The book of ethics

"The back cover on Henry the VIII is bent, see?" I tell the dude behind the counter at Borders. "It was the only copy left on the shelf. Anything you can do?"

He starts clicking keys, entering some mystical discount code into the computer and asks "Ten percent?"

Done.

Back in the car, I tell Nelson.

"You needed that discount because the back cover affected the words in the book?" he asks cynically.

"No, because I didn't want to pay full price for something that was damaged."

He's right though.

The book was fine. And I probably wouldn't have asked except a) I'm unemployed and b) I have no business buying books with a shelf full of unread stories at home.

Then - because I've had ethics on my mind lately - it occurred to me that someone might damage a book on purpose in order to pay less for it.

This bugged me. Not enough to storm back to Border's and demand to pay full price for Henry, but certainly enough that I will never ask for a damage discount on a book again.

When was the last time you found yourself in a situation involving ethics? And what did you do? Be honest. It always makes everything more interesting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following is borrowed from that flaky, nearly all-knowing God of the Internet, Wikipedia:

Socrates posited that people will naturally do what is good, if they know what is right. Evil or bad actions, are the result of ignorance. If a criminal were truly aware of the mental and spiritual consequences of his actions, he would neither commit nor even consider committing them. Any person who knows what is truly right will automatically do it, according to Socrates. While he equated knowledge with virtue, he similarly equated virtue with happiness. The truly wise man will know what is right, do what is good and therefore be happy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First of all, thanks to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, I will always pronounce Socrates phonetically.

So, So-Crates believed that self-awareness is the key to living an ethical (and therefore happy) life.

Example: I didn't lie about that second can of Pringles in Vegas because I'm evil or because I couldn't afford them, but because I was ashamed of having eaten so much and highly sensitive about my weight. Add a little self-awareness to that scenario and I would've proudly proclaimed my gluttony to the hotel receptionist and the entire lobby for that matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quick: Name an ethical organization. Corporate or otherwise.

For me, it's Ben & Jerry's.

Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. Ice cream?

Well, yes. And not because I'm a huge fan of Ben & Jerry's. The last time I purchased a pint was for a friend who was recovering from surgery. Before that, at least five years.

I don't know why I don't buy it, I just don't. But my impression of the company - from coverage in the media - is that they appear to be a rather ethical organization.

Of course we can't believe everything on TV, but again, the impression of ethics is there.

On the other hand, there's the whole "if you have to say you're a lady, you ain't" thing and I'm always wary of anyone who wears their good deed do-age like a badge of honor.

Anyhoo.

Ethics matters. Or matter. I'm too lazy to look it up.

Isn't it ironic, though, that the organizations you'd think would be most concerned with doing the right thing - like the Catholic Church or Washington lawmakers - are the last groups you think of when it comes to ethics?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz
I am reading: The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
And I am: Pretty good

Feels like home

Your friend Nelson lives in Thailand?

Yep. It was Tokyo for three years prior to Bangkok. It's just lately I've noticed he's calling it 'home'.

"How long does it take before it starts feeling like home there?" I ask.

"Home is where your shit is."

I disagree.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Home started out sitting next to you in Ms. Meinhardt's divided second and third grade class at Atwood Elementary. Home was my yellow Snoopy pen which you stole outta my desk and still haven't returned. :)

Home expanded for both of us when my family moved in kitty-corner to yours in a tiny, magical cul-de-sac across from the high school.

Home was gathering up all of us adults and kids for lunch and games on the weekends: Trivial Pursuit, Boggle and Euchre.

Home was our Moms dividing perennials and consulting on weeds; growing healthy kids and gardens together.

Home was your sister Kyra - the human burrito - rolled up in our big family room rug and Mom walking in right at that moment.

Home was riding bikes to the 'circle' and long walks to the pond.

Home was kickball and Frisbee and football in the side yard.

Home was your Mom driving us to school in the mornings - her big brown car always smelled like chocolate for some reason.

Home was trips to Harsens Island in the summer: swimming, watching the giant freighters float by, more games, and napping in the car on the drive home with our sweaty sun-burned legs sticking together in the back seat.

Home was your giant box of Legos. And sounds of your trombone echoing across the street.

