31 January 2007

Just Leave Me Alone

On a lark, Eric and I went to IHOP for lunch today. As we got out of the car I think I told him, "this is going to take forever."

What fun times we had.

Walking to the hostess stand, I noticed an older couple gawking at us as soon as we walked in the door. They could've been doing so because we were all bundled up like nanook. The high here today is 28° and we're expecting snow/sleet/ice for the next day or so and reports are coming in from Mountain Home, Arkansas of school buses in ditches. I don't know why they were staring. There wasn't anything really remarkable about the way we looked. I was wearing my black cashmere overcoat and scarf, black wool Kangol driving cap and cashmere lined kidskin gloves, black boots and jeans. Eric was similarly dressed in a shorter coat, plaid cashmere scarf, sunglasses. I didn't appreciate the stares. And since they were seated in the least crowded section of nonsmoking I figured we'd be sitting in their vicinity, subject to further scrutiny. Maybe they thought we were celebrities or the latest of the city council members to be indicted for bribery or money laundering. Who knows? I just wanted to be left alone eat to my lunch and enjoy some casual converastion with my friend. So I suggested smoking. I can hang.

We sat in a booth by a window. Service was erratic but I don't think it was completely, Bruce, our server's, fault. Even though he appeared to be the only person actually working the floor at first, he wasn't. He came to the table and took our drink order and was quick to return with the Diet Cokes. Eric pointed out that he would be "potatoey" (hot) if he were a bit more bulked-up. Buzzed head, big moustache. I'll guess early-fifties. Nice enough, but seemed out-of-place.

Because I took forever to make up my mind it seemed as if it took twice as long for Bruce to return to our table. He apologized for taking so long and took our food orders. I was beginning to regret the impulse we indulged in stopping there.

Our food came to the table. It looked great. Eric was missing crepes and toast, I was missing ketchup. We had waited so long that I didn't care. The fries were "seasoned" with some odd, goldenrod-colored, most likely MSG laden, seasoned salt dust. They were OK without ketchup. Who needs the high-fructose corn syrup anyway?

The restaurant began clearing out because the day was drawing closer and closer to late afternoon. Adjacent to our booth was a table seated with two women where a very large egg and corned-beef hash something or another, that covered the entire platter and apparently wasn't on the menu, was delivered. Based upon the entree, we could only surmise that the girls were either employees (unlikely) or friends of employees. This was further evidenced by the fact that there was a very loud-mouthed, barely discernible English-speaking, orange-haired, grey sweatsuit clad, elephant-sized, trash-talking bitch talking simultaneously to the chicks at the table and the person on her cell phone, snapping photos on her phone, doing laps around their table, walking out of the dining room then back in, and starting the whole routine again. Several times.

When I had endured her rudeness for quite long enough, I braced myself to stand up and tell her that the rest of the patrons in the restaurant didn't care to hear about how she was going to verbally "bitch-slap" Sherita or expose somebody else's cheating man-friend and that we'd like to quietly enjoy our lunch, our eyes locked onto one others. Apparently my expression took care of things. I had to say nothing. She half-heartedly said "oops" in whatever language she was speaking and left the restaurant with some other employees.

Eric and I were able to finish lunch in peace. Quite frankly, the two seated women appeared to know the obnoxious elephant, but appeared to be glad that she was gone. Bruce brought us the check, Eric had a cigarette and we got bundled up to leave. He had to go to the restroom, so I went to the counter to pay. There, the manager of the restaurant and another employee were confronting a belligerent drunk vagrant that had wondered in with an equally inebriated friend carrying a pink carnation who was also trying to get Drunk Bum to leave. He was combative and wouldn't leave. Employee #2 had a broom in her hand in preparation for the worst, I suppose. The two employees were telling the bum to leave. His drunken friend was saying, "c'mon, man." He pointed at the broom and said something I just don't comprehend: "that won't get my leg hard". Beg pardon? What the hell, exactly, does that mean?

