Wasn't that an Abbott & Costello routine?

Just so you know I haven't lost my sense of humor regarding human stupidity

2008-06-01T09:00:00.001-04:00

Is it ok to feed my 17ft female reticulated python a medium sized cow every year?

And lawyers wonder why people hate them

2008-05-31T20:02:00.009-04:00

Fox News worker sues over bedbugs in office

Fri May 30, 2008 1:37pm EDT

NEW YORK (Reuters) - A Fox News employee who says she suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder after being bitten by bedbugs at work filed a lawsuit on Thursday against the owner of the Manhattan office tower where she worked.

Jane Clark, 37, a 12-year veteran of Fox News, a unit of News Corp, said she complained to human resources after being bitten three times between October 2007 and April 2008. She said she was ridiculed and the office was not treated for months.

Beacon Capital Partners, which owns the tower in midtown Manhattan, said in a statement that it had not been made aware of the problem and that it was the responsibility of tenants to manage infestations.

"As a prudent step, we are bringing in outside, independent experts to review the situation," the statement said.

The suit did not say how much Clark was seeking in damages.

Clark, who says she's been diagnosed with PTSD and can no longer work, has filed a separate workers compensation claim with News Corp, and the company is paying her medical bills and lost wages. A News Corp spokeswoman declined to comment because News Corp was not named in the lawsuit.

"They made a lot of mistakes," Clark said through tears at a news conference at the office of her lawyer, Alan Schnurman, who said he has brought numerous bedbug cases. [*SMC note: I found news links to these : March 2006, and September 2007. Hardly seems "numerous", but w'ever.]

"I didn't want my baby to get bitten. I was terrified of bringing it home," Clark said.

She said she believed a colleague who used her workstation on weekends, and who no longer works for Fox News, brought the infestation to the office. Clark's home was never infested.

Clark says she suffers nightmares and keeps a flashlight at her bedside so she can check for bugs during the night.

"It's their obligation to the working public to provide a safe environment," Schnurman said.

(Reporting by Edith Honan; editing by Mohammad Zargham)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As an attorney, as a New Yorker, as a believer in victim's rights, and as a human being, I am incensed. I personally find this to be a ridiculous, horrific and abusive mockery of both our legal and medical systems, but mainly it is a wound salting to people who REALLY suffer PTSD.

HOW DARE THIS WOMAN AND HER LAWYER SUE FOR POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER CAUSED BY F*CKING BED BUGS???!!!

PTSD is suffered by war veterans, victims of adult and childhood sexual, mental and physical abuse, victims of war, and victims and witnesses of shocking, horrifying, catastrophic events like the WTC bombings. Children living in war-ravaged countries, yes. Employees subject to constant mental, racial, and sexual harassment, yes. Soldiers who cradled their dying comrades in their arms, yes. Women (and men, to be fair) who cower in fear when someone raises their voice in anger because they expect it to be followed by a violent mental and/or physical assault, yes.

A middle-aged professional white woman living in New York City (or a nearby suburb) who has had a decade of success within the same company that DOESN'T block her claim for Worker's Comp AND pays her lost wages AS WELL AS her medical expenses, who claims nightmare-inducing psychological damage from three bed bug bites between October 2007 and April 2008? No.

No.

And....

(in case you haven't yet figured out how I feel about this)

NO!

If the suit was for failing to provide a safe, healthy employment environment, I'd say okay.

If the suit was for panic/anxiety attacks due to the onset of

Entomophobia (let me first acknowledge that I am not a medical professional, nor am I a trained psychologist, but I do know how to read, research, question and interpret medical opinions and terminology -- that being said, it is my redoubtable opinion that Jane Clark meets the DSM-IV requirements to even be classified as having Entomophobia since it is highly unlikely that if she did that she would go looking for them - especially in the middle of the night...it sounds more like a mild, generalized anxiety of bed bugs -- similar to many people's anxiety at seeing a spider or a roach), I'd say okay.

If the suit was for psychological trauma due to being the subject of constant ridicule as "the bed bug lady", I'd say okay (it is mentioned in the story that she "was ridiculed"...but that's all it says, and there is no apparent claim of this being tied to her PTSD), I'd be a little skeptical because the likelihood of anyone knowing about her issue unless she told them seems sketchy, but at least I could buy the argument.

If the suit was even for punitive damages due to the company's HR department failing to do any follow-through and escalation of her complaints, I'd say okay.

But THIS???

I'm no expert on bed bugs, but it seems to me that if she could last seven months in what she considered an infected/infested environment and was concerned that she would bring home the little monsters to her child, she would have done what any NORMAL person (i.e., someone who could last seven months in an environment they considered infected/infested with bugs) would have done...(1) attempted to express to the cleaning crew her desire that the area around her desk be extra diligently cleaned and vacuumed, (2) gotten the entire office in an uproar over the situation, (3) threatened to go to a competing network with the story, and/or (4) confronted the weekend colleague and politely suggest that he have himself and his home treated. Odd though it may sound, It is entirely possible that despite all the news coverage in recent years of a resurgence in bed bugs in urban centers (especially NYC), said co-worker simply was unaware that not all the tiny little critters feeding on his body were supposed to be there.

Again, I'm no expert, but I find it iinteresting that it doesn't appear that anyone else was affected. Seems to me that over the course of seven months, these prolific little nasties would have expanded their feeding and breeding range to encompass the space at least ONE other co-worker (especially if there were enough of them that they started hanging out on Jane's clothes). At the very least, there should have been one person sufficiently subject to the power of suggestion that he or she would have developed a little paranoia at each itch or odd skin eruption. And you CERTAINLY would think at least one person who would have hopped on the lucrative bandwagon of this get-out-of-work-free-and-paid lawsuit if they thought they could pull it off or was sufficiently frightened of this potential threat. With no back-up support, Jane should have brought in her lawyer quietly and privately and negotiated an appropriate settlement agreement. If she thinks she was subject to ridicule in her own office, I hope she realizes how much ridicule she has subjected herself to as a result of splashing this all over the news.

But the heart, and bottom line, of this matter is the disgusting and reprehensible behavior of claiming PTSD as a result of three bug bites. Jane Clark should be ashamed of herself. Her attorney, Alan Schnurman, and whatever "medical professional" diagnosed her should both be hauled before their respective professional associations and disciplined. And every group dealing with the real effects of people afflicted with this terrifying trauma, as well as every individual who actually has suffered or does suffer from it, should join in a class action suit suing each and every one of them for fraud, abuse of the legal system, abuse of the public trust, misrepresentation and Crimes Against Humanity. At the very least, several representatives from the community should hold a press conference and denounce this parody of "concern" and "justice".

I intend to keep a close eye on the progression of this case (NY Supreme Court Index No: 107455-2008) and these people, and I can assure you that any updates I get will quickly get reported here. I really hope that this case is thrown out on its face and that sanctions are imposed as quickly as possible, otherwise I will seriously have to consider throwing my law degrees out the window.

It's about time!!!

2008-03-17T17:25:00.004-04:00

State passes droopy pants law

TALLAHASSEE, Florida (Reuters) - The Florida Senate wants public school students to pull up their pants. Lawmakers passed a bill Thursday that could mean suspensions for students with droopy britches. [Tee hee! "Britches"! Who says that anymore???]

It won't become law unless the House of Representatives passes a companion measure.

Florida could join several southern U.S. towns and cities that have passed "saggy pants" laws aimed at outlawing what some teenagers consider a fashion statement -- wearing pants half way down their buttocks, exposing flesh or underwear. [How ANYONE thinks this is "cute", "sexy", "hip", "phat", "fly", "real" or any other generational catch-word for "cool" is beyond me. Seriously...do people really believe this is a good look or is this "but all my friends are doing it" on a megawatt scale???]

Supporters say schools sometimes don't properly police dress codes and parents are often "under aware" of what their kids are wearing to school. ["Under aware" - I get it. Why that's...almost...punny.]

Critics say the measure is unnecessary, arguing that appearance and dress codes should be the responsibility of school districts and parents. [Obviously it is necessary, since school districts and parents don't seem to be doing a very good job.]

Despite being the butt of jokes [...oy...], the bill's sponsor, Orlando Sen. Gary Siplin, a Democrat, has said the fashion statement has a back-story [...vey...]-- it was made popular by rap artists after first appearing among prison inmates as a signal they were looking for sex. [...yeesh...]

"All we're trying to do now is trying to inform folks that we have a fad now that does not have a very good origination," Siplin said. "We're trying to make an example in school," he added, saying it would help students get jobs and a degree. [Wait...WHAT??? Can I have that guarantee in writing? And better yet, can I translate that to mean if I start wearing baggy pants and then stop wearing them, I will get that job that has been eluding my efforts for the past year???]

The Florida city of Riviera Beach passed its own saggy pants law Tuesday, with a maximum penalty of 60 days in jail for repeat offenders. [Hmmm. Better hope that the urban legend of the baggy pants sex walk isn't true, gentlemen!]

(Reporting by Michael Peltier, editing by Jim Loney and Todd Eastham) [TWO guys edited this. TWO. Makes me wonder what it looked like before they got their hands on it. Also makes me wonder who left in those crappy attempts at puns and double entendres.]

Can I call 'em or can I call 'em?

2008-02-25T00:22:00.003-05:00

Best Picture: No Country for Old Men (if I'd pinned myself down to a winner, this is the one I would have chosen...it was really too high flown not to have garnered the title).

Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis (There will be Blood). Told you he owned that role.

Ordinarily, I would be far more pleased with myself about making correct picks of stuff, but honestly, it's frightening the lack of intelligence one really needs to have to get into the heads of HollywoodLanders.

But interestingly enough, JUNO won for Best Original Screenplay...I say interestingly because during the movie, Juno explains that she is not named for the town in Alaska, but rather after ZEUS' WIFE JUNO.

'kay, I was a liberal arts major. I was REQUIRED to know Greek mythology like my life depended upon it. Right after these words were uttered, I leaned over to Billie and whispered, "ummm...wasn't Hera Zeus' wife?" This was a completely rhetorical question as I already knew the answer. I knew that Juno was actually Hera's Roman counterpart. What I couldn't remember was the name of Zeus' Roman counterpart. Embarrassingly enough, turns out that it happens to be Jupiter. This is embarrassing because, although I'm not live-my-life-by-the-stars Girl, I do happen to be familiar with the fact that Jupiter is my ruling planet.

All that notwithstanding, I don't see how ANYONE could make such a stupid mistake - ESPECIALLY when it relates DIRECTLY to the MAIN CHARACTER! And to top it off, they go and award it Best Screenplay!!! Can you DO that if a major fact in the storyline is GROSSLY erroneous???

Apparently you can in HollywoodLand - it's all good in the hood.

And the winner is...!

2008-02-24T18:56:00.005-05:00

In my never-ending quest to rid my life of disinterest and boredom, and revel in the the shiny, new, untried and quirky, I hauled my friend, Billie, to a 12 hour movie marathon of the five nominees for 2008 Best Picture Oscar.

Yes. TWELVE hours. I said, I meant it, I did it.

So there.

And you know what? It's not something I would do every week or even every month, but there is something undeniably satisfying about sitting in a dark theater with a good friend, a bunch of strangers and free popcorn refills from 11 AM until 11 PM watching the flickering glow of light hitting celluloid.

Having thus survived this challenge, I feel uniquely qualified to comment intelligently and articulately on the chances I believe each film has of winning the Academy Award. Here goes:

MICHAEL CLAYTON: Wow. What a pleasant shock. I'd been expecting another "Erin Brocovich", which was why I didn't go to see it in the first place. Not even remotely close. And as a not-crazy-gaga-over-George-Clooney-fan, I gotta say, George is actually a good actor...and not looking too bad, either, I might add.

The story was fast moving, albeit slightly confusing at times (but to their credit, they tried to clear things up as quickly as possible), and held my interest from start to finish. As a lawyer, there were many scenes I had a rueful inside laugh at, but even those were understandable enough that the non-legal audience-goer could appreciate what was meant. The characters were all flawed, although there were clearly defined Morality Paths that put them more on the side of "right" and "wrong". I could go on, but there are four more movies to discuss. In my opinion, MICHAEL CLAYTON has a legitimate and justifiable reason for its nomination, but I do not believe it will win simply because of the overwhelming popularity of two of its competitors: THERE WILL BE BLOOD and NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. I certainly hope that Clooney at least got the nod for Best Actor, although I don't think he will win that for the same reasons.

THERE WILL BE BLOOD: Daniel Day-Lewis? Perfect 19th century oil prospector. I don't think anyone else could have been better for this role. He absolutely owned it. Wore it like a skin. No doubt about it. Another nod for Best Actor absolutely deserved here. The movie itself, on the other hand, was one of the most disjointed, confused, poorly written?/directed?/edited? things I've ever seen. It started in one place, then hit a point where it could go in three or four different directions, chose one, followed it for a while, then doubled back and went off on another tangent, hit another fork in the road, chose a direction (sort of), abandoned it, jumped onto a plane and tried to pick up the thread of the first storyline a day late and a dollar short. The ending was abrupt, convoluted, contrived and unsatisfying. It was almost as if someone looked at the entire mess, realized that it needed to be in theaters in 72-hours, and took "The Sopranos" method of ending to heart. "Dude, just end it. There is no clean way to tie this up and have it make sense. Tell people to just read the damn book and stop looking for answers from Hollywood!"

Because of the Emperor's New Clothes approach to media, THERE WILL BE BLOOD is a hot and heavy front runner for Best Picture. Not because it deserves to be, but because "if it's confusing, it's probably all metaphorical and everyone else is looking around and nodding, so they must all understand it and I don't want to be the stupid one, so I'm going to pretend I get it and talk about how brilliant it is!" Yeah. About that. Milk Chan doesn't do the Emperor's New Clothes thing. She is all about looking at some naked dude and saying, "Dude...did you know you're all like, naked, and stuff?" So Thumbs Up for Daniel Day, Thumbs Down for the flick, but no surprised look here if it takes home the gold.

ATONEMENT: I expected this movie to suck. I wasn't disappointed. The only reason it's even on the list if because it's a period piece, and people feel obliged to say that period pieces are automatically masterpieces. I think it has something to do with the swelling, epic music or something. Anyway, it sucked, but it got its obligatory nomination and that is all it will get. Cross this off your list of has-a-chances.

JUNO: Didn't think I would like this, either. I did. Cute movie, although Ellen Page looks looks and sounds like Jeanine Garafalo (at ages 14 and 43, respectively), instantly making her visually too young and spiritually too old to be the character she was playing. NOBODY outside of HollywoodLand is THAT cool when they're a geeky little off-beat freak in high school. Nobody. While it made for an amusing time, and held your interest from start to finish, it relied on far more than "just a little" suspension of disbelief. I really don't know why it made the list other than they needed a quirky indie film to show how cool the nominating committee is and how they are totally not slaves to the big studios. (We'll ignore the fact that the big studios all back these indie productions these days.) Put this on the ATONEMENT list. No way will it win.

and, finally, we come to NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. This was less convoluted than BLOOD, but not terribly less so. Again, hyper-metaphorical. Again, a whole lot of "but, wait a minute...who are these guys? And who left all the heroin there? And where did those guys come from? And what happened to the black dog in the desert? And WTF???!!!" Interesting? Yes. Confusing? Yes. Allegorical? Definitely. Contender? Absolutely. Justifiably? Yeah...no.

It is my considered opinion (and I want to get this in quick before the choices are actually made) that either BLOOD or OLD MEN will win, but I would really like to see CLAYTON win simply because it was what a good movie should be...a plot, realistic characters who are neither totally good or totally bad, motivation, conflict, action, reaction, climax, resolution. Bon chance, George!

I'VE HAD A SUPER GLUE ACCIDENT! everyone remain calm...

2008-01-29T22:24:00.000-05:00

Fly naked on nudist holiday flight
Tue Jan 29, 2008 9:52am EST

FRANKFURT (Reuters) - German nudists will be able to start their holidays early by stripping off on the plane if they take up a new offer from an eastern German travel firm.

Travel agency OssiUrlaub.de said it would start taking bookings from Friday for a trial nudist day trip from the eastern German town of Erfurt to the popular Baltic Sea resort of Usedom, planned for July 5 and costing 499 euros ($735).

"It's expensive, I know," managing director Enrico Hess told Reuters by phone. "It's because the plane's very small. There's no real reason why a flight in which one flies naked should be more expensive than any other."

*I don't know if I agree with that. I think it should would depend on the physical appearance of the other passengers. I mean, a plane full of this:

should definitely have a different price point than a plane full of this:

The 55 passengers will have to remain clothed until they board, and dress before disembarking, said Hess. The crew will remain clothed throughout the flight for safety reasons.

*Thank heaven for that. Fifty-five naked German tourists is certainly more than enough nudity for anyone.

"I wish I could say we thought of it ourselves but the idea came from a customer," Hess told Reuters by phone. "It's an unusual gap in the market."

*...naw...too easy...

Naturism, or "free body culture" (FKK) as it is known in Germany, was banned by the Nazis but blossomed again after the Second World War, particularly in eastern Germany.

*So maybe the Nazis weren't all COMPLETELY nuts after all. Although, honestly, I imagine that a good many of those SS officers wouldn't have minded a bunch of blonde haired, blue eyed "perfect Aryans" running around in their birthday suits.

"There are FKK hotels where you can go into the restaurants and shops naked, for example," Hess said. "For FKK fans -- not that I'm one of them -- it's nothing unusual."

*So maybe this guy isn't COMPLETELY nuts after all, either.

"I don't want people to get the wrong idea. It's not that we're starting a swinger club in mid-air or something like that," he added. "We're a perfectly normal holiday company."

*Ummm...yeah...that's just what I was thinking. Well, that and no one would have to hog the bathroom to join the Mile High Club.

(Reporting by Georgina Prodhan, editing by Paul Casciato, emphasis and commentary added by SMC)
© Reuters 2007. All rights reserved. Republication or redistribution of Reuters content, including by caching, framing or similar means, is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Reuters. Reuters and the Reuters sphere logo are registered trademarks and trademarks of the Reuters group of companies around the world.

Today's Topic: Why is reality reversed in cartoons?

2008-01-15T12:51:00.000-05:00

I think that, without much fear of contradiction, it is safe to say that most people are not crazy about mice living in their homes. Not only are they terribly unsanitary (did you know that mice, like flies, are constantly excreting waste of some sort of another as they traverse your castle?), but they're fast and noisy.

And yet, when watching Tom & Jerry, you want the mouse to outsmart the cat and escape.

Why is that?

And good old Popeye and Olive Oyl...why do we forgive her constant idiocy of going off with Bluto (or Bruno, depending on the age of the episode) because she momentarily finds him sexier, wittier and more interesting, and hold our breath until Popeye gets that can of spinach, kicks ass and rescues the girl? It certainly ain't because she's hot (the following picture, and updated "pretty Olive" notwithstanding) or puts out ("You keep your hands to you...that's what you are!")

But those are Olde Tyme toons. Let's check out one of them New Millennium toonz.

This little cutie is Pucca, a Japanese anime import who appears on Toon Disney...which automatically means that she's A-OK with parents and kiddies, right? I mean, who on Earth is more respectful of the value of wholesomeness and the delicate grip morality has on today's society than the good people of Disney???

So why are they masquerading a delusional psycho stalker chick as an adorable little girl with a major crush on Garu, a little ninja boy with a heart decorating his ninja jammies???

Here's what Pucca sees in her head:

Here's the reality:

Garu spends most episodes running away/hiding from Pucca when he isn't fighting the evil ninja guys. The girl terrifies him. And with good reason. She's EVERYWHERE! The only "benefit" is that when he is being threatened by any one of a number of ninja baddies, Pucca turns into some kind of crazed, psycho stalker one-girl hurricane of fighting fury. No one will EVER hurt Garu as long as Pucca lives and breathes. But does this endear her to him? No. It freaks him out. As well it should.

And yet, you want Garu to realize that Pucca is the cutest thing ever and that his life would be an endless rain of gumdrops and sunshine should he ever JUST STOP RUNNING!!!

Why is that???!!!

Do we allow our ordinary sense of "right" and "wrong" to evaporate when we turn on the Boob Tube? Are we (sans LSD) "turning on, tuning in, and dropping out"? Are we permitting ourselves to be lulled into a dreamy sense of acceptance via catchy (albeit nonsensical) pop tunes, bright primary colors and constant movement allowing for no time to THINK?

Perhaps this is all a plot to prepare us for the upcoming Presidential elections. I, for one, know I would pay a lot more attetion to the yadda yadda yadda if I were watching, say, hand puppets, instead of talking heads. Mayhaps that is what we have to look forward to in the upcoming weeks and months.

Sweet!

As they say...Stay Tooned...

YOU be the judge!!!

2008-01-12T00:33:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I totally owe a whole lot of people a whole lot of updates on Me, Me and more Me (for some reason, I am an apparent source of good times and amusement to a slightly disturbing number of my friends, family and their extended networks...but we'll dwell on that another time...), but I PROMISED FRY my good buddy McSorely that I would absolutely, unquestionably, upon pain of a month of 6 am Cream of Wheat and Mayonnaise breakfasts with Nancy Grace that I would post this picture before I go to bed:

The guy on the left is the (in)famous John Scherer aka the Video Professor.

The guy on the right swears up, down and sideways that he is NOT the (in)famous John Scherer.

Ummm...doppelganger?

I mean COME ON!!! This guy looks more like the Video Professor than the Video Professor looks like the Video Professor!!!

McSorely nearly wet his pants when I told him that I was in the same room as the "I'm NOT the Video Professor" guy today, and demanded proof.

As much as I remain in doubt about how happy I am with my new Samsung SCH-u740 phone, I hereby formally retract any earlier statements I've ever made about how I have no need for a camera phone.

Happy 2008!

2008-01-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

My wish for this year is that all the trials of sowing and tilling and tending that has been put in over the last few years bears fruit and brings everyone I know and love every happiness they deserve. (You guys know who you are!)

much mad love, Milk

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!

2007-12-04T23:13:00.000-05:00

Like all good Sagittarians, you can always count on me showing up on My Favorite Holiday!

I asked for, and received, the Most Coolest of Cool Presents (I must say!)

SQAWKERS McCAW

If you have one, YOU ROCK!

If you don't have one, GET ON THE STICK, BOY, YOU AIN'T GETTIN' ANY YOUNGER!!!

WHAT I DID OVER SUMMER VACATION: Part I

2007-09-28T12:52:00.001-04:00

First and foremost, I obviously became a lazy blogger. I plead Cranial Echo, which is a term of art I invented and which expresses perfectly what happens in the brain when you get to your very last thought, and further attempts to pursue cogitation result in that lone last thought just bouncing around in your skull.

(Hello?…hello…hello? Anything there?...there…there? No…no…no…)

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I actually had a very full summer, which means there’s way too much to catch up on in one, readable length, blog. Thusly this will become a serial blog for several entries. Hopefully not too many…I don’t want to have to write “What I did over the Fall and Winter” six months from now.

Logic seems to dictate that I start as close to where I left off as possible. So…let’s see what was going on the last time I was bloggingly useful…

Oh yes. I was growing!

Growth Lesson #2: Sometimes you have to Let Go to Move Forward

This is actually something I learned some years ago (but forgot to apply to other situations further on). About a million years ago, I was married. It didn’t work out. I left, and had to arrange for my things to be sent along later. My (now ex-) husband decided to be a total donkey’s derrière and keep many of the items that held sentimental value for me. I was furious about this for YEARS. So furious that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ever. So my friends wouldn’t get sick of hearing me bemoan my fate, I stuck to making my psycho-therapist suffer through it. After all, I pay her to listen to me whine.

After a while, I realized that I was poisoning my system and it was seeping out into every interaction I had with the world. Knowing that this could not continue unabated indefinitely, I had to find a way to put it behind me and move on. Oddly enough, I just saw a movie poster the other day that spelled out exactly what I did. The flick is called “Things We Lost in The Fire” (and stars the ever-beautiful Halle Berry). That was my solution three or four years ago. I mentally envisioned my house in Illinois a heap of smoldering rubble, a fire having taken it and my beloved possessions with it (usually I added my useless husband to the pile – I know that sounds totally evil, but there’s little point in lying about it if I’m trying to open my mind and keep growing). It took a few weeks of working on it, but it worked.

