---

Sometimes I'll look at something and it looks funky, but then I'll look again and it'll be all good. Today I did a triple take when I looked down the Parkway, but things were still odd-looking. Take a look at the photo and see if you can guess why.

Of course, if you read my earlier post today about Love Park you already know: the city dyed the fountain water blue. Really, it was more turquoise. It wasn't as pretty as the magenta fountain that resulted from vandalism last month, but it was relaxing to just sit at the fountain, staring at the purty blue water and knitting.

Craig wondered if perhaps the city had put a chemical into the water that turns blue when it comes in contact with urine. That fountain [and all the others in the city] are well known for their after hours usage as a homeless person bath and toilet. But I was assured by a Streets Dept. employee that the blue water was intentional. And now the more I look at the photos, the more it looks like toilet water. Hrmmmm.

For a larger view, click the thumbnail:

---

The chain of command for the Presidency has always sort of held a weird fascination with me. In all likelihood, barring a nuclear event, there will never be a need to even call the third in line [House Speaker]. It seems like Dick Cheney is constantly in an undisclosed location, so the chances of getting both of them seems rather remote.

But yet today when I found out that there's been a bill proposed that would move the Homeland Security Chief [currently Swamp Thing former Pennsylvania governor Tom Ridge] to eighth in line, I wondered if that was a good idea. I mean, the move is proposed because, in the event of a catastrophic occurence, the Homeland Security guru is the best person to be in charge. And I buy that, but why is it eighth position? Why not third or fourth? Is it a weird political thing done so John Ashcroft doesn't feel slighted? He sort of comes off needy, like he'd be really sensitive about that kind of thing.

The current system dates back to the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, signed by President Truman, that specifies that the vice president, the speaker of the House, the president pro tempore of the Senate and the secretary of state are next in line to take over the presidency if necessary. Other Cabinet members are listed according to the date their offices were established.

---

So I was just outside putzing around during my lunch hour. I was at the corner of 17th and JFK, and two businessmen were parting ways after lunch.

Businessman #1: Thanks so much for taking me to lunch!

Businessman #2: Oh sure! Thanks for not choking!

What?

And on an unrelated note, the water in Love Park fountain is turquoise today. You might remember last month some vandals poured dye into the filtration system and made it hot pink. So now the city has dyed the water themselves. It's not as pretty as the pink water, but still better than plain old clear water. I have photos, but no camera cord...so you'll just have to come back later.

---

I was over at Blogspotting today. The latest entry deals with people who believe the Harry Potter books are trying to lead children into hell, what with all the witchcraft and stuff.

Born-Again in Rockford said, “I pray for the innocent children of this world being corrupted by the teachings of Harry Potter’s movies and those like it.” He compared to the Potter following to “sheep being led to slaughter” and added, “I pray your eyes and ears are opened before it is too late.”

Um, yeah. Let's imagine, just for a second, that all of us are idiots. Just total idiots. We're willing to believe everything that anyone tells us. Cigarette smoke is good for you? OK, I'll light up. Masterbation will lead to hairy palms? Fine, no more masterbation. Boys have cooties? I'll stay away from them. Did you buy any of that? No, well you must not be gullible. I'd even go so far as to say that you can think for yourself.

Guess what? Children can think for themselves too if you've brought them up with some modicum of intelligence.

I worry about people who think Harry Potter novels are evil. Just because they are weak-minded and can't distinguish between reality and fantasy, they think the rest of us can't be trusted to make our own choices. Oddly, it seems like it's the freaky uber-religious people who feel that they're morally superior to the rest of us to the point where they need to mandate what's right for everyone.

By the fundie standard, every kid who reads a Harry Potter book is going to grow up, shun religion, and summon the dark forces, which will lead to all sorts of Bad Things. You know how many kids have read a Harry Potter book? 9.3 million copies of the most recent book are in print. Even if not all of them are sold, and let's say half of them are for adults, that's an awful lot of kids who are reading this book. Plus, think of all the kids that read all the previous books. That would mean by the time these kids reach adulthood Christians will be outnumbered by these demon-infected kids. Damn that Harry Potter!

Maybe what the fundies are really worried about is that kids are reading more, developing an imagination and reasoning skills, and their silly fundie notions will seem stupid to more people than normal. Because if you have an imagination and reasoning skills, you have the basic tools to think for yourself and make your own choices and not accept the first idea shoved at you.

I used to play a game I made up when I was little called "Witches Brew." I collected berries and leaves and stuff from the yard and mixed them with water in my sand bucket, and then I was make up spells to cast. I've read The Satanic Bible and several dozen books on witchcraft. I own a couple of tarot decks. That doesn't make me a witch, and it doesn't even make me a bad person. Although, to fundies everywhere, I'm going to hell in a handbasket because I dare not buy into biblical rhetoric. It doesn't matter that I lead a good life, help others, or that I'm a good person. Pray for me all you want, you judgemental fucks -- I have all the clarity and common sense I'll ever need. And I encourage any kids I run into to read -- whether it's Harry Potter, Madeleine L'Engle, or Nancy Drew.

Because reading is fundamental. Imagination should be mandatory. Religion is a choice, not a necessity.

---

I wonder if a statistic I read is even remotely true:

Though not of one mind when it comes to Israel or the Middle East, evangelicals account for about a quarter of American voters, according to a University of Akron survey made after the 2000 election. If galvanized by a vocal leadership opposed to Bush's Mideast policy, large blocs of voters could threaten Bush's 2004 re-election bid.

I realize that the majority of American's consider themselves religious, but for 25% of voters to be evangelicals...well, it just seems a little higher than I would have thought.

The article regarding opposition to George's Middle East Road Map to Peace is interesting. I don't have an in-depth understanding of the whole Israeli/Palestinian thing. I know enough to be able to follow along, but the origins of the conflict and many of the fine points are confusing to me. Plus, I understand that both sides are to blame for things, and I'm fuzzy on who is in the right and who isn't. Maybe there just isn't a right and a wrong, ultimately.

The evangelicals in the article I'm reading are certain. It's all "Israel is good and right and Palestinians are all bad and should go somewhere else." But what I find especially fucked up about these crazy fundies raising money for Israel via their churches and this Adopt a Settler program is that, from the outside, it seems like a perfectly respectable humanitarian effort but it's not. It seems more like fundies trying to bring about some sort of biblical prediction.

Some Israelis don't want the support. They take offense at the theological scenario envisaged by some evangelicals of a final, apocalyptic battle between good and evil in which Jesus returns and Jews either accept him or perish.

[...]

Many evangelicals take literally God's biblical promise to Abraham to give the Jewish people the Holy Land. But many oppose the interpretation of modern Israel's rise as a harbinger of the Second Coming. And some Israelis worry that the so-called Christian Zionists could become an obstacle to peace efforts.

So, what I'm seeing in all of this is not that Christian evangelicals want to help Jews out of a sense of duty or charity or anything like that, it's that they need to support Israel so the Jews can fulfill their destiny of bringing on the apocalypse, which will lead to [according to the fundies] the Second Coming and the destruction of all other religions other than their own because you've either got to accept their god or die. That seems selfish and just plain wrong.

Now I have another reason to dislike the Deeply Religious.

---

I was on the subway this morning coming into work and noticed a woman wearing one of those huge honkin' gold rings that spelled out her name. I didn't realize anyone wore shit like that anymore.

Believe it or not, I have one of those rings. Mine isn't very big, but it's a gold pinky ring and it has my name spelled out with a little banner underneath. There was an option where you could have diamonds set in the banner, but that just seemed too cheesy to me. Yeah, because the ring itself doesn't scream "GUIDO"!

I have quite a collection of jewelry, both the real deal and costume. You might have figured this out by now, but I'm a big old packrat. You just never know when those 2x2" square brown snakeskin earrings will come back into fashion. I have all of my plastic and rubber '80s jewelry, my death skull alterna jewelry, all of it. Like my cheesy pinky ring, I don't wear any of it anymore. But I keep it, just in case.

Craig also has all of his old jewelry. Statia already knows this, but Craig used to be a Cheesy Club Boi. I'm not kidding -- he owns and cherishes Stevie B records. Craig used to frequent many Bucks County guido clubs sporting Cavaricci's and multiple gold chains. He has the rhythm of someone with Tourettes. Mostly it was a quest to meet chicks.

What's funny is that Craig refuses to part with a very special item of jewelry that I make fun of constantly: the dreaded dog tag. Not an actual military dog tag, but those ridiculous flat gold tags with your name punched out, usually diagonally. Craig's has a lovely gold rope encircling his, and a little diamond dotting the "i" in Craig. He's really hoping either those silly things come back into style and I'll let him wear it again, or that I'll die soon and he can just wear it anyway.

See now, I came to my senses within two weeks of owning my name pinky ring. I wore it and realized it was sheer idiocy and looked all pimp daddy-ish. I felt ashamed and slightly stupid, and moved on.

When I first met Craig [and, really, up until a few years ago] he really wanted to get a tattoo of his name on his body. Every time he brought it up, I'd say, "What? Do you think you're going to forget your name?" Eventually he understood the stupidity of that idea, but he has never given up the idea that wearing something with your name on it is cool.

One of the things I hated most about retail work was the wearing of the nametag. Why on earth would I want to go around wearing shit with my name on it, if I hate nametags? When little kids do it, it's acceptable. As an adult, I just kind of think it's sort of silly.

Unless you have chronic amnesia, there's just no reason for it.

---

I'm somewhat of a control freak. I want what I want, and I'm not very good at compromise. You need only look to my wedding to realize the extent to which I will go to get what I want.

A good portion of women get a little nutty over planning their weddings, but I wasn't insane over the normal details. Sure, I wanted everything to go perfectly, but I wasn't a total freak about it. I was, however, fairly Nazi-like when it came to the music that the DJ played.

When I say that I gave the DJ a list of songs that it was absolutely unacceptable to play that was easily three pages long, it's not an exaggeration. I could have just said "No boy bands, no pop music, no Electric Slide or other well-known choreographed songs" but there's exceptions and add-ons to everything.

My DJ sucked ass. I just want to clear that up right now. He needed the guidance. He needed to know that if he played Brittney or Christina, I'd be pissed. If the strains of Who Let the Dogs Out met my easily offended ears, he'd have an unhappy bride wielding a cake knife to deal with.

He didn't know what to do with himself since all of his old stand-bys were forbidden. Celebrate and We Are Family were contraband. I had to also give the DJ a playlist of acceptable songs. He didn't have most of the stuff I wanted played, so I had to provide CDs.

And the DJ was an idiot. There were a couple of cheeseballs invited to the wedding and they requested several songs that were forbidden. Instead of telling these people he didn't have the songs available, he mentioned that I had given him lists. So then assorted cheeseballs and preteen girls were bugging me all night to let the DJ play the Backstreet Boys.

Because that's exactly what I wanted to deal with during my wedding.

I did get a report that when we were off the ship to go through the ghost tour during the reception that the DJ played some N'Sync. I didn't really care since I wasn't in the vicinity, but it's the principle of the thing.

Let's just say that I sent a very nasty note to the entertainment company when we got home from our honeymoon.

---

I like women with big brass ones:

By the early 1930s, Hollywood came calling. But in true Hepburn fashion -- which would later both hurt and embellish her career -- she had the audacity to turn down her first contract offer from Paramount Pictures, then make outlandish salary demands when approached by RKO Pictures.

[...]

She defied the era's stereotypes for actresses, dressing unfashionably with no makeup and turning down interviews and autograph requests. Soon she'd attracted the "difficult to work with" label -- and audiences responded by staying away from her movies.

[...]

Behind the scenes, she and [Spencer] Tracy fell in love. The relationship, like Hepburn's life, defied celebrity convention -- the pair never married.(Tracy, a devout Catholic, had been married to another woman since 1928 and remained so until his death), but the love affair lasted until Tracy died in 1967.

I have always admired Katherine Hepburn. She always played by her own rules, and that's the best thing any of us can do. I hate to see her go.

---

As promised yesterday, welcome to the go fish Fourth of July holiday skin! If you have previously chosen a skin, the new skin will not automatically be reflected. So chose the new skin by clicking here.

If you hate the holiday skin, you can either wait it out until next Sunday or you can click here to choose an alternate skin. There are 11 other skins -- one of them should suit you!

Speaking of the holiday, it's one of my least favorite times of the year. It's not because of my common sense-challenged neighbors. I do like fireworks, but I prefer to leave them in the hands of professionals who rarely burn shit down or kill each other in the process. It's the tourists.

With the new Constitution Center opening this week, and all the other historic sites in Philadelphia, the tourists are going to be all over town [like white on rice, which is one of my favorite expressions because it's so stupid], swarming like parasites. I realize tourism is a necessary evil around here. It brings in money for the city and that's a good thing. What isn't a good thing are the millions of country bumpkin dumbasses who have never seen a building higher than four stories and don't understand common courtesy.

While I seriously doubt any of you would come to town and act like fucktards, I have some suggestions for anyone who happens to visit Philadelphia:

• Before you come to Philadelphia, take a look at the city map. You will likely only be visiting two or three sections of the city so it won't be difficult to grasp a basic idea of the way the city is laid out. In Center City, Olde City, Society Hill, and Queens Village [which are the neighborhoods you're most likely to be roaming freely in] the streets are basically laid out in a grid. The numbered streets run North-South. Market Street is the "0" point. The higher the numbered addresses get on a numbered street [ie, 3121 S. Fourth Street], the further you are from Market Street. On any street that runs perpendicular to a numbered street [streets that run East-West], the higher the numbered address, the further West you are going. It isn't a difficult concept. Learn it, love it. Don't ask me where the fuck you are because you can't be bothered to read a map.
• If you are consulting a map like a good tourist, do not stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Haul yourself and your stroller and bags, and immediate and extended family off to the side. No one likes navigating around you circus freaks. And don't walk into me or anyone else when your little posse decides to start walking again.
• I understand that you're in Philadelphia and want to sample the local delicacies. But that "cheesesteak" you picked up near the Liberty Bell is nothing more than Steak 'Um on a hot dog roll -- do your homework before you get here. There are only three places to get a decent cheesesteak in Philly: Pat's, Geno's, and Jim's. Beyond that, don't fucking bother.
• For the love of Pete and all that's holy: please [I'm begging] do not do the Rocky run up the steps of the Art Museum. It's tired.
• If you manage to find your way into a restaurant that actual Philadelphians frequent, do not tie up the server's time asking stupid questions about Philadelphia. She's busy, I'm hungry, and you should have purchased a guidebook.
• Speaking of restaurants, this is not Mayberry. Give your server a good tip. Don't leave $1 when your bill came to $75.00. 15% is standard, but it's nicer to leave 18%-20% if you have a nice waitperson. This whole problem hillbillies have with tipping decently gives all tourists a bad name.
• Don't come to my city and complain about it. I don't care if you think the streets are dirty, the homeless people are gross, and the city smells. Perhaps you should have stayed at home where the aroma of cow manure permeates the air and the only thing to do for entertainment is watch your livestock get it on and get excited over Wheel of Fortune.

I feel better now. The tourist bitch session is out of my system now. I'm even feeling rather tranquil.

Until tomorrow, anyway.

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I'm happy to report that my fur skirt knitting project is finally finished. Don't mind the photo -- I had to edit out the background so my horribly messy bedroom wouldn't show. Because I'm weird like that.

So yeah, I'm happy with the way it turned out and I'm plotting to wear it sometime this week.

What's next on the project list? Believe it or not, I'm working on Christmas presents, as well as a very special hat for someone wonderful [and you know who you are].

For a close up look at the skirt texture http://thegofish.com/archives/click here.

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We all know by now that my neighbors are absolutely retarded. And I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. If you don't believe me be sure to spend the week leading up to July 4th at my house.

Earlier today three drunk morons were in the alley next to my house blowing up quarter sticks of dynamite. Dynamite. While drunk. After three sticks I think someone either chased them away or they blew themselves up. For the last hour some stupid fucker has been setting off what seems to be a box of miscellaneous fireworks. I'm expecting to hear an ambulance howling through the streets any minute now.

In case you didn't know, most fireworks are illegal for personal ownership in Pennsylvania. It kind of seems like a silly thing. I mean, if you can't be responsible enough to handle minor explosives, well, you probably shouldn't be able to walk freely through the streets. Of course, most Fishtown residents have the IQ of mold.

Every year it's the same thing. Someone [well, several someones] gets the idea that blowing off fireworks late at night is a great idea. And since these fuckers don't feel like blowing up their own homes or burning their small backyards, they do it in the middle of the street. So what you end up with is a group of piss drunk fucktards blowing off digits in plain view of everyone. I'm not even joking.

With each successive night, there are more fireworks and more assholes and more missing fingers. By the actual fourth of July, an estimate 2/3 of male Fishtown residents are beating their children and swilling their beer with bandaged hands.

So far we've been lucky. Our home hasn't been damaged in a firecracker fight. Craig's car hasn't been hit with any flying flesh or debris. I half expect to leave my house one morning to find a severed hand lying on my doorstep.

Yep, let freedom ring.

Oh, and that reminds me. I made a special holiday skin that will be up tomorrow sometime. You know, for the impending holiday and all.

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So during our picnic today I was standing by the edge of the creek and nearly put my hand into a hole in a tree that I was standing close to. And when I noticed what was actually in the hole I freaked out and ran away like a little girl.

Want to know what was inside the tree?

If you can't see what it is, click the thumbnail for a larger view. But yeah, it's a big honkin' hairy ass spider just about the size of my hand.

What's particularly funny is that later on Craig was in that same spot fishing and I said "Want to see something scary?" and I directed his gaze toward the tree. Since the spider blends with the tree pretty well it took him a few minutes to find it and by then he was almost eyeball to hairy eyeball with the thing.

And then he almost fell into the creek.

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If I'm sitting in the forest with no one else around me I always think of Friday the 13th. In the back of my mind, I'm always convinced that Jason Voorhees is going to jump out of the trees in his hockey mask and hack me to bits and feet me to the fish.

The fish are hungry right now, you know. Some weird guy with a fishing license told me so.

Craig and I went for a picnic at Norristown Farm Park today. But first we had to find it, which was quite a challenge, considering Craig flatly refuses to stop and ask for directions. He'd look at his map and pull into someone's driveway and say, "Well, this isn't it. Let me look at my map again." And then I would say, "Or you could as this person walking up to the car to ask what we're doing in their yard." And he would wave to the person and take off. I'd say that added an extra 45 minutes to our trip.

Of course, by that time, I was ravenous and about to bite off Craig's head and eat his brains for lunch [no fava beans]. So when we finally got to Norristown Farm Park [which is really just a big part of the state farm system that just happens to have a working farm located on it], I was dismayed to learn that you had to park your car centrally and hike to the creek that runs through the park.

Despite all that, we found a very pretty spot, creekside. I inhaled half a loaf of rosemary olive oil bread and a container of kalamata olives and Craig fixated on catching the 10 inch bass he located swimming in the creek. It was quiet and secluded and beautiful. I wish every day was just like today.

Below are some photos from my day. Click on the thumbnails for a larger view.

For more actual picnic photos, see my post over at Edible

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Something bizarre happened early this morning. This past Wednesday I posted an entry about the military turning away some injured children. This morning I received an email from the Army Major I quoted in the article, Major David Accetta.

I thought for sure that it was just someone having some fun with me, but the headers check out and look legit. Check it out for yourself:

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28 Jun 2003 16:10:02 +0400
Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 16:10:02 +0400
From: david.accetta@us.army.mil
Subject: Greetings from Iraq
To: nicole@thegofish.com
Message-id: <511b4c8511aa0e.511aa0e511b4c8@us.army.mil>
MIME-version: 1.0
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Perhaps Major Accetta was googling for his own name or for anything involving this incident. Otherwise, how would he end up here? go fish is not one of those blogs that gets a bazillion hits every day or is widely read for my stunningly brilliant political commentary, like Instapundit or Tom Paine. Ahem. I know that go fish gets hits from .gov and .mil sites on a regular basis, but I'm still taking this with a grain of salt. Anyway, here is the text of Major Accetta's email:

Ma'am,

I happened upon your web site and found this. I can say that I was not offended by this and I enjoyed reading the site. However, I could not let the opportunity pass without sharing a few of my personal observations from Operation Iraqi Freedom.

I will caution you that you can't believe everything you read in the media, especially from a reporter with a clear bias against the U.S. and its actions around the world. I was actually there when those kids arrived, the reporter was not. As for SGT Borell, who began this with his letter to the media, I cannot begin to explain why he believes he has more expert knowledge in the field of medicine than the doctors who evaluated these two children. Yes, there we only two injured children. Another error in the media.

Now, before you begin to think that I am a heartless military bureaucrat, let me tell you that I am married and have two children, a boy and a girl, about the same ages as the Iraqi children. I also know about a child's pain and suffering and the anguish a parent goes through when his child is hurt. Two years ago I lost my youngest son, Alex, at age 7 months after losing the fight with a brain tumor. I spent Father's Day, June 15th, the 2nd anniversary of his death, right here in Iraq.

I was concerned about those Iraqi children, too, but they had already been to an Iraqi clinic and now, over 24 hours later, were at our gate. There is an Iraqi hospital nearby and that's where it is recommended that they go. The military hospital is truly not set up and equipped to care for pediatric patients. It is staffed and equipped to handle adult battle casualties (trauma) and non-battle injuries and illnesses. The small hospital covers the 16,000 soldiers stationed here.

I am enclosing the original email that I sent to Donna Abu-Nasr, the AP reporter. You can see that she used only what she needed to support her angle on the story and generate more sympathy and controversy. It is a 'self-licking ice cream cone'. No matter what we say or do the facts will be manipulated to suit the needs of the writer.

We are doing a great deal here to help the Iraqi people, in a variety of ways, all the while trying to protect the innocent Iraqis, our soldiers and coalition forces and all the aid agencies and journalists here. It is a massive undertaking which is not being made any easier by the lack of cooperation on the part of the Iraqis in general and especially by the Iraqis and foreign elements who spend their days and nights shooting at us while we try to help.

Another view that I saw relating to this issue claims that we caused this and it was our fault for not protecting the hospitals from being looted. Who exactly do people think looted the hospitals? Organized criminal elements? Looting is a national pastime here and is conducted by everyone; men, women, children, old and young alike. You cannot leave your home unattended here as you can in other countries because you do not run the risk of being robbed, you run the risk of coming back and finding out that everything of even the most remote value gone. Looters here will take doors, windows, plumbing, bathroom fixtures, lights, wiring, and duct work.

You really need to be on the ground here to fully understand what it is like. I have been here for 130 days and I spent 6 months in the Persian Gulf in 90-91 during Desert Storm.

I realize that this is a rather lengthy email and that it may come across as being defensive but I wanted to make you aware of the facts that you may not find in the media.

I did truly feel bad for those two kids and I wanted to see them helped. I wish we could help all the children here and maybe someday we will be able to do that. If you had the opportunity to talk to the soldiers here, you would find that the majority of the our people are sympathetic to the Iraqis' plight and are very interested in helping the these people and as quickly as possible improving their overall quality of life. In our own small way now we are doing that and we will enable the Iraqis to help themselves too. But we cannot make them help themselves. It breaks my heart to see the kids here, running around barefoot in the street, most often with absolutely no adult supervision at all. It appears to be ingrained in the culture and they don't seem to be aware of the risks. Of course it is dangerous here; it is a postwar environment and the country is littered with explosives and ordnance, most of it abandoned by the Iraqi Army. Much if it also was looted from Army bases prior to the U.S.
forces arrival. We have units dedicated to policing up and safely disposing of this stuff, just as we have units dedicated to evaluating and assisting medical facilities. These children were injured because they lit the explosive substance on fire. Almost as soon as we arrived here we recognized the dangers to the civilian population and instituted a campaign to warn and educate the local population about these dangers. If I had my way, I would institute the same standards and laws to protect the safety of children that we have, such as child labor laws, seatbelt/car seat laws, nutrition and day care policies.

It appears the Iraqis have not had these in the past and it may be a long time before they have them. But in any case we are here to help and to paraphrase President Teddy Roosevelt, we are doing the best we can, with what we have, where we are.

Thank you for your attention.