She grabbed him at the shoulder of his jacket and shoved him through both sets of double-doors out of the restaurant. I asked the manager, who had by then taken her place at the cash register, "are you OK?" Apparently this wasn't the first time that she'd had to deal with this guy. As we completed our transaction I signed my debit slip and wished her a great afternoon. All the while, I was looking out of the corner of my eye at Eric, who had now returned from the restroom, watching Drunk Bum and his friend pacing back and forth on the street near my car. While I had hoped that they would have stumbled away, they were waiting for us. As soon as we opened the restaurant door to leave, Drunk Bum started yelling. I couldn't understand most of what he was saying. By the time I got to the front of my car the two of them had walked from the driver's side of the car toward the front, attempting to block my way so as to have my undevided attention. When I said, "no, go away," drunk bum said "fuck you."

So, forgetting to be the forgiving person I should be, I said "fuck you, you're invading my space. Leave me alone." Drunk bum not only didn't stop invading my space, he became more verbally violent and physically aggressive. As he began to charge me I put my hand on his chest and pushed him fifteen or twenty feet away from the car. I just wanted to get in and leave. But he came back. This time, I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and forcefully shoved him away from me, hoping that I'd have provided myself enough time to get in the car and speed away. I looked into his black, soulless eyes as he fell into the crepe myrtle behind him and felt a pang of guilt. How on Earth could I be here? What am I supposed to learn by this?

Getting into the car, I realized that the earlier second-click of the remote hadn't opened the door for Eric. He was still standing outside the passenger side of the car watching me retaliate in a fit of adrenaline-induced, psychotic rage. I pressed the door lock button so he could get in. As he sat down in the seat the bum rushed his door and attempted to come into the car on Eric's side.

As Eric said, "Get Away," and tried closing the door. By now, I can taste the adrenaline. I rushed out of my seat and around the front of the car and pulled the man away from Eric's door. Meanwhile Drunk Bum's companion tried to get him to stop attacking us. I looked into the window of the restaurant and gestured to the women (with the common "call me" phone gesture) screaming "call the police." They simply stared back at me, blankly, and watched the ugly situation unfold -- no acknowledgement whatsoever of what was happening or what to do next.

At last, Drunk Bum's companion managed to pull him away from the car so we could leave. They made their way back into the restaurant. God only knows what happened from there. Perhaps Employee #2 grabbed the broom again. Drunk Bum's companion just wanted us to all get along the whole time. Throughout the whole ordeal he managed to hang onto the single pink carnation he was clutching.

I surely didn't expect what happened. And, I am beginning to realize just exactly how naive I am, and how much I still have to learn about life. Typically, I don't necessarily believe that my thought processes or beliefs are the correct ones. I'm open to new ideas. Others, not so much. But it's life's lessons, not another's perception, that should cause spiritual growth. Right?

I don't have a problem questioning anything that seems illogical or ridiculous. Religious zealot? Fine. Just don't try to make me live like you. Republican? George W. Bush? Go ahead on. Don't expect my support. (In fact expect me to work against you.) But, I felt like engaging Drunk Bum was wrong after the fact. Except that I didn't engage him. He attacked me. Right? Regardless, my reaction to him could have put Eric and myself into an more undesirable and potentially dangerous situation than it actually ended up being.

While I know it would be utopia for us all to appreciate our differences, God knows, it's nearly impossible for me to want the best for people that I think are evil. It's hard for me to pray for blessings upon the likes of Hitler or "W." Evil walks among us regardless of whether God, Jesus, Heaven or Hell exist. I was reared as a Southern Baptist by a Pennsylvania Dutch Quaker and a heathen who I'm not sure had any spiritual upbringing at all. I believe that there is a higher power. I believe that we, as humans, have no logical perception as to the power of that being. I believe that the world's churches are crap and are based upon two-thousand year's of man's "tinkering" with what Christians are supposed to believe/know/trust. Why the hell else would there be a Pope? Why do we need preachers in the pulpit or a "King James Version" of the bible? Spiritual living isn't a bunch of "me-toos" following a single interpretation. Spiritual living is a personal relationship with whomever you choose to call God. Period.

I don't particularly think Drunk Bum is evil, but I think his life has been decimated by evil. I suppose I could have tried to handle the situation in a more loving manner. But I I became scared and annoyed. I can't help but think I was supposed to learn something from the situation.

I am beginning to drift away from my original reason to post. I'm tired. I'm not happy about today. I have long-overdue complete physical at 8:15 A.M. I need to go to bed. Bless you.

Ooh, an evil streak? Apparently not, at least today.