I don’t use the fire perspective for everything, but the metaphor is adaptable.

For instance, when people unbelievably, unforgivably betray you – betray your friendship – you have to divorce them. Once, that is, you get over the shock and disbelief that such a thing could happen with someone you have known and cared about for years. One of the things I offer to, and expect from, people I consider my friends is loyalty. If there is a problem between us, it’s something that we need to address. It is not something I should find out about from a misdirected email, a slip of the tongue laying bare a blatant lie, or from being asked a seemingly innocuous question by a third party that I cannot back with information that meshes with what Friend has told them, because Friend didn’t bother to tell me what was going on.

Those are fairly obvious Divorce situations. Sometimes, though, the relationships are far more difficult and complex to distill down to “right” and “wrong” answers. When you have to cut those off, they go under the category of “Necessary Losses.”

I have never had a “Necessary Loss” situation. I hadn’t even had a “Divorce” situation until a few years ago – and then it was three, bang bang bang, one right after another within a few months. But it seems now that I am faced with a Loss choice.

In seventh grade, I met a girl who I was close friends with for the next three years or so. After our freshman year of high school, however, she transferred schools and we lost touch for the most part. Every now and again she would resurface, place a call to my parents (who have had the same phone number since I was 12 years old), and either reach me there or have my parents provide my current phone number or leave hers. I may have seen her a few times over the intervening years, but it was never “back together” for a significant length of time, as I was in college in NY, and she was following her then-boyfriend around the country.

The next time I really remember seeing her was around 1989, when I had the distinct displeasure of meeting said boyfriend. He was nouveau rich, arrogant, far more impressed with himself and his abilities than he had any right to be, and kind of homely. (Okay, I found him quite unattractive.) My friend, on the other hand, was a cute, petite curly-haired brunette with big blue eyes and a smattering of freckles. She was with this man because she thought him brilliant and because he allowed her to do the one thing she loved to do more than anything else…take care of him. I could go into a whole psychological profile and dissect her bit by bit, but the ultimate push is that she is insecure about who she is (and who she can be) and tends towards the “I’m nothing without a man” philosophy. She is in love with being in love, and while that, in itself, is, if not an admirable quality, at least an understandable and fairly positive one.

That is until it gets to the point of OCD.

For the past 18 years or so, she has been living the same relationship over and over and over. With different people, to be sure, but people with the same psychology (psychopathology?) and always the same result. Meet potential love interest, get together with potential love interest, have passionate sexual relationship with love interest, get treated poorly by love interest, refuse to accept that relationship shouldn’t continue, continue to get treated poorly by love interest whose psychopathology allows them to believe that they still deserve the fawning and worship since she obviously doesn’t have a problem with being treated poorly, relationship finally ends, three days later she’s out at a club or on the Internet looking for someone new. I am aware of exactly ONE relationship that she ended (rather than the other way around), and that was the anomalous one that was the complete antithesis of all the others – she was loved and cared for, treated like a princess by a stable, emotionally healthy person with the interest and means to indulge my friend in all the things she wanted to experience. That relationship was completely unacceptable, despite the fact that it was precisely what she is always wistfully wishing for. I believe she described it as “too vanilla.”

“Too vanilla” apparently meaning “little conflict”, “little real reason to complain about the relationship”, and “being respected and desired.”

She thrives on controversy. She denies this emphatically, but reality directly refutes her. The more turmoil there is in the relationship, the longer she holds on, and the more love she professes. If someone is trying to push her away, it is because there is a beautiful, wounded child inside who doesn’t believe it is worthy of the love and affection she is showering upon it. This is someone who needs her, even if they can’t see it. Self-blindness being what it is, she does not, or can not, see that the person she is talking about is herself. Years of therapy have either failed to unearth this obviousness or she has refused to accept it. My guess is denial, as that is her modus operandi.

All this is a long preamble to get to the current day. For the past seven or eight years, we have both been in NY and had gotten close again. For the past seven or eight years I have watched this one relationship (and its one anomaly) play out over and over and over again. Standing by and watching it is difficult enough, but the really intolerable part is being subjected to listening to all the negative aspects of the relationship and love interest, and then being admonished for not liking love interest or taking the time to get to know them. NO I’m not going to like someone you tell me treats you with less respect than they might give their favorite pet. NO I’m not going to want to “get to know this person better”. NO I’m not going to keep giving you my opinion when you ask because you never listen to it and I’m tired of repeating myself. And NO it’s not unrealistic for me to take the position after seven years of listening to this ongoing monologue that if you aren’t going to do anything but complain, then shut up about it. You are absolutely right in concluding that I no longer have any interest in listening to your relationship problems because I’VE HEARD THEM ALL BEFORE. I hear the SAME PROBLEMS over and over and over again with different names inserted. It is a basic mathematical premise that if you have ONE constant, TEN variables and the same result each time, the constant is probably the culprit. That makes it a problem the constant has to come to terms with and address. And if said constant doesn’t do that, then it risks being placed on the Necessary Losses shelf.

I always liked her because she had a good heart. She was upbeat and resilient and saw the glass as half full. Although I am a hopeless romantic at heart, the world has jaded me somewhat, and I haven’t been Pollyanna since I was about fifteen. I admired that she was able to retain that spirit, and that’s why I was friends with her. Over the past few years, she has shed that spirit speedily and unexpectedly, and has become far more neurotic and bitchy than I would ever have thought possible. (In every area except romance, of course.) This has affected our relationship drastically, and when the dissonance of her romances is piled on top, the tower becomes precarious. As a result of an exchange of missives between us where she has “listened” but not “heard” what I have been saying to her, I finally have to seriously question whether this friendship is worth trying to salvage or if its time has passed. If she’s going to be another me and be jaded and spiteful, then she has ceased to have the beautiful qualities which drew me to her in the first place. If she loses those qualities, then I have to ask what else is there for us to base our friendship on.

Right now the focus of her life is her current marriage, and 99% of her conversations are about this. I think the marriage was ill-advised, that they rushed into it too quickly and that a whole lot of healing should have gone on with both of them beforehand. She is well aware of all this, and I don’t see any reason for continuing to talk about it. If I suggest we discuss something else, she gets angry and defensive and accuses me of being cruel and uncaring. This is a personal opinion, so I won’t deny her her feelings. We’ll work under the assumption that I am being cruel and uncaring. What she doesn’t see is that she is also being cruel and uncaring by not considering how I feel. If it has ever occurred to her that she causes me pain by constantly subjecting me to tales of a marriage spinning in an uncertain, unpredictable and unpleasant direction, she has never voiced it. All comments on the subject revolve around her in her mind. She doesn't see that she no longer has (if she ever did) a two-person marriage. I, for one (I won't speak to the opinions of her other friends), feel like I've been a part of the relationship since the beginning. And since it is a relationship I have never believed in, I am incredibly uncomfortable in that role. Her world has narrowed to the point that this is all her conversation revolves around. She hasn’t asked me anything about myself in months. Yet she can’t understand why I would even consider walking away – even if it’s just to give her a chance for her to work on her issues without having to worry about my approval, disapproval or input.

This is a difficult decision, but one I will have to make soon or there will be no decision to make.

Well, this seems a logical place to end Part I, so I shall do just that. Part II will be less heartbreaking, although it still involves being betrayed by people I considered friends.

Lot of weirdness with personal relationships this summer. I wonder if this is an unexplored effect of Global Warming…

My friends are wack jobs. That's why I love 'em.

2007-07-23T12:17:00.000-04:00

Growth Lesson #1: The only thing you can change today is tomorrow

2007-07-21T22:00:00.000-04:00

aka Learning from the past is okay...living in the past is not.

It may be general human nature, or it may just be the nature of MilkChan-types, to spend too much time focusing on regrets. MilkChan-types tend to be avid learners stuck in their second chakra. A kind of perpetual academic who can strategize, make difficult decisions quickly, cull apparently unrelated information and come up with a workable solution to a problem in every facet of their lives that don’t affect the heart and spirit. In those areas, they tend to over-analyze, fret endlessly, second-guess themselves and you could get Vegas odds on whether they will make a good decision, a timely decision or talk themselves out of the need to make a decision at all.

For me, the Heart and Spirit arena encompasses three things: career, romance and, more recently, physical appearance. Romance and appearance are fairly tied for second place, one rising slightly over the over on any given day depending on what’s going on around me. Career is far and away my principal nemesis.

I have never been one to “follow the crowd”. I am not an extremist in any way, but I do see the world just differently enough that it can make people who follow A to B, B to C, C to D, ad infinitum just a little bit leery of me…unless my path shows marked success. I determined long ago that the best explanation for me is “traditional…with a twist” (unfortunately, I cannot turn this into a personal acronym for reasons which should be readily apparent.)

There is nothing about my appearance that would alarm anyone from any walk of life. I dress fairly conservatively, even for the gym or the beach; I generally maintain an air of approachability and openness; I will not “dumb down” my conversations, as I consider that rude and presumptive, but I have no problem trying to explain my point in a different way that might mean more to my audience. I have far more respect for someone who can admit that they don’t understand what I am saying than I do for someone who pretends to understand, or worse yet, attempts to impress and in the process violently abuses the English language. I’m fairly simple and straightforward to understand if you pay the slightest bit of attention for about an hour. I have the background to behave properly in the most formal of situations, but I prefer to avoid being pretentious. All I really want out of life is to work hard doing a job that brings me personal satisfaction (and hopefully helps others along the way), play hard according to my whims and flights of fancy, and preserve the closeness and sacredness of my personal relationships.

Well, that and a premium ice cream with zero calories.

I’ve spent quite some time in the past few years fretting over the choices I’ve made and where they have landed me vis-à-vis my contemporaries. In my harsh judgment, I come out at the bottom of the scale every time. The reasons for why/how I have failed vary with my mood (“I’m stupid”, “I should have gone to an Ivy League school”, “I didn’t try hard enough”, yadda x3), but the result is always the same…regret and personal recrimination. And I am damn good at blaming myself for pretty much anything.
This is a problem.

I have been working on letting go of my penchant for the Blame Game for a week now, and there has been progress. I have had small successes, such as allowing myself permission to take breaks from obligations to others and do something just for me, having friendly conversations with strangers, not feeling guilty for saying “no” to something I wasn’t prepared to commit to simply because it disappointed someone else, and avoiding situations that would ordinarily make me feel bad (such as overcoming my desire to stay at home and be a lump and going to the gym…I am far less likely to feel bad that I only burned 401 calories on the elliptical instead of the 430 I burned the day before than I am about not going at all, knowing how unhappy I am with the way I look at the moment). I allow myself to acknowledge these small steps as the victories they are without the immediate follow-up of “but…” I am learning to separate myself from the negative internal feedback that rarely has anything to do with the positive action I’ve just completed. While a certain amount of honest criticism is important to stay focused and on-track, beating myself up helps absolutely no one, least of all me.

It’s not easy, but that’s why it’s called a process. It will take more than one step, one day, one month, one year. It will probably be a lifetime effort that I will hone and fine tune along the way. But instead of feeling defeated by this knowledge, I can now embrace it and make it work for me instead of against me.

I’m breathing a little easier these days, and that’s definitely a good thing. It also makes it easier to work on learning the lessons yet to come…

Interlude

2007-07-16T03:46:00.001-04:00

One of my many fellow high school students was Andy Goldman. Andy and I had attended the same schools since junior high. He was a typical kid...had dirty blonde hair, brown eyes and braces. He was about 5'3 and loved music. In our junior year he ran the high school radio station and you never saw him without his headphones. We knew each other by virtue of the intersection of our circles of friends, but we weren't close, so I had no reason or occasion to see him during summer vacations.

On the first day of classes in my senior year, I was stunned when I walked into homeroom and discovered that Andy was, literally, 7 INCHES TALLER than he had been three months before.
Like most people, I'd heard of "growth spurts" of course, but to hear of such an urban myth-y kind of thing and to actually witness it are two completely different things. I found it fascinating only in a freak show kind of way...it would be over two decades before I found anything in it that I ever connected to my life personally.

My recent underground retreat from the blogging realm resulted from my own growth spurt. I grew not physically, but emotionally, spiritually and psychologically. I view the world very differently than I did two months ago - my interaction with it and its effect on me have altered in so many ways that I have yet to discover them all. For the first time since...high school, probably...I am experiencing mental and emotional sensations so new to me that I, wordsmith that I often am, often cannot even find the words to describe how I feel. It is both exciting and disquieting, leaving me feeling a little giddy and unsteady in my formerly ordinary life.

Thus truly begins a new chapter in my life (another quaint saying I never related to myself before), and my secret exhibitionist nature dictates that I share with you what I can of the journey. Some, as is only to be expected, must remain either only with me or at least out of the written realm. Discretion, I am not just learning, is always the better part of valor.

Pray, forgive me my trespasses, and join me in the days to come in what is sure to be an beguiling quest of personal enlightenment full of triumphs, tribulations, embarrassment, and laughter...but most of all, that growth which, although come lately, will tattoo upon me the map of my future roads.

Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The show is about to begin...

I woke up screaming the other morning

2007-05-27T22:55:00.000-04:00

Seriously. Not metaphorically. Not in my imagination. Actually, truly, 100% reality-based screaming.

It’s important that you understand that I am not a screamer by nature. If I were in a horror movie, I wouldn’t be the Scream Queen. I’d be the one who ducks and hides when I hear a weird noise and then peek out to see what’s going on. I’m pretty good about facing my fears. I’m not good at playing the damsel in distress. I learned a long time ago that you should rely on yourself first and foremost, and that your brain is the greatest weapon you can ever possess.

That being said, I woke up screaming the other morning.

I know exactly what it was that prompted the outburst. My bed is in front of a window. Just outside that window is my ~~balcony~~ fire escape. On the second floor of my building lives a strange little gnome-like woman. She has at least two cats. They manage to “escape” every now and then, and they like to come visit my window. My window sash is usually open about 8 inches, with a screen in place. When the kitties come a callin’, I have to either close the window or pull the security gate across it so that the very unhappy Daphne and the mildly unhappy/mainly intrigued Phizz and the Second Story Cat cannot get to each other.

This particular day, the white kitty had come by to say “howdy” pretty early…like around dawn. I closed the window as usual, and went back to sleep. A little later I woke up, cat was gone, so I opened the window again. Sometime later, I heard a loud noise and opened my eyes to see Daphne jumping back from the window. I can’t tell you now what the noise was, but my first thought was that the cat had returned and was ripping the screen with his claws. I screamed and started to sit up. Before I could fully finish the first scream, Daphne went flying off the bed and running into the living room. My mind’s rationalization for this behavior was that the cat had gotten in the window and was now after Daphne and that there was going to be one hell of a cat fight. This prompted a second, higher pitched scream.

Almost immediately, I realized that the window was intact; there was no alien cat around; and that given the slatted sleigh bed headboard on my bed, there was no way anything could have gotten through the window and given chase that quickly.

I snapped my mouth shut and listened. I was desperately hoping that no one would come knocking on my door. After about five minutes, my concern about being embarrassed was overcome by my annoyance that NO ONE HAD COME TO SEE IF ANYTHING WAS WRONG. Visions of Kitty Genovese danced through my head. I could just imagine the police knocking on doors, “Did you see or hear anything unusual?” “Well, there were two really loud terrified screams, but I figured (a) it wasn’t my problem, (2) someone was having a really good time or (D) someone else would see what was happening.”

I’d really like to be shocked by this, but, alas I am not. We really have become a nation of apathetic, narcissistic drones. Not everyone, of course. I am so relieved to be able to say that I am not prone to this behavior. In fact, I’m sometimes a little too quick to dive into a situation without fully thinking through the implications. Fortunately, I have never come to harm as a result of this, but I can’t say that I never will. But in weighing the choices…living as a coward or getting injured as a person who refused to stand by and do nothing…I’ll take the second option every time. I know it’s a ridiculous concept to even think that I can change the way people think or react, but at the same time, I know that I cannot change who I am or the way I feel when I know or think someone’s suffering as a result of someone else’s actions.

I’m not, nor am I trying to be, a martyr. But I do believe that nobility and honor are not concepts best left to the days of King Arthur. If each of us would just take a small step towards discarding our shell of comfort and complacency and instead do what we know to be the right thing, I think we’d all be amazed at the immediate, palpable difference.

And that is my soap box sermon for today. Stay tuned for next week’s sermon, “Godiva or Neuhaus: which is the superior gourmet chocolate?”

OMG, it's been another year already!

2007-05-17T00:32:00.000-04:00

My little girl, (Princess) Daphne Laurel turned FOUR on Tuesday! I swear I just posted mention of her THIRD birthday just a short time ago! My baby is growing up. Soon she'll be leaving for college and then she'll get married and have babies of her own and I'll be a grandmother and...

Oh wait. Daphne is not only a cat, but a "fixed" cat at that.

Never mind!

In tribute to the little monster (who I love dearly), I shall relate the story of how she came to be named Daphne Laurel...

First you must understand that as a Sagittarian, I enjoy a special relationship with animals. We understand things that most people don't "get", like the fact that if you ask an animal its name, it will tell you.

Daph was a homeless kitten living under a trailer in NJ with her mother and the last living sibling of her litter (the others having been on the wrong end of car accidents) when I found her. After coaxing her out with food and water, I scooped her up and along she came to the home of the friend I was visiting.

When friend and I had to go out later, I told then Nameless Cat before we left that whenever she was ready to tell me her name, I would be ready to listen.

Subsequently, friend and I returned to the house, and as I was walking up the stairs to the bedroom that Kitten and I were sharing, I looked up at the closed door and very distinctly heard "Daphne".

Lest you think I am schizophrenic or just plain crazy, let me assure you that I do not "hear voices" or believe that The Government is monitoring my thoughts through the television (I happen to know that they do it through bugs planted in my apartment and orbiting satellites). On occasion, however, there are things that "come to me" through whatever telepathic medium. (Were I not so damn lazy, I could probably hone this "sixth sense" and put it to better use. But I am so damn lazy, and this post is not about me, so I'll shut up now.)

At any rate, as soon as she named herself, the myth of Daphne and Apollo dusted itself off from some recess of my mind and made explanation of the moniker...

Daphne was a nymph, the daughter of the river god Peneus. She wanted nothing more of life than to remain a chaste huntress like her goddess, Diana. Through a series of typical Greek god mischiefs, the nymph one day found herself being relentlessly pursued through the woods by Apollo. Daphne was terrified, fearing her maidenhood be lost and all with it. She sped through the forest as long as she could, then, feeling the closeness of her pursuer as exhaustion overtook her, raised up her arms and called out, "Father! Please help me!" Even as the words were barely escaping her lips, her limbs turned to branches, her feet rooted themselves in the earth and her body covered itself with bark and there she stood, transformed into a tree. Apollo, deeply saddened by his loss, declared that the tree be called a laurel and would be his tree.

Now all this went through my head in a matter of seconds. By the time I had walked the ten feet to the bedroom, I had already distilled down the essential message and translation of this myth to understand its relationship to the kitten Daphne:

A virgin forever (no sex for my little girl!), Daphne is rescued by a force greater than herself (that'd be me) from a fate worse than death (literally).

Grandiose? Perhaps. But that's the true story behind Daphne Laurel's nomenclature.

In further tribute, here is a recent photo of The Gorgeous One who takes after her mother in laziness (she's the one on the left):

Please forgive the blurriness...I wanted the picture of a few seconds earlier when Phizz had his paw over hers (awww, how cuuuuute!), but as soon as I turned on the camera they both popped up their heads to see what was going on. I had to quick snap this shot before they became camera-aware again.

BTW, those are Mommy's 500 thread-count sheets and raw silk pillows the two of them are happily napping on. If they've learned nothing else, they've learned to appreciate the quality and luxury of the lifestyle Mommy has accustomed them to. And, best of all, since Mommy is the idiot who goes out to work every day, they actually get to enjoy the quality and luxury of the lifestyle than Mommy does.

Exactly WHO is the pet here???

But I love the little squeakers more than almost anything, and wouldn't part with them for the world.

Happy birthday, my sweet one!

*Interesting side note: Sagittarians are depicted by the Greek centaur, descendants of Centaurus, who in some versions of the myth, was the son of Apollo and Stillbe. Stillbe was also a daughter of Peneus, sister of Daphne, and apparently the one that didn't get away!

Heaven help us!

2007-04-17T13:46:00.000-04:00

I sent the links to some amusing clips to ctkrod last week, and he's just informed me that he can't open YouTube at work, but he can see them on blogs. So as not to deprive him (or you) of the total freaks that come out on YouTube, allow my submission of the below:

Oh wait...first let me put my disclaimer:

WARNING! THE FOLLOWING CONTENT MAY CONTAIN VIOLENCE AND STRONG LANGUAGE THAT IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE.

Okay! Here we go!

PEOPLE ARE FREAKS WHEN THEY GET BUSTED (pay especial attention to the reason the cameraman didn't stop filming and help the reporter)

ANIMALS ARE FREAKS, TOO (men, you may want to take a DEEP breath before checking this one out!)

So at 10:30 AM, I had a tooth condom clenched between my teeth...

2007-04-09T13:14:00.000-04:00

What a way to start the week, huh?

Admitedly, it doubt that it's actually called a "tooth condom", but for all intents and purposes, that's what it was.

I imagine it's a form of dental dam, but it seriously was a tiny little condom.

Instead of the old-fashioned x-ray machines, my new dentist (Dr. Mitgang) has one of those hi-tech standing machines that takes panoramic pictures. Somewhere in the midst of that apparatus is a place you have to bite down to hold your mouth in the right position (so you can get a cool picture like the one below which gets beamed to the treatment room for your dentist to laugh at when he calls his wife to tell her they can afford that boat after all).

The tiny little tooth condom goes over this bite-down piece (to assure you that you are not being subjected to other people's yucky mouth germs).

I'd like to say that my teeth looked this good, but I'd be lying. I have a mouth full of fillings, so the tops of all the teeth in the pictures are bright white...kinda like this:

That white line is meant to indicate my root canal. As I have somewhat suspected over the years, it was not a very good root canal, and the crown sucks donkey tonsils. This is the nasty little bugger that has been giving me trouble lately and forced me to seek dental treatment in the first place. Seems that I have a lovely little infection going on in there, and I have to have it un-infecticated and re-done. And all for the bargain basement price of $1,140.00

The other $5,550 of dental work I require to fix up the messes those other 10 dentists I've had over the years made is just fat-free dressing on the celery.

I'm actually having to consider a payment plan or loan to have this stuff done. We're going to send a pre-work-how-much-will-you-cover letter to my dental insurance carrier, but I'm still going to have to fork over a bucketload of money. But what else can I do? My smile is one of the handful of things that gets me through life.

Note to self: In my next life, brush and floss more often and go to better dentists.

Of Hummers and Hybrids

2007-03-21T20:31:00.000-04:00

America is an amazing place.

In what other country can you find strong markets for both

The Hummer

AND hybrids?

I did some research tonight, and I found out the following information:

MPG:

Hummer Turbo (diesel) – 14.2/10.5

Hummer Non-Turbo (diesel) – 13.2/10.0

Hummer Gas – 6.8/3.8

Toyota Camry hybrid – 40.0/38.0

What's wrong with this picture??? How do we justify the need for two such extremes? The obvious choice for any sane person is the hybrid. Better gas mileage, better for the environment, attractive without shoving its presence in your face, and fits into more parking spots.

Hummers are showmobiles. They serve no purpose other than to scream, "I'M SO FUCKING INSECURE THAT I NEED THIS BIG ASS VEHICLE TO PROVE JUST HOW FUCKING COOL I WISH I WERE! Oh, and I have an assload of money, too. Just gassing this Big Dog up every week costs more than you grossed last year, and the insurance? Fuggetaboutit. And the price of the new annex we had to add just to house the damn thing? You don't even want to know! (but I'll "discretely" let it slip after I've had a few drinks to use as an excuse)."

