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

Gas tax holiday schmoliday

If you're not visiting The Washington Post's Fact Checker blog every now and then, you really should.

Michael Dobbs provides a refreshing take on the hot air around Major Issues in the presidential race and doles out "Pinocchios" for the candidates who get it wrong (on purpose or otherwise).

Dobbs' current assessment of the summer gas tax break touted by both McCain and Clinton is near perfect.

Thomas Friedman from the New York Times also provides a good perspective on this misguided idea here.

Whether you like Obama or not, at least he got this one right.

And not because of politics. Because of - of all things - actual experience right here in Illinois.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: How Far We've Come - Matchbox Twenty
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Busy

Neil's out, Craig's in

Confession: I will be getting a divorce. Soon.

As soon as Craig Ferguson arrives to take me to L.A. so we can live happily ever after.

He will wear nothing but a kilt and speak to me with his lovely Scottish accent.

And I will wear nothing at all and do WHATEVER THE HELL HE WANTS.

I'm not kidding.

Craig Ferguson could say: "Heatherrrr! I'm goin' t' crlap in yer shoooz!"

And I'd hear: "Heather! I'm going to rub your boobs!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But Hedy, I thought Neil Steinberg was your guy.

Nope. Not anymore.

Sorry, Neil.

Ya got no accent. Well, maybe you do. But it's a nasally Midwestern thing that's fairly common in these parts and doesn't exactly butter the muffin, ya know?

Plus, as far as I can tell, you're short and bald-ish. Craig is tall. Messy dark hair. Devilish blue eyes. And did I mention the accent?

Of course you are one damn fine writer, Neil. But it's time for me to be moving on.

And call me shallow, but the Scottish funnyman always trumps the Jewish brainiac. Always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What does Jim say about all this, Hedy? Is he concerned?

"If it means Jessica Alba and I can finally be together, I'm all for it."

See, Craig? It's meant to be. Call me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig on the Late Late Show
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Leaving soon

An orgasm is a terrible thing to waste

A German survey has found that educated women are less fun in the sack. At least that's what the headline says:

Clever girls have bad sex.

In the study, 62 percent of women who had completed their education said they often had problems achieving orgasm. Only 38 percent of women with a lower educational qualification said they had such problems.

*SIGH*

Of course the survey makes no mention of how these women are (or aren't) managing to achieve the Great and Powerful O.

But it seems like this study is more of an indictment on educated German men than their thinky little Frauleins, ja?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Foo Fighters - The Pretender
I am reading: The Prophet from Jupiter by Tony Earley
And I am: Doing homework

Lights out

"I really wish we had one more Malibu light for that garden," says Jim. "They were on clearance at Home Depot and you can't get that kind any more."

"Why don't you take one of the lights from by the deck and move it over there," I say. "See? Problem solved. What would you do without me?"

"He wouldn't be worried about lights anymore, I can tell you that," says neighbor Willy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The neighbor's mower
I am reading: The Palm Isle Blog
And I am: Relaxed

You poor, put-upon white person

It happens every few months.

A message hits my in box with the subject 'Proud to be White' or something equally ridiculous.

It rants about how 'THEY' have the United Negro College Fund and 'THEY' have Black Entertainment Television and 'THEY' have Martin Luther King Day and claims that if 'WE' had White Pride Day or the White Entertainment Network, then 'WE' would be racists.

You poor, put-upon white person.

I hate to tell you this, but you don't need a special holiday or TV station.

If you believe the crap in that e-mail, you're already a racist.

You want your own TV station? Really? Try NBC, CBS and ABC. And CNN and MSNBC and Fox News. And HBO and Showtime, too.

You really feel you need your own holiday? Because Christmas and Easter and Good Friday and President's Day and Labor Day and Memorial Day and the Fourth of July and Columbus Day and St. Patrick's Day and Thanksgiving just aren't enough?

You want to march for your race and your rights? Do it. C'mon. You'll send out an e-mail claiming white people need a march, but let's see you cowboy up and join those hateful idiots in the Ku Klux Klan. Just be sure to wear your sheet because God knows you wouldn't want anyone to identify you.

You've suffered needlessly. Your life is obviously worse because of all these organizations designed to help minorities. I feel so sorry for you, you poor white person.

Get a fucking grip, people.

If you're white and your life sucks -- it ain't because of some minority college in Georgia. And it sure as hell ain't because of Martin Luther King.

Your life sucks because you're a small-minded dumbass who made bad decisions that you're trying to blame on others.

And if - as I suspect - your life as a white, middle class American hasn't really sucked that much at all then SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TRY TO SHOW SOME GRATITUDE FOR HOW MUCH EASIER YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T BORN WITH BROWN SKIN.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jack's Mannequin - Bruised
I am reading: No more of these hateful e-mails
And I am: Sick & tired of angry white people

See what happens when I take a day off

Lynchings in Congo as penis theft panic hits capital

Some lucky stiff at Reuters had a blast writing that headline.

I'm trying to figure out the mechanics of a penis snatching. Is it similar to my Uncle Frank's famous "I've got your nose" trick?

Because it's not as if a penis is a purse or something you could grab and run off with too easily.

Although, if we can believe all of the National Geographic specials on Africa I've ever seen, they do keep their wieners, shall we say, readily available and ripe for thievery or whathaveyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Penis. Theft. Panic.

C'mon. We know what's really happening, don't we ladies?

"Can you describe the penis, sir?"

"It was big. Huge. And it always worked. Always."

"Right."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: Eh, not much right now
And I am: Saying penis theft panic three times fast

Outliving Erma

Confession: I check the obituaries in my hometown newspaper almost every day.

It's not from some morbid freakiness on my part -- I gave up screwing around in cemeteries in high school -- but because I love the poignant little stories in every single obit.

A person's entire life is published in black and white for strangers to review: What they did before they died, who they loved and who loved them, what people thought of them, and who they outlived and who outlived them.

Fascinating. Great stories, every single one of them.

With truly fabulous names.

Like Helen Yankitis, God rest her soul. I once knew a guy with Yankitis. I think he went blind. Or something.

Anyhoo.

