Or complimentary crack.
I'm a closet high maintenance kind of girl. If you met me for the first time, I'm fairly certain I don't come off as someone who spends hours in the salon, gets her nails done every other week, and is slightly hoity toity about food. Just for starters, I usually look like shit. But delving into my personal grooming habits is a scary world. Between the hair care, the waxing, and the facials, well, it's a minor miracle that I can manage to leave the house in the morning.
To be fair, my general maintenance routine allows me to spend less time on myself on a daily basis. A good haircut and excellent color means that I spend about five to ten minutes every day to make my hair look presentable [blowdrying through hairspray]. I can tell when it's time to get a cut because I spend an inordinate amount of time fucking around with my hair. Facials mean I spend less time trying to make my skin look good. See, there's a method to my high maintenance madness.
The problem right now is clothing. I'm bigger than I want to be and choosing clothes is agony. I'm always freaking out about my ass looking big, or my arms looking huge, or my gut looking obvious. But I'm working on it. For those of you playing along at home, I'm down 8 pounds. Yay for me!
I need a nap.
There's gratitude for ya -- one of the Carnival post writers from this week took a pot shot at my site design.
That's just not nice at all. [adopts cheerful Candystripper voice] Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed today? You must have a case of the Wednesdays! Here's a cookie *pat pat* [/end voice]
Remember when I was babbling last night about wishing there was a service to convert cassette tapes to CD? I found out that there are a few services available like that. Most of them are cost prohibitive, but here's one that doesn't seem to be a small fortune.
Maybe I'll try it out!
Yeah, so today is a busy day for me -- I have my annual poke, prod, and scrape at Ye Olde Gynecologist today at 10am and then I get to visit the hair salon after work.
Craig and I had a discussion last night while I was alphabetizing my CD collection about having sex before a trip to the gynecologist. I prefer not have little sperm swimming around in my equipment when I go to the gynecologist. It probably doesn't matter if there are. I mean, if you're going to the gynecologist you're probably sexually active. I just feel weird about it. I can imagine the lab techs inspecting my pap smear and yukking it up because I've had sex recently.
My main concern is that I'll have another pap come back "irregular" because of it. There's a history of reproductive organ cancer in my family, and a few years ago I had a pap come back that wasn't quite normal. Then I had to go back to the gyno for a pap smear every two or three months for a year, and that was just a pain and it was really stressful. Who wants to be worried that you have cancer for a year, right?
Or, again, maybe I'm just a freak.
VANITY, n.
The tribute of a fool to the worth of the nearest ass.
Without further ado, I give you:
Mankind must put an end to war or war will put an end to mankind. ~John F. Kennedy
Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first. ~Ronald Reagen
Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. ~Emerson
What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish. ~W.H. Auden
The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, then it's you. ~Rita Mae Brown
Next week the Carnival of the Vanities travels to Solonor's Ink Well. I'll pack it a nice bag lunch for the trip.
I've had a super exciting night. I just spent the last two hours alphabetizing my collection of CDs and then housing them in my new gigantic CD wallet. It goes without saying that I'm more than a little anal retentive, and now I feel slightly like Rob Gordon [High Fidelity], thinking that maybe I should re-arrange them autobiographically.
Of course, my collection is not near as vast as that. I'm still in that weird hybrid stage where half of my collection is on CD and half of my collection is on cassette tape, and I have a few stray vinyl albums floating around the house. It would be much easier [and cheaper] to convert if I had a CD burner. Luckily, Craig and I are getting a new PC within a month or two and then I'll be a CD burning fool.
Your music collection says a lot about you. I have no idea what mine says. There's no overarching theme or type of music. One of the weirdest things I have is an Elvira CD with Halloween songs. The CDs I have the most of are Rollins Band, Prince, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, and Sting. If you look at my cassette collection, I have every Psychedelic Furs album ever made and every Prince album ever made. And then there's my huge collection of disco CDs. Some of my favorite CDs in my collection are the G. Love & Special Sauce, Jill Scott, and Billy Holiday disks.