And who the fuck needs a HUMMER LIMO???

I can imagine the fun now. The 20 mile trip to the prom will come with three gas station stops. The groom will be late to the wedding because there was traffic on the highway and the limo couldn't squeeze past the other cars to get off at the next exit. Babies will be born in them. People will die in them. And don't think the good people at Hummer are unaware of this. They have crafted a partnership with the American Red Cross. Even if you are not a religious person you will recognize that such a union had to be forged in Hell.

Ranting aside, the Hummer/hybrid comparison was actually intended to be a metaphor for my own life right now. On one hand, I live a very comfortable lifestyle playing with pretty pictures all day. Sometimes the hours are long and the interactions arduous, but for the most part, I make a lot of money for a bullshit job I can do in my sleep. I get to wear jeans and sneakers to work. I like most of the people I work with. I really like some of the people I work with. On the days I feel like being quiet, no one gives me grief. On the days I feel like being boisterous, there is always someone who will be boisterous right along with me. I can hang with people who want to discuss philosophy, race relations, world politics and/or cartoons. When I have to work late, I get to demand to be fed and sent home via car service. All in all, it's a pretty good gig. The subject matter bores the snot out of me, but what are you going to do?

On the other hand, I make nowhere near what, as a total marketable asset, I am worth. I hate even telling people that I'm a tax attorney because the first question 99% of them ask is "Then why are you doing graphics?" or "Why aren't you practicing?" The answer is both simple and complex, and most of the time I'm not even interested enough in the person to give a real explanation. At this point I've distilled it down to "been away from tax too long working on advanced degree at NYU will be returning to the law when I graduate".

This is entirely true. It does not, however, add the reality of my hopes and dreams and fears. It doesn't address my insecurities at not being as good as I once was. It doesn't address my fear that I will end up trapped in a field that it turns out I really don't like. It doesn't address my hopes that once I return to my chosen career that some of the issues that weigh heavy on my mind will at least ease, if not dissipate altogether. It definitely doesn't address the annoyance I will feel once I get a high-heels and pantyhose job and people start in with the commentary..."Oh, I'm SO glad you became a lawyer again. I didn't want to say anything before, but I thought a lot less of you when you were wasting your talent and education playing with pretty pictures!" and "Well, now that you're practicing, you can pick up the tab because you're making all that lawyer money. And can I borrow a few bucks? I know you're loaded."

After all, everyone knows that lawyers are rich. All of them. Every single last attorney on the face of the Earth is rich.

And they all drive Hummers to prove it.

I just want to be happy. If I can be happy driving a hybrid, why do I HAVE to drive a Hummer? Why do I let the voices of people who I'm not sleeping with and who are not paying my bills get inside my head and make me question who I am? Does it really make me less of a person because I’m not pulling down a quarter of a million annually? Does it matter that I didn’t become a partner at some overpriced firm by the time I turned 35? Does it matter that I don’t have a husband or children OR a career?

No, of course it doesn’t. In a hundred years we’ll all be dead and NONE OF THIS WILL MATTER.

But it isn’t a hundred years from now. It’s now. And I feel inadequate, even though I have nothing to be ashamed of. By no stretch of the imagination am I an angel, but I try very hard to be a decent human being. I go out of my way to be thoughtful and considerate. I spend a good deal of time trying to see things from different perspectives. I try not to be seriously judgmental (riffing on people walking by on the street that I don’t know and will never see again doesn’t count). I am the best friend possible to those I care for, and I avoid people who I don’t vibe with. I think drama for the sake of drama is overrated. I’m kind to small children and animals. I call my mother. I pay my own way. I love to learn. I laugh, I cry and I console.

So why am I agonizing over things that shouldn’t matter? Is it because I was raised in a culture that defines itself by Hummers as much as it does by hybrids? I always viewed myself as an independent thinker. I always thought all this materiality and love of the Almighty Dollar was bullshit. I thought that right up until I woke up one day and I wasn’t 29 anymore. Or 30. Or 35. All that time I’d always had stretching out in front of me was suddenly halfway gone. The road behind me is starting to get longer than the road ahead. The insane college buds who made an art form out of drinking too much are now licensed professionals with children and gigantic mortgages. The chronically undateable are getting married. The chronically unhireable are running successful businesses. The chronically useless now have Blackberrys and personal assistants and “can’t talk now – places to be!”

But we’ll get together soon, pal. You know we’ll have a good time then.

I’m no longer the youngest person in the room. I’m constantly proffering valuable and meaningful advice to kids who weren’t even born when I graduated from high school.

Somefuckingwhere along the line I got older. But I never intended to grow up. And I guess maybe I was successful in that regard. Maybe too successful. I still feel like I have all the time in the world to figure out what I want to do, where I want to be, what will help me to help myself find the happiness I so desperately crave. But I don’t have all that time anymore. I got distracted by something shiny and by the time I turned around, I’d misplaced five years of my life. (I really have to stop getting distracted by shiny things.)

I was remotely hopeful that I might glean some new insight or have a great epiphany by writing all this out instead of just doing the mental gymnastics in my head (by remote I mean “Michael Jordan COULD walk down the street, see me and fall desperately in love!” Feel free to substitute David P. for I like Mike, if you prefer…the likelihood is roughly equal.), but alas and alack, no such good fortune has chosen to rain down upon me tonight.

Nonetheless, I feel somewhat less encumbered. And I thank you, dear readers, for allowing me to unburden my troubles with you. As they say, “Happiness shared is happiness doubled…misery shared is misery halved.”

I admit it, I suck

2007-03-07T12:25:00.000-05:00

I tried.

I really really really tried.

I even got to the point of saying, "Yes, I want to end our sessions" when she looked at me (somewhat startled) and said , "Are you saying you don't want to continue our work?"
But somehow I ended up agreeing to see her in two weeks.

Is there something endemic in human nature that prohibits one from taking one's own advice? Had anyone I know related the tale of the stalker therapist to me, I would have steadfastly have advised, "Dump her."

But then, I shouldn't really be surprised by my behavior. As the last 6 months or so have taught me, I'm sticking around longer than I should in a number of "relationships" (see, e.g., The Kitten and David P.) So is this something I need to work on with my therapist?

Oh, the irony.

Judge me not too harshly, for I am only human and imperfect.

But look out next time...!

My therapist is stalking me

2007-02-19T14:28:00.000-05:00

Like all good "middle-class poor" Manhattanites, I have a therapist to whom I bemoan the frailty of the world, question the reasons behind my subtle rebellion against The Machine and debate how much of the blame belongs to my mother.

As of late, I have been feeling distinctly unsatisfied by our encounters. I am doing nothing but complaining about the same things over and over, and what little she provides in practical advice is impossible to attempt to accomplish between my demanding schedule of school, work, the gym, and a soupçon of a social life. In fact, not getting a chance to attempt to put into practice any pearls of wisdom she might blithely toss my way is the least of my problems. I'm so busy that I don't even have time to work her appointment into my schedule (she's only available on Tuesdays), let alone THINK about any of her gems. And so it went, week after week, month after month. So I decided there was only one thing I could do.

I had to break up with my therapist.

This is not as easy as one might imagine. It's much like trying to end a romantic relationship. While there were no tears or recriminations, there was much discussion of "why?" and "I don't think that's the real reason" and "we're probably on the verge of something very difficult for you and you're backing away because you're afraid to face it" and "I don't think stopping is a good idea." All of which is frightfully boring and mostly inaccurate, but after being showered with it for two weeks, I pulled the classic "I just need some time to myself" and told her I wanted to take a little hiatus.

You can imagine the questions that came on the heels of that pronouncement.

Finally, she says, "Well, I know from experience that once you've made your mind up, I can talk until the cows come home and I won't change it." (Oh, so she has learned something about me in all our time together!)

The first Tuesday, she calls me up and says that in response to my phone call that she can see me at 4:30 PM instead of the usual 2:45. MY phone call??? Yes, the one you left on January XX.

The reader will please note that at this point the message she's referring to is, literally, a week old. Either she's really bad at listening to her messages in a timely manner or she's looking for an excuse to contact me.

I clear up the "confusion" and she asks me if she will see me the following week. I say probably not.

The next Tuesday she calls and leaves a message on my VM saying that I missed my appointment and to call her the next day before noon. I call after noon and remind her that I was going to be taking a break from our sessions.

Before she can annoy me the following Tuesday, I send her an e-mail acknowledging that I know this is not the preferred method she would like me to use for contacting her, but that I'm so busy it's my only choice, and I will definitely be too busy to see her for another two weeks and I will keep in touch and let her know what's going on. She e-mails back that she hopes to see me the week of February XX, which would be the week after the two weeks I told her I was blowing off.

Well, we made it through those two weeks without incident. This past Tuesday, however, I get another phone call telling me that I missed my session and that I need to call her the next day before noon. This time I don't bother to call at all because I didn't miss a damn thing. I re-read my e-mail carefully and it clearly says I will contact her and let her know when she might expect me.

Apparently not calling is not an option, because she then sends me an e-mail saying that we need to discuss re-establishing our sessions.

ChristAlmightyGod. I haven't been seeing a psychotherapist, I've been seeing a PSYCHO THERAPIST!

While it makes for good anecdotal amusement, this obviously cannot continue. I don't want to deal with her tomorrow, so I will have to see her the following week and put a stop to this. I don't get easily creeped out, but she's creeping me out.

If I suddenly disappear, I trust I can count on you all to be my spokespersons. Tell the police the first place to check is under the floorboards of my therapist's office. And try and get the story on an episode of "Forensic Files" or "The Investigators" or "The New Detectives." That would at least give my woeful tale a hit of cool.

Happy Chinese New Year!

2007-02-18T14:29:00.000-05:00

This year is the Year of the Pig (or Boar, if you want something that doesn't sound quite so...piggy)

It's supposed to be really cool to be born in a Pig Year as you get all of these great characteristics (thanks to everyone's favorite encyclopedia, wikipedia, for the following info):

The Boar type is usually an honest, straightforward and patient person. They are a modest, shy character who prefers to work quietly behind the scenes. When others despair, they are often there to offer support. This type of person is reserved with those they do not know too well, but as time passes and they gain confidence, those around them may discover a lively and warm-hearted person behind that mask of aloofness. Despite those born in the year of pig having a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, they have few close friends who understand them and share their inner thoughts and feelings. It is easy to put trust in pig type; they won't let you down and will never even attempt to do so. Such people simply want to do everything right according to social norms.

It is important to remember that these people are not vengeful creatures. If someone tries to take advantage of them, the pig type tend to withdraw to reflect on the problem and protect themselves. All they need in such situations is a little time to find a constructive way to respond. The people of the pig type are conservative creatures of habit. They dislike being made to travel too far from familiar surroundings, unless it is a trip to the countryside. They love nature and are never happier than when they are out somewhere, far from the city.

There is a tolerant and peaceful side to their character. Such people are never afraid to allow others their freedom of expression; they do not want to cause arguments and if there is any way to avoid arguing, they will probably take this option. They are not weak, however, and if the situation forces them to fight these people will rise to the occasion, whether it is to defend themselves or those close to them. People of the Boar type are the most admired by others.

I, personally, was born in the Year of the Horse, which has sent ripples through my life in many unexpected ways. Long story short, the horse is my totem animal (or, more accurately, my spirit guide), and nothing on this Earth would make me happier than retiring from this hum drum work-a-day life and living on a couple of acres with a big farmhouse, some dogs, cats and horses.

Oh what dreamers we mortals be!

Now things are just getting OOC

2007-02-17T16:41:00.000-05:00

I'd like to preface this post by stating that my grandfather was blind, so I am not unfamiliar with, nor unsympathetic to, the issues affecting the poor-sighted and sightless. That said, this sh*t is totally whack!

November 30, 2006, 8:33 am
reports the USA Today. The opinion could force the government to change the design of U.S. greenbacks; one option would be to have different size bills, just like the rest of the world.
The government said the changes would cost too much. But Judge James Robertson said the need to make money accessible to the blind outweight the costs. “Blind or visually impaired people cannot make effective use of American currency without help,” he wrote in the 26-page ruling. “There was a time when disabled people had no choice but to ask for help — to rely on the ‘kindness of strangers.’ It was thought to be their lot. “We have evolved, however, and Congress has made our evolution official.”

The government says it hasn’t decided whether it will appeal the decision. Vending machine operators are bummed, reports the USA Today. The case was brought by an organization called the American Council of the Blind, but another group, the National Federation of the Blind, criticized the ruling. Said its president, Dr. Marc Maurer:

The blind need jobs and real opportunities to earn money, not feel-good gimmicks that misinform the public about our capabilities. . . . This ruling puts a roadblock in the way of solving the real problem, which is the seventy percent unemployment rate among working-age blind Americans that severely limits our access to cash. The ruling will do nothing to alleviate that situation. . . . It argues that the blind cannot handle currency or documents in the workplace and that virtually everything must be modified for the use of the blind.

Comments

Instead of making different bills and thereby making them more susceptible to counterfitting, the mint should make coins in the same denominations as regular bills.
Comment by B. Markley - November 30, 2006 at 10:12 am

this case was the first thing i thought of when i woke up this morning…coins are the solution
Comment by on the brain... - November 30, 2006 at 12:10 pm

Are federal rulings published in Braille?
Comment by Fahrenheit 450 - November 30, 2006 at 2:24 pm

Until the prices are put in Braille, how do I know I’m not being overcharged?
Comment by Hellen Keller - November 30, 2006 at 2:41 pm

Thank you, Dr. Marc Maurer, Fahrenheit 450 and Helen Keller. At least three people realize the absolute absurdity of this ruling.

Wordsmith that I am, I cannot adequately express my extreme disgust with this ruling and with other legalities of its ilk. Isn't there some theory that all Men are created equal? How can we say that with a straight face at the same time we are carving out exceptions left, right and sideways for every "special interest" group? Or worse, while we are creating "special interest" groups without the input or request of the people affected?

And, moral tenets aside, is not creating an entirely new currency the single most impractical answer to this issue??? Even the suggestion to create or make more readily available coins in the same denominations as our bills is ill conceived. I hate carrying around the change from a few cash transactions...I cannot even imagine the annoyance and physical strain of carrying around a bag full of coins all the time. For reasons that are not immediately important, I have $1,100 in my wallet right now. How much would that weigh in coinage?

Will the real SuperMilkChan PLEASE STAND UP?

2007-02-02T14:18:00.000-05:00

Guess who's back!
Back again!
MilkChan's back!
Tell a friend!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Guess who's back!
Nah nah nah!

Hey Kats and Kittens! It's been a long time since I left you (without a def beat to step to!) But I have crawled out from under six staggering weeks of overtime at work and am getting back to re-establishing a normal routine. It's going to be a little odd not being in the office at 2 AM or on weekends, but I'm going to try very, very hard to get over it.

There's so much to catch up on...I hardly know where to begin! Lessee...my b-day party on December 9th was both successful AND a blast. Invitation text below:

Into each life a birthday must fall.

Join me to celebrate mine at Flute Midtown Champagne Lounge from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM on Friday, December 8, 2006. (Flute is on 54th Street between 7th Avenue and Broadway. Subway directions can be found on the site)

There will be wine and song and yummy hors d'oeuvres, cake and chocolate truffles and many toasts to the birthday girl. This will be THE event of the season and is not to be missed!
PLEASE RSVP BY TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5TH, 2006 and indicate whether you will be bringing someone along!

(And should you think I'm too modest to accept presents, think again.)
mille baisers, SMC

[If you're into visuals, click here.]

A fabulous party with the perfect mix of people, food, drink and conversation. Made better by the (insane) generosity of my friend, Doug, who made me a present of two bottles of Cristal. It apparently impressed the little wait-chick who, wide-eyed, asked me if I wanted to keep the empty bottles, "They're so pretty!" To placate her, I gave her a pasted-on smile and said yes, that would be lovely just put them on that table over there. Good thing I really didn't want them, as one of the other waitstaffers deleted them from the picture.

Between me, Doug and my crew, we easily blew $2,500. Seeing as how it was only a 90-minute party, I would think that would have at least garnered a follow-up e-mail from Dacotah, Flute's party planner. Personally, if I were her, I would want me to be a repeat customer. And I damn sure would take five minutes out of my day to e-mail, call or (better yet) mail out a personal note with my business card inside.

But that's why no one will ever put me in charge of anything. Because I know how to actually do sh*t right.

I'm still having difficulty saying the age thing, but the truth has slowly been leaking out here and there. I figure that just before my next birthday I will be able to say it out loud to anyone.

School started the first week of January, and I was looking forward to a cakewalk semester. "Tax Aspects of Charitable Giving" and "Estate Planning" (which I am retaking because the letter "C" and I don't get along well). Charitable Giving...that's gonna be what? Some white-haired professor wistfully noting the benefits of philanthropy, right?

WRONGWRONGWRONG.

My Charitable Giving professor is probably in her late 40's, a full-time professor (as opposed to most of my other profs who are full-time hot shot law firm partners and part-time educators), and not only talks more quickly than any human being should be allowed to, but has the nerve to MUMBLE on occasion! Even better, she REQUIRES class participation (which means I actually have to be prepared for class) and she PROHIBITS recording the class. So I have this incredibly complex and archaic system of Code and Reg sections relating to charitable donations being spouted at me by a woman who speaks too quickly for me to take notes but will not allow herself to be taped.

Ordinarily, I am a respecter of other people's requests, but if I don't want to flunk this class, I think I'm going to have to go 007 and hide my digital recorder in the wrapper of a Snickers bar. If I get busted, I'm sure I will get thrown out of the class. I may even get thrown out of school. But what are my other options??? Any words of wisdom you might have to offer are more than welcome. Please share.

Estate Planning, on the other hand, I get to tape and use my notes from the last time I took it. Although it had no pre-requisites, I'm finding I understand a lot of topics better by virtue of having taken the classes I have since the first go-round. I not only KNOW what DNI is, but I know how to calculate it. I know about the taxation of trusts and how to determine if they are outright gifts, contingent gifts, terminable interest property, blah blah blah. It's kind of neat to realize that you actually understand what's happening as opposed to thinking you understand. I totally better get an A this time.

New Year's Eve was interesting. Neither fabulous nor a flop. I joined one of my kid sisters at her apartment where she was entertaining about a dozen of her friends from Boston. They were all pretty cool, but I was feeling somewhat lonely, being date-less yet again on NYE. Being alone and meeting a dozen people at once who have all been close friends for years on the Ultimate Date Night is a little disconcerting. While I did absolutely fall in love with Jessica, her sister, Emily, and her gf, Kristen, it still wasn't the same. And since I'm far too civilized to get drunk on champagne, I spent a lot of time wondering if David P. had really dared to do the crowd in Times Square as he told me he planned to, and how different my night would be if he'd had the good sense to either take me up on my invitation to join my sister's party or invite me to share his dementia in the Square. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER would I ever do Times Square on NYE...unless someone super-hot invited me. Hear that David? Someone uber-hot!!! When will you finally get it through your thick head that THIS MEANS YOU???!!!

I did, however, get a modicum of enjoyment from the shoes I was wearing...I co-opted them from a cousin at Christmas...they're clear strappy sandals with those cool flashing lights (like the kids have on their sneakers) in the heel. Every time I took a step, I sparkled. I am exceedingly fond of anything that shimmers, sparkles, flashes or glitters. If you ever want my attention, wave a piece of sequined material at me. If you ever want my undying devotion, put glitter on my gift. Hell, make a few containers OF glitter my gift!

SuperMilkChan's Personal Belief #1: The world doesn't have enough glitz. Put more glitter on it.

There are one or two other amusing anecdotes that transpired during the past two month hiatus I've taken, but I shall have to reserve them for my next post. I'm determined to enjoy what's left of Day Two of my two days off because I've worked an insane number of hours for the past month and a half, and there is a "John Doe" mini-marathon on SciFi and several weeks' worth of the new seasons of "Prison Break" (starring the same guy who plays John Doe) and "24" sitting around in digital form just waiting to be viewed.

I'm going to go get me a big ole' bowl of Banana Nut Crunch mixed with Raisin, Pecan and Walnut Great Grains and settle down to be a couch potato for a few hours.

Ah...it's good to have my old life back...

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

2007-01-01T22:29:00.000-05:00

Here's hoping that 2007 will be a good one for all of us!

Happy Birthday to Me

2006-12-04T13:59:00.000-05:00

I have always loved my birthday. Thought I always would.

Apparently I have proven myself wrong.

Today is a miserable 11th day continuation of a miserable ten-day period beginning on Black Friday. For retailers, the "black" had a positive connotation. For me, it simply gave name to the little rain cloud that was forming above my head.

(If you are opposed to "pity parties", I suggest you stop reading now. I am about to go full core Lesley Gore on this one.)

1. I blew off Thanksgiving with my family because I was freakin' exhausted. I spent the day lounging with Phizz and Daphne watching marathons of "Cold Case Files" and "Forensic Files" and sharing turkey cold cuts. That part was cool, but I kept putting off going to the gym until it was too late, and stressed the rest of the day about missing my workout.

2. Because I blew off the gym on Thursday, I had to get up Friday and go. I ran into David P. who has the personal training session before mine on Tuesdays. It is a little known fact that I think David P. is hotter than hell and want him to ask me out.

It shouldn't, however, be a little known fact to him, since I have done all my Girl Stuff and made it as explicitly clear as possible (without actually saying the words) that if he were to so suggest, he need not concern himself with rejection.

Much to my annoyance and dismay, David P. seems to be immune to my charms. This puts me in a somewhat awkward position, because I haven't often had to deal with charm-resistant boys and I'm not quite sure how to take it or what I'm supposed to do, so I just stopped briefly to inquire about his holiday, blah blah blah, and then excused myself to complete my workout.

Oddly enough, about a half hour later, David P. comes wandering up to the fourth floor where I am happily sweating away on the elliptical machine, burning up 942 calories an hour. I say oddly because I am often in the gym at the same time as David P. and I have NEVER seen him above the first floor. If you had asked me, I would have told you that he didn't even know there WAS a fourth floor. But anyway, here he comes, casually strolling over to the weight machines and ignoring me. I don't make any motion to him, because if he came up to find me, it is incumbent on him to make the first move.

For the next 20 minutes he works out three feet away from me and never acknowledges my presence. We finish our exercise at almost the same time, and as he walks out, I fall into step about 18" behind him. I still don't say anything, because this is the perfect opportunity for him to use the ruse of "noticing" me as we are going down the stairs with that casual "look up the stairs because the motion of another person moving draws your eyes upward" thing.

The boy never once looked up.

He abandoned his walk on the first floor. I continued down to the women's locker room on the lower level to get my belongings and head home. As I was walking out, I saw him using the chest press machine that provided a perfect view of people entering and exiting the gym. I kept my eyes on him with a smile at the ready so that when he looked up (as surely he would), I could give him a little wink and a wave goodbye. The boy STILL never looked up.

Fuck.

3. I actually went to Bloomingdale's on Black Friday to pick up necessary accoutrements for my trip. I waited in three different lines for what seemed like hours. Naturally they had the s...l...o...w...e...s...t geriatric salespeople on the registers on such a big day. I respect the wisdom and value of the older generation, but unless they can keep up with the activity they are charged with, get 'em outta my way. And before I am suspected of age-ism, understand that the same goes for any age. If you can't do it, get another job. I've got places to be.

I made it through that fiasco, and was very pleased with myself...until I realized a week later that I had purchased the wrong garment and it was too big anyway.

Fuck!

4. Saturday entailed another trip to the gym to burn off more of that fat stuff so that I could look my most fabulous for my upcoming events. I spent the rest of the day with my head buried in books and papers trying to figure out:
(1) AGI = $299,700 – DNI
(2) DNI = $100,000 – AMID
(3) AMID = $15,000 – (.02*AGI)

It has something to do with algebra. I didn't do well in algebra. This is a major part of my final exam in Income Taxation of Trusts & Estates (which is 100% of my grade). If I don't wrap my head around this by December 20th, I am screwed.