There's Ernest and Norman and Walter. God I love a good Walter, don't you?

And there are Helens and Harrietts and Ethels.

All blessed souls in their 70s, 80s or 90s, kicking the bucket every single day.

Ernest, for example, was completely devoted to his family and friends and was a lifetime member of the Elks club. And as for Norma, her family says she'll be dearly missed.

The thing is, they kinda have to say that stuff once you're dead, don't they?

"Um, Mr. Flanigan, I'm not sure that 'He was a dirty cocksucker who shoulda been stump-hung long before he kicked the bucket' strikes the proper solemn tone for your father's obituary. Shall we try something a little more heartfelt?"

"How about this: 'Good riddance you fucking coot and we'll jig on your grave.' Better?"

"Much. Thanks."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: My Chemical Romance - Dead!
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots, who is also dead
And I am: Starting a Yankitis Awareness Campaign, I think I can pull it off, seriously

Calling Pennsylvania

Say what you will about Obama.

But when it comes to the whole campaign fund raising + volunteer thing, he's just slick. Slick in a good way, not the Willy way.

His wife Michelle sent out an e-mail Saturday morning asking volunteers to help make calls into Pennsylvania in advance of the primary.

No, I don't believe it was actually his wife who sent out the e-mail, but it worked and that's the only thing that matters.

Within five minutes of receiving her message, voila, I was actually making calls. Once you're registered (I already was), Obama's web site provides you with a list of names/numbers to call, a detailed script, and tips.

Unfortunately the only thing that got me through my list of 25 registered voters was the idea of actually reaching Pos or Molly on the phone. Here's the tally:

7 wrong numbers (4 within the first 10 minutes)
12 voice mail messages
2 busy signals
1 “She’s tired of getting phone calls.”
1 “No, not right now.”

And only two live people. Two.

Of 25 calls, I actually spoke with two people.

What's more depressing, they were both women and hardcore Hillary supporters.

You're not supposed to waste any time once you've identified a hardcore Hillary-head, according to the script. You're supposed to say "Thank you, have a great day, and good luck pulling your head out of your ass."

I made up that last part.

Confession: I did deviate slightly from the script with the two Hillary supporters, only because I'd never actually spoken with someone who plans on voting for her.

"I'm voting for Hillary," says Julia.

"May I ask why?" says Hedy in her friendly/curious tone.

"Sure," she says. "It's because of her experience and I just don't know enough about Obama. Can I ask why you're voting for him?"

"Sure," I say and give her all the reasons I've given you a hundred times before. Not politics as usual, works for the people, doesn't take money from PACs or big oil, and knows how to shake his ass.

Then there was Brenda.

"May I ask why you're voting for Hillary?"

"Because I prefer her."

Brilliant.

"Okay, then. Thank you and have a great day."

And good luck pulling your . . .oh, never mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 4 Minutes - Madonna/J. Timberlake
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Busy

Amen

"I'm offended. They gave me a spoon with my waffle cone."

That was The Nephew from the back seat on our way home after dinner and Oberweis.

"How do you expect to get the ice cream out?" asks Jim.

"With my tongue, like God intended," says The Nephew.

"I thought you didn't believe in God?" says Hedy.

"I believe in ice cream," says The Nephew.

"Amen."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rock 'n Roll Jesus - Kid Rock
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Unbelievably happy

But a bitch ain't one

Read this story from the Washington Post, then tell me Obama isn't fucking brilliant.

It makes him even cooler than we thought and wipes out the bullshit elitist label in one move.

And Hillary doesn't dare criticize his appreciation for rap music because, well, you know why.

Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you feelin like a pimp nigga, go and brush your shoulders off

Ladies is pimps too, go and brush your shoulders off

Niggaz is crazy baby, don't forget that boy told you

Get, that, dirt off your shoulder
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prediction: Within the next 48 hours Hillary will make reference to some inane pop song and parade out her iPod for public inspection.

Clinton Staffer #1: "But what are we gonna do? It's all fucking Barbara Streisand and that skinny bitch from Canada, whatshername? Celine Dion."

Clinton Staffer #2: "Get on iTunes. Now. Give her some Madonna - she's a whore, but she's from Michigan and they love us there - and Mariah Carey. Sprinkle in some of that soulful feminist crap from Sarah McLachlan and Dido, but for God's sake nothing too angry. No Alanis Morissette."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course this rap revelation does absolutely nothing to help Obama with the Crabby Old White Guy demographic. But they were never big fans anyway.

You just know Rush Limbaugh or someone like him will ask the question: "Do you people really WANT someone who listens to RAP MUSIC in the WHITE HOUSE?"

I guarantee they're looking up the lyrics now.

And it would be dubbed BallerGate, if those silly out of touch bastards actually knew what a baller was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The best part of all this?

If Obama really is a Jay-Z fan, then he's definitely got 99 Problems on his iPod.

If you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one

Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dirt Off Your Shoulder - Jay-Z
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scots by Margaret George
And I am: Chill

So now

"So now that you're unemployed maybe you could walk Max? Clean up his poop?" says You Know Who.

"Of course." I say.

"But you never clean up the poop at home," says Jim.

"I'm not getting paid for it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: O.A.R. - Madison Square Garden
I am reading: That bitch from Scotland whatshername
And I am: Laughing

He gets my jokes

We three are on the back porch before dinner yesterday, soaking up the early Spring sun.

I'm finishing up a glass of water and trying to read about Mary Queen of Scots. Jim is smoking a cigar and yapping about yard projects.

Out of the Blue, Gromit begins barking because a) the neighbor's dog is barking, b) the neighbor's child is outside, c) the neighbor is outside, or d) all of the above, plus the fact that he happens to be OUTSIDE and that's just what he does.

In an effort to shut him up, I say "Grommie, you want some water?" and offer him my empty cup.

Yes.

Gromit will deign to sip from his bowl if he has to, but he prefers fresh water from a cup.

"OUT OF YOUR CUP, HEDY?"

Shaddap. If you ever met Gromit, you'd let him sip out of your cup, too. Seriously. He is one charming-ass dog.

Anyhoo.

As expected, the cup gets his attention and he walks over, well, expectantly. He sticks his snout in the cup and - surprise - no water.