The other day I took this quiz. As I recall, I felt like the results and description were pretty accurate. Unfortunately, I only copied the graphic. So I don't have the personality traits analysis that accompanied it. Take the quiz, here.

Apparently, though, being ill changes everything. This was today's result, complete with analysis:

30 January 2007


When I tuned into "Wisecrack" on Logo last Tuesday I laughed out loud at the sight of Margaret Cho's T-shirt. "Betch" was emblazoned across the front. Funny stuff.

On the not so funny side, I am working from home today because I'm experiencing respiratory congestion, nausea and vomiting. And, while I am feeling better than I did in my office at 8:35 this morning, I'm still not all there. I hope the nurse practitioner at my doctor's office calls in a Z-pack for me. I'm still waiting to hear from her.

Because I'm at home, I have the television on. And here's where the title of this post becomes significant if you consider the ramblings of an idiot significant: I gave Rachael Ray another chance because I was too lazy to look for the remote control in all the blankets on the bed. And while her use of cutesy "Rachaelisms" like E.V.O.O. still annoys the crap out of me I actually think she could grow on me. In otherwords, I'm eating crow. I think I may have been a bit too harsh and a tad hasty in my criticisms.

Her guests today were a medium and Montel Williams. The show was enjoyable. It was followed by "Martha." I have always been a big fan of Martha Stewart's. But a couple things were painfully obvious as soon as Martha opened her mouth. First, when compared to Rachael Ray, she doesn't seem quite as comfortable in front of the camera. And not that I'd do any better by a long shot, "um" was common in her delivery of dialogue. She just didn't seem as polished, although I know better. Secondly, the first five minutes of the show were totally self-indulgent or self-absorbed plugs for new products and services being offered by Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia.

While I believe she and her many colleagues are talented and smart as evidenced by the stellar success of MSLO, I think I'm reaching maximum density on how much Martha wishes to permeate every segment of my life. I have subscribed to "Living" for many years. I subscribe to "Everyday Food" (which I believe is perhaps the best magazine I've ever subscribed to -- one of the few I read from cover to cover). I use often. I have her day-of-the-week dishtowels (a gift). I have her mandoline. I have her knife sharpener. There are many other things around this house that are emblazoned with MSE on the bottom, on a tag or otherwise.

She announced two new things this morning on her show. They're launching a new line of Crafts which were announced at the craft manufacturer's trade show in Southern California last weekend. This was announced just after we were shown a hardback photo album of her trip to Greece over the holidays, which was put together through for a small fee. She also showed us photo Valentine's Day cards that are available for creation/purchase on the site.

Guess I'm done here. I've been distracted. ADHD? Perhaps. Feeling cuckky? Definitely.

25 January 2007

God, I miss Cameron

I noticed that the days are getting longer as I was wrapping up today's work. After several late nights there, I got excited about the prospect of taking Doris and Billie for a walk. But, then I remembered that Billie had chewed Doris' collar off the other night (for the third time in 5 years). Maybe Frisbee in the backyard for a while would suffice.

I was determined to go work out first, though.

Unexpectedly, I got an AIM invitation from one of my dearest friends asking me if I had a minute. Of course, for him, I always do. He shared some sad news. His sweet dog, Sandy, has cancer. During our instant messaging we talked about the implications of her diagnosis, similarities to situations with past "family members," like his indescribably perfect Leroy and my beloved Ambrose, and how he would go forward with what he now knows.

I don't envy him. In fact, I hate this for him. Even though I know like most pets' companions (owner sounds so wrong to me), we have a limited time with them (regardless what species or breed they are), we always try to do our best to make their time with us special for all involved. This thought, of course, excludes all of the obviously demented freaks that show up on Animal Planet's "Animal Cops." I can't get started on that now.

They feel what we show them. They act as if they are loved if we love them. If we ignore them we get what usual cretins think about cats.

I have been seriously considering becoming a vegetarian. For me to walk outside in below 50° weather to be greeted by my "pea-brained" koi (regardless whether they're happy to see me or they just want food during a time of year they shouldn't get it) means something to me. They all have feelings if we take the time to love them.

All we can do for the living creatures that share our lives is provide living that we would wish for ourselves if we were in their place. Except for roaches, houseflies and mosquitoes. And spiders if they decide to take up residence in my house. Outside? O.K., beautiful. Inside? Vacuum cleaner.