Fuck!!

5. On Sunday I wasted most of the day by taking my dirty laundry to my parents' house in Westchester and taking advantage of their out-of-town-ness to clean all my clothes for free. I lucked out because one of my younger sisters was around and was kind enough to acquiesce to my request to drive me home with all my crap. So aside from missing a day at the gym, and having to fold my own clothes, Sunday wasn't so bad.

(Hooray for not-so-bad days!)

6. Monday I don't remember much about. I know I only did a half assed workout for about 30 pathetic minutes and was annoyed with myself because I had no excuse not to do better.

7. On Tuesday Herself The Gym Rat COULD NOT focus, and wasted $75 by whining through the first ten minutes of my personal training session and spending the next 50 minutes being stretched instead of lifting weights like I was supposed to. It didn't help that David P. was standing around looking cute and sweaty (having just completed his hour-long session) and smiling at me like we were the best of buds and had no questions between us. Being the actress that I am, I gave as good as I got and went along with his stupid little game.

Yes, I'm mad Playa Hatin'. This sh*t is only endearing when I do it, not when other people do it to me. Boys playing hard to get is SO NOT SEXY!!!

8. Wednesday: decent pedicure, crappy manicure. I now have no fingernails. I can't even open a can of cat food. I have to use a knife to pry the pop-py thing up. I do get in a 50 minute workout, but I have to go sit through another 2 hours of tax class.

SOMEBODY SHOOT ME, PLEASE!

9. Thursday: $120 to Yvette to make my hair glossy and beautiful. Yvette (who usually does an amazing job on my hair), asks if I want a trim. I defer to her judgment since she is the expert. She trims. The next morning my hair looks like I spent the entire evening in a sauna. Frizz City. To top it off, the "trim" seems to have involved hacking off about 4" of hair on one huge section on the right side of my head. I now have very unattractive, frizzy, unnecessarily multi-layered hair.

FUCK!!!

10. Thursday night I get a text from The Kitten that his mother is concerned about the chest pains he's been having and that he's on his way to the hospital to see a doctor.

Hours later I get another text that he has bronchitis and won't be at work on Friday. I've never had bronchitis, but I can see where this is heading. Now I'm REALLY not happy.

FUCKITYFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!

11. Friday: The Kitten confirms my suspicions and disarticulates himself from the trip. I do the only thing I can, and text him that New Orleans will not be the same without him. The Kitten is somewhat stunned to learn this was his surprise, and bemoans his fate with "My life sucks". The only reply to which is, "Not your life, just our weekend."

Now I'm, understandably, in a truly bitchy mood.

I end up working later than planned, and am late for my eyebrow and bikini waxing with Dawn. Dawn's cool and hooks me up in what must be record time. As I'm leaving, I wonder if in any other country people get tipped for causing excruciating pain.

I'm a little disappointed with my eyebrows, which I thought would come out more dramatic than they did. I'm not sure how I feel about the bikini wax, but I'm pretty sure I'm glad I didn't go with the Brazilian.

At this point I'm tired and cranky and pissed off and upset and damn near every other emotion you can think of. Not conducive to working out, so I blow it off...again. I know perfectly well this will upset me come Saturday, but I decide I don't care.

12. Saturday: I get up and head to LGA. After standing in line to be x-rayed, I discover that it has been so long since I traveled that I am unaware of the rule involving no more than 3 oz. of liquid per container being permitted in carry-on luggage. I have a choice of having over $100 worth of toiletries chucked in the garbage or checking my bag.

I wish my eyes could inflict pain and death upon the minimum wage Nazis who feel threatened by my unopened Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple.

My wish is not fulfilled. I check my bag. I sleep the entire ride to New Orleans. Since I have paid for two seats, I stretch out on both of them and make myself as comfortable as possible. It is my sincere wish that everyone around me is jealous of my spacious accommodations, but I don't ask and no one tells.

When I finally rescue my bag from the traveling strip of rubber that serves as a conveyor of packed inconveniencies, catch the airport shuttle to my hotel and swoop into my room. My intention is to take a quick nap (I'm still tired for some reason), change my clothes and head to Pat O'Brien's to allow friends I haven't yet made to commiserate with my sad state of affairs and buy me drinks to cheer me up.

Either I'm too old or too depressed for this, as I slept a lot longer than I had intended and woke up with just enough time to go buy some pralines before going to dinner at NOLA. The chubby proprietress of Leah's Candy Store made it a point to try to hook me on all the different praline options by waving free sample dishes in front of me. And we all know how I feel about "free".

I chatted with her for a bit about how long the business had been in her family and how her son wanted to take over when she retired and her concerns about his ability to be able to handle it. We also talked about the recovery of the city since Katrina and I commented that it made me feel really good to see that the good people of New Orleans had not lost their joie de vive and were bringing that irrepressible spirit to the reconstruction of their town and lives. I could see the troubled pain in her eyes as she said, "It's been hard. Really hard." My heart ached for her and all the other victims of a catastrophe that could have been largely avoided had our government felt that these people were worth their time and effort. We thanked each other and I walked back to the hotel to change for dinner.

I chose the hotel based on its proximity to both The Quarter and NOLA. The restaurant was only about half a block away and I arrived a few minutes before the designated time of 7 PM. I explained to the empathetic front desk staff of my dinner companion's illness, and they looked somewhat disappointed that they would not get to sing "Happy Birthday" as I had requested, but in true New Orleans style, they immediately made me feel at home and took excellent care of me through my three courses. I took the opportunity to write a rough draft of a recommendation for My Friend Jessica's applications to Biz Skool. It came out pretty good, if I do say so myself. New Orleans brings out a lot of the best of me.

By the time the dessert course rolled around, I begged off continuing to occupy my snug little table alone and took my Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie with Sweet Potato ice cream (Uh huh. That's what I thought, too. Sweet Potato ice cream??? Sounds a little weird! It actually turned out to be quite yummy and a perfect foil for the sweetness of the pie) back to Room 530. I nibbled at it while trying to formulate a plan for my evening activities.

I think you can guess how that turned out.

The next morning I did follow through on my promise to myself that I would hit the exercise room, although it involved a bit more than I expected. Turns out that my hotel's gym was being renovated, so I had privileges to use the gym at a neighboring hotel. By the time I found that out, I was already downstairs and didn't feel like going back to my room to get my jacket, so I walked the 2-1/2 blocks in my camisole and nylon sweatpants. Fortunately, it wasn't frightfully cold, but it certainly wasn't weather I should have been running around half-naked in.

I got in a halfway decent workout before I had to head back to get changed, pack and get ready to leave for the airport. The weekend was planned specifically for one agenda and one agenda only, so it was weird to have this quick turnaround without having done 99% of the stuff I had planned. Had I know it was going to be a solo trip, I would have flown in Friday and stayed through Monday so that I could have gone to all my extended (read "Outside The Quarter") favorite spots and seen My Friend Steve who was away for the weekend at his hunting cabin in Red Stick (known to most as Baton Rouge) killing something or another.

The return trip wasn't much different from the trip in except I knew to check my bag before I got all the way to the minimum wage x-ray Nazis. Between collecting my bag and waiting for the airport bus, it took me two hours to get home instead of the one it should have taken. And it was cold. And I was tired. And I was cranky. And I was unhappy that even the charm of my beautiful New Orleans couldn't break through the sorrow I felt at not having been able to share my town with the one person I knew who would have properly appreciated it. And my impending birthday really wasn't helping put a good spin on any of it.

13. And so, if you've managed to stay with me this long, all this brings me to today and my surprisingly Not Happy Happy Birthday day. My babiest sister took me to lunch, so I had a Malibu & Cranberry which really didn't do much for me, but made me feel somewhat better for the "naughtiness" of it.

My Friend Jessica took me to dinner at a Japanese BBQ place where I go to spear and sear my own meat...helpful for taking out the pent-up aggression. She also bought me the cutest little Coach bag, so now I have to start dressing like a grown-up so I can actually use it. (She claims that I can wear it with my jeans and sneakers, but I feel it deserves a slightly better presentation than that. Besides, I probably should start doing the grown-up thing no matter how much the thought repels me.) Hanging out with Jess is always good. She's very grounded and does an excellent job of bringing me back to earth when I set off on one of my high-flown melodramatic fanciful tears. And my cats love her because she always brings them treats and presents. In fact, in what I believed to be my second present bag, I discovered cat treats and toys. This was forgiven in light of the fact that nestled within the catnip mice and weird Santa Claus hat looking thing I still haven't figured out was a beautiful hand carved statue of an elephant-headed god from Cambodia where she traveled last year. Did I mention Jess is also an incredibly thoughtful person who gives gifts from the heart? Love you, Jess!

In addition to these in-person appearances, I got lots of phone calls and e-cards, so I know there are people out there who care about me. I guess things could be a lot worse. And, Goddess willing, New Orleans will still be there and I will have other opportunities to share her with sympathetic souls.

And who knows? David P. may yet come to his senses and realize that he is destined to be my next ex-husband!

The countdown has begun...

2006-11-29T14:15:00.000-05:00

Only three more days.

I only have to get through THREE MORE DAYS before I fly to my favorite North American city and touch down in the land of "laissez le bon temps rouler!"

I'm so incredibly pumped.

Upon my return, I am going to further stave off thinking about my impending olditude by having a gathering at a champagne bar called Flûte, the larger the better, and drinking bubbly while swishing around in a little antique black silk cocktail dress and playing hostess. Then come the holidays...I think I can avoid doing deep personal introspection at least until after the first of the New Year. Perhaps by then I will have accepted my lot in life and be able to reconcile my chronological age with my sense of myself and they can co-exist peacefully.

Wow. That's the biggest load of bull I've spouted in a long time. Even I'm not buying it.

Okay, now I'm depressed.

Where is Saturday when you need it???

Wow...Post #100 already!

2006-11-09T12:04:00.000-05:00

Since the arrival of my Super Fly Monkey, life has gotten progressively better.

My favorite pastime is rediscovering all the cool music I have on my portable Iomega HDD. I presently own 2,886 songs in a multitude of genres, including Country, Japanese Techno and Folk Music.

I totally rock. Literally.

When I haven't been chair dancing at my desk, I've been plotting and planning a trip to N'awlins, which is my favorite North American city. I actually own a time share down there, but the building is being renovated, thanks to Katrina, so I will be staying in a hotel. But I'm much too cosmopolitan to stay at an Econolodge or something, so I'm hanging out at the Omni Royal Orleans.

And I've decided to dine at Emeril's NOLA restaurant, which is reputed to be the local favorite of the three Emeril restaurants in N'awlins.

I should also mention that (unbeknownst to him), the Kitten is coming along.

"Dude! How do you take someone out of town without them knowing about it?!" you may well ask yourself. And that is a TOTALLY legitimate question. The key is to have a guest who is the kind of person who is willing to turn all responsibility for their entertainment over to the planner. That involves a level of trust I don't know if I personally have, but that the Kitten has in abundance. And I know how to keep a secret, so it works out well.

The other way it works is if you just show up at someone's door at a pre-appointed time and whisk them off to the airport. That's what you'd have to do with me, because if I had to sit in the same room with you 8+ hours a day, 5 days a week for a month, I would bug the sh*t out of you to find out what was going on. I love surprises, but not surprises I have to wait that long for. A week...maybe two...I could tolerate, but no more.

I have, for obvious reasons, been unable to ask him if he has ever been to the Crescent City, but I don’t think he has. This is good. This means I get to take him to all MY favorite spots because he doesn’t have any yet. But we are so much alike on the social personality scale, I don’t doubt for a moment that he will have a blast.

At the top of the list is…Pat O’Brien’s for one (or two) of their famous Hurricanes!

I’m figuring on two trips there…once during the time we have to kill between landing and checking into the hotel, and again after dinner when we will get to fully appreciate the flaming fountain.

There is also the Cat's Meow karaoke bar on Bourbon Street (assuming it’s still there) where I met my friend, Steve. That was a very funny first encounter. I was on the top balcony of the bar watching the throngs of people being swept along by a tide of alcohol-fueled Mardi Gras-inspired enthusiasm when out of the corner of my eye I notice some guy leaning back and staring at me.

Okay, whatever.

He then stands up straight, and out of my sight. Then he leans back again. He does this about three times, and then decides to stroll over.

“Hi!” he says. “Hey, what’s up?” I reply. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks. I turn and look him full in the face and respond (in typical SMC fashion), “My BOYFREIND is in Chicago…my HUSBAND is over there.”

How can you not become fast friends with a woman like that??? You can’t. So Steve and I became fast friends.

But back to the matter at hand…if Riverwalk is open again, I will take the Kitten there to get some freshly made pralines, some of the hottest hot sauce in the country and various and sundry items of souvenir value. You never know what kind of wacky thing you will find that will turn out to be indispensable. I have the coolest alligator puppet from one of my previous trips. Who knew I needed an alligator puppet? I certainly didn’t until I saw it. I hope he and Super Fly Monkey will be able to cohabitate happily.

I was bummed to learn that since Katrina, the St. Charles streetcar has been replaced by a bus, but since we will only be in town for such a short time, we won’t have time for a trip through the Garden District or to the Zoo anyway, so I’m not absolutely heartbroken. I will be, however, if they decide to make the change permanent.

The travel date for this excursion is December 2nd, which is coming up fast (meaning I still have another 10 pounds I’d like to lose). Now that the date is creeping closer, I’m starting to get really excited.

Now, if I can just stay away from the Jelly Belly sours and keep any common friends of mine and the Kitten’s who update themselves on my life through this blog to keep their mouths shut, the whole thing should go off without a hitch and be a killer surprise!

Sometimes there is a silver lining

2006-11-01T19:27:00.000-05:00

I was having a bitch kitty of a bad day yesterday. I was in a classic foul mood, meaning I didn't talk to anyone if I could avoid it, I wasn't smiling and joking around, and from 9:45AM until about 2:00PM all I did was hunker down in my chair and listen to depressing ballads while BP&M'ing about how no one knew what the f*ck they were doing on the project I'm working on.

Around 2, I stood up, announced that I was going shopping and walked out armed only with $200 in gift certificates for The Container Store. No cell phone, no wallet, no company.

Usually, The Container Store has an energizing effect on me. I am, by nature, a nester, which translates into being kind of messy most of the time. On the other hand, I actually have a great desire to be organized. Few things in life look as good to me as those beautiful layouts in design magazines where everything is all pristine and the beds are made and everything has a place. And the omnipresent moth orchid makes me long for a green thumb and an apartment with more light.

Yesterday, however, I couldn’t even dig on being surrounded by the glass, chrome, plastic and canvas articles of the ultimate Temple of Orderliness. I found the sales force to be thoughtlessly rude, I couldn’t find anything I liked, nothing was where it should have been, and everybody was in my way.

I was a LOT of fun to be around yesterday.

$84 later, I felt a little better, but I still wasn’t fit for human consumption. I wandered back to the office with my bag o’stuff, tried to be polite to the doorman who wanted to have his usual pleasant banter with me, and headed straight for my desk where I fully intended to sulk for the rest of the day.

But then everything changed.

Sitting larger than life on my keyboard was my Super Monkey.

MY SUPER MONKEY HAD ARRIVED!!!

Suddenly, life had new meaning. My raison d’être had been revealed. The small, furry, monkey cum slingshot enrobed in a blue cape raised my spirits to a level heretofore unimagined.

Naturally, the Kitten and I had to go try them out ASAP.

Joined by two other guys in the office, we went down to the crowded streets of Manhattan and promptly set about flinging screaming howler monkeys into the air and dying of laughter.

Somehow we managed to keep from killing anyone or getting the monkeys caught on scaffolding or being run over (barely). We returned to work about 15 minutes later laughing our asses off.

That’s when the trouble really began.

Naturally, we couldn’t prevent ourselves from sharing our newfound toys with the rest of the office. But apparently only a few other people had the level of appreciation for them we did. The yellow monkey was even confiscated (to be returned at the EOD…just like in grade school). Not that this threat stopped us. We flung them at least four more times before we figured we had pushed our luck as far as we could without getting fired.

I took mine home last night, but the screeching terrified the cats, so I brought it back to perch on my desk, arms hugging the mini pumpkin I bought two weeks ago that is also gracing my overcrowded desk. I’m waiting for “everyone” to go home tonight so that I can shoot it down the beautifully long, unobstructed hallway between Production East and Still Graphics.

Two hours and counting…

This December will mark the third anniversary of my tenancy in my Big Apple apartment. During those three years, exactly two members of my nine member family have ever been inside it. Not for lack of invitation…more because of a lack of interest. This is not particularly surprising, as my family tends toward the narcissistic. Things must be convenient and fit within their schedule of wants and needs. This used to bother me a lot more than it does now, largely due to the fact that I have accepted that this is who they are and nothing I do will change that.

Nonetheless, I extended a formal invitation for Sunday dinner to my mother and stepfather. They had to think about it for two days, then I received a call RSVP’ing a yes. Two days. What the hell did they have to think about for two days???

Anyway, they did come…an hour late due to traffic and parking problems. I had already steeled myself for the complaints that would ensue from having to walk up three flights of stairs. My mother was in rare form. At the bottom of staircase #2, I told her she looked very nice. Her retort? “Shut up.”

Thanks, mom. Way to build my self-esteem.

It actually didn’t take them all that long to walk up, but from all the huffing and puffing and BP&M’ing they did when they finally got to the apartment and sat down, you would think they had walked the entire length of the island of Manhattan. Generally, I have figured out that when people have something in their mouth, they can’t talk, so I immediately broke out the beer, chips and Mike’s Hard Lemonade. That didn’t stop my mother who was not particularly happy that I hadn’t made her my World Famous Daiquiris. She also managed to insult my cleaning skills, my choice of pets, the portrait Pete had drawn of me, my handwriting (don’t even ask), and my choice of dinner menu. I was making my equally World Famous Honey Glazed Lemon Pepper Pork Chops. She wanted to know why I wasn’t making Shrimp Scampi.

Oh yeah. Now I remember why I can only tolerate my mother for three days at a time.

I refused to argue with her about anything, letting it all go with a small smile, a shrug and a “Whatever you say, Mom.” She kind of hates that because it’s difficult to argue with someone who won’t argue back.

For Christmas I’m going to embroider a pillow for her with the inscription, “How are we supposed to compromise if you won’t do what I say?”

The food turned out perfectly. I accompanied the pork chops with brown rice, stir fried vegetables, a side salad and pound cake for dessert. Healthy and delicious. Both of them dictated that I provide small amounts of salad, vegetables and rice. My father ate most of his dinner, but barely touched his salad. My mother nibbled at everything and left most of the food on her plate insisting that she wasn’t that hungry.

What???

How the hell do you come to someone's house for dinner and claim not to be hungry?! That's got to be a huge no-no in Emily Post's opinion. I know it certainly is in mine.

Nonetheless, we all managed to make it out alive, and when she got home, she actually called and left a breezy, happy message on my answering machine telling me what a lovely time they'd had and how good the food was and how nice it was for me to invite then and let them see my apartment.

Now I know where I get my multiple personality disorder from.

Happy Hallowe'en! (or Samhain)

2006-10-31T23:10:00.000-05:00

Did you get a mask? Nancy Grace did...

Oh wait. She ALWAYS looks like that.

This woman creeps me out. Seriously. I mean I-bet-she-has-a-cauldron-in-her-basement- filled-with-small-mammals creep me out. I hereby bestow upon her pride of place as the poster child for this holiday. Congrats, Nance!

I...AM...IN...LOVE...!!!

2006-10-18T12:15:00.000-04:00

Super Fly Monkey is the Hottest Gift / Toy on the market! This flying monkey can soar as high as feet 50 in the air and screams as he flies! Watch the video to see this sling-shot super-fly-monkey in action!

I showed the video to The Kitten. Do you think it took more than 10 minutes for us to have a four-pack of these things being shipped to the office?! I cannot WAIT for them to show up. My life will be grossly incomplete until then.

Tick...tick...tick...

Not here yet.

Maybe we should have gotten the expedited shipping...

Today is a great news day

2006-10-05T13:19:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, the opening day of Fright Fest at Six Flags Great America, guests will be given a chance to eat a cockroach on the Mission Stage in Southwest Territory. Successful eaters will be given four Fast Lane passes, which allow park guests to enter at the front of the line on thrill rides.

I am a rollercoaster fanatic. Unfortunately, so are a lot of other people. The best rides are almost always heavily populated and waiting for over an hour to go on a 90-second ride is commonplace. What would I do to by-pass all those "You are 90 minutes away from the ride at this point signs"?

First, I'd need some questions answered:

(1) Will these Fast Lane passes permit me to go to the front of the line multiple times or is it a one-shot deal per ride?

(2) Will the Madagascar hissing roach be alive or dead when it goes into my mouth? In either case, I would require that it be made to hiss at some point prior to ingestion.

(3) Is there a limit on how many people can compete in these contests? At some point, "going to the head of the line" will become a long wait in itself...and, I imagine, would really piss off the non-roach-eating patrons.

(4) Will I be provided a security detail to protect me from the crazed PETA protestors who think that eating roaches is "barbaric"? [This is one of the reasons I don't endorse PETA...any group that recognizes roaches as a class of animal to be protected is a little too zealous for me]

(5) Is there a secret cash prize that goes to the person who eats the biggest or most?

Provided I like the answers to these questions, I...oh, who am I kidding. I would never (possibly barring attempted survival after a nuclear war) put a roach (or any other insect} in my mouth. Eeeeewwwww!!! It's a ROACH for heaven's sake! They are made to consume waste. I don't even want to KNOW where that thing has been, never mind ingesting all those unnecessary germs and bacteriums it's carrying around!

But I bet I could get some guy to do it to try and impress me. And I would get the benefit of the free "You're cooler than hell" tix.

Note to self: Start looking for roach-eating sucker.

Also in today's news:

"When It Comes to Orgasm, Women Work Harder" in which former Playmate of the Year, Jenny McCarthy and sex therapist (on the down low, she's really a urologist), Laura Berman who is now hosting Showtime's new reality series, "Sexual Healing." (I hope Marvin Gaye is getting some sort of kickback for this), chat it up about...well, women achieving The Big O.

On a related note is "Spinal Device Yields Surprise Orgasm". (I'm going to let you use your imagination for the details on that one.)

And then there are the ABC News videos: "High heels to blame for a model spill on the catwalk in Paris" (3" heels = bad), "Bear gets drunk from eating too many fermented apples" (I wonder how a bear deals with a hangover), and "Woman is allegedly kidnapped by her parents to stop her from getting married" (she's pressing charges because her parents are obviously nuts).

For some reason, the spinal device story is not on videotape. I don't understand why not.

But the best story is actually the most serious one. "The Truth Behind Women's Brains." It's got some science-y stuff in it, shows pics of PET scans and sounds authoratative. It also has a quote that reinforces what we women already knew, "...the male amygdala, which also controls sexual thought, is twice as large as that of females. Fueled by testosterone, it triggers the typical teenage male brain to think about sex every 52 seconds [n.b., grown-up boys think about sex every 56 seconds], compared to a few times a day for teen girls."

I'm still trying to figure out how men get anything done if they're thinking about sex all the time. I have yet to meet one who could adequately explain this phenomenom to me.

But it works out to my benefit when I want to find someone who is willing to eat a roach for me, so I'm all for it.

Go testosterone!

Sometimes it isn't all about Me

2006-10-05T10:00:00.000-04:00

I know, I find it difficult to believe as well. After all, I'm the most important person to me, so why shouldn't my life focus on me? And more importantly, why shouldn't everyone else's life focus on me? I guess this is one of those "pronoun trouble" questions Daffy and Bugs eternally debate about:

Elmer: Should I shoot him now or wait 'til I get home?
Daffy: Shoot him now! Shoot him now!
Bugs: You be quiet, he doesn't have to shoot you now.
Daffy: Well, I say he DOES have to shoot me now...so shoot me now!
[BANG]
Daffy: Let's try that again.
Bugs: Okay.
Daffy: Shoot him now, shoot him now.
Bugs: You be quiet, he doesn't have to shoot you now.
Daffy: AH HA! Pronoun trouble. It's not, "He doesn't have to shoot YOU now, it's he doesn't have to shoot ME now." But I say he does have to shoot me now! So shoot me now!
[BANG]

The lesson I take away from this is that I will end up being shot by a cartoon hunter for my vanity. So I've taken the lesson to heart and admit that sometimes it isn't all about Me.