I really need to find a way to make my mixed cassettes into CDs. There's got to be a service available for that somewhere. Anyone know where I can get that done? I have some wonderful mixed tapes that have original mixes that I would love to get on CD. There's this one that a friend of a friend made for me that has a cut together intro of Andrew Dice Clay saying nothing except "fuck" for two or three minutes. It's a riot.
Or maybe I'm just weird.
Yep, my silly April Fool's joke fooled no one. I'm such a bad liar.
Speaking of April 1, today is Make Fun of Dick and Lynne Cheney Day because of the brouhaha over Whitehouse.org. Personally, there's not much I can say about either of them. Most of my feelings about Dick Cheney revolve around giving his pacemaker the evil eye. So, Dick and Lynne, should you be catching up on the latest here at go fish, consider yourselves made fun of. Now run along and get yourselves a sense of humor.
So I ran over to the gigantic Tower Records on Broad Street during my lunch hour and ended up with the Johnny Cash CD I wanted, and also a "best of" type of album involving New Order. The Tower is just so big I couldn't find any of the other suggestions I received. So it looks like I'll just order them off of Amazon or something.
If I told anyone in my family I was listening to Johnny Cash, I think they'd start looking for a plague of locusts or brimstone or something. I really dislike country music. My grandparents listened to nothing other than Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash, and Loretta Lynn when I was young, and it poisoned me forever. On long road trips I was subjected to the psychological torture that is blue grass music. I wanted nothing more than to pry my eardrums out with a jagged, rusty spoon. And now here I am, digging Johnny Cash. My grandfather, if he were still alive, would no doubt have changed his will to reflect that I had finally come to my senses.
Amy has talked before about being slightly intimidated by indie record shop employees, with their vast musical knowledge and superior attitude. Tower is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a small, indie-type store, but they staff their information desk with the snootiest audiophiles they can find. Today they didn't treat me like a smacked ass when I couldn't locate the Johnny Cash CD. Maybe my new glasses gave me an air of respectability, or maybe I'm too old to be cowed by uppity youths anymore.
Whichever, it was refreshing.
By the way, what the fuck is the deal with the Tony Hawk barbie dolls?
I've decided to stop blogging. It's been nice getting to know all of you, and appreciate those of you who stop by and leave comments for me, but it's just gotten too personal.
A young Smokey Robinson, my ass. More like a young Mike Tyson, minus the muscles.
Yes, that's right, my fondest dreams came true when Corey Clarke's criminal past showed up and bit him in the ass. I hear he's off the show, and that's music to my quivering ears. Everytime he sings my imaginary testicles shrivel up and fall off.
I admit that I'm excited for this evening's disco-palooza show. The only way I could be any happier is if they had an early '80s alterna-rock show. But, in antici-pation of this evening's show, here's what I'd like to see:
I'm going CD shopping this afternoon, specifically to pick up that Johnny Cash disk of covers. Any other suggestions?
Craig drove me to work this morning so my delicate flower self didn't get frostbite. Aw, that's love. Anyway, we're in the car this morning and Hazy Shade of Winter by The Bangles comes on the radio. Craig and I both tend to sing along to whatever is on the radio. Unfortunately, Craig is a song lyric mangler.
We're both singing along and I notice he's singing something completely different. There's the one part of the song that goes "Look around/leaves are brown/and the sky is a hazy shade of winter" and he's singing "Look around/Lisa Brown." What?
And I feel justified in making fun of him because he does it constantly. True, I should be making fun of the both of us for being car singers. And I do, but it's worse that Craig's making up words to songs. And me...well, my mind is a steel trap when it comes to song lyrics.
I can barely remember my social security number or bank account numbers, but I can remember the lyrics to obscure songs. You want someone to add some numbers together -- look elsewhere. But if you want someone to recite the lyrics to President Gas by The Psychedelic Furs, I'm your girl.
Of course, this only applies when I'm sober. When drunk, I might try to tell Lisa Brown to turn around.