Proudly Serving,
Major Dave Accetta

If anyone would like the text of the email Major Accetta mentions sending to the reporter, please let me know -- I'll be happy to forward it to you.

So. What do you think? Keep in mind that Major Accetta is a Public Relations Officer with the Army. It's his job to spin this kind of stuff. Do you think the email is genuine? I haven't replied to him yet, and I'm not sure the sender is interested in a reply. After all, what am I going to say? I'm sorry about your son and I'm sorry you've been put in this position. Good luck to you. Please don't die. It kind of sounds hollow.

Even if Major Accetta didn't send the email, the writer is correct about one thing: I can never know what's really going on in Iraq because I'm not there. The only thing I can do is try to get information through the media. Of course, it's hard to get real information because no one can ever be sure that what the military says is true or what the media says is true.

---

Craig, feeling guilty for pissing me off due to another day of ignoring the shit around the house that needed to be done, took me out to a lovely dinner at Morimoto this evening. It's funny how I can be bribed into forgiveness with food.

So here's the thing: Morimoto himself was there this evening, flitting around the restaurant. Unfortunately, Craig downed two saki martinis and was starting to get silly by the end of our meal. I was praying that Morimoto would skip our table so Craig didn't embarrass me by emulating the host of Iron Chef. I got lucky. No one wants to hear Craig squeal, "Bang a gong, get it on!" at the top of his lungs, especially me.

The meal was fantastic. The miso soup with clams was delish, and I also had a smoked salmon beggers purse [which make Craig giggle because it was topped with gold leaf, which automatically reminded him of Goldschlagger] and a piece of unagi [eel] sushi and giant clam sushi. I could have eaten a few more pieces of sushi, but then I would have been stuffed to the gills. As is, I am just the right amount of full.

I love it when that happens.

---

I have incredible luck.

I waited until 1:45pm to head over to Subway to grab a hoagie. Because, you know, lunch hours are basically over by then, no big, huge lines. It's way too hot to stand outside in a line today.

So I'm all excited because there's only one guy ahead of me. He ends up ordering just about three dozen hoagies.

Bastard!

And, of course, being that the two employees working are the two slowest employees Subway employs, both of them start working on making the hoagies and are moving like they're underwater. I'm not even exaggerating: one hoagie every five minutes.

Finally a third employee materialized and took my order. The guy with the big hoagie order is probably still there.

---

I'd like to review some symptoms of schizophrenia with you.

Schizophrenia is not split personality disorder. The symptoms of schizophrenia can be divided into several groups, including positive and negative symptoms.

Positive Symptoms — distortion of normal function. These symptoms include the following:

• Hallucinations — changes in the senses, such as hearing voices or seeing unusual things that are not there
• Delusions — bizarre fixed beliefs that are not based in reality
• Paranoia — feeling fearful that others are plotting against you
• Disorganization – changes in thought processes, such as having trouble thinking clearly or becoming easily confused

Can you think of anyone that fits that description? Read this and give it some consideration.

According to Abbas, immediately thereafter Bush said: "God told me to strike at al Qaeda and I struck them, and then he instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East. If you help me I will act, and if not, the elections will come and I will have to focus on them."

How about now? I wonder if George has stock in Royal Jelly?

---

I was talking to Statia last night on the way home from work. She mentioned she was reading the new Harry Potter book. I have never read any of them, but I'm planning to one of these days. I asked her who dies in the book, but she hadn't gotten that far yet.

I hate to admit this because it makes me seem like a spoil sport, but I would have read the last ten pages of the book as soon as I got it. I don't think I could stand the suspense of not knowing! I just don't have the kind of patience.

On vacations I usually buy murder mysteries and suspense novels to read -- light but interesting reading for the beach. And every single time I come across a book that is really suspenseful, I'll flip to the back and read the last couple of pages. I have never read a single Stephen King or James Patterson book straight through without reading the ending first. I always read the Wildfeed for every Buffy episode two days before the show aired.

It's not like I don't like surprises. I do. I really do! But there's something about being able to know before I'm supposed to that appeals to me.

Who remembers that part in When Harry Met Sally when Harry is talking about this very same thing?

SALLY: Amanda mentioned you had a dark side.
HARRY: That's what drew her to me.
SALLY: Your dark side?
HARRY: Sure. Why? Don't you have a dark side? I know, you're probably one of those cheerful people who dot their "i's" with little hearts.
SALLY: I have just as much of a dark side as the next person.
HARRY: Oh, really? When I buy a new book, I read the last page first. That way, in case I die before I finish, I know how it ends.
That, my friend, is a dark side.

I don't read books to feed my dark side. I just don't have any patience. Yet more reasons why I should never have children or own a motor vehicle!

---

I really like to kiss, and I have a habit of remembering crazy details about things. What that means is that when I think of kissing I get a weird montage of historical Nicole smooches in my head.

• I was 11 when I kissed a boy for the first time. His name was Jeremy and he had already flunked twice, so he was 13 and he was the neighborhood badass. We were behind a shed and I kept avoiding his kiss attempts until he accused me of being scared. So I kissed him and he stuck his tongue practically down my throat.
• The first guy I ever had sex with had big, meaty lips that were perfect for kissing. His lower lip had this texture that begged for biting.
• I had to break up with a guy named Chris when I was 16 because he was such a bad kisser. His lips were mushy, and when he kissed me he laid his tongue in my mouth and it just sat there. There was no movement at all. It felt like a big wet cottonball.
• My Winter Dance date in junior high had really chapped lips. They were really picky and he was unpleasant to kiss because of it. I spent the night running to the bathroom every time he tried to smooch me.
• In college I dated a boy who had upside down lips. His upper lip didn't have the cupid's bow, but his bottom lip did. Kissing him felt bizarre.
• I don't usually close my eyes when I kiss. I once dated a guy who squeezed his eyes shut so hard when he was kissing me, he looked like he was in pain.
• Once a guy thought it would be erotic to lick my entire face really wetly. I tried to give it a chance, but he drooled on my right eyelid.

---

I've made it pretty evident that I don't have a lot of sympathy for criminals. Criminals should not really have rights, beyond the right to a speedy and fair trial, and decent treatment while in prison. There are exceptions to every rule, but I'm strongly pro-death penalty for certain types of crimes [particularly brutal cases of rape and/or murder].

It should come as no surprise that I find Chante Mallard to be a reprehensible human being beyond redemption. To mow someone down in the street while drunk and stoned and then leave that person to die, embedded in the windshield of her car, belies an inner callousness that I can barely believe exists.

Seeing her wailing on the witness stand in her own defense didn't make her sympathetic to me. She's emotional because she got caught and she doesn't want to go to prison. Mallard kept saying she didn't know what to do, blah blah blah. She's a former nurses aid, which sort of makes it even worse...to have the training to be able to help someone hurt like that and just leave him there in pain.

It's repulsive to me that Mallard's defense attorney argued over whether to charge her with murder or only "failing to secure medical help." What's the fucking difference?

He had "serious injuries" but could have stayed alive for many hours, the doctor said. When he was hit, Biggs' left leg was almost amputated, and his right arm, right upper thigh and right lower leg were broken.

Biggs' body was found the October 27, 2001, dumped in a park.

Do you think someone who could drive a car while drunk and stoned, run into someone on the street, and then allow him to remain wedged into her windshield in the above condition until he died could be rehabilitated? Do you want someone like that to be your next door neighbor, to be your co-worker? You can say it was the drugs, but that man was mangled in her garage for days. A couple of drinks, half a tab of Ecstacy, and a little bit of weed wear off after a couple of hours. What then? If your conscious allows you to wait it out until a man dies as a result of your actions and then dump his body elsewhere, there is a big problem with your ability to reason and make good decisions.

It's cases like these where I'd like to see some good old fashioned "eye for an eye" type of justice.

---

I have a tendency to think that people who claim that god spoke to them or god sent them a gift are nothing more than functioning schizophrenics. I'm convinced that the nutjobs over at Bee-alive are the top of the heap of those functioning schizophrenics.

Royal Jelly has been one of the greatest blessings in my life and I can’t wait to share it with you... At a time when I was so tired that I could no longer care for myself or my family, God answered my prayers by leading me to learn more about good nutrition and an amazing substance from the beehive, called Royal Jelly.

[...]

A few years ago, God gave us a new and expanded vision... to financially bless ministries that are spreading His Word throughout the world. God has been so faithful to us... and we are blessed to be able to support His Church. That's why Bee Alive will donate a large portion of the proceeds from your initial order back to the ministry that directed you to us today. So I invite you to explore our website -- experience all the amazing benefits of God's most wondrous substance, Royal Jelly. And while you shop, may you be blessed knowing that you are not only helping your body nutritionally but furthering God's work at the same time!

Now you too can get on god's good side -- just buy some Royal Jelly products! And fundies wonder why people aren't lining up to join their ranks.

---

So...Strom Thurmond has died. I hate to speak ill of the dead, so I won't say anything more -- I can't really think of anything good to say about him.

But you can find out all you need to know about him here:

• StromWatch
• The Detestable, Decrepit Strom Thurmond
• The Heart and Soul of Republican Thinking

If I believed in god and heaven and hell, I'd say that satan has a new houseguest tonight.

---

It should never surprise me when I read something over at Amy's blog that makes me laugh hysterically and yell, "Holy crap -- me too!" It's sort of like we were separated at birth or something.

While I was never a Girl Scout or anything like that, I have always been an attention whore, which is why I was a cheerleader. And later in life I was always totally embarrassed by it. But that's not what killed me about her latest post. It's this little passage:

oh C. Thomas Howell, could I love you anymore - I have every picture from Teen Beat applied to my bedroom walls and I kiss each one nightly.

My first serious celebrity crush was Shaun Cassidy, but C. Thomas Howell was my second. I used to keep a big old honking scrapbook with Teen Beat and Tiger Beat articles and photos glued in. I would gaze longingly at eat photo, imagining that I would one day meet him and be his girlfriend. He would whisk me away from preteen life of oppression and boredom, and we would live blissfully for the rest of our lives, attending Hollywood premieres and throwing fabulous dinner parties.

To this day I have to watch Red Dawn every time it's re-running on television. All his other movies sucked ass, and even Red Dawn is bordering on absolutely horrible. But I am compelled to watch.

---

So Craig had the day off from work today.

When I have a day off from work I end up doing a shitload of stuff around the house. There's laundry and cleaning and miscelleneous other crap around here that needs to be taken care of. Rarely do I just sit around and ignore everything that needs to be done.

And if I do, Craig comes home and makes me feel guilty about it.

When I came home from work today he hadn't done anything. Nothing. He was basically lying on the couch in his own filth. I asked him to take my bicycle to get a tune up, there's at least four or five loads of laundry to be done, the ceiling light in my studio needs to be changed, etc., etc. Nothing.

"It's my day off," he told me. "I didn't feel like doing anything."

I really hate my natural reaction to something like that. It makes me want to sit on my ass all night and not do a damn thing. You know, just to spite him.

Tomorrow is another day off for him. If I come home and he's done absolutely nothing again all day, there are going to be words. And none of them will be nice.

Hell hath no fury like a woman whose husband will stuff the garbage to the absolute limit in an effort not to have to change the bag.

---

I think I just found another tshirt I must have. Now I can apologize to the world in six different languages!

Be sure to read the lively comments!

---

So I'm a really big fan of The Amazing Race. One day Amy and I are going to be Team Alternagirl and take the whole thing.

But I have to admit that this season is just fucking boring. It's not the teams themselves are any more or less interesting than years past. It's that they seem to be pretty much staying in the same small area of Europe for the bulk of the trip. The roadblocks aren't very interesting.

Of course, I'm still going to watch it tonight. And then I'll complain again that they're staying in Europe.

---

Does anyone know if it's possible to limit hot linking access to a particular folder via .htaccess?

Also...it's fucking hot outside.

---

I am a salaried employee. When I work overtime I don't get paid for it. Occasionally I might get a comp day thrown at me to compensate for it, but it's unusual. I've been a salaried employee for many years now. The new and idiotic proposal from you-know-who to change the way overtime is paid out won't affect me.

But it doesn't mean I don't care. I remember when I was working crappy paying jobs and that overtime pay meant the difference between just making rent or eating ramen noodles for an entire month in order to make rent.

If you've never had to work a real job, or it didn't matter how much or how little you earned at a real job, there's no way you could know how much this matters to people. It would affect 8 million people.

I triple dog dare the administration to sign this one into law. The 2004 election is coming up pretty quick. It's bad enough the jobless numbers are huge and the economy is in the tank, but to take away overtime? That's something every typical American can understand. Every union in the country will organize to vote Bush out. Every McDonald's employee, dairy worker, etc., will make sure they're heard.

---

Awwww....poor Boss Hog and his roving band of hillbillies will have to go back to the drawing board: the Supreme Court has denied Texas the right to legislate where men put their willies [ie, banning gay sex is unconstitutional]. And it's not just sodomy we're talking about here. "State sodomy laws have been on the books for a century or more, and generally define the act sodomy as "abnormal" sex, including oral and anal sex. Such laws were on the books of every state as recently as 1960," according the article at CNN.

So unless you're having straight vanilla missionary position sex with no foreplay, well, you're on the wrong side of the law in Texas [well, you were] and about a dozen other states. I'm almost a little disappointed that Pennsylvania [which, hello, founded by Quakers and is uber-religious. You'd think that there would be some laws here] isn't one of them -- I like the idea of performing cunnilingus or fellatio on the lam [not on the lamb, you pervs].

I'm particularly frightened by the Texas government. Listen to this horseshit:

Texas prosecutors argued the government has the right to enforce public morality. Supporters of the Texas law say states have long regulated behavior deemed "immoral," including gambling and prostitution.

"The government has a legitimate interest in helping preserve not only public health, but public morals as well," said Ken Connor, president of the Family Research Council, which filed a legal brief backing Texas. "The mere fact that this behavior occurs in private doesn't mean the public doesn't have a stake in these behaviors."

The Family Research Council can bite my ass. The day someone enforces my morality is the day that I just give up and move to Canada. I'm a big girl, an adult, and I can think for myself. I've said it often enough: if I want to cavort naked around my house with a carrot sticking out my ass and nipple pasties made out of jumper cables, well, then I should be able to do it. The blinds are closed and no one else should care what I do with my spare time.

[Note: no carrots were harmed in the making of this entry.]

---

I was cautiously optimistic last month when the Philadelphia Boy Scouts announced they would not follow the policy of discrimination adhered to by the national council. Over the last few weeks, they've gone back on their word. They now refuse to let openly gay people be troop leaders. It's now at a "don't ask, don't tell" level.

It's really disappointing. I'm ashamed of the Board of Directors. It makes me sick. But what makes me happy is that the Pew Foundation pulled $100K in funding to them yesterday and other agencies are reviewing their funding standards for the Boy Scouts.

See, here's the deal -- if you're a privately-funded organization, you can make all the membership criteria you want. If you want to exclude blonde women with green eyes, you go right ahead. I won't even hate you for it. But if you are publicly funded you had better let me, and anyone else who wants, in. I don't want my tax or charitable dollars funding an agency that says it's OK to discriminate against someone because they're different from the Bible-thumping windbags in the national council.

Today I read an editorial by some 18 year old uber-conservative assmunch who says:

The Boy Scouts are not the intolerant, homophobic, bigoted group their detractors would label them as. The Boy Scouts have always taught tolerance, even when it has been unpopular. Since 1911, the BSA has reached out to the disabled, racial and ethnic minorities, American Indians and inner-city children.

Yeah, they're real inclusive unless those "disabled, racial and ethnic minorities, American Indians and inner-city children" happen to be gay. Then it's all "You lead an 'unhealthy and immoral lifestyle'! You're not welcome here!"

The Scout Leader who publicly announced he was gay [Gregory Lattera] in order to test the new declaration received a letter earlier this month announcing he had been expelled. Show me any instance of Lattera's sexual orientation being any kind of an issue in the three years he's been involved with the Scouts. Has he come on to a Boy Scout? Has he clandestinely formed an evil alliance with anyone to turn innocent boys into raving gay sex maniacs? Hey, he's an atheist too. Has any Boy Scout renounced religion because of him?

The Boy Scouts of America suck.

---

I remember way back [what, a couple months ago?] when George was pushing for this huge tax cut, and opponents kept saying that it was really a tax cut for the rich and it really wouldn't help the economy or the average American that much, blah blah blah. And I remember all those Big Fans of George Bush [hereby to be known as BFBG] poo-poo-ing all of us, saying that we were being overly critical, that we didn't know what we were talking about, that we should extract our heads out of our asses, etc. Do you recall that?

At the risk of having CNN labelled as "that damn liberal media," let me point your attention toward this article:

The rich got richer as their tax rates fell in 2000 and the trend is likely to continue following President Bush's recent tax cuts, according to published reports Thursday that cited a study by the Internal Revenue Service.

OK, fine. I also remember hearing that tax cuts to the rich are good because wealthy Americans are the ones who own the businesses, and with more money those businesses can afford to hire more people. If more people are employed, more people will have money. If more people have money, they can actually spend money and the economy will recover. Nice theory. I'm sure the 415,000 people fired last week are big believers in the trickle down theory.

So was the $330 billion for the tax cut worth it? Will it stimulate the economy one day? I doubt it. But guess what that $300 billion could have done -- it could have "covered every uninsured child in the country and paid for millions of teachers and child-care workers". Maybe that wouldn't stimulate the economy either, but at least there would be something to show for it in the end instead of only a nice theory.

---

Nothing brings out the idiotic crazies like insulting their favorite celebrity.

Yesterday it was Eminem and a few weeks ago it was Jewel. With each post I received death threats and other ridiculously stupid mail, most of which you can tell are written by preteen girls [note: I also received some very well-written and interesting emails about each entry].

Why, you ask? Because they're wRiTtEn LikE ThIs. And not that preteen girls corner the market on atrocious spelling and grammatical skills, but the emails were filled with stuff like "u better wach wat u say abot [insert stupid celebrity name here]. he/she/it be a reel artist, who r u to judge there work?"

Um, I'm a consumer, that's who. And someone with an opinion [and a fairly good grasp on English language skills]. I'm frequently amazed at the means by which some people feel compelled to try to suck me into their delusional fan-crazed worlds. Telling me I suck or that I'm a bitch isn't going to change my mind.

Not to mention, who cares if I don't like your favorite star/politician/dog trainer? The world would be a boring place if everyone liked the same things I like. There are plenty of people who think Henry Rollins is an old gasbag, but you don't see me getting all riled up about it. To each his own, and all that.

This attitude that we should all like the same things, and do the same things is what is ripping the world apart. I genuinely like being different from you or my neighbor or my mailman. I don't have to believe in the same god as you or back the same politicians as you to be a good and morale person. What is good for one country is not always good for the other. If everyone could just accept differences instead of fighting so hard to homogenize us all, we'd all be way better off. Yes, I'm talking to you [evangelizing religious people, edict-issuing politicians, and insane stalkery celebrity fans].

How did I start with Eminem and Jewel and end up with world peace? I need a nap.

---

I came home today and immediately changed out of my work clothes. It's then that I realized this has been my worst clothes-related catastrophe day ever.

This morning before I even left the house I dropped my mascara wand, which of course hit my rack on the way down and left a black mascara streak down my shirt. So I had to find a replacement. Luckily I have 20 million white tops.

Then there was the incident earlier today with the ginger sauce in my lap.

And then I discovered that my bounteous boobage had also been in the ginger sauce line of fire. It just kind of looks like I dipped the nipple area into the container of sauce, which is entirely possible. I guess I should consider myself lucky that it was cold as shit in the office today and I was wearing my sweater all afternoon.

The night is still young. I should see what else I can gerber on myself. Hey, I think I've got some blueberries I can smoosh into a tshirt or something. Maybe some chocolate ice cream [there's a pint of Godiva Raspberry Chocolate Truffle in the freezer]. It sort of looses the fun if I'm not in public though.

I swear, you can dress me up, but you can't take me out.

---

The story about Eminem emulating Michael Jackson and the baby dangling incident has been all over the news and all over blogs today, but Matt pointed out something I didn't know:

George Bush thinks poor old Marshall is
"the most dangerous threat to American children since polio."

Really? So what happened to terrorism being the biggest threat? Didn't he say that recently? Well, I guess he's been saying that for almost two years. I can think of lots of things that are a bigger threat to kids than Eminem -- drugs and alcohol and tobacco, illiteracy, poverty, poor educational system, limited learning opportunities, war, drunk drivers, lack of gun safety locks, jock itch, athletes foot, running with scissors, etc.

Eminem is a total douchebag, but a danger to children? Hardly. Only if you're weak-minded and uncreative, which is what George's policies are moving us toward. Let's be responsible for our own actions, eh? I know that's hardly what George wants to hear right now, but I'd like to get some credit for being able to think for myself. And I'm sure that Eminem fans [of any age] would also be thrilled to know that George thinks of them as mindless lackeys.

---

Not that I'm complaining about interest rates being lowered, but I've got to admit that knowing the rates are at the lowest they've been in 45 years scares me a bit.

The Fed's statement, combined with a less-aggressive rate cut, was likely designed to keep markets from panicking about the state of the economy, while also leaving the door open for future rate cuts.

Well, I'm not particularly comforted. A couple of rate cuts, fine. But this leaves me a little queasy.

---

During my earlier outing I picked up some tempura. It came with a little doodad of ginger sauce for my salad. Of course, I was packing up my garbage when I managed to douse my lap in the entire container of ginger sauce. Fuck.

I had a huge splooge of ginger sauce all over my light beige trousers.

I did what normal people do -- I wiped it up, tried to clean myself off and waited to see how it would dry. It became apparent that it was going to dry orange though.

Did I mention that I have a really messy office? I bring this up because I forgot that I bought a new suit at the beginning of the month and neglected to take the old suit home. When I realized I just happened to have a spare pair of pants in the office I almost cried with glee.

Being a packrat saved the day. Let that be lesson to you neatniks!

---

This morning I found out that I won the "This is Your Blog" contest over at Not Me. I nominated myself yesterday because I'm just that weird and narcissistic, and then Les and Robyn decided to vote for me too.

I really wish this contest came with a tiara for the winner, but Shelli is doing something equally cool which you will get to see soon. Cool!

And since you can't see me, just know I'm doing the beauty queen/royalty wave. *elbow elbow, wrist wrist! general general, specific specific*

---

We're having a big clean up day here at Panhandlers Central tomorrow and Friday, and I am in charge of doling out the paper towels and Windex. So I ran out today at lunch and visited my local dollar store. In transit, I stopped at a Hallmark store to purchase some birthday cards.

I get to the counter and hand the counter lady a five dollar bill. I think my card purchase came to maybe $4.30. She looks at me and says, "Change?"

It wasn't evident where she was going with this. Did I want change? Did I have change? Did she want me to change? Did I want her to change? It just wasn't clear. And when I said, "Pardon me?" she just repeated herself: "Change?"

What?

So I just said, "Yes, please."

She gave me a dumb look and finally said, "No, do you have change? The thirty cents?"

"Well yes, I do," I answered. "I had no idea what you were asking me for."

She giggled.

I have a suggestion for retail workers of the world: enunciate and say what you mean. I'm not a mind reader. Your monosyllabic utterances are unintelligable and make you look like an ass. Don't think I won't make a scene.

I've been on the other end of retail transactions. It's not like I'm picking on retail and food industry workers lately. I worked for many years as a sales clerk at various stores, a waitress, and a cashier at a dairy. The idea of customer service and how people employed in the industry are supposed to act. I don't have unrealistic expectations. I don't expect people to treat me like royalty -- just some fucking courtesy would be good.

---

During the first Charlie's Angels release and the ensuing media junket that followed, I did a lot of eye rolling. I hadn't seen the movie, but wasn't that interested. The eye rolling was caused by the cheesy girl power, we're all best friends act that Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, and Lucy Liu put on. If I had to see them fondling each other one more time on a talk show set, I was going to puke.

Eventually Craig rented the movie and I realized how glad I was that I didn't see it in the theatre. What a piece of cinematic garbage. Oy.

Now, with the sequel unleashed upon us, the faux PDA is back in full throttle [har har har].

