---

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.

---

So I'm on the bus this morning, right, and I've got my headphones on. I made myself a little morning wake up mix CD of a little bit of Foo Fighters, a smidgen of Linkin Park, and a dash of The Clash. You know, an eye opener, sans vodka. Anyway, I'm sitting there with my walkman going really really loud and I'm doing a little on-the-fly knitting [Yes, knitting in public. I'm so fucking old.], and there are these two boys sitting next to me. I would guesstimate that they're maybe 15 years old.

Apparently they haven't figured out yet that headphones don't block out all sound. Seriously -- they're sitting there talking about my rack. They must have been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer [the movie, not the show -- and I doubt they would ever admit to it] because one of them said I have "yaboos that defy gravity." You can tell they're getting a total kick out of thinking they're talking about me and I can't hear them. It degenerated into giggling 15 year old boys hitting each other and leering at my tits.

It was my stop to catch the subway, so I put my knitting away, leaned over to the lecherous kids and said, "Hey, thanks for the compliment. Just a hint, here -- girls don't like it when you call their boobs "fun bags."

And then I walked off the bus. I've never seen anyone look more terrified.

---

I just sat next to an old smelly man on the bus ride home. He reeked of urine and bandaids.

Yuck.

---

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

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

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

---

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....

Sorry Charles.

It really was -- on the subway this morning, anyway. I believe that I witnessed the best of human nature and the worst of human nature.

There was a woman standing near the door, waiting for the train to stop so she could exit the train. Her hands were full and she was having trouble getting ahold of the handle of one of her bags. Some young guy slipped the loose handle of bag into her hand. A "thank you" and "you're welcome" were exchanged. Warm looks were exchanged.

It was a beautiful moment. It warmed the cockles of my heart.

Yes, it was simple and a total non-event. But most days on the subway no one would have taken the two seconds to help that woman. And, let me tell you, the instant that guy helped the woman he became hot. He wasn't bad looking to begin with and he was dressed really nice, but being nice and polite drives me wild with desire. My helpful hint to men looking to meet women: run around your city being considerate of others. Eventually you will notice some woman lusting after you because of your good deeds, and then you'll know you've met someone who appreciates niceness.

Of course, I encountered the worst of human nature portion of my morning about 2 minutes later.

I was exiting the platform, had just walked through the revolving grated door, when I beheld something I'd rather not see again.

There is a homeless man who sleeps in a little alcove in the concourse. I see him every morning. He's either sleeping or cursing at passersby. As I was walking into his section of the concourse, he pushed his pants down around his ankles, copped a squat, and took a dump in the middle of the concourse.

And then he threw it at a SEPTA cop.

I will admit for just a millisecond I cheered because we all know how I feel about SEPTA. But then I realized what I had just witnessed and am thoroughly grossed out and feeling like a need to bathe.

Maybe I'll take a different concourse route tomorrow.

---

To the lady on the subway this morning making a huge show of acting all exasperated that the train wasn't moving fast enough to suit you -- dial it back a few notches, eh? I can see why you are some poor working schlub instead of a famous actress...your play acting is a bit too over the top.

Yep, I was checking people out on the subway again this morning. Normally I don't get completely fixated on one person, but the woman was acting like such an ass that I felt like booting her ass out the door at the wrong stop just before the doors closed.

I'm so easily irritated in the morning.

The funny thing is that I am a morning person. As much as I adore sleeping, I don't like to get up very late in the morning because I feel like I'm wasting time. During the work week I'm up at 6:15 am, but not because I'm getting anything accomplished -- I'm just going to work. On the weekend I'm usually up by 7 or 8 am. It's not to say that I am out shoveling snow or building houses at that hour, but I'm up and I'm enjoying the day.

It's a concern to me that I will miss something by wasting time. Perhaps it's the farmer genes in me rearing their ugly heads, screaming at me that "Late to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!" My grandfather was a farmer for most of his life, and he and my grandmother rarely sleep. It must be a hard habit to break.

Speaking of my grandfather, he is in the hospital. Craig and I went to see the light show at Wanamakers Lord & Taylor's yesterday afternoon and then stopped for a late lunch at Monk's [I love that place -- excellent mussels, fabulous burgers, and a huge beer selection!], and when I got home there was a message from my mother. Here's the thing: it's nothing serious but he's totally making it out to be life-threatening.