Anyway, back to David. I got to a place where I couldn't see my screen during our conversation. I wanted so much to bail but at the same time hug him. I wanted to go to the bathroom and bawl. I had to stick with the conversation if for no other reason than to assure him that he was doing the best for Sandy (as he has always done). I, too, needed to reassure myself that I did the right thing with Ambrose four years ago.

So, "F" the gym. I'm telling you, if you knew this man you would dash all your plans for him if he needed to talk to you. If you weren't already very happily married (and he was available -- and gay if you were me) you would envision a lifetime with someone like him. I hope his on-and-off-but-more-on (thank God) girlfriend knows how special he is. And I think she does or they wouldn't keep working on their relationship. I worry, sometimes, that people never really appreciate his complexity. Even myself, sometimes. He's just a good guy in every way I can imagine to say it. I wish I were more like him. He's very much like my husband. And, I think my husband would like knowing that I think that. : )

Anyway, a little heavy, I know.

To deal with the emotions conjured up this evening, I focused on things of which I am solely in control. Everything else went to hell in a handbasket. Even some things of which I am solely in control. My best intentions for going to the gym. No. Getting home to play with my girls in the remaining daylight? No.

My first stop after work was the filthy Piggly Wiggly because I just couldn't bear dealing with the congestion (both in the parking lot and inside the store) at the filthy Schnucks two blocks away. I really needed some groceries. REALLY. Next stop, Joe's for a bottle of Svedka. Then a quick stop at Open Door Bible Church (the polls for my precinct) to vote for Beverly Marrero.

I got home after 7:00 P.M. It's dark. Reading ingredients on everything you purchase at the grocery apparently takes more time than it seems. When I walked in the house the girls were excited, as always. I HAVE TO PEE. LET ME OUT. LET ME IN. FEED ME.



I unloaded the car in four or five trips, while Doris and Billie ate, dropping plastic bags filled with delicious fruit, vegetables, yogurt and orange juice all over the kitchen countertops. I brought in the zillion-pound Timbuk2 bag that replaced my briefcase after I bought the 17"-inch MacBookPro. (I am ordering an AcmeMade bag tomorrow -- I hate the Timbuk2 bag).

Nine o'clock rolls around and I'm still not done reassembling the refrigerator I've ripped apart. I'm cleaning every nook and cranny (not to mention grabbing sockets and a ratchet from the garage to dismantle the crisper drawers to switch the high/low humidity controls from the left drawer to the right only to find that I'm no better off than I was when I started, dammit), and throwing out things that: A. were perfectly fine but "felt" old; B) contained high-fructose corn syrup, or C) were things I was just tired of looking at.

I have realized that unless I want to buy a very basic refrigerator to replace what we bought 13 years ago, I'm going to have to rip out cabinets for a much larger appliance -- or fix the icemaker. And, honestly, the icemaker is the only issue with this fridge. Amana, circa 1992, rocks!

Anyway, I finally get around to calling David. We talk a bit while he drives to Summer's house. The dinner she's cooking sounds fabulous. Lentils. Curry. Garam Masala. We talk a bit more. I know I need to let him go so they can spend time together.

I've already spoken to Cameron for the few minutes I would be allowed for the evening. Tonight is a short layover for him, which means that even under the best circumstances he'll be going to work in the morning sleep-deprived. And, now, I'm sitting here doing research, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers spouting parental advisory lyrics 12:50 A.M.

I miss my husband. As much as the puppies may keep me warm, they are not him. And a body pillow is completely out of the question.

God, how much I've rambled tonight. Basketcase, tonight, am I.

24 January 2007


I'm so tired. But I can't sleep.

So, I've just finished checking out the latest at uproryous. A few minutes after I clicked another link and left his site, I realized the comment I left was the third unsolicited time -- two others with co-workers -- I spoke of Rachael Ray today. So because I find her loathsome and have always considered her a hack I looked to Wikipedia for an entry to see if my feelings were really warranted. Yes, she's there. We could all use great P.R.

The Wikipedia entry did teach me a few things. Now, I know that she does have some credentials, even though she's not been classically trained. I have a newly-found respect for some of her work.