"We were just talking on the way over here how we are each other's jockstraps," [Cameron Diaz] says, sniggering. "We keep it nice and tight, close to the body."

Um, ew.

If anyone ever compared my friendship to a jockstrap I wouldn't be very happy. Sweaty, tainted with smegma, snuggler of hairy testicles -- no thanks. I understand the analogy, but it's a bad one. It makes me imagine Drew, Cameron, and Lucy as pubic hairs in the jockstrap of life. Ugh. Where is my spork?

It's a shame. I sort of like Drew. I think she's gorgeous, but she comes off so awful.

"It would be questionable to go against so much of what the original show represented which was, y'know, women with hair in sexy outfits, y'know, hot girls in sportscars," Barrymore explains. "Y'know, if we went against that and made it some like, y'know, weird feminist statement that we want to look understated it just wouldn't be that warm, sexy funniness that the show had."

What? I don't think I followed any of that. I like Cameron a lot less -- she's just a tall twit with a spastic facial twitch. Lucy Liu is the Einstein of the group

---

Best diatribe about smacked asses who feel compelled to tell you what to write and what not to write goes to plastic bag.

So on the days when I write things that you enjoy - relish it! Get pleasure from it! Sometimes people out there even get commercial benefits from stuff that I write - and that's fine! Enjoy it - I want you to! And on the days when I say something that angers and infuriates you, tell me! Write to me and correct me or explain to me why I'm wrong. I want to know. I want to learn. And if it turns out that what I want to write about doesn't interest you, then that's fine - go elsewhere - there's a world of sites out there to read. And you never know - I might even register your absence and try and mend my ways...

But I swear to god, the next person who tries to tell me what I should and shouldn't be writing on my own site - which I produce for free and for which I ask nothing in exchange - is going to get a kick up the arse so fucking hard that when they finally land again they'll have frost in their hair...

Sing it loud! Proclaim it across the land! I wish I would have written that entry.

[Link found via Gary Turner]

---

According to Maj. David Accetta, public affairs officer with the 3rd Corps Support Command, "Our goal is for the Iraqis to use their own existing infrastructure and become self-sufficient, not dependent on U.S. forces for medical care."

This said after army doctors refused medical care to three Iraqi children burnt when a bag of explosive powder was set on fire. The powder was leftover from the war. But Maj. Accetta says, "the children's condition did not fall into a category that requires Army doctors to care for them. Only patients with conditions threatening life, limb or eyesight and not resulting from a chronic illness are considered for treatment." Oh, and the injuries have to be inflicted by U.S. troops. I guess injuries as a result of the war in general aren't good enough.

Now, on the surface, fine. Iraqi citizens should not be dependant on the military for, well, anything. Never mind that their country is in a shambles right now because of the U.S. military [and yes, I agree that Hussein had to go. So shut it!]. However, last I heard the military neglected to guard hospitals against looting, so the hospitals got cleaned out. These three kids were turned away from the local hospital, which is why the father took them to the military for help.

I was under the impression that the military was still in Iraq to help and to act as a temporary government. Am I wrong? Is their role only to search for this big, legendary stockpile of WMD we've all been hearing about for months?

The incident comes at a time when U.S. troops are trying to win the confidence of Iraqis, an undertaking that has been overwhelmed by the need to protect themselves against attacks. Boosting security has led to suspicion in encounters between Iraqis and Americans. There are increased pat-downs, raids on homes and arrests in which U.S. troops force people to the ground at gunpoint — measures the Iraqis believe are meant to humiliate them.

[Link found via The Gamer's Nook.]

---

Dating is a funny thing. People bitch about how there are no good eligible guys or women left, but I tend to disagree. I just think most people have this fucked up viewpoint about love and soulmates and who it's acceptable to love. It comes from watching too many movies and television shows where there is True Love with the perfect and perfectly hot person.

There are too many rules. My friend Jacki is only allowed to marry another Jewish person and she won't date anyone who isn't a brunette male with a too pretty face. She sits around a lot on Saturday nights. Christy will date anyone with a penis, but she doesn't have passion for anyone who doesn't treat her like crap and isn't involved in the arts. Phil will only date men prettier than him who make a lot of money.

They all want to find someone to love, but it's hard to meet someone who fits into your criteria when you have 1,000 different requirements for the "perfect man" or the "perfect woman." I'm no different -- I went through unrealistic expectations. But then I got over myself and met Craig. Craig is no where near what I thought my perfect person would be, but I love him more than I could possibly express.

I read a news story today about a singles auction in North Dakota. There are plenty of single guys out in the boondocks, but not enough chicks. "So the best hope we have is Canadian women coming down," according to Keith Hegney, one of the auction bidders.

The idea of singles auction is kind of hilarious to me. It's a sweet idea, but it seems like there would be way too much pressure to meet the person you'll spend the rest of your life with. I mean, you pay $100 to get a date. There's expectation there. And then if you're up on the auction block and you don't get much bidding action, then you'd feel badly. That's just too much anxiety for me.

Of course, I can understand why Mr. Hegney is still single, even if there were a wide variety of women to choose from:

Hegney said he doesn't understand why life in a rural area would be a turnoff for a woman.

"I don't expect her to start running cattle," he said. "All that matters is that she's a good wife and mother."

So the lucky woman Mr. Hegney snags will only be required to be a champion haus frau and daiper changer. Doesn't a life of servitude in the wilds of North Dakota sound delightful? What's next, an assertion that women should be seen and not heart?

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Just an FYI: I'm trying to skin my comments [thanks to Kathy and a host of others] so my comments will look a little funky until it all gets square away.

Do not panic. Nothing to see here. Move it along.

Update: Well. That was quick and relatively painless. No, seriously. If you use MT and have skinning capability on your blog you really need to go check out Kathy's post about skinning the comments. Best thing ever.

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So I was on a mission to find a new summer bag yesterday. I'm not really a purse person. I own a few, most of which are black. Mostly I carry around a small wallet the size of my hand. I just don't like carrying a purse.

But recently I've been carting all this extra stuff with me whereever I go. There's the bottle of water which must accompany me at all times, and my camera, and my PDA, and, well, you get the idea. Stuff.

I'm either turning into an adult, or a bag lady. I'm not sure which.

But whatever. Finding this bag was my thing yesterday. What made it worse is that I had an exact picture in my head of what I wanted. And if you go shopping with an exact thing in mind, you know you never find it. If the bag I found didn't have the flowers on it, it would be the exact thing in my head, though. And I kind of like the flowers.

In fact, I really like the flowers. I think they're fun and kind of funny in a cheesy way. I have no idea what that says about me.

I was on the verge of giving up all hope when I found that bag. It was around 5pm and I was tired. My feet were blistered. I was sweating like a pig [I know, such a pretty visual]. I was about six blocks from Union Square Park when a cute little purse and hat shop appeared before me. And the straw purses were on sale.

It would have been nirvana, except for the freakin' sales tax. But you can't have everything. But I can have a cute purse.

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For a long time I had a serious problem making it through the afternoon at work. It didn't matter how much work I had to do, or how exciting the work I was do was -- I'd start nodding off at my desk.

One day I just didn't feel that way anymore.

Today that feeling is back. I'm dragging my feet, I have a huge headache, I've come really close to falling asleep and slamming my head against the desk as a result. So I'm doing what any normal person would do:

I'm attempting a perk up with a Diet Pepsi and Peanut Chews. And while I was up at the vending machine buying my bounty, I snuck into the nap room and did 15 minutes of yoga.

I just need to eek out 40 minutes more.

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I like to have toys in my office. I have magnetic poetry on my filing cabinet, and magnetic paper dolls, and a collection of Homies, etc., etc.

But today I found online magnetic poetry. That's good for hours of fun!

Watch me as I avoid work and shirk my responsibilities!

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My ears hurt.

My department decided to have lunch today to celebrate our last boss-less day. Somehow two people from another department invited themselves along. Now these two other people are very nice, but loud.

And guess who got stuck between them at lunch?

Seriously. My ears hurt from the sheer volume.

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What kind of smacked ass drops his baby out a 7th story window?? Perhaps he is a Michael Jackson fan.

Seriously. I've never understood the whole idea of getting someone to stay with you by bribery, threats, or making them feel sorry for you. The guy fucking dangles his kid out the window as a way to make his girlfriend not break up with him? In what universe does that make sense? Yeah, I'm sure she'll agree to love me forever if I endanger the life of our child!

The fact that the baby survived unhurt is amazing. I hate to admit this, but the first thing I wondered is if the baby bounced. Yeah, I'm a little weird. But not nearly weird enough to think that a relationship is solid if I've got to somehow convince someone to stay with me.

I wonder if the guy is even sorry.

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So I had to get up yesterday morning at 4am and be at 30th Street Station at 5am. This experience has reiterated to me the importance of competition.

At 5am I'm hungry. Starving. Ravenous, in fact. And the only place open in the train station is Dunkin' Donuts. I am at their mercy. I'm the only one in line. The two people working the counter are engrossed in conversation about baseball. I'm standing at the counter, drumming my fingers on the countertop, pointedly staring at them. I cleared my throat.

Employee #1 looked at me, rolled his eyes, and went back to talking.

Now, keep in mind that it's fucking early and I'm still tired and half asleep.

"Hey!" I yelled. The station was nearly empty and my voice echoed. "If you're not too busy discussing the game, I'd like to get a bagel! Before I die!"

Employee #2 sighed and giggled. Employee #1 shuffled the two feet to the shelf of bagels, glaring at me the whole time. I swear to you that it took him ten minutes to pick up a bagel, slice it, grab a cream cheese, and put it all in a bag.

And in that time, I contemplated the tip cup, thinking that I should take money out of the tip cup to make up for that schmuck wasting my time. Another minute and the $2.00 in nickels would have been mine.

Finally, employee #1 handed me the bag and announced my grand total with a sour look on his face. "Thanks for your exemplary service this morning, jackass," I said.

I really lack a filter when I'm too tired. I should not be unleashed on the general public.

Brooke was waiting for me at the gate for our train. "Were you just yelling at someone a few minutes ago?" she asked. "I thought I heard your voice."

I just rolled my eyes and ate my bagel.

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I have a confession to make: I hate midtown Manhattan. I'm just not a big fan of shoulder to shoulder crowds. And I hate tourists.

Now, true -- I myself am a tourist when I go to Manhattan. I don't live there. But that's not the kind of tourist I'm talking about. The kind I want to beat senseless are the ones who stand in the middle of the sidewalk with a map and a struck dumb look on their faces, gawking at the people and the buildings. Yeah, the ones who just get in the way. And the ones who get pissy when they ask me for directions and I don't have an answer.

I don't have sympathy for morons. And they all seem to congregate in Times Square.

My co-worker Brooke came with me yesterday and insisted that we eat in midtown. Because I was going to drag her down to SoHo, TriBeCa, and East Village for the afternoon, I reluctantly agreed. We ended up eating at this little irish pub kind of place right off Times Square, which was disappointing, to say the least.

For starters, I try to avoid eating in any tourist-laden area. For the most part, the food won't be that good and it will be overpriced. Secondly, when I travel I try to avoid eating things that I can get across the street from my house. I'll admit that visiting Manhattan is really not travelling, because I can go there anytime I want to. But still, it's the principle of the thing.

Maybe this is just a perception thing, but it also seems that the further away from midtown you get, the hotter the waitstaff gets. We ended up having cocktails at this little open air restaurant in Union Square Park yesterday. Our waiter and the host were so unbelievably gorgeous it was hard to restrain myself from fondling.

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Yeah, so Manhattan. My feet burn with the torture of a thousand blisters. That's not even exaggerating. My feet look ridiculous -- I must have five or six red Star Wars bandaids strapped over various sore spots on the sides of my feet.

Whose dumb idea was it to wear sneakers without socks yesterday?

Regardless of my idiotic shoewear decision, I had a delightful time basking in the 1000 degree heat. Like a complete idiot, I forgot my list of phone numbers and addresses sitting at home yesterday morning...so I didn't get to meet anyone and I didn't send any postcards. I really should have a better system for this kind of stuff.

But I did get to shop. A stop at Loehmann's netted me two pairs of sandals and a sweater. And I found the cutest little [OK, it's big] straw bag with flowers on the front of it in a little shop in the East Village. And, of course, I bought yarn at two different yarn shops.

It's not like I couldn't get the yarn elsewhere. It's just that I buy yarn everywhere I go. Some people buy chotchkies for souvenirs: I buy yarn. So I have a sweater I made from yarn I bought in Paris. And I'll have a pair of slippers and a hat from yarn I bought in New York. At least I don't have a collection of spoons or snowglobes or stuffed animals from around the world -- I'm not really a knick knack kind of person.

Luckily, that kind of thing isn't genetic. My grandmother's house is filled to the brim with that kind of stuff.

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Bow before me: I have control over the weather.

If I had known that all it would take to herald in actual Summer here in Philadelphia is posting a bright skin and hosting a Summer-themed bacchanal here at go fish, I'd have done it six weeks ago. Of course, I couldn't have done it alone -- thank you to Cyn, Judi, Lauren, Nicole, Adelle, and Matt, all of whom did an incredible job of guest posting. You guys are just excellent! And apparently filled with the magic of weather control, too!

Since it's supposed to rain again this weekend, maybe I ought to have a virtual rain dance one of these days?

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Phew! I was able to type my butt off to get that rather long post out by the deadline. I don't like to be called tardy, I like to be called fashionably late. You can now resume your normal Nicole-related programming.

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Okay, I have been AWOL all day and I am just trying to catch up with what all the lovely ladies have had to say today. And boy have they been busy. I had every intention of logging in earlier today and dashing off a quick entry at work. Obviously that didn't happen and now I sit here at the 11th hour trying to come up with a summer-y post to fulfill Nicole's request. It would be a damn shame if I had the honor and privilege of posting on this site and didn't get around to it. But I have a rrreeeeaaaaalllll good reason for my tardiness: GOLF.

Yes, I tore out of work early today and was able to get in 18 holes before the sun went down. Well almost, I putted the last hole by twilight. I know that you don't see sports-related stuff here at the go fish very often, especially golf in particular. This is proved by the fact that there has been nary an utterance of the word golf in this blog.

Summer really means one thing to me and that is to get in as much golf in before the blustery Autumn chases me off the course until the following Spring. Usually I spend the Spring getting my swing back together and by this time of the year I spend all my free time hacking my way around area courses. Unfortunately, this year there was no Spring. Philadelphia experienced what I have affectionately termed "monsoon season" (it just ain't for the South Pacific anymore). But thanks to a break in the weather (i.e., it didn't pour this weekend) I was able to get out on to the links both Saturday and Sunday. Today was just too perfect of a day and there was nothing pressing at work so I had to make it three days in a row.

While all this may sound like I am pretty exuberant about golf... I think that "exuberance" actually understates the truth of the matter. I am completely and utterly addicted to golf! When I am not playing, I think about my game constantly and given an opportunity to play I am there. My readiness to grab the sticks and to head out to the course earned me the definitely-deserved nickname "Golf Whore" amongst my friends. Even when I play an absolute horrid round, all I can think about is getting out again and working on some of the kinks in my swing. To many outsiders, it can seem like a very, very sad existence... to have your life controlled by a little white ball that you chase around a field all day. As Mark Twain said "Golf is a good walk spoiled". But to the many of those like myself, it is a grand lifestyle. I sometimes wonder if I can sustain a stable relationship because of my desires to spend my weekends walking through the fairways, blasting my way out of bunkers and hearing that most lovely sound of a perfect putt dropping into the bottom of the cup. That sound doesn't happen all that often, but when you hear it you forget about everything awful that has transpired on the course that day and you start thinking about trying to squeeze in 36 holes. But I do go one, don't I?

For those of you that have stuck around reading this far, I have a treat for you. One of the funniest golf-related recollections you will ever read. I guarantee it! If you don't find the extended entry below humorous, you are welcome to ask Nicole for your money back. Seriously click the expanded link below!

One in a million shot

When I was in high school, I played golf but not in any manner resembling the way that I play today. I was god-awful. My dad likes to tell stories that when I played in high school, it wasn't a matter of getting in 18 holes; I played until I ran out of balls. This is not far from the truth. I had the most wicked slice in the world but that didn't prevent me from spending an inordinate amount of time on the course. My buddy Brian and I would skip school to play all of the time.

Now this one time while Brian and I were spending an afternoon on the links and not in the classroom, I hit a shot that very, very few people can claim to have ever done. Actually, I don't think that anyone else I have known or played with can say they successfully completed what I did at the ripe old age of 16. Now I know what you are thinking and let me just set you straight. No! It was not a hole-in-one. No way! This is much rarer. I nailed myself in the face with my own golf ball. Yes! And it hurt!

How did it happen? I flubbed a tee shot off to the right by some houses on this muni we used to play. I went over to take out all my aggression on this ball that refused to go in the direction that I wanted. I swung as hard as I could with a 3-wood and toed the ball so it flew off almost perpendicular to my swing path. The ball screamed away and hit a metal pole that held up netting to protect the houses from people like me. As I looked up to see how bad my shot was, to my surprise, the ball was coming right back at me. Whack! Right smack in my left check!! I went down! I didn't pass out but it felt like someone had punched me really, really hard in the face.

Brian, who was on the other side of the fairway rummaging for his ball, said that he heard the following sequence of events (he did not see what happened, only heard - my explanation are in parenthesis): Whack! (my trying to knock the cover off the ball), Fuck! (my anger over having duffed yet another shot), Ping! (the ball bouncing off the metal pole), Shit! (my reaction to the fact that ball was rocketing right at my face), Whack! (the ball bouncing off my face), and Thump! (me hitting the ground). As I laid there, I watched the lady behind me tee off. She came over to check on my after that but was much more interested in getting in front of these two teenage buffoons.

Like I said a one-in-a-million shot!

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It looks like all we did was complain about summer today huh? Sheesh what a bunch of guest bloggers we turned out to be huh? *hanging head in shame* *sniffles* We have let Nicole down.
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Bah She'll get over it. That is what she gets for letting us have control for a day *snort* =)

Well summer is definitely here in South Texas. Meaning it's hot. Forecast for June-Hot. Forecast for July-Hotter with a heat index of hotter then hell. Forecast for August-Screw it just admit you are going to melt. =) The boys and I went grocery shopping this afternoon with the intent of getting root beer and ice cream to make root beer floats. Well I am here to tell you that we forgot the suds and the ice cream. *sheesh* I blame it on the boys distracting me and they of course blame me. Go figure.

Well thus ends my guest-blogginess here at Go Fish. I thank my hostest with the mostest Nicole for letting me rant about the heat over here. =) I am off in search of cool drinks and watermelon. TTFN

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If one needs any proof that Philly has been cursed by god, one really doesn't have too look any further than the weather for the past few weeks, as it has been both chilly and humid as hell at the same time.

I'm a California baby, where we have dry heat, as god intended. I really can't handle humidity at the best of times. It confuses me. I'm like, "Why am I so sweaty and gross? Oh, god it's humid, isn't it!"

Usually I just deal with it by wearing as little as posisble. But I really extra special can't dress for this kind of weather. Less clothes don't help. More clothes don't help. I hate all my clothing anyway. I've just given up on wearing clothes while in my house. (I'm wearing underwear and a t-shirt right now. Sexy!) Getting dressed is a serious trial. If only I could wear tube tops to work.

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Well, I think this is my last post for the Summer theme... Thanks so much to Nicole for this opportunity. Hope we didn't let you down!

Now I am off for some ice cream. I have had this major thing for it this year since it has been getting warm. Not that it's good for my figure or anything, but when it's this hot, who gives a shit anymore?!?!

Hope you all had fun reading our posts today... Come and visit me anytime! Fo Shizzle ma Bizzle!

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I did mention earlier that it was going to get to 98 today here in South Texasssssssss right?? *grumbles* Well now my a/c decides it doesn't want to play anymore and is going to shut off. WTF???? Now it has done this crap to me before, right at the beginning of the *HOT* season ::geez is there any other kind here in Tex?:: and I figured it was because it hadn't been on. So, I shut the damn thing off, cursing the whole while, opening windows, bitching, opening doors, frigging mosquitos better not even think about it. And there we sit, JJ complaining, "Mooooooooooom it's hot." No really? Gosh and I thought I was just taking a shower in my own sweat for fun. *NOT* I keep it off for about an hour and then decide, "Screw this, am turning it back on, if it does it again we are going to 1. Call the landlord and pitch a bitch fit, and 2. go walk the mall, and I freaking despise the mall!!!" So I turned it back on, nice cool air starts flowing out of the vents, ::Falls to knees and thanks the a/c gods for being benevolent::. So now I have Zach sitting on one vent, Alex on another, JJ one yet another, and the cat? Oh yeah her furry butt is sitting on one too. Hot here in Texas? Naaaaaaaah it's barely warm [/sarcasm]

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During the summer I usually get a chance to explore some snack foods that I don't get during the rest of the year. (I'm a college student... finding new snacks is not a top priority with everything else that's going on during the year.) Some of my most favorite summer snacks are:

- Graham crackers and milk
- Ants on a log (we're talking a whole celery stalk with lots of peanut butter and tons of raisins)
- Nestle Turtles (they're heavenly)
- Sliced Peaches in Milk
- Cantelope with Vanilla Ice Cream

What are your favorite summer snacks?

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I went up to New York this weekend, and I must warn you, beware of Sephora. First you think it would be fun to get a free make-over, then they're telling you how great your cheekbones are, and the next thing you know you're purchasing a $40 jar of foundation like it's the most rational thing in the world . . .

EVIL.

Although, I must say, I think the pink mascara makes it all worth it.

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If my son runs in and out of the house once more to fill up his blasted squirt gun~I'm gonna go ballistic.....

Why can't summer school be manditory?

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Ok, this time I will be more positive...

Why I Love Summer
1. The Pool - I love swimming and hanging out by the pool. Of course I hate those bitches that sit out there with their suit up their ass and all giggly (sorry, had to add that...)

2. Big Brother - I am a reality TV whore, and this is one of my favorite shows!

3. Horse racing - I grew up in upstate NY (near Saratoga), so I love the races. I try to make it home every August so I can go and gamble some money away

So, see, I am not THAT much of a pessimist when it comes to summer...

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Yesterday I was eagerly awaiting guest posting for Nicole. I tried to share the excitement with my boyfriend, but I think he doesn't quite understand me and my own blog, let alone me posting on someone else's blog. Do you understand my excitement? If not, let me explain it in a way that might help. It's like writing something for a magazine that you always read... you read it and enjoy it, so when something you write is included you feel happy and even more a part of it. Or at least that's my take on it.

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It's officially been summer for 2 days now, yet the weather in San Diego hasn't taken notice. I'm not sure if anyone who isn't from San Diego knows about it, but here we deal with June gloom every year. And I'm not talking just part of June... this summer it's looking to be all of June.

As much as I wanted the sun to come out this weekend, the overcast weather made for a wonderful trip to the Wild Animal Park. For any of you who don't know about the San Diego Wild Animal Park, it's sort of like a zoo, except that they have several large (we're talking huge) exhibits where multiple species live together. It's really a great place and they've had a lot of success breeding animals that were on the verge of extinction... sometimes even returning a group of the animals to their natural habitat. To top off all the great exhibits (including an enclosure where you can walk in a butterfly habitat) they have great programs... over the summer you can sign up to stay overnight at the park! Talk about a fun summer idea! Of course, with all the animal noises I'd probably never get to sleep...

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One word-HOT
Two words-DAMN HOT

Welp there is my post on summer *grins* No no I kid I kid!!

I had this whole summer post thing written up and damn I decided I didn't want to do it. I have to admit that my favorite seasons are spring and fall. Spring because it isn't too hot just yet and fall because I just love fall ok!?!?! =)

The boys on the other hand LOOOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVVVVE summer. There is swimming, no school ::well for JJ anyhow lol::, over nighters with friends, SplashTown, etc. I remember being in school and counting the days until summer vacation. Living each day to it's fullest. Man I used to love it. But now, eh just another day sometimes.