From being around all that hay for all those years, my grandfather has a sort of chronic lung infection. If he takes antibiotics, it's all fine. He can breathe fine, his lungs don't feel like dirt. Now, maybe I have more confidence in doctors, but my grandfather has decided that he knows better than the doctors. He stopped taking his antibiotics without consulting his doctor because he is positive that the antibiotics are making his legs hurt. To this I can only say, "Whhhaaaaaaaa?" So now he's having problems breathing. But instead of reaching the obvious conclusion [i.e., no antibiotics+chronic lung infection=breathing problems] my grandfather has convinced himself he needs open heart surgery.

What is it about getting older than transforms normally normal people into stubborn old coots who are bent on drama? It's not like he needs the attention -- he and my grandmother live not five minutes away from my mother, my two aunts, and my uncle, plus assorted other relatives and friends. Someone is at the house to visit them probably every day. I don't understand why anyone would be so intent on incapacitating themselves, instead of enjoying life.

My grandmother [the one who died a year ago] went through the same thing. She had a stroke when I was about 13 years old [so, about 1985]. She immediately went to the best rehab hospital in the state, but refused to do any of her rehab. She wasn't very old -- I think she was about 56 when she had her stroke, but she spent the rest of her life in a nursing home because she just wouldn't work to get better. And I know, had she done her rehab, that she would have been just fine.

I get so angry at people who do things to themselves that are counterproductive. My grandmother robbed herself of what should have been the best years of her life. My grandfather is refusing to listen to his doctors, which is probably going to decrease the number of years he has left. But it's hard to be angry at someone you love so much. And it's next to impossible to lay it down to someone that you care about -- what am I going to do, walk up to my grandfather and tell him he's being a smacked ass for not listening to the doctors? Tell him I think he's acting like a child?

I guess it's no wonder I'm irritated this morning.

---

People get so wrapped up in their own little worlds that they forget people might be observing. Specifically, I mean the bus. And I am a practiced observer of bus behavior, so by "people" I mean me. And this morning I was watching.

The bus was not very crowded. There was a 16 year old boy sitting in the seat in front of me. Kind of cute in that young, still able to develop into a hottie kind of way. But then he started actually popping his zits. You could tell that he was doing it in an unconscious way, and that he probably does it in the middle of class, in clubs, on the street, and in restaurants. Totally clueless. I wanted to hit him in the back of the head and alert him to the fact that his pus is not welcome in my personal space. Instead, I kept loudly clearing my throat. The rest of the people on the bus probably think I have tuberculosis or something.

Of course, that would mean they would be able to hear my throat-clearing over the din of the clan in the back of the bus. There is a man and his childern [who, incidentally, may have been raised by wolves] who take the bus every morning at 7:45 am. I try to catch the earlier bus so my head doesn't explode. This is a typical snatch of conversation:

father: [yelling] Devilchild#1, get your foot off Devilchild#2. I see your foot moving Devilchild#1. Stop it! Stop moving your foot! If you don't stop moving your foot, the next foot you're going to see is my foot kicking you in the ass!

[Devilchild#3 and Devilchild#4 start to scream at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason and continue to scream until they get off the bus.]

father: [screaming over the wailing of Devilchildren #3 and #4] Devilchild#2, get away from the bell! Stop touching the bell! It's just a bell! It just makes a noise! You don't get points or kill anything, it just makes a sound! All these people have to go to work and you're stopping the bus at every stop! Stop touching the bell! Stop touching the bell! Sit down and stop touching the bell!

Devilchild#1: [wailing] I wanna ring the bell! It' s my turn to ring the bell! My turn! I wanna ring the bell! Daaaaaaaad, I wanna ring the bell!

Devilchild#2 [screeching] No, it's my turn to the ring the bell! I wanna ring the bell! Get away, stop touching me, stop touching the bell -- I wanna ring the bell! Daaaaad!

father: [shouting hoarsely] Get away from the bell! Stop touching the bell! It's just a bell! It just makes a noise! You don't get points or kill anything, it just makes a sound! All these people have to go to work and you're stopping the bus at every stop! Stop touching the bell! Stop touching the bell! Sit down and stop touching the bell! Arrrrrgh!