It is at this point I swear he looks up at me with that classic "Ah, ya got me" look and LAUGHS RIGHT OUT LOUD. He opened his mouth and exhaled, just like a laugh, and his tail started wagging like mad.

So there ya go. I may be unemployed but at least I can make the dog laugh.

That's something, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Frogs out in the pond, birds out in the trees
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland by Margaret George
And I am: Really happy

Better days

Mom says she can hear it in my voice.

Things are better already.

I am officially unemployed again. But this time, it's just...FABULOUS.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Goo Goo Dolls - Better Days
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland and the Hoo Ha by Margaret George
And I am: Smiling

John Adams

I’ve been shit, I mean shut down for the past two days due to another odd virus.

Of course it could just be my body’s way of saying “WHY ARE YOU STILL WORKING IN THIS, THE SEVENTH RING OF HELL?”

But who knows.

The upside: I started watching HBO’s John Adams mini-series. Mostly because I didn’t have much else to do but lie/lay/whatever on the couch and moan occasionally, but also to get Jim to SHUT THE HELL UP about how much space the series is taking up on the DVR thingy.

“Do you know they’re 75 minutes each? 75 minutes.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to delete one of your precious License to Grill episodes now, would we? God forbid we do without ‘Godfather Italian Feast’ here.”

Anyhoo.

I didn’t expect to like the John Adams story so much – European history is more my thing – but it is truly outstanding.

And who knew Adams successfully defended the redcoats involved in the Boston Massacre? Fascinating.

Of the first two episodes, the best scene involves Adams, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin editing Jefferson’s first draft of the Declaration of Independence.

This is a document that changed the world.

And these guys are sitting in what constitutes a colonial conference room, quibbling over what is ‘sacred and undeniable’ versus ‘self-evident.’

Can you imagine putting something like that together today?

Jefferson: “A draft (DOI_draft.doc) is attached. Track changes is on. Send your revisions ASAP.”

Franklin: “What do you think about Helvetica for the title? I’m liking purple. It really pops. And let’s definitely make the logo bigger.”

Adams: “I thought for sure you’d want Franklin Gothic.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: O.A.R. – Hey Girl
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George
And I am: Fine

Paging Mike Hunt

“Um, Heather? There's a Craven Morehead on the phone for you...do you want to take the call?"

That’s a co-worker via intercom Friday afternoon.

Of course I laugh.

There’s a customer whose last name is Morehead. So, logically, Craven got added to the list with Heywood Jablome and Ben Dover and Dick Gozinya and Phil McCracken.

"Are you gonna take this call or what?" he says insistently.

I assume there’s a real caller waiting.

"Seriously, who is Craven Morehead, really?" I say.

"Apparently YOU ARE!"

CLICK.

Still can’t believe I fell for that one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: More Than This – Roxy Music
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Still laughing

There's no explaining this one

I woke up this morning with the Irish Rovers' Unicorn song in my head.

What's worse, I really don't know the words.

So I was singing "The humpty back tigers and the Smithereens, some cats and bats and ratatats, but hmm hmm hmm hmm, hmm hmm hmm hmm THE UNICORN."

At the risk of implanting this song into your gourd, here's my "Purge The Unicorn" song list from iTunes:

Bloody Mary Morning - Willie Nelson
I Think Ill Just Stay Here and Drink - Merle Haggard
Uneasy Rider - Charlie Daniels Band
A Few More Rednecks - Charlie Daniels Band
Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys - Ed Bruce
East Bound and Down - Jerry Reed
Y'All Come Back Saloon - Oakridge Boys
King of the Road - Roger Miller
It Was Almost Like a Song - Ronnie Milsap
Sixteen Tons - Tennessee Ernie Ford
Good Hearted Woman - Waylon & Willie
Ghost Riders in the Sky - Johnny Cash & Willie Nelson
Beer for My Horses - Willie Nelson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Trying...to...purge...THE UNICORN
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Happy

Jungle love

"Federal employees charged millions of dollars for Internet dating, tailor-made suits, lingerie, lavish dinners and other questionable expenses to their government credit cards over a 15-month period, congressional auditors say."

That's really all you need to read from this AP story published today.

Okay, I lied.

You really should read the whole thing, especially this part:

"The review of card spending at more than a dozen departments from 2005 to 2006 found that nearly 41 percent of roughly $14 billion in credit-card purchases, whether legitimate or questionable, did not follow procedure — either because they were not properly authorized or they had not been signed for by an independent third party as called for in federal rules to deter fraud. For purchases over $2,500, nearly half — or 48 percent — were unauthorized or improperly received."

And this:

"Out of a sample of purchases totaling $2.7 million, the government could not account for hundreds of laptop computers, iPods and digital cameras worth more than $1.8 million. In one case, the U.S. Army could not say what happened to computer items making up 16 server configurations, each of which cost nearly $100,000."

But wait, here's the best part:

"At the State Department, one credit-card holder bought $360 worth of women's lingerie at Seduccion Boutique for use during jungle training by trainees of a drug enforcement program in Ecuador."

To summarize: Some government cock-hole used your tax dollars to meet a monkey via an Internet dating service, bought that hairy bitch some new squirrel covers and then fed her a fancy schmancy steak.

God, I love this country.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jungle Love - The Time
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Submitting my resume to the State Department

Gromit, Genius Dog

“C’mon, Gromit,” She says. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

But I, Gromit -- Genius Dog -- shall not be interrupted mid-sniff. And most certainly not whilst partaking in the wondrous waftings of a fresh pile of opossum poop.

However. I do detect abnormal urgency in She’s voice, so I cast a quick glance behind on the trail.

Ah.

Ah-ha.

I suspected as much.

A Shepherd. The German variety, I believe.

And She knows that I tend to be somewhat – shall we say – exuberant among these fair creatures due to fond memories of an ill-fated, beyond-the-fence love affair with a gorgeous, energetic Fraulein named Ufta which ended tragically when She and He abruptly decided to MOVE me from MY YARD where I’d been peeing quite HAPPILY since I was a mere pup. But I digress.