Since I can count on one hand the number of times I've watched her show, I couldn't remember what turned me off so much about her and kept me from wanting to see her ever again. Was it that she has what appears to be a perfectly restored vintage stove on her set that, from what I can tell, she uses as counter space? Possibly. Is it that she's credited with popularizing "Juzsh"(A euphemism for stir)" when we all know it was yet another clever but annoying TV personality Carson Kressley from Queer Eye who coined the phrase for pushing up shirt sleeves? Perhaps. Or is it that she basically dined-and-dashed on a bill she'd racked up with a good friend of mine, a wildly talented New York photographer, for work he completed for her book? Maybe.

From Wikipedia: "On her television programs she has introduced catchphrases such as "E.V.O.O." (extra-virgin olive oil), "yum-o," "so delish," "G.B." (garbage bowl)," spoonula, stoup (cross between a soup and stew)." "She often refers to sandwiches as "sammies.""


E.V.V.O.? Sammies? Is she so cracked out that her mouth cannot keep up with how fast the words need to come out of it? "OMG, remember, I only have 30 minutes to do this! OMG, I'm speeding into a frenzy and my face is going to explode. OMG, I.A.R!*...."


God. I was elated to get away from my former corporate client whose employees felt compelled to reduce every initiative into a garbled mess of acronyms. A.B.C.D.E.F.U! Aside from the fact that she's simply annoying, this drives me up the wall. (Matt v2.o! More acronyms! At least these aren't tied to salary or bonuses.) And think of all the lemmings who will embrace her 'tardness and help drive her already over $6 million annual salary into the stratosphere.

Rachael Ray can -- as my friend Jacquie (a.k.a. Jaxx Starcakes) would often say to our A.E., Rob -- SUCK IT!

I've got to go suck a pillow or I'll never get up in the morning. God Love ya.

'Night, baby.** Sweet dreams.

P.S. I love that spell-check makes her "catchphrases" all highlighted in yellow.

* I'm A Retard. ** Cameron. In case you're reading this.

16 January 2007

You Must Be Able to See it in My Face

Seems as if it's been forever since I last posted. I've been busy. I guess that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Cameron made me laugh out loud the other day when he was telling our friend, Dan, about "eBay eyes." Apparently when I have been on the site vying for auctions and items start arriving in the mail he sees this face. I don't feel any difference in my carriage, demeanor or emotions. But apparently he begins to worry.

So, during the past few weeks I have been on eBay buying some McCoy that I have been looking for for a while, as well as watching and bidding on parts for the convertible. Then, there's been work. For now, I just won't go there. I may not at all.

More later. Have a great day.

12 January 2007

One more...

Just another post about dieting and exercise. Here is the result of today. I'm psyched. Check my grade! A fantastic start, I think.


I finally made it to the gym tonight. After having spent the majority of Tuesday evening in the office preparing for a Wednesday presentation (that went very well), I took a off little early (1 hr.) to go to the "Y".

I decided that since it had been before Halloween since the last time I worked out that I'd take it easy. An hour on the elliptical (zone 5 -- glutes, level 2) worked out nicely. I burned 600 calories and am looking forward to going with Cleo tomorrow morning at 10 for another workout. I'll do a little cardio (30 min.) then weights (30 min.) That should make me plenty sore. Memorial Day, here I come. I'm doing everything I can to meet my goal of 161 by then. gave me an "F" for the martini I'm drinking right now, but after I finish that I'm going to sit in the shaitsu massage chair for :15, and then make an attempt to put the Christmas decorations that are piled on the dining room table back in storage.

Woo hoo! Have a great Friday night, everybody.

11 January 2007

"As a special favor, I am enclosing our 3-color brochure on phone etiquette. You might find it useful."

I love that Lily Tomlin and Jane Wagner have given me so many hours of enjoyment. I love that Earnestine has a conversation with someone she refers to Mr. Veedle (Gore Vidal). She says the above statement to him at one point during a phone conversation.

I just wish I could cut-in on some mobile phone conversations and say, "what's more important: navigating 3 or 4 tons of steel and flammables through busy city streets or talking on the telephone, you F*ING moron?" But, alas, I cannot.

Just a light rundown of the idiots I encountered on my 15 minute drive to work. I know, I know, everyone should be so lucky and 15 minutes to work is nothing. Here's the catch. I enjoy driving. I usually enjoy the drive to work. But, do you ever have one of those mornings where you might as well be parked facing a brick wall instead of trying to get somewhere?