This is usually underway by the time I get on the bus and it continues for 15 minutes until they get off the bus. At that point I generally want to stand up and drop kick each and every one of them off the fucking bus. The kids are between the ages of 4 and 6, so they're the perfect size for drop kicking. The father is bigger than I am, which might present a problem...but I think, in my morning rage, I could take him.

Is it possible to have annoying children rage? You know, sort of like road rage or air rage? If it's possible, I think I have it.

I know children are a necessary evil in the world. Without children there would never be any adults, and then it would end up being a very geriatric world indeed. And we'd never get to retire [not that any of us are ever going to retire with the crap that our current President would like to do to social security]. The truth of the matter is that I don't mind children if they are well-behaved. But most of the kids I come in contact with are crazy wildebeasts. Realizing that even the most well-behaved kid has a tantrum every once in a while, I think it should be considered child abuse to allow your kid to act like an ass in public. Put the kid in a behavioral modification instititution and sterilize the parents.

You can see why I would make the worst parent in the world: I have little to no patience for stupidity. So far, I've only come up with one good reason to have children -- the extra deduction one can take on income taxes. I see no other real benefit. So I guess it's a good thing I never want to have children.

I respect people who have kids, and the kids are really nice and know how to act in public. I wish we could clone those kinds of parents. People get all bent out of shape when I say I don't want kids -- they take it as a personal attack on their choices. Just because I don't like kids doesn't mean I don't think it's a valid choice for others to have them.

I just don't think I could change a vile poopy daiper without puking all over myself.

---

I play a game on the subway every morning. Usually at least half the people on the train are reading or listening to something on a Walkman or Discman. I try to guess who is reading what or who is listening to what.

Most of the time I have no way of knowing the answers. What am I going to do? "Excuse me, sir. Yes, you with the large hunting knife and gold tooth. What are you listening to this morning?" It's just something to keep me amused.

I doubt I ever guess anyone's choices correctly. People are constantly surprising me. The uptight looking middle aged man in the business suit carrying a legal briefcase looks like he would be listening to classical music or, at the very least, easy listening tunes. But he's probably listening to Metallica or something.

I'm all business-y today -- my hair is all business perfect and I'm wearing a great black suit. What was on my Discman this morning? Black Flag. And I have CDs in my bag: Agent Orange, Nine Inch Nails, and the Ramones. I look like I should be listening to fucking Anne Murray or the Carpenters. If anyone was on the train this morning playing the same game, I'm sure they would have guessed me wrong.

Yesterday I listened to the newest Red Hot Chili Peppers on my way to work. As much as I love Dave Navarro, he was horrible in the Peppers. One Hot Minute was the worst album. I can't stand that song Aeroplane.

Blood Sugar Sex Magic is the best album. In fact, I would have to say that the album was the soundtrack to my life during my sophomore year of college. Some song from it was always playing during important moments. During my freshman year it was the NIN album Pretty Hate Machine. Oh, and the songs I'm Free by the Soupdragons and Groove is in the Heart by Deee-Lite.

It's pretty typical for people to equate music with certain moments in their lives. Hungry Heart by Bruce Springsteen reminds me of third grade. Love My Way by The Psychedelic Furs reminds me of 8th grade. Charlotte Sometimes by The Cure reminds me of 11th grade. My First, My Last, My Everything by Barry White and You Belong to Me by Lenny Kravitz remind me of my wedding.

There is a song for almost every moment of my life. One of these days I'm going to purchase a CD burner and create the literal soundtrack to my life. Can you imagine? Maybe that should be my own personal meme. So everyone, make up the soundtrack to your life and post it or link to it in my comments. What can I say, I'm curious!

---

Navigating the escalator at the Spring Garden El stop is always a gamble. A few years ago some kid got his foot caught in an escalator at some stop in North Philly and the foot was literally torn off his body, so SEPTA took down all the escalators for repair. The escalator at Spring Garden was recently re-installed.

I'm about to reveal something to you that makes me absolutely wild with rage. I hate it when people don't walk up the escalator.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "But Nicole, walking up an escalator is silly. Aren't escalators meant just to be stood on?" Here's a secret -- the answer is no. They're meant to get you to your final destination quicker. And since most escalators don't get you anywhere faster than if you had walked up a flight of stairs, it's obvious that we should all get our out of shape asses walking up the escalator.