(Admitting you have a problem is the first step.)

But back to the question at hand...

I got to work a little early this morning, so I took advantage of the few minutes of solitude and quiet to read the headlines of the NY Times online.

Hmmm...what have we got here? "Early Warning on Foley Cited by Former Aide." Boring. "City Considers Plan to Let Outsiders Run Schools." That's ridiculous. This outsourcing nonsense is really getting out of hand. Note to Self: read that article later. Ooh...what's this?! "Dead Bachelors in Remote China Still Find Wives." *

SHUT UP!!!

This is an A-number 1 primo click-thru bit of tastiness!

What we have here is a...quaint...tradition known as tradition known as "minghun" or "afterlife marriage." The people who spent years in school learning things from books that they should have learned out in the field speculate that the practice is rooted in the Chinese tradition of ancestor worship, which holds that people continue to exist after death and that the living are obligated to tend to their wants. Apparently an unmarried life is incomplete, which is why there is concern that an unmarried son may be an unhappy one.

Generally, the "wife" will be the recently deceased daughter of some grieving family, and they can go for a tidy sum...typically costing more than US$1,200...almost four years of income for the average farmer.

As one of my favorite lines in "Psycho" proclaims, "Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy away an awful lot of unhappiness!"

"Charming" little sidenotes:

(1) in some villages, a son is eligible for such a spouse if he is 12 or older when he dies

(2) "For girls, it doesn't matter about their minds, whether they are an idiot or not. They are still wanted as brides. Dead or alive."

(3) "A woman does not belong to her parents. She must marry and have children of her own before she has a place among her husband's lineage. A woman who dies unmarried has no place in this world."

(4) Minghun doesn't require that the bride also be dead. Living brides are sometimes purchased as well. (No indication of how that plays if the "widow" wants to marry someone else at some point down the road.)I actually find the whole concept more fascinating than macabre, but there is a little bit of that creepy deepy thing going on. Of course, seeing as how I haven't dated anyone in over a year, maybe I shouldn't be critical. Minghun may be the way I get my next husband.I'll tell Mom to start saving up.

* (that link will probably only work for a few days, but I'd be happy to send you a PDF. E-mail me at melody1204@mymelody.com)

This is what passes for hit music these days

2006-09-25T11:19:00.000-04:00

For those of you not in the know, a group called The Black Eyed Peas has been making the rounds of late and getting a lot of A-list coverage. Their lead songstress, a very attractive, nubile, young lady named Fergie, apparently pulled a lot of notice, and had fans clamoring for a solo album.

So she made one.

It's called "The Dutchess" (no relation) and it released September 19th. However, the first single off the album "London Bridge" has been hitting the airwaves since July. I heard it once about a month or so ago, and I disliked it immensely. The tempo of the singing is awkward compared to the background music, so although I like the beat, I can't dance to it.

Seeing a poster yesterday announcing the release of the album prompted me to seek out the lyrics and find out exactly what Fergie was trying to tell me, and the rest of the world, about her London Bridge.

This is what she got paid millions of $$$ to record and perform:

[Paulo] Fergie Ferg, what's up, baby?

When I come to the club, step aside.
Part the seas, don’t be havin' me in the line.
V.I.P., ‘cause you know I gotta shine.
I’m Fergie Ferg, and me love you long time

All my girls get down on the floor,
Back to back, drop it down real low.
I’m such a lady, but I’m dancing like a ho,
‘Cause you know I don’t give a fuck, so here we go!

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

Now As the drinks start pouring,
And my speech start slurring,
Everybody start looking real good.

Grey Goose got your girl feeling loose.
Now I’m wishin’ that I didn’t wear these shoes. (I hate heels)
It’s like every time I get up on the dew,
Paparazzi put my business in the news.

And I’m like get up out my face, (oh shit)
'fore I turn around and spray your ass with mace. (oh shit)
My lips make you wanna have a taste. (oh shit)
You got that? I got the bass.

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

Aah, da, da, da, da, do, do, do, do
Me like a bullet type, you know they comin' right
Fergie love 'em long time
My girls support right?
Aah, da, da, da, da, do, do, do, do
Me like a bullet type you know they comin' right
Fergie love 'em long time
My girls support right?

When I come to the club, step aside.
Pop the seats, don’t be hatin' me in the line.
V.I.P., ‘cause you know I gotta shine.
I’m Fergie Ferg, me love you long time

All my girls get down on the floor,
Back to back, drop it down real low.
I’m such a lady, but I’m dancing like a ho, ‘
'Cause you know I don’t give a fuck, so here we go!

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

How come every time you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

Fuck you, bitches.
Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)

Are you ready for this?
Oh shit (oh shit)
Ohhhhh
It’s me, Fergie
The Pimp!

Remember GOOD dance songs like "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" and "Tainted Love" and "Flashdance"? Songs that inspired you to "get up, get up and get busy, c'mon and move that body" but didn't require you to race to the stereo to turn the music off before your parents caught an earful of the lyrics. Songs that didn't make you feel like you had to "dance like a ho" because you didn't "give a fuck". Songs that didn't add to the overall attitude problem of the average teenager. Songs that you would be okay hearing your 8-year old sister sing in public.

Don't get me wrong...I listen to a lot of music with questionable lyrics, and I occasionally dance like I was raised by ferrets (what with all the twisting and turning and moving in unexpected and inexplicable ways and whatnot), but I am (unfortunately) an adult. I am old enough not to be swayed to emulate the sirens of pop culture. I am old enough to say, "Whoa! Hold up! Leave a little something to the imagination!" or "You know, shooting cops really isn't the best way to express your outrage at being oppressed by The Man." I am also old enough to be in a room by myself and turn red at hearing some of the words in my favorite dance tunes.

For me - now - it's truly about the music, the beat, the rhythm...it's not about trying to find an identity to try on, to find something to stand behind, to find my place in an overwhelmingly large, and excruciatingly small, world - anymore. We have really failed the up-and-coming generations. We have robbed our children of their childhood by flooding them with images and concepts they haven't yet learned how to interpret, and then blame them for responding (or responding "inappropriately") to. We are doing a serious injustice to them, and to ourselves, because these are the children who will one day, very soon, be running the country and the world.

And, as cute as she is, I do not want the likes of "Fergie Ferg" in the Oval Office.

So what's the answer? I guess it all falls back on the people it always should...the family. And included in that definition of family is the extended biological, as well as community personage. It has become a hackneyed cliché at this point, but the underlying message is still very true...it does take a village to raise a child. Adults have a responsibility to the miniature versions running around...not just to see that they are fed and clothed and have roof over their heads, but to insure that they are safe, educated in academics and life, made to feel loved and important, and most of all, that they are taught to think for themselves (my mother would be so proud to hear me say that).

I don't have any children myself, but that doesn't let me off the hook. I have two nephews, a goddaughter and her younger brother and sister. I owe it to each one of them to teach by example, to talk through issues that might make me uncomfortable to discuss, but are important for them to know and understand, and to let them know that they can come to me not only with good news, but with any problems as well.

And even though they are grown up, I still have a duty to each of my younger siblings to share with them my experiences and do my best to help them make good choices along the way, and also be a shoulder to lean on when needed. And my family owes me and them (sounds odd, but I believe it is grammatically correct) the same thing. As I often say, if we all do a little, we can accomplish a lot.

So my mission is clear. I plan to spend the rest of this week educating my winglings on the perils of watching any shows on VH-1 or videos on YouTube, MTV or MTV2, the danger of having bags of Sour Jelly Bellys in the house, and how NOT to dress like a Pussycat Doll (or date someone who does).

(And if anyone can teach me how to keep my hands off a hot 20-year old until he turns 21, it's your responsibility to come forward and school me!)

A New Level of Cool Has Just Entered My Life

2006-09-21T11:13:00.000-04:00

One of the great things about knowing people of varying ages from 30 years younger to 30 years older is the diversity of the information you receive. My latest discovery comes in the form of an adorable little 20-year old boy I call "kitten" (a term of deep, unblemished affection, I assure you). Well, I've actually discovered two things through him...1) 20 year old boys are much cuter, more intelligent and far more effortlessly sexy now than they were when I was that age and 2) www.pandora.com.

Pandora is, quite simply, one of the greatest ideas of the new millennium. It brings Internet radio into a whole new age. Relying on an extensive database of music and brilliant musicologists, Pandora is the brainchild resulting from over 6 years of research called The Music Genome Project.

Instead of just turning you over to a particular genre of sound, Pandora analyzes a song or artist you choose as a starting point, comparing 100's of attributes to thousands of other songs or artists and making suggestions based on that analysis. Going farther, it allows you to give the "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" to any song they play (two "downs" to any one artists and they will be completely deleted from your preferences). You can refine the suggestions by adding additional songs or artists. All this creates a "radio station". You can create an unlimited amount of radio stations, allowing you to indulge your tastes in vanilla ice cream, watermelon bubble gum, Sour Jelly Bellys or hash brownies. It is also a fantastic way to discover artists and songs you've never heard of before without any commitment or investment.

I will warn you in advance that it is another deliciously guilty pleasure that will keep you from doing what you're supposed to be doing. I was misusing my wireless connection in class last night to tune in to trance electronica instead of learning about distributable net income. Good thing I brought my digital recorder and taped the class.

At the moment, Pandora is a free, commercial-free service. Ultimately, you will be able to choose the free version with advertising added or pay for an ad-free version. Unlike VH-1's program choices, this is actually something worth checking out.

As for The Kitten...well, his 21st birthday is coming up on November 21st. After that I can legally take him to a bar for a drink and think my bad thoughts over Kamikaze shots instead of hot chocolate. me-OW!

If I were not a well-known aficionado of bad TV, I would be embarrassed to admit this...

2006-09-14T13:46:00.000-04:00

***Much to my deep dismay (and annoyance), I'm having another one of those Blogger incidents wherein my pictures will not upload. Hopefully the problem will be resolved shortly and the pix that NEED to accompany this piece will be added forthwith. In the meantime, I'm afraid you will just have to use a little imagination...or head over to VH1.com. I apologize for the inconvenience...even if Blogger doesn't.***

At the casual suggestion of one of my many little sisters, I tuned into "Flavor of Love 2" last week.

Talk about a train wreck.

Chugging along in the footsteps of ABC's "The Bachelor", "Flavor of Love 2" has a houseful of women (who apparently can't find men in the real world to date) competing for the attention and affections of one man.

Three problems with this:

(a) The bachelor is the once somewhat-known rapper, Flavor Flav (originally a member of Public Enemy), who is most assuredly NOT someone I would go to the time and trouble of leaving behind the comforts of home to go and attempt to make fall for me;

(2) Unlike any other "reality dating" show, Our Man Flav gets to go through another group of chicks because the woman he chose first time around was more into her subsequent notoriety than into Flav himself (oh sh*t! Really? I can't imagine why!); and

(D) These apparently desperate women are required (probably just as well) to be code named. I don't know if the names are suggested and they pick from a list or whether they are assigned names or if they make them up themselves, but here is a sampling: Krazy, Eyez, Buckwild, Buckeey, Spunkeey, H-Town, Payshyntz, Toastee and Wire. (For myself, I wouldn't get too close to anyone named "Wire". I'd take "Krazy" any day of the week over that!)

Going by the VH1 "Character Bios", there seems to be a theme of bi-sexuality and incontinence underlying the group dynamic. Several of them have or want to hook up with a girl, and way too many of them have peed or pooped on themselves in public.

Hmmm...maybe that's why they can't get a man in the real world.

Aside from all these women gettin' all up in Flav's grill (and Flav taking mad advantage of it), I couldn't figure out exactly what was going on or how contestants were being picked to stay or go. I did get the exciting episode, though, where super-duper psycho ghetto bitch, New York, from Season 1 (boo hiss for being associated with my state) was asked by Flav to return to the mansion and help him decide who would be the next shorty riding the rails out of town.

That went over like a lead balloon. New York has serious psychological issues revolving around rage, jealousy, low self-esteem and inflated sense of importance (yes, it is possible to have both). Her favorite thing to do is antagonize people to the point of half a step before a catfight erupts (I believe last season a few actually broke out). This, of course, is done when it's "just the girls"...when Flav shows up, it's a different story. When confronted by the chicks in front of The Flav Man about the fight narrowly avoided just 5 minutes beforehand, the bitch actually burst into tears when Flav asked her why she would say (insert whatever she said here). "I'm just here for you, Flav! I'm trying to be a good friend and help you because you asked me to!" And promptly ran outside.

Of course she was followed and her tears were died away with affectionate kisses. Bleech!

But out of all the madness, my personal favorite decision was when Flav decided that as much as he liked her, Nibblz could never be his woman because she has a webcam in her home and pole dances on the Internet. Flav has kids, you know, and he can't have them be exposed to that sort of thing.

WHAAAAAAAA????

I'm sorry, are you not the man who is on his SECOND batch of booty-giving females, making out with them, hanging out in the hot tub naked with them, touching them in places you shouldn't touch someone you don't know very well ON NATIONAL TELEVISION? This crap is being TAPED, dawg! If Nibblz took down her camera today, it's likely no one would ever see footage of her pole dancing days ever again! Can you spell "hypocrite"?

(Although on this show, it would probably be spelled more like "hippokreeyt".)

"Flavor of Love 2" airs Sunday nights at 10 PM on VH1...home of (used-to-be and never-were) celeb(s)reality.

Check it.

I lied. Question #2 re: The Pussycat Dolls.

2006-09-06T13:21:00.000-04:00

As the very clever and ever-amusing Marcheline points out, there are so many PCDs so that when you're done with one you can throw it out and still have some left. But that begs the question, does that make them more like Kleenex or Trojans???

The Amazing Race Race Race

2006-09-06T11:19:00.000-04:00

(Actually I just found out that it's "Survivor", not "The Amazing Race", but I like the title, so you'll have to bear with my poetic license.)

Just as I am not easily embarrassed, I'm not easily offended.

This crap offends me.

For those of you who have not heard about this, the upcoming "Survivor: Cook Islands" will not arbitrarily delineate who goes into what tribe, but will instead be divided along racial lines: African-American, Asian-American, Latino and Caucasian (apparently neither Latinos nor Caucasians are "-American").

The best line I have heard describing this debacle is "Survivor: Skin City".

I like a little bit of controversy. I think shaking people up and making them THINK once in a while is a good thing. Americans have become far too complacent, self-centered and whiny. If you exist in a world where breaking a fingernail is the thing that keeps you up at night, you have more problems than you realize. Whether we "want" to or not, we all have a duty to be aware of and aid our fellow man. This doesn't necessarily mean joining the Peace Corps. It could be mentoring a child or reading books to the blind or providing pro bono services to people who otherwise couldn't afford them. If we all did a little bit, it would turn into a lot. And we'd all be better off for it.

What we do NOT need is a return to the days before Brown v. The Board of Education. It is my firm belief that human beings are innately predisposed to find external ways to assert superiority to one another. (See e.g., Dr. Seuss' The Sneetches.) But it is also my firm belief that because we are sentient beings with the capacity to reason, we can overcome those prejudices. Am I deluding myself into believing that Americans are a true melting pot of cultures who work hand-in-hand without discord? No way. We've got a long, long way to go before we get anywhere close to that. However, whipping out The Race Card does nothing but a serious disservice to everyone. This "Survivor" essentially forces its viewers (of which I will not be one) to align themselves along racial lines, and not necessarily in the ways one would immediately think of. Just as I can see certain groups screaming, "White Power!", I can just as vividly hear the chorus of "Of course the Blacks are going to win, they were bred to be athletes" or "You know how those Mexicans are, they're all sneaky" or "The Asians can't win...there's no math or science involved."

Unlike the world premiere of "Roots", this show will do nothing but tear out fledgling roots of camaraderie and increase insularity. It is an insult to our intelligence, and a dramatic step back in the progress of race relations. I applaud the sponsors withdrawing their advertising, although I do wish they had the balls to admit the reason they were doing it instead of claiming one had nothing to do with the other. I condemn Mark Burnett for being a callous attention hog who is only interested in stirring up controversy to raise viewership, consequences be damned. I think CBS should fire him, make public apology for ever even considering the format, and donate a sh*tload of money to some 501(c)(3) dedicated to increasing racial tolerance. But that won't happen because that would mean they'd have to admit they were WRONG. And that's a fate worse than dusting off segregation and putting it on TV for fun and profit.

This is especially contumelious in this year of the 5th anniversary of September 11th, when race WAS forgotten for a time and we banded together for the first time as Americans instead of
"-Americans." I shudder to think what Mark Burnett or his ilk come up with for the 10th anniversary. I fervently hope that we will be a nation completely intolerant of such primitive attempts to "entertain", but if this show opens up new rifts, we may never have the chance to advance that far.

Thanks, Mark. We'll be sure to put you down in the history books as the Brit who reintegrated segregation back into America.

OH NO HE DIDN'T!!!

2006-09-06T09:57:00.002-04:00

The gauntlet has been thrown down, the challenge made, and I would be supremely remiss in my duties not to respond.

First of all, CTK, Don't Hassle The Hoff!!! People in Germany LOVE that guy! He must be doing something right! (Of course, the French LOVE Jerry Lewis, so maybe the European opinion is somewhat skewed)

Second, you have now forced me to offer a veritable plethora of videos that easily would beat out The Beastie Boys for Best Video Ever.

(*throat clearing*)

#1 - Toma

#2 - Bootylicious

#3 - Run It

#4 - Ms. New Booty

#5 - Amish Paradise

Which just goes to show that good video must involve either half naked chicks moving their bodies in ways nature never intended or "Weird Al" Yankovic.

You better recognize!

Crikey!

2006-09-04T21:20:00.000-04:00

Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter, was brought down today by a stingray. This makes, I believe, only the 18th recorded case of stingray death in the world. I wasn't a Croc Hunt follower, but the guy seemed pretty okay and very knowledgeable about zoology. It totally sucks that he died that way...but I guess you could look at it in the sense of at least he was doing what he loved when it happened.

One of my most cherished memories is my first dive after I got certified. I was in the Cayman Islands, and we were out in the middle of the ocean checking out the brightly colored fish and being environmentally concious of the coral, when I turn my head to the left and saw a large, lone eagle ray gliding through the water, looking as though it was flying. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

It's kind of sobering to think that I was also in Stingray City feeding the very animals that caused Irwin's death. But you can't let those freak accidents keep you from new and unusual experiences. I spend too much time already letting Life get in the way of Living. If we take away one thing today from Steve, if it's your time to go, make sure you can say aloha with a sincere "Je ne regrette rien"!

Another dream bites the dust

2006-09-04T20:56:00.000-04:00

Greatly intrigued by Variant E's suggestion to make a career out of following and firing Mark Myslinski, I started dusting off my résumé in anticipation of sending it to the good folks in the legal department of JPMorgan (me being a lawyer, and all). I just need that secret segue into the hallowed halls so that I could maintain that all important element of surprise. I had visions of strolling into the Creative Department, maybe with a Blow Pop in my mouth a la Kojak, and walking past his office, looking in, smiling, then strolling around some more. He would be appropriately freaked out by the fact that the suit I was wearing cost more than a month's salary for him. He would come flying out of his office and ask me what I was doing there. "Oh, hi! Mike, isn't it? Wait, that's not right...Mark, that's right, Mark," I would reply causally, after taking a few extra tugs on the Blow Pop. "I'm the lead attorney on the XYZ account. I came to see if our prospectus was ready. Have your people finished it yet? It's a big account, you know. If that document isn't finished on time and perfect, I'm going to have to have a very serious talk with your supervisor. See that it's on my desk in an hour. TTFN!"

This scene would be repeated over and over at every investment bank in NYC until he had a nervous breakdown.

Then I remembered these silly little NY State Penal Laws §§ 120.45, 120.50, 120.55, 120.60, which create the crime of "stalking", of which I could conceivably be guilty and for which I conceivably be sentenced to seven years in jail.

As much enjoyment as I could get out of this emotional torture, Mark Myslinski isn't worth seven years in jail.

So, there goes that fantasy. *deep sigh* Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Funny thing happened to me on the way to JPMorgan

2006-08-31T14:07:00.000-04:00

Remember about ten days ago when I was heading out to what I considered to be a thoroughly unnecessary interview with JPMorgan before I was subjected to two weeks of training? Well, I talked to my agent, Henry, a couple of hours before the interview (they deemed it necessary to further intrude on my life by upping the time of my 'view by a half hour), and he told me the names of the guys I was meeting with - Mark Myslinski and Tony Ngyuen. I'm thinking to myself, "Mark Myslinski? Why does that name sound so familiar?" It's weird to me that I recognize the moniker because I have a mind like a steel sieve. And now it starts to bug me that I can't remember why I know this name.

So I ruminate on it for the next few hours. I ruminate and I cogitate and I contemplate, I mull over, I muse, I noodle, I ponder and I reflect.

And as I'm about to leave the office to head over to 200-something Park Avenue, it finally comes to mind...

When I was a supervisor at my last job, I totally fired Mark Myslinski.

Now, you have to understand that I was pretty sure I didn't really want this job, so instead of freaking out like a lot of people would have done (or I would have done had I truly needed the gig), I thought it was hilarious. I wondered if this whole thing was an elaborate charade to get me into the office to attempt to embarrass or humiliate me. Which would have been stupid and a waste of time anyway, since it takes a lot to embarrass me. In fact, I probably would have humiliated him more by reminding him in front of his co-worker that he was fired for being a rude mf'er.

Anyways, I'm already committed to this thing and I'm curious to see how it will play out, so I go to see Mark and Tony.

I meet with Tony first for a few minutes, and then Mark walks in, shakes my hand, says it's nice to meet me and sits down. We then do the classic interview b.s. and about 15-20 minutes into it, Mark FINALLY takes a hard look at my resume and ask, "Did we work together at XYZ investment bank?" I smiled innocently and nearly talk over the end of his question in my eagerness to say, "Yes, I think we did. Your name sounded familiar."

I suppose to be fair I must admit that he had apparently lost the rudeness, because he sat through the next 5-10 minutes of our meeting and shook my hand with a "nice seeing you again" on the way out. I was totally bummed out that he didn't spaz or turn into back into an ass. I was missing out on cash money to be there, and I at least expected a little entertainment for my lost dollars.

The next day I called Henry and told him the story, including the backstory. He was concerned that I had blurted out the fact that Mark and I had history. (Dude, I'm a lawyer! I know how to keep my mouth shut!) We had a good laugh after that, and I had an even better laugh after he expressed his opinion that Mark wouldn't remember me or that it wouldn't matter because we wouldn't be working the same shift. Mark was an ass, but I never said he was stupid...he was eventually going to remember.

Eventually turned out to be the next day. Henry sounded so sorrowful when he called to tell me that I hadn't been picked to go into the training program. Apparently Mark's reason was, "We worked together before and she isn't very pleasant to work with." Well, when somebody fires you, I suppose it isn't very pleasant! I liked his attempt to rationalize without getting sued, but I was annoyed because it isn't at all true. I am WAY fun to work with. Ask anyone (besides Mark, of course) who has ever had the pleasure.

So that's that story. As my punishment for firing Mark, I am working a kick-ass fun job at a medical education company in the graphics department. I also make $6 an hour more than I would have at JP (cheap b*astards!) I get to be around a lot of talented people who know how to have a good time while they work, and I get to wear jeans and come in late when I'm not needed first thing in the morning. I totally slept until 10:40 this morning and arrived at 11:30 (I'm supposed to start at 9:30) and nobody yelled at me for having overslept. I've been very good and productive for most of the day, and I actually am done with lunch and have to get back to creating some templates to simplify the workflow for the marketing department.

So this is me signing off for now. Ciao!

Just one question...

2006-08-31T14:02:00.000-04:00

Why the hell are there so goddamn many of them???