Perhaps there is something to be learned from our children and their "live life for today" mentality. Maybe we should all make a conscious effort to do it. Instead of letting the everday crap get us down, bills, rent, car troubles, money, etc, we should try and find one thing everyday that makes us smile or makes us forget just for a little bit what it is like to shoulder all the responsibility of being an adult. Yeah that sounds like a good plan. Maybe we shoud strive to find a way everyday to be a kid again, if even only for a few minutes?? Whatcha think? Oh hell I think it's a good idea. So if you excuse me, I am going to go get a bowl of cereal, eat it on the floor in the living room with the boys and watch Dexter's Laboratory. Then we will go to the park and I do believe I am going to swing on the swings!! =)

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I was thinking along the same lines as Adele this morning. Summer, with all it's highlights, does come complete with its annoyances. The older, ..er more mature I become, the more these pet peeves make me want to commit painful, bloody murder bother me.

~Why is it that beginning the first week of July, the stores are stocking the shelves with school supplies, heavy winter sweaters and boots and tons of Halloween candy? For Christ sakes, school just let out 2 friggin weeks ago! Not to mention by August, we can go see Christmas decorations. Aren't we just rushing things a bit? I don't want to see Santa wrapping paper when the heat index is in the triple digits and everyone is running around in flip~flops.

~Stupid tourists. Sometimes I wonder how some of these people found themselves at the end of their own driveways without a map, let alone loose on the streets of my hometown. (Niagara Falls) I get tired of lunatics asking for directions, asking me to take their picture, or wanting a recommendation of things to do around here~I usually tell them to listen for the rushing water and go take a leap. I'm no travel agent, and unless you're prepared to pay me commission~don't expect me to act like one.

~People who feel compeled to mow their lawns at the ridiculous hours of 7AM or 10:30PM. I don't want to hear your damn racket. These are the same people who also compulsively mow a minimum of 3 times a week because they think they're scoring brownie points by having "the best~looking lawn on the block". Let me clue you in~no one gives a crap how green your lawn looks...

~the Ice Cream Truck....hate it, hate it, hate it. Why do you always park in front of my house and play your stupid song over and over to the point where I'm tempted to run outside, grab you from your truck and beat you to a bloody pulp and drown you in soft~serve? One day I WILL pelt you with rocks, I swear....

~People who say, "Is it hot enough for ya?" No~it's not. I love when I take a shower and sweat is pouring down my back while I'm trying to dry off, my make~up instantly turns to grease and slides off my face moments after application and I develop 2nd degree blistering sunburn after slathering on 50+SPF products and spend 5 minutes sitting in the shade. I don't think it's hot enough until the humidity is inducing an asthma attack, the asphalt is melting in the streets and my air conditioner is whining like a squeeling pig from overuse. (just a little sarcasm there...it's Monday, you know...)

And finally~a few random things I dislike: mosquitos, kids saying, "I'm bored~there's nothing to do", kids who pee in public swimming pools, dirty, stinky feet, fat men in denial walking around with no shirt on, people who wear socks with sandals, 50 year old women with leather~looking tanned lizard skin who go out in public wearing only bikini tops covering their saggy boobs, and men who pour an entire can of lighter fluid on the grill and produce enough fumes to smoke out the entire neighborhood because they don't understand the proper usage of a BBQ.

If I forgot anything....let me know

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Yes, we are all going to miss Nicole today... But hope we can interest everyone today with our topic of summer.

So I was thinking... "What the heck do I write about summer?" So here we go:

Why I Hate Summer
1. Allergies - Ever since I moved to Dallas, I wake up every morning with a sore throat and a runny nose (aren't you glad you know that now...)

2. Men with shorts and socks up to their knees - I know they are poor little old men, but will someone please teach them?!?! They must have someone in the family with some fashion sense!

3. Women who do not have pedicures - I am scared of most feet, esp. these. Please, please, please... Just go spend the $40 (or sometimes cheaper) and get your damn feet done!

4. HEAT! I believe I was spared last summer, my first full summer in Dallas, but with it already hitting 100 degrees in May, I think I am screwed for my 2nd summer. My air conditioning could not even keep up this weekend.

Anyone have anything else to add?

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Don't bother me, I'm preparing for my Manhattan invasion. Retailers of the city, beware! I come with cash! *maniacal laughter ensues*

There is a real reason I'm crashing NYC for the day -- I have a fundraising conference to attend in midtown. I'll be at the hotel with the revolving bar for at least half the day. Yes, I know: thrilling.

But don't you want to know what has been cooked up for my day away? It's not quite as diabolical [and dirty sock-filled] as Testosterone Day, but it's just as hot. To be honest, I've been craving some summer since the weather has been so icky. So strap yourself in: it's Summer Lovin' day.

So who will be slapping on the sunscreen tomorrow? Well...

• Cyn at Pink Haired Girl, armed with pink hair dye at all times
  
• How Judi of You's very own Judi, my partner in Hank lust
  
• Lauren, the tao of Pooh at My Charmed Space
  
• That Other Nicole from over at Delirity. She'll get you and your little dog, too!
  
• Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey Adelle...fo shnizzle ma nizzle
  
• Matt from Everything but the Blog, boy wonder.

Have fun, and don't track sand all over the place, eh?

Oh, and I couldn't decide on a special Summer skin -- I made two and kind of liked them both. So I went with the brighter one, but you can certainly choose my Sir Mix-a-lot inspired skin, or change your skin to something completely different.

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I must accept the facts. My fur skirt will take weeks to knit. I literally sat couchside knitting for 90% of the day. I've got maybe 8 inches of skirt knit, total. Maybe.

I feel somehow gypped by this whole experience. I hate yarn that is so small it takes forever to knit up.

Yes, all this yarn and knitting talk is sexy.

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It's no secret that I find religious fundamentalists just completely insane and irritating. I get a little rude to people when they tell me they'll pray for me for whatever reason they can think of. Religion should be a personal thing -- a personal and private thing. Fundies who insist on trying to convert everyone in the world to their own religion are idiots.

Take, just as an example, the nutjob in York, PA who insists on decorating her lawn with a neon lamp-illuminated sign of a peach saying "Peachy News. Jesus is Alive." Her neighbors thought the sign was tacky, and got a court order to make her remove it. The woman is clearly thinking that advertising her piousness and religious fervor is somehow earning her points with her god.

Of course, she was recently evicted from her home. Somehow it doesn't seem like the sign made too good an impression with the powers that be.

I agree that banning the sign violates the wacky religious freak's freedom of speech, unless she was living in one of those developments with a housing association that regulates what color your house can be, etc. [which always reminds me of The X-Files]. You have the right to put up whatever the hell you want in your own yard. This isn't a separation of church and state issue.

Of course, this is always a slippery slope. If one has a right to any personal expression one likes in their yard, anything is acceptable.

What would happen, I wonder, if I was idiotic religious asshat's neighbor and I put up a huge sign depicting a big happy apple saying "Eve got a bad rap. God doesn't exist, and religious zealots are hypocrites."? Would that go over OK? Or what if one of the neighbors is a member of the KKK....would this woman [who is black] be so fond of free speech if her racist neighbor put up a burning cross every night and hung the effigy of a the neighbor from his front tree? I have a thousand examples, one more offensive than the other.

Sometimes you really have to be careful of what you wish for.

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I ran over to Sulimay's Diner on Girard Ave. this morning with Craig for breakfast. It's one of the few places I can request barely cooked, uber runny poached eggs and the waitresses don't get grossed out and make faces.

And, you know, I appreciate that.

The thing that sucks about Sulimay's is that the smoking section and the non-smoking section are right next to each other. There's no special ventilation for the smoking section, and the non-smoking section isn't really partitioned off in any way. And I hate to be in a restaurant trying to eat when a table full chain smokers is puffing away and seemingly blowing the smoke in my direction. It just makes my eggs taste like ash [or ass, take your pick].

I have a theory that smokers can tell a non-smoker from a mile away. There's some sort of radar [sort of like gaydar], and smokers absolutely delight in pissing non-smokers off by positioning themselves upwind so their smoke blows directly onto the non-smoker. This always happens to me.

Of course, it isn't hard for a non-smoker to detect a smoker in their midst, either; even if the person in question isn't standing there with a cigarette. There's the constant smell of smoke on their clothes and the yellow teeth. But my old boss liked to tell me that smokers are prematurely aged. As if the smoking sucks up all the moisture out of their skin and they have pinched, ashy complexions.

I don't really know enough smokers to be able to justify that idea.

When I was doing cancer research fundraising, I was always amazed at the sheer volume of cancer researchers who smoke. They knew it was bad for them, they knew it could kill them in the long run, but yet they refused to give it up. I guess that's a testament to the addictive nature of cigarettes, or maybe they just didn't like to be told what to do. As someone who likes to come to my own conclusions, I can empathize...but I still hate to have to endure cigarette smoke.

My stepfather is a smoker, and so is Craig's dad. Both of them started smoking when they were around 11 years old. How does one become a smoker at age 11? I smoked for about a month when I was 14, but stopped because it seemed ridiculous. Well, and because kissing a smoker is not particularly pleasant and I have always really liked to smooch.

The only thing worse than kissing a smoker is kissing someone who chews tobacco [you can tell I was thinking of The Simpsons, I initially wrote Tomacco]. In my hometown, chew is really huge for some reason. It mostly just seems like hicks who think it's cool. Well, hicks and baseball players.

I always imagine the baseball players and hick boys old folks home -- a bunch of lipless geriatric guys just roaming the halls barely their teeth unintentionally.

Ew.

Of course, even so, I feel for smokers who can't seem to smoke anywhere in public anymore. I realize that smoking is addictive, and not being able to have a smoke when you really need one is problematic. By that same token, having to inhale and choke on second hand smoke is infringing on my rights as a non-smoker, so I understand why such laws exist. The solution is to either create a cigarette that has an additional filter on the end of the cigarette so the smoke is filtered -- it doesn't stink and removes the carcinogens in smoke so it doesn't injure me, or to just develop a smokeless cigarette.

Oh patent office!

---

Well, this is heartening news:

Federal court refuses to reopen Roe v. Wade

"It never should have been filed," Weddington said Friday. "Those who filed it got publicity, but the publicity actually has been very helpful for those of us who believe the government should not be involved."

Suddenly the day seems a little better.

---

As Dave pointed out in an entry of mine yesterday, "fur skirt" really sounds like it should be dirty. Dirrrrrrty. But it's just me having more fun with knitting.

There's not much to show yet. The yarn is small and the knitting is slow going. I think I have a four inch tube of skirt knitted so far, but I have to say that I'm more than happy with the way it's knitting up. The color is great and I love the furriness of the yarn [the yarn, if you're interested, is Valeria di Roma Cisne in Sepia]. An added bonus which I could not have predicted is that the resulting knitted piece is light and, therefore, appropriate for summer. If I really bust my ass this weekend it might even be done in time for my Manhattan trip on Monday, and wouldn't that be fun?

---

There should be a medal of honor for staying friends with people who are difficult to be friends with. Christy called me tonight at 7pm to ask what kind of paper she should purchase. We discussed her options. She told me she'd be to my house in an hour.

The time is now 9:11pm. I just got a phone call from her saying she's still an hour away, and she still has to go somewhere else and doesn't know what time she'll be here, and can she still come over. I declined other plans because she was supposed to be here an hour ago. I'm a little pissed off at her, so I told her no.

And then she has the balls to get pissy with me.

---

I knew I should have just sat here quietly at my desk, knitting my fucking socks. But no, I had to call Christy. Now I'm sort of roped into helping her make a photo album for a friend of hers tonight.

All I really want to do is sit around and knit my fur skirt, which is coming out so cool. All I want to do is finish it and instead I have to go home, clean up the house, and haul all of my bookbinding shit out.

Poop.

This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy. ~ Clark W. Griswold

---

I'm the biggest smacked ass in the entire world. I took my housekeys out of my purse yesterday and forgot to put them back in this morning before I left the house. So even thought I get out of work at 3pm today, I can't go home unless I plan to break into my house.

Fuck. Now I have to wait until Craig gets done with work until I can go home.

I should be thankful I realized I have no keys now instead of when I was standing in front of my house in the pouring down rain and no where to go.

---

One of my favorite things to do when I get a few minutes is visit Time magazines Pictures of the Week series.

It's always interesting and the photos are beautiful.

---

"Already, America's perspective has been affected. In a shocking new poll, fully 41 percent of Americans now believe the terrorists responsible for the 9/11 tragedy were, in fact, gay married Canadians.

Similarly, 23 percent are now convinced Saddam Hussein was either "somewhat" or "almost totally" Canadian. Or gay. Or a member of Loverboy.

AG John Ashcroft, no stranger to uptight asexual homophobic hyper-Christian puling and all too familiar with looking exactly like he just swallowed a pleasure-ribbed condom filled with boiling road tar, was seen running around the Hall of Justice smacking a heavy King James Bible against his skull and dousing himself with buckets of holy anointing oil, just before running smack into the bronze left nipple of the swathed statue of Lady Justice and knocking himself cold."

I so wish I had written this. It's some of the most hilarious commentary I've seen yet on Canada legalizing marriage for everyone in love, instead of just heterosexuals.

[Thanks to Ideal Rhombus for posting the link the column]

---

I don't think this is particularly weird, but when I just confessed it to a co-worker of mine she thought it was bizarre:

I like to try on formalwear.

Let me amend that -- I like to try on formalwear when I'm in expensive stores.

I'm not a shop by the seat of my pants kind of girl normally. I shop for things I need, not for stuff that I might happen to see and want. I'm just not much of a browser. This is why I don't really even so much as window shop at places like Prada and Armani. If I try on something I really love and would wear constantly but can't afford, that'll just piss me off.

So I really have a yen for trying on formalwear when I get in a browsing mood.

I mean, it's not like I have any reason to purchase formalwear. I don't attend balls or other functions where I need to wear a gown. Craig and I don't throw formal dinner parties. So if I try on a $9 billion gown and I really like it, it doesn't stress me out that I can't afford it because I never would have purchased it anyway.

My confession came of a discussion about where to shop on Monday while the two of us are in Manhattan. I have very definite plans for hitting some street markets and discount shops, but she wants to hit the high end places. She can't afford to buy at high end places any more than I can, so why do that to yourself?

"I just like to look," she said.

That's like not being able to eat ice cream when there's a big bowl sitting a foot away from you. That's just torture!

---

Somehow Philadelphia made it onto Forbes list of Best Cities for Singles again. We're ranked 14th out of 40, a slip of one ranking spot from last year.

The City of Brotherly Love got a lot of love from our readers, who voted Philly the most popular spot this year. And there's a lot to like. The city's nightlife and culture both rank in the top ten, helped along by its numerous colleges, including Penn, Haverford and Villanova. As a testament to the city's allure, students stick around after they get their degrees (unlike in, say, Pittsburgh). Nonetheless, Philly dropped a few spots this year. Why? The normal lead balloons for large, Eastern metros: slow job growth combined with a high cost of living. And the employment picture wasn't helped by the brutal years at both cable giant Comcast and insurance provider Cigna. Still, for those with well-paying jobs, Philadelphia is an outstanding place to fly solo. Highbrows have the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra, while those with less refined tastes can revel in outstanding delis and the funky music scene.

Um, I wonder if any of those people who voted for Philly have ever been here. While I agree that the city has many universities, which does help feed the ever changing flow of 20-somethings, it has been an on-going problem here for years that very few of these students stick around the city after graduation. And nightlife? What nightlife? The clubs all suck here -- there's not a decent club left. The last good club [The Bank on Spring Garden] started attracting the South Jersey big hair/gold chain wearing crowd in the mid-90s and is now closed. There are a couple of good bars left, but most of the "in" places are pretentious bars frequented by anorexic South Philly 40-something chicks wearing entirely too little and hairy quasi-mafia wannabe guys in pinky rings. I admit the music scene has been improving a little over the last couple of years, but without Dobbs on South Street it all seems a little flat.

There's no way in hell Seattle should be #15 and Portland at #26 -- much cooler than Philadelphia. And how did Salt Lake City get on the list? The entire place closes down at 1am and you have to be a private member to get into a bar. And the Mormons! Yeesh!

---

There is a woman who was just transferred up to our department from Marketing. Her name is Mary. Mary is a happy and talkative woman. I hate Mary. Mary should die.

OK, that's actually stretching the truth a little. I don't hate Mary, but she is driving me absolutely insane. I am, by all accounts, a very cheerful person. But I'm also sarcastic and cynical, which sort of balances it out so I'm not annoying. Mary is only an exceedingly happy person who also happens to be inappropriately lewd.

This morning she was standing outside of my cubicle yukking it up with two other new employees, talking about some sports figure she loves and recently met. I wanted to dig my eardrums out with a jagged fork when she said, "I really did have a crush on him. I was so excited to meet him -- I had to change my panties three times throughout the night."

I don't want to know anything about her panties. Nothing. Next thing you know she's going to be telling me about some biker orgy she's involved with. Because I also happen to know she has a Harley and is involved with the local leather biker scene.

By itself, I think that's kind of cool. But I don't want to hear every little detail about it, including how hot the leather gets her. There are these things called boundaries.

About ten minutes ago, she came to the door of my cubicle and said, "Hey Nicole, come into my office. I need to show you something." I thought to myself, "Please let it be something work related. Please?"

I go into her office and she motions me toward her monitor. I sighed a little sigh of relief. Oh, she has a computer problem! Yay! But then I discover she just wants to show me a forwarded email she received with photos of Martha Stewart's prison cell. I said, "Yeah, I've gotten that email about twenty times since she was indicted. Poor Martha." and walked out.

I really wanted to pick up something heavy and hit her repeatedly until she's unconscious just to shut her up for two minutes.

Mary has been working in my department for four days and I already want to see her run over in the street. This can't be a good sign.

---

Getting a star on the Walk of Fame just isn't what it used to be.

One of things I've always wanted to do when I finally get around to visiting Los Angeles is go see the Walk of Fame. I know it's covered in hookers, but it's just one of those things I feel the need to see. Knowing that the fucking Olsen twins and Britney Spears will have stars soon just sort of cheapens the idea of it for me.

While I understand that these kids are uber rich, I find them lacking in the talent department. Britney and her heaving wax bosom have never been very interesting to me, and the Olsen twins are just creepy. Is someone trying to tell me that these three are on par with Julie Andrews or Laurence Olivier? Yeah, I'm not buying that.

So let's just say I was curious about who you have to blow these days the nomination criteria for the Walk of Fame.

1. Professional Achievement in the Field of Entertainment
2. Longevity of Five Years or More
3. Contribution to the Community

Professional achievement and longevity, well, OK. But contribution to the community? Not so fast. Britney's contribution is that thousands of six year old girls are running around in skanky outfits, gyrating their hips singing that they're not kids anymore, not yet women. Great. Thanks! And the Olsen twins? I don't know that they've contributed anything other than an increase in my annoyance level.

[link found via Confetti Falling]

---

Despite the fact that my people are farmers, I must admit that I'm not up-to-date on my animal flatulence news. I know: shocking.

Flatulence from cows, sheep and other ruminants is a serious environmental problem, accounting for about 15% of worldwide emissions of methane - one of the most potent of greenhouse gases.

Huh. Well, OK.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that New Zealand has proposed a flatulence tax. Well, just for farmers. In New Zealand, farm animal farts are responsible for 90% of the greenhouse gases. Those are so gassy-ass cows and sheep. What the hell are they being fed?

But the mind boggles at levying a tax against farmers because their animals poot a little too much. How does one prevent their livestock from letting one loose? And can a farmer get tax relief if he or she proves their cows aren't producing as much flatulence as other farmer's cows?

---

Apparently you all weren't wishing hard enough. Damn you!

There's nothing quite so alarming as hearing a dentist say, "Oh. Look at that." while poking around in your mouth. Nothing. It's chilling. That was followed up by, "You know, if a 50 or 60 year old woman had teeth like this, I wouldn't really be worried. But you're 31 -- what have you been doing to your teeth?"

What's funny is I have tremendously good teeth. Both the dentist and hygienist asked if I had ever had braces and then were flabbergasted when I told them no. I, apparently, have the most perfectly and naturally straight teeth either of them as ever seen. And my teeth are really strong.

Unfortunately, I'm a nighttime tooth grinder. And I clench and grit my teeth when I get pissed off or stressed. So my poor perfect teeth are being ground down to nubs. And the dentist pointed out half a dozen teeth that barely have any enamel left. I risk cracking my teeth at any given moment if I don't take preventative measures.

So. I have to drop $400 on a nightguard for my mouth. I feel slightly sick about this.

While I realize keeping my teeth is worth more than a measly $400, $400 could also get me to Scotland for a week or purchase a really nice piece of jewelry or net me a day at the spa. But I'm biting the bullet [OK, not really -- with my poor perfect teeth, that's now out of the question. I'm not even supposed to eat popcorn] and buying the mouthguard.

It should be really entertaining trying to get used to having a huge piece of plastic shoved in my mouth while attempting to sleep. Great.

On a positive note, the dentist and hygienist are both really wonderful. So that's good news.

---

Like most people, I hate going to the dentist. But it's just one of those things that you kind of have to deal with, sort of like going to the gynecologist [well, boys don't really have to deal with that]. I will admit that this is my first visit to a dentist in just about three years. My excuse is that when I moved to Fishtown it was a pain in the ass to get to my old dentist in South Philly, and I was frightened to trust my teeth to a Fishtown dentist.

But I'm about to do just that in about 2 hours.

I made Craig go first. He assures me the dentist is a wonderful person. I still have my doubts, but Craig is a bigger baby when it comes to dentists than I am.

I feel a little sheepish about having a fear of the dentist. I did have some issues when I was little, though. When I was pretty young I fell flat on my face in the middle of the street and knocked out pretty much all my teeth. They were all baby teeth, so it was OK, except that I looked ridiculous until my adult teeth grew in. And then I had too many teeth, so I had to get several teeth yanked.

I can still hear the juicy cracking popping sound in my head from having a tooth pulled. I'm getting the heebies just imagining it. But, beyond having two un-impacted wisdom teeth removed when I was 19, I've had no problems. I have two teeny tiny little cavities that I got when I was a senior in high school.

So I know that when I go to the dentist everything is going to be OK. But a few years ago some bozo dentist tried to give me a gross debridement [that's cleaning underneath your gums] with no anesthesia. After I blew out his eardrums with my screeching, he gave me so many shots of novocaine I sounded like Mushmouth for the rest of the day.

But, just to be on the safe side, around 5pm EST I want you to think really good thoughts toward me. Because you just never know what you're going to get in Fishtown.

---

While I certainly wouldn't want to be considered a "Revisionist Historian" by George and his allies [what the fuck does that even mean? So is someone a "revisionist historian" if they once opposed and still oppose the Vietnam war? What about someone who opposes Clinton and thinks he should have been kicked out of office? Is that person a "revisionist historian"?], it seems odd to me that the invasion of Iraq was supposed to lead to unsurpassed freedom for the Iraqi people, but there's very little freedom to be had.

Belly dancer Siri has been performing since 1996. The Islamic dress and gun are new and necessary accessories since the fall of Saddam Hussein on April 9.

"Before the war I was practicing my work freely. It was quite normal for me to stay out late after midnight but now I have to be at home before 6 in the evening," said 27-year-old Siri, who lives in a small apartment in a poor Baghdad suburb.

The war to topple to Saddam was followed by a wave of insecurity and lawlessness which Iraqis complain U.S. troops have done little to tame.

For women, the streets of Baghdad are a more dangerous place, and an upsurge in religious fervor means they must stick to Islamic dress if they want to be left alone.

So this is freedom?

---

So I was sitting around watching Maury just now [because daytime television sucks ass] while I was finishing my knitting project when one of those "Ask your doctor about [drug name]" commercials came on. This one was for DermaBond, which is like stitches made of Crazy Glue.

The commercial talks about how uncomfortable traditional stitches are, blah blah blah, and then says, "Next time you're in the Emergency Room, ask you doctor about using Dermabond."

If I'm in the Emergency Room, the last thing on my mind is going to be asking the doctor to use Dermabond. I can picture it all now...