I'm willing to forgive this little lapse in judgement at places like malls. But when there's a train pulling in at the top of the escalator and some ass is just standing there like a moron, it's all I can do not to pummel the person.

Yes, I could take the stairs. I wrestle every day with that decision. There's about a 50-50 shot at getting stuck behind one of the immobile masses. I usually try to guage the people ahead of me. If they're old, I usually take the stairs. If they're absolutely idiotic looking, I will take the stairs. Sometimes I get lucky and everyone walks up the fucking escalator like they should.

Today was not one of those days. Some smacked ass in sneakers and black socks decided he was going to hold up 50 people behind him on the escalator just to be a bastard. And, of course, just as I finally make it off the escalator a train pulls out of the station. I had to do relaxation exercises mentally so I didn't push the fucker onto the tracks.

As you can tell, I'm bitter today.

---

I used to work with someone named Jeri who hated summer. Summer meant sandals, and that meant having to see feet. Jeri thought all feet were nasty and ugly and just plain gross.

Jeri even hated my feet, which I still find unbelievable. You see, I have some of the prettiest and well-kept feet in the tri-state area. My toenails are always painted and I get a pedicure every couple of weeks, and my feet are perfectly shaped. There are two perfect things about my body: my feet and my belly button.

Today I found out why Jeri just might be right.

I just exited the bus this morning and entered the subway. There is an escalator that leads up to the platform, and I was standing in back of a nondescript middle aged woman. As the escalator step carried her feet closer to my line of vision, I gasped in horror.

Her heels were grey and cracked. It was quite possibly the grossest thing I've seen in months. She was wearing a pair of white mules [a fashion faux paux to begin with, even in summer as far as I'm concerned] and her heels were all tore up and scabby. I was disgusted! I was wondering how much it would take to bribe her into having a pedicure, but then decided it would take more than a pedicure to make her feet pretty.

So now I'm traumatized by the vision of those nasty ass feet. And also by Nikki's singing last night on American Idol. I don't think she was on key even once, and she totally ruined one of my favorite songs.

---

It's always something new and different.

Last night after an excruciating Logic class, I hopped on the El train to go home. As I was sitting down, a couple walked onto the train and the man promptly threw himself to the ground clutching his head. People on the train were starting to panic, but it looked like a psychotic episode to me so I made sure not to make eye contact.

It turns out I was right. After the woman he was with pried him off the floor, he sat behind me making Slingblade-esque grunts and having a nice conversation with himself. It involved a lot of swearing and threatening to kill everyone.

Maybe it would have been a nice night to take a cab home.

Speaking of Logic class, tomorrow night is my final class and I couldn't be any happier. I have embraced my inner bad student, and am now looking forward to flunking the class in a most spectacular way. Can you get the letter grade of K?

I have always been crazily anal retentive about my grades. Throughout elementary school, junior high, and high school, I was mostly an A student. I occasionally dropped a B, and in one unheard of semester received a D. In my first two full time years of college I dropped to a B average, but my A record stands for the night classes I've taken over the last half dozen years.

It all comes down to marketing. The school districts made a brilliant move when they named a C as Average. No crazed overachiever ever wants to be considered Average. And, let the record state, that when it comes to school and grades I am the Grand Pooba of crazed overachievers.

But no more! Nope! I will flunk this class with the grace of J.Lo getting a divorce.

Of course, I'm still secretly hoping for a curve.

---

So I'm on the subway this morning, and I start to notice the people around me. I'm sitting in the middle of mostly middle aged women, all fairly normal, with one exception. Sitting behind me is a woman who is listening to salsa music really loudly and she's snoring. Really loudly.

We're getting close to City Hall, which is where most people get off the train in the morning. And me, being the nice person I am, don't want the snoring lady to miss her stop so I turn around to wake her up. And then I find out that she's not asleep -- that's just the melodic sound of her breathing. Wow and yikes.

And that's when I notice it: the woman is one of the top ten ugliest human beings I've ever seen in person. She's kind of short and very, very wide and has no neck whatsoever to speak of. But having an unattractive body doesn't mean she's ugly...this woman was butt ugly in the face. In fact, she was fugly. Indescribably so.