Sexy is as sexy does...

2006-08-22T15:07:00.000-04:00

Sexy = wearing jeans to work and putting money in your bank account at the same time
Not Sexy = working 40+ hours in three days

Sexy = losing six pounds in one week (Picture to come soon? Perhaps!)
Not Sexy = working so much that you don't go to the gym for a week and a half

Sexy = flirting shamelessly with boys 15 years your junior (preferably while they are wearing nothing but swim shorts)
Not Sexy = eating an entire bag of Skittles and calling it a meal

Justin may have a few more bonus points than me (seeing as how I'm operating on an even scale at this point), but he doesn't put in half as much effort as I do!

Move over, Justin Timberlake...I'M bringing Sexy Back!

2006-08-15T12:35:00.000-04:00

Fear Not, Gentle Readers, I have not abandoned you during my quest to find either a job or an agent. It's just been quite a chore, leaving me with no energy to blog.

Sad, isn't it?

But there is good news! I found meself not one, but TWO agents whose lives are dedicated to putting $$$ in my pocket. Well, maybe not entirely dedicated to me, but enough so that I can go with the flow.

This week finds me, almost ONE YEAR TO THE DAY, back in the workforce. As I remembered, it generally bites ass. Too many people, too many bad moods (mine included), too many yawns, too few hours to get in a full day's work and a full day's play. But the pay is good, and I get free soda and hot chocolate, so it isn't a total wash. Of course, I've given up soda since I started counting calories (yes, I actually do, and I do it on-line @ www.calorie-count.com.) I'm down six pounds since last Monday, so I guess it's working. That number may be reduced to five pounds when my body realizes that I slipped up bad last night and indulged in an entire bag of Sour Jelly Bellys. It wasn't my fault. I'd had a really long day, I was tired and cranky, I wanted something that would make me feel better, and I have an absolute addiction to Sour Jelly Bellys. The plan was just to eat a few to comfort me. And that's how it started. Then I got wrapped up in working on a website design and I kept nibbling and the next thing I knew it was 4:00 AM and the bag was empty and I only had three hours to sleep.

Ooops.

So here I am today, still tired, still cranky, still craving Sour Jelly Bellys (I seriously am addicted to them), and no end in sight. After I get out of here (I'm working at an ad agency specializing in pharmaceuticals this week, and no, they won't give me any free samples...I asked), I have to go to an interview at JPMorgan for somewhere in the neighborhood of an hour. Why do I need to go to JPMorgan to interview? I don't really know. I went and took their stupid Desktop Publishing test so that they can see that I am imminently qualified to make pretty pictures in PowerPoint, and I passed with flying colors, so what else do they need from me? They're going to put me in a room with a bunch of other Creatures of the Night and have us make pretty pictures in PowerPoint. Exactly what could they POSSIBLY have to talk to me about for an hour? But it gets better...next week I start a TWO WEEK TRAINING PROGRAM for them. Admittedly, I don't know what the training consists of, but if it's anything like the test they gave me, they're wasting my time and theirs. I have to blow off a week-long trip to Montauk that I've been planning since January so that I can do this training. Upside, it's paid training. Downside, it's paying me at least $7/hour less than I'm worth, un-JPMorgan trained, on the open market. But I've got no one to blame but myself. Next time I give up on the corporate world, I will have freelance gigs on tap so that I don't burn through every penny I have (which is a bad thing)

Okay, I'm officially exhausted. I'm going to feed myself some salad and try not to fall asleep. Something about not paying me for naptime...

Best...Music Video...Ever...

2006-08-02T10:14:00.000-04:00

Five Reasons I Know I'm Getting Old...

2006-07-26T23:51:00.000-04:00

1. I can't get a good night's sleep if the thread count of my sheets is less than 300.

2. I'm always complaining about how "inappropriate" television and music is for children.

3. I'm actually concerned about things like fiber and benefits and retirement planning.

4. My once-or-twice-a-year gray hairs have now become once-or-twice-a quarter.

5. I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself that "40 is the new 20."

Five Things I Do To Counteract The Effects of Getting Old...

1. Hang out with people under 30 (preferably the ones who think I look five to ten years younger than I actually am).

2. Watch the Cartoon Network.

3. Text message as often as possible (without, however, the "cute" little abbreviations like "ROFL", "R U @ home" or the ever-popular "LOL")

4. Ogle the cute guys at the gym.

5. Going to visit my parents and getting treated like I'm still eight years old.

María del Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Baeza de Rasten

2006-07-19T14:13:00.000-04:00

Better known as that wacky sex bomb of 70's fame, CHARO (cuchi cuchi!)

Why am I dusting Charo off and putting her front and center in today's blog? Because someone else beat me to dusting her off and putting her in a Geico commercial.

Yes. I said Geico.

"What does a wacky 70's sex bomb have to do with auto insurance?" you may well ask. The answer to that is "I don't know." Despite having watched the commercial with great zeal, I fail to see any correlation between Charo and Geico. But I am thrilled that she's getting work, and I was also thrilled that that damn gecko was nowhere to be seen. So I'm all for the marriage.

Just to keep it mixed up and give other has-beens a chance to be on TV again, I saw another version this morning featuring LITTLE RICHARD.

Personally, I enjoyed Charo more, but as long as that reptile is off-camera, I'm a happy camper.

I can't wait to see who they come up with next.

Let the good auto insurance times roll!

Motivation 101

2006-07-07T11:31:00.000-04:00

I was at the gym yesterday, casually watching Big Screen TV #3 and listening to my Discman at the same time. Big Screen TV #3 was tuned to VH1 which was airing reruns of "Celebrity Fit Club." Near as I can tell (not ever having seen either show) CFC is the B and C list celebrity version of "The Biggest Loser."

I gotta tell you, it was disturbing. From the "before" pictures to the bathing suit pictures to the visual representation of the fat lost by the teams, I was totally horrified. It did make me pedal harder on the ole elliptical, and lead me to wonder what was really a better motivator for me.

This?

or (as I had believed Wednesday night) this?

One is certainly a lot easier on the eyes than the other...and has A list actors...and takes the stereotype of the nerdy scientist and turns it on it's now sexy head. But is that enough?

I was a size 6 this time last year, and with continued trips to the gym and healthy eating, I should be back there in two or three months, so the toned bodies on "CSI:" are not only attainable, but a lot closer to my real body than the uber-weights on "CFC". But I find myself watching the CSI crew slink around crime scenes and just being wistful that I let myself get out of shape, as opposed to the stark I-can-hear-the-fat-on-my-thighs-expanding terror that I experience watching CFC.

I think my instantaneous physical response of increased exertion yesterday makes it pretty clear that I am driven by fear rather than pleasure. I'm guessing this means I should put up a picture of Judge Mablean on my refridgerator rather than Marg Helenberger.

Oh woe is me...

But I bet you I lose the weight in two months rather than three!

This job hunting thing sucks eggs

2006-06-26T22:29:00.000-04:00

Apparently nobody got the memo that I'm ready to start working again ergo I will be entertaining offers beginning immediately. It then struck me that I'm far too busy and important to sit around worrying about these things (after all, I have to beat my high score in Free Cell, complete the daily NY Times crossword puzzle, and go to the gym to discover the latest in bad TV). After much mulling and ruminating, I figured out the solution:

I need an Agent.

Not one of those fake "agents" like they pimp at Monster.com and other job boards which are nothing more than glorified database searches, but a real live honest-to-goodness Agent like all the movie stars in Hollywood have. An Agent like...Jerry McGuire.

I totally need some guy whose livelihood depends on getting me the best deal possible. In order for HIS 10% to matter, MY 100% definitely needs to matter. And that works out well for everyone involved, so it can't be a bad thing.

Problem is, the Agents apparently didn't get their memo, either, as I have yet to receive any resumes or phone calls inquiring about the position. And, as we know, I'm much too important to sit around worrying about whether or not people are getting their memos.

Damn. I think that means I have to hire an Agent to find me an Agent...

This one's for Marcheline...

2006-06-22T13:09:00.000-04:00

I ran across this pic in my Foreign Policy magazine and (naturally!) thought of you!

And now...back to me

2006-06-16T23:28:00.000-04:00

I thought I was all well and done with this illness phase, and that it was all over but the singing. Foolish woman, me. Last Sunday found me getting to know the 4:00 AM shift of doctors and nurses at my local ER. Yup, another attack of whatever it is I have.

More morphine.

More blood tests.

And another ultrasound (in addition to the one I'd had that Friday, for which my doctor has yet to receive the results.)

My doctor was Melissa Rockefeller. I asked her if she was of THE Rockefellers, and she said she was a very distant relative...hence having to work for a living. I was somewhat sympathetic about the having to work for a living part (heaven knows I certainly don't want to), but it was tempered by my recognition of the obvious benefits of having a last name synonymous with untold wealth and riches. I liked her. She was very nice and had a good bedside manner. She also did a much better ultrasound than the chick who did the one the first time I was at that hospital, but not as good as the one I'd had done on Friday by a honest-to-goodness-for-real ultrasound technician who does nothing all day but scan people ultrasonically. Speaking of which, I tried to get info about that scan from said tech, but she had a really bad speech impediment, and I could barely understand her.

Tech: Wraith your arm over yourth ead.

Me: (What??? Oh...raise my arm. Okay.)

Tech: Rolth on your side.

Me: (Alright...got that one.)

Tech: No, twarth me.

Me: (I'm going to assume that the "no" means I rolled the wrong way, so I'm just going to roll over the other way.)

Tech: Breth in...and hold.

Me: (And breathe out...)

Tech: (silence, apart from clicking of keys)

Me: (AND breathe out...)

Tech: (silence, save the keys)

Me: (Ummm...hello? I'm about to pass out here!)

Tech: And relethe.

Me: (Thank you!)

Tech: Breth in...and hold.

Me: (Shite! How many times is she going to make me do this???)

Turns out that it was a total of five times, and I very nearly did pass out at least twice. After she finished, I asked her if she saw anything going on in there and she told me that my "galth bladder wuth contractith" which might be what was causing me pain. Ordinarily at this point I harass the nurse/tech/doctor until they give me more information than they really want to, but just trying to understand her required such a concerted effort on my part, I figured I could wait for my Not-Regular-Doctor to give me the 4-1-1. Supposedly the results were supposed to arrive Monday or Tuesday, but here it is Friday and no word. I had to call my Not-Regular-Doctor and give her the number for NYU's Radiology department so that she could call and get some answers. I have a feeling that she won't be doing that until Monday, as I didn't phone her office until 3 this afternoon and everyone leaves at 5. And it's not like I'm one of her regular patients anyway.

I do still live with a heightened sense of paranoia at the slightest twinge of abdominal pain, but before sending me home, the ER doc gave me an Rx for Percocet, so I have some controlled substance within easy reach should I need a little pain killing. I know nothing about Percocet except that people on TV always get hooked on it. I don't anticipate a dependency or addiction since pain killers have a boring tendency not to work on me. I'm hoping this works better than Vicodin or Codeine.

So anyway, I'm on the mend and finally getting back to looking for a job (other than my preoccupation of looking for the next Rock, Paper, Scissors Championship.) This makes me far less interesting, but much happier physically. Many thanks to all my peeps who listened to me BP&M about this for the past two weeks and are still talking to me. I promise not to complain any more.

Until the next time, anyway.

This supersedes everything, including my gallbladder

2006-06-14T01:17:00.000-04:00

Last night I discovered that there are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

Cue the Rock-Paper-Scissors League Championship.

Yes, Rock-Paper-Scissors. The same game you probably played as a child. Only now it's played in front of a national TV audience and worth $50K if you win. $50K, dude...that's more than a lot of people make in a year. And all you have to do is cover Rock with Paper or crush Scissors with Rock or cut Paper with Scissors two times out of three and you're golden.

All this time I've been WORKING for a living. I've totally been getting robbed and I didn't even know it. A&E knew it. They televised the event live from Vegas, baby. Budweiser knew. They had their logos for Bud Light all over the place. The schmoes who were in the contest knew it. They were there firing off their various hand gestures. But somehow no one remembered to send ME the memo. Or any of the memos for the multitudinous unsuspected ways to make money. Like professional sport juggling. Or professional volleyball. Or professional hot dog eating. Or professional video game playing. Or professional paintball.

I've always heard "Do what you love, the money will follow," but I had no idea that included eating pie. I must confess, I'm a little bitter. I wasted so many years going to school and getting a law degree when all I had to do was sit around grooming my beasties and entering them in cat shows. Sure there's some traveling involved in any of these endeavors, but I like going to new places...and for fifty grand a pop, I'm willing to get on a plane.

So my latest endeavor is to make a profession of finding out about all these weird little ways to make scads of cash. I will be putting my full powers to bear on this task. I will make new e-pals. I will end up on dozens of e-lists. I will get to the bottom of this.

And best of all, I will share. No more shall we walk in the shadow of ignorance. Your right to spin a yo-yo for fun AND profit will be assured.

My Not-Regular-Doctor disagrees with my diagnosis

2006-06-05T23:09:00.000-04:00

Not that I'm giving up on acute pancreatitis, but she claims that my symptoms disappeared too quickly for that to have been my ailment. Her thought is that I might have those gallstones previously mentioned. I'll have to do more research on those as all I know is that they are created in the gallbladder and they hurt like all get out when you pass them (which sounds kind of icky).

To develop that theory further, I have to have an abdominal ultrasound done at NYU Medical Center on Friday. NYU is much further than the hospital I went to last week, but they didn't do a very good job on my ultrasound (as in they couldn't get a good picture of my gallbladder), so I figure there's no point in going back to the site of failure. Besides, NYU is my alma mater, so it's only right that I should support it. Go team!

So far I have remained happily pain free, and hope that trend will continue. I don't know about this gallstone business, though. If there are more of these stone thingies hanging around, what happens if another one decides it doesn't want to stick around and tries to get out? I'm thinking someone needs to send me home with a big ol' bottle of painkillers in case this happens again. Now I just have to convince someone with an "M.D." after their name to agree with me. I'm planning for some serious suck-up time, complete with references to his or her omnipotent god-like powers. A lot of doctors are totally into that God Complex thing. Let's hope the one I encounter falls prey to that syndrome.

More on my condition as it progresses. Look forward with baited breath for Friday's installment!

Patient presented with acute abdominal distress...

2006-06-01T00:56:00.000-04:00

Apparently my body wasn't really interested in stopping at the "I've got a cold like everyone else" stage...it had to go a little above and beyond to something a little more exotic.

So it put in me agonizing pain for two days until I finally couldn't take it any more and stumbled into the ER Tuesday night.

I have both a high tolerance for pain and the classic "good girl" syndrome, so for me to go to a hospital in the middle of the night is pretty serious stuff. I wasn't afraid I was going to die...I was in just enough hurt to be afraid I was going to live.

As it was, after I got "triaged" (near as I can tell, this is a fancy word for being admitted), I waited for over a hour before a doc came to see me. In the meantime I stood up, I sat down, I leaned against the wall, I walked around...anything I could try to relieve the painful pressure in my abdominal region. It felt like something had grabbed ahold of my stomach and was squeezing it like it was testing the ripeness of a cassava melon. I've never given birth, but if this is anything like labor pains, I have a whole new respect for my mother's attempts to parcel out guilt with her comments on how long she was in labor with each of us.

After I was triaged, I got dumped in Room 4, asked for the infamous urine sample, handed a drafty hospital gown and started my wait. I'd forgotten my watch in my rush to leave the house, so I had nothing to measure the passing time by except betting myself on how many more positions I would have to switch to before I was sure that I wouldn't be able to handle the cramping any longer.

They did tease a bit at first...within 10 minutes a Nice Young Man showed up with a cool mobile workstation and got more detailed information from me (including, of course, my insurance information). I saw that my answer of "8" to the question of "From 1 to 10, how bad would you say the pain is?" had earned me a rating of "2 - Urgent," so that was encouraging. Since there weren't any people with gunshot wounds or foreign objects sticking out of their bodies when I came in, and I was put in a room right away, I figured it wouldn't be too long before someone in a white coat would appear and I could accost them with a plea for relief. I even had it all phrased..."I don't care WHAT it is that is causing the pain, but I need you to make it stop NOW!"

"Not too long" and "ER" in the same sentence? Ha ha, you foolish girl, you!

"Jen" came in about 10 minutes after the Nice Young Man left and cheerfully informed me that she was going to be one of my ER nurses and that someone would be by in a few minutes to pick up my sample. That was a lie and a fiasco. When someone finally DID show up, she didn't know who I was. Apparently they had the room listed as being occupied by me and someone else. That provided more fun in the ensuing hours as people would arbitrarily stick their heads into Room 4 and ask me who I was. It was a good thing they had stuck one of those name tag bracelets on me when I first arrived, otherwise they wouldn't have known whose emergency contact to get in touch with when they found me passed out on the floor.

My room was right in front of the main flurry of activity, so I got scraps of conversation about everything that was (and wasn't) going on. I started to get a bit annoyed when people would swoop into my room, move past me like I wasn't there, look for (and occasionally find) some piece of medical apparatus Not For Me, and swoop back out. I would have settled for an insincere "Hi! A doctor will be with you soon!" rather than no acknowledgement at all. I do abhor rudeness, after all. I got VERY annoyed when I heard Swoopee #1 (I thought she was a nurse, but several hours later she was introduced to me as one of the doctors) a bit later saying "Skip SuperMilkChan and go to Room 11". Apparently who trumps who in the abdominal pain game can be influenced by age. My personal opinion was that the 68-year old had had a much longer life than I had and that I should get priority, but once again, my opinions didn't seem to matter much. It did make me seriously dislike Swoopee #1

Doctor #1 came in sometime after midnight and apologized for the wait (good start to bedside manner). She asked me all the same questions the triage nurse had asked (including the "1 to 10" rating), poked my abdomen, asked some more questions, poked a few more things, promised to come back with a morphine drip, and left. I could hear her conferring with Swoopee #1...describing my symptoms and asking what it could be. I felt like I was on an episode of "House", only with not quite the best and brightest minds in the hospital.

Before my drugs arrived, one of previous Who Are You people showed up with a portable EKG machine and started sticking 3M brand electroconductive softpads all over my legs and chest (during this operation, the X-ray guy showed up and got a look at the goods before the EKG lady shooed him out). You could tell I was sick because I really didn't give a rat's ass. I was keeping my eyes on the prize...that big, beautiful IV full of morphine. As long as failures of modesty didn't keep me off that track, I was good to go. She ran the EKG twice since I couldn't relax (she thought it was because I was nervous - it was actually because lying flat on my back put me in more pain than any other position). I was pleased to find out that my heart was still beating.

X-Ray guy was still skulking about when she was done, so I followed him to get some chest x-rays taken. I found that standing with my chest pressed up against a solid surface while my head and arms were still free to move about was, interestingly, the most comfortable position I had been in in two days. But then I had to lie down and do a flat bed scan, and that was wicked uncomfortable.

After getting back to Room 4, at best guess, it took another 15 - 20 minutes before my Drug Nurse showed up, sucked out copious amounts of blood and finally hooked me to a 6-mg. morphine drip. After she finished that, she made assurances that I would probably feel light-headed and fall asleep for an hour or two and when I woke up my test results would be back. Oh, and someone would be in to get a urine sample.

Ummmm...I done already sent one of those off with some lady. More confab at the doctors' station. Tracked down Take the Sample to the Lab Lady. She informed them that the sample was in the lab. They continued talked, but I was bored with them and focusing on whether or not 6 mg. was actually making a difference.

Swoopee #1 aka Doctor #2 popped in shortly after for her turn to poke my abdomen and ask me pain level questions. I was curt. Polite, but curt. I would have been more forgiving if the drugs were warming out my system better. She got her answers and then went and confabbed with the other two doctors some more.

Almost at the end of my first bag of morphine (I went through 3 before the pain and I decided to part ways), Some Random Male Nurse pops in and tells me that I have to take some "stuff" (technical term) for a CAT scan (I have good insurance, so I imagine they were milking this for all it was worth). The "stuff" turned out to be "Sterile Water for Irrigation...[Latin chemical names I daren't try to repeat.]"

It was vile.

It looked, smelled and tasted like dishwater...only far less pleasant. I looked suspiciously at SRMN. He went to get me some anti-nausea medication (good call on his part). After he replaced my now-empty IV of morphine and stuck some anti-nausea stuff in there, I asked if he was SURE that it would keep me from throwing up and I felt queasy already. He assured me that after 5 or 10 minutes it would kick in and I would be fine.

Total lie. After the first swig of dishwater hit my stomach, I discovered that sample transport bags make good airsick bags.

About halfway through Bag #2, Doctor #3 showed up with a mobile sonogram unit and showed me how to interpret the grayish blobs on the screen as kidney, liver, aorta, and gallbladder. I learned that my rib was shadowing my gallbladder, so she couldn't get as good a shot as she wanted to. I also learned that the rest of my organs looked BEAUTIFUL! As flattering as that was, I didn't want to know about the bits that looked GOOD, I wanted to know what looked BAD so we could fix it!!!

They eventually discovered that I hadn't finished my "stuff" and ordered me some additional anti-nausea medication. Again I waited about 10 minutes (probably longer), and again it didn't last any time at all.

When they finally looked in on me again, I told them I wasn't sure that a CAT scan was in the cards (thus making them nervous because if I had appendicitis and they let me walk out without diagnosing it, all their careers would be over). They offered a different kind of anti-nausea...this one apparently works on the part of the brain that makes you vomit (who knew? I thought it was purely a gag reflex.) This one worked long enough to get me through my terror of drinking the water and finish off the pint. Definitely not one of the more pleasant experiences in my life.

So I got wheeled up to the CAT scan (getting wheeled was cool...made me feel like I was really in a hospital and stuff), where I was stuck in a giant magnetic donut made by Toshiba and laser beamed. That lasted about 15 minutes and then I got to go back down to my room and eavesdrop on what the docs thought about my case. I heard rumors of possibly having passed a gallstone (whatever that is) and about some elevated levels of something. I drifted in and out of sleep for another hour and finally Swoopee #1/Doctor #2 came in and told me that I had elevated liver levels and a Lipase count of 114, which was high, but not so high that they were going to admit me. I was instructed to follow-up with my primary care physician within 24-48 hours (I'm working more on the 78-hour theory and hoping I don't have to make another trip up there in the meantime.)

That's all she told me. No nothing about gallstones, nothing about any of the millions of other tests, nothing about what to do to take care of myself in the interim between leaving and seeing my doctor. So I did what any self-respecting person would do as soon as she got home from the hospital (well...after getting rid of the rest of that icky dishwater)...I went on the internet and, knowing various and sundry words from watching a lot of television, looked up "pancreatitis". I discovered that despite the fact that THEY didn't know what I had, I was a walking textbook definition of acute pancreatitis. Makes you a little nervous when you, as a layperson, know more about getting information on illness than a doctor does...nay...THREE doctors do!

So I have an appointment with my not-regular-doctor who is on vacation this week, but her compatriot who needs to be as concerned as I am about this whole situation, because this apparently can be something very serious (although I do feel like a human being again and I've finally got my appetite back and I can sleep again.)

Because I know that you desperately care about my well-being, I will keep you up-to-date on my progress...Including if I have to go back to the hospital and will, once again, be accepting presents. :-)

Urban Legends debunked...Part 1

2006-05-24T04:11:00.000-04:00

Girl I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm

2006-05-23T04:58:00.000-04:00

I thought a little dancehall/reggae would get the day off to a bright and funky start...dance 'til your boss comes out to find out what the heck is going on. Then dance until s/he leaves, head shaking in confusion and exasperation. Hooray for Sticking it to The Man!

Random blurbs from the edge of the I.R.C.

2006-05-18T14:37:00.000-04:00

So I'm supposed to be writing a chapter for a book on an IRS Circular right now, but one can only deal with the tax code for so long before one starts to lose one's mind. This is more of my classic "any port in a storm" procrastination, and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.