Home was feeding your guinea pigs - CB and Mrs. CB - during your family vacations.

Home was (finally!) the RV's back in the driveway! And stories and souvenirs from your long summer road trips; a silver charm for my bracelet from Washington, D.C.

Home was your Dad's ham radio in the basement.

Home was me waiting in the foyer at your house before school, checking out your shoe box diorama and saying "Looks like he's taking a piss" right as your Mom walked in.

Home was building forts in the summer and ice skating in the winter.

Later, home became so far away for both of us - far from everything we knew.

It was Chicago and Kalamazoo and Washington, D.C. and Palm Beach and Carlsbad and Palm Springs and Maui and Saint Martin and anywhere else we've managed to find each other.

Today home is "If you're gonna shake your ass, move to a bigger room."

Talking about poop. Sharing music. Lunchtime margaritas. Shopping at Target.

And "It's Adagio for Strings, ya dumbass."

Today home is whenever, wherever we are together. Home is today.

Home is here, for now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Feels Like Home - Bonnie Raitt
I am reading: The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
And I am: Home

Uncultured

"HEY! I like this song...it's from a movie, I think."

That's me, driving Nelson all over town on various errands prior to his trip home to Bangkok this Thursday. He's playing DJ with his iPod - which I love - except for the fact that we rarely get to hear one song all the way through.

Anyhoo.

"It's from Saving Private Ryan or Apocalypse Now," I continue. "One of those weepy war flicks."

"This is Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber," he says in disgust.

It's the same slightly aggravated tone you'd hear if an average Midwestern schmo said 'It's Bruce Springsteen, you idiot' to someone Born in the U.S.A.

This is the sad moment when I realize that most of the capital 'C' Culture I get comes from the lower case 'p' pop culture.

P also stands for Pathetic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Adagio Hoo-Ha for Fancy Schmancy Strings
I am reading: Nothing right now
And I am: Margarita merry

Tornadic

Just once I'd like a local reporter to interview some selfish prick after a big storm and hear: "Ya know, I lost my bitch of a wife in that tornado, but I've still got all my STUFF and that's really what matters most."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Planes flying, birds chirping, me burping
I am reading: Other blogs
And I am: WOW good

Still searching

"What's he got?" asks our good friend You Know Who Thursday night.

We were watching Max the Wonder Dog frolic in the yard with my foam kneepads, left outside after a burst of energetic gardening earlier in the day.

"Kneepads."

"I take it the job search is going well then?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) - Marilyn Manson
I am reading: Copy for a new web site
And I am: Still searching

Odd stuff I do

I sort M&M's by color.

I've been doing it since kindergarten, maybe earlier.

Red, yellow, and orange are 'female' colors.

Brown, light brown, and green are 'male' colors.

Next, the Ms get sorted into couples.

Not married couples, of course, because we sure as shit wouldn't want to let tiny godless candies screw with the Sacred Rite of Matrimony.

Anyway, couples.

Then they die.

I always thought the whole process was rather romantic, these Ms hooking up briefly and then perishing together in my tummy.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sadly, the light brown M&M's from my childhood no longer exist -- they were replaced by blue in 1995.

The blue ones are not to be trusted and always will be considered outsiders. As punishment, they are partnered with the orange (and therefore least desirable) female Ms.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite childhood memory: My brother Eric and me are camped in front of the Magnavox watching Happy Days wearing our matching PJ's made by Grandma Kammer.

All of a sudden we hear the unmistakable sound of M&M's ping-ping-pinging into a glass bowl. It's Da, who had snuck into the kitchen for a snack. For us.