And so I started thinking about how hard it must be to not only go through life with a face that must scare children, but also to breathe in such a way that it sounds like snoring. But really, I just started to think about how depressing it must be to be ugly. Not just run of the mill, "I don't wash my hair or my face ever" ugly, but truly "there's just nothing you can do short of plastic surgery to make yourself attractive" ugly. I have not seen more than a dozen people who fit into that category...it's hard to find someone that ugly.

And then I started think about yesterday with the falafel guy, and about how lucky I am to be an attractive person. I'm not claiming to be beautiful or gorgeous, but I am cute [and for the benefit of Angua, you can see a few more half decent pics of me here with my mom (she's the one with the glasses) and here with Craig...or you can see one in my bio...I'll post some better pics later...]. It's nothing that any of us have any control over -- it's a trick of genetics. I just feel lucky to have come down with some cuteness [although I could take issue with the fact that I have deficient math skills and bum knees].

It's funny that I have not seen any unattractive photos of people in the blogging/journalling community. Of course, no one is going to post ugly pictures of themselves [except for that one I posted yesterday], but I just think it goes to show that it's genuinely difficult to find ugly people.

---

I got some wonderful news over the weekend -- my student loans have been deferred for another year. There is just something so fabulous and mood-bolstering about getting unexpected excellent news.

It's unexpected because I didn't apply for a deferrment. Apparently anytime one of their loan-ees goes back to school they review their status for deferrment. So now I get to keep an extra $85 every month. Mine, all mine! I know, I'll spend it on my tuition bill! Suddenly, $85 extra doesn't seem so exciting....

There was a man on the subway this morning with massive man-boobs. He needed a bra more than I do.

I understand that when men get overweight they, generally, develop man-boobs. And being pissy about man-boobs is the same as being pissy about women with mammoth ankles. For the most part, it's something that just happens and can't really be controlled too much. That said, why would anyone with man-boobs wear a tank top?

I try not to make fun of people for how their bodies just naturally are -- but what they wear is definitely an allowable topic of mirth.

---

I kind of like riding the subway.

People bitch and complain about public transportation, but I love it. Let me amend that: I love local public transit. Riding Greyhound buses is a scary proposition -- on the few times that I've ridden with Greyhound I've sat next to men who look like mass murderers and smell like the dentist office. Who knows, maybe it was the same guy. But I digress...local public transit rules.

Most of the reason why I like to ride the subway revolves around people watching. I see the same people every day and I tend to notice their habits.

Like a woman I refer to as The Waddler. She wears the same blue flowered cardigan sweater everyday, and has a hairy upper lip and a mole the size of Texas under her nose. Or this other woman who I call Mrs. Brady....she has a kick ass body for a woman who must be nearing 50, but she has Carol Brady hair. She also wears the same purple wrap dress every Monday.

Today I noticed that half the people on the subway and in the concourse are wearing white shoes. No one has, or ever will, elect me to the fashionista, but I know in my heart of hearts that white shoes look like shit on everyone.

White sneakers are fine...they don't really count. I'm talking about white dress shoes -- whether they are shiny or matte, leather or pleather, flats or stilettos, white shoes belong on nurses only. There's just something about them that make me think of Barbie shoes. White shoes are just pure evil.

I have not owned a pair of white shoes since my childhood. From the time I was able to start picking out my shoes, I have refused to wear white shoes. There's something so "trailer park trash" about them...something that screams, "I only have half my teeth and these curlers in my hair aren't for show!"

I have real issues with fashion -- I basically stick to black. There's no way that I can mismatch something if it's black. If I gerber something on myself [which I always do], it doesn't show on black. I must own 30 pairs of black pants and at least 50 pairs of black shoes.

The sick part is that isn't an exaggeration. A few years ago I got curious and counted my shoes. I literally had 98 pairs of shoes....over half of them were black. Some hadn't been worn in years and years -- like the canary yellow pumps with the little crimped thingy on the front and the electric blue alligator skin pumps. Hey, I was styling in the early '80s! Don't worry, I donated them to a worthy cause. Right now there's probably a crack whore parading around in my flourescent pink slouch boots.

We've all been victims of the fashionista at one time or another. Hell, the '80s were one big faux paux for me. My worst crime was likely the flourescent purple sweat dress with the canary yellow belt and earrings that went along with those pumps I was talking about. I think that was circa 8th grade.