I'm bleeding profusely from my eyes and the multiple gunshot wounds peppering my broken body. I'm barely conscious, and can barely make words with my jacked up mouth. In my weakened state I motion to the doctor or nurse that I'd like to write something with my one good hand. I scribble feverishly for a moment and hold up the note. The note says,

Dear doctors and nurses working hard to save my life, Please use Dermabond to sew me back together. I'd like to ensure the company stays in business.

Love, Nicole

Even if it's something not as life threatening, say I walked into a statue on the street [because I've been known to do that] and cracked my head wide open. I'm going to sit there in the ER for four hours and when my time to see the doctor comes I'm going to be preoccupied with making sure the doctor uses Dermabond to fix my head?

It was the dumbest thing I've seen today, and considering I looked out my front door at some bar patrons about 30 minutes ago, that's saying something.

---

When I was still on the market, so to speak, I had one single pick up line. It's tried and true, totally stupid, and worked everytime. I'd run up to the target guy, give him a peck on the cheek and a friendly arm squeeze, and say, "I haven't seen you in forever! You look great!" and then continue talking like I'd known him forever.

Most of the time the guy would continue to talk, not letting on at all that he's never seen me before in my life. Boys notoriously have bad memories for that type of thing, and think maybe they met me while drunk or something. If, by some chance, the boy in question actually said, "Do I know you?" or "I think you have me confused with someone else." that's OK too. I can work with that.

Eventually our conversation would come to an end and I'd write my name and phone number down on a piece of paper and say, "Well hey, I have to run...but call me, let's go out!" And I'd get a call within two or three days.

See, it's all strategy. I meet cute boys and no one feels weird about it.

I appreciate a good pick up line from a boy. Something that's not trite or overused is appreciated. Something that isn't completely vulgar or disgusting. Of course, just coming over and saying "Hi, I'm [insert name here]." is always refreshing as well.

There's something terrifying about a site that lists every pick up line ever invented and/or tried. I'm especially frightened by this line: Do you know the difference between my penis and a chicken leg? No??? Well, let's go on a picnic and find out! and the fact that 2 our of the 21 women it was tried on thought that was sexy.

Gee, that's a nice set of legs, what time do they open? What woman would be charmed by that?

---

I have this theory, you see. If finding something to wear in the morning proves to be too difficult and mentally demanding, I should call out of work. I guess I just think of it as a cosmic sign that I'm better off not in the office.

This morning I must have tried on every single piece of clothing in my closet...twice. Nothing screamed, "Wear me!" I hated everything. Nothing was right. So I threw on an old faded red tshirt and a pair of cut off sweats, picked up the phone, and called out of work.

My outlook on working is that life is too short not to use your personal days. It's not like I have anything exciting planned for today. I'm knitting a pair of slipper clogs for Craig. Maybe I'll cook, do some laundry, do a little yoga. I have a dentist appointment later on. But it's the principle of the thing -- any morning I don't feel like working, or it's too much of a hassle to be at work, forget it.

And, luckily, I have a boss who encourages that sort of thinking. I was just out of the office on a personal day last week or the week before, and I had half a day off on Tuesday. But it's not like I'm missing anything pressing at work right now. I don't have gifts sitting on my desk, or donors to thank, or anything.

Sloth, thy name is Nicole.

---

I'm not a cranky old bitch, but I play one in my neighborhood. OK, not really, but sometimes I feel that way.

Tonight when I got home from work I was sitting around watching Buffy on FX when a gaggle of 14 year old girls decided to perch on my stoop. I really don't care if they find my stoop inviting, but if you're going sit there don't fucking bother me. I don't really care to hear about what boy you think is hot, or who is giving whom a blow job. Most importantly, don't you dare fucking smoke while you're sitting on my stoop -- because you know you're going to leave the butts.

And that just pisses me off.

So I tried the subtle route. I opened my front window. Perhaps if they knew I was only a few feet away from them they'd get some freakin' sense and move it along. But no.

Maria continued her story about a fight she was having with her boyfriend Tony and her best friend, Sara. Blah blah blah. Smoke wafting through my window. Cell phones going off. High pitched giggling. Teenage girls suck!

But I know teenage girls. When confronted by an adult, they will scatter. Boys will stay put until you ask them to move it along, but girls...maybe they get frightened by the wrinkles.

I filled up a cup with water, and unlocked my door. I opened the door and all of them jumped up with a hurried, "Oh sorry" and scurried off down the street. I continued out my door and watered my front window box.

It's not like I was opening my door just to open my door. I had to water the flowers and clean up the cigarette butts.

---

Who remembers the judge who accused a Middle Eastern woman of supporting terrorists as she was fighting a traffic ticket? Surprisingly, the old fucking crank has stepped down.

Justice William Crosbie said he was "probably kidding" when he made his idiotic remarks. Well, you know, he's an old white rich guy and a Republican -- shouldn't he be forgiven?

The man is 79 years old. I admit to being a little bit age-ist when it comes to positions where decision-making are involved. It's not because I think older people are always automatically possessed of deficient mental faculties. It's because I think by the time you hit 79 it's hard to be in touch with current sentiment. At 79, this man has lived in a time when it was OK to discriminate against people because of their gender and color. I'm not saying that just because you lived through that, you still think it's OK. But at a certain age you just become out of step with the culture.

Morality does change with the times. It's still not OK to murder anyone, and I seriously doubt that will ever change. Maybe at one time it was OK to josh with the non-white folks, but it's not anymore.

Politicians, judges, and the position of Pope should have a mandatory retirement age. I don't know what that age should be. You already know I think most politicians are completely cut off from understanding the typical American because they're too rich. A lot of people don't vote because they don't feel like they're part of the process. The government doesn't represent them, candidates like them aren't presented as an option, and so they don't participate. My mother finally registered to vote last year [she's 51] because I convinced her of the concept of choosing the lesser of the evils so the greater of the evils doesn't sneak in [hello, last election].

---

The name is Luster. Andrew Luster.

This is both fucking hilarious and disgusting a number of levels. The grandson of Max Factor [as in Max Factor, the cosmetics company guy] and heir to the Max Factor fortune is named Andrew Luster. Luster! It's a total drag queen stage name! That's the funny part. The disgusting part is that he's been convicted of drugging several women and then filming himself while raping them while the women were unconscious and convicted to 124 years in prison in absentia because he fled the country. But now he has apparently been caught in Mexico by a bounty hunter.

Oh wait, now it's funny again! [Nelson Muntz mode] Ha ha [/Nelson Muntz mode].

---

I just had lunch with Mea, which is always a good time. After lunch I walked her back to the subway so she wouldn't get lost in the maze of tunnels in Suburban Station.

So we're rounding the corner by the korean hair store and Taco Bell when a sight to behold presents itself. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was Divine a la Pink Flamingos. Or maybe Divine's fraternal twin sister. I started to giggle.

The more I looked at faux-Divine, the more I started to laugh. It was a big, big woman all in white. White mini, long white leather coat, big huge bleach blonde hair, and high heeled white ankle boots. With each step, I half expected her to turn around and scream, "Kill everyone now! Condone first-degree murder! Advocate cannibalism! Eat shit! Flith is my politics, filth is my life! Take whatever you like!"

By this point, I was laughing at the top of my lungs. Poor Mea must have thought I was going to collapse and then she'd never make it to the subway. You just can't take me anywhere.

---

Someone please explain to me why it's acceptable to kill someone for throwing rocks at you. If I shoot my neighbor for pelting me with snowballs, I'm fairly fucking certain I'd go to prison for life.

So why is it OK for the U.S. military to open fire on protestors throwing stones?

---

OK, so I'm going to be in Manhattan on Monday for a fundraising conference and shopping. I have one brave soul who volunteered to guest post. I know someone else out there will offer, right?

Oh, and I decided to make it a theme day of some sort. Last time it was Testosterone Day -- all boys, all the time. Suggestions for this time?

As always, there are bribes small tokens of love and devotion involved with this should you undertake the challenge of a guest post. Here's the deal: you have 24 hours [12:01am-11:59pm] during which to make at least one post, but you can post to your little heart's content.

So. Ideas? Volunteers?

---

I ran over to the Dunkin' Donuts just now for a bagel and Dunkaccino. A new counter person has been hired. She is a scrawny little girl with bad teeth and negligable English skills. I had to repeat my order twelve times before one of the veteran workers saved me.

She didn't so much as hand me my bag, as throw it at me. So I tried to juggle the bag and ended up knocking over their tip cup. All of a sudden she could speak perfect English. "Be careful!" she admonished me.

Yes, don't want to hurt the money.

In an effort to calm myself down before I hit some random stranger on the street I stopped by the salon on my way back to work and grabbed an eyebrow wax. Now I'm well-groomed and calm. See how that works?

---

Why is it current news that "Jane Roe" wants Roe v. Wade overturned? I mean, she's been singing the same tune for years, at least since 1996. Hasn't she filed motions like this before? It's easy to see how it happened -- she's now too old for pregnancy to be an issue anymore, so she no longer has to worry that she won't be able to get an abortion when she gets knocked up because she isn't practicing safe sex, and she's "found god." And she's the jewel in a ministry whose sole reason for being is to save America by "confronting" a "sodomite fiesta" and announcing a "giant victory for Christ and his unborn babies."

These people are obviously mad as hatters, and now Jane Roe [aka: Norma McCorvey] is one of them. She says that the pastor of her new church won her over by by confessing he had sinned by attending a Beach Boys concert in 1976. This, coming from a former drug addict who really knows her way around compromised morality.

It's obvious to me that McCorvey is one of these uneducated people who has never wanted to take responsibility for her actions. She's given birth to three children and given every single one of them up for adoption. She only has a ninth grade education. Perhaps no one taught her about birth control. Perhaps she always thought abortion was birth control. Whatever the case, if you don't want kids, don't have them. Abortion, to me, is a safeguard. I take every precaution not to get pregnant and so far it's worked. But if, for some reason, my pills fail I like to know that I don't have to visit some back alley butcher to terminate the pregnancy. McCorvey likes to portray herself as a victim in all of this -- she was brainwashed and railroaded by lawyers, blah blah blah. I guess you exchange one for the other.

And, according to McCorvey, she's been snubbed by the pro-choice movement because she's gruff and embarrassing. She seems really bitter about it. Since her little cult church worships the ground she walks on, maybe that's why she's so anxious to publicly denounce Roe v. Wade, and casually take away the right to choose what's right for me.

Her actions just come off as someone who is desparate for attention.

---

Headline: Indian girl, 9, marries stray dog

Please, please, please tell me that the marriage is legal without consummation of the nuptials. Please?

---

I'm really no good at video games. My hand-eye coordination is for crap. I can't even play Frogger with any degree of success.

Today at Dave & Buster's a co-worker and I played House of the Evil Dead. There I was, blue plastic gun in hand shooting zombies. Unfortunately I just kept dying. I think the final score was Brooke: 12,872, Nicole: 63. 8 year old boys were camped out in back watching my ineptitude, offering advice. Then they just pointed and laughed.

My afternoon off was delightful, despite the fact that I got made fun of by preteens. Two margaritas and a salad at Rock Lobster, sitting on the deck and soaking up the sun, followed by an hour getting my ass kicked by the undead at D&Bs -- it beats ignoring my work at Panhandler's Central any day of the week!

And when I arrived home I noticed how fantastic my front window box full of pink impatiens looks. I posted some photos of it over at Homewreckers.

---

I recently was told that an old fling of mine has converted to Islam. He now goes by Karl Mohammad. All this over a girl.

Karl has always been somewhat of a slut. He genuinely loves women, and is very respectful of them [in general]. And even when he's blowing you off for another girl, he's just so charming about it you forget that he's being an asshole and you forgive him. We've all dated that person.

I remember our brief encounter. It was one of those revenge things. My former boyfriend and I had just broken up under horrible circumstances, and I was feeling vindictive. So I slept with Karl, my former boyfriend's fraternity brother. It makes absolutely no sense now, but yet, it happened.

Anyway, Karl and I went out for drinks with his sister and it ended up with us on the floor of my dorm room [Karl and I, not the sister -- although that would probably make both an ickier and more interesting story]. And Karl kept making these faces in the throes of passion that were hysterically funny. And I was finding it really hard to keep from laughing. I tried to close my eyes and ignore the faces, but imagining the faces was even worse than actually seeing the faces. It was awful. And funny.

But we stayed friends after the fiasco, and it was all good.

So now this thing with Karl and his religious conversion. To my knowledge, I believe Karl was Jewish to begin with. I've met his family -- very well-to-do suburbanites. They don't seem the type to be accepting of Karl's decision to ditch the family religion. Karl Mohammed.

Did I mention Karl also was a champion drinker? I can't imagine him as a Muslim. And this is not a casual conversion -- this is a full on, robe wearing, beard growing, praying five times a day conversion. For a girl.

---

Even though I bitch about my job endlessly, there are some perks. Like today, for instance. My boss scheduled an afternoon-long meeting for four of us in my department who are just about the same age, and we all get along really well and like each other. Guess where we're having the meeting?

Well, first we're heading over to Dave & Buster's for a little skee ball and video game action, and then we're going to sit river-side at Rock Lobster for cocktails.

It's nice not to have to be at work on a pretty sunny day!

---

I've been really lucky throughout my years as an avid bar drinker, club goer, and concert attendee. No one has ever slipped drugs into my drink or taken advantage of me while trashed. When I look back at all the opportunities that were there, I consider myself very lucky.

I also consider myself lucky that I'm no longer heavy into the bar/club rotation. With drugs like scopolamine becoming more common, it's a temptation not to ever eat or drink anything outside of my home ever again.

Colorless, odorless and tasteless, scopolamine is slipped into drinks and sprinkled onto food. Victims become so docile that they have been known to help thieves rob their homes and empty their bank accounts. Women have been drugged repeatedly over days and gang-raped or rented out as prostitutes.

This is basically one of my worst nightmares. You wake up and remember nothing [which, on one hand, might be good that you don't remember], but you've been missing for days. I hate the idea of being able to be manipulated like that.

---

I played with Barbies up until the time I was 12 years old. I think it might be time to start up a new Barbie collection.

I'm definitely putting the Kozik and Gothic Barbies on my Christmas list.

[Link found via Venomous Kate]

---

The Rollins Band destroyed the TLA last night. Just fucking destroyed it. It was the best Rollins Band show I have ever ever seen. Amazing! And I wasn't even in front of the stage. By the time we got there the front spots were taken, so I nabbed a spot on the balcony railing. And I got carded! How old am I when I get excited about being carded?

And Keith fucking Morris. Keith Morris! Watching him sing I Was So Wasted was like being practically preteen. He was, well, Keith Morris [a side note here: Morris is the founding vocalist of Black Flag and Circle Jerks]! Really, I keep using this word, but he was amazing. Amazing!

Keith did about a dozen songs with the band and the Henry came out did the last half of the show, which also rocked. How often do you hear Henry singing fucking TV Party? You couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face.

Every single time I've seen Henry live, his opening band always sucks. I mean, just full on sucks. I'm happy to report that Helen Back and the STR8 Razors were the opening band last night, and it was a riot. They're local and Helen is a tranny. I have got to find out what kind of stockings Helen wears -- he was writhing around on the ground and crawling around on his knees, knees bleeding, and not one run in the stockings! What? And I have to tell you that the man is killer in heels.

It was a weird, weird crowd. Very multi-gen. Aside from the normal pubescent boy crowd, the age group ran from about 8 years old to 60 years old. The balcony and bar areas were strictly aging former punk-land. We saw a lot of father/son combos. Surprisingly it was a very small pit. When Keith opened the place exploded but within five minutes there were only about ten guys in a pit, of course it was populated by idiots intent on killing each other.

There is this weird little skippy punky ska dance, it's sort of pre-pit. A precursor to the actual moshpit action. I swear to you, when done correctly [ie, not trying to kill anyone] it is a joy to behold. There's something about a guy who can pull it off that just gets me. Because I was in the balcony I could see the entire crowd -- there was a single guy doing the little dance. I was totally mesmerized.

And this is just a weird observation -- why do the fat guys insist on crowd surfing? No one really crowd surfs anymore, but three guys just had to try it last night and all three of them were huge guys.

I'm so tired today. Yeah, great, amazing show.

---

Headline: Poll Suggests World Hostile To U.S.

Really? You don't say? I just can't imagine why anyone would consider the U.S. a greater threat to world peace than al Qaeda, Syria, and Iran. It's not like we're invading countries based on faulty intelligence or anything. Two thirds of those polled don't have a good opinion of George? I'm shocked! Shocked, I say!

I wish I got BBC Two on my cable -- I'd be interested in seeing their special on this poll.

---

Like the knitting geek that I am, I ran out at lunch today to visit the knitting shop over at 21st & Locust. I had to cross Rittenhouse Square on my way.

Rittenhouse Square is always packed on a day like today -- it's filled with mom's and their kids, bike messengers and suits on their lunch hour, the geriatric crowd out for a walk, and every other type of person you can think of. There's always at least one person making a spectacle of him- or her-self.

Today is a was a college-aged girl in a bikini.

I have nothing against people laying out and catching some sun. When you live in the city sometimes you have no choice but to cop a squat in a public place. And if you want to lay out in a very small bathing suit, OK. I'm not going to hate on you for it.

However, let's please show some class.

Bikini girl was sprawled out on a patch of grass striking a pose -- what I'm sure in her mind was an alluring pose. In reality, it looked like she was contorting herself in an effort to catch the attention of a sex-starved lunatic. As alluded to, the bikini was brief and girlie girl was writhing around in the grass all spread eagle.

Maybe she's got the hots for one of the cute little bike messengers. Maybe she thinks one of the corporate suits will fall deeply in lust with her and offer to be her sugar daddy. Who knows what goes through the mind of someone vogue-ing on the grassy knoll.

It was like free quasi-porn during my lunch hour.

---

Did I mention that I'll be in Manhattan next Monday? It would be great if I could convince a few of you to guestpost that day [email me if you're interested].

Also, I need shopping recommendations. I normally stick to SoHo and the Village. Specifically I'm looking for good street markets that sell jewelry and funky little clothing shops. I could do my normal "wander the streets" routine, but it would be nice to have some suggestions!

---

According to the Past Life Analysis generator, I was a man in my past life. This makes sense on a couple of different levels.

What else? Well, supposedly I was born in 1875 near Bulgaria, and I was a teacher, mathematician, or a geologist. OK...

Because I believe in reincarnation, I've always been interested in going through a past life regression. It's not that I'd believe whatever came out of the session 100%. I don't completely believe much about death and what happens when we die. How can I? It's not like I have first hand knowledge of the whole process.

But I am curious.

---

Christy and I were supposed to see Batboy last night, but couldn't get tickets. I should know better than to rely on Christy to purchase anything in advance. I had to tell her to show up at my house an hour early on the day of my wedding just to ensure that she'd be there on time.

Now I have to wait until September and drive to Allentown to see it. Does anyone want to meet up with me to see it? It'll be fun, and then we can all post on the journal of the show's writer and tell him how much we loved it! Woo!

Look ma, I'm a groupie!

---

I know I say this every time a new member of the administration resigns, but this has got to be a record...

Today, the Defense Department spokesperson says goodbye to Rumsfeld.

I wonder who it will be tomorrow.

---

Awwwwwwwwwww yeah! It's Henry Rollins day here at go fish! Imagine me now: I'm doing a little dance around my cubicle doing the cabbage patch, singing "I'm seeing Henry Rol--lins! I'm seeing Henry Rol--lins!" at the top of my lungs.

Tonight at 7pm I'll be at the show, firmly laced into my purple Docs. And I'll be way excited. I'm excited now!

Tonight is the Black Flag tribute show to benefit the West Memphis Three defense fund.

While I am uber excited for tonight, nothing makes me feel older than going to a show. Sure, there will be the occasional fan from way back, but mostly it's a bunch of 15 year old boys who don't understand that the concept of a moshpit isn't to maim your fellow concert-goers.

If I see a show at the Trocadero, at least I can escape the hormonal masses by watching the show from the balcony. At the TLA [where the show is this evening] there's no escape. I generally try to avoid the middle of the floor. The best spot is directly in front of the stage. Because I'm so short I can't really see much if I'm any further back. And you know these young whippersnappers: no respect for the elderly.

---

Just some housekeeping stuff:

• I retooled skin #6 [the olive green skin, formerly the hot pink skin] and made it default for today. If you hate it, please pick a new skin.

OK, only one housekeeping item. Go about your business. Nothing to see here.

---

It's dusk here in Fishtown -- see, sometimes Fishtown is more than just mullets and murderers. What's the expression? Red sky at night, sailor's delight?

But with dusk today came something special. Run over to Homewreckers and read about all about how I unleashed thousands of ladybugs on my unsuspecting neighborhood just a few minutes ago.

I'm devious, I tell ya. Devious.

---

So I'm laying on the beach, stomach down, just sort of watching the waves, when I feel something wet land on my back. At first I think maybe someone is throwing sand and I go over another couple of possibilities in my head.

"Is there something on my back?" I ask Craig. He flips over and starts laughing hysterically.

I was the target of an incontinent seagull. A splotch of bird shit the size of a small dinner plate landed squarely in the center of my back, as if the seagull had very carefully timed his release and then laughed maniacally as it hit the bullseye.

And then Craig details about just how disgusting the patch of bird poop residing on my back is, before he wipes it off. Like I'm not feeling gross enough before he tells me it looks stringy. Thanks!

So here are some observations from today:

• I have always heard being shit on my a bird is supposed to be good luck. It's an outright lie -- I didn't do any better in the casino then I normally do. Maybe the thing about luck is just people trying to make themselves feel better about being shat upon.
• Gambling in Atlantic City is, by and large, a geriatric sport. I could count the number of gamblers under the age of 60 on one hand.
• No man looks good in a Speedo. Not Brad Pitt, not Antonio Banderas, and certainly not the guy with the backhair who was sunning himself next to us.
• I don't understand the concept of smoking on the beach. It's hot, you're sweating, and your bathing suit is probably flammable -- and you're smoking. And you're leaving your butts on the beach. The beach is not an ashtray, you inconsiderate motherfucker.

Oh, and I didn't get burnt to a crisp except in the spots where I wasn't liberal with the sunblock. Oddly, that spot is a patch on my right forearm.

---

Wind in my hair, sand in between my toes -- I'm going [as a tribute to Statia] down the shore! Woooooooooo!

While going to the beach is always one of my all time favorite things to do on a Summer day, there's some terror involved. It's not knowing what is swimming around me in the ocean, and it's not even that there's a good chance I could be swimming in toxic waste or about to step on a hypodermic needle at the Jersey shore. It's appearing in public in a bathing suit.

When I was younger and my weight wasn't an issue, I'd put on the tiniest bikini I could find and strut around the beach and not think a thing of it. Now that I'm older and there's actual cellulite involved it's more frightening. And annoying.

I'll be sitting there on my towel fully clothed when I arrive. I have to someone figure out how to get undressed without calling attention to myself. One wrong move and a boob is waving to my beach neighbor, or a butt cheek might pop out to say hello. Or worse yet, the dreaded pubic hair peep [I'm a trimmer, not a shaver].

And then there's the issue of strolling along the beach. If the beach is filled with old fat chicks it's really not an issue. If the beach is full of young hot chicks with nary an ounce of fat on them, well, I get a little self-conscious. Sarongs are involved.

I could back it up even further and talk about the planned torture of trying on bathing suits to begin with, but that's too much for me to deal with this early in the morning.

Beyond all that, I love going to the beach. I love the smell, the warm wind, the sand. So I'll be back later with a raging sunburn [despite my 80000 SPF sunscreen]. Look toward Philadelphia -- see the weird red glow? Yeah, that'll be me.

---

Admittedly, I need to have something to keep me amused at all times. It sort of explains why I have about 12 billion hobbies -- the cooking, knitting, bookbinding, etc. For about an hour today I just played with all the digital photos I've taken recently. Since I'm planning on having some sort of official mix CD of go fishgiveaway sooner or later anyway , I decided to make my own album cover...you know, because I'm just that cheesy.

What do you think, am I the best rock star ever?

It needs something -- perhaps some spinach in my teeth, or a booger. Definitely a better album title...as is, it's my Ed Grimley/Peter Frampton tribute.

Do you, you feel like I do?