We look at each other with joyful, expectant grins and say it: "M&M's!"
~~~~~~~~~~~
Pairing off the pile of Ms rarely worked out exactly right, so the leftovers - typically reds and yellows for some reason - were coupled up because No One Should Die Alone.

I didn't really understand homosexuality until high school, so these leftover Ms weren't 'Life Partners' or whathaveyou, they were just BFFs who had yet to find boyfriends worthy of their sweet chocolaty goodness.

The male-female couples were sacrificed first, followed by the friends.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm sure you didn't come here today expecting to learn about the arbitrarily assigned gender roles of doomed candy-coated bits of chocolate.

But I guarantee you'll never look at a pile of M&M's the same way again.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Candy - Iggy Pop and Kate Pierson
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman
And I am: A Veritable Goddess in the M&M Universe

Ahhh, science

"Experts from 10 countries, including Australia, the United States, Germany and Egypt, say they have defined life-long premature ejaculation."

Have you seen this? It's taken a crack team of scientists from around the world 65 years and hundreds of studies to DEFINE premature ejaculation.

Outstanding. And they wonder why whack-job creationists don't trust science.

"It was unanimously agreed by the experts that the definition of lifelong premature ejaculation should be a combination of three key factors:

-- Ejaculation that always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration.

-- The inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations.

-- Negative personal consequences such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy."

Um, guys?

I hate to burst your little scientific bubble here, but I completed this study wayyyyy back in college. And without the expensive cross-continent circle jerk, I might add.

Here's a thought: Now that you've defined what practically any woman over the age of 18 knows and has experienced at least once in their lives, how about finding a cure?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Spill Canvas - All Over You
I am reading: Nothing right now
And I am: Seriously regretting not publishing my findings back in 1986

You will take my carrot when you...oh, nevermind

Have you heard about this?

The FBI is reportedly recruiting 'moles' to infiltrate protest groups in Minnesota in anticipation of the Republican National Convention there in September.

"What they were looking for...was an informant—someone to show up at 'vegan potlucks' throughout the Twin Cities and rub shoulders with RNC protestors, schmoozing his way into their inner circles, then reporting back to the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, a partnership between multiple federal agencies and state and local law enforcement."

And then there's this:

The effort’s primary mission, according to the Minneapolis division’s website, is to “investigate terrorist acts carried out by groups or organizations which fall within the definition of terrorist groups as set forth in the current United States Attorney General Guidelines.”

Vegan potlucks? Are hotbeds of domestic terrorist activity?

Are they planning on tossing tofu into Lake Minnetonka a la the Boston Tea Party?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now. I'm not a professional journalist. But I've had a bit of schooling/experience in this area.

So I am compelled to point out that the only source for this story is a student and admitted petty criminal named 'Paul Carroll', who didn't want his real named used in the City Pages article. Everyone else involved - the U of M Police Sgt. Erik Swanson who initially contacted Carroll and FBI Special Agent Maureen E. Mazzola - declined to comment for the story.

Between the peculiar vegan potluck reference and the mysterious Ms. Mazzola, this sounds like the makings of either a) a fabulous stir-fry dish or b) an excellent story for The Onion.

Don't get me wrong, I believe Bush & Co. are fully capable of something this ridiculous, but one flimsy story does not a conspiracy make.

I just think it's rather cute when typically rational, intelligent people take a tiny, poorly sourced story and turn it into the 'birth pangs of a police state'.

C'mon, people. Let's leave the hysteria to the right-wing creationist whack-jobs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jason Mraz - I'm Yours
I am reading: The Adventures of Johnny Bunko by Daniel H. Pink and Rob Ten Pas
And I am: Having a salad

Oh the humanity

Tragic news out of the Midwest, folks.

A truck flipped on I-80 here in Illinois yesterday, dumping 14 tons of Oreos onto the highway.

14 tons.

There are 2000 lbs. to a ton. A standard package of Oreos weighs 1 lb. 2 oz. and contains 45 delicious little cream-filled chocolaty wafer-ish bits of bliss.

I was never very good at story problems, so let's just say that's a lot of fucking cookies.