I know that low cut jeans are the "in" thing right now. I kind of like them because they fit me like normal pants -- those of us who are low waisted and short know how to work the trend of low waists and cropped pants, let me tell you! But the newest in the low cut jeans are getting ridiculous. I'd have to get a bikini wax to feel comfortable. And forget about sitting down -- chicks who insist on sitting down in super low waist jeans have an awful lot in common with my plumber.

---

I sat in back of the trashiest girl on the bus today. She was probably about 20, maybe 23 at the oldest and I noticed when I got on the bus that her hair was atrocious. It looked like she had sprayed Sun In on her hair until it looked like white cotton candy....but she forgot her black roots. When I sat down I noticed that she was putting on her Cover Girl make up on the bus. That's just tacky. And then I noticed that she was wearing a black strappy tank top with a white bra. Why not wear a black bra so you can't tell so much? That's a sure sign of Fishtown trash. I thought she was going to start scratching her crotch or something any minute.

What is it about summer and hot weather that makes people forget how to dress well? Men are the worst -- any fashion sense they ever had just sort of flies out the window. Craig is no exception......he loves jean shorts and muscle shirts with sneakers and white socks. I refuse to leave the house with him when he looks like that. I mean, really, why doesn't he just grow a mullet and get it over with? My personal favorite male fashion nightmare, aside from the plaid bermuda shorts with black socks and brown sandals, is the skinny little guys who wear wife beaters with teeny tiny little nylon shorts with knee high socks and sneakers. There is no end to the hell. Women are really no better though -- fat women wearing skimpy little outfits or spandex is the single worst offense I can think of....other than ANY man in a Speedo. If I wanted to see your hairy back and know the size of your penis and scrotum I'd date you.

---

I had to sit next to Burpy McBelch on the train this morning....every few minutes a belch here and a belch there. It was gross ....and smelly. Not the way I would have wanted to spend the morning.

Thankfully, Big Ed has one the primary governor race (Democrat)....now that stupid underhanded Bob Casey can slither back under his rock.

In other news: it is a sure sign of a coming plague -- Orrin Hatch and I have come down on the same side of an issue. Cloning, in particular. I was watching an interview on The Today Show before I left the house and he's introducing a bill that would allow cloning in order to promote stem cell research. This is probably the one and only time in history this will happen, so I'm a little teary eyed.

Surprisingly, the majority of the Buffy finale was pretty good last night.....all except for the last 10 minutes. And the season finale of 24 was also really good -- I'm so glad I decided to watch the show.

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The session last night went fairly well, I suppose. Not too many complaints from the participants...and Angela showed up (albiet 5 minutes late). I'm glad that one is over. 2 down, 2 to go! Woohoo!

My real reason for getting home last night was to watch Buffy and I'm glad that I did. It was quite an episode....so glad that I was completely spoiled for it. The AR scene was, yes, hard to watch...but I didn't think it was as bad as some people made it out to be. The whole leaving of the jacket thing was the real perfection of that episode though. The last 5 minutes was really excellent -- I hate to say it but, aside from the musical episode, that was the best show of the season. And next week looks pretty good too -- can't wait to read the Wildfeed on Monday!

I was obsessively checking out this woman on the subway this morning....she was kind of a heavy woman (probably about a size 28 or so) and she was wearing a flowered skirt and short sleeve yellow blouse. She was one of those really hippy women....not like she was small elsewhere but she had the kind of hips that you could set drinks on. Anyway, the outfit she had on was very clean and well pressed and all of that, but you could tell it was kind of old and had been washed too many times because all over the back of it it had these little pills. I don't know why but it was driving me nuts to look at. I didn't really get a look at her from the front.

My mood today is middle of the road I guess. Mostly I just wish that I was doing something fun that I enjoy. Soon! Of course, I'm also sort of obsessive over the latest from Israel. This peace agreement is never going to work out -- there were two new suicide bombings in the last 24 hours. I'm not sure there can be any peace resolution. Ever. Sharon thinks its all Arafats fault, and maybe to some degree it is. But how did the whole thing start? There has to be a single act that began everything. It makes me so sad -- all this crap over religion....it makes no sense at all.

I found this journal today. Very interesting.....