She knows my proclivities so She is rushing Sunday Walkies in an attempt to avoid said Shepherd.

I, Genius Dog, shall have none of this.

In order to be certain She understands my opinion on the serious matter of Shepherd avoidance, I look directly into her batty brown eyes.

And slowly. Quite deliberately.

Sit.

“Gromit Dog! Move!” She yells, yanking my Leash.

When She uses my surname, I know She means business.

But of course this only elicits my patented Withering Stare of Defiance, followed by the Disinterested Yawn and (patent pending) Brief Wiener Inspection.

The He walking the Shepherd laughs, so I join in the merriment. Soon we are all laughing at She, pulling frantically on my Leash.

She gives in. Defeated yet again by Gromit, Genius Dog.

I contain my mirth and leap rapturously for the succulent Shepherd, who sadly passes with nary a glance for yours truly. Bitch.

Walkies re-commence.

“Asshole Dog,” She says, under her breath.

I don’t know about you, but I am of the opinion that only those of the lowest intellect resort to name-calling. Don’t you agree?

Slightly altering this evening’s already hectic schedule, I pencil in “give She a particularly sloppy set of kisses” immediately following my regular après-poop tongue-on-butt scrub.

Asshole. Dog. Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: That insufferable hound two yards over
I am reading: Hello? Nothing. I'm a DOG
And I am: Gromit, Genius Dog

From an e-mail I sent to a co-worker today

With all the names/places experg...expirg...DELETED to protect the innocent:

I’ve been contacting [the president of ] a large trader's group in [major western city] since I started here – sending e-mails & voice mails at least once a month, usually more often – trying to get them to let us sponsor and present at one of their events. We're offering to pay for the room/food/bev in exchange for doing an hour-long presentation on our product.

Never once got a response.

On Friday, a competitor that I met at the New York show told me he was heading to [major western city] to do a presentation for the same group I've been trying to contact, so I said “HEY – ask [the president] why he's not responding to me, would ya please?”

Here’s the IM from today:

Heather: what did he say?
Paul: well...picture this
Paul: sitting at a table with 15 of these [city] people
Paul: when I bring up your name
Paul: and [my company]
Paul: so they were using [my software]
Paul: and they loved the platform
Paul: but they said the owner was a real dick
Heather: that would be my boss
Paul: they left [my company] due to him
Heather: amazing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bloody Mary Morning - Willie Nelson
I am reading: Lemonade, a short story by Maxine Clair
And I am: Not surprised, oddly enough

Only outlaws will have pillows

Did you hear? Those crazy Brits have outlawed Samurai swords, of all things.

I'm guessing it's what finally killed that old coot Charlton Heston.

"Samurai swords are part of Japanese history and genuine artifacts can change hands for large sums of money. But in recent years there has been a trade in reproductions which can be bought over the Internet for as little as £35 and they have been used in several attacks."

Several attacks? Jeez, no wonder they banned 'em.

Actually, according to this web site, there have been upwards of 80 sword attacks in England over the past four years. That's roughly 20 per year.

"Care for a spot of tea, Charles?"

"How can you think about tea at a time like this, Camilla? I'm simply overwrought by this Samurai sword crisis. It's got my smalls all scrunched."

"Let me help you with that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to this fascinating little tool brought to you by the CDC, there were 2,097 cut/pierce homicides per 100,000 in the United States in 2005 (the most recent stats available.)

Homicide suffocation deaths per 100,000 for the same year: 633.

Yes, I understand there are more of us silly Americans and therefore more of us silly homicidal Americans.

But Charlton Heston is DEAD, people.

And when pillows are outlawed, only the outlaws will have pillows. Seriously. Moses has left the building so there's no one left to protect us from the bleeding-heart Brits and Michael 'I'm a fat retard' Moore types.

So I say use your guns to protect your pillows and swords, and don't give up without a fight.

Now I'm off to get a new bumper sticker.

It'll be 'You will take my pillow when you pry it from my cold dead hand' or 'Charlton Heston is My (dead) President.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Chris Matthews show
I am reading: Everything
And I am: Re-loading

The anti-Christ of chocolate

I'm just gonna throw this out there: White chocolate is the anti-Christ of chocolates.

Think about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A Few More Rednecks - The Charlie Daniels Band
I am reading: Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
And I am: Born again

User error

As my friend Pos said, it's been a rough week technology-wise.

Last night was the capper.

After nothing but Cheetos and Cheerios for dinner all week - Jim's been in California - I decide it's time to pull out all the stops and make a frozen pizza.

Standing in front of the oven for what is probably the first time since Thanksgiving, I hit the BAKE button. I punch 4 - 5 - 0 on the numbered panel like a pro.

I push START.

"PUSH START" flashes from the tiny screen on the oven.

"I am pushing start," I say to the oven.

I push START again.

"PUSH START" flashes the screen somewhat indignantly.

"I AM PUSHING START!" I scream at the oven.

That's when I realize I'm pushing the START button for the lower oven, not the top oven. In which the frozen pizza is waiting to bake.

Last time I try to cook. Ever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse - Missed the Boat
I am reading: Homework
And I am: Domestically impaired

More irony

I signed up for a creative writing class at the University of Chicago. It started Monday night. But since then I haven't been able to write much.

Back soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I Write Sins Not Tragedies - Panic at the Disco
I am reading: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
And I am: Empty-Hed'd

I’ll bite on Wright

“Okay, I gotta ask,” says Mom this morning. “How come you haven’t written about Obama and that Wright minister?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to stay clear of writing on anything religious lately.”

Neil Steinberg wrote a short piece on it yesterday in the Sun-Times and acquitted Obama quite nicely as we’ve come to expect. You can read it here.

My man Steinberg is always good for leveling the playing field by drawing comparisons to similar situations throughout history. It works most of the time.

However, as Mom is quick to point out, Obama is a member of Wright’s church and has been for 20 years. We also know that, at least since Harvard and possibly much earlier, Obama has wanted to run for president.

So if this preacher spent every single Sunday spewing the kind of hateful crap YouTube has made him famous for, I’m guessing Obama would’ve left a long time ago – simply to avoid any kind of major political fallout.