Thought #1: Madison Avenue has really been phoning it in lately. No one even bothers to try to make commercials that make sense or enlighten or excite anymore. Then you get just the weird, off-the-wall ones, like the new Burger King commercial with it's homage to "Man Food" (aka the "Texas Double Whopper"). In the midst of the parodied "I Am Woman" and the clichéd verbal toss-offs to "chick food", a banner unfurls that says simply :

"Eat This Meat."

WHO thought it was a good idea to have men prancing around in various stages of hair gel, beating their chests and breaking out this flag? Despite its apparent attempt not to, this commercial simply screams "gay". They should have eaten their chick food and liked it.

Thought #2: This allowed me to relive much of my musical youth and thus amused me.

Thought #3: Rob, Jeff, David and Mike had better call me soon or I'm not going to be their friend anymore. Fabian text messaged me yesterday and today, so he's in the clear.

Thought #4: McSorely rocks. He went to San Diego and sent me a shot glass from the Zoo that has a silver facial silhouette of King Kong (or some other large gorilla). I collect shot glasses and this is the first one I have that is black and silver. Big Thumbs Up to McS!

Thought #5: I watched another episode of "The Surreal Life" last night. It was pathetic and boring. I no longer wonder if I've been missing anything.

Thought #6: If you are having a conversation on your cell phone in a public place and it is loud enough for me to know all the details, I am perfectly justified in offering my opinion on the subject at hand. You can't discuss your sex life in the frozen food section of the Food Emporium and then get huffy when I let you know that you shouldn't have slept with him after you broke up with his best friend.

Thought #7: Much like the proliferation of cell phones, the phrase "disrespect" has enjoyed a growth spurt over the past few years the like of which has never been seen. People use the phrase with such abandon that any original purpose and meaning has long been lost. I have to wonder if anyone even knows what truly is disrespectful and what is simply "I don't like what you said, so I'm declaring it disrespectful." And then there are my personal favorites - those who commit or are subject to acts of disrespect all the time and have no clue. They are usually the same people who like to break out with a howl of "DISRESPECTFUL!" at any other given opportunity. Dolts.

Thought #8: No one over the age of 25 should be allowed to use the word "awesome." And no one should ever be allowed to say "whatever" when they can't keep up their end of the conversation. Another annoyance is when people say, "I went to her work" (or any variation thereof). You don't go to someone's "work". Work, in such context, is a verb, not a noun. You can go to someone's office, their place of business or even "where they work", but you absolutely CAN NOT go to someone's work.

Thought #9: Criminals should be subject to extra jail time for stupidity. Items such as hailing a cab as a getaway car after a bank heist, confessing to a bar full of strangers that you killed someone 20 years before or admitting to criminal acts over the telephone should all add a hefty amount of years. If you're going to commit a crime, be smart enough to get away with it. If you aren't...JUST SAY NO.

Thought #10: How come I've NEVER seen triplets? Is the whole multiple-birth thing the brainchild of the liberal media?

Thought #11: I don't care how anti-feminist propaganda she might be, I like Barbie. On the other hand, I don't like that "pink" is the automatic color of choice for anything related to females (cite the "Pretty in Pink" Motorola RAZR made popular for Mother's Day). Gender-specific fascism, if you ask me. The feminist movement should get to work on that and stop worrying about how Barbie is warping the minds of young girls.

Thought #12: I have to go back to work after a ten-month hiatus and I'm NOT HAPPY about it. I've been enjoying being gainfully unemployed (on my dime, kids, not at the expense of your tax dollars).

Thought #13: My peanut, Daphne, turned three on Monday. Here are "Kitten Daphne" and "Daphne the Cat" pictures. Happy Birthday, Princess Girl!

Thought #14: I will be getting a call from one of my co-authors soon and, practically, I should be able to discuss my portion with some small level of intelligence. Ergo, my diatribe needs to end (for now) and I need to get back to decoding the mysteries of section 6662 of the Internal Revenue Code. Be glad it's me and not you.

Peace.

little people, BIG world

2006-05-18T00:06:00.000-04:00

I'm going to get a little non-PC, so those of you who might be overly sensitive to such things may want to take a pass on this post. Actually, I shouldn't be called to task for this. I place the blame entirely and squarely where it belongs...on TLC (that'd be The Learning Channel, not Tender Loving Care).

TLC has developed an insatiable need to "educate" the American populace via what might well be considered exploitive and sensationalist tactics. Show me where, for instance, one might consider "The Man with Exploding Arms," "The Girl with Two Faces," "The 1,100 Pound Woman" or "I am My Own Twin" to be purely scientific titles inviting sincere, open and understanding dialogue.

But I digress.

Today's non-P.C. topic revolves around the Roloff family, who (if you've been cruising past TLC) you will know as the family on "Little People, Big World." LPBW being the most sensitive title I've seen in a good long while on TLC.

The Roloff family consists of "little people" Mom and Dad, Sharon and Matt, twins Zach and Jeremy (one of whom is a "little person" and the other, an "average sized" person) and a couple of other "average size" kids who are kind of just along for the ride.

I watched a couple of episodes one day (it being in my nature to check out exploitive TV and all), and discovered that while they are not "just like my family" (as TLC promises), they aren't different enough to justify my attention...aside from the whole dwarf thing, of course.

Father Matt is an overbearing, somewhat obnoxious small man with a narrow mind. All he needs is a wife-beater and some beer and he'd make a damn good redneck. Which is interesting, because as near as I can figure, he comes from normal people (and I actually don't mean that tongue-in-cheek, although both he and his wife are children of "average size" parents). His dad, who appeared in one of the episodes, seemed like a very nice guy.

Matt seems hell-bent on getting Zach (the "little person" twin) to hang out at Little People conventions so that he can meet his future wife (Zach is 15). From the episode blurb I caught earlier, he has been at least somewhat successful in this regard...Zach brought a dwarf girl (yeah, they said it, not me) to the Winter formal at his high school.

I feel sorry for this kid. It's not bad enough he is the twin to a normal sized person (sorry, that whole "average size" thing is too much for me), but he's basically being told that the only life he will ever have is as a a dwarf. What...he can't marry some tall, leggy model like Herve Villechaize and Verne Troyer did? It's not like Zach isn't already an actor of sorts and out in the public eye. I haven't read the TLC fan boards, but I bet there's more than one non-dwarf female in this country who finds him cute. So what's the D, Matt? Don't limit your kid to skim milk just because it's all you drink. Nestle makes strawberry syrup for a reason.

But that whole rant is really an aside. My non-PC issue is "Where are all the little people?" I'm not quite shallow enough to believe that they are all in Hollywood waiting for parts in the remake of "Wizard of Oz" or the next Mike Meyers movie. So where are they? I think I have seen one little person in a business suit waiting for the morning commuter train in my life. I get the whole difficultly of fitting into society and the practical difficulties of working in your typical office space (like how do you press the button for the top floor if you're the only one on the elevator?), but I live in NYC. I find it difficult to believe that there aren't some dwarfs (I recently learned that "dwarves" is only the proper plurality for the mythical creatures) on Wall Street or Madison Avenue or in the Garment or Diamond Districts. Even if they aren't hanging around office buildings, I should at least pass some on the street. But I can count the number of times that has happened on one hand and still have fingers left over. So somebody help me out of the depths of my ignorance (since TLC doesn't seem interested in doing so) and let me know WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE DWARFS???

*cough cough

2006-05-12T19:13:00.000-04:00

Stand and recognize, people...I have been sick since Sunday night, and I am invoking my right to be pathetic and obnoxious and force people to pretend to feel sorry for me.

In case just being sick isn't good enough, I also had my final exam in International Estate Planning on Tuesday. I was in full throttle suffering at that point, literally falling asleep while sitting upright. So I'm hoping for a "B" instead of the "A" a clear mind would have gotten me. Nothing like trying to create the Mona Lisa out of oatmeal, I always say.

Okay, I'm lying. I've never said that before now. But you can't hold it against me...I'm sick.

I picked up this bug on my way back from Long Island this weekend. I was out there doing the godmother thing for my goddaughter's First Communion. Don't ask me for details on anything except the after-party or the impressive wad of cash the Munchkin racked up. I'm not the slightest bit Catholic and I don't know anything about the rites or rituals other than what I've seen in movies.

But the party was fun.

My goddaughter's family (Mom, Dad, three short people and Grandpa) just moved into a bigger house with a ginormous backyard and a pool. It was too chilly to get into the pool (darn the luck), but it's not like I don't know where they live when the days get warmer. In the meantime I will just have to put up with the indoor pool at Equinox.

Being Irish, they know how to pour a good drink, and I'm blaming that for nodding off at the table during appetizers. Fortunately it wasn't a formal sit-down event (we were hanging out on the back patio and meandering aimlessly about the yard), so only about 10 or 20 people even noticed. No one mentioned me snoring (so I'm hoping I didn't), but I was apparently trying to catch some flies...mouth being hung in the "open" position and all. After I got some much needed snoozing in, I partook of shrimp cocktail, stuffed mushrooms and mozzarella sticks. Yes, I made a complete pig of myself, but it kept me from falling asleep again.

Once it got too cold to sit outside, I moved into the kitchen and whipped out my Int'l Estate Planning notes and did a little studying. I say a little because I can be a very social creature and people kept stopping to talk to me. And I hate to study. So I used the "any port in a storm" defense and had the most interesting conversations with a variety of people.

The Communion Girl spent most of the time running in and out of the house in her pretty white dress until she got bored with that and changed into normal clothes. I figured my godmother duties had pretty much ended when we left the church, so I declined to pursue her other than to take a few pictures. To the best of my knowledge, there is only one picture of the two of us together. She wanted to cut her cake and therefore refused to smile while she was being photographed. So that's the memory she'll have of me when she remembers her special day. Just as well...I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror and realized that photos of me wouldn't have been particularly flattering.

From 9:43 PM until 11:02 PM, I was stuck on the LIRR with recycled air conditioning and plenty of opportunity to encourage creepy crawly bacterium to attack my stressed out immune system. By the time I got to Penn Station, I had a bitchkitty of a sore throat. By the time I woke up the next morning, I had the razors-in-the-throat cough, the mush for brains, the sneezing and itchy nose and the Sad Sack demeanor. I've spent most of the past five days unconscious with my cats lounging with me on the bed (not a sign of love and devotion...they just wanted to make sure I didn't forget to feed them when I woke up). Unfortunately, I am between boyfriends and my mother lives in Westchester, so there was no one to wait on me hand and foot or listen to me whine (thus comes your role in this drama).

I'm actually feeling much better (although I still have the itchy nose and the occasional sneeze), so your obligation to care about me has now officially come to an end. Unless, of course, you have an overwhelming desire to continue to be concerned about my well-being (*cough cough sniffle sniffle). Flowers and cards are always appreciated, but cold, hard cash really helps the ole vim and vitality come back in a rush!

I'm not as cool as Jessica, but I still get stuff for free

2006-05-05T20:30:00.000-04:00

Last night it was free passes to a screening of "The Promise". And as much as I hate to be like everyone else, I have to go with "everyone else" on this one...

It was absolutely beautiful.

If you like gorgeous imagery and spectacular pageantry, this is a movie you have to see. It is, no holds barred, the single most visually stunning thing I have ever seen on the big screen.

And for those of you who like a little action with your visual goodness, there is plenty of that, too, starting with the spectacular battle scene and wending its way through the attacks by the mysterious assassin and the Duke and his deadly fan dance (Trust me, it's not nearly as gay as it sounds.)

The storyline is classic...a romantic tale of love, loyalty, ambition and destiny, The Promise marks acclaimed director Chen Kaige’s foray into the martial arts fantasy genre. Richly imagined and breathtakingly realized, the film follows the intertwined fates of a beautiful princess and the three men who fall in love with her: a general, his slave, and a rival Duke. Unbeknownst to the men, the princess made a pact with a goddess in her youth where she forsakes the prospect of true love for The Promise of riches and power. Any man she loves, she will lose, a bargain which has hitherto born no consequence for the princess, as haughty as she is lovely.

But when a slave -- disguised as a mighty general – defends first her honor and then her life with unflinching valor, the princess feels something stir within her for the first time. With the awakening of passion, she realizes with dread what destiny holds for her.

Enslaved to the fate that has befallen them, only the truest love of all can alter the course of their destiny…

Deep, huh?

Oh, and it was sub-titled, which made it extra sexy.

Then there were the feathers. Lots and lots of feathers. Various characters (most notably, Wuhuan, the Duke of the North) were decked out in feathers at every given opportunity. Don't get me wrong...they were lovely, and added dimension to the costuming, but I couldn't help but wonder if I was missing some deeper hidden meaning. I've given it a lot of thought (and checked out the website), and have concluded that they were just there to be pretty.

A big double thumbs up on this one...skip the rental store this weekend and head to the theatre. You'll thank me for it.

P.S. You're welcome.

Wow...

2006-05-03T10:48:00.000-04:00

I guess they really DON'T wear underwear with man skirts...

And for $120, you can have one of these...

2006-04-28T14:40:00.000-04:00

The ultra-hip, need-to-have accessory of the season - The Happy Trails Pet Stroller!

Hogan Knows Best

2006-04-27T18:32:00.000-04:00

Yup. The gym again.

HKB isn't the riveting drool-inducer that Surreal Life is...it's definitely more of a momentary, "Hey! Look at that! It's that Hulk Hogan guy from TV wrestling!" I wasn't even moved to unplug myself from my CD player and plug into the TV sound, so I sort-of-watched part of an episode without benefit of closed captioning and while listening to hip hop.

I was able, however, to surmise a few things:

(1) Hulk's wife, Linda, is far more into him than he's into her. She never stopped touching him, trying to kiss on him or staring adoringly at him. He looked uncomfortable with the whole thing, and was obviously returning her affection only because she was forcing herself down his throat. Not something I would want immemorialized on film, but then I'm not married to a TV wrestler, so what do I know?

You can also tell from the picture that son Nick is a typical 15 year old who hates being around his family and daughter Brooke is a photo 'ho.

(2) The Hulkster does NOT like to be ridiculed. Despite her cloying adoration, Linda can be a little mean, too. As an anniversary project, she wanted the two of them to take ballroom dancing lessons. Hulk (very graciously, I thought) agreed to go to the local Arthur Murray studio. He was an absolute mess on the dance floor. More looking exceedingly uncomfortable. Instead of being sensitive to this, Linda decided to make fun of his technique. In a new signature move, the Hulkster ditched her on the dance floor and walked out.

(3) Hollywood Hulk Hogan can be a class act. He knows how to send roses to make up after a fight. He also knows how to make a bandanna look snappy with a tuxedo.

(4) Hulkamania doesn't stop with the Hulk...it extends to his daughter, Brooke's singing career. The Hulk knows what it takes to make it in show biz. And he's not ashamed to pimp out his daughter to get her a record deal. He doesn't like the idea of her having a boyfriend, but he's okay with taking her out in public dressed only in underwear.

(5) Brooke isn't nearly as busty as her mother. But she's a way bigger picture 'ho. And she's Daddy's Little Girl.

(6) People who can afford good furniture and good taste don't always buy it. The house is a gorgeous Tudor. Hulk obviously has some cash. But he didn't spend it inside. At least I hope he didn't. I know it can cost a lot of money to look tacky, but I'm going to go with "Linda didn't think she needed a designer. She decorated the whole place herself. I gave her unlimited credit at the nearest Target and Kohl's. You, too, can fix up your place to look just like the Hogan's house!"

I have discovered a new source of bottom-of-the-barrel entertainment.

2006-04-27T17:00:00.000-04:00

IMDb (Internet Movie Database for those of you not "in the know") has a One Hundred Worst Movies Ever list. Who knew? Here I've been wasting my life with the traditional trial-and-error approach to finding bad movies when all I had to do was go to my trusty Internet sources and let my opinions be molded by the opinions of thousands of people I never have (or will) meet!

Since the weekend is coming up, I thought I'd share with you some of the movies you should NOT beating down Blockbuster's doors to be renting.

Number 1 on the list is 2006's "Phat Girlz" (which, I believe, opened and closed the same day...if not, it probably should have.)

Starring Mo'Nique of "The Parkers" fame, the movie tells the story of "an aspiring plus size fashion designer struggling to find love and acceptance."

Uh huh. Maybe it'll get her enough love and acceptance to land her on "The Surreal Life 7."

Second up is 1989's "Going Overboard" featuring Adam Sandler (in his first starring role) as Schecky Moskowitz (doing a good job of proving that he had a long way to go before making it to box office gold.) Seems that Schecky is a struggling young comedian who takes a menial job on a cruise ship where he hopes for his big chance to make it in the world of cruise ship comedy.

Okay...make it "big" in the world of "cruise ship comedy"? No wonder this movie bombed. Maybe he should have tried to make it "phat" in the world of cruise ship comedy.

Fifth on the list is a movie entitled "Santa with Muscles" made in the easily forgotten year of 1996 (aside from me getting sworn into the great State of New York's judicial system as an attorney, nothing interesting happened for me in 1996...oh no, wait a minute - that was the year I started work at Unnamed Government Agency. But other than those two things, it was a dull year.) It stars Hulk Hogan as an evil millionaire who suffers the overused plot device of getting amnesia and wakes up thinking he's Santa Claus.

Hulk would be guaranteed a spot on "Surreal Life 7" if he didn't already have a VH1 show called "Hogan Knows Best." (more on this later.)

Just easing out of the Top 10 at #11 (mainly due, I suspect, to the addition of "Phat Girlz")...Mariah Carey's 2001 entry, "Glitter".

The only thing better than reading about a celebrity's nervous breakdown in the tabloids while you're waiting in the checkout line is seeing it portrayed (far too convincingly) on screen.

The only one of the 100 movies I've actually seen (hooray for me for instinctively staying away from the worst of the worst!) is 1994's "It's Pat." And I gotta tell ya, I was sorry to see it (hahaha) on the list. This isn't a flick I will be adding to my DVD collection by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought it was absolutely hilarious while I was watching it.

Of course, I thought "Howard the Duck" (1986) was hilarious as well and I seem to be in the minority on that one, too...although, interestingly, HTD doesn't appear on the list. Oh well. Can't win them all.

It's so real it's Surreal...

2006-04-26T18:08:00.000-04:00

What happens if you mix a 70's sitcom star, a Music Video Vixen, a crazy 80's hair band guitarist, add in a Playboy bunny, and Mr. Smash Mouth, shake liberally with the ultimate TV mom/hypno-therapist and a dash of Transgender Hollywood Royalty?

Really bad can't-look-away-from-it television aka "Surreal Life 6" on VH1.

SL6's celebrities: SHERMAN "GEORGE JEFFERSON" HEMSLEY, CC DEVILLE, lead guitarist of Poison, Video Vixen and TV Star, TAWNY KITAEN, Transgender actor-ess ALEXIS ARQUETTE, STEVE "SMASH MOUTH" HARWELL, Playboy sensation ANDREA LOWELL, and TV's favorite Mom, FLORENCE "CAROL BRADY" HENDERSON. Oh yeah, and some former-WWF guy named Maven who apparently was a last minute addition since he's left out of the initial VH1 press release. Poor Maven. A washed out has-been who isn't even important enough to warrant a mention as a washed out has-been. (insert sad face emoticon here)

As you may well have guessed, my favorite is the tranny, Alexis Arquette of THE Arquette family (wonder why we've never heard of him/her before now!) Is there anyone who fails to be fascinated on some level by a man in a dress???

Okay, I have yet to actually see Alexis in a dress, but you get my point.

S/he could learn a thing or two about looking more like a woman from the Prince, however. No matter how much body hair he grows, he still manages to look more feminine than a lot of chicks. Go figure.

Second on my list is Brady mom, Florence Henderson. She seems to have had the same reaction to the discovery of this mess of a masterpiece of Americana as I did.

Trailing in third place is Tawny Kitaen who (despite her name) has managed not to become a porn star.

Given her range of acting talent, she might have done well to give it some thought. Probably would have made a lot more money and could have left "debasing myself on reality TV" off her résumé. Of course, now that she's hanging out with Andrea Lowell who hangs out with midget porn stars, she may finally have her chance to break into the biz.

(Yeah, I said midget porn star. Accept it and move on.)

I am ashamed to admit that I caught an episode while I was at the gym and actually tried to extend my elliptical time so that I could see what happened after the commercial break. All I can say in my defense is that it's a train wreck and once you see it, it's nearly impossible to look away. I caught my second episode in the privacy of my own home where I could watch without anyone knowing (or even suspecting)...the cats don't count since they can't rat me out. I'm not yet hopelessly addicted since I haven't bothered to find out when it is regularly scheduled (I happened to be flipping channels the other day), but I can't make any promises.

And you know that if I have to suffer through it, I'm taking you with me...

You learn so many new things while hanging out at the gym

2006-04-17T15:42:00.000-04:00

I am a big fan of the elliptical machine for my cardio workout. I recently joined a new gym, and instead of just listening to music on my Classic Sony Discman (no, I don't own an iPod, and I never intend to intentionally do so), I have the added benefit of watching four channels of cable TV at the same time. Usually I watch "Law & Order" or one of those court shows that prove that people don't care how ridiculous they appear to the world so long as there is a camera catching every moment.

But on Friday, my TV watching went to a whole new level.

For those of you who are sporting enthusiasts, you know that ESPN2 is where you can find the off-beat sports that you won't see on ESPN, CBS, ABC, NBC or any other channel. Things like X-treme Cross-Country Crocodile Rodeo and X-treme Beach Cave Climbing and X-treme...well, anything that can have the moniker "X-treme" slapped in front of it is on ESPN2. But this...this was different. This was a whole new level of the term "sporting event":

Sport Juggling.

(Not X-treme Sport Juggling, but give it time.)

"Sport Juggling" is the brainchild of Jason Garfield, founder and president of The World Federation of Juggling. He apparently disagrees strongly with the belief that juggling is something only performed by clowns or other circus acts (even though we all know that it is.)

Q: Are you in the circus?

A: Unless you've asked me this question while I am inside of a circus, the answer is no. If you mean, "do I work in the circus", the answer is still no. I do not like circuses. People confuse juggling with the circus however my juggling will be on the moon before it is ever in the circus.

(FAQ: JasonGarfield.com)

Admittedly it was fascinating to watch (for brief periods), and I might even go out and buy "Juggling for Klutzes", but under no circumstances whatsoever can this legitimately be called a "sport." I will concede that skateboarding and beach volleyball are sports (even though I'm still stunned that people can actually get paid money to play them), but JUGGLING??? C'mon, Jason...get a grip! (hahahahahaha)

My friend, Jessica, is cool as hell

2006-04-14T02:15:00.000-04:00

Somehow she managed to score an invitation for two free dinners at the Grand Opening Party of a new Japanese restaurant on 48th Street here in the Big Apple. So Monday night we strolled into Aoki and proceeded to enjoy some good times. (Remember, free tastes better!)

The booth where we sat was pretty cool. The backs were made of clear Plexiglas and the table was made out of burnished metal with a clear top. Even better, we were seated next to the all-important "water element"...a wall of textured stone with water cascading gently down. I wanted to stick my fingers in it several times, but Jessica swore she wouldn't pull me out if I fell in, so I declined to potentially embarrass myself (I wouldn't have embarrassed her...she would just have folded her napkin politely, put it on the table and walked out...and spent the next week laughing at me.)

The rest of the decor was kind of...eclectic. In the front it was like the lounge area of a nightclub with velvet covered sofas and low tables to dine from...in the middle the chairs and tables were made of planked wood. To the side there was a huge, wildly colorful mural (not the understated depiction rendered here) of part of a classic Samurai warrior's face. In the back was a normal looking sushi bar. The other non-mural-adorned walls were red, water-covered or frosted glass (depending on which way you were facing). The ceiling was red and off-white and had huge wooden beams that I think were supposed to resemble the interior of a traditional Japanese farmhouse (like Gasho of Japan where my dad and I like to go for our lunch/dinners out).

It was more than a little weird, but hey, there was free food involved. I can put up with a little weird for that.

But not a LOT of weird.