I don't think I'd be alone here in damning that silly truck driver straight to hell for what he did. Straight to hell, I say.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Um, Hedy? How did you know there are 45 cookies in a package of Oreos?

Research. Years and years of extensive research.

I've literally sacrificed my ass to the study of what must be considered the world's most perfect cookie.

In fact, it's surprising -- and more than a little disappointing -- that they didn't call me to the scene of the cookie carnage as a forensic expert.

"Hedy, thank God you're here! What should we do?"

"I need this whole area cordoned off, allow no one near. NO ONE. And get me some milk, man. Lots of milk."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: A little bit of everything
And I am: In mourning

The show stopper

You're channel surfing.

Searching through what seems like a bazillion stations for something, anything to watch.

And then, BAM. There it is.

The show stopper.

The movie you'll always switch to, even if it's 6:55 and it ends at 7.

For me, it's Pillow Talk.

Yep. Doris Day. Rock Hudson. Pillows. And a party line.

Dang, Hedy, of all movies -- why Pillow Talk?

I think it's mostly the outfits. And Rock, of course. Sure, he was gay. But that particularly potent brand of masculine perfection makes my suspension of disbelief go all whacky and say "Sure, it could happen. Sure." Yum.

One of my favorite scenes takes place in a roadside diner when smarmy Jonathan Forbes (Tony Randall) slaps the shit outta Doris Day to get her to stop sobbing over Rex/Rock. It's just so...quaint.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course there are other stoppers.

Pulp Fiction. Tombstone. The American President. Almost Famous. Anything with Bill Bob Thornton.

The newest stopper is Devil Wears Prada, which was unfortunately boycotted for about six months for being too close to reality as I was actually working for a devil myself. But in the last month, I'm happy to say DWP is back in the show stopper rotation and I've watched it no less than five times.

Last night I achieved a heretofore unimagined show-stopper feat: The Show Stopper Trifecta. Jim's outta town for the week so with full control of the remote, I managed to catch the final 30 minutes of Pillow Talk followed by the last 20 minutes of The Devil Wears Prada (right before Ann Hathaway gets to go to Paris, yay), capped off with the final scene of Tombstone.

What are your stoppers?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: "You are my inspiration, Heath-er"
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman
And I am: Looking forward to everything

#288

Reason #288 why I love Craig Ferguson:

"If you could hear the color beige, it would sound like James Blunt."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Switchfoot - This is Home
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman
And I am: Cuddly-wuddly

God bless California

They finally did it - they legalized gay marriage in California.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

I'm sure a certain percentage of homosexuals in that state are positively thrilled to finally have the same rights as those of us who happened to be born heterosexual.

Although I'm guessing this was not particularly welcome news for a good number of gays.

Think about it.

Thursday: "I'm SORRY, honey, you know I'd LOVE to MARRY you, but it's ILLEGAL."

Friday: "Damn, baby, what's the rush?"

I know plenty of long-suffering heteros who would've loved that excuse.

So let me just take this opportunity to welcome the gays of California to the lovely, hellish, wonderful and maddening world of marriage. Be careful what you ask for, ladies and gentlemen, because you just got it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Let's Get It On - Marvin Gaye
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman (thank you, Nelson!)
And I am: Pretty goddamn good

On the cutting edge over here

It's called live-blogging. Journalists do it during elections and the Academy Awards, providing minute-by-minute updates on major newsworthy world events as they happen.

Me? I'm live-blogging my garage sale.

So be sure to check back here throughout the day for vital, up-to-the-minute news about crap like this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is 8:25 a.m. and I've already made $13.

While some might consider this a new low career-wise -- sitting in a garage surrounded by old crap waiting for strangers to give you quarters -- I am thrilled.

Thirteen bucks? That's more than I've earned in the past month. And it's not even 9 a.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gromit freaked out a little this morning when I fairly leaped outta bed at 6:30, disrupting his schedule.

"YOU are not supposed to get OUT OF BED until 9 a.m. and then YOU are supposed to give ME belly RUBS for a half hour followed by WALKIES. What the HELL?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have 12 Cocoon bags," I tell Jim last night.

Cocoon is a cute little shop up in Geneva where chicks go to buy amazingly wonderful, must-have items that have no practical purpose whatsoever. Every time you spend $25 there, they give you a cool little fabric shopping bag.