The fact is, these are sound bites. Offered up by the media. And we know that no one in the media ever, ever has an agenda, right?
~~~~~~~~~
This is what’s most ironic and interesting about Wright: This golden-robe wearin' dude is a hardcore, rolling-around-the-aisles, speaking-in-tongues Evangelical Christian.

Where are all the right wing-nuts who proclaimed Obama is secretly a radical Muslim set to destroy our fragile Christian nation if elected?

If anything, this silly non-scandal was orchestrated by the Obamites themselves to crush any last vestige of the Muslim rumors.

Can I get an amen here? Hallelujah!
~~~~~~~~~
I know you’re not running for office. But indulge me.

There’s at least one person you know and love who says crazy-ass, embarrassing shit once in a while.

If you were running for office, would you abandon this friend or relative because of their views? Of course not.

“Is it true, Ms. W_______, that your husband Jim believes Jesus Christ was an alien and will eventually return to take all the half-human/half-aliens back home in the Mother Ship? And don’t you think this is a problem with you running for Queen of the Neighborhood?”

“Yes, it’s true. My husband believes he is descended from aliens. What does that have to do with Gort! Klaatu barada niktu!”

Listen. Obama’s doing everything he can – more than any candidate in history quite frankly – to make sure we know where he stands on the issues.

So he’s got at least one freaky acquaintance.

So what? This makes him like the rest of us. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ghost Riders in the Sky – Johnny Cash
I am reading: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
And I am: Gort!

I heart today

Of course with Da retired now, my morning calls home will be forever changed.

I decide it’s critical to set the proper tone straight away so he understands the true nature of these important conversations:

“It’s your first day of retirement, Da. Try to do something special today, even if it’s just Mom.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
On one of the train rides home last week, I glanced behind the flip-down seats up top and saw this:









I, too, am a big fan of the crunchy-yummy goodness that is uniquely egg roll.

And while I can’t imagine proclaiming this deep and most definitely unrequited love to the world via train graffito, I understand the courage and passion behind it.

Of course the cynic in me says this is yet another way that commercialization is creeping into every aspect of our lives.

Although if that were the case, it probably would’ve said: “I heart Panda Express” or “I heart Manchu Wok” or some other fast food Asian fare.

Still, it’s got me thinking about a really good egg roll. And that's never a bad thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~
By now you’ve heard of Hillary’s Bosnian debacle.

She was caught regaling her misguided minions with stories of how her husband’s administration often sent her to parts of the world deemed too dangerous for the president.

Sure, she lied (repeatedly) about landing ‘under fire’ in Tuzla.

But on this particular topic, I actually believe her.

Seriously.

I’m the most powerful man on the planet. I’m married to a complete battle-axe.

I’m sending her ass to every war zone in the world in hopes she might not make it home.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Skyway – The Replacements
I am reading: Into the Wild by John Krakauer
And I am: Doing something special today

Da works

He never complained about work.

Forty years in the same place – Mom and Eric will confirm this – and we never heard him complain about it.

It’s remarkable enough that he went to the same place every day for 40 years. Fifty hours a week. On his feet. Lifting, building, moving.

But he never complained.

Da works. It’s what he does. It is what he’s always done. And it is simply inconceivable that he won’t be working anymore.

We’ve known today would come.

Today is his last day at the place he’s gone to every day for as long as I’ve been alive.

Forty years. Never complaining. Just working. It’s what he does.

We’ve struggled with what to say to him about retirement because it’s hard to imagine this new life he’s going to have.

That kind of freedom is hard to fathom. If the rest of us are struggling with the idea of him retiring, I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s feeling and thinking right now.

Of course your first instinct is to try and be helpful. I was going to make a list of the things I’d do if I’m Da.

But this isn’t about me or what I’d do.

It’s about him.

And it’s about goddamn time he gets a break. It’s about time he’s not doing what anyone else wants or needs him to do.

So have a ball, Da. Do everything or do nothing.

For the first time in a long time, this is your time. Enjoy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Johnny Nash – I Can See Clearly Now
I am reading: Grisham’s The Innocent Man (it’s getting better)
And I am: Working

Why I'm here, still

Mom was born on this day in 1945.

Of course she's the reason why I'm here, but more importantly, she also is the reason why I am still here.

Any good decision in my life - any good thing, period - is because of her.

Thanks, Mom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'll Follow the Sun - The Beatles
I am reading: The Innocent Man by John Grisham (still waiting for it to get good)
And I am: Blessed

New soul

“She woke up every day like it was the first day of her life."

That was Da, describing my maternal grandmother, Alma, during one of our long dinner table family reminisce-sessions a while back.

It’s true. It’s how Grandma lived her life.

Think about it. Wouldn’t it be great?

You mean waking up in your own piss screaming at the top of your lungs ‘cause you’re hungry?

No, silly.

To be able to shed all of the damage the world does to us on a daily basis and live as if you’ve never been hurt or disappointed or scared. To start each day with a sense of joyful wonder – and to share that incredible energy with every person you meet.

That’s what she did. She’s been gone more than 20 years, but her legacy lives in everyone she knew and loved.

She’s an inspiration. Today and every day.

And somehow I know she’s never really too far away.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: New Soul – Yael Naim
I am reading: The Innocent Man by John Grisham
And I am: New

Murder by numbers

Five years. 4,000 Americans.

Assume two parents and at least one sibling each, plus a couple of grandparents. That’s at least 20,000 surviving family members oh so proud of their son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, sister or brother but oh so fearful they’d die alone and afraid in this ugly mess half way around the world.

Assume at least half of these patriots left behind someone special who hasn't slept much, wondering if they’d ever get another hug, another kiss, another sweet smile, another laugh together. 2,000+ hearts broken.

Assume at least a quarter of them had a child or maybe two. 1,500 kids who’ll never, ever know their brave mommy or daddy.

Assume all of them left behind at least one childhood friend or maybe a beer-drinking buddy. Another 4,000.

Unimaginable, exponential grief.

For greed and ego and stupidity.

This isn’t a war. It’s the worst kind of travesty.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mad World – Sara Hickman
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: Stranded

Kenya!

I'm home, but my brain is still on the beach.