This morning, from the time I left my humble little street, University Circle, my belabored attempts at forward movement on TN 14, locally known as Jackson Avenue, were impeded by the following:

A broken-down, tires nearly flat blue and white mid-70's Chevy van with a broken out window that had been filled with a remnant of plywood. Average speed? 15 m.p.h. I don't know if this is due to the age of the driver, the condition of the vehicle or a combination of both. I'll pass him.

For reference, the speed limit on Jackson is 40 m.p.h.

In the lane to the left of that charming vehicle, I approached a carload of people in a late-model Honda Civic whose windshield was cracked into about 1,546 pieces, front bumper held on with a bungee-cord, weaving back and forth in and out of the lane markers. I assumed that the weaving was due to impaired vision and attempts to maneuver to a large enough shard of glass to see through. Average length of time to start from the line at the intersection? 20 to 25 seconds -- may not sound like much time, but count it out and remember how long it takes you to remove your foot from the brake and depress the accelerator. Average cruising speed? 25 m.p.h. -- not enough time to get through the blockade caused by the van and the cracked-out Honda between traffic signals.

Continuing west on Jackson, the glut of slow moving vehicles is approached by a ratted-out, roughly 1985 GMC Jimmy that sounds as if it's running on 4 of the six-cylinders under the hood with an exhaust leak and smoky emissions. This bitch driver decides that she wants to try and shoe-horn herself in between me and the cracked-out Honda.

Um, not going to happen. Especially with our limited distances between lights. Finally, we reach a stretch of Jackson that affords me a few blocks between lights, so I eventally punch the turbo to get out the of the "wolf pack" (a phrase and situation I learned to avoid at Mr. Trinkle's instruction while driving a Ford Grenade* in driver's ed, because collision statistics increase exponentially in them. Lucky for us, Mr. Trinkle taught Algebra during the school year so we had a great understanding of "exponentially," too).

Being the conscientious driver I am, I had already engaged my turn signal as I finally arrived at the ramp for I-240. I noticed a pedestrian nearing the crosswalk at the ramp's entrance and prepared to yield. Realizing that we had both been paying attention and waving to acknowledge each other, we knew we could both continue without inconveniencing each other.

Ahh, the new interchange at Jackson and I-240. Practically a year in the making it is a long-overdue slice of driving heaven compared to the congested rat nest that used to include interchanges for Jackson Avenue, I-40 West and Madison Avenue all within less than 3/4 of a mile. What fun times we used to have.

Buzzing merrily along I-240 cresting the hill at the foot of the Madison Avenue exit I see a giant, black 2004 Chevrolet Suburban with "W 2004" and the American Flag in a white oval (one of those obviously feeble attempts at parroting the classic European stickers) weaving and bobbing in the exit lane. Not slightly, but quite obviously. As I got to the two-lane section of the exit ramp I got in the left lane to get around her. Big surprise, as I expected, she's on the phone, holding it with her neck, looking like she was trying to write a note or open a pudding cup, traveling at >30 m.p.h. on the expressway. Nice.

Having had enough, I depressed the accelerator, hard, to the floor. I heard the turbo begin to whistle and got around her to Madison Avenue where I merged into the center lane. Ahead, I noticed a trolley in the left lane being followed by someone in a green Isuzu Trooper. In the right lane were service trucks for the utility company.

I have to ask myself, "am I the only one paying attention, here?" Clearly, the middle lane is the place to be since the trolley is approaching a stop. And there's plenty of time for Miss Isuzu to move into it before I am near the chaos. But, what does she do? Miss Isuzu remains behind the trolley until it stops, waits until I am less that 25 ft. away from them and then cuts in front of me.

WAIT! It gets better. If, on the never-happens scale of not paying attention while driving, I am forced to move out of my lane into moving traffic I punch the crap out of my car and get moving and out of the way. I don't make people screech to a halt to avoid hitting me. The point of driving is to keep things moving, isn't it? One doesn't stop and block traffic lane(s) because the entrance to their favorite WalMart is congested, or they want to make an illegal left turn into Kroger because it keeps them from having to drive another block.