We have 12 bags.

"What the hell did you buy there?" he asks.

"Um. All the stuff we're selling in the garage sale?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9:03 a.m.

An Hispanic couple stops by and buys a pile o' stuff. Pots. Perfume. Glassware. Toys.

"$9.25?" I say.

She laughs.

I think my crap is under-priced.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"That's a five-table diamond," says one lookee-loo.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"A diamond you can see from five tables away. I'm still waiting for mine."

Of course the stone in the pendant marked $1 isn't really a diamond, but an obnoxious bit of bling bought in a moment of extreme weakness at one of those home jewelry parties.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the best thing about having a garage sale (Jim loves this): After the sale, when I'm out shopping and thinking about buying some silly little tschotke, I close my eyes and picture it sitting on a table in my garage with a $1 tag on it.

Sadly, the Garage Sale Effect only lasts about six months.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10:56 a.m. $112.30.

Like a small miracle, my good friend Judy arrives so I can take a pee break. What's the miracle in that, Hedy?

She brought me biscuits and gravy from the local breakfast diner.

Unexpected biscuits and gravy always qualify as a small miracle. Amen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
12:53. Not counting the cash any more.

Nobody's buying my books and I feel vaguely insulted by this. Of course 85% of my customers don't speak English so perhaps I need to let that go.

My neighbor Tina brought over a bunch of her Barbi dolls, packed up in a basket and priced at 75 cents each. As a 10-year-old, she graduated from them 'a long time ago.'

"They were just sitting naked in my house and I felt sorry for them," she said.

I, however, do not feel sorry for them.

She also brought over Barbi's condo, her car and all of her furniture.

When I was a kid, Barbi got a couch made out of a washcloth. And for end tables? Remember those little plastic thingies that keep the pizza box lid from sinking down into the pizza?

Yep.

Now she's got a bike and a jet ski. Bitch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're winding down now. Still haven't sold the golf clubs I never used.

After inspecting everything to make sure we weren't selling any of this stuff, Gromit has decided that every single person is here just to see him.

All the stuff I liked (a small Christmas topiary, myriad candle holders) and thought would sell right away is still here. I'm taking it as a sign from the Garage Sale gods that it is Not Yet Time for them to go. Maybe tomorrow is the day.

Also, I am learning Spanish. Para una, I believe, means each.

Oh, and that damn squirrel is still here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Birds, quiet conversations over crap
I am reading: The Beacon News
And I am: Profitable

The long-awaited job search update

So I joined one of these whoop-de-freakin-do executive job search sites.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

Here’s how it works: You pay $30 for the first month of Premium Service and you get exclusive access to Big Corporate Hoo-Ha job openings. And they proceed to up-sell the hell outta you because they think you’re Miss Got Rocks for joining an executive search site.

Seriously. I signed up on Tuesday. It’s Thursday. In that time, they’ve sent me 10 e-mails. Mom doesn’t even write that often. Although perhaps it is wrong to assume that I’ve been a member of the Premium Mom Service all this time. Note to self: Call brother to find out how many e-mails he gets from Mom each week.

Anyhoo.

As part of the Premium Hoo-Ha Service, the first thing they throw at you is the ‘complimentary’ resume review.

Mine was anything but complimentary. Of course I didn’t need Brittany the Executive Resume Analyst telling me my resume sucks bung.

I know.

It’s embarrassing. I’m a writer. And my resume sucks.

Here’s why.

Ask me to write about anything – butt socks or cuddly-wuddly Christ or Craig Ferguson – and I’ll happily oblige. But when it's time to write about my (ick!) accomplishments, I’ll sit in the corner with a dazed look on my face and a stringy bit of drool running down my chin right to the floor.

Nice visual, eh? Too bad I can't put THAT in the fucking resume. Executive summary my ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Executive search site? Executive, Hedy? Who the hell are you kidding?

Right. Well. It is a bit of a stretch, isn't it?

To be honest, I’ve never really felt entirely comfortable in the corporate world. And after the lovely and memorable experience working for The Turd, I’d much rather spend my summer being anally raped with a Hillary Clinton action figure mowing lawns than working some suck-ass 'real' job.