So here's something to keep you kiddies occupied until its triumphant return:

Kenya!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kenya!
I am reading: Atonement by Ian Mcewan
And I am: Flaking off

Mas felicidad!

Upon arrival it is hot and humid. The locals are extremely friendly.

And most importantly, text messaging works.

It is at this moment I decide to inject a little of the local flavor into every message home for the duration of our stay.

ME: We made it por favor buenos muchos!

JIM: Cool your phone works? Is it hot there?

ME: Mochos caliente! But ugly so far.

JIM: Que?

ME: El ride-o from el aeroport-o esta Rosie O’Donnell.

JIM: Your taxi driver is a fat lesbian?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s amazing how much better the tequila tastes here.

Saul, our bartender, says any time we want more shots we should shout “Mas felicidad!” which I’m pretty sure is Spanish for “I’m a drunken American whore!”

Like the Internet service here in Cancun, my posts will be unreliable and irritating for the next few days.

Hola esta bonita burrito Don Gato ai carrumba! Dos Equis! Corona! Si!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Soccer on the tv in the hotel lobby
I am reading: Not a goddamn thing
And I am: Crispy

Uh-oh moment

“What the HELL is this crazy broad doing?”

That was the dude walking behind me on the way from the parking lot to the 7:42 train this morning.

Every few steps I’d stop, bend over, and stare intently at my shoes.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” I tell Mom.

“What?”

“I’m wearing two different colored shoes.”

“No.”

“Yes. One black. One brown.”

“Well,” she says between laughs. “It’s a good excuse to go out at lunch and buy some new ones.”
~~~~~~~~~~
You’ve had one of those days.

It’s a stain on your shirt. Or a missing button.

Or maybe two different colored socks.

The whole day you’ve got this vaguely uncomfortable feeling, because it’s all SHOES! LOOK AT MY SHOES! I AM AN IDIOT! WITH SHOES!

SHOES! SHOES! SHOES!
~~~~~~~~~~
Fun fact: Did you know that ‘shouting at your shoes’ is a British euphemism for barfing?

I briefly entertain the thought of throwing up on my shoes so no one will notice they’re different.