Oh, no. Not this molasses-assed dipshit. After she cuts me off she pokes along at the rate of speed she was traveling behind the trolley. She apparently hadn't paid attention to her surroundings for three blocks. She couldn't have -- it's much more important to fart around with your cell phone while stupidly ambling along, jeopardizing everyone else's lives/well-being/punctuality. She didn't even see me until I gave her a loud (thank you, Volkswagen), orchestra of trumpets-like horn blast, at which point she looked up, accelerated and jerked back into the left lane.

Thankfully, at this point I was close to the office and had smooth sailing for at least 6 or 7 blocks before pressing the remote to enter the lot. Thank you, God, for watching over me in my travels.

*Grenade: while working at a car rental company I learned this reference to the Ford Granada.

10 January 2007

Who Cares, Little Whore?

"I'm sick of Britney Spears. Britney Spears and "K-fed". Britney and Paris. Britney and Paris and Lindsey.

I'm watching "Trick" on Logo right now. And, for some reason I really like the movie and always have. I think Tori Spelling actually is fun in this. And forget even talking about "Mark". What a hottie.

Jean Paul Pitoc

But, during station identification and other spots for "The 'L' Word" and Jason Statham's movie "Crank", we get CBS News on Logo with Jason Bellini (I hope that his last name is a stage name). He's reporting on Britney talking about how her "every move is being scrutinized," blah, blah, blah, boo, hoo, and "I'll be back better than ever this year".

Britney, honey, stop acting like a whore and every scrutinized move won't make you look like the tramp you really are. You can be talented. You can be fun. You can even wear underwear. But if you really don't like the scrutiny (read: free publicity) act in such a way that makes your going out to a club for some fun uneventful.

For starters, panties might be in order.

And if not wanting to be criticized and scrutinized for your every wrong move isn't enough, think about the example you're setting for those children you've brought into this world.

And, while I'm at it, why must Logo assume that all us fags are vapid, self-indulged freaks who only care about Enquirer fodder instead of more pressing issues such as:

Ready? Exercise!

As Tony used to say during the hours I spent at USMC Fitness Boot Camp, I need to be barking orders at myself at the "Y".

Thanks for the info Matt. Maybe this will help me keep track of what I'm (or am not) doing.

04 January 2007

Spinner VS. Doris

I'm behind on posting. I keep coming here and writing notes for the next post. Obviously my system isn't working. I'm at least three posts behind. But, I just had to write about this. Unfortunately, (or maybe not depending on how you view this space) this post will get to the web before the others.

When Doris was much younger (before Billie) I bought her Beanie Babies for toys. I suppose it all started with the Little Ceasar's Pizza Pizza Man (who wasn't really a beanie), but she's always loved small plush toys. "Pizza Man" was her first toy. When I brought her home I was attempting to entertain her and realized the only toys I had were ones I had collected from fast food restaurant kids' meals or other promotions -- a more prepared parent would have gone to PetCo or Hollywood Pet Star before going to pick her up. "Pizza Man" was the only one I could safely give her without fear of choking hazards.

Over the next year or two, we watched Pizza Man lose his toga. Then his slice of pizza. An arm. His crown of laurels. His hair. A leg. The other one. His stuffing. He's now a naked, pizza-less shred of flesh colored fabric with half of a face. But, even though Doris will be seven this year, if I say "Pizza Man" she knows exactly what I'm talking about and I have to take it out of her puppy box (I know, how queer) and let her at least run through the house with it for a lap or two.

God bless her, Spinner the Spider is the same way. I said "spider" to her tonight and instantly a 6" long drool came out of her mouth while I got the bug-eyed excited look of "where, where?!"

So, now, I am on eBay, searching for the retired since 1998 Spinner the Spider. Some are starting at $.99. Some have apparently lived in the splendor of smoke-free and pet-free homes that start at $6 or $7. That's OK. The last one I bought her (at the airport few years ago) was at least $6. We just won't tell the eBay sellers that Spinner is coming to have himself pulverized, chewed upon and contained within the confines of my beloved Doris' mouth as the legs flop outside her mouth while she proudly shows me what she has. Beautiful -- until she finally pops a hole in it and all the little white plastic beads, or "beans", end up all over the house. Then it's curtains for Spinner unless I let her keep the flat, lifeless cloth body. (I usually let her keep it until I start finding random spider parts under furniture in many rooms or until Cameron says "can we get rid of this?").

It's all worth every cent. Retired or not, the remaining Spinners will only increase in value as Doris runs through the supply.