The very thought of going back to corporate marketing feels so wrong and stupid and foolish that if I had balls, they’d be shrinking up into, well, wherever balls go when they get scared and shrink up. Still, for now I need to go through the motions of finding a traditional marketing gig until I figure out what the hell I really want to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More from Brittany's brilliant resume critique:

“You are a premium member of I’maBigCorporateHooHa.com BECAUSE you’ve got the valuable experience, the superior skills, the unique qualifications and most importantly the DRIVE to get that next big corporate hoo-ha job (yes, we redirect people who don’t fit our profile; it is in our best interest to do so).”

No.

I’m a premium member because I PAID $30.

Nobody pre-screened me to find out if I ‘fit’ your profile. It was all “AMEX, Visa or Mastercard?” and “we automatically re-new monthly memberships” so don’t give me this crap about being specially qualified to receive your service. I’m guessing if Gromit still had a credit card, he could sign up for this site and receive an equally enlightening resume critique.

“In today’s competitive environment, it is impossible to over-emphasize your ball-licking capabilities, Mr. Gromit.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Miss Got Rocks? Who's that?

Don't ya know? I learned about this from Jim's Mom, who grew up in Chicago: Miss Got Rocks is an old-time name for a rich chick. She is often seen with The Big McGaffer -- the wealthy powerful dude that everyone secretly fears/hates.

For some reason I always picture The Big McGaffer with giant forearms like Popeye.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But wait, there’s more:

“Your resume is a bit too long at six pages. The average resume these days is two pages with three being acceptable at senior levels.”

The funny thing is, my resume is a little over two pages. So I’m not exactly sure which resume she reviewed, but it sure as hell wasn’t mine. Turns out, the whole 'complimentary resume review' was just one big form letter with tiny bits personalized to make it sound as if she'd really spend serious time considering the merits of my resume.

Of course with the stalker-esque e-mail blitz over the past two days, I get the feeling that even if I’d submitted the one and only Pulitzer Prize winning resume, I’d still be deemed ‘the ideal candidate for a resume rewrite’ at the low low price of $695.

That’s right.

We’re eating hot dogs and mac & cheese for dinner and seeing Iron Man at the matinee ($10 for two tickets!) but I’m supposed to pony up seven hundred bucks to have some silly twat who can't even count re-write my resume?

No. Thanks. Now I'm off to figure out how the hell to work ball-licking into my executive summary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Wherever You Will Go - The Calling
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: Wondering where the balls go

Now that I'm unemployed

"Ya know that ceiling fan in the guest bedroom, the one with the frosted glass?" I ask Jim.

"Yes?"

"Not frosted. Just dusty."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Something on the Food Network
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: Keeping busy

He likes fresh sheets

It’s 9:51 Sunday night.

I’m aimlessly wandering the Internet and half listening to the TV when I get the feeling I’m being watched.

It’s Gromit, Genius Dog. Sitting two feet from the couch, willing me to do his bidding.

“What?" I say. "What do you want?”

“Well, Heather, I'm glad you asked. I'd like that crotch-fart Hillary Clinton to drop out of the race before she single-handedly destroys the Democratic party. World peace would be great but I’ll settle for those fuckos in Burma getting their shit together to let the U.N. do its job. Oh, and tater tots. I need tater tots.”

That’s not what he said. But he did start barking. So maybe.

He’s not barking at Jim. He’s barking at me. Except it’s not so much barking as bitching.

"WOO-ROO-WOO-RAA-WOO-WOO-WOO!"

This goes on for what seems like forever but is probably just five minutes when Jim says, “I think he wants you to make the bed.”

Sigh.

On Sundays the sheets and blankets go in the wash. And sometimes they stay there until someone who is ready to go to bed starts complaining.

Usually that someone is Jim.

Gromit follows me into the laundry room to supervise the extraction and gathering up of various bits of bedding and then it’s upstairs we go where he's all but tap tap tapping his impatient little paw while I quickly make things comfy and organized for the night.

I give him the Okay and he hops up, settling in with a loud groanish sigh that is more "It's about time" than "Thank you."

And then I am dismissed, presumably to make tater tots. Or at least e-mail those fuckos in Burma.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Devil Wears Prada
I am reading: Front Row at the White House by Helen Thomas
And I am: Here to serve

Mum Song

Mum Mum Mum Mum
Mum Mum Mum Mum

She’s the one who wiped yer bum
And made the food to fill yer tum

She’s Mum (Mum Mum)
She’s Yer Mum (Mum Mum Mum)

And when you really make a mess
She’s the one who loves you best

She’s Mum (Mum Mum)
She’s Yer Mum (Mum Mum Mum)

So when yer feeling dark & weary