VOMIT! VOMIT SHOES! SHOE VOMIT!
~~~~~~~~~~
Shoes, Hedy? What happened? Is this job from hell thing affecting you that much?

That would be a fabulous excuse, but no.

It was dark. I grabbed two of the same shoe from the closet and put them on.

Here’s the deal: I’m not a shopper. On the great continuum of fashion consciousness, I’ve been in a persistent vegetative state since 1979.

So if I find a pair of shoes that are remotely comfortable and look good, I usually buy them in different colors.

The worst part? This isn't the first time the wrong shoe thing has happened.

Although last time it was way worse.

One navy blue pump. One brown. Plus I was wearing a skirt.

Now THAT was a day for SHOES!
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Paolo Nutini – New Shoes
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: SHOES!

Putting the ass in assignation

Spitzer.

How long before his last name becomes a fun little euphemism for idiots who pay wayyyy tooooo much for anonymous ass?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to the Chicago Tribune, his wiener is a crime scene.

Yes. His wiener. Is a crime scene.

Tiny yellow bits of tape. Trampled manscaping. Chubby little frowny-faced cops scrambling around his ballsack shouting ‘nothing to see here, folks’.

And your intrepid reporter, newshound Hedy, straddling the scene.

“Back to you, Peter.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Assignation.

I guess that’s what you call it when you pay $5500 dollars for a piece of ass.

What do you call a $5 handjob from a one-armed junkie prostitute in a bathroom stall at a bar across from the train station in Aurora?

In the case of at least one loyal HedyBlog reader: A possible family reunion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, this is the smart guy who beat me to the ass/assignation thing.

It popped into my head on Monday after seeing that strange, wonderful word in the Washington Post or the New York Times or somewhere.

If I’d published when I thought of it…anyway, here’s to you, Chat Wrecker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editorial note: In this section, I was going to pick on Spitzer's wife for staying with him. The brilliant, diabolical plan involved drawing an unkind comparison between Silda Spitzer and Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

But it wouldn't be right because I honestly don't know what I'd do in that situation.

Wait. Yes I do.

"FIFTY-FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? Next time, get a $5 handjob from the one-armed junkie prostitute and I'LL GO SHOPPING."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is with these high-flying Democrats who risk everything for meaningless moments of muff?

If you’re a politician and you find the need to stray, at least get a little freaky with it like that tap-dancin’-in-the-crapper Republican from Idaho or that other dude from Florida with his penchant for hot young male congressional pages.

And I don’t care how much it costs, there’s no puss on the planet worth the pain and humiliation of losing your family, your career and your reputation.

Of course I’ve never paid $5500 for an hour-long assignation, so what the hell do I know?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Shirley Bassey - Where Do I Begin (Away Team Mix)
I am reading: The God Delusion
And I am: So ready for sunshine and sandy toes

God is in the details

The young blond man sitting up top on the 5:49 train is coughing.

Coughing, coughing.

Serious up-a-lung coughing.

An older gentleman two seats away reaches into his backpack and pulls out a pack of Ricola cough drops. He smiles and leans over, passing the bright yellow bag to the gagger.

This small moment – missed by most – is when I catch a glimpse of what you might call God.

So let’s take all of the rhetoric and concern about what really happens when we die and put it up against this small, infinitely important moment.

Because to me, what we do while we’re here matters most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: My Chemical Romance – Dead!
I am reading: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
And I am: Detail-oriented

The definition of irony

Your Mom is pissed at you for writing about your beliefs about God, one of which is that beliefs about God have divided friends and family since the beginning of time.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Winter 2008 workout mix
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired

God vs. the Internet

When I ask the Internet a question, it provides an answer immediately. I stopped asking God questions a long time ago because he never, ever answers.

The Internet makes it easier than ever to connect with friends and family. Beliefs about God have divided friends and family since the beginning of time.

Better still, the Internet connects people who don’t even know each other from all over the world. Sadly, the world remains divided over religion and God doesn’t seem to be doing much to help that.

If I am ever lonely, I can talk to my friends via Instant Messenger or Skype – day or night. When I’m lonely, that’s when God feels the most far away.

When I want something, the Internet helps me find it and get it. When I pray to God for something, there are absolutely no guarantees it will ever arrive, let alone on time and with free Super Saver shipping.

All you need is a browser to access the Internet. If you want to get to heaven and see God, there are a bazillion different rules you have to follow and still there are no guarantees.

Nobody ever killed anybody because the Internet told them to do it. More people have died for God than any other cause on the planet.

When something bad happens, the Internet lets the world know what can and should be done about it. When something bad happens, God is silent.

Thanks to WiFi, I have Internet access everywhere, all the time. To feel closer to God, the accepted practice is to go to a church or synagogue or mosque.

I know the Internet exists because I’ve seen it. Of course the Internet does go out occasionally, but that’s because of those godless fuckers at the cable company. But at least it’s here and works most of the time.

The jury’s still out on God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Corrs – Borrowed Heaven
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Fine

Any given Sunday

“Should we put a picture in the paper for our 10 year anniversary?” I ask, glancing over the Keepsakes section of the Sunday Beacon News this morning.

“I don’t know,” says Jim. “But we really need to figure out where we wanna go for that.”

“I think we should go . . . oh, I dunno. . .where do you wanna go?"

“I think we should go to the Vatican," he says. "Because it’s a fucking miracle we’ve made it this long.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Matchbox Twenty – How Far We’ve Come
I am reading: Post Secret
And I am: Giggly

It's the economy, stupid

It's the economy, stupid.

It is without question the best, brightest statement that came out of the Clinton family's first presidential bid. It got him elected. Twice.

James Carville sure is creepy, ain't he? Like an aging Gremlin. But you gotta admit the guy is brilliant.

So here we are again. In the economic crapper with a Clinton on the campaign trail.

She should win in a walk. Seriously. If she wasn't such an unlikeable shrew, she could do it.

And I really, really hate to say this, but if it meant our economy would get back on track, I'd be okay with another Clinton in the White House.

Now I'm gonna go take a shower because I feel dirty having said that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The voices in my head
I am reading: Nothing important
And I am: Nuts, I know

The watching of the weight

My whole office – except for the skinny people, damn them straight to hell – is on a popular weight-watching program.

Meetings once a week. Over-priced, portion-controlled snacks. Clapping.

I went for the first time yesterday.

Perhaps it was the weigh-in. Or the group therapy atmosphere.

But I felt like sobbing uncontrollably from the moment I stepped in the room.

Then it began.

“Tell me one thing you did over the past week that would make Fat Watchers proud of you,” says a mousy little group leader.

I involuntarily burst out laughing. The chicks sitting closest stare angrily as if I’ve taken the last doughnut on the tray.

What I want to say: “Hi, my name is Heather. I only ate half a bag of crunchy Cheetos for dinner last night.”

What I say: Nothing, whilst making every attempt to wipe the silly-ass, Cheeto-eating grin from my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This program is similar to AA, so a co-worker Who Shall Remain Nameless happens to be the only man at the meeting among 30 or so women. Back at the office, I remind him of this fact.

“Don’t you love the odds?” I say. “Like fish in a barrel.”

“No WAY,” he says, shaking his head vehemently.

"Are you kidding? It’s a target-rich environment: You're the only guy in a room full of women with low self-esteem and self control issues. It just doesn’t get any better than that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are two eating options.

With the first, you eat whatever the hell you want but you calculate the point value before putting anything in your mouth. On the other plan you eat anything you want from a certain Approved Menu consisting of mostly strange vegetables starting with the letter ‘k’.

I am not a math person but the idea of eating what I want on the points program is appealing.

So I tune out mouse-woman, and crack open the starter kit to look up the points for pizza, steak, sushi, whiskey and potato chips.

Let’s just say that what I found does not bode well for the points system.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I tell Jim at dinner. “Can’t I just go back on Vicodin?”

I remind him how, a few years ago, in spite of being laid up for several months with a torn ACL quickly followed by a broken knee, I lost a ton of weight because of the fabulous drugs my doctors gave me.