---

My half sister graduated from high school this afternoon [that's me at my high school graduation, not her]. There's a party for her tomorrow. An invitation to the party arrived in my mail a few days ago, and I emailed a response, declining the invitation. As much as I would like to see Crystal, I have no desire to be in the same room with her mother or my father. It's a recipe for disaster and being uncomfortable. I'm sure if Crystal could escape the torturous situation she would.

I had every intention of attending the party when I first received the invitation. I wasn't exactly excited by the idea, but I felt somehow guilty every time I thought about not attending. Crystal's graduation party should be about her, not the drama that her parents bring to the table.

And then I thought back to my own high school graduation.

My graduating class was small, about 120 people. It was indoors because it was raining, and I only had a limited amount of tickets. I had five. I gave two to my mother, one to my boyfriend, and two to my father. I was happy to be graduating because graduating meant I could get the hell out of my hometown and out of my house. I was excited about it.

The night of my graduation my father showed up to the ceremony wearing a pair of ripped, dirty jeans, a holey tshirt, and a leather biker vest. Oh, and he smelled. I don't think he had taken a shower in a week. Everyone else's parents were dressed up and looked nice. My dad looked like an escapted convict, which [knowing his track record] would not have surprised me in the least to hear he was on the run for the law [again].

It was embarrassing, and it totally ruined my night. I really just wanted to skip the ceremony, go home, and hide under my bed. I was so nervous that my dad would do something further to humiliate me [like rushing the stage or farting loudly during the commencement speech] that I almost fell down the stairs after accepting my diploma.

Luckily he didn't bother to attend my graduation party. That made me feel better. I remember that all I wanted to do was huddle around my friends at the party. I suspect Crystal will do the same at hers. Granted, in comparison to the rest of her family that will be present I seem like the fucking Queen, but still -- she's going to want to spend time with her friends.

And so I decided not to go. Part of it is selfish [I don't want to see my father] and part of it is reality [she's going to say hello to me and then go hang with her friends]. So I sent a check, and I emailed her.

She'll visit toward the end of the summer and we'll have our own party. Without my father.

---

Hunting and gun ownership are two very big things in the town where I grew up. I think that's true in any small town -- there's nothing very interesting to do, so you pick up the hobby of your dad: hunting. I've never been even the slightest bit interested in hunting, but I have taken a hunter's saftey course. There was nothing else to do.

I have some cousins who are 14 years old who are very into guns and hunting. They can't drive yet, but it's perfectly legal for them to handle loaded weapons. Yes, yes, I know -- guns don't kill people, people kill people. True as that might be, when a 14 year old kid kills himself after a plot to shoot up the school fails, you can argue who or what is at fault all you like. The simple fact of the matter is that the kid's father owns a small arsenal of weapons and wasn't careful enough to make sure the kid didn't have access.

Is it fair to punish the father when he's already lost his son due to his own negligence? I don't know. It's a sad situation. But the fact that the kid was allowed to handle weapons at all troubles me -- seven years ago the kid was under psychiatric care for "psychotic and uncontrollable" behavior. Kids who have psychiatric problems with rage should never be allowed to have access to weaponry. That just seems like common sense.

Making it illegal to handle or own guns until you're a certain age won't make a huge difference. It'll only make them more attractive to kids, and most of the time the kids are using their parents' firearms anyway. But there is something that can be done that the government is resisting because the gun manufactureres who give the government huge campaign contributions don't want it to happen: mandatory safety locks.

There's this argument that if someone breaks into your house, you need to have immediate access to your weapon. Having to unlock a safety lock and then load your weapon takes too much time. By the time everything is ready to go, it'll be too late. Quite honestly, I'd like to the see the statistics about break ins where the owner has a gun and uses it. I would guesstimate that it's a very small percentage.

If safety locks will keep kids from being able to use firearms, then I am all for it.

---

It looks like the weather finally broke, and we've been getting a bit more sun than we've gotten used to. All I've been asking for is a little bit of sun for my poor, beleaguered, water-logged garden.

Good things happen when I get both rain and sun:

And tomorrow I think we might go to the beach for the day. As much sunscreen as I slather on, with me having practically see-through skin I'm sure to be a big red crispy critter tomorrow night. The poor people on the beach will be blinded by all my uber stark white reflective skin!

---

Coincidentally enough, yesterday I was blathering on about how most politicians are wealthy and can't relate to the poor or even your typical American. Today CNN reports that 4 out of 10 Senators are millionaires.

That leaves 6 out of 10, and that's not bad, right? Well, if only. The financial records Senators are required to submit are not accurate or complete.

And the statements also do not include the value of federal salaries, pensions or primary residences, meaning the financial picture is incomplete. Bank accounts worth less than $5,000 are also excluded.

I'm thinking the number is a bit higher than 4 out of 10, if you include all that other stuff.

What I find particularly hysterical about the article is this line: "Not all senators are millionaires. At least 10 senators reported net worths of less than $100,000." Less than $100K! Well, better call the poorhouse!

But the conclusion is something we already know:

"It shows that people of means are the ones who often jump into politics and are often the ones successful at it," Weiss said. He said that's because it also takes considerable funds to launch a Senate bid, and many candidates have to give up their jobs to run an aggressive campaign. People who come from wealthy backgrounds can afford to do so, he said.

Senators and House members are paid an annual salary of $154,700. Members of the House and Senate leadership are paid $171,900 annually.

Well, duh. That's why you have politicians in office who say they stand for the working American but wouldn't know what that means if I handed them my paycheck. Between your opponent digging into your past to come up with every even remotely underhanded thing you ever did and the obscene amount of money it takes to run a campaign and win, no wonder Senators, etc. don't represent you or me.

---

I really like the word schtup...as in, I just schtupped my husband.

I giggle every time I say it or see it written. It's hysterically funny.

---

So I'm sitting couchside earlier tonight and I happen to look out my window and I see a wall of blue. I don't know who was moving or what they were moving, but that's just funny.

While I really am not overly fond of travel by car [I get carsick sometimes], one of my favorite things to do on a long trip is search for silly advertising on big trucks. You know, Cain is Able and crap like that.

It's a shame I didn't get the name of the moving company before the truck pulled away -- I'd like to know what the other 22 moving tips are. Some of their little white man illustrations are probably hilarious. I personally would like to see a little white man trapped underneath a giant sofa.

---

I may not particularly like children, but I recognize the absolute fucking necessity for all kids to get a really excellent education. Head Start has, for the past 38 years, given poor and underserved kids who might not have access to learning opportunities that the rest of us have a real chance to start school ready to learn.

Because so few politicians started poor or even have a clue what it's like to live as a normal and average American, most of them have never had exposure to Head Start, beyond perhaps in the charitable giving sense. They didn't have to send their kids to a Head Start program, and none of their friends have taken advantage of the program. Perhaps the family maid is familiar with the program, but that's about it. George, being that he's never had to worry about money, has always had access to any educational opportunity he ever wanted, so he obviously doesn't have a clue.

And so when he was trying to change Head Start, a plan which many said would bankrupt the program within five years [don't worry, those protesting were straightened out by the administration], I wasn't surprised. He obviously doesn't care about the poor in this country [cutting the minimum wage earners out of his tax cut refund makes it pretty clear, among other things], so why should he care if their children have the skills to be successful in school? And this bill approved by the House today doesn't surprise me, either. Some things are good -- increased academic standards, increased teacher expectations. Unfortunately the government isn't giving Head Start any money in order to help institute the changes, and our government is now sanctioning religious intolerance masquerading as a Head Start program.

And you know what? I'm still not surprised -- in early May the Senate voted on the Workforce Investment Act, which would have allowed federally funded job and literacy programs to hire and fire based on religion. To my knowledge that part of the Act was removed. But because of that attempt at repealing civil rights laws, I wasn't surprised when the new Head Start bill would allow religious groups to run Head Start programs and give them the right to only employ people who subscribe to their religious beliefs.

I'm sickened by it, but I'm not surprised.

See, this is what private schools are for. If you want to attend a school run by Mormons, you pay to go to a private Mormon school. If you want your kids to attend a school run by born again Christians, you pay to send your kids there. Head Start is not about religion -- it's about learning and giving kids a chance to succeed in life.

It's not just about being able to hire someone based solely on their religion. If there's one Head Start in a town and it's run by Catholics, they could require Head Start attendees to pray before snacks or attend Mass, even if they're Jewish or Muslim. I know plenty of kids who aren't Catholic who pay extra to go to Catholic schools in the city because there's less of a chance of being stabbed. The school requires them to attend Mass and raise money for the church.

The current administration obviously wants a homogenized society. They oppose gay marriage and refuse to acknowledge Gay Pride Week. They deport thousands of people of Middle Eastern descent. They repeal civil rights legislation so I can be turned down for employment because I don't believe in a specific god. Anyone who is different is bad and suspect.

It makes me sick.

---

I don't have a lot of sympathy for criminals. In my mind, a criminal isn't a woman who kills her husband because he's been beating her and the kids for years...or someone who liberates a loaf of bread from the store because he's out of work and his family has to eat...or someone who is in prison for doing drugs. I'm talking about people who intentionally try to rob, rape, and/or kill for no other reason than they want to. There's nothing redeemable about them.

I find it extremely distasteful when criminals are allowed to sue their victims. If Joe Blow the Robber comes into my house uninvited and unannounced and attempts to steal my stuff or do me bodily harm, I think I should have the right to do whatever I want to him. If I want to eviscerate him right there on the livingroom carpet, it should be well within my legal rights.

To my knowledge, a homeowner is allowed to injure a criminal who invades his or her home only in self defense. That means you can't shoot someone who has broken into your house, raped your wife, and is currently in the act of fleeing the scene. It might be a different law in different states and countries.

I'll tell you what...I don't keep a gun in the house, but I have a nice cook's knife set and they always stay razor sharp. If I came home to discover someone had broken into my house and killed my husband, and the person was in the process of leaving the scene, I'd probably go to jail. I don't think I'd be able to control myself.

I don't know what the burglars did or took when two of them broke into a home in England, but the homeowner shot and killed one of them and wounded the other.

Fearon [sic: the wounded burglar, who - by the way - has 30 prior burglary convictions], 33, hopes to sue Martin for a reported £15,000 following his wounding during a break-in at the farmer's home in Emneth Hungate, Norfolk, in August 1999.

An earlier hearing was told Fearon claimed his injuries, which included a leg wound, had affected his ability to enjoy sex and martial arts and that he had suffered post traumatic stress.

That makes me absolutely sick. Here's a career burglar who is pissed because can't enjoy sex anymore?

I like the expression "If you can't do the time, don't commit the crime." Because really, if you are unable to accept that you might be injured while doing something illegal, then don't fucking do it. Being able to sue a victim is teaching people they aren't responsible for their actions and that they will face no consequences for their actions.

Argh.

---

In some small and strange way, groups like Westboro Baptist Church do some good in the world. I don't believe in their mission and I think every single one of them are wankers of the highest order, but idiots like them unify normal people by giving us all something to ridicule.

Some of you might remember reading that they planned to protest a high school graduation ceremony because a gay student was being given a scholarship in the name of Matthew Shepard. You might also remember that gay activists planned to use the protest as a fundraising opportunity [money would be pledged per minute of the protest].

Well, I'm happy to report that the Biotic Baking Brigade also showed up. I might not agree with all their politics, but the pie-ing of Fred Phelps' little crew of misled Bible-thumpers is something I can really get behind. Personally I think Phelps and all of his missionary position minions flock should be tied to the back of a pick up truck and dragged over a cactus field, but the pies will do for now.

What I find especially hilarious is the outcome of the protest:

Lincoln High students helping with the Saturday's commencement ceremony said the controversy surrounding senior class president Carter has made the school stronger.

"I think it's made more people have Lincoln pride, and it's unified our school," said Jessica Reese, a junior at Lincoln.

Shannon Wenck, also a junior at Lincoln, agreed. She said the students have come together to back Carter.

"Even people who are homophobic support Julius," she said.

Students and teachers all wore rainbow ribbons to Saturday's ceremony in show of their support for Carter. Phelps' group went to Drake University to stage another protest.

Probably not the intended affect, eh? Like I said, fucktard like Phelps give us all something in common -- we make fun of the crazies.

I have to wonder what happened to Phelps and his sheep to fill them with so much hate. To my knowledge, religion isn't supposed to be about hate and judging others.

[Newslink found via Ideal Rhombus.]

---

I forgot that today is Friday the 13th -- a perfectly good skinning opportunity, wasted. Dammit!

I've never been one for superstition. Stepping on cracks, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, etc., has never filled me with terror. But I have a nagging fear of looking into mirrors in a dark room.

Yes, it's totally silly. I don't even know what I think is going to happen -- Bloody Mary will appear and try to pull me into the mirror...I'll see gruesome dead people behind me...maybe bad luck for the rest of my life...I don't know. I just studiously avoid looking into mirrors when it's dark in the room. I guess I'm better safe than sorry.

What kills me is that I've seen a ghost in my bedroom while looking into the mirror during the daytime. Why should I be freaked out by the thought of seeing something in the dark? I think maybe I've just seen one too many scary movies and read a few too many scary books.

---

I desparately want a President that commands respect -- not just by the sheer depth of his or her intelligence and the grace by which he or she carries themselves, but also by their actions and ability to legislate in such a way that all the people in the U.S. are made to feel a part of something larger.

George W. Bush is not that President.

I won't even go into the lengths to which he and this administration have gone to make me feel unwanted and unnecessary as a citizen. I won't recount his lack of mastery of the language. I just want to talk about how, as President, you should never look like a clumsy schmuck in public. People can't really respect a guy who can't even successfully eat a pretzel or who falls off a glorified shopping cart. It makes him seem too much like your mentally challenged third cousin with the drinking problem and no job...the one who lives in a run down trailer and has a Camaro perpetually up on blocks in his overgrown lawn plot. I don't want someone like that as my President -- I want to be dazzled by his brilliance, not by his idiocy.

See, this is why I don't run for President -- I want someone smarter than me in the White House.

---

There are certain moments when I remember exactly why I fell in love with Craig in the first place. I had one of those moments tonight.

Craig made dinner again for me tonight. I mentioned the other day that I was sort of craving chicken stuffed with goat cheese and spinach. So he stopped at the grocery store before he came home tonight and bought all the stuff he'd need to make it. I was scared, because that's a bit more complicated than his normal kitchen attempts.

Imagine my surprise when he plunked down this plate in front of me. The chicken was delicious, and he carved the butter pat into a heart shape. Isn't that cute?

And now I'm all verklempt about it. That husband of mine...I think I'll keep him.

---

First David Brinkley and now Gregory Peck. It's not been a good 24 hours for the older celebrity set [not that David Brinkley was really a celebrity].

I'm really sad about Gregory Peck. To Kill a Mockingbird is one of my favorite old movies of all time. When I was in high school we used to watch that movie every year in English class. Every year. Oh, and Roman Holiday, too.

Brooke and I were just talking about him. When she thinks of him, she thinks of The Omen.

He has his father's eyes....

---

I had retail therapy for my lunch hour today. The running bet around here is that since there really hasn't been much of a Spring, it would just go *BAM* right into Summer with a vengeance. And it has -- it's about 90 degrees outside with 10 billion % humidity.

My hair looks like total ass.

But I did manage to snag a falafel from 17th Street Falafel [vendor cart at the corner of 17th and Market]. Ummmm...falafel, sauerkraut, hot sauce. I could really eat another one.

---

If you, say, went to the taping of a talk show and were injured by flying objects on the aforementioned talk show, wouldn't you sue immediately if you're inclined to do that kind of thing? I'm assuming you wouldn't wait, oh, let's say, two years...because you kind of know if you're going to be jacked up for extended period of time from your injuries within a week or two, right?

Apparently a 71 year old woman went to a taping of the Rosie O'Donnell show in 1991, got pelted with a hard rubber ball in the mouth and is now suing Warner Bros. Television, AOL Time Warner, and Turner Broadcasting System [but not Rosie O'Donnell]. And here's the really skeevy part that definitely falls under the heading of "too much information":

"Furthermore, the pain and soreness around plaintiff's mouth adversely affected plaintiff's relationship with her boyfriend," court papers say.

Uh, I realize that old people have sex and are sexual, but I don't want to know about it. I'm ready to go give myself a lobotomy to get the image out of my mind.

---

I suggest you take yourself over to Pixelsphinx and wish Kathy a very happy birthday.

Happy Birthday, ya big poopie head!

---

Another Thursday morning meeting during which I had nothing to say and couldn't stay awake, another two hours of my life I'll never get back.

I'm getting really good at feigning interest while snoozing.

---

Look, I know the economy is in the toilet. State budgets are being cut. And I know that things like day care, health insurance, welfare programs, etc. are more important than programs for the arts in the grand scheme of things. But some state are cutting their arts funding altogether, and others are drasticly cutting funding.

A lot of people don't understand the need for federally-funded arts programs. I can't imagine life without them. Without art and culture, we are lost. Kids grow up without learning how to think creatively. Math and reading are very important. You can't survive without those basic skills. If you've never been to an art museum or you don't know the difference between the Baroque period and modern art, well, it's not like you'll be penniless and destitute. Except in your soul.

I shudder to think what living in Philadelphia would be like without state-supported arts programs. There would be no public sculpture. All those murals I love in the city wouldn't exist. A good portion of performing arts groups would disappear -- maybe I wouldn't be able to see the orchestra or the ballet. All the things I love about the city would be gone.

Well, so what? Wouldn't I rather have a government that's able to function? Well, sure. And maybe that's why I'm so offended over certain kinds of pork barrel spending, and some of the ridiculous things George spends money on -- like promoting marriage. $2.2 million for that, and the government can't cough up money for arts programs, which will be of more value?

I get really nervous when I think of kids not having the opportunity to be exposed to the arts. Without the arts, there is no imagination. Without imagination, we might as well pack it up.

---

After reading a comment that someone left me today, I reread all of my entries and realized that I've really been in a bad mood today. It was Pick On the Deeply Religious day, and complain about everything else I could think of day. I just didn't realize I was being so negative.

That's just no good for my karma.

So....things that were good today. The weathermen were wrong: it didn't rain. Because it didn't rain, Craig made dinner for me again: grilled salmon, and it was delicious. I arrived home to another gift from my loving husband: Buffy, Season 4 on DVD -- I watched Hush. Twice. My husband looks hot today...he looks hot everyday. And he's just a wonderful guy.

Oh, and I found a photo today that really made me laugh...

It was the first fitting of my wedding dress. It's a good thing I had an excellent seamstress!

---

I tend to be inclusionary in my theory of How Things Should Be. I should be able to love whomever I want to love and marry whomever I want to marry, as long as it's consensual and not illegal. And I'm not talking about the Moral Majority's idea of illegal -- by illegal, I mean underage or someone who is related to me. I should be able to do anything I please, as long as it's not hurting anyone else. If I'm sick and I want to end my suffering, I should be able to do it. If I want to have a lost weekend sequestered in my house smoking crack, it should be OK.

Legislating all this crap has always puzzled me. What the fuck do I care if same sex couples want to marry. Who fucking died and left the fundamentalists in charge of things? Oh, god personally told you homosexuals are evil and are single-handedly destroying "family values"? Go back into your little backwoods cave and shack up with your cousin.

I've said it often enough: finding someone to love, someone who will love you back, is hard enough without putting rules on it. Never, ever will I understand why gay marriage is illegal in the U.S. I'm convinced it's because those idiotic fuckers over at American Family Values and places like them are unhappy and don't want anyone else to be happy. I'm heterosexual and I'm married -- if same sex marriages were somehow going to degrade my rights as a married person, I'd speak up. Love is love is love. Who you love doesn't make a bit of difference -- it's all in how you treat people. Karma comes around. If I believed in heaven or hell, I'd say that the asshats who oppose gay marriage and being gay will have quite a sunburn post-death.

Vince posted a great entry about the rights of gays to marry, and the concept of being a second rate citizen. Go read it.

Part of my theory of How Things Should Be involve rounding up idiots who abuse their religious beliefs and forcing them to, I don't know, do something horrible for the rest of their pathetic lives.

---

There is this culture of passive laziness here at Panhandler's Central. From what I understand, this culture is pervasive at many nonprofits. People are always at least five minutes late for meetings, and meetings meander at a leisurely pace, agendas are not kept to. You know, that sort of thing.

This has always pissed me off.

When it comes to work, I may not do much around here, but if I call a meeting [or if I attend a meeting] I want it to start on time, and I want it to be run properly. If you stroll in ten minutes late I will beat you down with my portfolio. I have a tendency to be a real stickler for my schedule. If I have to be somewhere I'm there five minutes early and I'm prepared.

Today I am extra bitter. I called a meeting to wrap up my Board training program and only one person showed up at all. Perhaps I don't hold enough power to frighten people into attending my meetings. Perhaps my usually cheerful demeanor annoys people to the point of gag reflex. Perhaps my attention to schedule frightens the flakes.

Whatever the case, now I'm all bitter about it. I'm pissed that I wasted my time preparing for a meeting that 3 out of 4 people blew off. Not even my brand spankin' newly painted and manicured fingernails can cheer me up.

Argh.

---

I'm fascinated by archeology. When the oldest known fossils of modern man are found and dated at 160,000 years old, I pay attention. It's not that I ever wanted to be an archeologist, I just think it's neat.

Plus, it has the added benefit of really pissing off Deeply Religious twats who believe what the Bible tells them in a very literal way.

You know there's just some fucking hick named Cleetus in Georgia lining up his 18 kids, saying, "This here is a lie! The Bible tells us god created the world exactly 2,003 years ago. This carbon dating stuff is the devil's work, I tell ya! None 'o youts are allowed to go to school. That fancy learnin' will just confuse ya! Tallulah Mae, fetch me my slippers, and the rest 'o youts go play near the well!"

Well, that's assuming that Cleetus reads the newspaper. I would fully expect people like that to get all their news from the worship tent newsletter.

---

Yeah, so it's official: the winery my mother dragged me to is wretched. I tried the hard cider last week. It tasted like apple juice and Perrier -- I poured both bottles down the sink. Last night Craig made dinner for us [because he's the grill master], so I opened the bottle of Leon Millot I bought there.

It's never a good sign when the hair in your nose burns while drinking red wine.

It tastes like the "dry full-bodied red, aged in French Oak" was also aged with a dirty dishtowel and some battery acid. It's so bad I don't even know if I can use it as cooking wine.

To make me feel better, Craig handed over a little giftie he bought for me -- a hose that hooks up to the kitchen faucet. You may think that it's a gift right up there with a vacuum cleaner, but let me assure you that I planted big wet kisses on him for it. I've been wanting one for years. Now I can water all the plants on my patio without lugging the massive watering can in and out.

Of course, with all the rain we've been getting lately [it's going to rain again today and for the rest of my life, it seems], I will never have to water my plants again.

---

I keep forgetting to purchase and send a Father's Day card for my dad. I go through this every year. I have nothing new to add.

My half-sister is graduating from high school this week, and I'm attending a graduation party for her this weekend. I'm unsure of whether my dad will be there. I hope not, but he probably will be.

There will be the enthusiastic hug while I awkwardly thump him on the back and fake a smile. There will be the invitation to a barbecue at his house, which I will make noncommittal noises in response to. There will be the ridiculous assertions that Crystal and I are "his girls" and he's a great dad.

And then I will make my escape and long for the day I no longer have to deal with him.

---

Sometimes, well...sometimes I have no words to describe my incredulity over the outright brass cajones of the current U.S. administration. Imagine how floored I was when I read this:

Israel has defended its policy of pre-emptive strikes after US President George W. Bush rebuked the country over two deadly missile attacks.

George is pissed at a country over pre-emptive strikes? Uh, pot, kettle, black.

---

There's a homeless guy who sells newspapers in the middle of the 16th Street, around Cherry Street in the morning. Craig drove me into work today, and I noticed the headline for today's Daily News: Fragile Times in Fishtown.

Fuck. What now.

Surprisingly, it's an article that really gives you a feeling of what my neighborhood is like. You know, there are problems but it's a neighborhood on the edge of being upwardly mobile. And the reporter really got it right: Fishtown natives hate change with a burning passion. I've lived there now for just over three years. None of the neighbors actually spoke to me for the first two years. I just met my next door neighbor last week during the power outage.