In the middle of our meal, Jessica and I were conversing about acupuncture and sushi and polygamy (don't ask), when all of a sudden the music (which seemed to be the result of a bad iPod playlist) turned demonic. Seriously. It was like listening to a heavy metal album backwards. And it was LOUD. And although it caused Jess and me to freeze mid-fork-to-mouth, NO ONE ELSE SEEMED TO NOTICE! We kept looking around at the waitstaff, the owners, the other guests...everyone was just chatting away like nothing unusual was going on. We were shocked. And concerned. Were we the only ones being spoken to by the demonic music? Or were we surrounded by a crazed bunch of Satanists who used free food to lure us into a sacrificial trap?!

Apparently we were the only ones who could hear the demons, but (thank goodness) we were not surrounded by Satanists. At least not the sacrificing kind. No one attacked us during or after our meal (unless you count the hostess/owner with the zebra print boots who accosted us during the shrimp and vegetable tempura and wanted to know if we were happy with everything).

We discovered belatedly that the drinks were ordered were comped with our meal. We were both disappointed because we would have ordered something more expensive had we known. Jess barely touched her very heady plum wine (which is just as well because she had to go to work the next day), but I sucked down my Lover's Punch like it was fruit juice. Since I didn't even get a mild buzz, I think it may well have been.

Overall the food rating pimped out as follows (on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the highest):
Seaweed salad: 3 (my first time intentionally eating seaweed...not as bad as I thought, but I doubt that I would do it again)

Calamari salad: 4 (yummy, but a tiny bit tough)

Shrimp and vegetable tempura: 4.5 (would have been a perfect 5 except it was too bland without the soy sauce)

Sushi: 4 (I'm going by Jessica's happiness on this one...I don't believe in eating meat that isn't cooked) . We totally did not get Hello Kitty sushi, so that bangs their rating down a few notches.

Shrimp Tempura roll: 3.5 (more seaweed...and I couldn't figure out how to eat it with chopsticks, so I made a lovely mess eating with my fingers - no forks were present or proffered)

Shrimp and Chicken teriyaki: 4 (the chicken was a little bland, but the shrimp were yummy)

Sashimi: 3.75 (once again raw food rating based on Jess' happiness)

Yes, we did have that much food. And we didn't even get everything they wanted to give us. We were supposed to have started with miso soup. I skipped it because I hate miso soup, but Jessica skipped it because there was just too much food coming. We planned to skip the salads as well, but they were no less than foisted upon us by the waiter who insisted that since they were included with the meal that we should have them. (FOISTED upon us, I tell you!) We didn't eat all that food. We couldn't eat all that food. But we felt appropriately bad about it because our middle-class sensibilities made us regret wasting food.

When they dropped off the bill, they let us know that they entire evening would have cost us somewhere in the neighborhood of $166 had we paid for it. We filled out a short evaluation about the food, ambiance and service (they misspelled "excellenect", so they lost points for that), left a tip for The Insistent Waiter and wandered out. All in all a fine deal, even though we didn't get a dessert selection. I would have gladly traded my shrimp tempura roll or seaweed salad for a dish of green tea ice cream (but nobody asked me, which is partially why I'm not in charge of anything...of course, it's also why I'm not wearing zebra print stiletto heel boots, either, so maybe this is a blessing in disguise...)

A love lost

2006-04-08T21:48:00.000-04:00

Last week I got a huge shock. My ex-boyfriend, Peter, died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 39.

Because of the circumstances surrounding our break-up, I hadn't seen or spoken with Peter in over five years. But it didn't matter. His death hit me as hard as if I had just seen him yesterday. It make me consider the frailty and uncertainty of life, and confront my own mortality...none of which I was particularly happy about having to do. It also reminded me, however, that what we have now, in the present, is so very important and we really should make sure that we surround ourselves with good people, good energy and general happiness. It's cause to rethink working at a job you hate just for a paycheck, staying in a bad relationship just because it's easier than starting over - or staying out of one because of fear of getting hurt, staying late at the office instead of spending time with your friends and family, and letting stupid things push important people out of your life.

I used to kiss Peter goodbye every morning before I left for work. It annoyed him because he worked as a bartender and was up late most nights. He didn't appreciate my motives - leaving both of us with a positive memory in case the unexpected happened - until after we broke up. Whenever I felt like he was taking me for granted, I would warn him, "You're going to miss me when I'm gone," to which he would invariably reply, "Are you going somewhere?" The irony of all of this does not escape me. But I always understood it. Even though we hadn't seen each other in years, I thought about him almost every day. For little reasons, mostly - like every time I would go to a Thai restaurant, I would remember that he was the one who introduced me to the cuisine; he introduced me to a lot of music I otherwise would never have listened to; the bar where he worked is only a few blocks away from my apartment - I walk past it on a regular basis; signs and smells around the city remind me of private jokes and moments shared - and the memories were always positive. I never stopped loving Peter even after I stopped being "in love" with him. I have regrets now that I let his new girlfriend keep us apart...she even wanted to keep me away from his wake, but I refused to let that happen. Enough time had passed without us being in each other's lives...I wasn't going to miss my last chance to say goodbye.

My darling Peter, you were a brilliant, talented, warm, loving person, and I'm sorry I lost you during life and again, permanently, in death. Save a place in heaven (or wherever!) for me.

And now for something completely different...

2006-04-06T23:23:00.000-04:00

SPAMalot. Funny as hell. I recommend it highly.

So I'm walking along yesterday, minding my own business...

2006-04-03T21:53:00.000-04:00

...on my way home from Spoiled Brats (my main pet supply place), when a police car pulls up on the street next to me. Normally I wouldn't pay any attention to this since, as a NYer, this happens on a frequent enough basis that I find it unremarkable. This time, however, there was a loud popping noise (later identified as an usually loud car door unlocking) which caused me to swivel my head towards the sound...taking in subconsciously at the same time the fact that someone was approaching me and ducking between two parked cars. Again, this was hardly unusual. SuperMilkChan herself has frequently been known to slink between cars parked on her block to illegally cross the street. It only became relevant when the two cops got out of the car and one started calling after "Mr. Ruiz" and the other questioned aloud, "Where'd he go?"

Mr. Ruiz had apparently made plans that didn't include going peacefully with the nice officers, and made an attempt to ditch them. Unfortunately for Mr. Ruiz, he was one of those stupid criminals you see on TV. I looked back where I had seen the shadowy figure, and instead of seeing a person, I saw a pair of white sneakers sticking out from under a parked car.

Now this is one of those things that make you stop and think...do I laugh (as I so desperately want to) or do I tell the po-po where Mr. Ruiz has secreted himself? While part of my brain was pondering this deep philosophical question, another part of my brain was making my face bunch up with confusion at the illogical, comedic, pathetic attempt to disappear, and my right index finger point incriminatingly at the sneakers and mouth, "He's right there," to the Boys in Blue.

They weren't the brightest cops I've ever met...I had to motion to them three times before they got the picture.

Fortunately for them I don't Good Samaritan for praise or glory, cause I didn't get so much as a wave or a quiet word of thanks. If it hadn't been for me, they probably wouldn't have found him.

And if he hadn't been so stupid, Mr. Ruiz may well have gotten away.

And had I been a German tourist, I would have photos to go along with this tale...

Ha Ha! I have been (partially) vindicated!

2006-03-31T11:23:00.000-05:00

Since my last post I have noticed that three of my Top 5 Irksome Commercials have been discontinued or altered.

1. The DirecTV guys now have a short interaction that leaves out the urinal scene (hooray!)

2. The "Bathroom Angels" seem to have found somewhere better to be than on my TV screen making "wee wee" jokes.

3. And Jessica Simpson and Ms. Piggy have been safely ensconced in the Pizza Hut archives (hooray again!)

Now if I could just get rid of that Outback guy, that gecko and that duck, my life would be darn close to perfect...

Top 5 Commercials that irk me

2006-03-28T11:09:00.000-05:00

1. DirecTV for its gratuitous men-at-the-urinal scene (ewww);

2. Angel Soft for its childish "oui oui/wee wee" joke (sooo unnecessary);

3. Outback for its totally unfunny grating Aussie-accented spokesperson (who thought HE was a good idea?);

4. Pizza Hut for its use of Jessica Simpson to blatantly sex up a teenage boy (to his subsequent disappointment when he brings his friends in a follow-up commercial and it's Miss Piggy sexing them up instead of JS);

and

5. The Chicken of the Sea commercial with the attractive young lady because they did it first (and better) in Thailand or Japan years ago.

Side Note: The Chicken of the Sea and Jessica Simpson references are totally coincidental...although the irony is delicious.

Strange Times at Mutsugoro Okoku

2006-03-24T12:10:00.000-05:00

Apparently there is something weird going on at the Tokyo Zoo...a little hamster named Gohan was put into the cage of a snake named Aochan last October as a tasty snack...but instead of eating the hamster, the snake made friends with him. They've lived together (in some sort of gay connubial bliss) ever since.

Those crazy Japanese with their lizards and meat hats and now with their snakes and hamsters. Catch the video footage here.

Volksfallen: Drivers Wanted.

2006-03-23T14:11:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, SuperMilkChan is quite the Good Samaritan. Unfortunately, my Good Samaritan-ing has not been limited to helping little old ladies cross the street or giving up my seat on the bus to an elderly citizen. I have, for the past eight months been at the scene of events that leave scars and bruises and the like.

On Friday, for instance, on my way out of the gym, I saw a guy take a header off his bike (well, actually I saw him just after he'd gone down) at Columbus Circle. It was actually a little frightening for a few moments because he wasn't moving and there was a lovely spattering of that red juice that keeps us alive on the pavement. Naturally, I had to rush over to help. This time, however, I wasn't alone in my efforts to assist (as is usually the case)...at least eight people pretended to care (read: wanted to get close enough to view the gore for themselves) and several even called 911. Turns out that some metal poles (probably from the construction site nearby) had ended up in the road and couldn't be seen until AFTER they worked their evil magic. They may even have been someone's minions - I don't know. I do know that they weren't mine since (a) mine still haven't arrived; (2) my minions would only work their evil magic to inure to my benefit, not to harm some innocent bike rider; and (D) my minions are of the winged variety, anyway.

Fortunately, there happened to be some cops on traffic patrol nearby, although they took their sweet time walking over to where we were (you'd think that a crowd of 10 people standing in the middle of the street would draw a faster response). Poor Mike could've died by then. Yeah, his name was Mike. I found that out when the other "interested" parties drifted off (including the obnoxious German tourists who took a freakin' picture of the kid on the ground) and he expressed his gratitude at my kindness and wanted to know my name. If he hadn't asked for a cigarette, I mighta had a new boyfriend. He was cute in that "I just fell off my bike and I'm bleeding" kind of way and he had the prettiest eyes. But I don't do smokers. Grosses me out. Anyway, after the fire department showed up (I know, I know...why a fire truck instead of an ambulance?), I bade him farewell and went on my way.

Moral of the story: If you nearly die taking a header off your bike in Manhattan, you will end up on some German tourists' slide show for his friends back home.

Even MORE freakin' computer 'tude

2006-03-10T12:32:00.000-05:00

I swear I am not only getting rid of this program, I am SO sending my minions (which haven't yet arrived, darn the luck) to kick this guy's tush all over the great states of Ohio, Tennessee, Missouri and Oklahoma!

This goes right next to my leopard high heel shoe chair...

2006-03-03T12:56:00.000-05:00

For those of you who've managed to forget the leopard chair, here's a reminder:

Happy Fat Tuesday!

2006-02-28T10:19:00.000-05:00

Take heed, good friends and Laissez Le Bon Temps Roulee! Today is one of the best days of the year...Fat Tuesday is the day you get to eat all you want of whatever you want! (Of course, tomorrow Lent begins and you get to make up for all of it by fasting until Easter...no rides being free, and all that.) So Eat, Drink and Be Merry! (And throw me some beads!!!)

Free tastes better

2006-02-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I committed a pint-sized scam with my younger sister. It involved people wanting to give me stuff for free. And free stuff is always a good thing.

For the past few weeks, Crate & Barrel has been having an event called "Sunday Morning Engagements" on (you guessed it) Sunday mornings. If you come in and register for your wedding, they ply you with free champagne (and/or Bellinis) and give you a pair of heart-shaped champagne glasses for your trouble.

Far be it from me to pass up free champagne and glasses.

Now, I have no plans to get married any time in the near future, nor does my sister...but that didn't stop us from creating fictitious fiancés and trotting around C&B with mini scanners that allowed us to electronically create our wedding registry. It was way cool. My life would run so much better if I had a mini scanner on my hip at all times. It would eliminate all those inconvenient times when you need to know the price of the economy size jar of pickles or that sexy red Lamborghini.

Of course, my life would run even smoother if everything had UPC codes. Maybe when we all get branded we’ll also get scanners. Then I could find out easily if the guy asking me out is married, has two kids and a mortgage of $750,000….or if he has a fictitious fiancée and is registered at Crate & Barrel.

In Remembrance of an Ordinary Hero

2006-02-22T10:57:00.000-05:00

This is something I wrote a few years ago, but as the 13th anniversary of this date approaches, I felt like remembering again.

*****

My cousin, Warren, wasn’t a pro ball player. He wasn’t a rock star or an actor. He wasn’t a political leader or the discoverer of quantum physics. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t a saint. But he was a hero.

Since September 11, 2001, police and firefighters have once again resumed their rightful place in the minds of Americans as role models worthy of admiration and emulation. They didn’t become heroes on 9/11. Those souls who commit their lives to the service and protection of others – especially at great personal risk – have always been heroes. It’s just that somewhere along the way we lost our focus of what is truly important and allowed ourselves to believe that fame, fortune and attitude were to be admired above all else. It took an attack to our basic way of life to cause us to open our eyes and reprioritize.

Although Warren was a firefighter, he was not at the World Trade Center on 9/11. He had been killed 8 years before in the line of duty. Our family could not overlook the irony of the fact that he was not even supposed to be at that fire. He heard the call on his radio and immediately raced to the site to see if he could be of assistance. Understandably we were hurt and angry, but we weren’t surprised. Warren died a hero’s death, helping to rescue people from a burning building, but more importantly, he lived a hero’s life.

Warren was not only a hero in the classic sense of having given his life to save another, he was a father, a husband, a friend, a charmer, a philosopher, a man of principles and ideas. He was a dedicated public servant. He was a believer in making the world a better place. Even if you didn’t agree with him on some subject, you still liked him. It was difficult not to.

He wasn’t obsessed with making a lot of money. He didn’t need to drive an expensive car or wear designer suits. If he wasn’t on duty, he never missed being with his family for holidays and celebrations. He worked tirelessly to recruit more minorities into the fire department – serving as a role model and mentor for untold numbers of local students looking for positive options in their lives. He had goals, dreams and aspirations – as we all should – but he always remained grounded.

This past Saturday, February 22, 2003, I had the honor and privilege of attending the 10^th anniversary memorial for Warren. It is common in our culture to avoid speaking ill of the dead – thereby making people who were often viewed as brutish and nasty in their lives sound nearly saint-like in their eulogies. Warren was a singular exception to this. There was not one word uttered during the ceremony that caused me to shake my head and wonder “who on earth are they talking about?” Every praise recalled to mind the warm, wonderful man I knew, and sadly, will never know again.

The best and most lasting tribute my family, and every American, can give to Warren and all those “ordinary” heroes just like him is to live our lives they way they would. The simple pleasures in life really are the best…and many of them are fleeting. Don’t just live your life. ENJOY it. The next time you have to make a choice between working late or going home to see your children, go home. The next time a stranger asks you for a quarter, give it to him. The next time you pass a flower stall, stop and smell the roses. Better yet, bring a bunch home. For yourself. For your family. In remembrance and celebration of all the ordinary heroes.

Thought for the Day

2006-02-21T11:39:00.000-05:00

"A bomb destroys everything but itself."

That's pretty deep. And yet fairly shallow at the same time. If you look at it clinically and literally, it's a very cold statement of fact (ask your nearest Bomb Squad if you don't believe me). On the other hand, if you look at it metaphysically, it takes on a whole other meaning.

Discuss.

Say WHAT???

2006-02-17T09:49:00.000-05:00

So this friend of mine is on a business call, and the guy on the other end says he can't sign off on a document and that my friend needs to speak to his manager first.

Okay, what's your manager's name?

Guy On Other End gives a name.

My friend tries to spell the name she hears and writes down "Luber Cates."

That can't be right. What kind of name is "Luber Cates"???

She asks Guy to spell the name and he gives her L-O-U-I-S B-R-I-C-A-T-E-S...which, if you shorten "Louis" to "Lou" (as he apparently does), becomes "lubricates."

What a moniker to get stuck with...we've been laughing for 10 years over that one!

Happy "holiday"!

2006-02-14T11:00:00.000-05:00

Remember your first "real" job?

2006-02-13T12:26:00.000-05:00

Remember when you got tired of it or got a better offer and decided to ditch? Remember how you either went into your boss' office and resigned in person and/or submitted a formal resignation letter?

Fuggetaboutit. Miss Manners is going to have to update her etiquette book.

The new 21st century way to walk away is to call in sick and then send this via your Sidekick:

Walt Disney must be turning over in his grave

2006-02-12T15:40:00.000-05:00

Remember 80's One Hit Wonder group DEVO? C'mon, we all loved "Whip It."

Well, Disney has seen fit to revive the group...but not with the original members...looks more like they used their kids...

If for some reason you are truly interested in finding out more about 80's revival cum 21st century sensation, DEVO 2.0 (or, cleverly logoed DEV2.0) check them out at DEV2.0

All I wanna do is zooma zoom zoom zoom and a boom boom!

2006-02-09T19:37:00.000-05:00

So I used to have this boss at Unnamed Government Agency...

2006-02-09T12:51:00.000-05:00

He was an absolute riot. Not intentionally, you understand...his comedic ability came from the fact that thinking wasn't on his list of Top Priorities coupled with a lack of that filter most people have that keeps inappropriate content from going straight from your brain to your mouth. McSorely, Dancer and I nicknamed him "Mr. Bill" after the old SNL Play-Doh character. (There was a corresponding "Sluggo", but that's another story.)

Two McSorely stories involving Mr. Bill:

1. Unnamed Government Agency has a one-year probation during which you can be fired for any or no reason whatsoever. As you might imagine, except for the most arrogant of us, we were all a little anxious until we got our first quarterly review. Well, long before McSorely's first quarterly review, he and Mr. Bill are walking down the hallway, having left a meeting with the higher echelons, and Mr. Bill turns to McSorely and says, "You must have really impressed the front office during your interview, because I saw your résumé, and I wouldn't have hired you."

Yikesy potato, Batman!

Fortunately, it was a Lack of Filter thing, and McSorely not only made it past his probationary period, but turned out to be one of Mr. Bill's favorite peons (nothing personal, McSorely...we were all peons.)

2. We were having a meeting of our group and somehow we get on the personal topic (Mr. Bill was fond of discussing personal topics involving his family) of Mr. Bill's family's watching or reading "Swiss Family Robinson" that past weekend. McSorely, Dancer and I were often instigators in these situations, but this time another person managed to ask how to spell "kayak," as Mr. Bill had mentioned it during the anecdotal retelling. He hesitated for a moment then said, "I don't know...C-A-J-A-C-K?" McSorely turned to him very seriously and responded, "I think you're spelling "carjack," but you left out the 'r'."

Then there were the instigator episodes where we took deliberate aim at Mr. Bill's delicate failure to understand when we were yanking his chain...such as the time we decided to request a Whack-A-Mole and a pasta bar in the Batcave (my office, no surprise). Instead of telling us we were complete idiots and to shut up, he looked at us completely nonplussed and asked us what a "Whack-A-Mole" was.

Heaven help me, I miss that man!

Run, Bambi, run!

2006-02-07T13:07:00.000-05:00

I have managed to avoid working for the past 5 or 6 months, and in that time have developed an impressive repertoire of daytime TV intelligence NOT INCLUDING soap operas, court shows or Lifetime movies.

My favorite time of day is noon to one when A&E (usually) broadcasts "American Justice" (today's episode is about Lawrencia "Bambi" Bembenek).

On good days "City Confidential" comes on 11 to noon, and "Cold Case Files" comes on one to two. (It's a wonder I find time to go to the gym). I believe that I now know more about outdated cases than anyone in the NY Metro area. I'm comfortably certain that I know more than the people who pull the files at A&E. It's like a game of "Name that Tune"...give me a five second clip of any episode and I can tell you who it is about, who did it and whether or not they are currently serving prison time. But have they made a Trivial Pursuit version of Forensic TV? Noooo. It's just another way The Man is trying to keep me from droppin' knowledge on the people...or at least my fellow players at my dining room table. Typical.

Damn Republicans. Always trying to keep a girl down.

I have come up with my next job, though. I have discovered that I am imminently qualified to be a TV programming executive. I have an eerie (often very annoying) ability to order DVDs from Netflix that show up on television within a week (thus peeving me off to have wasted a rental opportunity). I figure that means I have my pulse on the American viewing public (or on the Hollywood showing monopoly). Either way, I obviously know what is going on and should therefore be paid millions of dollars to peruse Netflix's 900 million listings and choose what to show. That would be even sweeter than being Director of Public Relations for Video Professor!

It's not your father's Oldsmo-mosh pit

2006-01-31T12:11:00.000-05:00

This past Saturday, I joined in a little heavy metal celebration in honor of one baby brother and one baby sister who both have birthdays in January. In addition to the obvious benefit of hanging out with my kid-ums, I had the pleasure of being reintroduced to The Mosh Pit.

Mosh pitting has changed in the four years since I last had the opportunity to check one out (and given the painful smack to the head I got Saturday night, it's not something I've missed). I don't care what ANYONE says, moshing can be violent and dangerous. Perhaps it depends on whether the "dancer" is just letting off steam or just being an ass. Seems pretty simple to understand that if I WANTED to slam dance, I would be IN the circle, not OUTSIDE of it.

Whether or not it is actually "dancing" is up for grabs as well. Call me old fashioned, but the whole head-banging, arms/fist flailing, jumping around like you're in a kickboxing class thing just doesn't translate for me.

Oh, so as not to be accused of being sexist, I should mention that this isn't only about guys...chicks mosh as well. ..

You don't need clam chowder to throw a brick at a turtle.

2006-01-30T14:36:00.000-05:00

My new favorite site:

We all know of my "love" for Hello Kitty

2006-01-28T12:37:00.000-05:00

So how could I resist this precious little greeting?

Happy Chinese New Year!!!

Fun Facts: January 29th, 2006 starts The Year of the Dog ( sorry the pic is of a cat!) on the Chinese 12-year animal calendar and "bingxu" on the 60-year "formal" Stem-Branch calendar. Bingxu is Year 7 in the current 60 year cycle!

My computer software is giving me attitude

2006-01-27T13:37:00.000-05:00

I'm burning a DVD last night with what is ordinarily one of my favorite DVD burning programs, but something wasn't working right...so I did what one ordinarily does when something isn't working right (no - I always hold out on turning the computer off/on as a last resort)...I hit the "cancel" key.

I get the typical "Are you sure you want to cancel?" and I click on the "Yes, I know what I'm doing, stop second guessing me!" button.

Nothing "cancel involving" happens.

I wait a litle while and watch the program pretend to continue to do something useful. Finally I get tired of waiting and click the "cancel" key again.

This is the response I got:

ATTITUDE! From a COMUTER PROGRAM! Some programmer is getting a strongly worded letter signed "Love, Me." And as soon as my minions arrive, they are SO being sent out to teach this guy a lesson.

I can't wait.

Cat Rental Special

2006-01-27T13:21:00.000-05:00

THIS WEEK ONLY! Get Daphne AND Phizz to tub-sit for only $50!!! (qualifies for free patent pending "beat down" of other cats by Princess Daphne!)

Guess who hangs on blogspot!

2006-01-23T15:28:00.000-05:00

http://videoprofessor.blogspot.com/

Wicked awesome cool, huh?

Who woulda thunk that The Video Professor had the time to sit around blogging? I'm personally very impressed that business is so good that he can just hang out in his office surfing the Net all day. I totally want his gig.