“Why don’t you just try crystal meth if you want to use drugs to lose weight?” he says helpfully. “Wait. Heroin’s better. Meth would ruin your teeth.”

“That’s the plan then. Heroin. But only for a month. Two, tops.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We’re not 10 minutes into the meeting when it happens. The Monopolizer takes over.

On the extremely rare occasions I’ve found myself in small group meeting situations (ill-fated book clubs, plus a brief stint with a Jungian dream interpretation group – now THAT was trippy), there is always one person who monopolizes the group.

The Monopolizer.

She’s got a bazillion questions that only apply to her unique situation. She interrupts the presentation. She tells long, pointless stories about her favorite topic: Herself.

And any value you hoped to derive from attending is lost because half the meeting is taken up by her yapping while you spend the other half devising creatively abusive ways of eliminating her from the group.

“GROUP? MEETING? HELLO? SHADDAP AND LET SOMEONE ELSE SPEAK, YOU SILLY SELF-ABSORBED WHORE.”

Just like that.

Turns out our fierce little fat-fighting group has not one, but two Monopolizers. Fabulous.

I’ve got an hour for lunch. I’m supposed to be listening to some skinny bitch inspire me to stop eating crap food, instead it's two attention-starved twats duking it out for Queen of the Meeting.

The stress of all this makes me want to run straight down to the Pot Belly sammich place in the lobby for 50 whopping, wonderful points of toasted ham and cheese on crusty bread followed by an entire bag of their famous mini oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I try one of those 1-point snacks you have?” I ask a co-worker, having foregone the Potbelly fantasy.

“Banana or lemon?” she asks.

I go with banana and she hands over a tiny, plastic-wrapped piece of cake that I could easily pop into my mouth whole.

It’s gone in seconds and I’m already contemplating ways to lure her out of her office so I can sneak in and grab five more of these little banana fluff cakes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, the program makes sense.

But I don’t need to pay them $12 a week to learn that Cheetos are not a major food group while listening to lonely women yap.

I could just break my knee again. It would be considerably less painful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Queen – Fat Bottomed Girls
I am reading: Series 3 study materials
And I am: Disgusted with myself

Outstanding

Your morning walk from the train station is uneventful.

You push your way through the revolving doors. You swipe the ID. The light turns green and you hit the turnstile.

The Masters of the Universe gather in this, the most venerable of buildings.

Of course today is no different so you’re the only woman in an elevator jammed with men. The traders bound out at four like always. A few more exit at six.

You’re all that’s left in the lift save a white-haired gentleman leaning on a shiny wooden cane.

“FINALLY!” he says with a grin. “I never thought I’d get you alone.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you say, playing along.

The next stop is yours. The doors open. You turn to smile before stepping off.

“I hope it was good for you,” he says.

“Outstanding, thanks.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Louis Armstrong – A Kiss to Build a Dream On
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Delighted

The learning turd

“Hed. Just tell me his name.”

That’s my brother Eric calling from Michigan. Mom told him about my Turd of a boss.

“And where do you work again?”

If you have (or are) a sister or daughter, you understand the No One Fucks with My Girl phenomenon. And it’s obvious my only brother is only half serious so it’s cool and scary and funny all at once.

“The thing is,” I say, avoiding his questions. “There’s a lesson in this. I just have to figure out what it is.”

“Right,” says Eric. “Do that. In the mean time, what’s this guy’s name again?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Picture this, Hedy,” says Mom yesterday morning. “Your father and your brother coming to Chicago, to your office.”

“Turd, I’d like you to meet my family,” I say, making the fantasy my own.

“Yes. Da on one side, puts his arm around the little Turd. Eric on the other side, pats him on the head…” she continues.

“And then they proceed to beat the living shit out of him.”

We laugh, knowing in some crazy parallel universe that is exactly what would happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There’s a lesson in this,” I tell Mom later. “You know I have anger issues. I snap occasionally. Maybe the lesson here is that by dealing with someone who has off-the-charts anger issues I can see a small part of myself in him and get better.”

“Maybe,” Mom says, careful to avoid saying anything that might, well, make me angry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You weren’t here when he got beat up, were you?” asks the office manager.

“No,” I say. “Someone beat him up? Here, in the office?”

“Yes,” she says. “The guy was a floor trader and an ex Navy Seal. Arms like this. It was awful. But he had it coming.”

I let out a nervous laugh thinking about the familial fantasy from earlier in the day.

“But the really sad part is, he’s been here 20 years and you couldn’t find one person in this entire building who would say a kind word about him.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The guy obviously has issues. Serious anti-social issues.

On my bad days, I take it personally. Whine to friends and family. Eat Fudge Stripes. Lotsa Fudge Stripes.

On my good days I let his insanity roll off like so much acid rain.

But through all of it, I’ve been a bit of a turd myself.

Describing him here. Judging him. Laughing at him.

Rather than trying to understand him, I’ve vilified him. Rather than being compassionate, I’ve been cruel.

Which makes me no better than him.

So I think that’s the lesson. Yep. I think that’s it.

What if it isn’t, Hed?

Then I’m really looking forward to the next time my family comes to visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: New Soul – Yael Naim
I am reading: Neil in the Sun-Times
And I am: Getting there

The turdliness continues

“Did you talk to Ryan?” asks the Turd yesterday afternoon, passing my office on his way out the door. “His 30 days are up.”

Ryan is the admin guy we hired last month after the Great Turd Explosion of 2008. We agreed that after 30 days we’d decide if he was working out.

“I thought you and I were going to talk about it,” I say.

He shakes his head in frustration.

“No, you were supposed to speak with him first.”

I figure there’s really nothing to lose here and I’m not about to be bested in the management department by the likes of this insufferable douchebag, who I wouldn’t trust running a pay-per-squat shithouse at the county fair.

“Since he started we’ve been speaking on a weekly basis, often daily, and based on his progress and feedback, I’d say he was a very good hire.”

Now at this point, if you are a rational, sane person, you’d probably say something like “I’m glad to hear he’s working out.”

Nope.

The Turd frowns, and yells:

“Well he BETTER BE, or HE’S OUT!”

Then he stormed off.

It was a good thing, too, because I burst out laughing.

Who says shit like that?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mendelssohn's Spring Song
I am reading: This article from the New York Times
And I am: Giggly

Flower house

"Welcome to the Garfield Park Conservatory," says the smiling woman sitting at the desk in the lobby. "Could I have your zip code please?"

And that's all she wants.

You're about to enter a miracle. A tropic isle in the center of cold, gray Chicago.

And there's NO ADMISSION.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You open the door and Humidity hugs you like an old friend. Your glasses fog up. You breathe deeply. Again and again.

"You okay back there?" says your husband, turning to smile at you.

"Just soaking it up," you say.

Your mother-in-law leans over to sniff a gardenia. You do the same. So does the older couple walking behind you.

It smells like happiness.

But Jim is right: "Just the smell of warm wet dirt would be enough."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's been the Flower House to Jim's Mom ever since she was a little girl, walking there with her father on weekends.

Going on a cold winter day became a tradition for us over 10 years ago.

Of course this year's trip was especially necessary what with one of the longest, coldest, snowiest and blowiest Chicago winters in recent memory.

But five seconds after stepping into the Palm House - all the ugliness is forgotten - as your lungs wake up to fresh, moist air and your sad, dry skin soaks up the humidity like that sad, dried up sponge that's been sitting on the corner of your utility sink since you moved into the house four years ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a small bit of sadness at leaving the heat of the Palm House for the cooler, dryer Show House, but the flowers, ahhh the flowers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"OHHHH, this is the BEST room!"

That was a smiling six-year-old boy, yelling what the rest of us were thinking as we stepped into the Fern Room.

He's right. It is the best. But it's all good here at the Garfield Park Conservatory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: NBC news
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Refreshed

Obama '08

We're running errands Saturday afternoon.

"See that?" I say, pointing to an Obama '08 bumper sticker on the BMW next to us. "I wanna get one."

"Oh yeah?" says Jim. "Where exactly do you think you're gonna put it?"

"In your butt."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit sighing next to me
I am reading: Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Obama-riffic