It will be interesting to see how things play out when more and more new people are moving into the neighborhood. I mean, you've read my stories about the typical Saturday night in Fishtown. That kind of thing will have to stop before Fishtown really becomes the new cool neighborhood. People want their neighborhood to be a bastion of tranquility while still having cool bars.

There's still a lot of work to be done in this neighborhood before it's inhabitable by outsiders.

---

I would like to know why the shit and piss of Indian cows is organically superior to American cows. Whatever the reason, I can't help but think feeding American cows so that their, uh, waste products increase to champion levels might be less expensive than importing cow patties and urine from India.

And what's kind of disgusting is that all that crap and pee is going to be converted to biopesticide. It's going to be sprayed on the tomatoes that we eat. Well, the tomatoes that you eat -- I grow my own.

Suddenly I'm feeling pretty good about my garden. Ew.

---

As promised, there's been some turnover on the playlist [on the sidebar, down at the bottom]. I'm feeling nostalgic and cheesy, so there you have it.

---

I forgot to mention that I finished a sweater I've been working on. I believe the pattern is out of the latest Interweave.

So yeah, I wore the sweater to work today and felt all proud of myself. It was a fairly easy pattern, not too much shaping and no fitting armhole pieces together so it didn't turn out looking like ass.

And don't you like my Vanna White pose? I should definitely be on television somewhere, turning letters professionally. Or at least lounging on crappy furniture.

Anyway, for anyone who is interested in this kind of thing -- I used a http://thegofish.com/archives/double strand of brown yarn in fingering weight, a silk linen blend. It took about a week and a half to finish.

The new issue of Knitty was released sometime in the last day or two. I've been considering knitting myself a fuzzy skirt and after seeing this pattern, I'm ordering yarn tonight for it and going to town. I'm so easily amused.

---

I think I might rotate the playlist tonight, so if you want to nab any of those songs, I suggest you do it soon. Any special requests?

The Cure songlist has been rattling around in my head for most of the day. And If You Leave by OMD.

Right now there's some Climaxx Blues Band playing on the radio at my desk. Rest assured, there will be none of that.

---

Dear Mom, It was the funniest thing. I was walking down the main street in Pakistan's Punjab Province the other day when the guy next to me just randomly fell down dead. Blood was everywhere, but I hadn't heard any gunshots or seen anyone stab him. It was a mystery. The man's throat had been slit, but there was nothing nearby except a couple kids with kites.

That's when the police came and hauled the kids away. I heard one of the officers say that the kids would be tried for murder. I don't understand.

Love and kisses,
Nicole

Yeah, so apparently the latest thing in Pakistan is to have kite fights where "[k]ite flyers use metallic strings or coat them with glass shards" -- the "objective is to cut their opponent's string." The strings are so sharp they also have killed several people but cutting their throats.

What the fuck? Can't they find a safer hobby? Maybe collecting stamps?

---

So, is anyone really surprised by the report that al Qaeda will probably drop a chemical or biological weapon on U.S. soil within two years?

To this, I say "Well, duh."

Those crazy kids in al Qaeda were pissed at us before September 11th. After we bombed the hell out of Afghanistan and killed some of them, and then invaded Iraq, what did anyone expect to happen? Did anyone really think they'd see our military dropping huge bombs, killing thousands of innocent Iraqis [some of whom were Muslim], and then decide that the infidels were just too powerful and too trigger happy to beat, so they might as well lay down their jihad plans and play nice with the nutty Americans?

I'm sure I can't be the only person in America who sees the likelihood of such an attack, especially in light of George's "preemptive strike" policy. Is this some sort of attempt to divert attention while George does something unconstitutional, as usual?

---

Yesterday someone came to go fish by typing "diagram of how to put the penis in" into Yahoo. I'm not sure how they got here -- I've never written about diagramming the act. Of course, I'm curious about who it was. First of all, diagram of putting the penis into what, exactly? A vagina? A melon? A bowling ball?

And then I thought, well, maybe it was a virgin who was just doing some advance planning. It's kind of sweet. Maybe it was some 15 year old boy who is contemplating the act and searching for info, getting all sweaty at his family computer, erasing the history cache so his mom and dad won't notice what he's looking for.

Well, let the suspense come to an end: I have no touching advice for virgins, nor are there diagrams here of how the whole thing works. I have nothing inspiring or illuminating to say about losing one's virginity. My own experience was sort of anticlimactic.

I was young. I was 13. My mother had decided to take the panic route by telling me boys were all after only one thing, but neglected to tell me what that one thing was. I assumed she was talking about sex, and she made it seem like such a big deal. And I'm naturally curious and at 13 I was all about disobeying my mother. So I decided to get it over with.

My reasoning skills at 13 were simple -- people made a huge deal over losing or keeping their virginity. Every book I was reading at the time was some huge morality diatribe with this big decision involved. And I just figured my life would be infinitely easier if it weren't an issue. Do it, get it over with, and never deal with it again.

I wasn't dating anyone at the time. All the boys my age didn't seem like good candidates for the great "pluck my flower" caper. I really put a lot of thought into it -- I wanted it to be someone older, someone who wasn't a virgin, someone who wouldn't tell everyone in the entire town. In a town the size of my hometown, it doesn't take much for everyone to know your business. I once got fired from a dairy and 20 minutes later my mother knew all about it.

Somehow I made a decision on a boy who was a senior in high school. See now, I know what you're thinking -- what kind of 17 year old boy would want to have sex with a 13 year old girl? Aside from your average neighborhood pedophile, I mean. Well, let's just say that I stopped growing at the age of 11. I didn't look like I was 13. The boy and I were friends -- we had frank talks about things and I knew he'd be open to the suggestion.

It was like a business transaction. I proposed a deal. He agreed. We set upon negotiations.

I won't say much about the actual act. It was....OK. I wasn't thinking much in terms of emotional connection. I've never really equated sex with love. Over the years, this has really been a good quality to have. It's kept me from getting insane a few times. You know, you meet a boy. Eventually you have sex and then the boy bails. I've seen girls turn into stalkery lunatics over stuff like that because, in general, we're taught to equate sex with love.

At any rate, after the big deflowering I was happy with my decision. No one knew except me and the boy. He never discussed it with anyone, at my request. I didn't turn into a raving nympho. It never became an issue in my life. I didn't even have sex again until I was 16. At 31, I still don't regret my decision.

A couple of years ago my cousin Krista came to me for advice on whether or not to have sex. I don't think I really helped her. I didn't tell her my story, because my decision was right for me but probably wouldn't have been right for her. I told her that if she was asking me what to do, she wasn't ready for it.

And then I gave her a handful of condoms.

---

I rarely write about the act of blogging. The topic is boring. How I blog and why I blog will be different from how and why you blog. Why anyone would need to spend $10 to read the Blog Traffic School manifesto is beyond me.

Chris Pirillo shows you, in 10 quick steps, the fastest, easiest way to build traffic to your blog, involve your community, post efficiently, get known for your blog's quirks, how to handle complaints and more. Learn the fastest way to build an audience.

Sure, having an audience to read your [my] thoughts is gratifying. It's nice. But I can tell you the secret to having a good blog without the $10 -- be interesting, be nice to other bloggers, and have an easy to read and attractive layout. There ya go -- on the house.

From my perspective, if you're keeping a blog strictly for the attention and the audience -- well, you have issues. I love the fact that people read what I write -- it helps me be a better writer. However, I'd keep a blog even if no one read it. I think most people would agree to that. Writing is therapeutic.

[Link found via Ain't Too Proud to Blog]

---

Yesterday I put about 12 loads of laundry through the wash. So last night I sat on my bed and folded them. There was nothing on television to watch, so I left NBC on. And then Love or Money came on.

Holy shit.

Did the producers search the world over for the biggest asshole they could find? I realize that the chicks are purely in it for the cash, and so they should have to deal with a little bit of hardship, but wow! And that fake, insincere apology for being a fucktard?

I can see now that I should have turned off the television and, I don't know, counted squares in my screens for entertainment.

---

I've had my fair share of childhood diseases. I had whooping cough. I had chicken pox - twice. Even so, the very idea of contracting monkeypox absolutely gives me the heebie jeebies.

Who keeps prairie dogs as pets, anyway? I'm a firm believer that any animal that is traditionally kept in a zoo should not be a pet.

---

I have been known to shed all attempts at class and dignity. Like the time I introduced my ass to a store full of cops, and when I ran around a bar with a plastic rack and butt. Of course, not all my spirals into cheesy embarrassment involve alcohol. Sometimes I'm moved by the sheer ridiculousness of the moment.

Don't believe me?

---

On Saturday when we stopped over at Craig's parents' house, we took them an 8x10" photo of Sassy. Craig wanted to show them how perfectly our new printer works for photo printing, and I was hoping they'd hang the photo on their wall 'o grandchildren and quit bugging us to have kids.

Yeah, I know: wishful thinking.

First, they ooooo'd and ahhhhh'd over the quality of the printer, then Craig's mother gazed wistfully at her photo wall and then looked meaningfully at my midsection. "One day I'll have a photo of a baby from the two of you," she sighed. "You'll change your mind. My hairdresser's daughter felt the same way and now she has two babies and she loves it."

"I'm sending Craig for a vasectomy next week," I said with a straight face. "If you want grandchildren you better talk him into knocking up some stranger before then." And then I walked into the next room.

There really is no vasectomy, of course. Maybe next time I'll just tell her that I had a freak accident and had to have my ovaries removed, or that aliens abducted me and removed my uterus.

And she's not even my own mother so I can't tell her to go to hell.

Note: I just posted a new entry over at Edible.

---

My email is down for the moment so if you're trying to get in touch, well, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Gah.

Remember my saga with the house of faux punk last summer? The owner basically gutted the house after those jackasses destroyed it, and now he's renting the apartment portion to a nice, quiet older couple. And an ice cream shop opened in the storefront.

Craig is being driven systematically insane by the throngs of people at the ice cream place every night.

You know that Craig is nosy, to put it mildly. The ice cream shop opened last weekend and since that time he has been permenantly perched at the front window, monitoring the kids coming for ice cream. Last night he sat down next to me and earnestly exclaimed, "This is the last summer we live here! The ice cream shop is the last straw!"

I was puzzled. Sure, there were more kids around, but they weren't being loud and they weren't destroying anything. The occasional kid copped a squat on our stoop, but that's easily dealt with. They're usually cool about moving if you ask nicely.

I said as much to Craig, and he just looked at me and said, "Well, I must be getting old then. I can hear them. Right now there's a pack of girls over there screaming at the top of their lungs!"

The front window was open. I didn't hear anything louder than the normal noise of the neighborhood. I looked over to the shop -- there were about six girls outside the shop flirting with the boy who scoops ice cream. Hardly a threat to neighborhood order.

Craig must be aging prematurely.

---

I got out of bed this morning, discovered it was supposed to be sunny today, and decided to call out of work. I just can't face another sunny day at work after a weekend of pouring rain.

So I'm sitting couchside right now watching Valley Girl. I don't care what anyone says -- Valley Girl is one of the best movies ever.

I lurve me some young Nicolas Cage.

---

It doesn't matter what Traci Lords does, or how hard she tries to convince us all that she's a serious actress. Whenever I think of Traci Lords, I think of her with a dick in her mouth, and that's the way it will always be.

If, by some strange twist of fate, Traci won an Academy Award or something, she'd go up to collect her statue and thank the masses and the image would just pop into my head.

You know, you'd swear I watch a lot of porn or something.

---

As if you already didn't think I was a freak, I stopped at Best Buy and purchased some knitting software yesterday. I'm purchased Instant Stitch, which comes with sweater design and organization software, and also a disk for cross stitch design [which I won't use, so if anyone wants it let me know]. I have finally dropped off the deep end.

Before you wonder why anyone would need knitting organizing software, you need to know that I currently have two gargantuan plastic bins full of yarn, and if I don't start using it soon that third bin will be started and then full in no time. I don't even really know what the hell I have.

And that sweater designer software is cool. I plug in my measurements, what kind of yarn I'd like to use, and determine what I want the sweater to look like, and it spits out a pattern with yarn yardage estimates.

And I'm pretty fucking psyched about it, so leave me the hell alone. Do I make fun of you for the geeky stuff you like?

And on a side note: many of you may already know that Dave from Blogdaddy was in a serious motorcycle accident on Friday. I'm thinking good thoughts for him, and you should too.

---

I could jump for joy that all the weirdness going on here for the last twelve hours or so is finally over. It turned out to be, as many suggested, a php upgrade problem. Thank you to my wonderful hosting company for working that out, and also to those crazy girls from Blogmoxie for being at the ready, jumping in and making sure that everything was kosher with the coding. Really, I can't thank Joelle, Kathy, and Sara enough.

Because you know I'm just too challenged to fix it for myself.

I had lunch at Las Cazuelas with Cyn, and I was whining about my journal problems. Cyn is all computer programming goddess-like and was probably ready to push me into on coming traffic. That girl has got serious patience. And very pretty pink hair. Plus, she didn't even care that my nose was running after I consumed my jalapenos rellenos. That's love!

---

If I were a religious woman, I'm pretty sure that I'd be thinking that the apocalypse is coming up pretty quick. And if I were a Jehovah's Witness, I'd have my heavenly house all picked out. Aside from less obvious signs of the apocalypse, there's your standard brimstone and fire, plague of locust, floods type of crap coming down like crazy.

There's all the stupid crap George is doing in the name of his god. There's the fact that it's been raining for just about three months solid now [time to build an arc? I dunno]. There are people being murdered en masse in many countries throughout the world [maybe it just seems like it's happening more often and with great frequency and fervor].

And now....a plague of Mormon Crickets. I always think of myself as lucky I don't live in Idaho, but today I feel luckier than normal.

And yes, there is still something strange afoot here at go fish.

---

There's something screwy going on around here. I'm trying to fix it. It is MT- and skinning-related. If you have any suggestions on what may be wrong, please email me.

---

Words fail me at a time like this. From the art of resistance Bush mosaic:

Be sure to click for the close up.

[Thanks to Vince for posting the link]

---

Most of you already know this, but if you hate the new pink skin, you can change it. Just click here and pick a new skin. As long as your cookies aren't reset you will never have to see the pink skin again!

Now....Craig and I went for a drive today in the pouring rains and Craig asked me what the difference is between a restaurant and a diner. The obvious answer is that, traditionally, a diner is the dining car of a train. But that's not usually the case anymore.

Craig thought maybe a diner had to have a bar where you sit and order food. I've been in diners that don't have that, and in restaurants that do. I suggested maybe it's just a matter of the owner wanting to call it a "restaurant" or a "cafe" or a "diner" or whatever.

Is there an actual textbook definition?

---

I've spent the last hour watching The Breakfast Club on TBS. So you can't say "Eat my shorts" on television, but they can show Molly Ringwald's crotch shot?

What's that about?

---

New product whore that I am, I've been wanting to try one of these home tooth whitening products that have been flooding the market for the last year. It's not like my teeth are brown or anything, but I do drink a ton of coffee, Diet Pepsi, and red wine. My choppers could stand a whitewash.

I finally broke down a few days ago and bought a package of Crest Night Effects. I can't be bothered with whitening stuff during my waking hours and I don't like the idea of leaving a piece of plastic in my mouth while I sleep, so Night Effects seemed like the better option.

And I'm going to recommend the product.

It's not all a perfect thing. You brush your teeth before you go to bed and then you dry off your teeth, and you have keep your lips off your teeth so the teeth don't get wet. Obviously you're only going to be able to get your front teeth, unless you're a mouth contortionist.

Then you get 14 packs of tooth whitening goops and 14 little plastic applicator brushes. You open one pack each night. So you brush the goop onto your teeth and then you have to keep your lips from touching your teeth for a minute or two.

That's kind of hard.

The worst part is what happens then. The goopy whitening stuff sort of hardens into a wax-like substance. It really feels weird against the inside of your lips and it's a little bit disgusting. Oh, and it's really unattractive.

And then you drift off to sleep.

I always rub the waxy goop off my teeth in the morning when I take a shower. Apparently if you don't rub it off somehow before you brush, waxy goopy stuff can clog your toothbrush. Ew.

But anyway, I've been using it for four days and I can already see a difference. So yeah, if you can deal with the goopy waxy ickiness, the product works.

I think I need to go brush my teeth again.

---

Getting hitched in Vegas can be either really funny or really tragic. It's hilarious if you go with that intention. It's not so funny to wake up in a pool of your own vomit with a hot 19 year old Chilean guy sleeping next to you whose got a ring matching yours and absolutely no recollection of the past 12 hours.

I don't say this from experience, of course. Heh.

But you know, Vegas is Vegas. As the commercial says, what happens here, stays here. Quickie marriages, quickie divorces.

Now Louisiana is looking to cash in on the Mardi Gras nekkidness, alcohol-induced wedding proposals by getting rid of the waiting period for out of state marriages. Now you can gather ye beads where ye may, meet the stranger of yer dreams, and get hitched while trashed and then wake up in a pool of your own vomit.

Woohoo!

Quite honestly, I may not take marriage [in and of itself] seriously, but I take my marriage seriously. I think one should not get married unless they mean it. Getting divorced is something people should do in situations where there are irreconcilable differences or abuse in the relationship, not something you do because you didn't bother to get to know your future spouse well enough before getting married. Jennifer Lopez is a moron who throws her shit around like there's an expiration date on her cooter. You know, like if she doesn't find the man of her dreams by age [insert age here], her parts are going to shrivel up and fall out.

And so I think waiting periods for marriage are, in general, a good idea. It gives you a couple of days to think it over, maybe spend a little bit of extra time with the future Mr. or Mrs. Fish, maybe come to your senses.

But no waiting period+excessive amounts of alcohol=bad news and lots of divorce.

Maybe this is part of George's marriage promotion campaign. You know, marriage at any cost.

---

It's just a home improvement afternoon!

First, here's my latest Homewreckers entry.

Second, I just want to say how happy I was that it didn't rain today [yet]. As my Homewreckers entry points out, I planted flowers today after work. I get out of work on Friday in the summer at 3pm, so I rushed right home and got to work.

The rain has really sucked. The dirt in my pots is like a giant landslide, and I'm surprised that there's anything happening out there at all. But my tomatoes are growing. I've got almost a dozen plum tomatoes going, and there are one or two cherry tomatoes popping out.

All I need now is a garden gnome. I do, however, have a garden slug.

---

I'm a little confused. George and co. are trying to foster a "culture of life." The invasion of Iraq was ordered because the government was slaughtering it's own people and we really needed to bring freedom and democracy to Iraq. Right?

OK, so why haven't we sent troops to the Congo, or scheduled a full on invasion there?

The International Rescue Committee, a voluntary relief organization, estimated there were 200,000 deaths since 1998 as a direct result of the war. Almost 2.8 million have died from malnutrition or disease because the war has limited humanitarian aid.

The UN is sending peacekeeping forces in. For those of you who like to call France a bunch of cowards, France has sent troops in. There are thousands of men, women, and children being killed, mutilated, and raped on a daily basis. There is talk of cannibalism. If George is so concerned about keeping peace in the world, why haven't we done anything about the Congo?

The answer is obvious -- we won't get anything out of it. The Congo isn't "swimming in oil." The government and the warring factions don't have those dreaded weapons of mass destruction [not that actually having them means anything]. Maybe George is fooled by the fact the country's name is the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The fact that we're idly sitting by while an entire country is being wiped out is sick.

---

My neighborhood, Fishtown, has been in the news a lot recently. Earlier this week a pharmacist who works at a drugstore a few blocks away was arrested for selling Oxycontin illegally to local strippers. Last week a 16 year old boy who lives around the corner from me was murdered about six blocks from my house by his friends.

I make fun of Fishtown a lot. I complain about my neighbors and their kids, and make fun of the crazy mullet-heads. When I found out the full extent of what happened to kid who was murdered, I was stunned. All those kids involved live within a block radius of my house. I've seen all three of the kids arrested hanging out.

The kid they murdered is being buried today at the cemetery up the street from my house.

It can happen in any neighborhood. Fishtown isn't special. But I'm always kind of stunned at how vicious people can be. Dangerous people don't have signs on them that say, "Don't trust me -- I'm an animal." Your best friend can turn out to be your worst enemy. I never want to have to be suspicious of everyone I meet, but sometimes I wonder if that's not the best policy.

---

I'm glad the Pope likes women. Really, I am.

"I thank you, dear women, because by your sensitivity, generosity and strength, you enrich the world's understanding and help to make human relationships more honest and authentic," the Pope said.

I think it's nice to get some credit from the church for something other than being solely responsible for Original Sin, and being devious people who need to be controlled by their husbands. But, you know, it just doesn't fill my heart with joy to know that the Pope believes "Perhaps more than in other periods of history, our time is in need of that genius which belongs to women, and which can ensure sensitivity for human beings in every circumstance."

I know this is nit-picky and I should just let this go, but it really bugs me that the Pope seems to think that women possess a quality that men don't. I might joke around that women are inherently better at just about everything except arm wrestling, but the truth is that I really do think that women and men are made the same way [minus the obvious physical differences]. I don't think our brains work differently or that we're naturally better at some things.

I had this converation with Mea and her little man a few weeks ago when they were over. Mea cries during tender commercials and her little man said something about it being a "girl thing." I argued that babies are the all the same -- they all cry. Male babies aren't less likely to cry -- they haven't been taught that it's not OK to cry and act sensitive yet.

I'm a firm believer in "nature over nurture" with respect to many aspects of who we are -- whether you're gay or straight or somewhere in between, whether you're better at math or english, etc. But when it comes to what are stereotypical differences between men and women, I really believe it's the "nurture" that makes us different.

Mea can cry during commercials because she was brought up to believe that it's just something girls do. We're all conditioned from birth to behave a certain way, to think a certain way, and to adopt a pattern of "girlness" or "boyness."

Sometimes "nurture" can overtake the "nature," and vice-versa. I mean, I might have been socialized to play with dolls and wear pink dresses and let my man think for me, but I have enough sense and exposure to other things to let my "nature" come through.

I really don't know where I'm going with this. There is no point. I guess I just wish the Pope would keep his stereotypes to himself.

---

Perhaps it's a sign of my maturity and my advanced age, but the MTV Movie Awards just could not keep my attention last night. Most of their little skits ran about five minutes too long. I find 50 Cent ridiculous. I was hoping someone would throw quarters at the crack of Pink's ass hanging out of those pants. There's something Stepford creepy about Beyonce Knowles.

It also could have been the trauma of seeing Kirsten Dunst's flaccid bosom, of course.

I watched for about 30 minutes and then flipped to Comedy Central for the new season of Insomniac. And then I was traumatized by the size of the knockers on the porn star at the porn convention Dave Attel attended.

Why can't women in the media ever have normal boobs? You don't need tits the size of beach balls. You just don't. There's no reason. I've seen a pair of gigantic naked boobs in person and they're just scary. You don't know whether to run screaming in the other direction or poke them to see if they explode. It's not like something of that size can be manhandled with any dexterity.

And on the other end of the scale, the Dunst end of the scale, it's OK to have saggy boobs. My own, while not nearly at the level of sag Ms. Dunst has achieved, do sag a little. But I'm not exacerbating the problem by running around to do my errands sans bra. Because if you need support, you wear a bra. It's a simple thing.

Is it too much to ask?

---

To: Kirsten Dunst
From: Nicole at go fish
Re: Your sagging rack
____________________________________________

I don't know what you have been doing to make your boobs sag so much. You're only, what, 22? But really, it looks like you had all your boob meat surgically removed and left only the skin and nipples. And now your nipples are hovering somewhere right around your belly button.

Here's a tip: you don't look good without a bra. You don't look sexy and you don't look hot. You just look like an old hooker. Your knockers no longer point in the right direction. Your tatas aren't even remotely in their original location. Those girls have gone south for the winter.

Please, be kind -- I don't need to see you flunk the pencil test with your dirty pillows.

Thank you. Congratulations on your award. Now go be a good girl and put on a nice foundation garment.