Call her up, she’ll make you cheery!
She don’t mind, it’s what she’s for
Just leave yer shoes off at the door

She’s Mum (Mum Mum)
She’s Yer Mum (Mum Mum)
Love Yer Mum (Mum Mum Mum)
She's MUM!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am humming: The Mum Song
I am reading: Garrison Keillor's essay on motherhood
And I am: Good

Here

"Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish." - Chuck Palahniuk

Here's to being in a place that feels wrong and stupid and foolish.

Back soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Birds
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Here

You will take my balls when you...oh nevermind

It's been a busy, busy week for them thinky Florida lawmakers to be sure.

Florida Trucks Avoid Castration

"A provision in a highway safety bill that would have banned drivers from attaching replica bull testicles to their rear bumpers was snipped from the legislation."

Outstanding.

Especially since this news comes the very same week that Florida lawmakers blocked an amendment to a bill that would have authorized the first ever state-issued specialty license plate for Christians. The plate would have featured a cross, a stained glass window, and the words 'I believe'.

Final score: Balls 2, God 0.

Sure, the Christians lost out legislatively speaking this week, but the real losers are the Florida taxpayers footing the bill for all of this silliness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Great Balls of Fire - Jerry Lee Lewis
I am reading: Pharyngula
And I am: Headachey

Jesus H. Christ in a rocketship

They're at it again.

Evangelical Christians are attempting to predict when Christ the Cuddly-Wuddly Savior is coming back.

Best of all: The latest prediction is based on actual data from NASA.

Whew. It's SCIENTIFIC, so it must be right. Right?

According to the WorldNet Daily news site, Mark Biltz from El Shaddai Ministries 'logged onto NASA's eclipse website which provides precision tracking of the celestial events.'

Through extensive research on the NASA website, Biltz discovered 'a rare string of lunar and solar eclipses' that could herald the return of Jesus in 2015.

The article fails to mention that the Biblical calendar is based on lunar and solar cycles, so of course certain celestial events occasionally coincide with major religious holidays.

This ain't science, folks.

And any hope that Mr. Biltz might have gleaned some logic or reason from his brief stint on the NASA site was all but hysterically obliterated by this additional silliness:

When he was questioned about the Bible story where Christ compares the world to ten virgins waiting for the arrival of their bridegroom and utters the famous line 'ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh' (Matthew 25:13), Biltz insisted that the quote be examined in its proper context.

"When He says you don't know the day or the hour, He's speaking to the foolish virgins, not the wise virgins," he explained.

Ahhhh. Of course.

So, kiddies, if you really want to know when Christ is coming back, forget NASA.

Just ask a wise virgin. If you can find one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Like a Virgin - Madonna
I am reading: The Washington Post's Fact Checker Blog
And I am: A foolish whore

Your lifelong dream

Climbing Mount Everest. Achieving total enlightenment. Finding a cure for cancer.

What is your lifelong dream?

Hopefully it is slightly more ambitious and interesting than David Blaine's lifelong dream, which he accomplished on the Oprah Winfrey show yesterday.

Have you heard about this?

Blaine broke the world record for holding his breath.

Yep.

Immediately after being extracted from a large water-filled sphere, Blaine said: "A lifelong dream. I can't believe I did that."

Yeah, we can't either. Ya self-important fuckstick.

Since when does holding your breath for a long time qualify as entertainment?

He's just a pathetic grownup version of Billy Evans -- that irritating boy from second grade who would eat a bug and/or one of his own boogers for a dollar and/or the Hostess Cupcake from your lunch box.

Oh, wait. FoxNews has dubbed Blaine an 'endurance specialist'.

I dunno. Endurance specialist?

Jim is an endurance specialist after a couple glasses of really good Scotch.

Not some attention-starved twit who spends a month suspended in a glass box over the Thames.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, what's your lifelong dream, Mrs. FancyPants?

I'm so glad you asked.

Hedy's To Do Before She Dies List

Win an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay
Orbit the Earth
Live in Paris for one year
Craig Ferguson

Ta-da! Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

See what I mean? Important, meaningful stuff.

Okay, maybe not that last one. But one can dream.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, dear friends, what happens after we finally accomplish our lifelong dreams? Do we die?

At least in the case of Mr. Blaine, one can only hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mariah Carey - Dreamlover
I am reading: Nothing right now
And I am: Dreaming