---

I bought my first computer in 1994. It was a Compaq. The motherboard fried a few years later and we had to replace it. The piece of crap we just got rid of right before we bought the brand spankin' new Dell a few weeks ago was that repaired Compaq. I also bought a printer about the same time [you know, 1994]. It was a color Canon. What a little workhorse that thing has been. Not fine quality printing, but it was good enough.

Today I am saying goodbye to that little printer that could. But not to Canon. Today Craig came home with an i850 Canon printer. I have already tested the photo quality of it and I have to say that I'm impressed. It is outstanding for a $140 printer. It makes saying goodbye to my little Canon BJC250 a little less bittersweet.

Goddamn, I love new toys! And viva le Canon!

---

Craig's family dog, a Welsh Corgi named Rikki, was put to sleep today. Craig called me a few minutes ago and just sort of told me in passing, conversationally. I said, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry. Are you OK?"

There was a pause on the phone. And then, in a really incredulous tone, he answered, "Well yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I'm upset and it wasn't even my dog. Apparently Craig handles death much better than I do.

Rikki was part of his family since he was a kid. By the time I came on the scene Rikki was already pretty old and had to take medication for thyroid problems. I watched her decline these last few years. Sometimes her legs gave out on her, and breath was wretched most of the time. But she was the friendliest dog on the planet and I loved that dog to death, despite the fact that she shed on me like crazy the minute I touched her for a scratch.

Yeah, I'm sad.

To be honest, I've not really had the best of luck with pets. My first pet was a cat named Caesar, a Siamese cat with a bad attitude. I was five years old. One day my mother wanted to take a bath and I didn't want to come in the house, so she locked the door so no one could sneak up on her and kill her in the bathtub and let me out on the porch to play with the cat. I guess she really wasn't concerned about someone snatching me....well, what can I say, it was the 1970s. Anyway, a dog came by and scared the cat so I grabbed her and hung on so Caesar wouldn't run away. That damn cat went nuts and scratched me until dripping blood from my arms. Apparently my screams of terror were enough for my mother to rip herself from the luxury of a Calgon bath. The cat ran away, never to be seen again, and I was left with huge claw gashes up and down my arms, the scars from which are still visible today [I'm 31].

That's when I lived in the actual town of Berwick. After that we moved out to the boondocks where there were no neighbors -- just miles of farmer's fields. We averaged about two new cats every year. Usually the cat would somehow get outside and never return...likely run over by farm equipment or carried off by a fox. There were exceptions, of course.

Take, for instance, the case of a kitten we adopted who fell in the sump pump hole. We never knew what happened until we started to smell something nasty in the basement. I'm pretty much scarred for life by the sight of my mother reaching into the hole and hauling up the dead kitten.

Ah, the good old days.

Sassy is the pet I've had for the longest period of time. She's been with us for about four years now. I know I'll be a wreck when she dies. I can't even imagine what I would be like if a pet that's been in my family for years and years died. Maybe Craig is just being manly.

---

Yeah, so it looks like George and co. were wrong about killing Chemical Ali. According to his brother, he's alive and probably laughing his ass off.

But.....but how could that be? We were told that he had been killed in a raid in early April. And you know, it's not like those bombers have been wrong before or anything, right?

I'm shocked. Shocked, I say!

---

So I was just in another long and boring meeting this morning that had nothing to do with me or my work. They should really rename this place from Panhandlers Central to Just Try to Do Your Work! Mwahahahaha!

Anyway, the woman who has been running the last few meetings has a hearing problem. Unfortunately, no one wants to be the asshole and suggest that she let someone else scribe for her. If she's not looking directly at you when you're speaking, she can't hear you. When there are 30 people in a meeting all talking at once, there's no way she's going to get everything and so a lot of information is lost and then when she passes out the minutes at the next long and boring meeting, then we all have to tell her what she missed. And then there are 30 people talking at once again. It's a vicious circle. And it makes these meetings unbearable.

I've begun to develop the skill of sleeping with my eyes open. Very handy.

---

I'm really uncomfortable with something that happened yesterday. I get pretty pissy when anyone talks about banning abortion. Yesterday the Senate actually voted to ban "partial birth" abortion. They already voted on it and banned it in March, but now they're changing the language just a little before it gets sent off to the President to sign into law. "Likely to be deleted: nonbinding language added by the Senate in support of the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision."

In addition, they added this little nugget: "The current bill contains an exception when the life of the mother -- but not her health -- is at risk."

I find this atrocious. George's administration has made it very difficult to be a woman in this country. Aside from all the other sexist crap being pulled now that there's no one to guard the hen house, now I have to put up with being told that a threat to my health is not a good enough reason to terminate a pregnancy. I'm being told that the U.S. government thinks I'm too stupid to make a decision for myself.

Yesterday Trish sent me a link to some asshat's blog who called those of who are pro-choice "feminazis." I wasn't interested in debating with the guy because he's entitled to his opinion. It's when fucktards with the wrong opinion are in a position of power -- that's when I get nervous and in the mood to put up a fight.

Look, if you're a man -- I don't believe that you should have the right to tell a woman what she can and can't do with her own body. If you're personally involved in the situation [ie, if you knock up your girlfriend], then fine, by all means, get involved with the discussion. But until a man can spontaneously grow a uterus and carry children in his womb men have no business legislating the do's and don'ts of abortion. Leave the heavy lifting to people who have a clue of what it might be like.

Plus, there's this golden tidbit:

Bush hailed passage of the legislation, which he said "will help build a culture of life in America. I urge Congress to quickly resolve any differences and send me the final bill as soon as possible so that I can sign it into law."

A culture of life? A culture of life? You've got to be fucking kidding me! George starts a war that kills over 5,000 people and he's talking about the sanctity of life? Give me a fucking break.

To end this, I'm just going to leave you with the immortal words of a bumper sticker I'm fond of quoting:

If you can't trust me with a choice,
how can you trust me with a child?

---

I believe in voodoo and witchcraft. My roommate during freshman year orientation in college was a practicing witch. She was just your average 18 year old waif with an athame in her luggage. People who don't believe in that kind of thing will routinely say that it's all based on coincidence. That wind rising, it's not because it was called, it's just windy. And that old woman giving you the evil eye? Well, it's all in your head. But I'm a firm believer in being nice to people, you know, just in case.

Anyway. Roger Ebert better hope that I'm wrong, otherwise his liver and colon are toast. That'll teach him to be mean to someone with connections! Heh.

---

There's something seriously gratifying about not knowing what you want for lunch and then just randomly coming across a restaurant and then instantly just knowing that you're going to find the perfect thing.

Today was that day for me -- I ended up getting seafood tempura from a little restaurant in the Suburban Station concourse. I think they must put crack in their tempura batter and miso soup because I'm just inhaling my lunch. And it's exactly the thing that I wanted to eat, without me knowing it.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmm....tempura.

---

I really like OPI nailpolish, particularly their New York polishes. But there's no way in hell I'd ever spend the $5 for a bottle for my pet. I hate to see animals who have been accessorized by their owners -- whether it's kerchiefs, sweaters, hats, or nail polish.

There's a panhandler outside the nearest Wawa whose hook is to dress his dog up in a little pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a Spongebob back pack. Every time I walk past I think of how humiliated the dog must be. He's got a little hole cut into the pants so his tail and assorted other parts can be free, and he looks idiotic. Do you think he's got low self esteem from constantly being dressed up? Do the other dogs make fun of him?

I just know I'll get flamed for this, but animals who are wearing clothes and other assorted things just look sad, like they're contemplating suicide because they have to look silly. Fido might like his spiked, electric blue dog collar, but he isn't digging the red bandana you've tied around his neck. Pretty soon people will be piercing their pets' ears or something.

There is one exception to this rule: small dogs sometimes need sweaters when being walked because they lack the body heat not to freeze to death. I still think they look embarrassed for it, but I understand the necessity.

[OPI dog polish news link found via Red-headed Slut.]

---

I have absolutely no interest in being buried when I die. If all goes well, a couple of my organs will still be usable for organ donation -- so those will be harvested and then I'll be cremated and my ashes will be spread [clandestinely, of course] in the Haunted Mansion at Disney in Orlando.

But if I were to buried in the traditional way, I'd totally want this casket. Or maybe this one. I'd request to be dressed like Violet from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, complete with blue face and blueberry body, and at the height of the viewing I'd be animatronically programmed to rise out of my stunningly funny coffin and pelt the mourners with gummy bears. Then I'd slump back in my coffin and the lid would slam shut and lock. And the coffin, when locked, would be programmed to whisper "I see dead people!"

Yeah, it's better that I go with the cremation.

---

I have never understood the draw of Barry Manilow. I like to sing Copacabana at the top of my lungs as much as the next person, but there's no way I could sit through a Barry Manilow concert without creatively trying to kill myself with my stadium seat.

It's bad enough I saw Air Supply in concert and lived to tell the sad tale.

Still, I think it's strangely tragic and hilariously funny that Barry broke his nose and knocked himself unconscious by walking into a wall in the middle of the night.

Do you know how hard you'd have to slam into a wall to break your own nose and pass out for four hours? That just doesn't seem possible.

---

I have to admit something awful. I watched the season premiere of The Real World last night.

Can you believe that shit has been on for 13 fucking seasons? I remember watching the first season. It was on right around the time My So-Called Life aired. Of course, that was the last time The Real World was interesting...or even remotely real. As I recall there was a nice loft but it wasn't exactly a palatial estate in Paris.

Speaking of which, that was the only reason I wanted to watch it: Paris. Every time they showed a different thing in Paris, all I could think was "Hey, I was just there! Wooo!" and then I got all depressed because I want to be there.

I don't know that I'll be able to stomach watching any more of it, though. What a bunch of fucking wankers. I openly cringed watching them act out the Stereotypical American. The only one who doesn't seem completely wretched is the kid from Ireland. And why are all the girls so enamored of that guy Ace? He's not hot in the slightest -- he's got Bobby Brady hair.

Plus, as noted already, these smacked asses have been able to watch The Real World for 12 years. Haven't they learned anything? Like how not to look stupid on camera? And couldn't they learn to speak even a little bit of French before going to live in Paris? Dumbasses.

---

I took a cab home from my event tonight. All I could think of was "Ahhhhh, couch! Maybe a bath! Yay!" And then the cab turned onto my street. People everywhere.

Fucking A, what now?

I get out of the cab and watch the multitude of neighbors gawking at something. And then I notice the smell of fire. Oh, and then I notice that there's a telephone pole on fire. Great. And then I notice there's no electricity. Fuck.

I spent the last two hours huddled around the couple of candles I keep in the house, eating raw hot dogs and swilling beer. Every weird neighbor in the vicinity gathered round. It was a big event. Old, bizarre women were out in their pajamas, offering to feel Craig up should it get too dark to see. The bar was packed -- no electricity and no lights, but dammit, the taps were running.

Finally, fucking PECO arrived and fixed it all. Now I'm tired and cranky.

---

So I'm supposed to believe that Eminem is going to save HBO? Apparently he's in talks to star in his very own HBO series. You'll never believe what the premise is.

"According to the Daily Star, he is expected to play a rich rapper from the wrong side of the tracks."

Really? What a stretch! In 8 Mile he played a poor rapper who becomes successful, right? Man, this guy has serious range! Pretty soon some director will tap him to do Shakespeare. It'll probably Shakespeare's long lost play about a rapper who gets rich and has an antagonistic relationship with his mother and wife.

A Hollywood insider is quoted as saying: "Eminem prioved he can act with 8 Mile.

"It make sense for HBO to want him."

Nothing makes sense. Trust me, it's all surreal.

---

Well. This is new: I hate the smell of fruit salad.

Just thought you'd like to know.

---

Uh oh, looks like someone could be in trouble:

Henry Waxman, a California Democrat on the House Government Reform Committee, called on Mr Bush to explain why the administration cited dubious and later discredited documents to back its claims about Iraqi weapons.

"To date, you have offered no explanation as to why you and your most senior advisers made repeated allegations based on forged documents," Mr Waxman said in a letter to the president.

Gee, if there's actually a real inquiry into this whole weapons of mass destruction brouhaha, maybe then we can get an inquiry into George's intel and what happened on Sept. 11.

Nah, that'll never happen.

[Short link found at The Gamer's Nook]

---

I might be a food snob, but I don't think it's too much to fucking ask to wash the greens before you make them into a salad. Nothing ruins a perfectly good salad faster than having to wash the grit out of your teeth after the first bite.

Motherfuckers!

---

I'm such a little joiner --

26 Things: July 1, 2003
seek out the twenty six themes/objects on the list
and photograph them over the given period of time

Sure I signed up. Remember the May Day Project? It was fun, and I'm a sucker!

Wouldn't you like to be a pepper, too?

[link found via 27 Things -- thanks Dusty!]

---

I hate Jewel. I hate everything about her, from her horrendous snaggletooth to her hippy dippy "I grew up poor so you should love me" attitude to her earnest staring. I've been hating her a lot more recently. Why? Because of her new album.

For starters, take a look at the cover. She's transformed herself into Debbie Gibson. Oh, excuse me, Deborah Gibson.

"I'd always thought electronic music was cold and pat and not very creative," [Jewel] says. Yet she decided to try the remix treatment on "Serve the Ego," a single from her previous release "This Way."

The end result not only resonated personally but lifted Jewel to No. 1 on the Billboard Hot Dance Club Play chart.

"I found a way to use beats that suits me," she says. "Now, I see that it's like being a painter who says they will never use red or yellow. Why limit yourself that way?"

See where I'm going with this? Jewel is happy to be considered a serious artist until she finds out she can make more money by making cheesy dance music.

And Jewel is part of this whole Intuition razor conspiracy. She made a deal with the devil Schick to use her music in the ad campaign. What happened to idealistic Jewel who would never support a product she didn't use? I can guarantee Jewel isn't her bathroom every morning with an Intuition razor and bleeding legs and armpits.

Yeah, I hated Jewel before and now I think she's a full-on, Dionne Warwick sellout.

"It always takes time to know what somebody is capable of; people have watched my learning curve since the beginning," Jewel says. "I've tried as much as I can to be honest, and I've been lucky enough to do this job according to the morals and principles that suit me. Now, I'm ready for this album to be heard."

She needs to take her hair extensioned Debbie Gibson-wannabe craptacular self and go back to the van.

---

I have a work event tonight. So I'm sitting in my office in my pretty princess/corporate whore black suit. I've had this suit for a couple of years. I don't wear it alot because I'm not required to wear a suit here at Panhandlers Central. But I noticed when I put the suit on this morning that it's not looking so good anymore. There are threads hanging and the fabric is starting to look shiny.

So I'm doing what any normal person would do. Today at lunch I'm going to run out and buy an exact replica of this suit and I'm going to change into it in the bathroom. No one will ever know. Except you.

I have a severe phobia.

---

I forgot to buy a new razor today so after I got home from work Craig and I took a walk over to our local CVS pharmacy. On the way to the pharmacy we encountered a house that I think every neighborhood has. It's the house that has way too many lawn ornaments decorating it.

Because I live in the city, there really is no lawn to accessorize. It's really just a 5x5' plot of grass that has been chain-linked in. And the people who live there have planted every imaginable cheesy yard trinket -- the Holy Goalie is surrounded by various gnomes, holiday decorations, fake deer, plastic flamingoes, stone statues, bird baths, etc.

Yeah, it's really awful looking. And we walk past it every time we go to the pharmacy, and we always make fun of it.

Today the owner of the house was standing outside the chain link fence with a friend admiring his handiwork. I'm not kidding you -- they were discussing the finer points of decorating ones house. The friend complimented the house owner on his decorating restraint. He said his house had a lot more stuff, but the simple plot was really classy.

Coincidentally, that house is only half a block from the multi-lingual Beware of Dog house.

---

My friend Mena never went to her prom and she's really bitter about it. You can't talk about prom season in front of her because she immediately launches into her story and freaks out about people who got to attend their prom. Of course, Mena really does have reason to be bitter. She's got a really horrendous story.

When it was time for Mena to go pick out her dress, Mena mother offered to make a dress for her. And Mena, not being a suspicious person, accepted. She never really thought it was strange that her mother never measured her. Mena never even saw the dress in progress. Whenever she asked about it, her mother always said that she was working on it.

OK, so it's the day of the prom. Mena's boyfriend has his tux and has rented a limo. Her best friend has come over to do her hair and makeup. Mena's wearing the good underwear. Mena knocks on the door to her mother's craft room. Mena's dress is still in the cut apart form -- not a stitch made in the dress.

Apparently there was some, um, discussion. And crying. I can't imagine the horror. No wonder she's scarred for life.

---

I bought a new razor for myself over the weekend. Under normal circumstances this would not be a blog-worthy event. I mean, dude, it's a razor. However, I purchased a Schick Intuition razor -- you know, the one that has the shaving soap surrounding the razor?

It's the worst invention of the century so far.

It sounds like a good idea. It comes with shaving goop, so you don't need to buy an extra product and waste time in the shower with extra stuff. I'm all about that. But who is the smartass who thought of putting the razor just below the soap?

It's obviously a man and he hates women.

You have to push the razor into your skin really hard just so your skin comes in contact with the razor. There's no way to get a clean, close shave unless you push hard enough to bruise. And by then you're taking off a layer of perfectly good skin. And you know there's some guy back in the testing lab just laughing his ass off.

Seriously, save yourselves, girls. Just say no to the Intuition. I'm planning on sending my blood flecked razor back to Schick with a nice nastygram. Maybe that's why I'm feeling so freaky today -- the blood loss has gotten to me.

---

I feel so weird today.

I dumped my blogroll this morning, which was oddly liberating. Now I'm thinking about doing some other blog-related things. I'm also thinking of dumping some of the skins I made. I don't know, I just don't like them as much this week...plus some of them have problems.

I feel, I don't know, like I'm in flux or should be in flux. I'm just uncomfortable sitting here in my little cubicle office, knowing full well there are better things to be doing today.

I'm on the list over at Blogmoxie for a new design. I wish I could say that I was on the list of a new life, or at least a new job.

Today is just a whiny, jumpy day.

---

Hey, there's a new theme park in the works! Better get your tickets now, because they're going like hotcakes!

Habitat for Humanity to Open Slum 'Theme Park'

"Backed by Habitat for Humanity, a Christian charity, it aims to teach wealthy Americans how the world's poor really live." Right. Because corporate CEOs making obscene amounts of money are going to want to "imagine children sleeping in shacks infested with scorpions or snakes" and "walk right into a slum" so they can "see the kind of pitiful living conditions so many people in the world have." They don't care about their employees, let alone millions of faceless people who have nothing to do with them.

And you couldn't pay me enough to spend a day in that theme park. I spend a good portion of my time avoiding poverty like the plague. I'm aware that poverty exists and I do my charitable part for it. It doesn't mean that I have to spend the day touring a slum and learning to make bricks in order to really understand what being poor means.

More to the point, I and the CEOs of the world can't possibly learn what it means to be poor by looking at a slum. Unless you live the life for an extended period of time, you can't possibly understand.

To me this just smacks of people having money they don't know what to do with. Instead of spending the money on those in poverty, money is being spent so I can go to the theme park and point at the shanty homes like they're in a zoo. And then I can go back to my nice clean home with full refrigerator and forget all about it.

Yep, this is the dumbest idea I've heard today.

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I can't get my thoughts together enough to do an entire entry yet, so here is what's randomly floating around my head this morning:

• My Blogrolling list has grown unruly. I think I may scrap the whole thing and start from scratch. It seems like a good challenge for the week. So if you see you've been de-linked, not to worry. I'm still reading.
  
• I'm beginning to think that maybe the U.S. should be split up into different countries. Deeply Religious asshats should have their own little land that time forgot. There should be a test to live in the normal part of the U.S. -- you can be religious, but not interested in trying to convince anyone else to think or act like you. I say this because those nutjobs in North Carolina who are defending Eric Robert Rudolph's actions [ie, bombing abortion clinics] as "God's work" are clearly insane. Let George rule that country, because those are definitely his kind of people. Personally, I feel that my safety is compromised far more by those people than by any foreign terrorist.
  
• Speaking of Rudolph, anyone notice the mustache? I find men who wear only mustaches [ie, no other facial hair] to be creepy. It makes me think of child molestors and other assorted crazy people.
  
• Why can't Craig remember to wipe the counter off after he shaves? And then he gets all offended when I wipe it all off and ask him why he didn't? Argh!
  
• Next time there's a planned anti-choice rally at an abortion clinic during which people plan to display photos of aborted fetuses, I'm going to have my own posters run -- of abused children. Apparently these whack jobs haven't thought far enough in advance to wonder what will happen to all of these unwanted children should they not be aborted. Not all of them are lucky enough to be adopted into loving homes -- the majority will grow up in the birth household where they are not wanted or they will go through the foster care system. And not all of these kids will be abused....but kids who are wanted and loved and well-cared for aren't abused.

Shit is just rattling around up there this morning.

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This weekend I went outlet shopping with my mother. There are few things that make me quite as happy as bargains.

As it turns out, it was a kitchen day. I bought new wine glasses, a new wire whisk for my burdgeoning collection, and neat adjustable measuring spoons and cups. I really love gadgets.

On the way home my mother stopped at a local winery. I tend to think of my hometown as a, well, as an armpit of the world. So the thought of purchasing wine from a winery in a locale in which Pabst Blue Ribbon is considered a hoity toity beer, well, it's frightening.

But my mother knows I drink wine, and my stepfather's daughter is always blathering on about how the wine from the winery is so wonderful, blah blah blah. I gave in to keeping the family relations civil.

I bought two bottles of wine and two bottles of hard cider. They're all sitting down in my wine rack, daring me to try them. I'm envisioning Cleetus and Mildred out back in a shed making hooch in the bathtub, to be honest. I fully expect it to have a nice bleach-y aftertaste to it. Or maybe antifreeze.

The winery itself was pretty funny. It was just a shack on the side of the road with a big sign out front that merely proclaimed "winery." Inside there was a counter and about three dozen bottles of wine. Something else that made me very nervous was that one type of wine being sold was simply called "Blush."

You may have figured this out already, but I'm a huge fucking wine snob. I know the difference between swill and something good. I make fun of things like White Zinfindel and wine spritzers. I don't know many people who really like wine who also really like drinking White Zinfindel. It's like the jug wine of the world. And so is anything called "Blush" -- it's the equivalent of drinking pink champagne. You're a wuss: get a real drink.

Oh, and did I mention the winery also sold blueberry wine and apple-pear wine? If that's not hick wine, I don't know what is. Sure, it might be good, but I'm imagining something really sickeningly sweet.

So anyway, there was a very ancient woman behind the counter who offered to let me taste before I bought. I don't like to embarrass my mother, so I declined. There's always a chance I might have tasted the wine and loved it. But there's an equal chance that it could have been so bad that I would have had to have spit it out and demanded we leave immediately. It's better for all involved that we skipped the wine tasting.

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I thought I'd never make it home. Right before we left the weather service issued flood warnings for the entire area, along with "damaging winds" watches. I had visions of being blown off a bridge and plummeting to my death.

It generally takes about 2.5 - 3 hours to drive from my mom's house in Berwick to my my house in Philadelphia. Today it took almost 4 hours. I knew it was going to be a crappy ride when we approached the Lehigh Tunnel and it had taken us two hours to get there.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of driving on the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the Tunnel is pretty much the halfway point between Berwick and Philadelphia. Instead of winding the Turnpike around the mountain, a big hole was blasted through the mountain.

The Tunnel always sort of held a certain morbid fascination with me when I was a kid. Convinced that the Tunnel would collapse as I was being driven through it and kill me, I used start writing my last will and testament about two miles before we got to the Tunnel. I'd bequeath my stuffed animal collection to a friend...my Shaun Cassidy records to another friend. You get the idea. There were occasionally melodramatic deathbed confessions [the car being my own personal deathbed, you understand]. Once I tapped my Aunt and Uncle on the shoulder as we were driving through, told them I loved them dearly, and then draped myself over the backseat in a dramatic pose fit for being crushed to death.

I still get a little excited when I go through the Tunnel. It's not like I'm preparing to give away my prized possessions or anything, but I still kind of wonder if I should strike a pose appropriate for being found under a boulder.